“They don’t,” Andy says.
“As I’ve told you, the turnover among aides is ridiculous. They hardly get paid enough to live on, and yet, they are the people who provide the primary care.”
As we enter the boys’ ward, I realize mat Rogers Hall, the unit for the criminally insane that I used to visit as a public defender, was a piece of cake compared to what I’m seeing.
As blunted and spaced-out as the men at Rogers Hall were, at least they looked halfway normal. Too many of these people look as if they were drawn by the guy who comes up with “The Par Side.” I tell myself that I shouldn’t be so revolted by the way they look, but I can’t help the queasy feeling in my stomach. If there is a God, what divine purpose could be served by such genetic mistakes? Free will, the priests at Subiaco, the Catholic boarding school I attended, would say, I suppose. The boys’ ward is at the same time less and more depressing. It is smaller, but the sight of children obviously zombied out is hard to take. There must be no more than twenty boys in this room. We walk past showers and I see several boys (one of whom is old enough to have a sparse patch of pubic hair) being hosed down by a woman. A male aide is with her trying to help them wash themselves. It seems like a good way to give them a bath, but Andy whispers, “They sometimes wash the men and women the same way.
It can seem pretty degrading, but they don’t have the staff to make sure everyone has privacy.”
“Together?” I ask, titillated by the thought. One of the boys laughs with glee as the nurse sprays him in the face.
Andy gives me his professional frown.
“Of course not,” he says, holding out his arms as one of the boys gets away from the aide and comes running to us. The child is naked and wet, but Andy lets him jump into his arms as if this strange-looking child were his own son.
“Toddy,” Andy says, smiling, “you’re all wet!”
For a response. Toddy, who somewhat resembles a gremlin from a Steven Spielberg movie, burrows his head against Andy’s chest like a small animal. If we could have Andy’s trial out here on the grounds of the Blackwell County HDC, I think Andy would be acquitted in about five minutes. It is easy to paint a sinister picture of an institutional world in a courtroom, but not quite so simple if you’re out here.
The female aide puts down her hose and takes Toddy from Andy’s arms.
“Dr. Chapman,” she apologizes, “he just loves you to death.”
Andy pats the child’s back before returning him to the woman, who obviously is a friend. “There are worse crimes, I suppose,” he says, a deadpan expression his face.
Back in his office, we talk in detail about the upcoming trial, which is two months away, in September. I have waited a week to come to see him. I have wanted us both to digest the probable cause hearing and the publicity surrounding it.
In the interval, fortunately, we have gone from the worst judge possible in Blackwell County to the best- Harriet Tarnower, a female appointee whose intelligence and fairness is already becoming a model in Blackwell County. If we care anything about competence, we will elect her to a judicial slot.
Andy tells me he has run down the names of three possible experts who will at least be willing to talk to us. He tears a sheet of paper from a fat notebook and gives it to me. The names mean nothing to me only the states: Mississippi (we used to say, “Thank God for Mississippi,” until it pulled ahead of us in spending for education), Texas, and Pennsylvania My bias toward Southern-accented expert witnesses is generally appeased.
“I must have called ten who as soon as they heard the word, ‘litigation,” practically hung up on me,” Andy says ruefully.
Surely this shouldn’t surprise him. Who wants to say he’s an expert with a cattle prod? I take the paper and slip it into my briefcase, knowing this way I’ll get back to my office with it, I may not be able to find it because of all the other junk I’m carrying around, but at least I will have it there, and that’s getting to be a major accomplishment as I pick up clients. I’ve acquired five more in the past week, thanks to the publicity. Since we hardly put on a defense, I felt I must have looked pretty much like an idiot at the probable cause hearing, but I guess it hasn’t hurt me. I ask, “What’d they say?”
“Nothing much,” Andy sighs.
“I doubt if we’re going to be able to get anyone to testify who currently uses shock. As soon I mention that I am facing a criminal charge, they start sounding real busy.”
I play with the zipper on my briefcase and warn him, “Whoever we get won’t come cheap.”
As usual, the subject of money does not faze him.
“I know.”
Though it is none of my business, I blurt, “Do you have a rich uncle or what?” Though I have no proof, I have the overwhelming suspicion that Olivia is bankrolling his defense and, if this is true, it could mean all kinds of trouble.
Andy stiffens, his back arching slightly.
“You could say that.”
Once I start, I have a hard time stopping.
“Olivia?”
His eyes flash angrily.
“No.”
I believe his body language over his words. I think he is lying, but I do not say so. The blacks I know don’t have the kind of money it takes to defend this case.
“If that were so,” I warn him, “it could hurt you if it came out.”
Without a doubt I have touched a sore spot. His voice is ugly and guttural.
“Do you ask your white clients where they get their money?”
I feel my own anger rising. I don’t like being taken for a fool.
“I didn’t have to at the Public Defender’s Office,” I say, conveniently ignoring the fact that I have been gone quite a while.
“I didn’t think I had hired a racist to defend me,” Andy says, shoving his chair back and scraping the concrete floor with a sound that sets my teeth on edge.
I nearly swallow my tongue to keep from telling him that I was married to a woman more nearly his color than mine, but after so many years I would sound like those racists who assure everyone that some of their best friends are black. I ‘m not the man I was when Rosa was alive, and for some reason I can’t pinpoint, I’d rather choke on my own spit than try to reassure him how wonderful I am. Maybe I am racist, but I suspect there is racism in everybody if you scratch hard enough. I do know that I don’t want to risk losing him as a client.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but it’s my job to know as much about your case as possible. What would be wrong if she did loan you some money? I think it would be the least she could do,” I add disingenuously.
Andy shakes his head as if I still don’t get it and lectures, “You make the assumption that all blacks, including me, come from poverty. That’s racist.”
Big deal, I think, and lean back in my chair, relaxed by his tone which now has more of a scolding quality than the scorching anger of a moment ago. “If that’s my worst sin,” I defend myself, “I’m way ahead of most people.”
Andy gives me a wry smile, breaking the tension. “I doubt if that’s your worst sin.”
I laugh, glad this is behind us and suddenly think I under stand. Andy doesn’t consider himself particularly black. He probably thinks he is superior not only to blacks but whites as well.
“You’re right,” I acknowledge.
“It was racist. I’m sorry.”
My apology seems to mollify him, and we spend some time talking about the people the state will call who didn’t testify at the probable cause hearing. Andy seems convinced that neither David Spam, the administrator of the Blackwell County Human Development Center, nor Yettie Lindsey, the social worker who was to chart the number of shocks administered to Pam, will be of much help to us. I leave Andy’s office to talk to both persons, hoping that just possibly Spath may have known what Andy was going to try. Granted, as Andy points out, Spath is a state bureaucrat, not a psychologist, but his testimony that Andy wasn’t too far out of line could mean the difference between a manslaughter conviction and a Class A misdemeanor charge of negligent homicide, which carries a maximum penalty of a year in jail.
