stand Robin was one of your students last summer.”
I have to give the guy credit. For an instant only I think I see him react, but, in fact, I can’t be sure. He pushes his chair back from his desk and says blandly, “Yes, I had Robin in summer school. I was shocked to hear she had been assaulted, but I don’t see the relevance to my class.”
I look behind his head and see he was awarded his Ph.D. from the University of Michigan only three years ago. He must feel he has come down in the world, but a guy has to start somewhere.
“Let me get to the point. I just talked to a friend of Robin’s who said you had a sexual relationship with Robin this summer. Do you deny it?”
With as much dignity as he can muster under the circumstances, Hofstra stands up, and in a hoarse voice says, “I think you better leave my office immediately.”
I pretend he hasn’t moved a muscle.
“Dr. Hofstra, if you will answer a couple of questions right now, it will be a lot easier on you than if I have to embarrass you at the trial. I’d appreciate it if you’d talk to me.”
“Whatever you’ve heard is purely gossip,” he blurts.
“Now, leave my office before I call security.”
“If you get a lawyer,” I say, dropping my card on his desk, “ask him to call me, please.”
His brown eyes beginning to bulge, he loses his composure.
“Get out!” he screams, his voice betraying his panic.
On his desk I can see a picture of what must be his family. Two girls. His wife is pretty, a blonde just like Robin. I stand and walk out, not feeling so good. How much nicer it would be to be a book salesman.
After checking out of the Ozark and stopping by Barton’s office (only to find that he is in Colorado skiing), I head the Blazer east for home, wondering how this latest turn of events will play out. Hofstra may be my best weapon to keep this case from going to trial. Right about now, I imagine he’s calling his lawyer or is on the phone to Robin. Outside of Fayetteville, the solitude gets to me, and I turn on the radio.
“The Little Drummer Boy.” In less than a week it will be Christmas. Not a favorite holiday since Rosa’s death. I nudge the heater up a bit. It is cold up here in the mountains. This morning there was so much frost on the grass in front of the motel it looked as if it had snowed. Though it has been the mildest fall I can remember in central Arkansas, it will be a frigid January for some people up here. I will file a motion for a hearing, and then in two or three days, after they’ve had a chance to stew, I will drive south to Texarkana to visit Robin and her parents. With a chance that it will turn messy beyond their wildest dreams, they may not want to see this case go to court after all.
15
December 21 the shortest day of the year, I realize, looking at the calendar behind Judge Blake’s head. He doesn’t look sympathetic. For Rainey’s sake, I hope it isn’t the year’s shortest hearing.
“Ms. McCorkle,” I say, “would you tell the court about Ms. Alvarez’s ability to live more independently?”
Rainey smiles at Delores, who is sitting next to me and proceeds to testify about my client’s management of routine household skills. It is nothing short of bizarre to be calling as a witness the woman I would have married, but Rainey acts as though we have perfected a dog and pony show that we’ve been taking on the road for years. She turns to Judge Blake and tells him that Delores is a better shopper than she is.
“Your Honor, I went to Megamarket with Ms. Alvarez, and she not only picked out the food but did comparison shopping by using a pocket calculator and then cooked a full dinner on my stove. I have no doubt she can live very well independently.”
Judge Blake massages the temple of his large, bald head as if he is hearing a complicated tax case involving millions of dollars instead of a two-page petition to modify a mental patient’s conditional release. He interrupts, “How can I be certain she will take her medication each day?”
Prepared for the question, Rainey barely lets him finish
“She takes a Prolixin injection at the Community Mental Health Center every two weeks. If she doesn’t come in, the case manager can call her to find out what happened, and if she’s not satisfied with her answer, she can ask the court for an emergency pickup order.”
Judge Blake comes dangerously close to picking his nose in front of us.
“Now what is so wrong with where Ms. Alvarez is right now?”
Rainey launches into a passionate denunciation of the Confederate Gardens. After describing physical conditions that make even the judge wince, she says, “It’s especially inappropriate for a woman who can manage as well as Ms. Alvarez, Your Honor. The Blackwell County Community Mental Health Center is supposed to be acting as an advocate to help people like Ms. Alvarez live in the community as independently as possible. In this woman’s case it means helping her find an apartment and a job. Instead, the case managers do the easiest thing possible find them a place like Confederate Gardens, which lumps all persons with mental illness together in what amounts to a hellhole and takes their Social Security Disability checks. With just a little help from BCCMHC Ms. Alvarez can be a productive, taxpaying citizen…”
As I listen to Rainey sing a song whose verses are all the same (she has sung it to me more than once), I realize again how much I will be missing. Her spunk alone is worth the price of admission. As a social worker at the state hospital, she is deliberately courting criticism by daring to attack publicly a community mental health center for not doing its job. The rule in the mental health bureaucracy is: Don’t break my rice bowl and I won’t break yours. The beautiful thing about Rainey is mat she doesn’t give a shit. I realize belatedly how much she is like Rosa, who never thought twice about telling a doctor to his face that he needed to call in a specialist.
Judge Blake finally cuts Rainey off.
“I understand your point, Ms. McCorkle, but my concern with Ms. Alvarez is that she has threatened the life of the President of the United States. I’m surprised to hear that she has as much freedom as she does.”
The old fraud, I think. He ordered her placed there himself. He’s either stupid or dishonest. Rainey speaks to him as if they were the only ones in the courtroom.
“She didn’t threaten him. Your Honor. She just went to the Mansion to try to collect money she thought she was owed.”
“She went three times until she was arrested,” the judge says, his tone becoming frosty.
“As I’m sure you know, just a month or so ago, a mental patient killed an innocent person here in Blackwell County. We need more confinement, not less.”
“You’re not listening. Your Honor,” Rainey says, near tears.
“This woman is not dangerous to anybody!”
Judge Blake is not the type of jurist who likes to be told he is nothing short of perfect. A vein bulging in his forehead, he says to me, “Call your next witness!”
The attorney from the prosecution coordinator’s office, Diana Bateman, giggles, “No questions. Your Honor.”
She is too chickenshit to point out that she isn’t being al lowed to cross-examine Rainey. Of course, she doesn’t need to. Since the community mental health psychiatrist, the case manager, and Ms. Alvarez have already testified, I have no choice but to rest my case, and the judge rules before Rainey has even gotten back to her seat that he is refusing to modify the order requiring Ms. Alvarez to live at the Confederate Gardens. As a sop to me, he grants my motion to review her case in six months.
Once we are outside in the hall, Rainey begins to cry.
“You tried as hard as you could,” Ms. Alvarez says, pat ting Rainey’s shoulder as if she were the social worker trying to ease the pain of a dejected client.
“That judge wouldn’t have let Hillary Clinton out today. He was scared.”
I marvel at the accuracy of the remark. As the old saying goes, Ms. Alvarez may be crazy, but she isn’t stupid.
“We’ll try again in six months,” I volunteer, relieved I haven’t wasted more than a couple of hours.
“If there hasn’t been any recent negative publicity, Blake might change his mind.”
“Can’t we appeal?” Rainey asks, biting her lip.
