No Cure for Murder (38 page)
“Don’t be naïve, Dr. Spelling. This is a capital case, a death penalty case. They caught you in the act. You have no chance in hell of any judge granting you bail.”
“I’m anything but naïve, Alan. May I call you Alan?”
“Of course.”
“And, please call me Zoe,” she said with a smile perfected to melt snow.
“All we can do is push for an early trial date, but I wouldn’t advise it.”
“Why not?”
“Delay favors the defense. In this case, we need to play all the odds.”
“You should see the kind of people they have in here. They’re barely human, and that includes the guards.”
“If you’re intelligent as you seem, you best keep those opinions to yourself. If you think this place is rough now, just get those people acting against you.”
“Byron speaks so highly of you. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“I’m going to have you examined by two experienced forensic psychiatrists.”
“That’s great.”
“Be smart. These guys are pro’s, Zoe, and just between you and me, their testimony is crucial to your defense.”
Zoe patted his hand. “That sounds ominous.”.
Alan pulled his hand away. “Just cooperate with them. I’m unhappy to report that you’ll need to meet with prosecution psychiatrists as well.”
“Don’t you want to hear my side of the story?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t.”
“Can you do anything about this place?”
“If anyone threatens you or if your safety is at issue, I can request isolation. You don’t want that, I guarantee it. Use your charm, Zoe. Make friends of inmates and guards too, and things will get better.”
“I guess I can hold my nose and take the plunge if I must.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No. I’ll get what I need from Byron.”
“One other thing, Zoe.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t talk with anyone about your case. Anything you say in here will find its way to the DA’s ear and into court. A jailhouse snitch could only make things worse.”
Chapter Seventy-One
Marty Abrams practiced general psychiatry for twenty years before he first stepped into the witness box to give testimony in a case involving one of his own patients. While he had the requisite medium-full beard, sweater vest, and vocal tones that could calm a stage mother, it was how he communicated with the jury, meeting their eyes, one set at a time, that eventually made him a superstar forensic psychiatrist. When Marty talked, juries listened, and when they listened, they believed.
His associate, Trudy Kornblum, while incredibly intelligent, insightful and experienced, fulfilled the urban myth that physicians went into psychiatry to fix their own emotional failings. She had a facial tic and rarely made or held eye contact. Medium height, medium build, medium brown hair, she was the perfect undercover agent, a face no one remembered.
Marty talked. Trudy took notes, and both listened.
When the guard brought Zoe into the meeting room and removed her steel cuffs and chains, she walked to the table, smiled and offered her hand to Marty, then to Trudy.
Zoe sat gracefully at the table. “It’s so nice to meet you. “She hesitated. “Really, it isn’t so nice, but what else can I say?”
Marty introduced himself and his colleague. “Any greeting will work. You understand the purpose of these meetings?”
Zoe grasped the table’s edge. “I may be mentally ill, but I’m not an idiot.”
Both psychiatrists remained impassive.
She stared into two pairs of impassive eyes. “I’m sorry, but jail hasn’t done much for my social skills.”
“You’re doing better than most,” said Marty.
“I can’t say that it thrills me to have you two probing my psyche. I’ve seen psychiatrists before, and although I felt the need for their assistance, the whole process is just too intrusive.”
“Please understand, Dr. Spelling...”
“Call me Zoe, please.”
“Our aims are forensic, to try to understand and make a jury appreciate the circumstances and factors that led you to do the things alleged in the charges against you. I know you have a sophisticated knowledge of psychiatry and an opinion of its value, but don’t let that interfere with our business here.”
“Do you really know how shitty most psychiatry is?”
Trudy looked into her lap and jotted several lines of notes.
“We understand the value and the limitations of our profession, Zoe, but it shouldn’t surprise you if I said that you aren’t the best candidate for psychotherapy.”
Zoe turned to Trudy. “Don’t you say anything?”
“Mostly not. Trudy’s greatest skill is the analysis of all aspects of what you say, and how you say it. She reads non-verbal communications better than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“That makes me feel like a specimen under a microscope.”
“A good analogy.”
“It’s creepy...she’s creepy. I don’t like this one bit.”
“We’re not here for your pleasure.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“Here’s the plan,” Marty continued. “Please bear with it. We’ll be meeting with you every day for three to four hours at a time. It’ll take perhaps sixty hours.”
“I don’t think I have sixty hours of anything to tell you.”
“That won’t be a problem, I assure you.”
“Let’s begin with your childhood.”
Zoe smirked. “Prenatal or postpartum?”
After the first meeting, Trudy turned to Marty. “She’s a malignant narcissist. We may get little from her.”
“You’re wrong, Trudy. We’ll get everything from her. None of it will benefit Zoe Spelling, but it will give Alan Hayes an accurate profile of his client. How much will be of use in court, who knows?”
The next morning, Marty and Trudy returned to meet with Zoe. He placed a thick medical record on the table as Zoe entered and sat opposite them. Zoe stared at her chart.
Marty placed his hand on the chart. “You had extensive psychiatric evaluation and treatment, some at the Menninger Clinic. We reviewed their records.”
“You did what? All that is privileged information. You had no business...no business at all...”
“This isn’t a game, Zoe. You signed for Alan a release of all your medical records. What was their diagnosis?”
“The world famous Menninger program couldn’t decide.”
“About what?”
“At first I was a high performing paranoid schizophrenic...that’s a unique compliment, then I had a Borderline Personality Disorder. It was a bunch of crap.”
“Were you having hallucinations?”
“You saw the records. Why bring it up again?”
“What kind of hallucinations?”
Zoe stood and walked to the small barred window and stared out. “Textbook auditory hallucinations of someone with paranoia.”
Marty pointed to the chair. “Please return to your seat.”
Zoe returned to the table but kept her eyes down.
“You were psychotic?”
“Yes.”
“Did they recommend antipsychotic medications?”
Zoe reddened. “They were out of their own fucking minds to think I’d take any of that shit. I know what those drugs do. I may have my flaws, but what I have is unique unto myself. I couldn’t let them destroy me.”
Marty shook his head in dismay. “You call what you did to those girls, flaws? What you did at Brier Hospital just a minor imperfection on an otherwise normal personality? Give us a break, Zoe.”
Marty stood, paced the room twice then returned to sit across from her. Trudy sat in the corner taking notes.
“Tell me about your grandfather,” said Marty, “He was a major figure in your life, wasn’t he?”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Don’t be a pain in the ass. Tell me you haven’t tried to understand what makes you tick. I’ll bet you’re as familiar with the literature on the personality disorders, especially narcissism, as I am.”
“Maybe more so.”
“Okay, but we find a world of difference between an intellectual understanding of psychopathology and knowing how to control its effects. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”
“You call it psychopathology. I call it the results of a relentless campaign of destruction.”
“Whose campaign?”
“Who do you think?”
“How far back to you want to go with your blame, Zoe? From your parents to your grandparents...all the way back to Adam and Eve? And, of course, you don’t share any of the responsibility.”
“I’m simply saying that if you take any girl with an oversensitive temperament and some intelligence, and subject her to overindulgence and overvaluation by parents who live their pathetic lives through their daughter, then superimpose unrealistic feedback and unpredictable care giving, you get a monster; you get a Zoe Spelling.”
Tears streaked down Zoe’s cheeks.
“You didn’t give a damn about the people you killed,” said Marty. “They might as well have been ants on the floor.”
“No, it’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like?”
“It’s difficult to explain. Each time I helped someone along, it was a mixture of pleasure and despondency. They were a means to an end...to get back at him.”
“Who?”
“Jacob...no...my grandfather...no...”
“What did they do that was so terrible?”
“It’s not what they did. It’s what they are...their accomplishments, their old-world values of duty and sacrifice and their Y chromosomes. I hate their smell, a combination of mothballs and decay.”
“Maybe you can’t or won’t control this, Zoe, but I doubt that you’re so intellectually impoverished that you find comfort with the obscene euphemism, ‘help them along’. You didn’t help anyone along, Zoe, you murdered them.”
“I prefer the former..”
Marty stood and nodded to Trudy who closed her notebook and grabbed her purse.
“I think we’ve heard enough for today. If you believe you’re doing yourself any good by this charade, you’re sicker than I thought. Alan rejected the consideration that you were incompetent to assist in your own defense. Maybe we should revisit that possibility.”
“Incompetent?” Zoe screamed.
Marty raised his hand in the stop gesture. “I’ve heard enough. Think about it. We’ll be back tomorrow.”
As they reassembled their notes, Zoe stood. “I have a simple request.”
“What?”
“I’d like to meet with Jacob, if you can arrange it.”
“Why?”
“At the very least, I owe him an explanation. We were very close.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Marty.
“I don’t care what you think. I need to see him.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Seventy-Two
Jack Byrnes sat at his utilitarian ICU desk with Ahmad standing at attention. “Are you sure this is what you want, Ahmad?”
He shook his head slowly. “It’s not what I want. It’s what I need to do.”
“You realize that when you finish this program, you can write your own ticket just about anywhere in the country. Hospitals are screaming for physicians trained in intensive care.”
“I know, Jack, but what the country is not prepared for is to accept people who look like me or my family. I have a hard enough time dealing with the anti-Arab prejudice in this country. I can’t subject my wife and children to it.”
“What will you do?”
“You may find this difficult to believe, but I’ve accepted a position at Al-Maqased Hospital in Jerusalem.”
“Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”
“No, Jack, you’re wrong. At the professional level, at least, Israel may be the one place where an Arab like me can get a fair shake. I’ve talked with several friends who work at Al-Maqased. They need me and accept me even though I’m not a Muslim.”
“Life isn’t easy in Israel for Arabs, Jews, and I’m afraid, Christians too.”
Ahmad smiled. “If you really want to understand, put on a dark beard and a kuffiyeh then walk around even an enlightened community like Berkeley. It will be a revelation. You’ll love it when you get on an elevator at Brier Hospital and people either get off or move to one side to avoid getting close to you.”
Zoe’s trial was six weeks away.
Lola was between patients when the intercom sounded. “I have Dr. Martin Abrams on line two,” said the clinic’s receptionist.
