The Underground Man sw-3 Page 7

“He replied with non sequiturs. Irrational and illogical.”

  “And abusive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Generally abusive, or abusive toward you?”

  “Both.”

  “Ah,” Steve said. “That’s interesting. Let’s talk about the abuse directed toward you. I take it Mr. Walsh made several unflattering remarks?”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “Perhaps reflecting upon your person?”

  “That’s right.”

  Steve smiled. “And perhaps a few suggestions, which if taken literally, could have imperiled your physical well-being?”

  Dr. Feldspar shifted in his chair. “That is correct,” he snapped.

  “I see,” Steve said. “Now, tell me. What other tests did you administer?”

  “No other tests.”

  “That was all?”

  “That was quite sufficient in my opinion.”

  “You certified Mr. Walsh insane on the basis of that one test?”

  Dr. Feldspar drew himself up indignantly. “I did not. I most certainly did not. You are putting words in my mouth. That was the only test I administered, but that was not the only basis for my certification.”

  “Oh? What other basis was there?”

  “There were dozens.”

  “Such as?”

  Dr. Feldspar smiled. “Come, come, Counselor. When a wealthy man chooses to dress in rags and live on the subways with the bums and bag ladies-”

  Steve held up his hand. “Whoa. One minute, Doctor. Hold it right there. You don’t know Jack Walsh lived on the subway, do you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “You ever see Jack Walsh on the subway?”

  “No.”

  “Ever observe him hanging out with bums and bag ladies?”

  “No.”

  “No, I didn’t think so, Doctor. You only know that from what Jason Tindel and Fred Grayson told you, don’t you?”

  “Naturally.”

  “But that’s hearsay, Doctor. That’s not admissible in a court of law.”

  “I’m not a court of law. I’m a qualified psychiatrist.”

  “I understand. But we’re in a court of law now, Doctor. And these things must be proven.

  “Let’s go back to the commitment of Jack Walsh. Are you saying now you based your commitment of Jack Walsh on things people told you?”

  “Certainly not. I based it on my own examination.”

  “But you just brought up his living on the subway, something you only learned from Fred Grayson and Jason Tindel.”

  “That is a factor. It may not be admissible in a court of law, but it is certainly a factor. I have to weigh all aspects of the situation.”

  “I understand. And one of those aspects is the fact that Jason Tindel and Fred Grayson told you Jack Walsh was living on the subway, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a factor to be considered.”

  “But let me ask you this, Doctor. Suppose I were to offer evidence that Jason Tindel and Fred Grayson were irrational, insane, and not competent to manage their affairs. Would that in any way change your opinion of the sanity of Jack Walsh?”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Why is it absurd?”

  “Because it isn’t true.”

  “Oh? How do you know?”

  “Because I’ve talked to both Jason Tindel and Fred Grayson.” Dr. Feldspar pointed. “They’re here in court now. They’re both rational and quite sane.”

  “How do you know, Doctor? Did you ever test them? Did you ever go up to them and say, ‘A rolling stone?’”

  Dr. Feldspar took a breath. He looked up at the judge. “Your Honor, do I have to put up with this?”

  Judge Washburn nodded. “Counsel is perhaps overzealous and unorthodox, but he is within his rights. Continue, Mr. Winslow.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Doctor, you’re stating unequivocally that Jason Tindel and Fred Grayson are sane?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Based on no clinical examination, but only on your discussions with them?”

  “That is enough.”

  “Is it, Doctor? Isn’t it possible for an insane man to masquerade as a sane one?”

  “It is.”

  “Then how do you know this isn’t such a case?”

  “I’m a trained psychiatrist. I could not be fooled.”

  “Could you be lied to?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Could you be lied to? By a sane man, I mean. Suppose I could prove to you that Fred Grayson and Jason Tindel had every reason to lie to you-the motivation being greed and profit-could you be taken in by a lie?”

  “No, I could not.”

  “You could not, Doctor?”

  “No. If they were lying to me, I would know it.”

  “How?”

  “As a psychiatrist, I am a trained observer. I can tell when someone is lying.”

  “Really, Doctor? Then I can’t understand why you’re here.”

  Dr. Feldspar frowned. “What?”

  “Yes. I don’t know why someone with your unique talent hasn’t been snapped up by the Pentagon. You’re wasting your time at Bellevue. You should be down in Washington exposing spies and counterspies. Why, the country would never have to worry again.”

  Franklyn was on his feet. “Oh, Your Honor.”

  “Exactly,” Judge Washburn said. “Mr. Winslow, I have warned you before. There is no jury here, and I am not going to be taken in by such remarks. So there’s no real harm done. But please, let’s try to confine ourselves to the task at hand.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor,” Steve said. “But I hope the point is well taken. With regard to the relevance of what Dr. Feldspar may have been told. Would you sustain me on that point?”

  “I’ll go further than that,” Judge Washburn said. “Mr. Winslow’s questions may seem facetious, but the central point is not. Doctor, you were ordered to produce the petitioner in court. You declined to do so. Now, in making that decision, you had better have relied on what you personally observed as a trained psychiatrist, and not on what someone told you. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Fine. Then try to be responsive to Mr. Winslow’s questions by answering them with what you personally observed.”

  “Proceed, Mr. Winslow.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Now, Dr. Feldspar, let’s talk about what you personally observed. So far, you seem to have committed Jack Walsh on the basis of one test. Was there anything else?”

  “Of course,” Dr. Feldspar said, irritably. “I started to explain when you went off on a tangent.”

  “I beg your pardon. You’ll have every opportunity to explain. In fact, this is just that opportunity. What else did you observe?”

  “As I said, the man was irrational, incoherent, and violent.”

  “I see,” Steve said. “Now, the irrationality and incoherence you’ve explained as his failure to converse with you or to respond to that particular test. Let’s move on to the violence. In what manner was he violent?”

  “He was struggling, kicking, screaming.”

  “Two male orderlies were holding him?”

  “That’s right.”

  “They had just dragged him into your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “Against his will?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So,” Steve said. “Tell me something. Does anyone want to be committed, Doctor?”

  “Some people do.”

  “Yes, I’m sure they do. But the vast majority-do they want to be committed?”

  “No.”

  “So your average man in the street-if someone grabbed him and dragged him into a mental institution, don’t you think he would be apt to protest?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And struggle to free himself?”

  “Possibly.”

  “So the fact that Jack Walsh was kicking and struggling doesn’t necessarily mean that he was insane,
does it, Doctor?”

  “As I say, that was not the only factor.”

  “What were the other factors, Doctor? Talking only about what you personally observed.”

  “Very well,” Dr. Feldspar snapped. ‘I observed a man some seventy-five years of age. He was dressed in rags, or close to it. He was unwashed and his hair was uncombed. It was long hair, long, messy, unkempt. His appearance, to all intents and purposes, was that of a wild man. He was kicking and screaming. He was incoherent, abusive and violent.

  “Now then,” Dr. Feldspar said. “I saw all that with my own eyes. And I am a trained clinical psychiatrist. But I must tell you, it would not take a trained clinical psychiatrist to see that the man was insane.

  “Now, you can split hairs all you want, but the simple fact of the matter is, Jack Walsh is not a sane man. And nothing you can say is going to make him so.”

  “Is that right, Doctor?” Steve said. “Well, let me see if I have this straight. As I understand it, Jack Walsh was dragged into your office by two male orderlies. He attempted to resist this, and was violent, abusive and incoherent. In addition to that, he was wearing shabby clothes and his hair was long and unkempt. Plus he failed to respond correctly to the phrase, ‘A rolling stone.’ Is that right?”

  “That is a gross oversimplification-”

  “Perhaps it is. But let me ask you this, Doctor. You notice that I have long hair and I’m not particularly well dressed. In the event two hospital orderlies yanked me off the street, clapped me in a straightjacket, hauled me into your office, and while I was kicking and screaming and attempting to free myself, you came up to me and said, ‘A rolling stone,’ are you telling me that if I said ‘gathers no moss,’ you would decide I was sane and set me free? Whereas on the other hand, if you came up to me and said, ‘A rolling stone,’ and I said, ‘Mick Jagger,’ you’d declare me a lunatic and have me committed?”

  Dr. Feldspar frowned. “Mick Jagger?”

  Steve chuckled, shook his head. “A vague, obscure reference, Doctor. I’m sorry it went over your head.

  “At any rate, is that essentially true? If I said, ‘gathers no moss,’ you would set me free, but if I said anything else- perhaps suggested what you could do with your hospital-you would have me committed?”

  “That isn’t fair.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Well, maybe not, but I think it’s accurate.” Steve Winslow turned to the judge. “I submit, Your Honor, that this man has shown no basis whatsoever for failing to produce Jack Walsh in court. I demand that he be produced.”

  Judge Washburn took a breath. “Dr. Feldspar,” he said. “A court order is not to be taken lightly. I have listened to your testimony carefully. I must say I can find in it no reason to warrant your disobeying the directive of the court. I also feel that your sparring with counsel is profitless to say the least. So I’m going to make another directive. I’m going to stand in recess for half an hour. In that time I expect you to get on the phone to Bellevue Hospital. I expect you to order your staff to get Jack Walsh here by the end of the recess. If he’s truly incompetent to be here, that fact will be readily evident. At any rate, that seems to be the only way to settle the matter. You have half an hour get him here. Court is now in recess.”

  Steve Winslow smiled at the judge, then at the doctor. He still had a big smile on his face when he turned to Mark Taylor and Tracy Garvin.

  But under his breath he said, “Oh shit.”

  9

  As the court officers led Jack Walsh into the courtroom, Steve Winslow realized his most fervent prayer had not been answered. Apparently Walsh had resisted all efforts on the part of the staff of Bellevue Hospital to modify his appearance. His stubble was unshaven, his face was unwashed, and his hair was uncombed. On top of that, whatever drugs they’d been giving him to damp him down had reduced his pupils to pinpoints, and given his eyes a glassy quality that made them seem to glow on their own. The end effect was not just to give him the appearance of a lunatic. Jack Walsh looked like a demon straight from hell.

  His manner wasn’t helping matters any either. He kept muttering and growling and trying to twist away from the court officers. The officers were smiling at each other and saying soothing things to him, which only served to further enrage him.

  Fortunately, they’d come in through the side door, so the distance to the witness stand was relatively short. Nonetheless, their progress was slow.

  Steve Winslow tore his eyes away from Walsh long enough to glance up at the judge’s bench. Judge Washburn was a seasoned jurist, who’d undoubtedly presided over hundreds of competency hearings. As such, he naturally retained an air of judicial impartiality. He wasn’t rolling his eyes to the ceiling, or glancing pointedly at either of the attorneys. Still, his eyes spoke volumes. Behind the judicial facade there was an ordinary man saying to himself, as any man would, “Why me?”

  Eventually Jack Walsh was installed on the witness stand. Once that was accomplished the court officers withdrew, but remained standing and alert, ready to jump in again at a moment’s notice.

  Judge Washburn looked down at him from the bench. “Mr. Walsh?”

  Jack Walsh gripped the arms of the witness stand. His mouth was set in a firm line. He turned to glare up at the judge with his demon eyes. “Yes?” he snapped.

  “Mr. Walsh,” the judge said in a fatherly tone. “I’m Judge Washburn. I have to ask you some questions. First of all, are you aware that this is a courtroom?”

  Walsh exhaled noisily and shook his head. “Sheesh.” He held up his hand, then pointed his finger at the judge. “First of all, Your Honor, we’ll do a lot better if you stop talking to me as if I were a child of four. Yes, I am aware this is a courtroom. Now, no one will say anything to me except, ‘there, there,’ and ‘take it easy old timer,’ but I would assume this is a competency hearing. In which case, the bone of contention here is whether a bunch of greedy relatives who can’t wait for me to die can find a legal way to get their hands on my money any sooner.” Walsh squinted up at the judge. “Am I right so far?”

  Judge Washburn smiled slightly. “That is not exactly the way I would have phrased it.”

  “Of course not,” Walsh said. “You’re a judge. You’re impartial. You can’t make irresponsible statements. You’re not going to call my relatives greedy, and you’re not going to refer to me as the nut-case, but that’s what’s going on here. Well, I ain’t a judge, so I’m free to say what I like.” Walsh shrugged. “At least to an extent.”

  Judge Washburn frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well,” Walsh said, “considering the nature of these proceedings, I understand an irresponsible statement could cost me my freedom.”

  “That’s going a little far, Mr. Walsh,” Judge Washburn said. “No one’s going to judge you on a slip of the tongue. And any statement you make, you will have an opportunity to explain. Before we go any further, I just want you to understand that.”

  “I understand that. So now what?”

  “As I said, I’m going to ask you some questions. I’d like you to answer as freely and as fully as you like.”

  “Fire away.”

  “So far I’ve heard the story of your incarceration in Bellevue from Jason Tindel, who signed the commitment paper, from Fred Grayson, who observed you on the subway, and from Dr. Feldspar, the psychiatrist in charge of your case.”

  Walsh snorted and shook his head.

  “Yes,” Judge Washburn said. “I’m sure you have opinions about that. And you’ll have an opportunity to express them. But first, having heard their stories, I’d now like to get it from you. So to begin with, in your own words just tell me what happened.”

  “Well,” Walsh said, “I was in the subway station. Thirty-third and Lex. IRT line. I was talking to one of the homeless men down there. Suddenly two men approached me. Hospital orderlies in white uniforms. They called me by name, asked me to go with them.”

  “What did
you do?”

  “Told them to get lost.”

  “What did they do?”

  “They kept hassling me. They had the papers, and I had to go with them.”

  “Papers? What papers?”

  Walsh shrugged. “I assume they meant commitment papers. One guy waved a paper at me, but he didn’t say what it was. They had the papers, and I had to go.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I told him what he could do with his papers.”

  Judge Washburn smiled slightly. “And what did they do?”

  “When they saw I wasn’t going to cooperate, they started circling me sort of. Then they jumped me, grabbed me, wrestled me to the ground. One guy held me while the other guy got a straightjacket on me.”

  “Did you protest?”

  “What, are you nuts? I screamed and kicked and yelled bloody murder.”

  “What happened to the other man? The man you were talking to?”

  “He ran.” Walsh shrugged. “I can’t say that I blame him. For all he knew, they were after him too.”

  “What happened then?”

  “They dragged me out of the station, threw me in a van and ran me down to Bellevue.”

  “What happened there?”

  “They wrestled me inside where some lunatic in a white coat with a clipboard came up and started screaming proverbs in my face. Frankly, by that time I was slightly incoherent. As I recall, I made a few choice remarks about his hospital, his proverbs, and his parentage, as well as a few suggestions involving certain choice portions of his anatomy.”

  “What happened then?”

  “They locked me in a room, shot me full of drugs.”

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “You think they told me? It was all ‘there, there,’ and ‘this is for your own good.’”

  “Did you object to taking the drugs?”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t swallow nothing. When they tried to stick me, I broke the needle.”

  “Then how’d they get you to take them?”

  “Two guys held me, one guy stuck me.”

  “How often did they give you drugs?”

  “Whenever they damn well felt like it.”

  “Could you be more specific?”

  “No, I couldn’t. It’s hard to tell time when you’re doped up and locked in a room. Besides, sometimes the drugs would knock me out. All I know is, as soon as I wake up they come in and stick me again.