Part 3 (1/2)
”That's a stretch,” Anton commented, pus.h.i.+ng aside stacks of papers to clear a spot for the file on Barrett's desk and then sitting down.
”Stretch or no, Werther told me that I was to cease-and-desist any and all contact with Jimmy Martin. I think his exact words were, 'this may be bulls.h.i.+t, but bulls.h.i.+t plus a $500-an-hour attorney equals years of litigation h.e.l.l'. Which is why this surprised me.”
Barrett dragged the chart toward her and opened it. She looked at Anton. ”And how did he ever get hooked up with Morris Kravitz? I didn't think forensic work was his bag.”
Anton chuckled, ”I shouldn't say this, because Morris was a great guy, but he'd go wherever the money was, and as you're about to find out, Jimmy Martin can afford the best.”
”I'm surprised the forensic review board would have allowed Kravitz to be his psychiatrist. He's not trained to handle the monitoring part.”
Anton s.h.i.+fted position and looked out through Barrett's single grime-smeared window at a pair of pigeons roosting on the ledge. ”Maybe they couldn't get anyone else.”
”Please,” Barrett replied sarcastically, ”with his kind of money? I'm surprised they weren't lined up. And Anton ...”
”Yes?”
”I appreciate your throwing my name in like this. I don't really want to talk about it, but ... it looks like Ralph and I ... s.h.i.+t!”
”What?”
”It's not good,” she admitted, finding the words hard to get out.
”I'm sorry.”
”Me too,” she forced the corners of her lips into a smile. ”He's staying at his mom's till we figure things out. Anyway, thanks for thinking of me. Because I'm going to need the money.”
”Don't mention it,” he stood.
Barrett looked up at him, she considered Anton a friend, but even so it felt odd telling him about Ralph. The worst part though, had been last Sunday dinner at her mother's apartment over what used to be Sophie and Max's used bookstore-but was now a Korean deli-on the Bowery. Up till then, she hadn't even told Justine. So when Ruth had innocently asked, ”Where's Ralph?” the whole mess had tumbled out.
”So how did Kravitz get to work with Martin?” she asked, wanting to change the subject.
”I don't know.”
”It's just odd ... do you know how he died?”
”Hypoglycemic shock, he was diabetic.”
”He wasn't that old, was he?”
”Fifties.”
”And it just happened.”
”Sat.u.r.day, I think.”
”Interesting,” she flipped through the chart until she came to a copy of James Cyrus Martin IV's conditional release agreement. She turned to the page of stipulations and ran her finger down the bulleted terms that outlined the do's-and-don'ts for his return to the community.
”Anyway, I'll leave you to it,” Anton commented.
”Right,” she said, not looking up, and barely registering the sound of her office door closing behind him.
She found what she was looking for halfway down the second page. Under the heading of ”Psychiatric Supervision,” it stated, ”Releasee is to meet at least weekly with a board-appointed psychiatrist.” Farther down it spelled out the responsibilities for the psychiatrist that included monthly reports back to the forensic review board, random drug screens, oversight of medication, and appropriate monitoring of same.
She leaned back and watched as a mottled pigeon awkwardly flapped its wings and banked up against the guano-stained brick of the adjacent building. Anton had approached her on Tuesday morning-the day after Charlie Rohr shot himself-with taking over Martin's case. When he'd told her that she could pretty much name her fee, it had felt like a gift. Amazing how quickly it all happened. She'd see Jimmy tomorrow-Thursday-and by her doing that, his chart would reflect total compliance; he wouldn't miss a single week of meeting with a psychiatrist.
She worked her way backward through the conditional release agreement. Most of it was boilerplate legalese that she'd read a thousand times before, a laundry list of all the rules that Jimmy Martin had to follow if he wanted to stay out of the maximum-security hospital-required at all times to wear an electronic monitoring device and if he intended to travel farther than a quarter-mile radius from his home, he needed written permission. All his medications were to be supervised and any ”significant changes” in his drug regimen had to be approved by the review board.
The main thing that struck her as odd was that Kravitz had gone to the patient's home for their sessions. Barrett provided psychiatric coverage for other releasees in mid-Manhattan, but they all came to her office-usually in the company of their parole officer or case manager, This would be a first and it didn't sit right. She'd told Anton that the only way she'd take the case was if Martin agreed to a police escort. Apparently, that was no big deal. She'd gotten an affirmative response in under half an hour.
She flipped to the front of the chart and fanned the pages in search of a typed summary. She pictured the obese and twitching blond man she'd interviewed when she was still in training. Scanning through the doc.u.ments, she remembered why she'd found his case intriguing. Jimmy Martin had spent well over a decade at Croton following his arrest at age eighteen in the apartment of a young violinist from South Carolina, Nicole Foster. Ms. Foster, along with her ba.s.s player fiance, had been brutally and s.a.d.i.s.tically butchered. Immediately following Jimmy's arrest he had a psychotic break and was deemed incompetent to stand trial, and eventually found not guilty by reason of insanity. Beyond that was the curious twist that the murders were actually committed by a second man, Mason Carter, who subsequently hung himself in prison prior to being tried. Also odd was Jimmy's consistent a.s.sertion that he'd never touched the murder victims, which was corroborated by a lack of physical evidence linking him to the mutilated bodies. What was clear, however, was that Jimmy had been fixated on Nicole Foster, and had been stalking her. The prosecution also had strong evidence that money had pa.s.sed between him and the murderer. At his arraignment, Carter had alleged that he'd been hired by Martin to scare away Ms. Foster's fiance, and that in the heat of the moment, things had gotten out of control. Key pieces of that were never confirmed, and within days Carter was found slumped down in his cell with a sheet knotted around his neck.
For the next half hour Barrett gleaned whatever she could from the forensic center's records. It was a creepy case, but she found a comfort in the work, not having to think about Ralph or Charlie Rohr. She scanned Kravitz's weekly notes. Clearly, he was no forensic psychiatrist and she found little insight into Jimmy Martin's internal world. Still, it felt good to be immersed in the unknown of a new case.
The phone rang. Without looking up, she picked up.
”Dr. Conyors?” her secretary's breathy voice asked.
”Yes, Marla.”
”There's an Ellen Martin on the phone for you.”
”Is something wrong, Marla?” Barrett asked, noting a tremor in her voice.
”No. Do you want to take it? Or should I tell her you're not in?”
”Put her through.” Barrett listened as the line clicked, and wondered if her lucrative gig might be about to disappear.
”h.e.l.lo, Dr. Conyors?” The voice was husky, the syllables crisp.
”Yes.”
”I understand you've agreed to work with my brother; I was hoping we could have a chance to chat first. I suppose I should start by letting you know that I'm Jimmy's conservator, so you won't need a release to talk with me.”
”Of course,” Barrett said, having already scanned the paperwork giving Ellen Martin responsibility for handling Jimmy's finances and treatment.
”Did you know that I met your brother one time before?” Barrett asked.
There was a slight hesitation, ”Yes, I'm aware of that, and I suppose I should explain why I didn't want you interviewing my brother back then.”
”No need.”
”No, it's actually pretty complicated. Is there any way I could get an hour or two of your time? This may be presumptuous, but I know you have to see him tomorrow ... could I buy you dinner?”
”Tonight?”
”If you're able, there's a lot to tell.”