The Deception Read online

  “Yeah, I know.” Sheridan let out a deep sigh. “But somehow I have a hunch that Sister Mary can be friendly, and down the line, we’re going to need all the friendship we can get.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Manny didn’t sound convinced.

  Dan Sheridan sat in Dr. John B. White’s waiting room, leafing through the latest issue of Interior Design. A comely blondish secretary alternated between answering the phone and ushering patients into the doctor’s office. He liked her reassuring smile.

  Dr. White and Sheridan went back a long way—to the old neighborhood in West Roxbury, the nuns at Holy Redeemer Grammar School, Little League, and four years at St. Ignatius High School. White made All-Scholastic as a left-handed pitcher and Sheridan was the catcher—second team All-City. There were some who said that White could have made it in the majors. In fact, he had a tryout with the Chicago Cubs, but that was as far as it went. He ran up against kids from the farms, from Iowa and Kansas and the Piedmont, who could clock a fastball in the nineties. White’s control and slow-breaking curves didn’t seem to impress the scouts. He matriculated to Harvard, then Harvard Med, relegating his activities on the diamond to intramural softball. Sheridan joined the marines after high school, was wounded in Vietnam, and, despite a gimpy leg, still played catcher for the Brookfield Giants in a semipro league north of Boston.

  White, who was one of the leading psychiatrists in the Boston area, now confined his athleticism to weekend golf. He could score in the high seventies, occasionally winning a local tournament or two.

  Sheridan and White kept in touch, mostly on a professional level. White was much in demand as a forensic psychiatrist and often testified on behalf of Sheridan’s clients, both criminal and civil. Convincing a skeptical jury that a defendant was temporarily insane at the time he committed a homicide was not an easy task, especially with the battery of high-profile experts available to the prosecutor. But White’s testimony was adopted in three out of four of Sheridan’s defenses. He had a folksy way of talking to jurors, reducing medical and psychiatric esoterica to language that the truck driver, the housewife, and the hod carrier could readily understand.

  Sheridan’s most recent case was on behalf of a state politician who had been left a fortune by a woman recluse. She had renounced a prior will, cutting out some nieces and nephews and leaving over a million dollars, the bulk of her estate, to her so-called son, Timmy Donovan. Timmy, the state pol, on learning of the recluse’s intentions and just prior to her death, rushed to the probate court and took out adoption papers. When an investigative reporter on the local paper learned of the ploy, Timmy, who was also a lawyer, was dragged over the journalistic coals. Despite open criticism in the press and a battery of high-priced lawyers and expert psychiatrists testifying that the recluse was of unsound mind when she changed her will, Sheridan’s riddling cross-examination, and Dr. White’s lucid testimony, laced with homespun analogies, were more than sufficient to uphold the will. As one juror said afterward, “If the recluse had left a million to her cat, Tabby, and then axed the Little Sisters of the Poor, then, based on Dr. White’s testimony, we still would have found that she was perfectly sane.”

  Dr. White’s inner sanctum resembled a den more than an office. Old volumes were encased, floor to ceiling, in three walls of fruitwood shelving. A baby grand Steinway, its walnut grain polished to a fine glisten, was set near a bay window overlooking Boston Common and the Public Garden. When the secretary ushered Sheridan into the office, the doctor was seated at his rolltop desk, signing some letters and reports. He handed them to his secretary.

  “Dan, sorry I had to have you wait so long. Fridays are always busy. And, of course, there’s a full moon tonight. Sit down.” He shook Dan’s hand warmly. He knew that when Dan had a case needing his expertise, it was money in the bank. His fee in the will-contest case was $25,000. And for Timmy Donovan, who was skirting disbarment, it was a bargain.

  “Before I give you the facts, take a look at these.” Sheridan produced ten photos of the St. Anne’s layout that Manny had taken a few days earlier.

  White studied each thoughtfully. “This is St. Anne’s.” He looked at Sheridan. “The Atrium and Dr. Sexton’s psychiatric department. Is this about the DiTullio girl—the one who jumped last week?”

  “Yes. I’ve been asked to represent the DiTullio family, and, of course, the girl.”

  “She still living?”

  “In a coma. She’ll probably expire,” Sheridan said.

  “Dan, I know all about the case. The shrink business is pretty close-knit. Word gets around.”

  “Well, let me give you my side of the story.” Sheridan proceeded to narrate the facts as he knew them. White listened attentively.

  “John, I want you to assume the best scenario. Of course, I don’t have the hospital record as yet, nor Sexton’s medical notes, but what do you think? Is there a case?”

  White ran his hand through his thinning hair. He paused for several seconds. “Well, the girl is only twenty-one, been in treatment for about a year. She is manic-depressive, really. Probably always was, even as a teenager. Overbearing father, and of course she is an overachiever. It’s a classic case. Tries to commit suicide. Gets the wonder drug Capricet and seems to be coming around—”

  “What about Capricet?” Sheridan interrupted.

  “It’s experimental. Turns rapacious mice into lovable Mickeys and Minnies, so the drug company says. But on humans, you’ve got to get special permission to use it. I’ve given it in isolated cases, but it’s still too early to see if it works or if there are deleterious side effects over the long term.

  “Let’s look at the legal downside. First of all, there is absolutely no way anyone can prevent a person from self-destructing. If someone is going to commit suicide, he or she will do it. The Golden Gate Bridge has suicide netting, but the patient will find another bridge or jump in front of a train or a car, or swallow twelve Elavil.”

  “Well, hell, Doctor,” Sheridan said, “if that’s the case, if you think we’re wasting our time, why not do away with nine-one-one, emergency hot lines, the suicide-prevention clinics nationwide—”

  “Hey, leave that for cross-examination.” White held up his hand as if to ward off further attack. “That’ll be the defense attorney’s ploy—‘If not now, later’—and a jury sometimes buys it. And don’t forget that in Catholic Boston, you’ll wind up with eight out of twelve jurors who are RCs, people who think it’s a mortal sin to attempt suicide, let alone asking money for doing it. That’s the hidden defense. Erasing that kind of prejudice will take some artful persuasion, believe me.

  “But between you and me, I think you’ve got a hell of a case. Not a slam dunk, mind you. When you finally get the medical charts, they’ll be peppered with tinsel kudos about how well she was doing, all that baloney. Let me have a look at them. You lawyers can read what they say. I can read what they don’t say—the hidden stuff St. Anne’s is responsible for allowing a suicide-prone patient access to an open area up on the fifth floor. Same for Sexton and the staff. Here the DiTullio girl was left unguarded. The most vulnerable time for any psychiatric patient with a history of suicide attempt is just before or at the time of hospital discharge, and she was on an experimental drug.” White wiggled his hand. “It was sheer madness to hold group therapy up there. And we’re supposed to be the sane ones.

  “I know Bob Sexton, Lafollette, and Puzon,” White continued. “All three have the highest credentials and reputations. It’s tough to figure how they went along with that situation. It was an accident waiting to happen.”

  “What about the ‘if not now’ defense?”

  “Hey, just because a psychiatric patient later does himself in doesn’t mean that we can’t see a patient through a crisis. Experience shows—and we can detail this statistically—that once the patient gets over the feeling of helplessness, receives proper psychological support and treatment, he or she can live a productive and meaningful life.”

  “Yo
u said ‘we,’ John. Will you testify if I take the case on?” Sheridan knew he was hitting the top of the scale in the favor department. “It’ll be against the cardinal and your colleagues.”

  White steepled his fingers and peered over them. He sucked in his breath for a long moment, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled slowly.

  “Do you know what you’re asking?” His eyes fixed Sheridan with a steady gaze.

  “I know,” Sheridan said quietly. The health-care industry was a sacred cow. A conspiracy of silence ran deep in the medical profession, particularly in Boston, with its medical schools, clinics, teaching facilities, and general hospitals. Sheridan knew it, and White had felt its sting. Testifying in a criminal case, a will contest, even an involuntary-confinement hearing, was one thing. Testifying against colleagues and the cardinal could be White’s professional death warrant.

  “Look, John,” Sheridan said apologetically, “you don’t have to testify for the record. There’ll be pressures, I know that. Perhaps you can help on the q.t.—maybe find me some out-of-state shrink whose—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” White’s voice had the timbre of indignation. “Sure I’ll testify! Get the medical records, and see those two patients, Marden and—what’s her name?”

  “Phillips.”

  Sheridan and White both knew that in the chit department, Sheridan now owed White—big-time. But maybe it went deeper. Maybe it went back to Holy Redeemer, where the nuns taught values, not religion, back to the old neighborhood, to White’s notion that there was a wrong that needed redress.

  Sheridan gathered his notes and photos and stuffed them into his briefcase. White saw him through the outer office and to the front door. As Sheridan shook the doctor’s hand, there was only one thing to say.

  “You’ve got balls, John,” he said. “Real balls.”

  “Yeah.” White tried to look appropriately amused. “I hope a year from now—if we last that long—we’re not both singing soprano.”

  4Judy Corwin addressed Sheridan’s intercom. “Judge Davis’s docket clerk just called. You are to report to her session in courtroom four-oh-three at two this afternoon. It’s on that Ellison boy’s rape case. Seems that Assistant DA Shirley Grant is pushing for trial and the judge wants to start impaneling Monday morning.”

  “Okay, Judy.” Sheridan sighed. “Guess we can’t continue the case forever, and it’s not going to go away.”

  “At least you’ve got Lakeesha Davis on the bench—she’s got some soul,” Judy said, trying to sound upbeat.

  “That could cut both ways,” Sheridan said. “Our kid’s white—prep school, all the Brahmin trimmings. Bad enough his first name is Todd. It’ll be a rough ride if we have to go the distance.”

  “How is the plea bargaining going?” Judy inquired as she started to sort the mail.

  “Not good. We got nowhere at the preliminary hearing. The new DA, Gretchen Wilder, is out for some early pelts. Before we got on the case, Ellison’s dad made an offer of twenty-five grand to the so-called victim, but that backfired.

  “While I’m up there, I’ll drop in on young Buckley. He’s waiting for a verdict on the DeVelieu case; jury’s been out for two days.”

  Tom Buckley was Sheridan’s associate, had been for ten years, since he first started practice at thirty. Judy called him “young Buckley.” Now at forty, the name still stuck.

  “The cash-flow ledger says we’re pretty far into the red column, Dan. We could use a few fees,” Judy said.

  “I’ll see what I can do, Judy.”

  Judy Corwin sat at her desk, looked at the pile of bills, and issued a profound Jewish-mother sigh. Demand letters from the lawbook company and bills for leasing, photocopy paper, and malpractice insurance were all there. As successful as Dan Sheridan and Buckley were, the practice of criminal law was a roller-coaster business, and “the nut,” as she called the overhead, was a voracious money-eater. But at least Dan kept some cash around—an emergency fund to cover the tips and ducats for sports events. Some people would call them bribes, Judy thought.

  And she thought about the clientele—drug dealers, money launderers, white-collar skimmers, a few charged with bank fraud, a priest accused of molestation by former altar boys, and two people accused of rape. The Ellison boy, a privileged white preppy, had gotten drunk at a sorority bash and wound up in the sack with one Sandra Martinez, a fifteen-year-old going on twenty-five. It could have been a notch on his old Delta Gamma key—something to crow about when he got to college, especially since there were some follow-up encounters. But when the girl missed her period, the Ellison kid backed off, refused letters and phone calls.

  The Martinez girl, who was half-black, half-Hispanic, went to her irate father. Next, the police came knocking at the preppy’s door. To make matters worse, the complainant had an abortion and the physician botched the job, leaving her permanently scarred and sterile. The prosecutor would get mileage out of this further complication. That was Dan Sheridan’s two o’clock appointment.

  And his partner, Tom Buckley, was defending a Haitian man, Jean DeVelieu, accused of raping a white girl. DeVelieu misinterpreted the girl’s signals, claiming that she assented to his advances.

  Judy took two overdue bills from the pile. They could stall the lawbook company, since the publishers wanted the texts and fillers to keep coming. The landlord was another matter.

  She buzzed Sheridan once again. “Dan, I got hold of the Phillips girl. You can meet her on Friday at the studio, after her show.”

  “Fine,” Sheridan said. “And before I forget it, get ahold of the Martinez girl’s personal lawyer—you know, Sheldon Cohen. See if he can meet me at Judge Davis’s session.”

  Sheridan grabbed a sandwich and coffee at the lunch stand in the aging courthouse lobby, then made his way up rows of weathered marble steps to the fourth floor. It was a mangy place, really, littered with gum wrappers and cigarette butts. The halls were dimly lit and smoky. Groups of lawyers huddled with dour and distressed clients, at times gesturing flamboyantly or whispering enigmatically.

  He saw Buckley seated on a bench with his grim-faced client. Jean DeVelieu held a moonfaced baby, who appeared on the verge of dozing off for an afternoon nap.

  Sheridan nodded, then clapped DeVelieu on the shoulder. “Jury’s been out two days now,” he said. “That’s a pretty good sign. Someone’s holding out.”

  “Johnny Coyne, the bailiff, said it’s a deadlock.” Young Buckley cupped his hand to keep the bad news from his client. A mistrial would only stall things awhile; it was no real out.

  “Not bad, Buck. You’ve done a helluva job,” Sheridan said, directing the gratuitous kudos to the client’s ear.

  Just then, Bailiff Coyne, attired in a black suit with brass buttons and wielding a white staff, marched into view, the jurors following behind. They were returning from lunch and would swing right past Buckley, Sheridan, and the client.

  “Quick,” Buckley said to DeVelieu, “give me the baby!”

  “What, monsieur?”

  “The baby! Donnez-moi l’enfant!” Buckley dug up some high school French, then reached out and forcibly withdrew the baby from DeVelieu’s grasp. Coyne and the jury were still fifty feet away. Sheridan saw Buckley pinch the baby on the rear end. There was a great screech. He bounced the baby and pinched it again. The baby, now wide-eyed and wailing, reached for its father. “Da-Da!” the baby screamed. Not knowing what was going on, DeVelieu grabbed the baby, bounced it several times, and made soothing sounds to calm it down just as the jury passed by. Several jurors smiled at DeVelieu, reacting to the display of fatherly love.

  Sheridan, a veteran of countless courtroom wars, knew that justice, especially the criminal justice system, had some hard edges. Although he didn’t approve of Buckley’s ploy, he had to hand it to his associate. His charade would help to soften the rough corners. Buckley merely winked at Sheridan and Sheridan nodded.

  “Good luck, Jean.” Sheridan patted the baby.
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  DeVelieu was still in the dark. “May the saints and Obeah keep you from harm,” he replied in his lilting Creole accent.

  Courtroom 403 was hoary with age. The red linoleum flooring was cracked and crumpled, and the mahogany veneer of the judge’s bench was gouged and stained. Twelve vacant hard-backed chairs sat silent and forlorn in the jury enclosure. The vaulted room was solemn and dimly lit. The cracked plaster walls were painted a grimy municipal green. No peach marble floors, redwood rails, or fluted walnut bookcases graced this gloomy sepulchre of justice.

  There to meet Sheridan was Shirley Grant, the assistant DA. Already she had her brief and papers spread out on the counsel table. She was young, perhaps late twenties. Not bad-looking, Sheridan thought. Her dress was corporate gray. She turned and nodded, no smile, and eyed Sheridan as if he were a heralded gunslinger. Nothing like bringing down Johnny Ringo.

  Sheridan flashed a broad smile and extended his hand. “Miss Grant, nice to see you again.” She eyed him curiously. He was going to add how attractive she looked, but he could see the prosecutor was loaded for bear. Shirley Grant wasn’t Irish; she was mainline WASP. And Gaelic flattery, however sincere, would get him nowhere. It might even get him a kick in the balls.

  “Can’t we settle this thing, Miss—mind if I call you Shirley?”

  “No way!” she snapped. Her eyes narrowed in a “take no prisoners” glare.

  “Your Yuppie client caused this poor girl irreparable harm. She’ll never bear a child, never feel the warmth of her child’s hand, never see her daughter trotting across the floor, leaping into her arms and saying, ‘Hi, Mom!’ ”

  For a moment, Sheridan glanced toward the jury rail, hoping Shirley Grant would pick up his subtle “play that for the jury” look. She didn’t.

  “And psychologically, she’s damaged for life. Here.” Shirley Grant sifted through some papers on the counsel desk. “This is her psychiatrist’s report. She’s a basket case; she’ll probably never graduate from high school.”