Final Appeal (2 page)

 

Michael Hart had no idea what time it was. The dayroom clock had a dense coating of wire mesh over its face. He had been here for years now, but he still wasn't sure whether the metal cage around the clock was to protect it from possible damage or to keep him from discovering how slowly the hands crawled around its circumference.

On this particular morning, the dayroom was off-limits. The clock was safe from flying Ping-Pong balls and wads of paper. No patients from Ward B were allowed inside to use the rickety tables or the television set. Michael was the only exception.

He sat in a green plastic chair facing his accusers, the board of doctors and social workers. His hands were shaking, and he gripped the arms of the chair tightly in an effort to concentrate. His head felt like a balloon filled with helium, huge and lighter than air, nodding and bobbing uncontrollably as if someone else were jerking the string. The nurse had insisted he take his medication last night—no screaming, nightmares, or episodes of sleepwalking on her shift, thank you very much, even though he'd explained that he was up for review in the morning, and he had to be able to think clearly.

There was a clatter as one silver-haired man with aviator glasses dropped his pen on the tile floor. Everyone watched as he bent over to pick it up. It was a Cross ballpoint, and Michael wondered whether he had the pencil to match. A Cross pen and pencil set was a traditional high-school graduation gift. Aunt Alice had given Stan a gold set, and Michael had expected the same. Instead, his aunt had surprised him with a brand-new Volkswagen Beetle. Did Stan have it now? Michael almost laughed aloud at the thought of his sophisticated brother driving around in a beat-up VW Bug, but he caught himself just in time. He had to focus on what was happening here, in this room. It was opening night at the most important performance of his life. His role was to play a perfectly normal person, the type of man who'd work all week and spend the weekend mowing his lawn and cleaning out the garage. He'd be the typical man on the street, the sort of nondescript, ordinary guy you'd see on the evening news, answering some inane questions with a microphone shoved in his face.

Michael did all he could not to gasp out loud as his adrenaline began to race. That meant he was blocking. Something was there, a buried memory about the man on the street. But he didn't have time to explore it now. The head of the psychiatric division, Dr J. Bowman, was lighting his pipe. The curtain was about to go up.

Dr. Bowman had a brass name tag pinned to his lapel. Perhaps he wore it to remind him of who he was. Michael had asked his favorite orderly about Dr. Bowman. And Jack had told him that the doctor spent a lot of time locked in his office, drinking to escape the pressures of his job.

A dense cloud of gray smoke drifted toward Michael, and he took a deep breath before it reached out to enshroud his head. There was a red-and-white NO SMOKING sign on the wall under the imprisoned clock, but it applied only to patients. Dr Bowman could break any rule he wanted. He was the hospital honcho. And he had the power to set Michael free.

“Shall we start?” Dr. Bowman glanced at the clock just as if he could see through the mesh. Then he opened his briefcase and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, Dr. Bowman,” A frizzy-haired social worker raised her hand. Michael remembered seeing her in the halls when he went to therapy. “I believe you have the case histories?”

“I do? Oh, yes. Here they are.”

Dr. Bowman passed out the red-covered folders. When Michael had asked, Jack had explained that red was the hospital's color code for convicted murderers. Everything was color-coded. It was policy. Michael wished his folders were a different color—blue, perhaps, even though that was the color for homosexuals, or good old paranoid–schizophrenic yellow. At least he knew what was inside the folders; no surprises this time. Jack had managed to get his hands on a copy, and Michael had memorized it during his allotted ten minutes in the lavatory. A good actor had to be a quick study, and he still thought he'd been a good actor.

There was a rustle of papers as the members of the board turned to the first page. Vital statistics.

“Now, er . . . Michael?” Dr. Bowman glanced at the case history. “Could you please give me your full name?”

“Excuse me, doctor?” The social worker interrupted again. “Shouldn't we inform the patient of the purpose of this hearing?”

“What?” Dr. Bowman looked startled. “Oh, yes. You're right of course.” As he fumbled in his briefcase, Michael observed him very carefully.

Everything about Dr. Bowman was a bit rumpled. He was wearing a suit that had once been expensive, but now it was growing tight around the middle, and there were several large grease spots on his tie. His salt-and-pepper beard needed trimming, and it didn't match the color of his hair. Doctor Bowman was in his late fifties, and his hair was glossy black. That was unusual, unless . . . Michael bit back a smile.

The doctor drew out a piece of paper and studied it for a moment. There were bright spots of color in his pasty cheeks, and his nose was a road map of broken veins. Michael would have cast him in
Days of Wine and Roses
, but he certainly wasn't about to mention that. He might be crazy, but he wasn't stupid.

Dr. Bowman cleared his throat again and started to read. “As you may know, er . . . Michael, this board is charged with a solemn responsibility to make certain that you will be a contributing and law-abiding member of society in the event of your release. We are required to ask you a series of questions to assess your grasp of reality and your competency to make logical and reasonable assumptions. Now, where were we?”

“I believe you were about to ask the patient his name,” the social worker prompted.

“Yes, that's right.”

Dr. Bowman turned to face Michael and gave his impression of a reassuring smile. It wasn't very good. Forget
Days of Wine and Roses
. Dr. Bowman would never make it as an actor.

“Try to relax Michael. There's nothing to be afraid of. We're all concerned for your best interests. I want you to think of us as your friends.”

Michael nodded and managed to keep the pleasant expression on his face. He had no friends here, not a familiar face in the bunch unless you counted the social worker he barely knew. Jack had petitioned to attend, but his request had been denied. You had to be in a position of authority to sit in on the review board. No orderlies allowed.

“Let us begin.” Dr. Bowman picked up his folder and glanced at the first page. “Would you please give me your full and complete name?”

Michael opened his mouth, and the answer came out. “Michael Allen Hart.” As several members of the board picked up their pens and began to write, he realized that he'd missed one already. Now he'd have to explain, and Jack told him not to volunteer anything, just to answer the questions and remember to smile. This would have to be an exception.

“Hart is my stage name, Dr. Bowman. I've been using it ever since I graduated from college. My legal name is Gerhardt, Michael Allen Gerhardt.”

Dr. Bowman nodded, “Very good, Michael. I'm glad you made that distinction. Could you please give me your last street address?”

Michael hesitated. Surely, they didn't want the address of the prison where he'd spent his first few months. Or the hospital where he'd gone through the surgeries. He'd try the apartment. That must be right.

“Sixty-one fifty-five Franklin Avenue, apartment eighteen, Hollywood, California. I . . . I'm not sure of the zip code. Nine-zero-zero-two-six?”

Dr. Bowman referred to his notes. “It was nine-zero-zero-two-eight, but that's perfectly acceptable. This board doesn't expect you to be able to pass a postal service quiz on zip codes.”

There was a titter of laughter, and Michael remembered to smile. Normal people were expected to smile politely, no matter how lame the joke.

“And what were your parent's names?”

“Robert Stanley Gerhardt and Cassie, that's short for Cassandra, Gerhardt.”

“And your mother's maiden name?”

“Cassandra Michele Norman.”

“Do you have any relatives living in the state of California?”

“Yes. My older brother, Stan Gerhardt, lives in Los Angeles and my Aunt Alice . . .” Michael faltered as he realized that Aunt Alice was dead. That was two he'd missed already, and the interview had just started. “I'm sorry, Dr. Bowman. I just remembered that my Aunt Alice Norman passed away last year.”

“She did?” Dr. Bowman studied the folder for a moment. “Yes, that's correct. Michael. Now, do you know today's date?”

“September fourteenth.”

“And the day of the week?”

“Thursday.”

“Did you say Thursday?” Dr. Bowman frowned. Michael nodded, and the social worker spoke up again.

“He's right, doctor. Today is Thursday.”

Dr. Bowman glared at her, and Michael hoped she wouldn't get into trouble. She was the only one on the board who seemed to be on his side.

“Let's go on then, Michael, who is the current president of the United States?”

Michael froze. How was he supposed to know that?

It wasn't fair!

“I . . . I'm not sure. Dr. Bowman. We're not allowed to watch the news on television because it upsets some of the patients and we don't have access to newspapers. I do know that nineteen eighty-eight was an election year, and the last time I heard, Vice President Bush was leading in the polls.”

Michael winced as several board members made notes. If he'd known they were going to ask about the president, he would have found out from Jack.

“All right, Michael.” Dr. Bowman referred to the sheet of paper again. “I realize that the following material may be painful, but we must have your complete recollection of the events that occurred ten years ago on . . . uh . . . what was that date again?”

There was an uncomfortable silence, and finally the social worker spoke. “October second, doctor.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gray.” Turning his focus back to the patient, Dr. Bowman said, “Michael? Please answer the question.”

Michael took a deep breath. He'd gotten this far before, but after he'd told them and exposed all his fears and uncertainties, they'd still denied his release.

“October second was the day my wife, Carole died.”

“Died?”

“She was murdered. And I was convicted.”

“Very good, go on Michael.”

“I had an audition, but it was canceled, so I went straight home. And when I opened the door, I found Carole packing her things. I couldn't believe it when she told me that she was leaving. She wanted a divorce.”

“And how did you feel about that?”

“I was shocked. And hurt. Especially when I saw the note, she'd written. It was clear she'd been planning on leaving without even talking to me.”

“Did that make you angry?”

Michael winced, but he knew he had to tell the truth. “Yes, I thought I deserved better than that, but I tried not to let my anger get in the way. I told her that I loved her, that I wanted to try to work things out. I even suggested we go to a marriage counselor for help, but she wouldn't listen. She just kept packing things in boxes and repeating that our marriage was over and I had to accept it.”

“She wouldn't tell you why she was leaving?”

“No. She said it was too late to even discuss it. The whole thing was so frustrating!”

Dr. Bowman leaned forward. “And was that when you killed her?”

“No!” Michael gripped the arms of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white. “I . . . we had a fight, a terrible fight. And I left.”

“Dr. Bowman?” The social worker spoke up again. “The patient is obviously agitated, and I feel we must have some compassion for . . .” Her voice trailed off as Dr. Bowman banged his fist on the table.

“I'm warning you, Mrs. Gray. I'm the chairman of this board, and I have the power to evict you from this proceeding. I'm sure Michael knows that no one in this room, including me, wants to cause him any unnecessary pain. Isn't that right, Michael?”

“Yes, Dr. Bowman.”

“You're doing fine, Michael. Now take a deep breath, relax, and tell me where you went when you left the apartment.”

“I went to a bar, Barney's Beanery, in West Hollywood. I was hoping to run into some of my friends. I needed someone to talk to, someone to tell me what to do.”

“Of course you did. And were your friends there?”

“No, I sat there for a couple of hours, but no one I knew came in, so I left.”

“And that was when you went back to kill your wife?”

This was the time Dr. Bowman wanted him to break down, to admit he'd killed Carole. But he hadn't! He knew he hadn't! It was Heller's
Catch Twenty-Two
. If he lied and said, he'd gone back to the apartment to murder Carole in a fit of passion. Dr. Bowman would pat him on the back for accepting reality and release him. He'd said as much in a staff meeting, and Jack had heard about it through the hospital grapevine. There were no secrets from orderlies. But if Michael told the truth and swore that he hadn't killed Carole. Dr. Bowman would decide he was still denying and keep him locked up with the caged clock forever.

Dr. Bowman was speaking again. Michael forced himself to listen.

“. . . your own good, Michael. I want to help you, but my hands are tied if you refuse to cooperate. It's really quite simple. All you have to do is tell me precisely how you killed your wife.”