Judge Blake massages the temple of his large, bald head as if he is hearing a complicated tax case involving millions of dollars instead of a two-page petition to modify a mental patient’s conditional release. He interrupts, “How can I be certain she will take her medication each day?”
Prepared for the question, Rainey barely lets him finish
“She takes a Prolixin injection at the Community Mental Health Center every two weeks. If she doesn’t come in, the case manager can call her to find out what happened, and if she’s not satisfied with her answer, she can ask the court for an emergency pickup order.”
Judge Blake comes dangerously close to picking his nose in front of us.
“Now what is so wrong with where Ms. Alvarez is right now?”
Rainey launches into a passionate denunciation of the Confederate Gardens. After describing physical conditions that make even the judge wince, she says, “It’s especially inappropriate for a woman who can manage as well as Ms. Alvarez, Your Honor. The Blackwell County Community Mental Health Center is supposed to be acting as an advocate to help people like Ms. Alvarez live in the community as independently as possible. In this woman’s case it means helping her find an apartment and a job. Instead, the case managers do the easiest thing possible find them a place like Confederate Gardens, which lumps all persons with mental illness together in what amounts to a hellhole and takes their Social Security Disability checks. With just a little help from BCCMHC Ms. Alvarez can be a productive, taxpaying citizen…”
As I listen to Rainey sing a song whose verses are all the same (she has sung it to me more than once), I realize again how much I will be missing. Her spunk alone is worth the price of admission. As a social worker at the state hospital, she is deliberately courting criticism by daring to attack publicly a community mental health center for not doing its job. The rule in the mental health bureaucracy is: Don’t break my rice bowl and I won’t break yours. The beautiful thing about Rainey is mat she doesn’t give a shit. I realize belatedly how much she is like Rosa, who never thought twice about telling a doctor to his face that he needed to call in a specialist.
Judge Blake finally cuts Rainey off.
“I understand your point, Ms. McCorkle, but my concern with Ms. Alvarez is that she has threatened the life of the President of the United States. I’m surprised to hear that she has as much freedom as she does.”
The old fraud, I think. He ordered her placed there himself. He’s either stupid or dishonest. Rainey speaks to him as if they were the only ones in the courtroom.
“She didn’t threaten him. Your Honor. She just went to the Mansion to try to collect money she thought she was owed.”
“She went three times until she was arrested,” the judge says, his tone becoming frosty.
“As I’m sure you know, just a month or so ago, a mental patient killed an innocent person here in Blackwell County. We need more confinement, not less.”
“You’re not listening. Your Honor,” Rainey says, near tears.
“This woman is not dangerous to anybody!”
Judge Blake is not the type of jurist who likes to be told he is nothing short of perfect. A vein bulging in his forehead, he says to me, “Call your next witness!”
The attorney from the prosecution coordinator’s office, Diana Bateman, giggles, “No questions. Your Honor.”
She is too chickenshit to point out that she isn’t being al lowed to cross-examine Rainey. Of course, she doesn’t need to. Since the community mental health psychiatrist, the case manager, and Ms. Alvarez have already testified, I have no choice but to rest my case, and the judge rules before Rainey has even gotten back to her seat that he is refusing to modify the order requiring Ms. Alvarez to live at the Confederate Gardens. As a sop to me, he grants my motion to review her case in six months.
Once we are outside in the hall, Rainey begins to cry.
“You tried as hard as you could,” Ms. Alvarez says, pat ting Rainey’s shoulder as if she were the social worker trying to ease the pain of a dejected client.
“That judge wouldn’t have let Hillary Clinton out today. He was scared.”
I marvel at the accuracy of the remark. As the old saying goes, Ms. Alvarez may be crazy, but she isn’t stupid.
“We’ll try again in six months,” I volunteer, relieved I haven’t wasted more than a couple of hours.
“If there hasn’t been any recent negative publicity, Blake might change his mind.”
“Can’t we appeal?” Rainey asks, biting her lip.
“The state doesn’t pay for an appeal on this kind of case,” I say quickly to discourage her.
“It’s better just to come back.” I am not willing to pay for a transcript out of my own pocket and then waste my time by writing a brief. The court of appeals is elected, too.
“We’re better off waiting until the headlines shrink a little.”
“It just makes me so angry!” Rainey says, wiping her eyes.
“They’re all so lazy, and the judge is such a coward
I look around uneasily, hoping there is nobody to re peat this comment. Rainey is in enough trouble as it is.
Why should I care, I think irritably. In a few days, she’ll never have to work again.
“I’ve got to go,” I tell Rainey.
“Sorry it didn’t go better.”
Preoccupied, she nods perfunctorily.
“Thanks, Gideon.”
She’ll be married the next time I see her. Resisting the temptation to hug her, I say, “Sure.”
As I turn to go, she reaches in her purse and pulls out a small box wrapped in Christmas paper. How odd that she should get me a present.
“This is for Sarah,” she says, be fore I can make a fool of myself.
“How nice!” I reply, trying to smile. Amy is coming over on Christmas Day. For the last three years it has been Rainey who has come by.
Before I know it, Rainey reaches up and kisses me on the cheek.
“I won’t see you again before I’m married,” she whispers.
“Be good!”
I nod, and turn away, not trusting myself to speak. I drive back downtown to get back to a case that has begun to seem more promising.
From my office I call Lucy and Roy Cunningham to let them know that I will be driving down to Texarkana late this afternoon to drop in on the parents of Robin Perry. If this case is dismissed, I want them to realize who is responsible
It is Roy who answers the phone, and as I explain to him what is going on, he becomes more communicative than he has been since this case began.
“I figured she was setting him up!” he says in a loud voice.
I tell him that yesterday I filed a motion with the court that is a prerequisite to introducing evidence at the trial of Robin’s sex life. The judge has scheduled the hearing to take place January 3, four days before the trial begins.
“If Robin tells the prosecutor that she doesn’t want to go through with the trial, he’ll ask the judge to dismiss it.”
Roy listens quietly.
“Why wouldn’t she wait to make a decision until the hearing is over to see what the judge does?” he asks, his voice booming. I can’t hear any noise in the background. It must be a slow day.
“She might,” I concede, “but her family surely knows by now that this is a boat that is beginning to spring some real bad leaks. The less people know, the better. Despite the fact that this will be a closed hearing, they can assume correctly that word will get out, and it’ll be all over Fayetteville and the university in no time. This is the kind of scandal that people like to head off as much as possible.
All I want to do is emphasize to them how much better it would be for everyone concerned if Robin drops the case right now.”
“Do you want to speak to Dade? He’s home. I can have him call you,” Roy says, a tone of respect coming into his voice for the first time since the night I took the case in his brother’s living room.