Ami remembered a case she had worked on when she was with her firm. The client had been a seriously disturbed veteran, and they’d used a psychiatrist as an expert witness on posttraumatic stress disorder. Victims of PTSD often reexperienced a traumatic event, like a rape, an earthquake, or a car accident, that was outside the range of ordinary human experience. Other symptoms included guilt feelings and reduced involvement with the external world. Many Vietnam War veterans suffered from PTSD. Ami had conducted the initial interview of the expert to see if he would help their case. She remembered him as being very smart and personable. Ami was definitely not going to continue as Morelli’s attorney, but she hadn’t found a new attorney for him yet. It would certainly assist whoever ended up with Morelli’s case if she laid the groundwork for a defense. Ami was excited. First thing tomorrow she would start her search for Morelli’s lawyer. But she would also try to remember the name of the psychiatrist.
CHAPTER NINE
Dr. George French was in his late fifties and slightly overweight, but his clothes were hand-tailored so that the weight didn’t show. French’s gray-green eyes twinkled behind custom-made steel-rimmed bifocals. His skin was pale and his mustache and beard were salt-and-pepper like the fringe of hair around his otherwise bald head. When French walked into his waiting room, Ami Vergano put down the magazine she was reading.
“You’re looking well,” the psychiatrist said, flashing Ami an engaging smile.
Ami smiled back. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Let’s talk in my office. Do you want any coffee?”
“Coffee sounds great. I need to get my brain moving.”
There was a small kitchen halfway to Dr. French’s office. The doctor stopped there and filled two cups before continuing down the hall.
“I’m sorry your firm broke up.”
“Me too.”
“It must have been quite a shock.”
Ami shrugged. “The associates never know what’s going on. One morning the partners called us into the conference room and that was that.”
“And you’re out on your own now?”
“Yeah,” she answered, embarrassed by her fall from the higher echelons of the law to the lowly ranks of the solo shingle hangers. “I’m scraping by. Mostly divorces, wills, contracts. I’ve got a small business that sends me all its work. If Microsoft or Nike asks you for the name of a good attorney, I’d appreciate the referral.”
Dr. French laughed as he stood aside to let Ami into his office. A couch upholstered in burgundy leather sat against a pastel-blue wall under a grouping of sunny prints. Across from it, on the other side of the room, was a wide window that brought light and a skyline view into the room. The psychiatrist shut his office door and motioned Ami toward one of the two chrome-and-leather chairs that flanked a low glass coffee table. He took the other chair.
“I have someone I want you to see,” Ami told the doctor.
“A client in a divorce?”
“No. Actually, it’s a case that’s been getting a lot of notoriety. Have you heard about the fight at the Little League game?”
“Who hasn’t?”
“My son is on one of the teams that were playing and the man who was arrested was renting from me. He had the apartment over my garage. He’s the person I want to talk to you about.”
“Why me?”
“You’re an expert on posttraumatic stress disorder.”
“Ah, Mazyck,” French said, mentioning the case he had been hired to work on by Ami’s old firm. Gregory Mazyck was a veteran who had holed up in his house with a hostage. Dr. French had testified that Mazyck was suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder and believed the police were Iraqis and the hostage was his best friend, who had died in his arms during the Gulf War.
“How much do you know about what happened at the Little League game?”
“Not much.”
“Okay. Well, Dan-Daniel Morelli, my client-is a carpenter. I don’t know his age, but I’m guessing he’s in his late forties. He travels around the country in a pickup truck. He doesn’t have roots. Sometimes he lives in the woods for weeks at a time. He supports himself by doing odd jobs and building very beautiful handmade furniture. That’s how we met, at an art fair on the Park Blocks. He had a booth next to mine, and he was trying to get orders for his furniture. Anyway, he needed a place to stay. I liked him. He seemed very gentle. My son really took to him. I never saw any sign that he was violent.”
Ami told the psychiatrist about the fight.
“I asked him about what he did to Barney and the policeman. He said that he wasn’t thinking; that his training took over. He seemed very remorseful about what he did, very depressed. He also told me that he’d been locked up in Vietnam. I asked him if he’d been a soldier, but he wouldn’t discuss it. He also said that he had sworn not to hurt anyone again. I’m wondering if the sudden violence was connected to his experiences in Vietnam.”
“I guess that’s possible.”
“I remembered your testimony. You said that combat experience could produce symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder years after the event that caused the problem. I’d like you to talk to Dan and tell me what you think.”
“All right.”
“There’s another thing,” Ami said, “something weird. Dan’s ID is phony and they can’t find a match for his fingerprints.”
“Now that is interesting. His prints would have to be on file if he was in the military.” Dr. French stood up. “Let me check my schedule.”
He walked over to his desk and talked to his secretary over his intercom.
“I’ve got a cancellation this afternoon,” he told Ami, a moment later. “Would three be okay?”
Morelli was sitting up in bed when the guard let Ami and Dr. French into his room. The nasogastric tube and IV were gone, and some color had returned to his face. His long hair was fanned out behind his head, almost covering his pillow.
“You’re looking a lot better,” Ami said.
Morelli focused on Ami’s companion. “Who’s your friend?”
“This is George French. He’s a psychiatrist.”
Morelli smiled wearily. “That’s going to be my defense, insanity? I can save you a lot of trouble, Ami. It won’t fly. I’m sane.”
“You don’t have to be nuts to have a mental defense, Dan. Dr. French just wants to ask you some questions.”
“Is this confidential? It stays between us?”
“Yes,” Ami assured him.
Morelli shrugged and gestured toward the chairs that sat against the wall.
“Be my guest. I don’t have anything better to do.”
Ami and the doctor pulled the chairs over to the bed. George placed a yellow lined pad on his lap and scribbled a heading.
“Do you mind if I call you Dan?” he asked.
“You can call me anything you want, except late for dinner,” Morelli quipped to indicate that he wasn’t taking Dr. French’s inquisition seriously.
French laughed. “I’d like to get some background before we talk about what happened at the ball field. Is that okay?”
Morelli looked a little uncomfortable, but he nodded his assent.
“Good. Let’s start with an easy one. Where did you grow up?”
“California.”
“Where in California?”
“San Diego.”
Morelli had told Ami that he was an army brat who moved around. Now he was telling Dr. French something else.
“Any brothers or sisters?”