“How deep is your interest in this, anyway?” he asked.
I had the feeling he already knew how deep my interest was.
“I’ve taken on Sarah Whittaker as a client,” I said.
“Toward what end?” Mark asked.
“I’m afraid that’s confidential,” I said.
“Oho, listen to the big attorney with his privileged-communication bullshit,” Mark said. “Are you trying to spring her from Knott’s, is that it, Matthew?”
“Do you think she should be sprung?” I said.
“As I told you on the phone last week, the girl is nuttier than a Hershey bar with almonds.”
“Is that your opinion, Mark? Or the opinion of a mental health professional?”
“He’s been studying the Baker Act, has our young friend Matthew.”
“Let’s say I’ve been browsing through it.”
“If by ‘mental health professional,’ ” Mark said, “you mean an individual licensed or authorized to practice medicine or osteopathy under the laws of this state, and who has primarily diagnosed and treated mental and nervous disorders for a period of not less than three years—”
“I know the statute, Mark.”
“Good. Then I can assure you that Dr. Nathan Helsinger qualifies as a mental health professional under the definition in Section 394.455.”
“Was it Dr. Helsinger who executed the certificate that had her removed from her home to the Dingley Wing at Good Samaritan Hospital?”
“All in accordance with the statute.”
“Within the forty-eight hours preceding her emergency admission?”
“Matthew, please. We’re not amateurs here.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
Mark sighed. Watching Mark sigh was rather like watching a whale spouting.
“Matthew, Matthew,” he said. “Helsinger examined the girl after her mother phoned him to say she’d tried to slit her wrists. He signed the certificate that authorized a law-enforcement officer to take Sarah into custody and deliver her to the nearest available receiving facility for emergency examination and treatment All by the book, Matthew.”
“You seem to know the statute by heart.”
“I do.”
“Sarah tells me she was never examined by anyone before her admission to Dingley,” I said, and watched his eyes.
“Sarah, as we all know, is a paranoid schizophrenic with suicidal tendencies.”
“Was that Dr. Helsinger’s diagnosis?”
“His, yes, and also the diagnosis of the examining psychiatrist at Good Samaritan. Who, need I add, is another qualified ‘mental health professional.’ ”
“His name?”
“Dr. Gerald Bonamico.”
“When did the examination take place?”
“Which one?”
“Dr. Helsinger’s.”
“At seven o’clock on the evening of September twenty-seventh, approximately one hour after young Sarah Whittaker tried to take her own life.”
“When was the certificate executed?”
“The very same day.”
“Sarah tells me they broke into her room shortly before midnight.”
“Broke in, Matthew? Come, come.”
“She says she was in bed reading—”
“She was.”
“—and that you and her mother, accompanied by a police officer—”
“That’s all true.”
“—came into the room—”
“After knocking politely on her door.”
“—and dragged her away in handcuffs.”
“She tried to assault the officer. She spit in her mother’s face, screamed at her like a banshee, hurled obscenities at her. Matthew, the girl had tried to kill herself not six hours earlier. What the hell did you expect us to do?”
“How long was she kept in Dingley?” I asked.
“Three days. The statute calls for an outside limit of five days,” Mark said, and paused. “As I’m sure you know.”
He made it sound as if I didn’t know.
“And were proceedings for involuntary placement started at that time?”
“They were.”
“On what date, Mark?”
“The first of October.”
“Who filed the petition?”
“Sarah’s mother. Alice Whittaker.”
“Who else? The statute requires affidavits from two other—”
“The alternate requirement is that the petition can be accompanied by a certificate from a mental health professional stating that he examined the patient within the preceding five days—”
“I’m assuming this certificate—”
“Helsinger, correct.”
“And it stated, did it, that she was mentally ill—”
“The wording in the statute is ‘may be mentally ill.—”
“—and required placement in a mental facility for full evaluation?”
“The evaluation had already been made. At Dingley.”
“Who presided at the hearing?”
“Judge Albert R. Mason of the Second Circuit Court.”
“Who represented Sarah?”
“A court-appointed attorney.”
“His name?”
“Jeremy Wilkes.”
“Here in town? I don’t know the name.”
“He’d just begun practicing in Calusa at the time. He’s since moved.”
“Oh? Where to?”
“California someplace.”
“Convenient.”
“What is that supposed to mean, Matthew?”
“She’s represented at the hearing by an inexperienced attorney—”
“He’d been practicing law for seven years before he came to Calusa.”
“Inexperienced in Florida. Where’d he come from?”
“Louisiana.”
“And now He’s practicing in California?”
“I don’t know what He’s doing in California. I only know that he moved there.”
“When?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where in California?”
“I have no idea.”
“So this hearing takes place—”
“On the third of October.”
“And the result—”
“Four things could have happened, Matthew, as I’m sure you know. One, she could have been unconditionally released. Two, she could have been released for outpatient treatment at a community facility. Three, she could have given express and informed consent to placement as a voluntary patient. Or — four — proceedings for involuntary placement could have been initiated.”
“Which is what happened. She was involuntarily—”
“Yes. Because — on all the evidence — Judge Mason was satisfied that the person before him was nuts.”
“Uh-huh. Tell me, Mark, would you happen to know the name of the cop who broke into her bedroom that night?”
“There are those words again, Matthew.”
“Would you know his name?”
“How can I be expected to know the name of an anonymous policeman discharging his duty as—”
“Never mind, I’ll find out. Thank you, Mark. Appreciate your time.”
I’m sometimes glad I’m not a tourist in the city of Calusa, Florida.
If I were a tourist here, I wouldn’t know where to find a police station. In Chicago, Illinois — from which Second City I migrated long before the rush to the Sun Belt started — it was simple to find a police station whenever you needed one. Admittedly, there is less crime in Calusa than there was (and is) in Chicago, but it would be nice if a police station here looked like a police station.