Condemned (57 page)

“The Doctor is with a patient. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yes. Please ask the Doctor to call me concerning Hettie Rouse. My number is 2-2-7-1-0-1-1.”

“Is Hettie Rouse a patient of Doctor Reed?”

“No, a very dear, old friend. He'll know.”

“I can't tell you when the Doctor will get back to you. He's very busy.”

“I'm sure he is. If you would just mention Hettie Rouse to him, I'm sure he'll call back.” “Very well.”

Sandro disconnected the call, then placed another call to A.D.A. Rob Quintalian. He wanted to discuss Hettie Rouse's school and medical records. Sandro hoped that the records might begin to convince Quintalian that Hettie Rouse was mentally challenged since childhood, and that the events of her childhood further scarred her psyche. If the records began to convince Quintalian on that score, Sandro might be able to mount a reasonable argument that pursuing the death penalty would both be inappropriate and a waste of time, since a jury would likely believe she was incapacitated and not impose death, despite the severity of the crime.

“Quintalian,” said the familiar voice answering the phone.

“Rob, Sandro Luca.”

“Hey, the man himself. How goes it?” asked Quintalian.

“Great. Yourself?” said Sandro.

“Not bad, not bad. The office is going to be playing for the D.A.'s softball championship tonight. If you have nothing to do, come on over.”

“Maybe I will,” said Sandro, although he knew he would not. “What time does it begin?”

“Six thirty, at the softball fields over on the East River, you know where they are? Under the Williamsburg Bridge.”

“I know exactly where they are.”

“What can I do you for?” said Quintalian.

“I want to talk about the death phase for Hettie Rouse.”

“What about it?”

“I've been gathering records from her schools, and her medical records, doing some research into her background,” said Sandro.

“I've been doing some of the same,” said Quintalian.

“I'm sure if you have her school records—”

“I do.”

“—they show that she was mentally borderline from the get go. She was put in one of those warehouse classes from the time she was in the second or third grade.”

“Yeah, I've seen that,” said Quintalian. “That's some indication of something, but certainly not enough, in my estimation, to wipe away the heinousness—is that a word? Heinousness?”

“I think so.”

“—the heinousness of her crime.”

“There's a lot more to be taken into consideration.”

“Like?”

If Sandro could convince Quintalian that the available evidence, whether gathered by the District Attorney's office, or himself, showed clearly, objectively, that Hettie Rouse was close to being mentally retarded, that she had had a horrific childhood, a life which scarred her severely, they might be able to dispense with the necessity of the death phase and agree that Hettie Rouse should be sentenced to Life without Parole. As he thought, Sandro again wondered whether Hettie, or anyone, was better served living life in a little cage for forty or fifty years, rather than have inevitable death be administered through tranquil, peaceful sleep.

“There is substantial evidence of a background that left her mentally scarred and hardened—”

“Like?” said Quintalian.

“Like her father abandoned the family when she was just a kid—”

“Not terribly unusual—”

“Not by itself. Then, her mother took up with men, became a prostitute. And the men beat Hettie and the mother constantly. She was introduced to drugs when she was still just a kid by an older man, first marijuana, then cocaine, and became hooked.”

“You have witnesses for all of this?”

“Yes. I have interviewed the older man who acknowledged his having plied her with drugs when she was, probably, seventeen. The man has died since I interviewed him”—Sandro decided not to mention that it was Red Hardie who had introduced Hettie to drugs.

“If the guy's dead, what good is he going to do you?” said Quintalian.

“I have other witnesses who can substantiate that information. She has a brother who is a medical doctor—”

“This skel—forgive me for referring to your client as a skel, but under the circumstances and conditions she was found living in—she has a brother who's a medical doctor?”

“A very prominent one, with a Park Avenue practice,” said Sandro.

“You're kidding?”

“No, I'm not,” said Sandro.

“His name Rouse?”

“No, he practices under a different name.”

“If he didn't before, he'd have to now.”

Sandro checked his pad of notes. “He graduated Princeton as an undergrad, went to Brown Medical School, and is a very prominent physician. The fact that he's a doctor, and she's who she is, all by itself, is a striking contrast between Hettie and her brother. It underscores the fact that Hettie was not wired correctly from the get go.”

“He'll get up on the stand and testify?” said Quintalian.

“I'll subpoena him.”

“Which means you don't know if you have him,” said Quintalian.

“He'll testify, all right”—that was a little bit of a stretch—only for the moment—thought Sandro. “He'll be able to confirm everything on the documents, and vice versa. You know I'm not blowing smoke at you, since you have the same records I do.”

“You want to give me this doctor's name so I can interview him?”

“Not today,” said Sandro. “I just wanted to launch you on the road to thinking that there is a real basis for the jury not buying into the death penalty. I'm not asking you to give the defendant a medal. I'm not convinced life without parole is a bargain, but, I don't think that death is called for in this case.”

“Give me the name of the doctor. Let me speak to him,” said Quintalian.

“I'll get back to you on that. Meanwhile, why don't you think about it.”

“Not tonight. Tonight's softball.”

“Good luck. I'll try and make it to the field.”

“Great.”

Sandro put down the phone and studied his notes and the documents that he had gathered so far. He still needed Hettie's high school records, but from what Sandro saw in the grammar school records, he was sure that whatever records there were from high school would be almost identical to the ones he already had.

Sandro's intercom sounded. “Yes?”

“There's a Doctor Hugh Anthony Reed on the phone, returning your call.”

“Ah, yes.” Sandro picked up his phone. “Dr. Reed?”

“Yes, what is this about, Mr. Luca?” His voice was impatient, supercilious.

“It's about your sister, Hettie Rouse, Doctor Reed,” Sandro said flatly.

“I'm afraid you've mistaken me for someone else.”

“Doctor, I'm Hettie Rouse's attorney. Ms. Rouse is charged with murder—you may have seen newspaper stories concerning the case.”

“I'm not sure that I have,” the Doctor said curtly.

“The District Attorney's office is seeking the death penalty for Ms. Rouse. As her attorney, I have an obligation to look into her background, in an effort to save her life—saving lives, if I'm not mistaken, is something the Hippocratic Oath describes as a doctor's mission. I can do myjob the easy way or the hard way. If I subpoena you, and we have to knock heads, you can be required to take the witness stand, and I may have to prove, amongst other things, that Hettie Rouse is your sister. Just as an aside, Hettie has forbidden me to get in touch with anyone in her family, including you. This is not her doing. It's mine. I only want to talk to you, however, not give you a hard time or embarrass you in any way.”

There was silence on the other end.

“I've seen media stories about the incident.” The Doctor's voice was more conciliatory, resigned.

“What I've been told may be wrong, Doctor, if it is, I'll pack up my notes and not bother you again. You can understand. I have an obligation to at least look into her background. We could meet away from your office, anywhere you say. I'll come uptown.”

“When would you want to do this?”

He is her brother!
” Sandro thought to himself. “Your convenience, Doctor.”

“I have office hours until late, today. Tomorrow, about five?

“Where would you like to meet, Doctor?”

“The bar at the Pierre.”

“See you there, at five, tomorrow,” said Sandro. “You'll recognize me, Doctor. I'll be wearing a lawyer's suit.”

“See you there,” the Doctor said, not the least bit amused.

Dr. Hugh Anthony Reed, elegantly dressed, slim, with dark hair, a brush moustache, and glasses. He was light skinned, with such Caucasian features, that he appeared to be the right-out-of-central-casting, stereotypical paternalistic, white, male physician. As Sandro had predicted, he and the Doctor found each other without much hesitation. They sat at a side table, well away from the bar and the noise.

“Doctor, I realize this must be very difficult for you,” said Sandro.

The Doctor sighed softly as he stared fixedly at the very dry Bombay gin martini he had ordered, slowly twirling the stem of the glass, shaking his head almost imperceptibly as he seemed to be staring into an abyss.

“I have no intention, in any way, to embarrass you.”

“Difficult? Embarrass? No, this is neither difficult or embarrassing,” the Doctor said slowly, a painful grimace souring his handsome face. “Absolute devastation, total ruination is more like it. Here, let me show you something.” The Doctor reached inside his jacket and took out his wallet. “Look at this.” He handed Sandro a picture of an elegant blonde, blue-eyed woman and two matching children. Sandro studied the picture, then looked back at the Doctor who was silently trembling; tears rolled from under his glasses and down his cheeks. “Forgive me,” he said, taking a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing away the tears.

“Your wife?” asked Sandro.

The doctor nodded. “The children, twins, are from her previous marriage. I've had a vasectomy so that, so that, nothing—” his voice trailed off.

“Your wife doesn't know that—” Sandro didn't finish his question when the Doctor began to shake his head. He raised a hand to his forehead to support the weight that had just fallen on him. “Difficult would be easy in this situation,” he said, chuckling ruefully. “This is absolutely impossible. I can't tell you what this means, to me, what it will do to my life, to them. I might as well commit suicide. I thought seriously about throwing myself under a bus on Fifth Avenue as I walked here.” He glanced at Sandro with lost and desolate eyes.

“Doctor, I hope you understand, I'm just trying to do what I have to do to protect a client facing the death penalty.”

“I understand,” said the Doctor. “I hope that you somewhat understand my situation—at least from my point of view.”

Sandro was torn by this sad spectacle. The Doctor had created his own ‘situation' by a deception that he had painstakingly and purposely put together one lie at a time, a deception that had totally consumed who he really was, layered with family, medical practice, patients, home, social strata. And now, the entire catastrophe was teetering, about to crash down on top of him. As he gazed at the Doctor, Sandro tried to decipher any similarity in feature, in physical traits—although a completely different color—the Doctor might share with pathetic Li'l Bit. This was the brother, or half brother, of the pathetic little creature who called him Mr. Luke. They were related, grew up together, shared another life, and now lived on different sides of the globe.

The Doctor continued to tremble as he sat in his chair, staring at the martini glass in front of him.

“Doctor, I have a thought that might keep this whole thing from going any further than it already has,” said Sandro.

“If you do, you're a better man than I. I don't think you can imagine what thoughts you've awakened in me, that are flashing around in my head—I've told you, I almost threw myself under a bus just now.”

“I'm sure that's true—about me not being able to fully imagine what you're experiencing,” said Sandro.

“You said you have a thought to contain the damage—you must think what a weak, conniving, despicable human being I am. And at this moment, I whole heartedly agree with you.”

“Doctor, I'm a lawyer. Judges and juries make judgments, I don't.”

“This thought that you have—”

“I've been accumulating my client's—”

“Hettie, Hettie, go ahead, you can say her name. Li'l Bit, isn't that what the newspapers call her.”

“I've been accumulating Hettie's records, school record, medical records, I spoke to Red Hardie—”

“Red Hardie. Now there's a name out of the past. I read in the papers the other day that he was killed trying to escape from custody.”

“He was killed, but not trying to escape,” said Sandro. “You knew Red?”

“Of course. Everyone knew Red,” said the Doctor. “I believe he helped my Dad out with my tuition occasionally. My Dad never told me in so many words, but I believe that.”

“Red never mentioned that to me when he spoke of you. He was mightily impressed with your accomplishments, though.”

The Doctor nodded, his thoughts somewhere else for the moment.

“It was Red who explained all I know about Hettie's life as a child,” Sandro said, trying to get the Doctor's thoughts back. “He told me about her as a child, the family situation, your mother, your father, a lot of things.”

He watched Sandro, anxious to hear anything that might stop this turmoil in his head. “Everything I have read, every record I have obtained, indicate that Hettie was what we now call “mentally challenged',” said Sandro.