the window and twisting the view of the things seen through it into strange, monstrous shapes.
“I did commitment cases for a while. The standard was whether they were a danger to others or a danger to themselves. We would gather around a table, sometimes in a conference room, sometimes around the counsel table in the courtroom. Whoever was making the claim that there should be a commitment would give their reasons. And then, because the statute required two doctors, and because you could never find two physicians willing to spend an hour of their time for the small amount that was paid, there would usually be a young general practitioner and a psychologist.”
Friedman had retreated somewhere behind his eyes. He was listening to me the way someone listens to a radio or a television set in the background while they read the newspaper or carry on a conversation with someone else.
“What I learned right away,” I went on, gazing right at him,
“is that the doctors never asked the right questions.”
You could almost hear the slick, sliding sound of a single thin transparent film dropping away from the lenses of his eyes.
“So I decided I’d do it. My client said he heard three voices in his head all the time. That was all the doctors needed to hear.
The judge asked me if I had any questions. ‘These voices you hear. Do you know who they are?’ He looked at me, his face all lit up. ‘Yes,’ he said eagerly, grateful that someone had finally asked. ‘Linda Ronstadt, Roy Orbison, and Conway Twitty.’ “
I was back under Friedman’s clinical gaze. “That’s very amus-ing. But what difference did it make whose voices he heard? He was hearing voices, after all.”
“That’s what one of the doctors said. And then I pointed out to the doctor that while I couldn’t say I ever heard the other two, I heard Linda Ronstadt singing in my head fairly often and that I would frankly be surprised if he hadn’t heard the same thing. And to tell you the truth, depending on the song, there were times when I could not get her voice out of my head at all.
Even right now, sitting right here, if I concentrate, I can hear her. I mean, once it starts, you just can’t get ‘I’ve been cheated, been mistreated’ to stop, can you? Now, tell me, Dr. Friedman, am I going to get to see Elliott Winston or do I have to have myself committed and become a patient first?”
For a moment I thought he was going to take it under advisement. “No,” he said, blinking rapidly, a nervous smile rushing across his face. “Elliott wants to see you. That’s what concerns me.” He immediately qualified it. “Not concerns me, interests me.
You see, Mr. Antonelli, you’re the first visitor he’s ever had.”
He waited for my reaction. I had the feeling he was trying to find out whether I knew something about what had happened to Elliott before he was committed, something that would tell him more about his patient than he already knew.
With a civil smile I expressed a polite doubt. “He has children, parents, relatives, and a great many friends. Surely, some of them must have come to see him?”
Stroking his chin, he gave me a measured look. “I should have said you’re the first person he has allowed to come. Others have tried, though no one now for a long time. You’re the only one he wanted to see. He’s quite eager, actually. Why do you think that is?”
I turned the question back on Friedman. “What reason did he give?”
“He said you were a partner in the law firm where he worked, that you had given him the job, that for a long time he had thought he wanted to be just like you.” He paused. “I’m sure he meant what he said, but I’m also quite sure that that isn’t the real reason he wants to see you,” he added candidly. “There’s something else. Perhaps it’s the same reason you want to see him.”
He put it to me directly. “You’ve never come before, Mr. Antonelli. Why now?”
There was not a trace
“I did commitment cases for a while. The standard was whether they were a danger to others or a danger to themselves. We would gather around a table, sometimes in a conference room, sometimes around the counsel table in the courtroom. Whoever was making the claim that there should be a commitment would give their reasons. And then, because the statute required two doctors, and because you could never find two physicians willing to spend an hour of their time for the small amount that was paid, there would usually be a young general practitioner and a psychologist.”
Friedman had retreated somewhere behind his eyes. He was listening to me the way someone listens to a radio or a television set in the background while they read the newspaper or carry on a conversation with someone else.
“What I learned right away,” I went on, gazing right at him,
“is that the doctors never asked the right questions.”
You could almost hear the slick, sliding sound of a single thin transparent film dropping away from the lenses of his eyes.
“So I decided I’d do it. My client said he heard three voices in his head all the time. That was all the doctors needed to hear.
The judge asked me if I had any questions. ‘These voices you hear. Do you know who they are?’ He looked at me, his face all lit up. ‘Yes,’ he said eagerly, grateful that someone had finally asked. ‘Linda Ronstadt, Roy Orbison, and Conway Twitty.’ “
I was back under Friedman’s clinical gaze. “That’s very amus-ing. But what difference did it make whose voices he heard? He was hearing voices, after all.”
“That’s what one of the doctors said. And then I pointed out to the doctor that while I couldn’t say I ever heard the other two, I heard Linda Ronstadt singing in my head fairly often and that I would frankly be surprised if he hadn’t heard the same thing. And to tell you the truth, depending on the song, there were times when I could not get her voice out of my head at all.
Even right now, sitting right here, if I concentrate, I can hear her. I mean, once it starts, you just can’t get ‘I’ve been cheated, been mistreated’ to stop, can you? Now, tell me, Dr. Friedman, am I going to get to see Elliott Winston or do I have to have myself committed and become a patient first?”
For a moment I thought he was going to take it under advisement. “No,” he said, blinking rapidly, a nervous smile rushing across his face. “Elliott wants to see you. That’s what concerns me.” He immediately qualified it. “Not concerns me, interests me.
You see, Mr. Antonelli, you’re the first visitor he’s ever had.”
He waited for my reaction. I had the feeling he was trying to find out whether I knew something about what had happened to Elliott before he was committed, something that would tell him more about his patient than he already knew.
With a civil smile I expressed a polite doubt. “He has children, parents, relatives, and a great many friends. Surely, some of them must have come to see him?”
Stroking his chin, he gave me a measured look. “I should have said you’re the first person he has allowed to come. Others have tried, though no one now for a long time. You’re the only one he wanted to see. He’s quite eager, actually. Why do you think that is?”
I turned the question back on Friedman. “What reason did he give?”
“He said you were a partner in the law firm where he worked, that you had given him the job, that for a long time he had thought he wanted to be just like you.” He paused. “I’m sure he meant what he said, but I’m also quite sure that that isn’t the real reason he wants to see you,” he added candidly. “There’s something else. Perhaps it’s the same reason you want to see him.”
He put it to me directly. “You’ve never come before, Mr. Antonelli. Why now?”
There was not a trace
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