A Mother's Trial (36 page)

“Two.”

“And what was Joe’s condition after he came home?”

“He didn’t have a normal stool for a year and a half. He was on Cho-free, distilled water, MCT oil, and polycose. For one and a half years he didn’t have a bowel movement you could hold in your hand. Sometimes he had diarrhea ten times a day. He was a severely, critically ill child.”

“Was he ever hospitalized for diarrhea?”

“No.”

“Would you characterize his diarrhea as massive and voluminous?”

“Yes. He was on Cho-free until he was thirteen months old. At that point he was getting obese from the formula and it was obvious he no longer needed it. He was put on regular food even though he still had diarrhea.”

“So he was gaining weight?” Josh asked pointedly.

Pat was oblivious. “Oh, yes.”

“Have you had any experience in determining what are life threatening symptoms in a child the age of Sarah?”

“With Joseph, yes.”

“Have you had any formal training in that area?”

“Before they let us take Joseph home from Mount Zion, they went over and over again the signs I had to watch out for and how to measure the formula.”

“Did you ever mix his formula in the hospital?”

“I was never allowed to. If you overdose by one cc of polycose you can cause severe diarrhea.”

“Is that because polycose is a sugar-based compound?” Josh readied his gaff.

“Yes.”

Josh paused maliciously, then he jabbed at his catch. “Is that why you gave Sarah all those Cokes?”

The witness grimaced angrily. “I just gave her a small amount,” she answered.

“How much?”

“Probably about a quarter of a cup diluted with water.”

“And that was sufficient to overcome the extreme dehydration she was suffering from at that time?” His voice dripped sarcasm.

“It started her drinking again,” Pat protested.

“Now during that episode of
severe diarrhea
that you described, when she was in the high chair. What happened?”

“She was eating her dinner. There was a loud sound and it just started pouring out of her. We immediately took her out of the high chair and put her in a warm bath.”

“And did her diarrhea continue in the bath?”

“It’s sort of like labor. The convulsiveness comes in a big whoosh and then stops. You can feel her belly tighten and rise and then it pushes out.”

“And you kept putting her in and out of the bathtub when she had these explosive periods?”

“Yes.”

“And then at the end of the hour, you dispensed with the bathtub treatment?” The disdain in his voice almost choked him.

“Yes, she was coming out of it,” Pat answered resolutely.

 “Did she appear to be in any pain?”

“No.”

“Even while she was going through these convulsions?”

“No. She was chatting away.”

“Ah.” Josh paused meaningfully. “And after this episode you indicated that you sent her to school the next morning?”

“Yes, I did. I would send her if she was having controllable diarrhea.”

“Did the school authorities ever complain because they were tired of changing her diapers?”

“No.”

“Did anybody ever make complaints of that type to Dr. Eaton?”

“I believe they may have.”

“Now you testified that Sarah had a feveral episode last night, with a hundred-four degree temperature, yet you sent her to school?”

“Yes. She had no temperature this morning. I called the school and talked to her teacher, told her how to get in touch with Dr. Eaton should anything occur.”

“We have reached the hour of our afternoon adjournment,” Judge Burke interrupted. “We will not be in session tomorrow. We will meet at the regular time Thursday.”

Josh and Ted Lindquist walked out together.

“Josh, we blew it. We should have followed up on Mindy’s new parents.” Ted was furious with himself.

“Yeah, I just about dropped dead when this Wrigley woman took the stand.”

“I’m damned if I don’t think there’s some kind of conspiracy going on. I’d almost believe Catholic Social Service and Priscilla Phillips were all involved somehow, that all these people knew each other. Maybe Priscilla and Wrigley even met at the Vietnamese babylift or something,” Ted said.

“Yeah. I’m going to call Vetter and Eaton tonight—”

“They’ll deny it—you watch.”

“Yeah. Look, Ted, we’ve got to get out to Vallejo tomorrow and talk to Mindy’s teachers, get her school records. If she was in school most of the time, how sick could she be? Oh, and another thing, we’d better talk to Mindy’s foster mother. You know, the woman who had her before the Wrigleys. Find out her name. Maybe she can help.”

“Okay, I’ll call Vetter.”

“She won’t want to tell you.”

Ted smiled grimly. “Don’t worry, Josh. I’ll get the name.”

iii

The next day Josh and Ted met and drove over to Vallejo to the Carol Loma Vista School for the orthopedically handicapped. Carol Loma Vista had ten students, including Sarah Wrigley, all of whom had some handicap that prevented their participation in a regular school.

Josh headed for the principal’s office to obtain Sarah’s attendance record while Ted went to interview Sarah’s teacher. There he met resistance: Kamala Schwartz refused to be interviewed until she had consulted a lawyer.

“Miss Schwartz, we are not investigating
you,”
Ted said after a few minutes of exasperating conversation. But she would not budge from her position.

Ted’s luck improved with Edith Horne, Sarah’s teacher’s aide, who agreed to be interviewed that evening. She told Ted that Sarah had suffered numerous episodes of diarrhea while at school, but she tended to minimize their seriousness. Sarah had never been sent home early due to diarrhea, Edith said. Their practice was merely to change Sarah’s clothes—she kept three changes at school because of the problem—and send her about her business. It was no big deal, just a nuisance.

“What about the attendance records?” Ted asked Josh when they met later.

“Take a look for yourself,” Josh answered with a grin. He held out the records. “Sarah Wrigley hasn’t missed a day all year. Hardly a life-threatening sort of diarrhea!”

“Just what I was thinking. Oh, I got the name of Mindy’s foster mother out of Mary Vetter—had to threaten her with a charge of obstructing justice, though!”

Josh laughed grimly. “Well, at least you got through. She won’t even take my calls anymore! Who is it?”

“A Mrs. Portillo.”

“Where does she live?”

“San Francisco—the Mission district. I’ve got an appointment with her tomorrow. And I’ll follow up with this Miss Schwartz after she gets a chance to consult her lawyer.”

“Okay. Did you know Dan White’s trial began today in the city?”

“Yeah.”

“Blinder’s testifying in that one, too. They’re going for a diminished capacity and Blinder’s their star witness.” He paused and then shrugged. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

On Thursday morning, Pat Wrigley arrived early and waited on the witness stand for court to begin. But one of the jurors was absent and it took some time to track her down at home where she was in bed with symptoms of the flu. Judge Burke finally called off the day’s testimony, but not before Pat Wrigley had a chance to show her disdain for the district attorney by sticking her tongue out at him while his back was turned. She also passed the time by talking in sign language to her sister, who was attending the proceedings.

“Another nail in her coffin,” Josh remarked to Ted after he heard about Pat Wrigley’s various gestures. “She ought to be taking this trial a lot more seriously—someone’s life is at stake.”

“What have you got for Wrigley’s cross?”

“All the records she brought in her briefcase—I’ve had a chance to review them. Nowhere in the Mount Zion discharge summary does it say that she took her son out against medical advice, nor that he was critically ill.”

Ted nodded. “The lady likes to exaggerate.”

“Yup. Well, a lot depends on what this Mrs. Portillo has to say. What time’s your appointment?”

“Four. Stop worrying, Josh.”

But Josh frowned grimly. “Sure,” he said.

At four that afternoon, Ted walked up the steps of Mrs. Margie Portillo's Park Street house and rang the bell. It took longer than usual for a response, and Ted immediately saw why. Mrs. Portillo, a middle-aged, dark-haired woman with thick glasses and a kind face, was on crutches.

She led Ted to her front room and he sat gingerly on one of the three upholstered pieces of furniture and took out his tape recorder. The room was heavy with knickknacks and pictures of Jesus.

“I have seven children and fifteen grandchildren,” Mrs. Portillo told Ted. “After my husband died in 1967, I started taking in foster children. I have had twenty-six. And Cindy—we called her that because Catholic Social Service asked us not to call her Mindy—was the last.”

“Was Cindy sick with diarrhea while she was with you, Mrs. Portillo?”

“No. She was very shy at first and everybody—my family’s in and out of here all day—everybody thought she was retarded, but then after a few weeks she was lovable and friendly. She played with my children—they used to like to take her to the swings at Holly Circle Park.”

“Was she walking?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And did she have diarrhea?”

“No. She was constipated once. I gave her Milk of Magnesia.”

“Mrs. Portillo, may I ask why you’re on crutches?”

“I was mugged a few years ago. I needed some surgery,” she answered simply. “It’s hard for me to get around now and I don’t think I’ll have any more foster children.” She looked at the floor. “Cindy was the last.”

“Thank you for your help. You’ll be receiving a subpoena in the mail, and on the day you’ll testify, I’ll come pick you up and drive you over to Marin and then back.”

“All right,” she said.

Later that afternoon, Ted drove back to the Civic Center to report to Josh, who was working late in his office. Ted was on his way down the long hall leading from the elevator to room 155, his footsteps loud in the deserted corridor, when Josh leaned his head out and saw him.

“Well? Well?” he said eagerly. “What happened?”

Ted put on the longest face he could muster and hung his head, shaking it as if in total disappointment.

“Well, Josh, you’re just not going to believe it,” he began.

 “What? What?” Josh was frantic.

“I’m sorry, but we’ve got a real problem with Mrs. Portillo,” Ted went on, his voice a mournful dirge, his eyes on the floor. And then he looked up and gave a huge grin.

“Wait till you hear this!” he said.

On Friday, Josh Thomas went on the attack against Pat Wrigley.

“Did you hug the defendant during recess?” he asked.

 “Yes.”

“While you were waiting for an absent juror yesterday, did you stick your tongue out at anybody?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Now you testified that you took Joseph out of Mount Zion against medical advice?”

“Yes.”

“Did you sign a form acknowledging that?”

“No.”

“You said Joseph was critically ill when you took him?”

“He was still in very serious condition.”

“You used the term
critical
on Tuesday, didn’t you?”

“All right, critical.”

Josh handed the witness a copy of Joseph Wrigley’s discharge summary from Mount Zion. “Does this summary say that Joey was ‘critically ill?’” he asked.

Pat Wrigley shrugged. “No, those words do not appear here,” she acknowledged.

“How much formula was Joey getting at discharge?”

“Seven hundred to eight hundred cc’s a day, to be given ad lib, or without restraint.”

“Can a patient who is critically ill be receiving that much formula, Mrs. Wrigley? That’s your definition of critical, isn’t it?”

“That is not my definition of critical.”

“Your Honor, I object—argumentative,” Caldwell interrupted.

“Sustained.”

Josh now turned to a paper Pat Wrigley had written about Joey as part of her master’s thesis.

“Didn’t you write that because of the love and affection your family bestowed on Joseph, that his gastrointestinal problems started clearing up immediately and were completely gone at the end of approximately four months?” he asked.

“Those words occurred on a paper I wrote but they’re out of context the way you’re stating it. I was referring to his problems of explosive diarrhea and malabsorption. Later in the paper I said the diarrhea continued.”

“Mrs. Wrigley,” Josh asked as he shifted to a new tack, “was Sarah walking when you first got her?”

“No. Just one or two steps.”

“Did Miss Vetter relate any diarrhea problems Sarah had suffered when she was with the foster mother?”

“No—she didn’t relate it, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t exist.”

“Did she relate any problems with convulsions?”

“No.”

“Any problems with balance or ataxia?”

“No.”

“Did she wear a helmet the first time you visited her while she was still with the foster mother?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wrigley.”

On redirect, Ed Caldwell tried to salvage his witness. Mrs. Wrigley had brought in a photograph of Joey Wrigley at his most emaciated, and this was entered as evidence. Ed then asked her about the difference between malabsorption and diarrhea as symptoms of severe gastrointestinal problems, and how these could be distinguished from simple diarrhea.

“Malabsorption is life-threatening because you can’t absorb nutrition. Diarrhea can be life-threatening if the child is not gaining weight,” Pat said. “Joey’s malabsorption cleared up in four months, so that his condition was no longer life-threatening. But the diarrhea—the ordinary diarrhea—continued for two years,” she added in explanation.

Proudly, Pat Wrigley held up a newspaper clipping of Sarah winning a blue ribbon in the twenty-five-yard dash during the Special Olympics held the previous week. This, too, was entered as evidence.

“Sarah will be legally ours next Thursday, May fourth, at nine A.M.” she added, smiling.

In her seat, Priscilla Phillips put her hand over her face and dropped her elbows into her lap.