Providence Rag: A Liam Mulligan Novel (32 page)

“I see. And what would be an average score in the general population?”

“Four.”

“So Kwame Diggs’s score was nearly seven times normal?”

“Six point five times, to be precise.”

From the jury box, Mulligan saw that Freyer was furiously scribbling notes.

“In your opinion, Doctor,” Roberts said, “is Mr. Diggs in need of inpatient psychiatric care?”

“Yes.”

“And in your opinion, would he be a danger to himself or others if he were to be released without such treatment?”

“In my medical opinion, he would be, yes.”

“Thank you, Dr. Baer,” Roberts said. He stopped pacing and took his seat at the prosecution table.

“Miss Freyer,” the judge said, “do you wish to question the witness?”

“I certainly do, Your Honor.”

Her huge glasses were gone today, and her blond hair had been sheared to a gentle swirl that barely brushed her shoulders. She had hoped to hire her own psychiatric expert, but Mrs. Diggs couldn’t afford it. Nevertheless, the young lawyer appeared confident as she rose to address the witness.

“Dr. Baer, are you saying that my client is a psychopath?”

“I never used that term.”

“Forgive me, Doctor. I believe you prefer to call it antisocial personality disorder, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“And according to your testimony, my client scored a twenty-six on the Hare test used to diagnose this condition, is that also correct?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware, Doctor, that according to Kent Kiehl and Joshua Buckholtz, who wrote about this condition for
Scientific American,
a patient is not considered a psychopath unless he scores at least thirty on the test?”

“Again, I must object to the term
psychopath,
but I am aware of their work, yes.”

“Are Kiehl and Buckholtz recognized experts in this area of study?”

“They are widely considered to be, yes.”

“Do you agree with their conclusion?”

The witness hesitated and began fussing with his bow tie.

“Dr. Baer?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Is there some reason your report failed to mention that Kwame Diggs’s score on the Hare test was too low for him to be diagnosed—if I may be excused for repeating the term—as a psychopath?”

“I can only assume that it was omitted in error.”

“In
error
?” Freyer said, putting all the incredulity she could muster into the question.

“Yes.”

Freyer smirked, shook her head in mock dismay, and consulted her notes.

“During your evaluation, Doctor, did Mr. Diggs express sympathy for the victims of his crimes?”

“He did.”

“On six separate occasions, isn’t that correct?”

“I would need to review my report to be sure, but that is approximately correct, yes.”

“Were his expressions of remorse sincere?”

Again with the bow tie.

“They appeared to be so, but it is impossible for me to say with certainty.”

“If my client were a
true
psychopath, would he be capable of feeling remorse?”

“He would not.”

“So if I understand your testimony, then, Doctor, my client is
not
a psychopath. Isn’t
that
correct?”

“Well…” Once again, the witness’s hands flew to his bow tie. “You must understand that it’s not that simple.”

“Then please explain it to us.”

“Antisocial personality disorder isn’t an infectious disease like rabies or influenza. It’s not something that you either have or do not have. It consists of a series of traits and behaviors that are prevalent in the general population to varying degrees. Mr. Diggs is unique … well, not unique, but quite unusual—in that he exhibits them to a much greater degree than is the norm.”

“But not great enough to be diagnosed as a psychopath.”

“That would be correct,” Dr. Baer said.

“Doctor, how many individuals do you suppose are in the courtroom today?”

“I would estimate about two hundred.”

“In your professional opinion, Doctor, what are the odds that any of
them
are psychopaths?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Roberts shouted.

“Overruled,” the judge said. “I want to hear this.”

“Most studies,” the witness said, “indicate that three point six percent of the general population meet the criteria for that diagnosis.”

“So if my math is right,” Freyer said, “the odds are that seven of the people present today have this condition, is that right?”

“If the people in this courtroom are representative of the general population, which is not something we can know with any degree of certainty, that would be correct, yes.”

“And how likely is it, Dr. Baer, that any of those seven people are going to leave here today and go out and murder someone?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Well, do you consider it likely?”

“No.”

“It is, in fact, extremely unlikely, is it not?”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Now then,” Freyer said, “let’s turn to your testimony that Kwame Diggs is also bipolar. Are bipolar patients typically dangerous?”

“No.”

“Are they more likely than the average person to commit violent crimes?”

“I am aware of no evidence that they are.” Again with the bow tie.

“Can bipolar disorder be controlled with medication?”

“In most cases, yes.”

“Is my client currently taking such medication?”

“He is now, on my recommendation.”

“Has his condition improved since he began taking the medication?”

“I have no firsthand knowledge of this.”

“Have you spoken to the Corrections Department medical staff about how he is doing on the medication?”

“I have.”

“And what have they told you?”

“Objection. Hearsay,” Roberts bellowed.

“Must I remind you, Mr. Roberts, that this is not a criminal trial?” the judge said. “Objection overruled. The witness may answer.”

“They say that he is improving.”

“Is there any reason to believe that Kwame Diggs would not continue to do well if he is released?”

“That depends on whether he continues to take his medication.”

“Do you have any reason to believe that he wouldn’t?”

“No, but I have no reason to believe that he would, either.”

“So you can’t be sure either way.”

“That is correct.”

“Your Honor,” Freyer said, “I have no further questions at this time.”

“Mr. Roberts,” Judge Needham said, “would you care to reexamine?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” He rose and approached the witness.

“And Mr. Roberts?” the judge said. “Please refrain from that infernal pacing.”

“I’ll try, Your Honor. Dr. Baer, you testified that patients suffering from antisocial personality disorder are deceitful, manipulative, and incapable of remorse, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“So when Mr. Diggs expressed remorse for his crimes, he was probably lying, isn’t that correct?”

“He may have been. There is no way to be sure.”

“And if he promises to continue his medication for bipolar disorder, that could also be a lie, isn’t that right?”

“It could be, yes.”

“Can his antisocial personality disorder also be controlled with medication?”

“There are no medications available to treat that condition.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Roberts said, and returned to his seat.

Visibly relieved, Dr. Baer rose and stepped from the witness chair.

“One moment, Doctor,” Judge Needham said. “I have a few questions of my own.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” the psychiatrist said. He sighed audibly and settled back into the witness chair.

“If Kwame Diggs were to be released from custody, do you think he would immediately seek to commit another murder?”

“It is conceivable that he would do so.”

“Doctor, it is
conceivable
that any of us might do so. What I need to know is how
likely
it is.”

Again with the bow tie.

“If you are asking me to give you odds,” the witness said, “I cannot provide a medical answer.”

“You’re saying you don’t know?”

“That is correct.”

“I have nothing further,” Judge Needham said. “The witness is excused. Mr. Roberts, would you like to be heard at this time?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” he said, rising to address the court. “The State has presented incontrovertible medical evidence that Kwame Diggs is suffering from not one but two serious mental disorders. Our expert witness has testified that if he were ever to be released, he would pose a danger to himself and others. We ask the court to order that he be remanded to a secure mental hospital once his current sentence for assaulting a prison guard expires—or in the event that said sentence should be vacated. The State asks that he remain confined until such time as his condition no longer poses a risk to himself and to the people of Rhode Island.”

“Miss Freyer?” the judge said.

“Your Honor, the State has failed to meet its burden to prove that Kwame Diggs poses an immediate threat to himself or others. We ask that the State’s request be denied.”

Needham swiveled in his chair and faced the TV pool camera, a troubled expression on his face.

“The court is mindful of the horrific nature of the crimes for which Kwame Diggs was convicted,” he said. “I am also aware that the prospect of his release has produced an atmosphere of fear and anger such as I have never seen in my twenty years on the bench. As a grandfather of six, five of them girls, I understand those emotions, and to a degree I share them. However, the court must follow the law without respect to the vagaries of public opinion.”

As the judge paused for a deep breath, Mulligan noticed that a woman in one of the spectator benches was surreptitiously thumbing a text message on her smartphone.

“The evidence is clear that Kwame Diggs is suffering from two serious mental disabilities,” the judge continued. “What is not clear is the degree to which his release would pose an imminent danger, and that is the standard on which this case must be decided. I shall require a day or two to study the evidence and review the case law again before making my decision. I ask for your patience … and your prayers.

“Meanwhile, I have been informed by the bailiff that a large and disorderly crowd has formed on the courthouse steps. In the interest of safety, I urge the attorneys and the witness to exit the building through the north-side door, where you will be provided with a police escort to your vehicles. Spectators and members of the press who wish to avoid the tumult are also invited to depart by the side door.

“This court is adjourned.”

*   *   *

Mulligan shoved through the front door of the courthouse and found a skirmish line of uniformed Providence cops standing on the front step. They were edgy this time. Five of them had drawn batons from their Sam Browne belts and were slapping the shafts against their palms.

Standing behind Chief Angelo Ricci, Mulligan did a rough count. About nine hundred, he figured, many of them waving protest signs and all of them looking angry. They spilled down the steps, onto the sidewalk, and out into Benefit Street, where they were obstructing traffic.

A half-dozen TV reporters, accompanied by cameramen, were working the crowd, shoving their microphones into the faces of protesters for quotes that would pad their evening reports. Mulligan looked around for Gloria. He knew she was out there somewhere, snapping pictures.

At the curb across the street, Iggy Rock was broadcasting live from the back of WTOP’s mobile van, his words lashing the crowd from a pair of loudspeakers.

“According to our source inside the courtroom, Judge Needham claims he needs, and I quote,
some time,
unquote, to make his ruling,” Iggy was saying. The source, Mulligan figured, was the woman he’d seen texting. “He needs
time
?” Iggy snarled. “Really? What for? Time to get out of town before he sets a monster loose to prey on our wives, sisters, and daughters?”

The crowd hooted and shook their signs.

“Because that’s what he’s going to do,” Iggy shouted. “He telegraphed his decision by what he said at the conclusion of the hearing. He said, and again I quote, ‘What is not clear is the degree to which his release would pose an imminent danger, and that is the standard on which this case must be decided.’”

The crowd howled.

Not the most responsible thing for Iggy to be doing, Mulligan thought, but at least he hadn’t passed along the word that the principals in the case were leaving by the side door.

The first egg landed with a splat on Chief Ricci’s visor. Suddenly, the air was thick with them. Mulligan remained behind the chief, using him for cover.

Two of the uniforms raised their batons and stepped forward.

“Steady,” Ricci commanded, and the officers froze in place.

Ricci raised a megaphone to his lips. “Let’s keep it peaceful, people,” he shouted. “We don’t want anyone to get hurt today. The show’s over now. Time to go home.”

More hoots. More eggs.

Then someone threw a rock. It sailed over the chief’s head and cracked one of the courthouse’s glass doors.

The chief lowered the megaphone.

“Okay, then,” he said. “Let’s move them out.”

The cops raised their batons and waded into the crowd. Ricci watched them go and sadly shook his head.

And then he ducked.

*   *   *

Mulligan regained consciousness in the Rhode Island Hospital emergency room with a throbbing headache and a gauze bandage on his left temple. To his right, he heard a commotion. He turned his head on the pillow and saw stocking feet protruding from the cuffs of a Providence police uniform, the rest of the prone figure obscured by a partially closed curtain.

A TV mounted on the wall was tuned to the news. After a couple of minutes, Mulligan caught the gist. Three police officers, a dozen protesters, and a journalist had been taken to the hospital with an assortment of gashes, bruises, and broken bones.

65

“Mrs. Diggs?”

“Yes?”

“It’s Gloria.”