Dance Of Death

FORTY-NINE

Once again, Smithback entered the gracious confines of Dr. Tisander's office, a load of textbooks under one arm. It was eight o'clock, well past the barbaric 5:30 p.m. dinner hour of River Oaks. He found the psychiatrist seated behind his desk, but this evening the usual look of genteel condescension was marred by an irritated flash in the eyes.

"Edward," Dr. Tisander said. "Although I am extremely busy, I am happy to give you five minutes of my undivided attention."

Smithback seated himself without an invitation and thumped the load of books onto the man's desk.

"I've been thinking about something you said in our conversation the day before yesterday," he began. "You told me: 'It is a grave step to deprive a person of his freedom, and due process must be followed with total scrupulosity'"

"I may have said something like that, yes."

"You said exactly that. It made me curious to know just what that process is."

Tisander nodded condescendingly. "You seem to have found our library to your satisfaction."

"Very much so. In fact, I found exactly what I was looking for."

"How nice," said Tisander, feigning interest while taking a surreptitious glance at his watch.

Smithback patted the top book. "The laws of New York State regarding the involuntary commitment of the mentally ill are among the strictest in the nation."

"I am well aware of that. It's one reason why we have so many homeless people on the street."

"It isn't enough for a family to sign the documents in order to commit someone against his will. There's a whole process involved."

Another sage nod from Tisander.

"Isn't it true, for example, that a judge has to declare the person non compos mentis?"

"Yes."

"And even a judge cannot make that declaration unless two conditions are met. Do you recall those two conditions, Dr. Tisander?"

This time the psychiatrist gave a genuine smile, delighted to show off his erudition. "I certainly do. The person is either a danger to himself-mentally or physically-or a danger to society."

"Right. In the first case, suicide ideation or an actual attempt must usually be present, which must be attested to by a signed letter from a doctor. In the case of a person being a danger to society, it's usually necessary for the person to have been arrested."

"You have been busy, Edward," said Tisander.

"And then, after the declaration of non compos mentis, there must be a psychiatric evaluation recommending involuntary commitment."

"All standard procedure. Now, Edward, it's after eight, and it isn't long until lights-out, so if you'd-"

Smithback pulled one of the books from the pile. "I'll be done in a minute."

Tisander rose, squaring papers on his desk. "If you make it quick." He nodded imperceptibly, and an orderly emerged from the shadows near the door.

Smithback hastily pulled a sheet of paper from the book and handed it over the desk. "I drew up a list of documents that must, by law, be in my file."

Tisander took the list, scanned it with a frown. "A judge's declaration. A suicide-attempt report-signed by a doctor-or an arrest record. A psychiatric evaluation." He read them off. "I've no doubt they're all there. Now, Edward, it's time."

The orderly advanced.

"One other thing," Smithback said.

"Thank you, Edward." A note of exasperation had crept into Tisander's orotund voice.

"A question. That psychiatric evaluation that must be in the file- who administers it?"

"We do. Always. Surely, Edward, you remember the interview and tests you took on admittance."

"There's where you blew it, Tisander." Smithback dropped the heavy tome back on the desk, for effect. "It says right in here-"

"Jonathan?"

The orderly appeared at Smithback's elbow, a hulking presence. "This way, Mr. Jones."

"-by law," Smithback went on loudly, "the psychiatric evaluation can't be done by anyone on the staff of the admitting institution."

"Rubbish. Show Mr. Jones to his room, Jonathan."

"It's true!" Smithback cried as the orderly took his arm. "Back in the fifties, a young man was committed by his family in collusion with the asylum. They stole his inheritance. In the aftermath, a law was passed stating the evaluation had to be done by an independent psychiatrist. Check it out. Page 337, Romanski v. Reynauld State Hospital!"

"This way, Mr. Jones," said the orderly, propelling him firmly across the Persian carpet.

Smithback dug in his heels. "Tisander, when I get out, I'm going to sue River Oaks and you personally. If you can't produce that independent evaluation, you'll lose the suit-and it'll cost you dearly."

"Good night, Edward."

"I'll make it my mission in life! I'll dog you like the Furies dogged Orestes. I'll take away everything you have, your job, your reputation, this whole pile. As you know, I'm as rich as Croesus. Check my file. I know for a fact you cut that corner! There's no independent evaluation, and you know it!"

Smithback felt himself being dragged bodily toward the door.

"Shut the door on your way out, will you, Jonathan?" Dr. Tisander said.

"Tisander?" Smithback raised his voice. "Can you afford to make this mistake? You'll lose the whole enchilada, you son of a-!"

Jonathan shut the door to the office. "Come on, Jones," he said, giving Smithback a gentle push down the hall. "Give it a rest."

"Get your hands off me!" Smithback cried, struggling.

"Hey, man, I'm just doing my job," said the orderly calmly.

Smithback relaxed. "Right. Sorry. I imagine it's about as much fun working here as it is being a 'guest.'"

The orderly released him and Smithback dusted off his jacket. "All right, Jonathan," he said, mustering a feeble smile. "Escort me back to my cage. I'll work up a new angle tomorrow."

Just as they were turning the corner, Tisander's voice came echoing down the hall. "Jonathan? Bring Mr. Jones back."

Jonathan paused. "Looks like you get another hearing."

"Yeah, right."

As they turned back toward Tisander's office, Smithback heard the low voice of the orderly behind him. "Good luck."

Smithback entered the office. Tisander was standing behind the desk, his figure rigid. Smithback saw his own file open on the director's desk. Next to it was the book he'd indicated-opened to page 337.

"Sit down," Tisander said tersely. He nodded at the orderly. "You can wait outside."

Smithback took a seat.

"You think you're a clever fellow," Tisander said. All the phony good humor and condescension was gone. His face was now as hard and gray as a boiled potato.

"I was right," Smithback murmured, more to himself than to Tisander.

"A sheer technicality. There isn't a psychiatric hospital in the state that does independent evaluations. I don't think anyone's even aware of this ridiculous law. But under the circumstances, I can't afford to keep you here."

"You're damn right you can't afford it. I'll sue your ass from here to Albany-"

Tisander closed his eyes and held up a hand. "Mr. Jones, please. Our intention was to help you, but I'll be damned if I'll let some spoiled brat undo all the good I've built up over the years. Frankly, you're not worth it."

"So I'm free?"

"As soon as I write up the decommitment papers. Unfortunately, it's almost lockdown. You won't be able to leave until six a.m. tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" Smithback echoed, almost afraid to believe his ears.

"Believe me, I'd love to get rid of you now. Jonathan?"

The orderly came back in.

"Mr. Jones is to be discharged in the morning. See to it he's given every consideration until then."

They exited the office, and as soon as the door closed, Smithback grinned. "Jonathan, I'm outta here."

Jonathan high-fived him with a big smile. "Man, how'd you do it?"

Smithback shrugged. "Sheer brilliance."