65

At three fifteen P.M. Peter Jones received a call from the law clerk of Judge Kenneth Brown. “Sir,” the young woman said in a very respectful tone, “we wanted to let you know that the report on the Kathleen Lyons case has come in and you can pick it up now if you wish.”

What I really wish is that the Kathleen Lyons case would go away, he thought wryly. “Thank you very much,” he replied. “I’ll come right up.”

As he waited for the elevator to take him to the fourth floor, he thought fleetingly of when he had started his legal career as a clerk to a judge in the criminal division. Judge Brown is sitting in the same courtroom where my judge used to sit, he thought. Mom knew how much I wanted that job. When I got it, the way she carried on, you’d think that they had made me chief justice.

At the end of his one-year clerkship, he had been ecstatic to be hired as an assistant prosecutor. That was nineteen years ago. Since then he had worked in several units, including Major Crimes, before being appointed chief of the trial section five years ago.

Thane of Glamis, thane of Cawdor, and hereafter king of Scotland, he thought, reflecting on one of his favorite lines from Shakespeare. That’s the track I thought I was on. Until now.

Shrugging, he got into the elevator, went up two flights, got off, and went into the judge’s office. He knew that Judge Brown was on the bench conducting a jury trial. He greeted the secretary, turned the corner, and went over to the law clerk’s desk.

She was a small, very attractive young woman who could have passed for a college freshman. “Hello, Mr. Jones,” she said as she handed him the ten-page report.

“Has the judge had a chance to look at it yet?” Peter asked.

“I’m not sure, sir.”

Good answer, Peter thought. Never say anything that might return to bite you. Three minutes later, back in his office, he closed the door. “Hold the calls,” he told his secretary. “I need to concentrate.”

“You’ve got it, Peter.” Gladys Hawkins had worked in the prosecutor’s office for thirty years. In the presence of outsiders, she addressed both Prosecutor Sylvan Berger and Peter Jones as “sir.” Otherwise, when they were among themselves, the prosecutor was “Sy” and Assistant Prosecutor Jones was just “Peter.”

With trepidation, Peter Jones carefully absorbed the psychiatric report. As he did, the burden of carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders began to lessen.

The doctor had written that Kathleen Lyons was clearly in a worsening stage of Alzheimer’s and had, on two occasions while in the hospital, exhibited symptoms of violent tendencies. Both awake and in her sleep, she had demonstrated severe antagonism toward her late husband and his companion Lillian Stewart. It was the recommendation of the treating doctors that, at the present time, and as a result of underlying mental illness, she was a danger to both herself and others and required full-time and intense supervision. It was their opinion that she should remain in the inpatient setting for further observation, medication, and therapy.

With a deep sigh of relief, Peter leaned back in his chair. There’s no way the judge is going to cut her loose, he thought. He can’t with this kind of report. Sure, we’ll go through the charade with Wally Gruber and the composite artist. This is just what I’ve suspected. Gruber knows how to play the system. I wonder what face he’ll decide to invent. I don’t care if it’s Tom Cruise or Mickey Mouse. It’s a total dead end.

Peter stood up and stretched. Kathleen Lyons killed her husband, he thought emphatically. I’m sure of it. If she ends up incompetent to stand trial, so be it. If she ends up not guilty by reason of insanity, so be it. Either way, she’ll never get out of a mental hospital.

He turned on the intercom. “I can take calls now, Gladys.”

“That was a pretty short deep-think session, Peter. Wait a second. There’s a call coming in. It’s Simon Benet’s extension. Do you want to take it?”

“Put him through.”

“Peter, I just got a call from the New York guys,” Benet said tensely. “They just arrested Gruber’s fence. They got him at his shop. In another minute he would have been on his way to the airport. They recovered the missing Scott jewelry. All of it.”

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