Love Gone Mad Page 18

  When he sees Conrad Wilson sitting at the defense table, Adrian’s heart begins pounding. The hulking man is manacled and wears an orange jumpsuit nearly bursting from the pressure of his muscular frame. It’s hard to believe Adrian is sitting a few rows behind the man who tracked him so relentlessly that night. It all floods back to him at that moment.

  Judge Henry Burke enters from chambers. He’s a portly man with a drooping double chin and dewlaps; the horseshoe-shaped hair on his scalp has been shaved bald. He wears wire-rim glasses that reflect the overhead lights, and his black robes flow freely over his generous belly.

  Burke sits at the bench and glances at the court reporter. “Gentlemen, we’re on the record,” he says.

  Kovac’s in his late thirties; he has a salt-and-pepper crew cut and a squarish face. His eyes seem distorted behind the thick lenses; they remind Adrian of goldfish in a round bowl. Kovac wears a brown suit that looks like it came off the rack at Kohl’s.

  “As you know,” Burke says, “there was a hearing in accordance with Connecticut General Statute 54-47, which allows for a court determination of probable cause. The hearing determined there was sufficient evidence to warrant a trial. Are we all in agreement?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Farley and Kovac pipe up.

  “I understand the defendant has made an NGRI plea. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” says Kovac.

  “And since he’s pleading not guilty by reason of insanity, we’re holding a competency hearing to decide if the defendant understands what a trial is and if he can cooperate with his attorney.”

  The court reporter’s fingers glide over her machine.

  “Mr. Kovac, I assume you’ve informed your client about an NGRI defense?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, I have.”

  “Now,” Burke says, shuffling papers. “I understand the defendant has been examined by two forensic psychiatrists and a neuropsychologist, correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Kovac says.

  “Are they present in court today?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Kovac says.

  “I read their certified reports,” says the judge. “If I were to question the doctors at length, would they testify in accordance with their reports?”

  “I think the doctors can speak for themselves, Your Honor,” says Kovac.

  “Dr. Grayson,” asks the judge, looking at a tall man seated in the first row, “if you were to testify, would it be in substantial accordance with your very detailed report?”

  “It would, Your Honor,” Grayson says. He appears to Adrian to be about forty years old, at least six four, and well built. An athletic-looking guy, for sure. He has short brown hair and sports a three- or four-day growth of facial stubble.

  “And Dr. DuPont?”

  A willowy, chestnut-haired woman stands. She’s in her midthirties, with large, almond-shaped eyes and a gamin face. Her hair is stylishly short; her lipstick is crimson and her upper lip forms a perfect Cupid’s bow. She wears a smart-looking charcoal-gray suit that accentuates her trim yet curvaceous figure.

  “The same question is put to you.”

  “I would testify in accordance with my report, Your Honor,” says DuPont.

  “And the psychologist, Dr. Morgan?”

  A pudgy, rumpled-looking guy wearing a tweed sport jacket and black slacks says, “I would testify in accordance with my report, Your Honor.”

  The judge nods. “Okay, then, the reports will be entered into evidence as sworn testimony. Do both attorneys agree that we can dispense with the doctors’ live testimony?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” respond Farley and Kovac together.

  “Good,” says the judge. “We’ll save time.” Burke adjusts his glasses and looks at the attorneys. “It’s clear … the mental health professionals agree unanimously that the defendant is competent to stand trial.” Burke looks over at Kovac. “As you surely know, gentlemen, the Constitution guarantees the right of the defendant not to be put on trial unless he has sufficient mental ability to consult with his lawyer and understands the proceedings against him.”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” both attorneys say.

  “So, Counselor,” Burke says, peering at Kovac, “is it your position that despite his presumed mental illness and the insanity plea, your client can understand the proceedings and can assist in his own defense?”

  “It is, Your Honor. It’s also our contention that when he committed these acts, Conrad Wilson was suffering from a severe mental disorder—”

  “Mr. Kovac,” Judge Burke cuts in, “you’re getting ahead of yourself. We’re here to determine the defendant’s competency to stand trial, nothing more. I’m concerned about his state of mind now … as we proceed to trial.”

  Adrian is glad Megan chose not to attend the hearing. He imagines her shuddering at the sight of Conrad, and he’s certain the lawyerly arguments about Conrad’s state of mind—either when he attacked them or right now—would throw her into a state of high-voltage panic.

  Judge Burke peers at the defense table. “Will the defendant please rise?”

  Conrad stands with his manacled hands in front of him. His biceps and forearms bulge from the short sleeves of the jumpsuit. Two beefy court officers stand nearby; they peer warily at him.

  Thoughts of the night on Bald Hill flood Adrian.

  “Mr. Wilson,” Burke says, “who’s the man standing closest to you?”

  “Mr. Kovac, my lawyer.”

  “What’s his job here in court?”

  “To defend me.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He’ll question witnesses and he’ll protect my rights.”

  “And, Mr. Wilson, what’s the difference between the truth and a falsehood?”

  “The truth tells the reality of things, not something made up. A falsehood is a distortion of the truth or a fabrication such as the—”

  “And, sir,” Burke interrupts, “Do you believe Mr. Kovac will do his best to defend you against these charges?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you understand the consequences of this trial that you’re pressing to have very quickly?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what are they?”

  “I’ve already admitted what I did. If I’m found guilty, I’ll go to prison. If I’m found not guilty because the jury thinks I’m crazy, I’ll be sent to a mental institution.”

  “And you’re willing to take the legal advice of your counsel, Mr. Kovac?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there anything else you want to say at this time?”

  “Just that Megan Haggarty lied to me … She—”

  “You can assert that at trial, Mr. Wilson. Thank you. You may be seated.”

  The judge says, “I want the record to reflect that both sides agree on the issue of competency. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” say the attorneys.

  “Then it’s settled. I find based on the evidence provided that Mr. Wilson is capable of participating in his defense. I find further that he understands the nature and consequences of a criminal trial and of pleading NGRI.

  “I hereby order—on the record—in accordance with the defendant’s request under the Constitution’s due process clause that we proceed to trial within sixty days as requested by the defendant. It so happens that my calendar is open and I’ll be the sitting judge. Meanwhile, the defendant is remanded to the Bridgeport Correctional Center’s psychiatric unit to await trial.”

  Twenty-six

  “I understand there’s another issue,” says the judge, rubbing his lower chin.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Kovac says. “The state is trying to force my client to take an antipsychotic drug called Risperdal. It’s my client’s right to refuse the medication.”

  “Your Honor,” Farley says, “the people want to ensure that the defendant remains competent during the trial. It would be a terrible waste of time if, during the trial, Mr. Wilson became so disturbe
d that his competency is lost. We want to avoid a mistrial if he has to be institutionalized for competency to be restored.”

  “Restoration of competency?” Burke says. “That’s not an issue, Mr. Farley.”

  “Your Honor,” Kovac calls, “Mr. Farley’s being disingenuous. Forcing Mr. Wilson to take the drug violates his civil rights. In fact, I have an expert here who will testify about Risperdal.”

  “Who’s the expert?”

  “Dr. Nicole DuPont, Your Honor.”

  “I’ll hear the doctor’s testimony, but let’s keep it brief. I don’t want to turn this into a minitrial.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Kovac turns and says, “The defense calls Dr. Nicole DuPont.”

  Nicole DuPont walks quickly across the well to the witness chair. She strikes Adrian as an attractive and self-possessed woman.

  After she’s sworn in, Kovac asks, “Dr. DuPont, will you tell the court about your professional training and education?”

  She turns to Burke and says, “I attended college and law school at Yale. I then went to medical school at Harvard and did my psychiatric residency at Massachusetts General.”

  “So, Dr. DuPont, you’re a physician, a psychiatrist, and an attorney?” Kovac says.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And your current work is where?”

  “I work at Whitehall Forensic Institute with a team of mental health professionals.”

  “I’m familiar with Whitehall,” says the judge. “A highly respected institution for the criminally insane. And your credentials, Dr. DuPont … most impressive.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” A hint of a smile forms on DuPont’s bow-shaped lips.

  “So, Doctor, you’re a forensic psychiatrist?” Kovac asks.

  “Yes.”

  The judge’s lips curl into a smile. He nods and closes his eyes.

  Adrian has the impression that Nicole DuPont is seducing the judge—intellectually. And there’s nothing wanting when it comes to her looks, either.

  “Doctor,” says Kovac, “will you please tell the court about Risperdal?”

  “Risperdal belongs to the class of antipsychotic drugs that are benzisoxasole derivatives. Among other things, it suppresses serotonin receptors in the brain.”

  “Doctor,” Burke says, “can you please put that in plain English?” He smiles self-deprecatingly. He’s playing—acting the down-home country judge, thinks Adrian—the judicial equivalent of your favorite uncle.

  “Yes, Your Honor.” DuPont’s lips curl into a fleeting smile. “By altering the brain’s chemistry, Risperdal can stop hallucinations and delusions. It tamps down psychotic thinking and perceptions.”

  Burke nods and leans back in his leather chair. Adrian is certain the judge enjoys watching and listening to DuPont.

  “So it would wipe out the defendant’s delusional thinking?” Kovac asks.

  “Probably.”

  “Now, Dr. DuPont, what, if any, dangers does Risperdal pose?”

  “First, there’s neuroleptic malignant syndrome. It includes high fever, muscle rigidity, altered mental status, irregular pulse, and blood pressure changes that can cause death. Then there are abnormal muscle movements, which may be irreversible.”

  “Are there any other dangerous side effects of these drugs?”

  She launches into a toxicologic tsunami of reactions: blood disorders, diabetes, and thinking abnormalities along with difficulties such as somnolence, fatigue, and rashes.

  Judge Burke’s face turns pallid. “Doctor,” he says, “is there a less-intrusive way of obtaining the same antipsychotic effect?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  Burke peers at Farley and removes his glasses.

  “Your Honor?” says DuPont in a honeyed voice that reminds Adrian of syrup.

  She has her act down … cold. She’s a real pro …

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “May I remind the court of a Supreme Court case in 1992, Riggins v. Nevada?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” calls Farley, red-faced. “Dr. DuPont is testifying as a physician and psychiatrist … not as a legal expert.”

  “Your Honor,” Kovac counters, “Dr. DuPont is also an attorney. She’s worked for the ACLU and won the Edgerton Civil Liberties Award. She’s eminently qualified to testify about legal issues.”

  “So,” Burke says, “you’re offering the doctor as an omnibus witness?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “I see no reason to preclude the doctor’s opinion.” Burke turns to DuPont and says, “Doctor, I’m vaguely familiar with the case, but will you refresh the court’s recollection?”

  Nicole flashes a demure smile. “David Riggins stabbed a man to death in Nevada, was arrested, and then complained of hearing voices,” she says. “A psychiatrist prescribed Mellaril, another antipsychotic. Riggins was found competent to stand trial. He planned to present an insanity defense and asked that the Mellaril be stopped so the jury could see his mental state firsthand rather than get a false impression induced by the medication. He claimed that for the jury to see him in other than his mental state at the time of the crime would deny him due process. His request was refused.”

  Burke nods and leans closer to Nicole DuPont.

  “The Supreme Court decided that the forced administration of antipsychotic medication violated the defendant’s rights guaranteed under the Sixth and Fourteenth Amendments.”

  “The opinion was …?” Burke asks.

  “The court held that a defendant has a valid right, protected under the due process clause, to refuse these drugs. In order to force the drug on the defendant, the state must prove the medication is necessary for the defendant’s safety and that of others.”

  Burke turns to Farley. “Is the defendant dangerous to anyone?”

  “Look at this man, Your Honor,” says Farley. “He could take down five men.”

  “How he looks is not at issue. I asked if he’s dangerous.”

  “He’s dangerous to Dr. Douglas and to Megan Haggarty, Your Honor.”

  “But the defendant’s incarcerated. They’re safe now. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Has he threatened suicide?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Has he threatened anyone else?”

  “Not that I know of, Your Honor.”

  “Your Honor,” Nicole says from the witness box. “If I may?”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Burke faces her. His glasses glimmer in the lighting. A hint of a smile forms on his lips. He’s enchanted by Nicole DuPont.

  “Mr. Wilson has a monomania about Ms. Haggarty and Dr. Douglas. His psychosis is limited to them and them alone. He’s not a threat to anyone else.”

  “Thank you, Dr. DuPont,” Judge Burke says with a quick smile. “You’ve been very helpful. You may step down.”

  Nicole walks back to the gallery carrying a small purse clutched to her side. She sits next to Grayson.

  Burke says, “My recollection of the Riggins case is refreshed. Any proposed treatment must be to ensure his safety or that of others. Mr. Wilson remains incarcerated, so Ms. Haggarty and Dr. Douglas are safe.”

  Adrian feels his chest tighten.

  “The defendant has the right to refuse medication so the jury may evaluate his state of mind as it was when he committed the acts for which he’s being tried. We will not deny the defendant due process. The defendant’s motion is granted.”

  Burke looks down at some papers and says, “Now, as for the trial, how long do you estimate it will take?”

  “I have only three witnesses,” says Farley.

  “I also have three witnesses,” Kovac says. “Two of the experts whose reports you’ve read and the defendant himself.”

  The judge flips open his calendar book. “I estimate a three-day trial, not including jury selection, to begin on Monday, December 12,” says Burke. “Jury selection will begin on the fifth. No delays, no excuses, gentlemen.”

  The
gavel slaps down.

  Twenty-seven

  Sitting in the witness chair, Megan’s innards tremble. She suddenly feels light-headed, and the courtroom sways. She keeps her eyes focused on the gallery and avoids looking at the defense table.

  Farley’s voice sounds distant. There are questions about the marriage and Conrad’s fits of jealous rage. Megan thinks she’s controlling the shaking, but her voice warbles and sounds clogged, small and insubstantial in her ears. Conrad is an immense blur to her right, about thirty feet away at the defense table. She’s intensely aware of his eyes scouring her.

  Farley asks her about the breakup and Conrad moving to Colorado. Then there’s a series of questions about the night at Eastport Hospital.

  Megan’s stomach churns, and her pores open as sweat trickles down her back. She feels a wave of coldness, yet the sweat seems to boil on her skin. Describing the locker room, her voice falters.

  Farley prods her gently. “So then you saw him there …”

  Megan shudders as it all flashes back: the gurneys and mattresses, the dank smell of the place; then she sees—actually visualizes—the elevator and that brick wall; she hears the shrieking bell, and her thoughts tumble. Suddenly, the courtroom walls move in. The room lurches and begins spinning; she clutches the arms of the witness chair.

  “Your Honor,” calls Kovac, “there’s no need for this. Mr. Wilson has admitted what he did, and the jury knows every detail of it from Mr. Farley’s opening statement. This is really a victim impact statement and doesn’t address the issue at trial, namely my client’s mental state at the time.”

  “We’ll have a sidebar,” Judge Burke says, summoning the lawyers with a wave of his hand.

  Megan looks down at her hands. They look like they belong to someone else. Her skin feels like it’s shredding, about to fray and drop to the floor. Muffled words come from the bench.

  … Your Honor … the jury needs to know what happened.

  … But, Your Honor, Conrad Wilson’s state of mind at the time is all that’s relevant.

  Megan’s thoughts swim, and she wishes she could look at Adrian somewhere in the gallery, but Farley warned them not to make eye contact. The lawyers continue with their sidebar argument; their voices are rasped mumblings, barely audible.