Angel Condemned (32 page)

“I hope so.” Bree sighed. “I hope so.”

EB looked at her watch. “’ Bout time you got on down to the Sampson Clinic.”

“And you’re comfortable with calling my father’s paralegal and getting him to e-mail all correct templates for the motions?”

“He was real helpful with the letters asking for all those documents.” EB sighed happily. “I’ll tell you something, girl. This beats scrubbing toilets for a living by a country mile.”

The Sampson Clinic for the Rehabilitation of Nervous Disorders was tucked on an unnamed side street off Washington Square. It was a square, three-story concrete-block building surrounded by an eight-foot wrought iron fence. The first floor was almost totally concealed from view by dense bushes. Bree showed her ABA card and her driver’s license at the guard gate and parked her car in the half-filled lot around back. She gave her card to a second guard inside the glass double doors at the entrance and was left to wait in a small, thickly carpeted foyer with one barred window and a small love seat in the corner. Classical music drifted through speakers in the ceiling. It was Bach—something from
The Well-Tempered Clavier
. Its soft, clean intricacies were very soothing.

A door in the wall opposite the love seat opened partway. A pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman came in. She wore a white lab coat over a dark navy pantsuit. A cluster of keys was chained to her belt. The name tag around her neck read DR. SANDRA PHILLIPS.

“Ms. Winston-Beaufort?” She extended her hand. “I’m Sandy Phillips.”

“And I’m Bree.”

“You’re here to see our patient?”

“Jillian Chambers, yes. How is she doing?”

“As well as can be expected.”

Bree followed Phillips through the door down a long corridor floored with terrazzo tile. The walls were painted a thick, glossy beige. Indifferent artwork had been placed at intervals along the walls. The frames were nailed in place. The lighting was subdued and indirect. There were no windows. Bree hoped none of the patients suffered from claustrophobia.

“In here.” Dr. Phillips stopped at a metal door with a small window inset at eye-level and selected a key from the bunch at her waist. She opened the door and stepped back. “I’ll be with you throughout the interview. We don’t take violent cases here. It’s primarily the ones on suicide watch or prisoners in danger of self-mutilation.”

“That’s very sad.”

Dr. Phillips looked surprised. “I suppose it is.”

Bree looked inside the room. Jillian wore a pink hospital gown over a denim skirt. Her hair had been washed and re-braided. Her Doc Martens had been removed and replaced with paper slippers. She was shackled to a metal table. The chains ran between her ankles and up to her wrists. The chair she sat in was bolted to the floor. There was a chair on the opposite side of the table. That was bolted to the floor, too. Her thin fingers picked restlessly at her cheek.

“The chains,” Bree said. “Are they really necessary?”

“Procedure,” Phillips said briskly. “Now, we have forty-five minutes. Shall we get started?”

“I’d like to get a preliminary statement from her. And I’d prefer to be alone with her.” Dr. Phillips opened her mouth to protest. “Not for evidentiary use. Just so I can get a handle on how to conduct her defense. What kind of medications is she on?”

“Are you familiar with psychotropic drugs?”

“Not really. But I intend to be.”

“I’ll keep to layman’s terms, then. She’s on medication for depression secondary to bipolar syndrome. It takes a while for that to kick in—as long as three to six weeks. She’s on a tranquilizer, because of her anxiety. We haven’t seen any evidence of full-blown psychosis yet, but the depression is so significant that she’s not really oriented to time and place. And there’s a mild dissociative state, which has resulted in moderate cognitive impairment.”

“Layman’s terms?” Bree said.

Dr. Phillips had a thin smile. “I’ll give you some of the literature we hand out to families of prisoners.”

“That would be a great help. And Dr. Phillips? I’d like to talk to her alone, if I may.”

“I don’t think . . .”

“I’m her attorney. You’ve got a preliminary diagnosis but not a definitive one. I want to be absolutely certain of attorney-client privilege. So if we could arrange that we talk privately, I’d appreciate it.”

Phillips pulled her cell phone out. “I’ll have a guard standing outside. He’ll escort Mrs. Chambers back when you’re ready.” She stepped inside the room and pointed to a red button next to the lintel. “That’s an emergency button. Use it if you need to.”

“Thank you. And it’s ‘doctor.’”

“Pardon me?”

“Dr. Chambers. She’s a PhD archeologist.”

“Huh. Fancy that. Nobody said a word to me.”

Bree waited until Phillips had locked the door behind her. She sat down. “Now, Jillian. We need to talk about Schofield Martin.”

The interview lasted forty-five minutes. Bree was at the Angelus Street office less than twenty minutes after that. She felt as if it’d been a week since she left Petru and Ron. She checked her watch twice to be sure. It was only three o’clock.

Bree tossed her wool coat onto the leather couch, sat down, and put her feet up on the oak chest they used as a coffee table. Ron looked up from his iPad and tsked. “You look beat.”

“I missed lunch.”

“Petru’s sister made scones. There’s a couple left. Shall I get you some?”

“Maybe later.” She stared up at
The Rise of the Cormorant
. The skies over the ocean were less bloody than they had been before. The cormorant itself had circled upward, away from the waves created over the prow of the ship. The dark-haired woman reached over the side of the ship. She looked down at the drowning souls. Bree couldn’t see her face. At that moment, sitting there, she would have given anything to see her face. “I think we’re ready to ask the Celestial Courts to allow a review of Schofield Martin’s sentencing.”

“That’s good news.” Ron set the tea tray on the oak chest. “Eat something, please.” He sat across from her. Bree picked up a scone and set it down again. Petru stumped in from the kitchen, leaned on his cane, and watched her. His thick beard made it hard to see his expression.

Bree held up her small recorder. “I’ve got Jillian Chambers’s statement. I’d like you to hear some of it.” She tapped at the keyboard, then placed the recorder face up on the chest. Jillian’s hoarse, exhausted voice was slurred.

 

 

“They had her on a number of medications,” Bree said. “But she seemed oriented to me. I hope the Angel in Judgment will show some leniency and agree to have it entered as evidence. If not, I’ve got a backup plan.”

Bree tapped the recorder, and Jillian’s voice stopped.

“I can argue that Chambers threatened Schofield and drove him to his death. That Chambers is guilty of contributory negligence at best, and of second-degree manslaughter at worst.”

Petru frowned. “That statement of Jillian’s? Uncorroborated? I am not so sure. As for Chambers—you will not get him to admit to that while he is alive.”

“I’ve got Martin’s statement that his younger brother wasn’t a part of the smuggling scheme, too.”

Ron went to his desk and sat at his laptop. “I’ll recheck that. As I recall, Bullet Martin said his younger brother ‘didn’t have any interest in the family business.’” The screen came up with Bree’s case notes. Petru leaned over Ron’s shoulder and stared at them. “Maybe. It is thin. But it appears as though we have little else.”

“I’ve got one more arrow in my quiver,” Bree said. “We’ll see if I need it. Anyhow. I’m ready. If you’ve got the box with my robes, Ron, I think I’d like to take care of this as soon as the documents are prepared.”

“It will, only take me a moment” Petru said.

Bree nodded. “All right. I’m going upstairs. I’ll be back in a bit.”

She didn’t wait for either angel to respond but went out to the foyer. She paused at the foot of the stairs. Her painted angel stood with hands folded, facing its gloriously robed cohorts parading up the wall, as if considering whether to rejoin the procession. Bree took her time ascending to the second floor. As she rounded the stairs to the landing, she saw there was a sign on the door to Lavinia’s living quarters.

The door was slightly ajar. Bree pushed it open and walked into Lavinia’s former home. The pine floors were dusty, with a shimmery violet dust that floated around her feet and glimmered in the sunshine coming through the windows overlooking the cemetery below. The air held the scent of flowers and spices of a kind Bree had only encountered in the company of her landlady.

The furniture was gone, except for a rocking chair near an old cast-iron stove in the far corner of the living room. As Bree watched, the scent of lavender grew stronger, and the chair creaked back and forth on the rockers, and then stilled.

Bree waited a long moment. Her heart ached. She wanted to say something. She wanted to embrace Lavinia, one last time. She opened her arms, as if the angel would rise from her chair and come to her.

The air stilled. The scent of lavender faded. Bree closed her eyes against a sudden rush of tears, and then turned and went downstairs.

Ron waited in the foyer, the parchment roll of pleadings under one arm, and her coat and tote in the other. He’d slung the strap of the wooden box carrying her robes over one shoulder.

Bree put on her winter coat and dug the car keys out of her tote. “Can we drive?”

“Sure.”

“I mean, is my car in one piece or not?”

“It’s fine,” he said easily. “It’s parked right outside in the usual spot.”

Bree decided she didn’t want to ask how she had gotten back to the town house the night before—or who had driven her car back to Angelus Street. But as she turned onto Montgomery, heading back to the Municipal Building, she couldn’t help casting frequent glances out the side window, just to be certain the street wasn’t taking her places she never wanted to see again. She avoided the parking spot on Market, too. And if Ron was amused, he didn’t show it.

He did, however, say hello to Cordelia Blackburn as they exited the security check into the lobby.

“It’s Ron Parchese, isn’t it?” Cordy said. “Nice to see you again.” Then, to Bree, “You’re looking a little ragged around the edges, girl. Did you have a rough night?”

“I was up late, settling a dispute.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t lose any sleep over that matter we discussed in my office yesterday. I had a word with Stubblefield. He won’t be sending out any inappropriate letters any time soon.”

“Thank you, Cordy. I appreciate that.”