William Rabkin - Psych - A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read

A wiry woman in a floral-print dress jumped up from her seat in the back of the galley so fast she nearly knocked over the bench full of spectators. She leveled a shaking forefinger at the forewoman.

“You lied to me!” the woman said. “You told me you just wanted to get on the jury to get a book deal!” Fighting off tears, she ran out of the courtroom. At a signal from one of the prosecutors, a guard went after her.

The judge dug through the forewoman’s purse and came up with a small black cylinder, roughly the size and shape of a ballpoint pen. He held it out to Coules.

“Does this look like the murder weapon to you, Mr. Coules?” he said.

Coules took the epi-pen and stared at it.

A tear ran down the forewoman’s face. “I always loved you, Oliver. And you said you loved me. That night under the bleachers-that’s why I

… I know you meant it. Wait for me-I’ll join you in the spirit world and we can have eternity together.”

“Bailiff, take this woman into custody,” the judge said. Then he turned back to Coules. “I assume you won’t mind dropping the charges against Mrs. Mason.”

“No, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said.

The crowd burst into cheers. Veronica leapt up from her seat and hugged her defense attorney. “Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome… I guess,” he said, trying to figure out what had just happened.

Shawn gave a quick shudder as if he’d just woken up from a deep sleep. “Where am I?” he said. “What am I doing here? Why am I lying on the floor?”

Gus helped him back to his feet. “Good plan. Well contingencied,” he whispered as they headed toward the door, fighting their way through a throng of people begging to know who Shawn was. Gus made sure each one of them got a Psych business card.

They finally got into the hallway, where another mob surrounded Veronica Mason. Now that the fear of prison was gone from her face, she was more beautiful than ever. As the crowd swept them past her, Veronica leaned over and whispered in Shawn’s ear.

“Call me,” she said. “I’ve got a birthmark even Oliver didn’t know about.”

And then the crowd swept her down the hallway from them. Shawn watched her go, then turned to Gus with a satisfied smile.

“I think we’ve made a new friend,” Shawn said.

“I think you’ve made a new enemy.”

They turned to see Bert Coules, the DA, looming over them. His fists were clenched, and a vein in his temple throbbed.

“Hey, Bert,” Shawn said. “Good work in there. Think how well it would have gone if you’d tried the right person.”

“She was the right person,” Coules said. “You just let a murderer walk free.”

“The forewoman confessed,” Gus said. “You heard her.”

“I heard a pathetic, lovelorn spinster desperately falling for a con dreamed up by a cheap fake,” Coules said.

“I am not cheap,” Shawn said. “I’m reasonable. Maybe you should try my services next time.”

Coules’ eyeballs looked like they were going to explode out of his head. “No, Mr. Spencer, you are going to try mine,” he said. “Unless you are the most law-abiding person in Santa Barbara County. Because if I discover you’ve committed the tiniest infraction of the smallest regulation, the entire office of the district attorney is going to find a way to make you serve the sentence Veronica Mason should be serving.”

“Gus, this is just one of those things that no one could have anticipated.” Shawn and Gus trudged along the endless stretch of chain link, heat radiating up from the melting asphalt and burning through the thin leather soles of Gus’ best dress Oxfords.

“No one except a psychic,” Gus said, staring through the metal links at the acres of cars. “Too bad neither of us knows one.”

“Gus, Gus, Gus,” Shawn said, “that would have been a truly cutting comment if I actually believed I had psychic abilities. But since we both know I don’t, you’ve got to dig a little deeper.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Gus said. “Almost as useful as the last bit you gave me.”

“I know you loved that fanny pack, but its day was over.”

“I mean about the street signs,” Gus said. “Specifically about the signs that said, ‘No parking-violators will be towed.’ Specifically that we should ignore the signs because meter maids would never patrol outside the courthouse.”

The day had been going so well. After Shawn’s triumph in the courtroom, they were mobbed by journalists. They spent two hours giving interviews that would lead to tons of free publicity. One of the reporters even asked who Gus was.

But when they finally got outside the courthouse, everything started going downhill. First was the shock of finding an empty curb where Gus’ Echo used to be. And then the greater shock of realizing that the curb wasn’t completely empty. Detective Carlton Lassiter was standing there, a grim look on his face.

That wasn’t the real problem. Detective Carlton Lassiter almost always had a grim look on his face. He was the lead detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department, and he took his job every bit as seriously as he took himself. Shawn’s easy attitude toward crime fighting had the same effect on him as a roll in a field of poison oak.

The real problem was that Bert Coules was coming up to Lassiter, and his look was anything but grim.

“Look, Gus, your car finally got its wish,” Shawn said. “It’s been turned into a real boy.”

“Close,” Coules said. “Not the boy part, of course. But the turning into what it’s always wanted to be. In this case, a heap of scrap metal.”

“You can’t,” Gus said. “My car didn’t do anything wrong.”

“It didn’t?” Coules said. “I thought it solved the Oliver Mason murder case and then withheld the identity of the real killer until it could be used to embarrass the entire Santa Barbara DA’s office.”

“My car would never do that,” Gus said.

“Be that as it may,” Lassiter said, “it was parked in a tow-away zone. You left us no choice but to tow it away.”

“Oh, there were other choices,” Coules said. “Personally I favor arresting you both for reckless endangerment. If there was a fire in this courthouse, that car could have been blocking the exits.”

“But it wasn’t!”

“I’d be willing to let a jury make that decision,” Coules said.

Lassiter stepped between them and handed Gus a ticket. “The police felt it was sufficient to write you up for a violation. You can collect your car once you’ve paid the ticket and the towing fee.”

“Better do it fast, though,” Coules said. “Hate to see them crush it for scrap by mistake.”

“Shawn, do something!”

“If we can’t get to a crime scene, how are we going to solve your cases for you, Bert?” Shawn said.

“I meant do something useful,” Gus whispered furiously. “Like apologize.”

“Oh, that,” Shawn said. “Sorry, Bert. I assumed you were capable of prosecuting the right person. I won’t make the same mistake next time.”

Gus groaned. “Please, if you have to punish someone, punish Shawn. The Echo didn’t do anything.”

“Tell it to the boys at the impound lot,” Coules said. “But you’d better start walking if you want to make it before they close. It’s about eight miles from here.”

“Walking?”

“You don’t have a car. And I wouldn’t even think about trying to hitch your way over there.” Coules gave Lassiter a significant look.

Lassiter sighed apologetically. “California Vehicle Code section 21949-21971, article 21957 specifically forbids soliciting a ride from the driver of any vehicle. And while I probably shouldn’t give away department secrets, I believe that all patrol cars have been ordered to step up enforcement of that particular provision today.”