Jonathan Kellerman: Blood Test

I sat in the courtroom and watched Richard Moody get the bad news from the judge.

Moody’d come dressed for the occasion in a chocolate polyester suit, canary yellow shirt, string tie, and lizard skin boots. He grimaced and bit his lip and tried to lock eyes with the judge, but she outstared him and he ended up looking at his hands. The bailiff at the rear of the room held his gaze on Moody. As a result of my warning he’d been careful to keep the Moodys apart all afternoon and had gone so far as to frisk Richard.

The judge was Diane Severe, girlish for fifty, with ash blond hair and a strong, kind face; soft-spoken, and all business. I’d never been in her court but knew her reputation. She’d been a social worker before going to law school and after a decade in juvenile court and six years on the family bench was one of the few judges who really understood children.

“Mr. Moody,” she said, “I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m going to say.”

Moody started to assume an aggressive body posture, hunching his shoulders and narrowing his eyes like a bar fighter, but his attorney nudged him and he loosened up and forced a smile.

“I’ve heard testimony from Dr. Daschoff and Dr. Delaware, both eminently qualified as experts in this court. I’ve spoken to your children in my chambers. I’ve watched your behavior this afternoon and I’ve heard your allegations against Mrs. Moody. I’ve learned of your instructions to your children to run away from their mother so that you could rescue them.”

She paused and leaned forward.

“You’ve got serious emotional problems, sir.”

The smirk on Moody’s face vanished as quickly as it appeared, but she caught it.

“I’m sorry you think this is funny, Mr. Moody, because it’s tragic.”

“Your Honor,” Moody’s lawyer interjected.

She cut him off with the flick of a gold pen.

“Not now, Mr. Durkin. I’ve heard quite enough wordplay today. This is the bottom line and I want your client to pay attention.”

Turning back to Moody:

“Your problems may be treatable. I sincerely hope they are. There’s no doubt in my mind that psychotherapy is essential — a good deal of it. Medication may be called for as well. For your sake and the sake of your children I hope you get whatever treatment you need. My order is that you have no further contact with your children until I see psychiatric evidence that you are no longer a threat to yourself or to others — when the death threats and talk of suicide cease, and you have accepted the reality of this divorce and are able to support Mrs. Moody in the raising of the children.

“Should you get to that point — and your word won’t be sufficient to convince me, Mr. Moody — the court will call upon Dr. Delaware to set up a schedule of limited and monitored visitation.”

Moody took it in, then made a sudden move forward. The bailiff was out of his chair and at his side in a flash. Moody saw him, gave a sick grin, and let his body go slack. The tears flowed down his cheeks. Durkin pulled out a handkerchief, gave it to him, and raised an objection concerning the judge’s encroachment upon his client’s privacy.

“You’re free to appeal, Mr. Durkin,” she said evenly.

“Judge.”

It was Moody talking now, the bass voice dry and strained.

“What is it, Mr. Moody?”

“You don’t unnerstand.” He wrung his hands. “Those kids, they’re my life.”

For a moment I thought she was going to tongue-lash him. Instead she regarded him with compassion.

“I do understand, sir. I understand that you love your children. That your life is in shambles. But what you need to understand — the whole point of the psychiatric testimony — is that children can’t be responsible for anyone’s life. That’s too big a burden for any child to bear. They can’t raise you , Mr. Moody. You need to be able to raise them. And right now you can’t. You need help.”

Moody started to say something but choked it back. He shook his head in defeat, gave the handkerchief back to Durkin, and tried to salvage a few shards of dignity.

The next quarter hour was spent on property settlement. I had no need to listen to the distribution of the meager estate of Darlene and Richard Moody and would have left, but Mal Worthy had said he wanted to talk to me afterward.

When the legal mumbling was over, Judge Severe took off her glasses and ended the hearing. She looked my way and smiled.

“I’d like to see you in chambers for a moment if you’ve got the time, Dr. Delaware.”

I smiled back and nodded. She swept out of the courtroom.

Durkin ushered Moody out under the watchful eye of the bailiff.

At the next table Mal was pep-talking Darlene, patting her plump shoulder as he scooped up handfuls of documents and stashed them in one of the two suitcases he’d brought. Mal was compulsive and while other lawyers made do with an attaché case, he carted around boxes of documents on a chromium luggage rack.

The former Mrs. Richard Moody looked up at him, bewildered, cheeks feverishly rosy, bobbing her head in assent. She’d stuffed her milkmaid’s body into a light blue summer dress as frothy as high tide. The dress was ten years too young for her and I wondered if she’d confused new-found freedom with innocence.

Mal was decked out in classic Beverly Hills attorney mufti: Italian suit, silk shirt and tie, calfskin loafers with tassles. His hair was styled fashionably long and curly, his beard cut close to the skin. He had glossy nails and perfect teeth and a Malibu tan. When he saw me he winked and waved and gave Darlene one last pat. Then he held her hand in both of his and saw her to the door.

“Thanks for your help, Alex,” he said when he came back. Piles of papers remained on the table and he busied himself with packing them.

“It wasn’t fun,” I said.

“No. The ugly ones aren’t.” He meant it but there was a lilt in his voice.

“But you won.”

He stopped shuffling papers for a moment. “Yeah. Well, you know, that’s the business I’m in. Jousting.” He flipped his wrist and looked at a wafer-thin disc of gold. “I won’t say it pains me to dispose of a turkey like Mr. M.”

“You think he’ll take it? Just like that?”

He shrugged.

“Who knows? If he doesn’t we’ll just keep bringing in the heavy artillery.”

At two hundred dollars an hour. He lashed the suitcases to the rack.

“Hey listen, Alex, this wasn’t a stinker. For those I don’t call you — I’ve got hired guns up the wazoo. This was righteous, no?”

“We were on the right side.”

“Precissimoso. And I thank you again. Regards to the lady judge.”

“What do you think she wants?” I asked.

He grinned and slapped me on the back.

“Maybe she likes your style. Not a bad looking gal, heh? She’s single, you know?”

“Spinster?”

“Hell, no. Divorced. I handled her case.”

Her chambers were done in mahogany and rose, and permeated with the scent of flowers. She sat behind a glass-topped, carved wood desk upon which stood a cut-crystal vase filled with stalks of gladiolus. On the wall behind the desk were several photographs of two hulking blond teenage boys — in football jerseys, wetsuits, and evening wear.

“My gruesome twosome,” she said, following my eyes. “One’s at Stanford, the other’s selling firewood up at Arrowhead. No telling, eh, Doctor?”

“No telling.”

“Please have a seat.” She motioned me to a velvet sofa. When I’d settled she said, “Sorry if I was a little rough on you in there.”