Jonathan Kellerman - The Clinic

He rocked in his chair, attaining as much mobility as the hand cuffed to the bolted table would allow. They hadn't cuffed him at first, but he'd screamed and thrashed and tried to hit Milo.

Milo sat across from him, placid, almost bored. Ballitser drank the rest of the sweet yellow soda. He'd finished two sugar doughnuts provided by a slim young brunette detective named Angela Boatwright, chewing painfully, each swallow marked by the rise and fall of a plum-sized Adam's apple.

Boatwright was cheerful, a few sunburns past beautiful, with a surfer-girl rhythm to her speech, faint freckles and pale eyes, a tight runner's body, and slightly oversized hands. She wore a blue-black pantsuit and black flats with stockings. When she was with Ballitser she seemed more sorry than scornful, a long-suffering big sister, but out of earshot she'd referred to him as “a sorry little asswipe.”

Now she drank coffee and sat back behind the one-way glass flexing her hands. It had taken almost an hour to do Ballitser's paperwork. I was surprised at the ease with which Boatwright and her partner, a bald man named Hoppey, had relinquished control to Milo. Maybe she read my mind, because as we entered the viewing room, she said, “We booked him on attempted assault but the murder thing takes precedence. Lucky that doctor had his wits about him.”

A printout of Ballitser's criminal history rested on a fake-wood table between us. Mostly blank, except for notation of a sealed juvenile record and twenty unpaid parking tickets.

“Occupational hazard,” Milo had explained. “When Darrell works he's a messenger.”

“Car or bike?” I said.

“Both.” He gave a tired smile and I knew he was thinking, All that time spent on another stupid one?

Now he said, “I'm gonna get you a lawyer, Darrell, whether you ask for one or not.”

No answer.

“Darrell?”

Ballitser crumpled the paper cup and threw it on the floor.

“Is there any particular lawyer you want me to call?”

“Fuck.”

Milo started to get up.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck, yes, or fuck, no?”

“Fuck no. ”

“Fuck no to a lawyer?”

“Fuck yeah. ” Ballitser touched his jaw.

“Aspirin didn't kick in, yet, huh?”

No answer.

“Darrell?”

“Fuck.”

Angela Boatwright stretched. “Talk about your one-note solo.”

Milo got up and entered the observation room. “How many public defenders do you have on call?”

“All the PD's are tied up,” said Boatwright. “We've been into the private list for a while, compassionate Wilshire Boulevard guys doing pro bono. I'll go find someone.”

Two more Mountain Dews, a hamburger and fries, and two bathroom breaks later, an unhappy-looking attorney named Leonard Kasanjian showed up with an ostrich-skin briefcase too small to hold much. He had long black hair brushed straight back, a five-day beard, and minuscule pewter-framed eyeglasses over resigned, dark eyes. He wore a tailored olive gabardine suit, tan-check snap-collar shirt, hand-painted brown-and-gold tie, brown suede loafers.

As he approached, Boatwright smiled and whispered, “Pulled him out of Le Dome.”

“Hey, Angela,” he said, brightening. “You in charge, tonight? How's it-”

“Evening, Mr. Kasanjian,” she said in a hard tone, and the lawyer's smile died. She said, “Let me tell you about your client,” and did.

He listened, said, “Sounds pretty clear.”

“Maybe to you.”

“Mr. Ballitser,” said Kasanjian, putting his briefcase on the table.

The boy's free hand shot out, fisted, knocking the case to the floor.

Kasanjian picked it up and flicked lint from his lapel. Smiling, but his eyes were furious.

“Mr. Ballit-”

“Fuck you!”

Milo said, “Okay, we'll transfer him downtown, pull warrants on his room.”

Kasanjian looked down at the booking slip. “Hear that… Darrell?”

Ballitser rocked and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.

“They're taking you to the county jail, Darrell. I'll come by to see you tomorrow morning. Don't talk to anyone til then.”

Nothing.

Then, “Fuck.”

Kasanjian shook his head and stood. He and Milo headed for the door.

Ballitser said, “Spade!”

Both men turned.

“What's that, son?” said Kasanjian.

Silence.

“Spade?” said Kasanjian. “A black guy?”

“Fuck!” said the boy, spraying saliva and kicking wildly.

“Easy, Darrell,” said Kasanjian.

Ballitser slammed his fist on the table.

His eyes shifted to the door, his torso quivered and tightened, every muscle defined beneath the damaged skin, like a frayed anatomical diagram.

“Fu-u-uck Spa-a-ade!”

Kasanjian said, “Spa-”

“Spa-a-a-a-de! Sp-a-a-a-a-de! That's fucking why ! That's fucking why!”

Kasanjian looked shaken. “Try to calm down, Darrell.”

He turned to Milo. “He's obviously in need of psychiatric attention, Detective. I'm making a formal request that you provide immedia-”

“Spa-a-a-a-a-de! Spa-a-a-a-a-de!”

Ballitser twisted his body, punched his own chest, kicking at the chair, pounding the bolted table, over and over.

“Spade is “why'?” said Milo.

“Fucking why!”

“Why you don't like Dr. Cruvic?”

“Fucking-A!”

“Spade.”

“Fucking-A! He fucking did it!” The boy began crying, then curled his free hand and ripped at his cheeks. Milo pulled him off, held him still. Darrell's blemished face was contorted in agony.

“Cruvic did it,” said Milo, gently.

“Ye-e-e-s!”

“He fucking did it, Darrell.”

“Y-e-e-e-s!”

“To Chenise.”

“Y-e-e-s! Spa-a-a-a-de! Like a fucking dog. Woof-fucking -woof!”

Ballitser clawed the table, panted.

“Chenise,” said Milo.

Ballitser flopped his neck hard enough to sprain it. He raised his free hand prayerfully. Nothing aggressive in the gesture.

Milo came closer. “Tell me, son.”

Tears spurted from the boy's eyes.

“It's okay, tell me, son.”

Darrell's stick-body shook.

“What'd he do, son?”

Darrell shot a hand into the air. Waved it. His eyes danced wildly.

“He fucking spayed my lady!”

Twenty minutes later, after conferring with his client, Kasanjian came out smiling. “Well, there's my extenuating circumstance.”

Angela Boatwright was coming back from the squad room with a cup of coffee.

“Hey, Angie,” he told her, “thanks for the referral. I especially liked walking out on my date.”

“Always glad to help.”

They shot smile-arrows at each other.

Milo said, “Where's Chenise?”

“Down the hall.”

“Any sign of her mother?”

“Not yet,” said Boatwright, “and still no answer at home.”

I said, “If her mother had something to do with the operation she could be scared for her own safety.”

“What operation?” said Boatwright. “What's going on?”

“Your doctor hero's into involuntary sterilization,” said Kasanjian.

“What?”

“Seven months ago, Dr. Cruvic aborted a child Ms. Chenise Farney was carrying. My client's child. But my client had no prior knowledge of the procedure, nor was he consulted, despite the fact that Ms. Farney is a minor, leaving my client as the sole adult parent.”

“Adult? You've got to be kidding,” said Boatwright.

“To make matters worse,” said Kasanjian, “Dr. Cruvic wasn't satisfied with a termination: He sterilized the girl without telling her. Tied her tubes. A minor, no valid consent. And guess what, folks: Mr. Ballitser has informed me that Dr. Devane counseled Chenise but never told her she was going to be sterilized. So there was obviously a conspiracy. Meaning your hero is no Boy Scout and his unprofessional conduct is obviously a significant factor in what occurred tonight. Now, in terms of your even assuming Mr. Ballitser had anything to do with Dr. Devane's murder, I must insist that you present evidence immediately or relea-”