Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

Gull’s face lost color. “Okay, okay, let me see… I work… thirty-eight hours a week with regular patients, have another… maybe twenty-five who pop in for occasional sessions.”

“Tune-ups,” said Milo.

“I don’t run a garage.”

“Sixty-five total,” I said.

“That’s an estimate.”

“Those sixty-five. You’d remember their names.”

“Sure.”

I pulled a page of computer printout from my jacket and unfolded it on my lap.

“Does the name ‘Gayford Woodrow’ mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“What about ‘James Leroy Craig’?”

“Same answer,” said Gull.

“Carl Philip Russo,” I said. “Ludovico Montez, Daniel Lee Barendo, Schendley Paul, Orlando Jones.”

Headshake.

“Roland Kristof, Lamar Royster Collins, Antonio Ortega.”

“Who are these people?”

“Patients for whom you’ve billed Medi-Cal a considerable amount over the last sixteen months.”

Gull looked stunned. “That’s ridiculous. First of all, I don’t accept Medi-Cal patients. Second, those are all men, and my patients are almost exclusively women. Third, I’d know if I treated someone.”

“And got paid for it.”

“This is absolutely psychotic.”

I picked up the list and read some more. “Akuno Williams, Salvador Paz, Mattias Soldovar, Juan Jorge Montoya, Juan Eduardo Lunares, Baylor Hawkins, Paul Andrew McCloskey-”

“No, none of them,” said Gull. “This is a mistake.”

“Never treated any of them? Not once?”

“Not once.”

“Don’t see any Medi-Cal patients at all.”

“Why would I? Reimbursement’s pathetic, and I’m booked with solid-paying patients.”

“Then why’d you bother to obtain a Medi-Cal billing number?”

“Who says I did?”

I walked over to him and held the printout in front of his eyes. “Is this your signature on an application to be a provider?”

He said, “It looks like- I may have obtained a number, but I never really used it.”

“Over the last sixteen months you’ve received over three hundred thousand dollars in Medi-Cal reiumbursement. Three forty-three and fifty-two cents, to be precise.”

He grabbed for the sheet. I whipped it away.

“Let me see that!”

“You received a provider number but didn’t really use it.”

Silence.

I said, “Here’s where ‘forthcoming’ enters the picture.”

Gull said, “Fine, fine, I applied to get a number, just… to keep all my options open. In case there was a lull, I could fill in the time. But three hundred thou? You’re out of your mind!”

“The state payments went to a billing address in Marina Del Rey.”

“There you go,” he said. “I don’t have an address in the Marina. Can’t remember the last time I went to the Marina. Someone obviously screwed up- your so-called investigation is screwed up.” A smile spread slowly across his lips. “I suggest you do your homework. Both of you.”

I said, “No Marina for you? No harbor-front dinners for you and the missus?”

Gull turned to Wimmer. “Do you believe this, Myrna? I’ve just showed them they’re totally off base, and they can’t admit it. Are you thinking what I am- a harassment suit.”

Wimmer didn’t answer.

I rattled the printout. “None of those names mean anything to you?”

“Not a one. Not a single one.”

“What about this name, then: Sentries for Justice.”

Gull stopped smiling. One hand shot up spasmodically and grabbed his upper lip. Twisting. Like a kid playing with a rubber mask.

Sad mask.

“You know that name,” I said.

“That,” he said. “Oh, boy.”

Gull pointed to the water pitcher on Myrna Wimmer’s desk. “I think I will have some of that.”

Wimmer aimed a cold smile his way. Gull got up and poured himself a glass. Drained it standing near the desk and refilled.

“I need,” he said, “to put everything in context.”

I said, “Go for it. If Ms. Wimmer’s schedule allows.”

Wimmer said, “Oh, sure, this is the fun part of my day.”

Gull said, “Yes, I did apply for a provider number but only at Mary’s and Albin’s urging. The two of them were socially aware. One of the issues they got involved in was penal rehabilitation.”

“Who got into it first?”

“I think it was Albin’s idea, but Mary began carrying the ball.”

“She was the mover.”

“Mary,” he said, “wasn’t the most creative person in the world, but once she put her mind to something, she went full bore. The two of them got the idea of setting up treatment for paroled criminals, in order to fight recidivism. I admired what they were doing but chose to stay out of it.”

“Why?” I said.

“As I told you, I was busy enough. And I was skeptical. These people- criminals. They’ve got entrenched personality disorders. Psychotherapy has never been very effective for that kind of thing.”

“Mary and Albin disagreed.”

“Especially Mary. She was passionate about it. State money was going to be freed up, it was more than just theory.”

“How’d she find that out?”

“One of Albin’s political connections- he’s involved in a lot of progressive causes- is the wife of a politician from up north. She’s a psychologist, too, and she got her husband to pass a bill that authorized psychotherapy on demand for paroled felons. Albin helped her with the wording. He told Mary, she told me.”

“But you declined,” I said. “Entrenched personality disorders.”

“Yes.”

“Also, the reimbursement rates couldn’t match your private fees.”

“I work for a living,” said Gull. “I don’t see why I should apologize for that.”

“What’s your hourly fee?”

“Is that relevant?”

“Yes.”

“I use a sliding scale. From one-twenty to two hundred per session.”

“Medi-Cal pays twenty and restricts the number of sessions.”

“Medi-Cal’s a joke,” said Gull. “Mary said the bill doubled the rates- some sort of political give-and-take. But forty’s still a joke. I opted out.”

“How’d Mary and Albin react to that?”

“Albin didn’t say much. He rarely does. Mary was upset with me, but that didn’t last.”

Milo said, “Your being intimate friends and all that.”

Gull sniffed.

I said, “You declined to participate but obtained a Medi-Cal provider number.”

“At Albin’s and Mary’s behest. They said the state preferred settings with multiple providers, it would look better if all of us were listed. Mary filled out the paperwork and I signed and that was it.”

He was sweating heavily now, searched again for his linen hankie. I pulled a tissue out of a box on Wimmer’s desk and handed it to him. He wiped his face hastily, and the tissue turned into a little gray sphere.

“You’re saying you never actually saw any patients on the program?”

“Basically,” he said.

“Basically?”

“I saw a few- very few. At the beginning, just to get the ball rolling.”

“How many is a few?”

He removed a pair of tiny-lensed reading glasses from his pocket and began playing with the sidepieces.

“Franco?”

“Three. That’s it. And no one with any of the names you mentioned.”

“How was it, treating ex-cons?”

“It wasn’t a good experience.”

“Why not?”

“Two of them were chronically late and when they did show up, they were high on something. It was obvious they were just passing the time.”

“Why would they do that?”

“How should I know?”

“Any indication they were getting paid to show up?”