Neely Tucker - Only the Hunted Run

Lantigua, standing behind an oaken writing desk that might have been as ancient as the rest-you couldn’t tell, the papers stacked on it might have dated to Roosevelt, too-talked them through the procedure for the “the statement,” as he kept calling it. They would walk from here to Canan Hall (there were umbrellas for them all, he said primly, not to worry about the rain). They would meet Waters in a secured conference room in the ward.

The ward doors would lock behind them, as would the ones in the conference room. Waters would already be there when they arrived. There would be chairs and a long table, with Waters seated at the end of the table. Lantigua would tell him to start, Waters would say what he had to say. If anyone had any questions-and by this he meant only for clarity’s sake about what had been said-they could write or whisper them to Lantigua, and he would or would not ask Waters, as he deemed medically appropriate.

“Legal advice,” Janice said, looking at Lantigua.

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said. “I just meant, ah-”

“That you don’t want me asking him a damn thing,” Sully said.

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Lantigua said.

The air in the office grew close and tense and unpleasant. The dampness, the humidity, from outside wormed its way into this inner chamber. Everyone sat with their legs crossed, wishing they were somewhere else.

“I would just like to say again, for the record, that I object to the media presence,” Wesley said. “Carter here, he’s the colorful sort, and while that’s good for selling papers, it can’t be allowed to jeopardize the judicial process.”

“Agreed,” Lantigua said. “Ms. Miller, is there not a way to call this off? Can you talk to your client again? The media here gives this an air of… the circus.”

He didn’t look at Sully as he said it, but letting him know where on the food chain he sat.

“It is my client’s wish that we are here to begin with,” she said, sounding resigned. “I spoke with him by phone at length this afternoon. I have just finished speaking with him, not thirty minutes ago. He says he has a statement he wants the public to hear. He would not tell me what it was, but said Sully would understand, which is why he wants him here.”

Lantigua looked nonplussed.

“Mr. Carter? Could you enlighten us?”

Sully looked over at him, arching his eyebrows as if surprised by the question.

“No,” he said.

“See what I mean,” Wesley muttered.

“Sully,” Janice said, impatiently.

Sully leaned forward at the table, uncrossing his legs. “I mean ‘no,’ in the sense that I am literally unable, because I have no idea what this is about. But beyond that, ‘no’ in the sense of I would not. The door hadn’t even shut when y’all started pissing on me being here, acting like it’s beneath your professional standard. Like lawyers and the warden at the crazy house are two pegs up from reporters. And then you ask me for help. So, no.”

“We don’t call it a ‘crazy house,’” Lantigua said, “and no one in polite society has for a very long time. It’s a mental health treatment facility.”

“I guess you’d be up to speed on the terminology,” Sully said. “How long you been here?”

“Since 1962 as a graduate student intern, since 1976 as executive director.”

“Ah. Thank you. So the problem with your point of view, like I was saying, is that I’m the only one your patient wants to see. Why? Who knows? Maybe because I was there that day in the Capitol, or maybe because he’s got a crush on me, maybe because he’s just fucking crazy. I’m here to listen to what he has to say. Any of you who don’t want to be here, hey, there’s the door.”

“Reckless,” Wesley said.

“Wes, I been stared down before,” Sully said, “by people with guns who knew how to use them. You, you just look constipated.”

Lantigua ignored the exchange and sighed, as if he were dealing with very small children. He flipped open a folder on his desk. Then he slid a sheaf of papers over to Sully.

“Waivers and confidentiality agreements.” When Sully arched his eyebrows, Lantigua hastily clarified, “The confidentiality just applies to our policies and procedures, the privacy of other patients. Some of whom have a certain degree of notoriety.”

“You’re worried I’m going to try to cop an interview with Hinckley on the way out?” Sully said.

Lantigua lowered his chin and gave Sully his best bureaucratic look, letting it sit over a two-second silence. “Just sign the form, Mr. Carter. Or, as you say, don’t. Now. Is everyone done? Thank you, thank you. Fine. I’ll leave these here. Now. If you would follow me.”

When they came into the ward, Sully was the last in line, save for the linebacker-sized orderly trailing them all. His eyes flew over the floor, taking it in, the patients wandering about, the big windows showing the fading gloom outside, the cloud cover ending the day early, the television on but not loud. The walls were dingy and aged, the paint was dull, the floor was shined but there was a dull yellow sheen to it.

And there, in a lime-green chair in the television room, dressed in jeans and a white pullover shirt, untucked, sat Sly Hastings. His close-cropped hair was under a White Sox cap and his face was averted, looking out the window. Uncle Reggie sat next to him, muttering and looking at the television, then turning to take in the entourage.

Sully cut his eyes away from the pair as soon as he saw Reggie start to turn his way. It wasn’t fast enough. There was a glint of recognition in the man’s eyes. He started to raise up, point. And, before he got fully out of his chair, Sully saw, from the corner of his eye, Sly’s right hand rise up the man’s back, grab his shirt tail, and jerk him back down.

No one else noticed.

Lantigua led them down the hall to the far end, past room 237, to a secured door that looked just like all the rest. He swiped the magnetic card that hung on a lanyard around his neck, looked in, and them stepped back, holding the door open to let them all in, the air flat, stale, recycled, and yet charged, like someone had cut all the ions loose and they were rocketing around the ward, colliding, crashing into one another, changing, reforming, shaping into something yet unseen.

Inside the conference room, the patient sat at the end of a long wooden table, head down. He could be dozing. You could think that, that tousled hair, the slack shoulders, not looking up, no recognition at all that the people he had summoned were filing in. He was wearing the same loose, standard-issue white jumpsuit he had worn earlier. His forearms were on the table, little plastic cuffs binding them together, his black hair pulled back in the same ponytail, a few strands loose and unmanaged, hanging over his forehead. He was looking down at his hands when they all filed in. An orderly flanked him on either side. One of them was Jamal, who studiously avoided eye contact with Sully.

At the back of the room, opposite the door, a tripod held a small video camera. The guy operating it wore a St. E’s uniform and a tired expression, leaning back against the wall, his camera already honed in and focused, cleaning his fingernails, ignoring the new entrants, too. Looking like he was getting overtime for this but now thinking he had better things to do.

Janice went to the near side of the table and sat. Sully, who had started in after her, now reversed his steps and went to the far side, the right. He wanted the man looking at him, not at his attorney. Wesley sat at the head of the table. Lantigua slid past Janice to get to the front of the room, the door closing and locking behind him. He moved between Jamal and George, the former stepping back to allow him the space. Lantigua looked up and motioned to the videographer, with a hand rolling forward, and said, “You can start it now.” He looked at the camera, expectantly, until the man pointed back at him. Lantigua bent down and whispered in the patient’s ear. George nodded but did not look up.