William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

“How much do you know about mental retardation?”

“Not much,” Ben admitted.

‘Then you’ll pardon me if I go into my lecture mode.

Mental retardation affects about three percent of the American population. Supposedly it’s caused by genetics. Biological abnormalities.”

“Supposedly?”

Vera pressed her glasses higher on her nose. “Well, statistics have shown that a vastly disproportionate number of retarded persons come from underprivileged families.” She paused. “That’s yuppie talk for po’ folk. Now, if it’s all genetics, why is retardation visited so often on the poor? Doesn’t make any sense.”

“What do you think causes it?” Ben asked.

“I think, at least in many cases, that it’s caused by poverty in combination with negative social and cultural conditions and a lack of stimulation during the child’s early developmental years. Early training is critical—sensory, verbal, and emotional stimulation, along with training in certain fundamental skills. Problem is, many po’ folk don’t have the time or the opportunity to provide it. Or they may not be well enough educated themselves to know what to do.”

“How retarded is Leeman?”

“Eighty-seven percent of all retarded persons are what we call mildly retarded. They can be educated to about a sixth-grade level and can usually support themselves. Ten percent are moderately retarded. They can be educated to about the second-grade level and develop only minimal speech and communication skills. Three percent are severely or profoundly retarded. The severely retarded will require care throughout their lives but may be able to do some things for themselves. The profoundly retarded will never be able to do anything for themselves.”

“I read in the file that Leeman is moderately retarded.”

“True, although he’s at the low end of the moderate scale, and he has virtually no communication skills. In fact, when he was first institutionalized, he had none at all. Since then, he’s learned a few words. Not many. Mind you, he does understand some of what goes on in the world around him. He’s able to learn simple tasks and repeat them. He’s able to work with his hands and has good motor skills. He just has no way to communicate.”

“I saw a reference in the file to PKU.”

“Right. Leeman has been diagnosed as suffering from phenylketonuria, a metabolic abnormality believed to be caused by genetic errors. Not unlike Down’s syndrome. PKU is characterized by eczema, attention deficiencies, and a musty body odor.”

“And there’s no cure?”

“Actually, there is. In at least some cases, PKU can be prevented in infants who have the metabolic defect if their diet is changed before permanent brain damage occurs. Unfortunately, Leeman’s parents couldn’t afford fancy doctors and high-class hospitals. They didn’t even have health insurance. So the condition wasn’t detected. And Leeman spends the rest of his life as a retard.”

A long time passed before either of them spoke again.

“From what you’ve told me,” Ben said finally, “I’m surprised Leeman was able to caddy.”

“Oh, he was a splendid caddy,” Vera replied. “Mind you, he wouldn’t be advising people on what club to use, but he was perfectly able to schlep a bag of clubs around the course. He was strong, uncomplaining, and he knew the course like it was his backyard. In most instances, no communication was required.”

Ben nodded. “Is Leeman being guarded?”

“Only in the most superficial way,” Vera answered. “After all, he’s been in institutions of one sort or another for the last ten years. He’s not going to escape. I don’t think he’d know where to go if he did.”

“Is Dr. Montague the psychiatrist who’s been treating Leeman?”

“He’s not the one who certified him competent to stand trial, if that’s what you’re asking. That learned scholar lives in Ponca City. Met with Leeman for two hours, then rendered his expert opinion. An opinion we all find mystifying.”

“Then … you disagree that Leeman is competent to stand trial?”

“I disagree that anything has changed. Leeman is mentally retarded. His condition can’t be treated. We can try to improve his communication skills, or to train him for an occupation. But that’s it. Able to assist in a murder trial? Absurd. If he was unable to assist in his own defense ten years ago, then he still is.”

They stopped in the corridor outside a closed door. “Then how do you explain this new ruling?”

“Politics.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Politics. And the inexactitude of the psychiatric sciences.”

“I don’t follow. …”

“Despite what some doctors may tell you, psychiatry is still an inexact science. And our knowledge about mental retardation is woefully incomplete. Two different doctors, both competent, can still give wildly varying evaluations. And if one of those doctors is an arch-conservative who believes that murderers should be punished for their crimes—”

“Then you’re much more likely to get an evaluation that the accused is competent to stand trial. Is that what happened to Leeman Hayes?”

Vera smiled thinly. “Don’t ask me. I’m just a family doctor. What do I know?”

8

LEEMAN HAYES SAT ON the floor on the far side of the room assembling small white plastic model parts. Ben knew virtually nothing about automobiles, but he could tell it was a slick sports car. As he looked around the room Ben saw a vast array of assembled and painted models. Leeman’s specialty appeared to be transportation; Ben spotted models of everything from the Titanic to the starship Enterprise.

Leeman was big, even for a man in his late twenties. He had a broad, moon-shaped face. His skin was flaky and he reeked of some unidentifiable odor. Rolls of fat spilled over his belt. Somehow calling them love handles seemed woefully inappropriate. Despite the flab, Ben sensed real power residing in that bulky frame.

Leeman’s eyes were fixed and his tongue curled up toward his nose; Ben could almost feel the strain to focus attention as Leeman carefully glued a tail fin into place.

Ben spoke quietly so as not to startle him. “Excuse me.”

Leeman was not startled; in fact, he didn’t react at all. Ben sensed that he knew Ben had entered the room; he just wasn’t particularly interested.

“My name is Ben Kincaid. I’m a lawyer.”

Leeman looked up, not because of anything Ben had said but because he had completed adhering the tail fin and he needed another piece of the model. His cheeks and chin were covered with pimples. The extra fat made his face seem doughlike and his expression perpetually uncertain. He peered at Ben as if he were not simply meeting a new person but contemplating a previously unknown life-form.

Ben peered back. It was not so much Leeman’s appearance as it was his manner that signaled that something was not quite right. He held his head at an odd, unnatural angle, and it moved not fluidly but in brief, spasmodic bursts. His eyes seemed to move independently of his face.

“Al … read-y. ” He overpronounced and protracted each syllable, as if every sound required special effort.

“I know you already have a lawyer. But your lawyer is very busy, and your father thought it might help if I took over your case.”

Leeman’s face brightened the instant he heard the word father. “Papa.” His eyes raced around the room. “Papa?”

“I’m afraid he isn’t here right now. He came to my office and asked me to represent you. I haven’t decided yet. I wanted to talk with you first. Since he’s been appointed to serve as your guardian, technically, his okay is all I need. But I wanted to make sure it was all right with you. After all, you’re the one who’s going to be on trial.”