A satisfied smile on my face, I wrapped my hands around a near scalding mug of Earl Grey, inhaling the hint of bergamot and lemon. My computer screen was on, but I had yet to open a single email. Luckily it was early Monday morning and there was no one in the Link-Media office to question the Cheshire cat expression on my face.
Michael’s breakfast visit Sunday morning had become lunch, which eventually became dinner, and then quickly morphed into a delicious evening of tangled, sweaty sheets before we both woke this morning pre-dawn. I could still feel his hands on my body, and a shiver from the memory ran up my spine. I looked up at the ceiling, let out a breath, and tried to tamp down the post-sex glow. I was never going to get anything done this way.
Looking out at the empty office space, I could feel my present collide with the ghosts of my past. My lusty evening contrasting with the reality that Link-Media had been my deceased husband’s business. There were moments when being alone in the office unnerved me, moments when I could still feel Eric’s presence—after all, he had founded the company. Link-Media had been his dream, not mine. However, in the year plus since his death, I had come to feel like its guardian. Not a guardian of Eric’s legacy—his legacy was too tarnished for me to honor—but a guardian of the truth. Graft, corruption, greed—there were endless misdeeds to expose, and if I could be responsible for unveiling even a single offense through this media outlet, it was worth every moment of blood, sweat, or tears I could produce.
I scrolled through email since it was too early to hit the phones. The Alderman Flores story was still nebulous, and although I’d handed the bulk of the work off to Brynn, if I didn’t have something soon, Borkowski would be handing me my ass. Hopefully Brynn had gotten somewhere with Darius at the check-cashing place, because reading through my notes, I had shit. There was nothing here that hadn’t been pounded into the dirt by other journalists. I hammered on the keyboard anyway, filling the page with drivel, falsely hoping that stream of consciousness would lead to a moment of inspiration.
An hour later, I had a rough draft so full of holes and speculation it wouldn’t have passed muster with the National Enquirer. I wasn’t sure if I felt better or worse for having put in the effort.
I printed out the draft and went to see if Brynn was at her desk yet.
“Morning,” I said, finding her hunched over her keyboard.
“Hey, how was your weekend?” She sat back and blinked a couple times as if her eyes needed to adjust from too much screen time.
“Some good, some not so good,” I said, glad I wasn’t the blushing type. “There was a death at the Renacido Center on Saturday. A young man named Paul Macanas.”
“Oh no. Related?”
“Not sure. But it means I have even less time for this Flores mess.” I handed her the draft. “I put some thoughts together. It’s garbage, but a start. Let’s touch base on the check-cashing situation later, see how it fits in, or doesn’t, and maybe we can pull some structure into this thing before Borkowski blows a gasket.” She nodded and took a quick glance at the draft. “I’m going to try to track down that expert witness this morning. The whole situation at the center, and Dr. Wykell in particular, is just feeling off.”
“Sure. I’ll keep the old man at bay. Just give me a shout when you’re ready.”
“I need you to work your magic and get personal contact information on the head nurse at the Renacido Center. Her name is Darna Ocampo. My hour of surf only dug up her work info, but I know your techie resources can find it in two seconds. I’d love to speak with her outside of Wykell’s supervision. He’s got serious control issues.”
Brynn turned and let her fingers fly over the keyboard. The nurse’s pained face came back to me, but I still hadn’t been able to discern its source—conflicted loyalty or patient care.
“You have her direct line at the center, but give me a second,” Brynn said. “I should be able to pull that up. Most people aren’t buried too deep. Ah, here it is. You ready?”
“Go ahead.” I copied down the cell number she gave me, as well as a home address. “Thanks. Once again, I owe you.”
“Don’t worry. I have the tab running, and review season is just a few months away.” She gave me a wink and huge grin.
I laughed, but she was right. This was going to cost me.
I returned to my office, then punched in Darna’s cell number. Voicemail. I left a message but wasn’t hopeful about a response. It would take serious guilt or personal vulnerability to supersede Dr. Wykell’s iron fist.
Dr. Lecaros’s office should be open by now. I phoned, only to be told he was in court today and that if I wanted an appointment, he could see me in six weeks. Yeah, right. Instead, I wormed a little information out of his receptionist about his court appearance. Maybe I could catch him before he was called to testify.
I stood outside courtroom 304 at the Leighton Criminal Court Building thirty minutes later. Court was already in session, so I nodded hello at one of the security guards and gently pulled open the heavy wooden door and snuck into a seat at the back. Dr. Lecaros was on the stand. Although not a particularly large man, his voice rang with the confidence of two decades of trial work. His bald head, the well-trimmed goatee, the frameless glasses, the impeccably tailored but low-key suit—all told the same story. Authority.
“The concept is known as settled insanity,” Lecaros said, speaking to the defense counsel. “It’s a permanent condition resulting from long-term, chronic substance abuse in some prone individuals. Psychotic symptoms persist past the stage where drugs can be detected in the body because the brain can no longer function normally. In other words, the drug use has permanently changed the condition and functioning of the brain. Therefore, insanity is not fleeting. It is not an impulsive, uncontrollable, drug-induced action. It indeed has ‘settled’ leaving the individual unable to control their behavior or their thinking, and therefore unable to know the difference between right and wrong.”
Whoa, that was a ballsy defense strategy. Not guilty because I’ve done hard drugs for twenty years. In some rare instances, the settled insanity argument had worked in other states, but in Illinois? I couldn’t remember a murder trial that had ever even attempted to make drug use anything more than a contributing factor. I looked at the prosecution table. The lead attorney knew well enough to keep his cool, but a junior attorney assigned to sit behind him and keep him stocked in legal pads was shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders toward the junior associate on her left. I smiled to myself. They’d both get a stern kick in the ass back at the office. Theatrics, if there were any, were the purview of the senior team, not the wet-behind-the-ears legal babies.
The defense continued its line of questioning, pushing Dr. Lecaros on the technical details of how the disorder may have presented. The more he spoke, the more the glow of the expert seemed to bubble up. He sat up straighter, looking down his nose in a way that begged a challenge. I could see this was his ego boost. Lecaros got off on displaying his authority. I wondered how he’d handle the cross-examination?
Expert witnesses were one of those, love-them-or-hate-them parts of a trial. They could make your case or do you in if you weren’t careful. And a good one charged a shitload of money for the privilege. No wonder Lecaros had turned it into a full-time gig. I looked at my watch, wondering how long he would be on the stand. I’d give it an hour, after which I’d probably need a plan B.
As I listened to the defense counsel work his witness, my legal history had me involuntarily formulating challenge questions and strategizing how I’d move in to neutralize the guy. But backseat lawyering wasn’t why I was here.
A Cook County sheriff entered the courtroom, hustling up the aisle toward the judge but motioning toward the defense counsel instead. The attorney stepped over and the two men conferred for a moment, then counsel asked to approach the bench. A moment later the judge called for a one-hour recess. Perfect.
I jumped to my feet, my eyes glued to Dr. Lecaros. After a brief conversation with the attorney, he shuffled out the door, a slim leather briefcase in hand.
I fell into step behind him. “Excuse me. Dr. Lecaros?” I said.
He turned. “Yes?” he said, his eyes tightening a bit. “You look familiar. Have we met?”
“Only briefly a few years ago. I believe it was the Handforth trial. The charges were dropped as we were about to take your deposition.”
“Ah, yes, so it was.” He nodded, reflecting back on the fact he’d gotten paid anyway, no doubt. “A brief encounter indeed. I generally remember the attorneys I’ve had the pleasure of working with,” he said, smiling. “Well, it is nice to see you again.” He glanced at his watch and adjusted his grip on his briefcase.
“I was wondering if you had a few moments. I have a case I’m working on that I need some insight into, and I thought of you.”
“Yes, of course. Just give my office a call and we can set up time for a consult.”
He gave me a dismissive smile and kept his eyes trained on the passing attorneys. I wasn’t the one buttering his bread unless he had a contract in hand, so I wasn’t offended that his attention was elsewhere. Time was money in the legal world.
“Actually, I phoned this morning, and you’re booked for the next six weeks. Since you seem to have an unexpected break, perhaps we could speak now?”
“Excuse me? That just isn’t how I operate. Send over a brief, and I’ll take a look. I’m sure we can find a slot if your matter is urgent.”
I’d already spent over two hours waiting for a chance to speak to him, and I wasn’t going to give up without another shot. “Perhaps I could ask you a quick question or two now, just to see if I’m in the right ballpark before we schedule, for the sake of efficiency?”
He glanced again at his watch. “Okay, but I may have to cut you off. I do have clients who are expecting me.”
“Terrific. Thank you.” He hadn’t asked for any details about my legal credentials, so I saw no harm in letting him continue to assume there was a paycheck at the end. If the conversation led to a formal meeting, I’d set the record straight.
“The situation I’m researching involves cutting-edge addiction treatment. Perhaps even treatments that do not fall within currently accepted standards of care.”
“Alcohol?”
“Opioids, actually. Are there any new drug-based treatments that you’re familiar with?”
“Methadone, Suboxone—there are several medication-assisted treatments currently in use. Not that I would describe any of them as new or cutting edge. It’s quite the travesty, as far as I’m concerned, that there are so few choices. There is nothing that works fast enough nor without quite unpleasant side effects, I’m afraid. Although a number of pharmaceutical companies are working aggressively on additional drugs in the buprenorphine family, they only reduce the withdrawal symptoms. It’s not a cure, of course, but simply a transition drug to improve the odds of preventing relapse. The pharmaceutical world—-and the FDA, for that matter—is doing a real disservice to the poor individuals afflicted with this disorder.”
“What about off-label drugs? Have you heard of any facilities that use protocols that are not approved currently? Rumors perhaps?”
His brow furrowed as he looked at me. “I get the feeling you have a very specific facility in mind. That’s going beyond what we can discuss standing here in a hallway.”
“Fair enough. Perhaps if I give you the name of a doctor, you could simply let me know if you’re familiar with him? Then we could schedule.”
He nodded but looked uncomfortable.
“The psychologist’s name is Dr. Troy Wykell. He’s the medical director at the Renacido Center. Do you know him?”
Lecaros jolted upon hearing the name but quickly recovered his composure.
“I don’t know how you’re involved with him, but I’d suggest you stay away. He’s dangerous. Flat-out dangerous.”