Should I applaud Halberstam’s cleverness? It’s tempting. He’s requesting a sword he can dangle above our necks for the next month, at the very least. I watch him flip his notes over so that the writing faces up and I’m wondering what’s written there. I can’t help myself. Then Malaya speaks out.
“May I ask the witness a few questions, Your Honor?”
“Go ahead.”
“Dr. Halberstam, you initially scheduled Carolyn Grand for five sessions per week. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“A short time later, I don’t have the exact date, you reduced the number of sessions to three.”
“I did.”
Halberstam raises his shoulders, expecting, I think, to be asked why he reduced the number of sessions, but Malaya simply moves on.
“Dr. Halberstam, you referred to the murder of Carolyn Grand’s father, Henry Grand. As you raised the issue, I need to ask you a few questions regarding the investigation.”
“Tell me, Doctor, have you viewed the crime scene?”
I glance behind me. The reporter’s tapping away, a slight smile pulling at the ends of his mouth.
“No.”
“Do you know how Mr. Grand was killed?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he was killed?”
“No.”
“Have you had access to the autopsy results?”
“No.”
“Have you reviewed any forensic examinations of trace evidence collected at the scene?”
“No.”
“Have you interviewed any witnesses, perhaps at the site of the homicide?”
“No.”
“Have the police given you definite reason to believe that Carolyn Grand is a target of their investigation?”
“No.”
Malaya finally takes a breath. She looks at Halberstam for a moment, maybe giving him a little credit. Halberstam’s tone remained firm and steady throughout when he might easily have become defensive.
“I have no more questions, Doctor. Thank you.”
Malaya shifts her focus to Judge Jefferson. I sense a warning in that look or at least a challenge. Jefferson blinks and says, “Do you want to call any witnesses?”
“I believe Dr. Halberstam to be my witness, Your Honor, but I have no one else to call. I do, however, want to speak to the issue at hand. For the record.”
Jefferson manages to raise a hand. “Please.”
“Okay,” Malaya smiles, a thousand-watter that seems, at least from the side, thoroughly genuine. “This is an administrative hearing, not a trial, so I won’t bore the panel with legal jargon. My basic argument is simple enough to be reduced to one short sentence: nothing has changed. For example, while she was in this hospital, you determined that Carolyn Grand did not present an immediate danger to herself or to the public. Nothing has changed. You demanded that Carolyn Grand enter therapy as a condition of release, which she immediately did. Nothing has changed. Her therapist kept a close watch on her initially, demanding that she appear every weekday, but then reduced the number of sessions when he, too, decided that she presented no immediate danger to herself or to the public. Nothing has changed. Carolyn Grand has been living independently for ten years, paying her rent, maintaining her household, cooking, cleaning, taking long walks in one or another of the city’s parks. Nothing has changed. The incident that brought Carolyn Grand to your attention was unfortunate but not illegal, and you factored that incident into your decision to release her. Nothing has changed. Henry Grand, Carolyn’s father, was murdered shortly after being released from prison. The police are still investigating, but there’s nothing to indicate that Carolyn Grand is a suspect, not a scintilla of actual evidence. She was and remains Henry Grand’s victim. Nothing has changed.”
It’s over. The review board’s accepted Halberstam’s recommendation, perhaps, as Malaya explained, to shift the blame should I be arrested. But we’re out for the next thirty days and I feel like I’m standing two feet above the floor. Call it a Serena moment, like someone reinvented the world with me at the center. I can’t help myself. I put my arms around Malaya and then we’re hugging and hopping. Dignity be damned.
“Who was that guy?” I finally ask.
“His name is Mitch Yerewin.”
“Is he really a journalist?”
“Yeah, he’s credentialed by the city. Mitch does podcasts for a site called SimmeringCity. It’s very insider, but he does okay. He did an interview with a male escort that got thirty thousand listens.”
“A male escort?”
“The man described himself as a thirty-year-old pool boy.” Malaya hesitates for a moment as we step away from each other. “Bureaucrats,” she tells me, “hate to be looked at. They want to operate in darkness whenever possible. Jefferson didn’t know exactly who Mitch was, only that some other bureaucrat issued his credentials and there was no way to get him out of there. You might think about that as you go forward. I noticed Halberstam turn over his notes when Mitch arrived. I don’t know what he might have said, but I can’t bring myself to believe it would have been beneficial. So take notes as you go along, lock him in.” She gives my hand a final squeeze. “And most of all, don’t talk to the cops. Remember, I’m not your attorney. I’m court appointed to represent you in front of the review board. But if the cops pick you up, call me and I’ll get them off your back.”