He was descending into the underworld.
Cook County Jail was imposing from the outside, with its towering walls and concertina wire, but even more unnerving on the inside. The subterranean tunnels that led to the cells were deliberately labyrinthine, the signs and directions having been removed to hinder escape attempts, and even regular visitors lost their way. Furthermore, the din that accompanied your progress – the catcalling, screaming and hollering – was incessant, only serving to amplify your anxiety about what might be waiting for you at the end of your journey. It wasn’t pleasant, it wasn’t right, but this was the daily reality inside America’s largest unofficial mental health facility.
Adam Brandt had been coming here for years. An experienced forensic psychologist, he had always worked closely with the Sheriff’s Office. Harvard-educated, double-boarded for adult and paediatric psychology, he could have made a small fortune attending the clients who visited his private practice in Lincoln Park. But he’d never forgotten his humble origins; nor could he ignore his conscience, which is why he regularly found himself in the bowels of the earth under Cook County Jail.
The faces in the holding cells were depressingly familiar and Adam had been concerned to find himself opposite Lemar Johnson once more this morning.
‘I can’t be here, man. I can’t be here …’
‘I understand that, Lemar, and I’m going to try to get you out. But I need you to look at me. I can’t communicate with you, if you don’t look at me …’
The 21-year-old was rocking back and forth in his chair, his face concealed by his massive, scarred hands. His life had already been blighted by violence – his father murdered, a cousin gunned down in a drive-by – and his mental health had always hung in the balance. He was bipolar, suffered from PTSD and regularly used heroin to help him sleep. The last time their paths had crossed, Adam had managed to get Lemar referred to a mental health outreach unit and he’d been doing well following his release – with a little help from Prozac and hydroxyzine. Adam didn’t exactly approve of the drugs, but they seemed to be working – until last night at least, when Lemar had threatened a man with a knife in a chicken shop in South Shore.
‘Have you been taking your meds?’
‘Sure, sure …’
‘Look at me, Lemar.’
‘Shit, I ran out,’ the young man replied, not looking up.
‘Why?’
‘They said I had to wait four months for an appointment, a follow-up.’
Adam’s heart sank. This kind of complaint was common, given the recent cutbacks to mental health provision and the Capitol’s scandalous inability to agree a State Budget. The intransigence on both sides made his blood boil – it was never the politicians who suffered when they played politics.
‘I tried to make them last. One day on, one day off, but it was making me crazy.’
‘When did you run out?’
‘Two weeks ago.’
‘You should have contacted me. Contacted the Center.’
‘I tried, man.’
Adam let the lie go. Lemar had clearly been in a manic phase – socializing wildly, spending what little money he had, so he hadn’t a hope of posting bail – but was now beginning the steep decline into depression.
‘Ok, we’re going to get you some meds, then I want you to tell me exactly what happened. You’ve got your arraignment tomorrow and I want your attorney to have everything she needs to argue that a short stay in a residential mental health unit is what’s needed. I take it you’d prefer that to staying here?’
Lemar stopped fidgeting long enough to nod his head briefly.
‘Good, then let’s talk.’
An hour later, Adam found himself back in the prison’s parking lot. He strode over to his Lexus SUV – an extravagance he’d convinced himself was acceptable, given the imminent arrival of his first child – checking his watch as he went. Lemar had been reluctant to talk and it had taken a while to get a coherent summary of events from him. It was pushing 6 p.m. now – he would have to pray that the traffic wasn’t too bad, if he were to call in at the office and make it home at a reasonable time. Upping his pace, he zapped the car, opened the driver’s door and flung his bag and jacket inside. As he did so, however, his cell phone began to vibrate.
Calls at this hour were never good news and Adam was not surprised to recognize the number. The caller was Freddie Highsmith, Superintendent at Chicago’s Juvenile Detention Center.
‘I’m just on my way home, Freddie,’ Adam said cautiously.
‘I know, I know,’ Freddie responded brightly. ‘But when you need the best in the business …’
‘Flattery won’t get you anywhere –’
‘… plus there’s no one else available. I’ve rung all the usual suspects, but everyone’s under siege. Look, I know you’re running on empty … but I can’t give this one to a college grad.’
Freddie paused now, his jovial manner evaporating as his anxiety punched through. Adam said nothing, suddenly concerned, listening intently as Freddie concluded:
‘We’ve got a live one here.’