States of Grace by Mandy Miller (top 100 books of all time checklist .TXT) 📕

whore, one whose opinions can be bought, paid for, sculpted like putty and made to sound like they were written on stone tablets delivered by God himself, but that’s what he is. I saw it more times than I care to remember when I was up against a defense attorney representing a guilty client with deep pockets. The subtle craft of diagnosis is a fine art, not a science, and one man’s psychosis is another’s creative nature in the hands of the right hired gun. Michaels is a nice enough guy, though. But, like Zoe said, it’s easy to be nice when the money’s right.

ESH’s lobby, a cavernous yet seemingly claustrophobic space, is decorated in shades of brown and beige. Walls. Furniture. Floor. All the color of shit.

I flash my Florida Bar card to a big-haired receptionist, a ringer for Amy Winehouse.

“Attorney Grace Locke here to see my client, Zoe Slim.”

Amy hunts and pecks on the keyboard.

“Ms. Locke, are you sure about your client’s name?”

“Yes ma’am. Last name Slim. Like skinny,” I say, trying not to sound snarky.

The beehive hairdo shifts forty-five degrees to the left, which makes it look like it’s about to pull Amy’s head off its stalk, hunting and pecking some more.

“Slim? Here she is. Zoya Zoe Slim, a.k.a. Zoe Slim. On the Dolphin Unit. Please take a seat, someone will be right with you.”

Zoya? Zoe has three names? Like Lee Harvey Oswald or John Wayne Gacy. Zoya Zoe Slim. Criminals are always referred to using their first, middle, and last names on police reports, but it makes them all sound like serial killers or presidential assassins.

In lieu of sitting, I browse the patients’ artwork on the walls. Some pieces resemble kindergartners’ finger paintings gone wonky, others are complex and beautiful, like a delicate line drawing of a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis. Most depict pain, like the black and red watercolor of a spider clawing at a decapitated head.

A voice from behind jolts me out of my disturbing, yet somehow soothing, reverie. “Ms. Locke.”

I turn and find myself face to face with a forty-something man in a blue blazer and gray pants.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Dr. Michaels says, a wide smile revealing teeth like Chiclets, chalky white blocks his mouth seems too small to contain. “Nice to see you again. But on the same side this time.”

We shake, his grip sure, like one who would never doubt his own opinion, even if compelling evidence to the contrary were served up on a silver platter. Money and power can do that to a person.

“Dr. Michaels, thanks for coming on such short notice,” I say, although I’m under no illusion he’s doing me any great favor. Beyond being a fan of exorbitant fees, he’s an unadulterated media hog. That Zoe’s case is high profile would have been incentive enough for him to clear all manner of common car thieves and drug dealers from his schedule.

“My pleasure. I understand there was quite a scene in Twietmeyer’s courtroom.”

“Yes, indeed, but I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Doctor, you were retained on a confidential basis.”

“Understood. I shall submit my written report to you and only to you.”

“And, by the way, Dr. Slim sent over copies of Zoe’s records. I believe you have them too?”

“I received them this morning.”

“Have you seen Zoe?”

“Yes, I have.”

“And your conclusions?”

He takes a quick look around. “Let’s step outside,” he says, which we do, beyond the reach of a surveillance camera mounted above the entrance.

“I’m not sure if this will be good or bad news for you, but your client is not incompetent. She is indeed competent,” he says, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead.

I find myself nodding. The bar for competence is low—basically all a defendant has to be able to do is find her butt with both hands to go to trial—and Zoe, while a little whack-a-do, seems to me to be on the ball enough to face a jury.

“But you knew that already. Am I correct?”

“I suspected as much.” I feign a concerned frown. “But I am ethically obligated to be certain, which is why you’re here.”

“And?”

“Excuse me?”

He peers down his nose at me. “And you’re buying time to keep your client out of jail.”

“Doctor, it seems as if you are a mind reader,” I say in my best Southern belle drawl.

“I’ve been doing this for a while, Ms. Locke,” he says, smirking. “Yet, I do feel for Ms. Slim. A place like this may not be not five star, it’s better than the county lockup for an individual who is not without her, let’s just call them, challenges.”

“Agreed. She’s so fragile one minute, so volatile the next.”

He gives me a big wink. “Yes, even when she is not being encouraged to be so.”

“Exactly how bad off is she?”

“I suggest you review the records with great care. There’s plenty in there to work with. Your client may be competent, but she is a profoundly disturbed young lady. And if bipolar disorder with psychotic features and an anxiety disorder is bad, then she’s bad. But that can be good too, if you know what I mean, Counselor?”

“Your diagnosis is the same as Dr. Kesey’s, the attending at Lauderdale West?”

“And also Zoe’s regular psychiatrist’s.”

“She’s got a regular psychiatrist?”

“Thank goodness. Numerous incidents of self-harm and striking out at others, add to that an early diagnosis of Oppositional Defiant Disorder, not a good omen for the development of the criminal personality. And then there’s the fact she’s adopted, all of which doesn’t bode well for Ms. Slim.”

As he drones on, I turn the litany of horribles over and over in my mind, trying to reframe them into some sort of mental state defense for the child of Manny’s lover.

“You knew that, Ms. Locke, didn’t you?”

I ignore the jab.

“Doctor, did you discuss her suicide attempt?”

“I did, and she insists she didn’t take an overdose of Xanax as the medics reported. She did admit to taking Xanax that evening, but only the prescribed