there, required a bit more preparation than usual.
On paper, the Toledo State Hospital was a model facility. A pioneer in developing more humane treatment for the insane, it had, in the late 1800s, gained a worldwide reputation for its innovative practices and attempts to make, through the so-called “Cottage Plan,” a more habitable living environment for its patients. But, conditions had greatly deteriorated since that time. Though a pioneer in the last century, in this one the hospital was the last frontier of the reform movement. Inside those walls behavior was unpredictable and every human function and frailty brutally exposed. Indeed, the rules that governed the treatment of patients in other medical facilities seem to hold little sway here, allowing for neglect, psychological cruelty, and in some instances, physical abuse. There simply weren’t enough professionals like Dr. Miller, who cared deeply enough about the patient’s welfare. Every time Sarah was there she witnessed something that convinced her all the more of the urgent need for action, beginning with the building of a new psychiatric clinic.
Ironically, O’Brien himself proposed such a facility, although his reasoning for doing so was something Sarah had questioned. In a recent lecture to the Toledo Chamber of Commerce, O’Brien had argued for the need of “weeding out” humanity, so that the society might be bettered. “Hundreds of citizens,” he claimed, “are running at large not knowing that they themselves are mentally ill, a condition which certainly is not known to the average person.”
Obee’s heart was surely in the right place. He genuinely wanted to provide an environment where these patients would be treated decently and also where they would not pose a threat to others. But, as she told him after the lecture, “when people think of weeds, they think of something that requires permanent removal. Weeds overtake the healthy plants, and there’s nothing that can be done to rehabilitate them. Now, I know that’s not the kind of analogy you meant to draw, is it Judge?”
He didn’t answer her then, but Sarah believed he would eventually see her point, especially considering his own rather . . . how should she say it . . . uneven psychological history. And no doubt his current situation would convince him all the more. Yes, I’m sure he would agree with me now, Sarah thought as she rang the bell, now that he very well might be numbered among those who would have to be plucked from the garden.
Dr. Ethan Miller rather than the attendant greeted Sarah on the other side of the entrance. Heavy-bearded, pipe-smoking, and somewhat disheveled, the Freudian-trained Miller looked the part of one who spent his days delving into the hidden recesses of the unconscious. His thickly lensed wire-rimmed glasses completed the image, suggesting the physical consequences of dedicating oneself to such deep psychological labor.
“Hello, Sarah,” Dr. Miller said, warmly shaking her hand. “You made it here rather quickly and look none the worse for wear, I might add.”
“Thank you,” Sarah replied, tucking a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear. “Fortunately, all the connecting cars were on time. The speakeasies must have shut down early tonight!”
Dr. Miller smiled. A soothing smile, despite his crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “Ha, that’s good,” he said. “You didn’t need that headache this evening.”
“No, indeed, perhaps the gods are with us after all.”
“I sincerely hope so, my dear. They are certainly needed here.” Dr. Miller smiled again, took Sarah’s arm, and swiftly escorted her down the hall, barely permitting her to glimpse the hollow looks and indecipherable gesticulations of those they passed along the way. Ordinarily, she would stop and offer a word of encouragement to as many of these patients as she could, even to those who didn’t seemed to desire it. But tonight she was glad not to have the opportunity, for she sensed O’Brien would require all the energy and compassion she had in reserve.
“Sarah, I’d like to take you directly to O’Brien’s room. He’s in the main building here. No need to sign in since I’m with you. I’ll let you speak with him privately first, and then we can talk, all right?”
“All right.” Sarah huffed, trying to keep step with Dr. Miller’s quick pace. “By the way, Doctor, does the judge have his own room? I mean, I do hope we can be alone.”
“Yes, of course. The ward is full, but, you know, we always keep a private space open for patients of O’Brien’s stature.”
“Good, that’s very good indeed.” For once Obee’s notoriety is a blessing.
“The privileges of class!” Sarah said mockingly, as she entered the room. “My, my, look at this place! The epitome of luxury!”
The small eight by ten room was in actuality cramped and dank. The tiny window on the south wall was locked and barred, offering little relief. Aside from the bed, there was no other furniture except a requisite table and lamp, the light from which cast a sickening glow over O’Brien, who responded instantly to the sound of Sarah’s voice. “Sarah, Sarah, oh Sarah, my dear.”
Sarah immediately abandoned her meager attempt to lighten his spirits. In truth, she had made those trifling remarks about the room as much to calm herself as to ease his suffering. When Dr. Miller had left her at the threshold of the door, she experienced a surge of anxiety so intense that she worried at her own ability to cope. She even briefly considered turning around to purchase some cigarettes, something she hadn’t done in several years. Finding humor in difficult times had helped her before, so why not try it? But she had clearly made a mistake: there was no way to view this as a joking matter.
That became even more evident as she approached the judge and witnessed the physical signs of his torment. The thin, white hair matted with perspiration, the drawn and pale face stained with tears, the usually soft grey-blue eyes dehumanized by frighteningly constricted pupils. Worst of all, although O’Brien was extremely restless, he couldn’t really move because his arms and legs were cinched tightly to the bed. My God, they have him in some kind of strait jacket. Miller said nothing about this.
“Sarah, Sarah.”
“Yes, Obee, it’s me.”
O’Brien gazed up at her. “Sarah, I’m so ashamed. So ashamed.” He began weeping.
“Ashamed? Ashamed of what, Obee? What’s happened? Try to calm yourself and tell me what exactly has happened.”
Without hesitation, Sarah untied O’Brien’s right hand and held it comfortingly in her own. Generous and strong, this was a hand that had reached out to those in need and commanded entire court rooms. Today it was clammy and weak, barely able to return her grasp. “Obee, now please, you wanted me here. Talk to me.” O’Brien moaned. “Yes, I did want you here. I wanted you here so badly, Sarah. I need your help. All is lost unless you can help me . . . you’re the only one who can help me!”
Sarah’s heart skipped, but she showed no sign of such a response when she answered. “You know I’ll do anything I can. But I first need to know what the problem is, Obee. And, I need to know now.”
O’Brien stopped crying, stared straight ahead, and in a hoarse, detached voice began.
“This afternoon, after I returned to my office from lunch, I noticed a letter under my door. There was no postmark, no return address, only my name on the envelope. I went to my desk, opened the letter, and in an instant witnessed my entire world coming to an end. The letter was a threat, Sarah, a threat of such magnitude that I thought I might do myself in right then and there.”
If Sarah had not witnessed Obee’s condition, she would
