sigh, straightened her dress and headed toward the telephone.
“Unit two, Dr. Miller’s office.”
Sarah thought she recognized the voice on the other end of the line.
“Hello . . . Jan?”
“Yes?”
“Hi Jan. This is Sarah Kaufman. May I speak to Dr. Miller, please?”
“Yes, of course, Sarah. The doctor has been waiting for your call. I’ll put you right through.”
Thank God Dr. Miller was attending Obee. No matter what had happened, the doctor would keep it to himself and would admonish his staff to do the same. Miller was a compassionate man who impressed Sarah during the Lulu Carey case by admitting that he had overlooked crucial evidence. He was also a friend of Obee’s, and, fortunately, a Democrat.
“Ah, Miss Kaufman. Good of you to call back so quickly.” The doctor’s voice was calm but somber. Sarah took in a deep breath before responding. “What’s happened, Doctor? Why is the judge in the hospital?”
“Miss Kaufman . . . Sarah, may I call you Sarah?”
“Certainly.”
“Sarah, I don’t know quite how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it outright. Normally, I would only reveal such sensitive information to the immediate family, but knowing your closeness to O’Brien and seeing as though he seems so desperate to see you. Look, Sarah, here it is. The judge took an overdose of laudanum today. We don’t know yet if it was intentional or accidental. His wife found him unconscious on the floor of his library. She’d been calling him, and when he didn’t respond, she tried without success to open the door. It was locked and, believe it or not Sarah, she didn’t possess a key.”
Dr. Miller uttered this last statement with a note of incredulity. He hesitated for a moment. Was he looking for some reaction? When Sarah offered none, he continued. “Fortunately, however, Mrs. O’Donnell remembered that the carpenter who had done some of the work in the house still had a key to the room. She called him, and he immediately came over. It was lucky that he was home, Sarah. An hour longer and the judge would have been gone.”
Sarah stood pale and mute. How could this be? Her brain felt numb. In the past such news might have been less perplexing. There were times when she’d almost expected it. Last fall, for instance.
But now, at the height of O’Brien’s popularity, with the election in his pocket and Winifred and the baby finally home, it simply didn’t make any sense. That he had taken that despicable drug again after all these years was confounding enough. But the possibility that he had tried to take his own life was beyond belief. If true, there must be something wrong, something terribly wrong.
This last thought brought Sarah back to her senses enough to realize that Dr. Miller was speaking to her.
“Sarah, Sarah . . . hello, Sarah, are you all right?”
“No, Doctor. To tell you the truth, I’m not. How could I be?”
“Yes, I imagine this comes as quite a shock. I was stunned myself when the judge was admitted. But then, we must be grateful that he’s alive. And I will of course do anything I can to help him. Tell me though, Sarah, do you think you feel strong enough to come to the hospital? As I’ve said, O’Brien is quite determined to see you. And, Sarah, I would like a few minutes to speak with you privately as well.
Mrs. O’Donnell is quite out of her mind over this, and there are, well, some questions you might be able to answer better than she.”
Both comfort and alarm ricocheted through her. The doctor certainly made Sarah feel that Obee would pull through. But his desire to involve her in the matter was something else again. Of course, Miller was a psychiatrist; he would need as many personal details as possible to adequately perform his job. But, for her to be the one to provide them would be stepping into dangerous waters. She would divulge anything if it meant saving Obee’s life. But what about Winifred? After she recovered from the shock of it all, how would she feel if she learned that Sarah knew more, much more perhaps, about her husband than she did?
“If the judge wants me there, of course I’ll come,” Sarah replied.
“And I’ll be happy to be of any service to you, just so long as you don’t ask me to . . . to . . . well, to betray any unnecessary confidences.”
“I guarantee you that whatever I ask of you will only be in O’Brien’s best interest.” “I believe you, Doctor Miller.”
“Well, then, how long do you think it’ll take you to get here?” Sarah hesitated. Fewer streetcars went out that way this late in the evening.
“I guess about an hour. I live on the other end of town, and the line to the hospital is indirect. I’ll have to change cars. It could take a little longer than that, but at any rate I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Fine. I’ll be waiting for you. Oh, by the way,” Dr. Miller added,
“I should warn you. O’Brien has been extremely agitated. We’ve got him mildly sedated, but his anxiety level is so high that it is overriding the effect of the medication. I’m hoping you’ll be able to calm him down, but be prepared, Sarah. He’s quite a different man from the one you’re used to.”
You mean different from the one you’re used to, Sarah thought. Unfortunately, this is a man I no doubt will recognize all too well.
4
The Toledo State Hospital was located five miles from the business center of Toledo to the south. From a distance, the main two-story colonial brick building situated on five hundred and eighty-eight acres of agricultural land, appeared more like an elegant plantation mansion than an institution for the mentally ill. An additional four hundred and eighty-three surrounding acres of land, leased by the Welfare Department for crop cultivation, six small lakes, more than a thousand trees and shrubs, as well as the small patient cottages that peppered the landscape greatly contributed to that effect. But the pastoral image quickly evaporated as one approached the structure and saw the heavy steel bars fixed immovably over the windows. Especially at night. Then, the mind conjured something more akin to the slaves’ quarters that hovered on the margins of the plantation’s genteel facade.
Walking briskly across the hospital’s dewy, immaculately manicured lawn, breathing heavily as she approached the imposing, front locked doors, Sarah again noted with greater irony than usual the discrepancy between the benign appearance and what she knew to be the reality within. She had been here many times before, mostly to counsel women such as Lulu Carey, who had come through the courts and for one reason or another were sent here for treatment. Similar to the general probate court, the women’s division handled a range of cases, from the delegation of property to criminal charges of rape, white slavery, and even murder. Technically, Sarah’s job was to oversee officially the filings of all cases involving women, but she often served as confidant and friend.
Sarah knew the routine well. In order to gain entrance, she would have to ring the outside bell and wait for the attendant to escort her into the front office. Then she would sign her name on a guest sheet and specify the reason for her visit. Despite such familiarity,
