The second Alex Delaware mystery which was first published in 1986. In this story the child psychologist tries to track down a child with leukaemia whose parents have run away with him, and traces him to a bizarre Californian cult.
As always, for Faye, Jesse, and Rachel,
and welcoming Ilana
I sat in the courtroom and watched Richard Moody get the bad news from the judge.
Moody’d come dressed for the occasion in a chocolate polyester suit, canary yellow shirt, string tie, and lizard skin boots. He grimaced and bit his lip and tried to lock eyes with the judge, but she outstared him and he ended up looking at his hands. The bailiff at the rear of the room held his gaze on Moody. As a result of my warning he’d been careful to keep the Moodys apart all afternoon and had gone so far as to frisk Richard.
The judge was Diane Severe, girlish for fifty, with ash blond hair and a strong, kind face; soft-spoken, and all business. I’d never been in her court but knew her reputation. She’d been a social worker before going to law school and after a decade in juvenile court and six years on the family bench was one of the few judges who really understood children.
“Mr. Moody,” she said, “I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m going to say.”
Moody started to assume an aggressive body posture, hunching his shoulders and narrowing his eyes like a bar fighter, but his attorney nudged him and he loosened up and forced a smile.
“I’ve heard testimony from Dr. Daschoff and Dr. Delaware, both eminently qualified as experts in this court. I’ve spoken to your children in my chambers. I’ve watched your behavior this afternoon and I’ve heard your allegations against Mrs. Moody. I’ve learned of your instructions to your children to run away from their mother so that you could rescue them.”
She paused and leaned forward.
“You’ve got serious emotional problems, sir.”
The smirk on Moody’s face vanished as quickly as it appeared, but she caught it.
“I’m sorry you think this is funny, Mr. Moody, because it’s tragic.”
“Your Honor,” Moody’s lawyer interjected.
She cut him off with the flick of a gold pen.
“Not now, Mr. Durkin. I’ve heard quite enough wordplay today. This is the bottom line and I want your client to pay attention.”
Turning back to Moody:
“Your problems may be treatable. I sincerely hope they are. There’s no doubt in my mind that psychotherapy is essential — a good deal of it. Medication may be called for as well. For your sake and the sake of your children I hope you get whatever treatment you need. My order is that you have no further contact with your children until I see psychiatric evidence that you are no longer a threat to yourself or to others — when the death threats and talk of suicide cease, and you have accepted the reality of this divorce and are able to support Mrs. Moody in the raising of the children.
“Should you get to that point — and your word won’t be sufficient to convince me, Mr. Moody — the court will call upon Dr. Delaware to set up a schedule of limited and monitored visitation.”
Moody took it in, then made a sudden move forward. The bailiff was out of his chair and at his side in a flash. Moody saw him, gave a sick grin, and let his body go slack. The tears flowed down his cheeks. Durkin pulled out a handkerchief, gave it to him, and raised an objection concerning the judge’s encroachment upon his client’s privacy.
“You’re free to appeal, Mr. Durkin,” she said evenly.
“Judge.”
It was Moody talking now, the bass voice dry and strained.
“What is it, Mr. Moody?”
“You don’t unnerstand.” He wrung his hands. “Those kids, they’re my life.”
For a moment I thought she was going to tongue-lash him. Instead she regarded him with compassion.
“I do understand, sir. I understand that you love your children. That your life is in shambles. But what
Moody started to say something but choked it back. He shook his head in defeat, gave the handkerchief back to Durkin, and tried to salvage a few shards of dignity.
The next quarter hour was spent on property settlement. I had no need to listen to the distribution of the meager estate of Darlene and Richard Moody and would have left, but Mal Worthy had said he wanted to talk to me afterward.
When the legal mumbling was over, Judge Severe took off her glasses and ended the hearing. She looked my way and smiled.
“I’d like to see you in chambers for a moment if you’ve got the time, Dr. Delaware.”
I smiled back and nodded. She swept out of the courtroom.
Durkin ushered Moody out under the watchful eye of the bailiff.
At the next table Mal was pep-talking Darlene, patting her plump shoulder as he scooped up handfuls of documents and stashed them in one of the two suitcases he’d brought. Mal was compulsive and while other lawyers made do with an attaché case, he carted around boxes of documents on a chromium luggage rack.
