Final Appeal Read Free

break any rule he wanted. He was the hospital honcho. And he had the power to set Michael free.
    â€œShall we start?” Dr. Bowman glanced at the clock just as if he could see through the mesh. Then he opened his briefcase and cleared his throat.
    â€œExcuse me, Dr. Bowman,” A frizzy-haired social worker raised her hand. Michael remembered seeing her in the halls when he went to therapy. “I believe you have the case histories?”
    â€œI do? Oh, yes. Here they are.”
    Dr. Bowman passed out the red-covered folders. When Michael had asked, Jack had explained that red was the hospital’s color code for convicted murderers. Everything was color-coded. It was policy. Michael wished his folders were a different color—blue, perhaps, even though that was the color for homosexuals, or good old paranoid–schizophrenic yellow. At least he knew what was inside the folders; no surprises this time. Jack had managed to get his hands on a copy, and Michael had memorized it during his allotted ten minutes in the lavatory. A good actor had to be a quick study, and he still thought he’d been a good actor.
    There was a rustle of papers as the members of the board turned to the first page. Vital statistics.
    â€œNow, er . . . Michael?” Dr. Bowman glanced at the case history. “Could you please give me your full name?”
    â€œExcuse me, doctor?” The social worker interrupted again. “Shouldn’t we inform the patient of the purpose of this hearing?”
    â€œWhat?” Dr. Bowman looked startled. “Oh, yes. You’re right of course.” As he fumbled in his briefcase, Michael observed him very carefully.
    Everything about Dr. Bowman was a bit rumpled. He was wearing a suit that had once been expensive, but now it was growing tight around the middle, and there were several large grease spots on his tie. His salt-and-pepper beard needed trimming, and it didn’t match the color of his hair. Doctor Bowman was in his late fifties, and his hair was glossy black. That was unusual, unless . . . Michael bit back a smile.
    The doctor drew out a piece of paper and studied it for a moment. There were bright spots of color in his pasty cheeks, and his nose was a road map of broken veins. Michael would have cast him in Days of Wine and Roses , but he certainly wasn’t about to mention that. He might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid.
    Dr. Bowman cleared his throat again and started to read. “As you may know, er . . . Michael, this board is charged with a solemn responsibility to make certain that you will be a contributing and law-abiding member of society in the event of your release. We are required to ask you a series of questions to assess your grasp of reality and your competency to make logical and reasonable assumptions. Now, where were we?”
    â€œI believe you were about to ask the patient his name,” the social worker prompted.
    â€œYes, that’s right.”
    Dr. Bowman turned to face Michael and gave his impression of a reassuring smile. It wasn’t very good. Forget Days of Wine and Roses . Dr. Bowman would never make it as an actor.
    â€œTry to relax Michael. There’s nothing to be afraid of. We’re all concerned for your best interests. I want you to think of us as your friends.”
    Michael nodded and managed to keep the pleasant expression on his face. He had no friends here, not a familiar face in the bunch unless you counted the social worker he barely knew. Jack had petitioned to attend, but his request had been denied. You had to be in a position of authority to sit in on the review board. No orderlies allowed.
    â€œLet us begin.” Dr. Bowman picked up his folder and glanced at the first page. “Would you please give me your full and complete name?”
    Michael opened his mouth, and the answer came out. “Michael Allen Hart.” As several members of the board picked up their pens and began to