Chapter 4

“is this going to be just about the bakery, or do you expect to discuss confidential topics?” Greta and I were walking toward the general-use conference room in building two.

She said, “Just the bakery-related activities, as far as I know. Why?”

“Well, it occurs to me we should keep Nora Galin informed about our suspicions, and that made me think that we might include Denny in this meeting.”

She thought about it for a few seconds and then said, “Sure. That might be a little risky for Denny’s emotional state, but might be good for his ego. It’s a toss-up.”

“I think it’s a rare opportunity to help develop his management skills.”

She pulled out her phone and tapped in a short code. “Hey, it’s Greta. Are you free to attend a meeting right now?

“In building two’s conference room. It’s about the evening activities in the bakery. Nita Bradley, Al Pozniak, and Gary will be there. Gary thought you might want to sit in.

“No, just come on over.

“Oh, you are? See you in a minute, then.” She clicked off. “He’s at his desk in the bull pen, writing case notes.”

“Tubular.”

“Tubular? Don’t start with that retro crap.”

“What retro crap?” Nita asked as we walked into the windowless conference room, with one end wall covered by a floor-to-ceiling, wallpaper forest mural. Juanita Bradley managed the Substance Abuse Rehab Team while Al Pozniak was the county’s Veterans Services officer.

Greta jerked her thumb toward me and said, “Valley girl, here, said ‘tubular’ when I told him I wanted a divorce.”

Pozniak said, “Will he even notice if you leave?” By his smirk, it was an obvious reference to Emily.

She gave him a look that had me checking for the nearest fire alarm. Al said, “I meant, Gary never seems all that alert, you know?” But he was having trouble hiding his grin.

She dialed back her glare to a third degree burn.

Just then Denny walked in and stopped short when he saw Greta’s face. “Is it safe?” he asked. Was he a Marathon Man fan or just a free-lance language user?

“Have a seat, Denny,” I said. “Greta was just demonstrating for Al how she hunts wild pigs without a weapon.”

“I thought this was going to be about the bakery.”

“I’m thinking about adding wild pig to the menu,” Greta said.

“The sheriff said he could not only supply us with fresh trout, but could tell us where the best spots are.”

Greta replied, “By the time he finished telling you his fish story, the trout would no longer be fresh.”

“So, is the bakery closing or not?” Nita wanted to know.

“Ask Tubular.”

Denny said, “Who’s Tubular?”

“Me, at the moment. But can we please cut out all the quasi-humorous references so we can discuss this complex topic? And one other thing: this discussion is confidential. I’ll explain why as we go along.” I stood up and closed the door.

Then I turned to Nita. “Like I said, it’s not a simple thing to predict.”

She protested, “We have to know whether the bakery will be available for two AA meetings, two NA meetings, an Al-Anon meeting, and for the Friday and Saturday nights coffee shop. There’re people who depend on those as a lifeline.”

I thought about it for a minute and realized that the evening programs weren’t the bakery, per se. Friday and Saturday nights had been dubbed the St. Louis Coffee Club and the other groups were just using the space as a meeting room with a coffee urn, not as a deli or bake shop.

Finally, I said, “Yes and maybe no.” Nita frowned. I don’t think she liked my answer. “Allow me to elaborate,” I went on. “We were instructed to close the bakery by the first of July. However, the space that the bakery occupies continues to exist even if the bakery is not operational. Moreover, no one ordered the Saint Louis Coffee Club to close, nor that the space couldn’t be used by the Anonymous groups. At the same time, Burt says we will continue to pay rent on that space, whether we use it or not.” She still didn’t look all that reassured.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I think I can get you signed permission from Burt for those groups to use that space.”

“And there’ll be chairs and a coffee urn?” she asked.

“I expect it will be pretty much as is, but I will assure you that there will be chairs and a coffee urn. In fact, if the bakery closes, I’ll be in my office during each of those meetings to see that things go smoothly. I’ll post a notice near the coffee urn to get hold of me if there’s a problem.”

Nita, an attractive forty-ish lady of some south-of-the-border ethnic extraction, said, “This whole thing worries me. Maybe I’ll join you.”

Greta quickly added, “Then me too.”

Al said, “How about some poker? Buy in will be a roll of nickels and two rolls of pennies, raises limited to five cents.”

I sighed, shaking my head, “How about Twister?”

“Just tell him that the word is out and that other groups have heard the space is available, especially among the veterans. He knows the vets have some political clout.”

I was asking Chet to get Burt’s signature on a memo giving those groups permission to meet in the room currently occupied by the St. Louis Bakery & Deli, and to continue meeting in that space after the first of July. That’s pretty much exactly what the memo said, and it included the list of groups and the schedule of use. The St. Louis Coffee Club, though, was listed as “Veterans Support Group.”

“And if he won’t sign?”

“Just make it sound like Mental Health is being disadvantaged by other programs. That’s what he wants. Try to spin it that these are scavengers on the scene, come to feast on the carrion that was the bakery. Don’t lie to him, but don’t volunteer that they’ve already been using the bakery for most of a year.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I think you should go.”

“That would be a waste of time, even if he would agree to see me. The only thing Burt would sign for me would be my death warrant. More likely he’d start a betting pool about how long I’d sit it his reception office before walking out.”

He sighed. “If I end up with another ass-chewing, you’re going to owe me a once-a-week In-N-Out lunch until Labor Day.”

“Labor Day this year,” I agreed. “But if you escape unscathed, it’s Burger King for our nest three fast-food lunches.” We shook hands.

He was back ten minutes later with the signature.

“He gave me an attaboy. I mean he literally came around the desk, slapped me on the back, and said, ‘Attaboy, that’s the spirit.’ Then he stuffed one of his cigars in my shirt pocket. The guy is a caricature.” Chet was shaking his head in wonder.

I said, “Thanks, boss. Great work,” and I slapped him on the back, and said, “Attaboy.”

He gave me one of those Terminator smiles and said, “You know I still have the Desert Eagle in my desk, right?”

“Oh, I don’t think you have to go that far. We’ll get around Burt, somehow.”

He said, “That reminds me. I saw a brochure from MH Unlimited on his desk. It’s not exactly proof, but I think it qualifies as a smoking gun.”

“We need to mess with their plan. Maybe ... no, that wouldn’t work, they’d just go back to plan B. But at least we might be able to drop a fly in their ointment. And maybe we’ll learn something.”

“What are you thinking, now?”

“Have Greta call MHU, tell them she’s interested. See what happens.”

“They’ll probably just brush her off. They already have their foot in the door.”

“More like a fifth column. But you’re right. They might just tell her to go fish.” We needed another player, which is what I said to Chet. “We need another player. I’m thinkin’ Margaret Deveaux.”

“You want her to call MHU?”

“No. If they brush Greta off, then she can tell them that Developing Abilities is going to bid to contract for Community Mental Health.”

He nodded. “That might force Burt’s hand. But you’ll have to get both Greta and Margaret on board.” He looked at his watch. “It’s seventeen hundred twenty-two hours, so we should probably try to get together tomorrow.”

I used the 24-hour clock, too, but I would have said, “It’s seventeen twenty-two.” Usually Chet said it that way. I knew he was just adding the military terminology to get me cranked. Well, I didn’t want to disappoint the boss.

“Jeez, military jargon, again? Shall I assemble the troops for inspection, mein fuhrer?” I gave him a Seig-heil salute. Then, grimacing, I said, “Just because you were dumb enough to believe the lies the recruiter told you doesn’t mean the rest of us were that naive.”

“Are you insulting the US Navy?”

“I don’t know. How can one tell?”

He chuckled. “I’ll call Margaret, invite her for eight.”

I said, “Doesn’t Burt eat at the Gingham Apron most mornings? I’ve seen him there when we have the monthly Training Breakfasts.”

First Thursday of the month all clinical staff were invited to what had started out as a Community Mental Health Team training session.

Most clinical professionals have licenses or certifications that require the individual to participate in a specified number of certified training courses, in order to stay current with new information and methods, or to refresh old knowledge and skills. Sanctioned training sessions earn CEUs, continuing education units, to meet those requirements.

Our staff members attend training sessions in various venues -- conferences, conventions, specific training programs, even university-sponsored seminars -- throughout the year. Since everyone can’t be gone at the same time, and since considerable expense is often involved, usually only one to three team members would go to a venue and, even then, they might not all take the same CEU-qualified classes.

When I was running Mental Health, I set up a procedure that allowed the entire team to benefit from the latest training sessions: The staff member who had been to the training provide a fifteen minute summary at our weekly case staffings and pass out copies of the handouts from the training.

Over time, this became unwieldy, as the training topics were cutting into the case-staffing time.

So I came up with the idea of the monthly training breakfast.

We start at 07:00 (yeah, oh-seven-hundred, no other way to say it) in a back dining room at the Gingham Apron, which serves the best and heartiest breakfasts in town. It’s pay-your-own-way, except for the one or two staff giving the presentations, who eat on my dime. We have two fifteen-minute sessions, then head to the Center for 08:00 opening. If there are more staff CEUs that have been collected, we put them on a ballot and let folks vote on which two they want to hear. The others are covered in written summaries that are passed out.

Over time, staff from other clinical teams heard about our Training Breakfasts and were interested in some of the topics, so we welcomed them to join us. After I took the Clinical Director job, I expanded the Training Breakfast to all four clinical teams: Mental Health, Substance Abuse, Developmental Disability, and Public Health. In practice, any Center staffer is welcome, and we’ve even had folks join us from other agencies.

We structure it so that each Team chooses a topic. Those four topics are placed on a ballot and then ranked according to vote among all clinical staff. The breakfast starts at 06:30 with the first presentation at 06:45, whatever was number 4 in the polls. Then we proceed in ascending rank order every fifteen minutes, allowing staff to join in at whatever point they wish. So as not to disturb the process, latecomers place their breakfast order before coming into our dining room, and the Gingham Apron waitresses are helpfully quiet when serving and refilling coffee and water.

My secret is that the Training Breakfast is as much a team-building exercise as it is clinical training. All of us sharing a meal together once a month builds some comfortable social bonds within and across teams. Even my role, as host, gave me a nurturing image that bolstered my supervisory functions. And I liked how it had grown organically, by staff from other teams asking to join in. Win-win.

In answer to my question, Chet said, “Yeah, I think I’ve seen him any time I’ve stopped there. You want to meet there, where he can see us?”

“Yeah, but we need to finish in time to get to work by eight, so he can’t rag on us. So, seven or seven-fifteen.”

“Oh-seven-hundred, then,” he said with a smirk. “We want to allow enough time to actually talk. I’ll call you if Margaret can’t make it.

“Burt usually sits at a table by the front window; they may even reserve it for him. Whoever’s first should choose a table where he can see us, but not hear us.”

I agreed, “Yeah, and let’s not look at him or acknowledge him. Let him think maybe we didn’t notice him. When we have Training Breakfasts, none of our staff speak to him, though some may nod, if they catch his eye.”

“I’ll usually nod at him as I leave. He is my boss,” Chet said.

“Sure. We just don’t want to be glancing his way from our table, as if we thought he was up to something. We want him suspicious of what we’re up to, not him thinking we’re suspicious of what he’s up to.”

At supper that night, Greta said, “Emily and I want to be certified as Mental Health Assessors.”

I sort of stopped with the forkful of green beans halfway to my open mouth as I looked at Greta and then Emily for a few seconds. This was an unexpected interest in a serious purpose.

I finished off that bite, tool a swallow of iced tea, and said, “Unless it’s part of your job, you don’t get paid for doing that, and Em, you’d have to pay your own training and the test fee. What I mean is, the Center wouldn’t pay for it.”

Under the state’s Vinley Act, formally known as the Mental Health Inpatient Treatment Act, a Mental Health Assessor was authorized by the state to order seventy-two hour mental health holds, to be initiated by a local police jurisdiction and carried out in a designated (state-approved) psychiatric inpatient facility. In addition, the Assessor was certified to testify on behalf of the state as to the mental status and diagnosis of individuals who were brought before the court for consideration of a six month commitment to the state hospital. Six months was the limit, though the person could be released as soon as the hospital deemed them ready. Across the entire state, the six-month involuntary commitments over the past two years had resulted in an average hospital stay of only 18.3 days.

The clinical teams at the state hospitals were good at what they did, and there were more treatment and support alternatives for people in their home communities.

I gave my two wives a skeptical look. “And only if you sign an agreement excluding me from your jurisdiction, meaning that you couldn’t put me in the hospital.”

Emily said, “Oh, never mind, then.”

We all grinned.

Emily said, “We’re serious. It looked interesting, when we followed you through that time with that big guy from Limekiln.

Richard Jenner had quit his meds, again, seven months after being discharged from Plattsburg. The latest episode, he had driven the family car through the garage door, then run it into the relatively deep barrow pit along the road in front of the house.

Apparently, he’d seen Marty August’s billboards when he’d been over at the state hospital and, when he became florid, he called Mister August to complain about how his parents were stealing the family’s commercial orchards from him. Except his parents’ apple farm in Washington’s Okanogan Valley had been sold nearly fifteen years before. Mister Jenner was now eighty, and his wife seventy-eight, yet they still tried to provide a home for their thirty-six year old son who had a bi-polar condition.

In fact, Richard was a talented writer and had a number of science fiction stories published, stories for which he had been paid the going rate for such publications. But the lure of the euphoric mania always overcame his better judgment, as did his frustration with the creativity-dampening effect of the medications which controlled his condition. He could feel that effect, like the fuzzy texture of a warm blanket, suppressing his imagination, blurring his creative thinking, denying him the flights of fancy that made living delightful. Truth be told, his best writing occurred in about a three-week period, beginning a few days after he stopped taking his meds, and ending when his persecutory delusions took hold.

The day he crashed through the garage door, he’d had an appointment with Martin August.

August even represented him at the commitment hearing in Plattsburg. The petition had been filed by the state hospital staff who thought Richard needed another week or ten days until the meds took hold. I was there to testify about the reasons for his initial police hold, which I’d instituted. Emily and Greta had come along, and we’d had lunch with some of the hospital’s clinical staff.

August treated my cross examination like an episode from some prime time TV drama. He kept trying to provoke me, but the state’s Mental Health Assessor training had taught us how to stay calm in the witness chair.

At my training, the instructor had said, “You’re not responsible for the questions that the attorneys may ask, so don’t worry about what you’re being asked. Nor is it your concern whether your answers help or hurt what you think is right. Your only responsibility is to answer truthfully and as succinctly as you can. If there’s a real problem, the opposing attorney or the judge will call it out. The only thing you’re accountable for are your answers to the questions. Period. Answer briefly and truthfully; that’s where your duty is.”

So when Marty implied that I was being paid off by the Jenners, I said nothing, since it hadn’t been a question. I did see the DA roll his eyes before he made an objection. I had the impression that Martin August might have been the comedy relief in this court.

I told my two paramours, “And you can’t both be gone to the training at the same time.”

“Gee,” Greta said, “you’re just sucking all the fun out of this.”

“Actually,” Emily said, “there’s a training on Friday and Saturday, the twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh, in Kingston. We thought you could go along and we could stay at the Embassy Suites. They always have lower rates on the weekends.”

“Maybe I could be persuaded.” I looked at Em. “But are you going to have any use for that certification?”

“Can I join the crisis team?”

I dropped my jaw and gave her a wide-eyed stare.

Greta said to me, “Get over it.”

I shook my head as if to clear my ears. “It almost sounded as if you asked to join the crisis team. There are people on the team who would probably pay you good money to take their place.”

She shrugged. “Like the name suggests, it might be the most critical mental health work that there is.”

Emily was a master’s-level nurse practitioner, and a specialist in geriatrics. She was a member of a family practice partnership, but she also contracted with the Health Center as the clinical consultant for a residential Alzheimer’s program the Mental Health Team ran in conjunction with a local nursing home. Greta and I were both psychiatric social workers with MSW (masters in social work) degrees, a two or three year post-graduate degree, depending on your specialty. Greta and I each had been in grad school for three years.

“Let me talk all this over with Chet. I have no objections, but we’re looking at a few things that haven’t been done before. In the meantime, go ahead and make reservations for the training.”

“We already have,” Greta said.

(Tuesday, June 16)

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 17

Margaret said, “He’s looking over this way.” She had her head down and was looking over the tops of her glasses.

She dipped into her briefcase, a top-opening model, on the floor next to her, and brought out a blank manila file folder. She wrote “CMH Proposal” on the tab, then set her coffee mug on it, with the tab still visible. “He’s coming over.”

A few seconds later, Burt came up and put his hands on Chet’s shoulders. “Is our Senior Chief Do-gooder making amends for his screw-up yesterday, Margaret? I hope he’s at least buying you breakfast.”

“Indeed, he’s being very gracious.”

“Well, you can be assured that I’ll be giving your contracts my personal attention.”

“Well, isn’t that thoughtful of you.”

“Have you made a proposal to buy the bakery equipment? Is that why you’re meeting?”

“Oh, yes, that’s part of it. I saw lots with which I think we could do a good job.”

“Well. You can deduct a couple thousand from whatever you’ve been told. I’ll just be glad to see that equipment find a good home.” Burt looked over his shoulder. “There’s my food. Don’t want those eggs to get cold. It was a pleasure to see you again, Margaret.”

“Now isn’t that a nice thing to say. Hope your day is beneficial, Burt.”

Rauch went to his table, but kept eyeing us.

I said, “Boy, if you ever need an example of two-faced, there he is.”

Greta said, “I saw how he was happy to carve a couple thousand dollars from our budget over the price of the bakery equipment. But I also noticed that, even when I took in a deep breath, his eyes stayed on that file folder.” Greta had a well-proportioned upper chest that begs for attention when she’s breathing hard.

I said, “That file was inspired, Margaret, so let’s give him a show to go with it. Margaret, you and Greta get into a deep discussion, while I fake calculating on my phone, which I’ll keep showing to Chet.”

We pantomimed the actions for a couple minutes, acting as if our discussion was quite involved. Finally, I said, “Chet, take my phone and show the numbers to Margaret. Margaret, nod in casual agreement. Okay, our pretend deal’s made. Let’s eat.”

Margaret asked, “Do you folks always have this much fun?”

Greta threw me out of her office, so I went up to Chet’s, but he wasn’t there. As I walked down the hall toward my office, Chet came around the corner, from the direction of building two.

“Did Greta make the call?”

“She’s making it now, but didn’t want an audience, so I graciously left.”

“I’m sure.”

“You coming from Burt’s?”

“Yup,” he said. After we went into his office, he added, “He wanted to know what we’d decided at breakfast and I told him we hadn’t really decided anything because Margaret needed to check a few things. He seemed reluctant to pump me too hard, so I’d guess he was worried about wandering into Margaret’s sphere of influence again.”

We sat down at the round table and he looked at me with an inquisitive expression. “Exactly what are you planning to accomplish with this gambit?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Confusion to the enemy?

I looked off toward his window, thinking about his question, then I said, “I’m just trying to slow things down while we figure out an effective way to deal with them. Burt was setting Mental Health up to look like a bunch of witless stumble-bums who are a liability to the county coffers. I’d just like to make his hidden agenda seem less certain, so maybe he quits pushing so hard. I hope that, if we can keep Mental Health with us into the new fiscal year, maybe Burt will have to fall back on a Plan B.”

“You think he has a Plan B?”

“No, not really. I think this current operation came together at the last minute, that’s why Babbitt’s lawsuit came out of left field and why it’s so weak. He has to keep the commissioners from figuring that out, which wouldn’t be too hard, since they tend to rubber stamp his proposals. But now I’m wondering how he got Babbitt involved to begin with.”

“Easy enough. He was coming out of Babbitt’s office when I first went to talk to Ginny about this. I asked Ginny what he was up to and she said Babbitt had drawn up a simple will for Burt and maybe a couple other things.

“I asked her if that was a common thing, for ADAs to take on extra work. She said that, as long as it didn’t interfere with their assignments or cause conflicts of interest, she tried to be flexible.”

There were two ADAs. The other was a freshly-minted attorney by the name of Caleb Hannity.

Then Greta walked in.”

“How’d it go?” I asked, as I stood to pull out a chair. Chet stood, too.

Greta said, “Let’s not start all that chivalrous nonsense. Besides, it can be seen as demeaning, as if women needed special courtesies that men don’t require, so sit your asses down, both of you. Gary, when we’re on a social outing, then go all courtly. At work, stick to business.” Then she patted my cheek, adding, “But I appreciate the gesture, just don’t do it again.”

I noticed Chet’s embarrassed red face, so I said, “Ooh, don’t you just love strong women, Chet?”

“Are you nuts? She just read us the riot act for...” He’d noticed my grin.

Greta said, “Ignore him. I do, most of the time. That’s why I was happy when Emily moved in, so I had some companionship at home.”

I asked, again, “How’d it go?”

“Okay, I think. The woman seemed maybe a little concerned or confused after I told them my supposed situation. I don’t think she was quite sure what to make of me, or Burt’s shenanigans, or the issue of a competing bidder. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“Did she ask who the other company was?”

Greta was to tell the MHU recruiter that she was calling because someone from another company had contacted her, and it was at that point that she realized the MHU letter had been a personal recruitment letter, not a mass marketing campaign.

Her motivation for talking to either company was the way that the county administrator was effectively selling off a useful program that more than paid for itself, to the tune of some sixty-seven grand annually.

“She asked who the other bidder was a couple times. I told her it wasn’t a national company, but that it had enjoyed considerable success and I was impressed by their recruiter, but I wasn’t at liberty to say more.”

“What now?” Chet asked.

I said, “Now that we’ve thrown some dust in the air ourselves, we just continue like we started at breakfast: we run around shouting, ‘The sky is falling, the sky is falling.’”

I called Tate. “Hey, Gary.”

“How about lunch? You drive, I pay, we flip a coin for the choice.” Tate had been driving the two-year-old Chevy Tahoe Police Pursuit that had been John Durkee’s assigned vehicle, so I wasn’t concerned about the smell of his beater dampening my appetite.

“I think Louise is going to call Greta and invite you guys out for supper.”

“Is she making hamburgers?”

“No, she’s making--”

“No. no, don’t tell me. Whatever it is, knowing about it will just make the day longer. But it does mean a hamburger for lunch won’t be wasted.”

“Anyway,” he said, “there’s no point in lunch if we’ll see you tonight.”

“Nice try. I’m just surprised that you’ve heard about me being on my school’s varsity coin-flipping team. Tell you what: you can flip the coin. I’ll even allow you to choose two out of three if you lose the first toss.”

“I brought a sandwich from home.”

“Louise made your lunch? I’ll give you ten bucks if you’ll share it with me.”

“You’re not gonna let up, are you?”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Like a cow in the living room.”

“Eleven-fifty?”

“See you then.”

Then I called Greta.

“Mental Health, Greta.” She knew it was an internal call, from the double-beep ringtone.

I just started breathing heavy into the receiver.

“Gary, gimme a break. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize the same heavy breathing I hear every time you flop down on top of me after having your way with me?”

“Aren’t you the hopeless romantic.”

“I’m at work, you pervert. Do you actually do anything useful around here?”

“Jury’s still out. But something occurred to me. If MHU calls Burt to ask what’s going on, Burt’s either going to contact Chet or you, and my money’s on you. I think you need to make yourself scarce for a few hours. Go take Betsy Hungerford to lunch, and then maybe visit all the cleaning crew sites, and let your phone go to voice mail. Or better, let’s trade phones. If Burt calls yours, I’ll tell him you left it in my office by mistake. If he calls mine, don’t answer it, just call and let me know, but I think that’s unlikely. That way, we could still be in touch, if necessary.”

“You think he’ll call me?”

“As the involved employee most easy to intimidate.”

“Yeah, I guess I don’t want to be arrested for assault. Will you bring your phone over?”

“See you in a minute.”

Heading to building four, I crossed the enclosed second floor walkway that spanned the forty-five feet between the buildings, then to my former office, which had served as the office and attached bedroom of the dean of students back in the day when the buildings had been a Roman Catholic seminary. As I had done, Greta used the former bedroom as her office, and the outer room as a small conference room.