9:45 a.m.

I’m at the Cleveland loony bin, about to talk to a dangerous mental patient. I take an urgent dump in a clean bathroom, thanks to the kindness of a shuffling, limping hospital staffer. A black man in his sixties. Morgan Freeman in the movie. I pace behind him as he slowly keys through door after metal door until we reach the Cuckoo’s nest.

“How is Mr. Zeppinger these days?” I ask. I know that he has threatened to kill judges and doctors and cops, that he has been wrestled to the ground in court by six burly bailiffs. I know that he’s as high and drunk and crazy and violent and dumb as can be.

“Aw, he O.K. He’ll be happy to see you, though,” says Mulney as he turns another key down this corridor to my client.

“Oh, he doesn’t know I’m coming,” I say.

“Yeah, but you gettin’ him outta group. He’s in group right now and he’ll be all happy as a sissy in Boy’s Town to get a visitor during group.”

“Francis Assisi?”

“Huh?”

“Nevermind.”

We arrive at the end of the corridor in a wide ward with chairs around televisions and chalkboards. “Zeppinger! Got a visitor!” A man with his head down on his folded arms on the table looks up at Mulney. “Zeppinger. Lawyer’s here.”

Zeppinger speaks: “HE CAN SHA-ZIZZLE MY PUH-ZIZZLE!”

“I’m Bloomsday, from the public defender’s office. I have some important legal matters to discuss with you.” He caught my eyes and I smiled. He stood up and politely walked around the remaining group members toward me and Mulney. I shook his hand hard, like he’d just won an election. Mulney slowly, almost processional in his limp Kevin Spacey way, led us to a “media room,” stuffed with televisions on push carts, two computer terminals, DVD and stereo players, and even a digital camera on a tri-pod. We sat at ends of a small wooden table in the center of all this technology. Mulney left and locked us in.

“Good morning, Mr. Zeppinger. My name is Ulysses Bloomsday. I am the attorney assigned to defend those who cannot afford to hire counsel. I have now been appointed to your case. I want to, first, so that we are on the same page, explain where your case is at. You are at an unusual point in the context of criminal proceedings, and you may want to take advantage of that. You were arrested and charged with assault and aggravated disorderly conduct, each charge a misdemeanor of the first degree, punishable up to six months in jail and a thousand dollar fine. Do you remember getting arrested?”

“Yeah, that was all bullshit, though. I talked back. I talked back and they pushed me around and arrested me. I ain’t do shit.”

“I have no reason to doubt you. I know cops can be assholes, even liars. But you are no stranger to aggressive behavior. Didn’t you threaten to kill the judge the last time you were in court?”

“Yeah, but that lady rub me the wrong way. She like an evil voodoo priestess.”

“O.K., that comment brings me to my next point. The judge ordered you be held to determine your competence to stand trial. Do you remember talking to a doctor about that?”

“Yeah.”

“And then, the doctor decided that you were not competent, but that they would try to restore you to competence here, at the Cleveland Behavioral Center. But then you threatened to kill the doctors and even pushed one up against a wall here. So the doctors now say that you are incompetent, non-restorable. They say you will never be competent enough to stand trial. That means they can’t prosecute you. The criminal charges will be dismissed and the county probate system will handle the matter. The law requires you reside in the least restrictive setting, which, given your past behavior, means Western Reserve Mental Hospital, where you’ll undergo 90-day reviews to determine when they cut you loose.

“You know, your momma’s out there, writing letters to the judge, begging her to get you help. You’re momma thinks you gonna get killed in here. She thinks this hospital is filled with crazy violent people who may threaten your safety.”

Zeppinger rolls his eyes. “My momma. She don’t understand shit. So you sayin’ I don’t ever have to see the voodoo priestess again?”

“Yes.”

“You sayin’ I’m going to Western Reserve instead of city jail?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I just got moved from coach to first class. Thank you, Mr. Bloomsday.”

“My pleasure, but I hardly did anything. I’m just the messenger.”

“Don’t kill the messenger?” Zeppinger smiles.

“Correct. Do not, under any circumstances, kill the messenger.” I stand and shake his hand. “Any questions?”

He looks at the Styrofoam cup in my hand, and asks, “Can I have the rest of your coffee?”