13:15:18:09
An hour later, I was alone in a cramped holding cell when Mr. Needlemier finally showed up.
“Where have you been?” I asked.
He dropped his briefcase on the cot and mopped his bald head with a monogrammed handkerchief.
“I’m terribly sorry, Alfred. You didn’t tell them anything, did you?”
“I told them everything.”
He stared at me. He had just wiped his face, but it shone with moisture. “Everything everything?” he asked.
“Pretty much everything,” I answered.
“Well, that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
“They’re taking you to St. Mary’s Hospital.”
“Why?”
“They suspect you may be psychotic.”
“Crazy, you mean.”
“Well, who could blame them?”
“St. Mary’s. That’s where they took Sam. Have you seen him?”
He nodded.
“How bad is it?” I asked.
“It’s not good, Alfred. Not good.”
“I want to see him.”
“They’re not going to let you see him.”
“I’ll need only about five minutes—”
“First they have to do the evaluation—”
“And then he’ll be fine. Like it never happened—”
“And then you’ll have a hearing before the judge.”
He finally got my attention.
“What judge?”
“To make a determination.”
“A determination about what?”
“Your ... let's see, the best way to put this ... your psychological ... ah ... readiness to stand trial.”