Bounds of Insanity

By Eris B. Blount

After serving three years in a psychiatric institution; once-prominent defense attorney, Malcolm Lucid, is judged mentally competent to stand trial on multiple counts of murder. Now Bris has to face her attacker. Will Malcolm prevail before a jury and be released from custody or will he spend the rest of his life in prison?

Follow Bris as she charters into unfamiliar territory leading to the inevitable conclusion that will change her life forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796089998

Eris B. Blount

Eris B. Blount is an undergraduate of Mercy College in Dobbs Ferry, New York with a Bachelor’s Degree in Behavioral Science. He is also a trained paralegal specializing in criminal law and has taught several creative writers’ workshops. He is a native of Brooklyn, New York, and enjoys movies and working out. Some of Eris’ other soon-to-be-published novels include No Jurisdiction and Bounds of Insanity (part of the Lucid trilogy), Black & White Stripes, Deep Desire, Quantum of Evidence, Psychout, The Vertical File, Troubled Hearts, Split Dilemma, and The Girls of Smithtown.

Book preview

Prologue

We’re live at the courthouse at 100 Centre Street where Malcolm Lucid, the once prominent defense attorney, will be arraigned on various murder charges, including the attempted murder of District Attorney Investigator Bristin McGillis-Medina, the reporter said, standing in front of the building. She was a blond woman wearing a red coat surrounded by other reporters looking to get a statement.

Malcolm could see her scrambling to reach him, the microphone extended, as his police escorts guided him toward the entrance.

Mr. Lucid, she continued, obviously in the best position to speak first, you were just released from the Kirby Psychiatric Center on Wards Island. Do you intend to pursue an insanity defense?

What was it like at the Center? another reporter asked, shoving the microphone at him.

It had been three years since Malcolm had set foot on the pavement—doctors pricking him with needles, shock treatments, medications, and endless psychiatric sessions. His return to normalcy actually felt abnormal; and the press bombarding him caused trepidation. But, he needed to remain calm, stay focused. Of course he’d plead not guilty. After all, wasn’t he insane at the time he’d committed the acts? There were a slew of doctors who could testify to that and he’d already instructed his lawyer on it.

Mr. Lucid will not be making any statements, a detective said, and they rushed him past the throng and into the courthouse.

Chapter One

Bris hunched over the toilet spewing up breakfast. She’d never felt so bad in her life. She stopped, breathing heavily, then hunched again. When she finished she sat on the cushioned stool adjacent the sink, lethargic. What’s wrong with me? Rising, she looked in the mirror. Her eyes, puffy, cheeks red. I’m definitely coming down with something. The strength sapped out of her, she cleaned what she could and left the bathroom.

Jon had already gone to work but she didn’t think she’d make it. Trudging toward the bed, she picked up the phone and dialed. Hello, Sam… This is Bris. I won’t be coming in this morning. I’m not feeling well… I don’t know… Okay, I’ll make an appointment… All right, Sam, bye. She hung up, got under the blanket and closed her eyes.

I’m guessing this is your first, the gynecologist said. He was shorter than Bris, dark chopped hair and wearing tinted frames. Baby.

Baby?!

Yes, Mrs. Medina, you’re expecting. I would say you’re at least three weeks along. He began removing his gloves.

Bris sat up on the examination table. Pregnant! At thirty nine! She didn’t believe she’d ever conceive, and why so late in life? Wow!

From what I can see the baby’s doing fine. Of course you know given your age factor there’s risks involved. I need to keep you monitored for any unforeseen changes.

She nodded, dazed, the emotional impact stupefying her.

I want you to come back tomorrow morning. We’ll go ever some things you’ll need to know, including a good diet. He wrote out a prescription. This should help bring the swelling down.

She took it. Thanks.

The doctor left the room and she began dressing. She’d have to tell Jon what she hoped would be good news.

She cooked his favorite meal—roasted pork in brussel sprouts, wild yellow rice, and candy yams with raisins and pineapples just the way he liked it. She’d have to break the news to him tonight. They’d never discussed children. With both their careers paramount the subject never came up. This is definitely unexpected, Bris thought, and began wondering whether Jon even wanted to have kids.

The race for District Attorney of New York County is officially underway, the newsman said. Bris was sitting on the couch waiting. Close to six and Jon should be home any minute. Sam Greenwald has announced he will not seek another term as the city’s top prosecutor….

Though Bris dreaded the news of Sam’s departure, she hoped the next DA would be as easy to work with. She’d been with Sam over thirteen years and knew the transition would be awkward. Three candidates appeared on the screen. John Daniels, a former assistant US Attorney with impressive credentials, who happened to be black; Robert Lazario, an Italian businessman, and Kimberly Alston, a pink woman and deputy mayor of New York City. Bris believed she was almost certain to get the nomination given her political connections.

The commentator started talking about other races as Jon stepped through the door.

Waves rippled through her stomach; her eyes, widening.

What’s the matter with you, hon’? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. He removed his coat placing it on a nearby rack and sat his case on the table next to it.

N-nothing. Sam is really not running again.

So he is going to retire, Jon said, walking to the couch and flopping.

I guess so. She was having a problem masking her nerves and knew Jon was sensate. If she didn’t gain composure he was sure to detect it.

Malcolm Lucid was arraigned this morning on four counts of second degree murder, the news woman said and Bris piqued.

Jon was fixed on the screen.

He was also charged with the attempted murder of an investigator for the Manhattan District Attorney’s office and is expected to stand trial… The commentator talked about his stay at the psychiatric center and a law professor spoke about the likelihood of Malcolm having an insanity defense.

Bris knew the day would come when she’d have to face him again and dreaded it. The last thing she wanted to do is relive the trauma, the pain of her ordeal with the man. But, she didn’t have a choice. Soon he’d be convicted and out of her life forever.

Are you all right, hon’? Jon asked, concerned. His eyes told her his empathy and, moving closer, he held her in his arms.

Bris rested her head on his chest. She’d thought that after therapy and the passage of three years her fears would have subsided. But no, they were still just beneath the surface emerging rapidly. She needed to suppress them, stay strong and not let Malcolm take away her power. But yet, she felt powerless, denuded, as if he had stripped away whatever control she had over her circumstances.

I’m here for you, Bris, Jon said, holding her securely. He can’t hurt you anymore.

Jon’s words were reassuring. She felt comfort, protected; her vulnerability beginning to fade. I have to tell you something, she said. I’m pregnant.

Chapter Two

The Psychiatric Satellite Unit at Rikers Island was comprised of round the clock nurses who distributed a variety of medications to a host of inmates suffering from mental disease. Malcolm was placed in a cell with a window containing steel bars, a metal stool and table, and a small bunk with a flat plastic pillow and mattress. The concrete walls surrounding him emanated a feeling of eeriness, and the thick metal door had a slender embrasure with solid glass.

He was given a set of white bed linen, a gray wool blanket, a dark blue jump suit, and a pair of black cloth sneakers absent strings. The guard had said that some of the other inmates attempted to choke themselves so strings were banned on the unit.

He lay there staring at the ceiling, legs crossed, and hands athwart over his belly. Finally released from Kirby and sane enough to stand trial, he needed to plot his defense. He remembered all the victims, had meticulously carried out the murders leaving no physical or forensic evidence behind. The only indication connecting him to any of them was the list the police found in his home. He couldn’t get to the law library but could receive books upon request. He’d draw up a motion to dismiss the three counts of murder and, if successful, the only one left would be Cheryl’s.

Malcolm was confident he’d get acquitted since the only evidence was the hair strand which he’d move to suppress. And if the judge agreed and excluded it, he’d move to dismiss the indictment.

As for the McGillis woman he’d continue with an insanity defense.

He smiled closing his eyes, drifting. A picture of Cynthia appeared. He had vague memories of her visits in the beginning of his confinement, sitting in an empty room watching her through a medicated haze. And then they had stopped. The only thing retentive were the stringent regimen of treatments he’d undergone and witnessed happening to others. Men were subdued, straightjacketed and sedated; forced fed through tubes; stripped butt naked and tossed in isolation cells with only a mattress crying, screaming, and moaning for days.

These images were indelibly imprinted in Malcolm’s mind and what kept him from complete lunacy was Cynthia and the child he’d fathered. He lived to get back to them. He’d never met the boy but fell asleep knowing it was just a matter of time.

The cell door slid open and Malcolm awoke to a bright light fastened to the ceiling. He rose, put on his jump suit, brushed his teeth, then splashed cold water on his face drying it with a hand rag.

Stepping out he could see inmates entering a large day room, some of them lining up in front of a breakfast cart. He followed and when he got there an inmate who had been assigned to feed them placed two boxes of Apple Jacks, a cup of milk, coffee, juice, and three slices of toast on his tray. He took it to a metal table and bench bolted to the floor, sat and began eating.

Mind if I sit here, someone said, setting his tray on the table.

Malcolm looked up to a short, pudgy, pitchy man with wooly hair and a mustache.

No, go ahead.

I’m Darryl Carter. They call me D. You just got here, huh?

Yeah, last night.

It’s not so bad. I been here awhile. They wanna send me upstate. Carter went on about how he was arrested for a robbery he didn’t commit, and the only reason the police blamed him was because of his record.

Malcolm wasn’t interested in Carter’s complaints, but he did welcome the company. At Kirby there weren’t many people to talk to except doctors and all you were required to do was answer questions.

He’d learned early how to tailor his responses to those questions that would give the psyche cause to believe you weren’t making any progress. He’d took a peek at his doctor’s notes one time and read that when he’d told the psyche he couldn’t sleep, he was diagnosed with insomnia; when he’d said he felt bad about his crime, the doctor wrote depression. What really alerted him to the catch words was when he’d expressed remorse for Cheryl and said it should of been him lying in the grave instead of her. He was promptly diagnosed as suicidal and immediately taken to an isolation cell, stripped, and force fed anti-psychotic drugs.

It was the worst day in his life. Sleeping in his own vomit, urine, and feces because he’d had an adverse reaction to the combination of drugs he’d been taking; drifting in and out of consciousness, and every time he’d burped he could taste medicine. Bloating, gas, and he was even afraid to fart fearing diarrhea would spurt down his legs. When the observation period was over Malcolm chose his words carefully.

What about you, man. What you in for?

Malcolm wasn’t inclined to satisfy his inquiry. He didn’t know Carter or who, if anyone, had sent him. He knew the DA’s office planted informants in jails just to get information to use at trial. If this was the case he wouldn’t give them an opportunity. So you’re innocent, huh?

Yeah, man, they trying to railroad me. I told them I wasn’t even in New York when that bitch got robbed, but my lawyer said I should take the twelve years.

What, he’s not investigating your alibi?

He said he did. Carter bit some toast, then stuffed a spoon of cereal in his mouth with it and began chewing. He swallowed then continued. I don’t know. I might have to go back upstate.

Is he a private lawyer?

No, the court gave him to me.

Malcolm sipped some coffee; it was lukewarm, always lukewarm. He started asking Carter questions about his lawyer’s investigation and concluded the lawyer was only stringing him along. He hadn’t done much of anything.

Malcolm suggested Carter ask him for the notes on his alibi and any other paperwork in his possession. He explained that according to law he was entitled to everything his lawyer and the DA had in their files.

Thanks, man, I didn’t know that, Carter said. Are you some kind of lawyer or something? You sure know a lot.

Yeah, something like that, Malcolm replied, smiling. It felt good to know he was still sharp.

A bell sounded and inmates began rising.

What’s that? he asked, glancing around.

Medication line. Breakfast is over.

He gulped the rest of his coffee, then he and Carter rose, emptied their trays, and joined the line leading to the nurse’s station.

The defense moves to dismiss counts one through three in the indictment, Your Honor. That being the murders of Nancy Winters, Harry Musken, and David McCormick. Isaac Newman, a diminutive, portly, pale man was Malcolm’s lawyer. Malcolm had hired him six months ago after he’d been reclassified and moved to a section at Kirby for inmates deemed mentally competent to stand trial. He’d no longer needed the services of a court appointed attorney and Newman came highly recommended. As to the murder of Nancy Winters, he continued, reading from the modified version of Malcolm’s motion to dismiss, the People have no tangible evidence connecting the defendant except for an alleged list carrying the name. Also, Your Honor, someone has already been arrested, tried, and convicted for that crime.

The Judge raised his brow. Is that right? he asked, looking at the prosecutor.

She was a pale woman, strawberry blond, wearing a maple pant suit and designer frames. "Yes, but the People are contemplating a dismissal in that case