He turned serious, looked away from me.
“Sure it gets ugly,” he said, as if responding to a question. “What Dorsey did was as ugly as it gets.” Eye flicker. “Jesus, what a.
.
. it was a tragedy. How else can you put it? A goddamn stupid tragedy. I know I couldn’t have done anything differently, but it shouldn’t have happened-it just stinks, but what can you do when society keeps lowering itself to the brutal denominator? Dorsey’d never shown me any signs of violence. Nothing. I was serious when I said you would have liked him. Most of the time he was pleasant-soft-spoken, passive. One of my easier clients, actually. A little paranoid, but it was always low key, he never got aggressive with it.”
“What kind of delusions did he have?”
“The usual. Voices in his head telling him to do stuff-cross the street six times one day, drink tomato juice the next-I don’t remember exactly.”
“Did the voices make him angry?”
“They annoyed him, but no, I wouldn’t call it anger. It was as if he accepted the voices as being a part of him. I see that a lot in the longtimers. They’re used to it, deal with it. Nothing aggressive or hostile, that’s for sure.”
“As long as he took his medication.”
“I assumed he was taking it because he was always okay with me.”
“How well did you know him?”
“I wouldn’t call it knowing. I did some basic legal stuff for him.”
“When did you first meet him?”
He looked up at the ductwork again. “Let’s see. .. it would have to be around a year ago.”
“Walk-in?”
“No, he was referred by the court.”
“What kind of theft were you defending him on?”
Smile. “Cops didn’t tell you?”
“I don’t get involved in more than I need to.”
“Smart. Theft is an overstatement. He lifted a bottle of gin from a liquor store, and a couple of sticks of beef jerky. Did it in plain sight of the clerk and got busted. I’m sure he didn’t even mean it.
Clerk nearly broke his arm restraining him.”
“What defense were you planning?”
“What do you think?”
“Plea bargain.”
“What else? He had no prior record other than petty stuff. The way the jails are crowded it would have been a slam-dunk.”
He sat up and inserted five fingers into his thick hair. Massaging his scalp, he said, “Gritz.”
“Pardon me?”
“It’s a name. Gritz.”
“As in hominy?”
“With a z.” The closest I can come to someone who might be called Dorsey’s friend.”
“First name or last?”
“Don’t know. He came by here a couple of times with Dorsey. Another homeless guy. The only reason I know his name is because I noticed him hanging around over there”-pointing to the partition-“asked Dorsey who he was and Dorsey said Gritz.” First thing I said was what you just did: As in hominy?” That went right over Dorsey’s head, and I tried to explain it. Spelled grits’, told him what they were, asked him if it was a last name or a first name.
He said no, it was a name and it was spelled with a z.” He spelled it for me. Really slowly-he always talked slow. G-R-1-T-Z.” Like it was profound. For all I know he was making it up.”
“Did he tend to do that?”
“He was schizophrenic-what do you think?”
“Did he ever mention the term bad love’ to you?”
He shook his head. “First time I heard about that was from the police.
Asking me why Dorsey had screamed it-as if I’d know.”
Pushing himself away from the desk, he wheeled back in his chair, then sat up. “And that’s about all she wrote.”
“Can you describe this Gritz fellow?”
He thought. “It was a while ago. .. about the same age as Dorsey-though with street people you can’t really tell. Shorter than Dorsey, I think.” He looked at his watch. “There’s a call I’ve got to make.”
I got up and thanked him for his time.
He waved it off and picked up the phone.
“Any idea where this Gritz might be located?” I said, as he dialed.
“Nope.