The Glass Box

THE LANGUAGE OF DOORS

Handcuffed and hard-strapped into the rear seat of an NPF police van, Riley craned her neck to peer out the window at the passing streets. The court paperwork said she was being sent to a facility in Ballard, in northwest Seattle. She'd never been to Ballard before, but so far it seemed to consist mainly of quiet, tree-lined streets dotted with restaurants and cute shops. She thought it'd be fun to stop for coffee but suspected the armed and armored cops sitting up front might have something to say about the idea.

West on Sixty-Fifth, then north on Twenty-Fourth, she mouthed silently, memorizing the streets with each new turn, less interested in knowing where they were going than being sure she could reverse the sequence to get back out again.

Because she had zero intention of staying put.

It's a hospital; assuming I can't just talk my way out, how hard could it be to slip away and get back into the fray? The first obligation of a prisoner is to escape!

Agreeing to spend six months in a mental health facility instead of the Mission Creek Corrections Center was a calculated risk. Jails were good at hurting you on the outside, but psychiatrists knew all the ways to hurt you on the inside. Some of her friends who had gone into mental hospitals for treatment came out stronger, but as for the rest, it seemed like every time they went in, a little less of them came back out again. She wanted no part of whatever they had in mind for her mind. She wanted only a wall low enough for her to climb over and get to the other side.

Four more turns brought them to a long, gated driveway beneath a sign depicting a bright ocean sunrise beside the words Westside Behavioral and Psychiatric Residences. A second sign just above it, newer and more hastily erected, read American Renewal Center #14.

They parked in front of a whitewashed three-story building labeled Inpatient Treatment. The upper-floor windows were covered in ornate wrought-iron designs: cats and dogs and giraffes and parrots woven into elaborate backgrounds of vines and branches. Bars designed not to look like bars to the people inside, even though that's exactly what they were. Happy barred windows.

They unstrapped her from the rear seat and led her through two sets of reinforced glass doors to the check-in station, where a receptionist in a bright green floral-print dress folded her hands and smiled in a calculated-to-the-kilowatt welcome.

As one of the officers handed over the paperwork, the other unlocked the handcuffs but kept a firm grip on Riley's arm in case she tried to run. The receptionist flipped through the pages and signed where required without making direct eye contact with her.

Screw that, Riley decided. Doctors, police, and serial killers had one thing in common: your odds of survival absolutely depended on making them see you as a human being.

"Hi!" she said, smiling broadly.

The receptionist glanced up, startled. "Hi," she said before she realized she'd done it, then quickly turned her attention back to the forms.

"Nice place."

The receptionist nodded but didn't reply, trained to avoid contact with new arrivals by remaining bureaucratically anonymous.

Okay, Riley thought. Initiating the How Far Can I Push This Before You Realize I'm Fucking With You? program in five, four, three, two-

"I don't want a room with a giraffe."

The receptionist paused, pen poised over the last line of the form. "Sorry?"

"The windows have animals on them, and giraffes freak me out. Something about the necks, you know? I get really nervous and scared and out of control, and I don't want to be any trouble. Can you check?"

Uncertain eyes flicked from Riley to the cops and back again. "I suppose . . . just a second."

A monitor flared to life, and with a few clicks she summoned up the details of Riley's assigned room. "It doesn't say. There's not a field for the window design."

"Can you find out?" Riley asked, still smiling.

The receptionist toggled a microphone on her desk. "This is Maria at the front desk. Could an orderly let me know what the window design is in room twenty-one forty-one?"

"Thanks, Maria," Riley said, enjoying the look on the receptionist's face when she realized that she'd not only acknowledged Riley's existence but had inadvertently provided her name.

The speaker buzzed back at her. "Parrot," a man's voice said.

"Parrot," the receptionist parroted.

"Perfect," Riley said, feigning relief.

The cop holding her arm shifted impatiently. "Can we get this over with?"

"Of course," the receptionist said, "sorry." She signed on the last dotted line, tore off the receipt at the bottom of the page, and handed it back. "All set."

She buzzed the intercom again, and a tall African American orderly came through a security door behind them.

"We're good to go," Maria said.

The orderly took Riley by the arm with 50 percent less pounds-per-square-inch of pressure, just enough to say I've got you without the subtext of Does this hurt? Want to make something of it?

As they passed into a long, puke-green hallway, Riley glanced at the nameplate pinned to his crisp white shirt: Henry.

"You know it's safe to let go of me, right, Henry?"

"Probably, yeah, but the rules say we have to maintain contact and control of all patients until they've been processed." His voice was firm but surprisingly gentle. "Just a little longer."

He led her through another set of doors-the door manufacturing business was apparently the place to be these days-to an administrative area, nodding and smiling at the support staff working in cubicles and small offices, the buzz of their voices low and efficient. At the end of the hall was an office with a brass nameplate that read Dr. Lee Kim, Chief Administrator.

Henry knocked on the open door. "The new patient's here, Dr. Kim."

"Bring her in."

Dr. Kim stood as she entered: late fifties, slender, Korean. The diplomas on the wall showed accomplishments and the photos on his desk showed a family man. "Please sit."

She sat in one of two straight-backed chairs as he settled behind his desk and checked her file on his desktop monitor. "You're here for observation under the ARC program," he said, trying to sound chipper about it. "Six months."

"Unless you want to leave the back door open and look away for a second."

He smiled thinly and glanced away. He doesn't like this arrangement any more than I do, she thought with a measure of hope.

"Since you're going to be with us for a while, would you like me to tell you a little about Westside?"

"Sure," she said. Yes, let's change the subject to something more comfortable for one of us.

"For twenty years, this was an assisted-living facility, then twelve years ago it was acquired by our parent company, upgraded, and turned into an inpatient mental health hospital offering round-the-clock treatment for acute psychiatric problems, drug addiction, anxiety, alcoholism, bipolar disorders, and depression. Our programs include individual counseling and group therapy sessions, therapeutic medications, and medical evaluation and management."

He continued to work through the list of protocols, as if stressing what the hospital used to do would let him avoid addressing what it was doing now.

"And now it's a prison," Riley said.

His face tightened. "We don't have prisoners here. We have patients."

"Well, both begin with the letter P, so there's that, I guess."

"Many of our patients check themselves in for treatment, but we've had a good history of working with the courts in situations where individuals are brought here because they represent a danger to themselves or others."

"So why am I here?"

"You came in through the courts, the usual channel."

"For the usual reasons?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "That decision is outside our jurisdiction. And technically, since you signed the transfer forms, this constitutes self-commitment."

"Then I'd like to self-uncommit."

"We can't do that."

"Why not?"

"It's not my place to discuss hospital policy-"

"But you're the administrator."

"Yes, but our license to operate requires cooperation with the state and federal agencies that regulate our industry, as well as law enforcement. The state board of health selected us to participate in the ARC program, and that's what we're doing."

"So you're as much a prisoner as I am."

He turned back to her file to avoid addressing the point. "Your records indicate that you have a bit of a temper."

"Cuban and Irish. Work it out."

"Also artistic, extremely bright, and can be very well spoken when necessary."

"Cuban. Irish."

He switched off the monitor and leaned back in his chair. "I'm going to be straight with you, Riley, because I think you're smart enough to know what's in your best interests. Under the new rules, I don't have direct authority over your treatment or the term of your stay here. All of that falls under the jurisdiction of Homeland Security and the ARC program, which, at this center, is run by Mr. Thomas...