“More Irish?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Just black, and make it strong.”

Two hours later, he made her reread a passage from the handbook. She ran her finger down the page to Section 2945.38.

… if the court or jury finds him to be not sane he shall be forthwith committed by the court to a hospital for the mentally ill or mentally retarded within the jurisdiction of the court. If., the court finds it advisable, it shall commit such person to the Lima State Hospital until he is restored to reason, and upon being restored to reason the accused shall be proceeded against as provided by the law.

“Yeah!” shouted Gary, jumping up. “ ‘A hospital within the jurisdiction of the court ’ It doesn’t say only Lima.”

“We found it!”

“Jesus,” he said, “and everybody’s been saying there’s never been an alternative to Lima for pretrial commitment.”

“Now we’ve just got to find another mental hospital within the jurisdiction of the court.”

Gary slapped his forehead. “Oh my God. This is incredible. I know one. I worked there as a psychiatric aide after I got out of the service. Harding Hospital.”

“Harding? Is that in the court’s jurisdiction?”

“Sure. Worthington, Ohio. And listen, it’s one of most conservative, respectable psychiatric hospitals in the country. It’s affiliated with the Seventh-Day Adventist Church. I’ve heard tough prosecutors say, ‘If Dr. George Harding, Jr., says the man’s insane, I’ll buy it. He’s not like some other doctor who will examine a patient for thirty minutes for the defense and say he’s crazy.’”

“Prosecutors say that?”

He held up his right hand. “I heard it, so help me. I even think it was Terry Sherman. And, hey, I think I remember Dorothy Turner saying she often did testing for Harding Hospital.”

“So we get him into Harding,” she said.

Gary sat down quickly, dejected. “Just one thing. Harding Hospital is an exclusive, expensive private hospital, and Billy has no money.”

“We’re not going to let that stop us,” she said.

“Yeah, how do we get him in?”

“We make them want to take Billy.”

“And just how do we do that?” he asked.

A half-hour later, Gary wiped the snow off his boots and rang Harding’s doorbell. He was suddenly very conscious of himself as a bearded, wacko public defender confronting the conservative, Establishment psychiatrist—the grandson of the brother of President Warren G. Harding, no less—in his luxurious home. Judy should have come. She’d have made a better impression. He tightened his loose tie and tucked his curled-up shirt collar into his jacket as the front door opened.

George Harding at forty-nine was an impeccable, lean, smooth-faced man with soft: eyes and a soft voice. He struck Gary as quite handsome. “Come in, Mr. Schweickart.”

Gary struggled to pull off his boots and left them in a puddle in the foyer. Then, shucking his coat and hanging it on the rack, he followed Dr. Harding into the living room.

“I thought your name was familiar,” Harding said. “Then, after you phoned, I checked back in the newspapers. You’re defending Milligan, the young man who attacked the four women on the Ohio State campus.”