Free No Cure for Murder by Lawrence Gold

have it any other way...I may be a patient here some day.”
    “I call the question,” said Jaime. “All those supporting Mrs. Ashley and her family’s decision to terminate care, vote yes, those opposed, vote no.”
    When Jaime counted hands, one abstention and two no’s. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.”
    Carleton Dix, stone faced, rose, and then stretched his hand, pointing around the room. “Physicians who took the Hippocratic Oath promised to do no harm, that’s plain and simple. Killing Mrs. Ashley is doing harm any way you phrase it. I’m ashamed to be part of this institution.”
    In an audible whisper, Jacob, said, “Does that mean he’ll resign in protest?”

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Fourteen
     
    When Lola Weizman entered the Berkeley Woman’s Health Clinic on Channing Way, the receptionist, Elena Ordoñez smiled. “Good morning, Lola. How’s it goin’?”
    “Slow Elena, very slow. Is Kathy in yet?”
    “Just got here. She’s in her office.”
    Kathy Bingham directed the clinic. She was a MSW., a psychotherapist, and family counselor who came up through the county mental health system and had the scars to prove it. Kathy was a large black woman and could move from compassionate supporter to vitriolic attacker in a heartbeat.
    Lola had persuaded the city to replace the program’s previous director. After twenty years, he was out of touch with the clinic’s clients and staff. Lola interviewed dozens of qualified applicants, looking for a rare constellation of talents: psychotherapeutic skills combined with street smarts and the toughness to deal with a frustrating bureaucracy. Lola remembered Kathy’s interview.
    Kathy looked down at the diminutive Lola Weizman who shook her hand and, spoke with a precise Austrian accent. “Please be so kind as to have a seat.”
    “Thank you.”
    Kathy, nobody’s fool, knew a great deal about this unique Viennese psychotherapist, her personal and professional life, and her role in establishing the clinic.
    “Tell me something.” Lola, smiled and met Kathy’s eyes, an action perfected by a years of therapeutic encounters. Lola’s face carried the wrinkles of age, cigarette smoking, and the smile lines of a lifetime. They codified her joy in helping others.
    “Let me tell you what I’ve done and what I’d like to do with the clinic.”
    “I read your resume. Tell me something I don’t know.”
    “Where’s the couch?”
    “I don’t use a couch. I do better looking at people, don’t you?”
    “I don’t know what you want, Dr. Weizman.”
    “Call me Lola. Everyone does.” She locked on Kathy’s eyes, and then shook her head. “Don’t fail me. I’m too old for disappointment, and I have great hope for you.”
    My own analyst never made me this nervous, Kathy thought as she peered into Lola’s soft brown eyes.
    “I’m good with the sort of people you see in the program, Lola. One way or the other, they’re me. We understand each other and I have the skills to help them. In addition, I have a low tolerance for bullshit. I’ve been bullshitted by the best, and that includes patients, colleagues, and functionaries of every description.”
    “Why teenage girls? They’re not easy.”
    “Tell me about it. I have two of my own.”
    Kathy stared at Lola who remained silent. “These girls…they have no idea about the unconscious factors that motivate them, but they’re young enough to learn and become better at dealing with the realities of adult life.”
    Lola rolled up the sleeve of her blouse to reveal the blurred letters of the tattoo she received at Auschwitz. “What do you feel when you see this?”
    Kathy’s eyes welled with tears as she stared. “Rage and despair.”
    “Good answer.”
     
    Sarah Hughes, under constant pressure from her father, continued to attend TeenTalk meetings. She coped with the repetitive banal whining on one hand, and the religious affirmations on the other, by shutting most of it out.
    Before the next