alone jail time.
BISHOP’S DAY IN COURT
A Manhattan court dropped charges of driving under the influence, driving to endanger and resisting arrest lodged against Darwin Bishop, 45, of 32, East 49 th Street, citing questions about the validity of the field sobriety tests administered to him at the scene, a lack of credible eyewitnesses and the unavailability of key police testimony. Defense attorney F. Lee Bailey stated, "No one came forward in this case because everyone knows Mr. Bishop had an accident, plain and simple. Then things got out of control, as much due to overreaction on the part of law enforcement as anything else." Bailey said he has not decided whether he will file litigation against the city or against any of the officers involved.
I tried to find information about Bishop’s prior conviction for assault and battery in 1981, but couldn’t come up with any other reference to it.
I looked at the clock — 12:54 A.M. That didn’t leave much time for sleep. I turned off the computer and headed to bed. But as tired as I was, my mind kept racing as I lay there. Because I had the growing suspicion that Darwin Bishop was playing me. I just didn’t know exactly how — or precisely why. And while shielding a woman from harm can fill me with mixed-up pride, it is nothing compared to the energy that fills me when a man tries to use me, or bully me, or make me the fool. Maybe that surge of determination is all tied up with the rush of adrenaline that used to course through my bloodstream every time my father came up with some cockamamie reason to take his belt to me. Maybe my inability to step away from trouble, to retreat one inch from aggression, is irrational — rooted in a boy’s shame for yielding so much to a brutal father. But Dr. James never managed to untie that knot in my psyche, either.
* * *
Monday, June 24, 2002
The shuttle into LaGuardia was only eighty minutes late, so I arrived shortly before ten at Payne Whitney, a nondescript building at 68 th and York, on the New York Presbyterian Hospital-Cornell Medical Center campus. Billy Bishop was a patient on the third-floor locked unit for children and adolescents. I took the elevator up, followed signs down a long white hallway, and pressed the buzzer at the side of a gray steel door labeled ‘3 East.’ Through a security glass window in the middle of the door I could see girls and boys of various ages milling about the unit, while staff members circulated among them.
"Yes?" a female voice emanating from a speaker next to the door asked.
"I’m Dr. Clevenger," I said. "I’m here to interview Billy Bishop."
"We were expecting you at ten-thirty," she said.
"I’m early."
"Did you want to get a bite in the cafeteria?"
Psychiatry units are all about establishing boundaries and maintaining control. Patients whose minds are unraveling are comforted by the rigid structure. The trouble is the staff can get addicted to it, unable to budge an inch, on anything, for anyone. "No," I answered. "I already ate."
"There’s a very nice coffee shop across the street."
"I’d rather get started with the interview."
"I’ll find out whether that’s possible," the voice said coldly. "Please wait."
Five minutes passed before a portly woman about my age, wearing half-glasses and a blowzy Indian print dress, walked to the door, unlocked it, and let me in. Her graying hair was long and unruly. She wore half a dozen strands of pearls. "I’m Laura Mossberg," she said, in an unmistakable New York accent, "Billy’s attending psychiatrist."
I shook her hand. "Frank Clevenger."
"I’m sorry if the ward clerk put you off," Mossberg said.
"No problem," I said. "I’m forty minutes early. I know something like that can turn a locked unit inside out."
She laughed. "Why don’t we take a few minutes together in my office, then I’ll get
BISHOP’S DAY IN COURT
A Manhattan court dropped charges of driving under the influence, driving to endanger and resisting arrest lodged against Darwin Bishop, 45, of 32, East 49 th Street, citing questions about the validity of the field sobriety tests administered to him at the scene, a lack of credible eyewitnesses and the unavailability of key police testimony. Defense attorney F. Lee Bailey stated, "No one came forward in this case because everyone knows Mr. Bishop had an accident, plain and simple. Then things got out of control, as much due to overreaction on the part of law enforcement as anything else." Bailey said he has not decided whether he will file litigation against the city or against any of the officers involved.
I tried to find information about Bishop’s prior conviction for assault and battery in 1981, but couldn’t come up with any other reference to it.
I looked at the clock — 12:54 A.M. That didn’t leave much time for sleep. I turned off the computer and headed to bed. But as tired as I was, my mind kept racing as I lay there. Because I had the growing suspicion that Darwin Bishop was playing me. I just didn’t know exactly how — or precisely why. And while shielding a woman from harm can fill me with mixed-up pride, it is nothing compared to the energy that fills me when a man tries to use me, or bully me, or make me the fool. Maybe that surge of determination is all tied up with the rush of adrenaline that used to course through my bloodstream every time my father came up with some cockamamie reason to take his belt to me. Maybe my inability to step away from trouble, to retreat one inch from aggression, is irrational — rooted in a boy’s shame for yielding so much to a brutal father. But Dr. James never managed to untie that knot in my psyche, either.
* * *
Monday, June 24, 2002
The shuttle into LaGuardia was only eighty minutes late, so I arrived shortly before ten at Payne Whitney, a nondescript building at 68 th and York, on the New York Presbyterian Hospital-Cornell Medical Center campus. Billy Bishop was a patient on the third-floor locked unit for children and adolescents. I took the elevator up, followed signs down a long white hallway, and pressed the buzzer at the side of a gray steel door labeled ‘3 East.’ Through a security glass window in the middle of the door I could see girls and boys of various ages milling about the unit, while staff members circulated among them.
"Yes?" a female voice emanating from a speaker next to the door asked.
"I’m Dr. Clevenger," I said. "I’m here to interview Billy Bishop."
"We were expecting you at ten-thirty," she said.
"I’m early."
"Did you want to get a bite in the cafeteria?"
Psychiatry units are all about establishing boundaries and maintaining control. Patients whose minds are unraveling are comforted by the rigid structure. The trouble is the staff can get addicted to it, unable to budge an inch, on anything, for anyone. "No," I answered. "I already ate."
"There’s a very nice coffee shop across the street."
"I’d rather get started with the interview."
"I’ll find out whether that’s possible," the voice said coldly. "Please wait."
Five minutes passed before a portly woman about my age, wearing half-glasses and a blowzy Indian print dress, walked to the door, unlocked it, and let me in. Her graying hair was long and unruly. She wore half a dozen strands of pearls. "I’m Laura Mossberg," she said, in an unmistakable New York accent, "Billy’s attending psychiatrist."
I shook her hand. "Frank Clevenger."
"I’m sorry if the ward clerk put you off," Mossberg said.
"No problem," I said. "I’m forty minutes early. I know something like that can turn a locked unit inside out."
She laughed. "Why don’t we take a few minutes together in my office, then I’ll get
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