1962, Wednesday, San Francisco
A clergyman or other person in religious orders and an FBI agent Sanders enter my office.
"Good evenin, Miss Kelly. Father Samuel John and I are here to ask you a few questions about your work here. Hope you don't mind too much."
That roughly translates to all show and no go.
"Good evening, why don't you both sit down for a minute?"
It's time to be deliberately ambiguous.
"As a person who does not acknowledge our God, you seem pleasantly calm Miss Kelly, nevertheless you are deviating from what is considered moral or right or proper."
That makes agent Sanders want to adjust his tie.
A longing for something better than the present situation licks me right in the face as they sit down.
"Father Samuel, I believe in myself and my abilities as a psychiatrist. My patients show very good signs of recovery." I say attempting to pass on showing concern for the welfare of others.
"How can describe your activity here Miss Kelly?
"Activity involved in keeping something in good working order."
That response is satisfying Sanders enough.
"Miss Kelly, your radically distinctive and without equal approach to your patients causes suicide. When their families leave them here they decide their family member is mentally unstable. On the other hand, you fix on asking your patients what is wrong with their life when you already know."
Someone might have tied a few loose ends together.
"A human being deserves such a question agent Sanders. My activity, as you call it, is something that aids them."
"Miss Kelly, are you telling us that your motivation is based on ideas of right and wrong?"
"The state of being under the control of another person is not easy for anybody. And a religious doctrine proclaimed as true without proof doesn't cure my patients either."
"This is not a kindly and lenient attitude toward people."
Father Samuel John replies this time.
"Believing the worst of human nature and motives is not a treatment Father Samuel. I am marked by sound judgment."
He doesn't reply this time because he was about to say something he would regret later on.
Sanders clears his throat. "How many patients do you have right now Miss Kelly?"
"Eleven."
"I will need names, Miss Kelly."
From the left pocket of his jacket, he removes a black leather notepad wallet and a Paper Mate red ballpoint pen that he probably stole from his younger daughter.
"Michael Lozano, David Boyce, James Reyna, Mary Costa, Susan Ervin, Linda Bolden, Patricia Montes, Karen Zuniga, Donna Crow, Cynthia Nix and Debra Roe."
"Jobs."
"Michael Lozano used to clean electric motors and being generally useful in rewind business between 9 a.m and 6 p.m. David Boyce worked as a trainee supervisor for Radio Manufacturing. James Reyna was a barman. Mary Costa looked after six children as some sort of mother's help. Susan Ervin, washer-up after 5.30. Linda Bolden never had a job. Patricia Montes was a bookkeeper in Newport Beach. Karen Zuniga finished a Stenotype course."
I make a small pause pretending to feel bad for talking too fast
"A woman can truly write her own paycheck."
And another one with a smile.
"Donna Crow made money making donuts. Cynthia Nix worked as a registered nurse and Debra Roe had her future on as a machine operator."
Gloria comes into my office yet again without knocking and startles Father Samuel John.
"Lozano refuses to take his medication. Do something."
A feeling of thankfulness and appreciation for her mindless remark smacks me into a better mood.
Three seconds after that she slams the door and runs somewhere.
Agent Sanders gets up to leave and Father Samuel mimics his behavior like a lost child.
"We'll come back another time, Miss Kelly. Drive home safe."
