Post by Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask on Dec 21, 2012 5:06:45 GMT -5
"...I think there's something you need to understand about Arkham Asylum," Jeremiah peered over the wiry frames of his glasses and the lacquered surface of his desk. Before him sat a representative for the Prosecution. Of course he'd not known it at first, but not only had the last hour of conversation proved that true, but Dr. Arkham had made that assumption the moment the man had entered his office and taken the seat he'd been offered. Jeremiah knew their type.
It wasn't the immaculateness of dress, though they always were sharply dressed: shirt tucked, tie straight, cuffs buttoned and with flashy, polished cufflinks on their suit jackets. It was the toss of their heads. They held their chins up, gave him smug smiles as if they were the educated ones. In fact, that's exactly what was happening at that moment.
Jeremiah kept his own face straight compared to the lawyer's even, white smile. Dr. Arkham stood up, his lab coat discarded over the back of his chair. The sleeves of his chocolate button-up were pushed to his elbows. He moved to stand in front of the seated man and leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed. "To be more specific, you need to understand something about Arkham as it pertains to your defendant. This facility was built in the early 1920s to deal with those of society whose...appetites[/u] were more depraved than the usual mental patients. My uncle believed insanity and perversion to be a disease, despite succumbing to that which he wanted to oust. Unfortunate that he too went insane, but a philosophy such as his was not usual at the time. Of course his outlook never changed, even as he too lost his mind, but that's a story for another time. You're here to talk about-"[/color]
"Yes, and as I've said, some of his malicious and depraved state of mind has not need to be in facility having idle chit-chat or flirting with his doctors. He is not only aware of his crimes, but he takes pride in them, which is exactly why he should-"
"Remain here."
The lawyer's head snapped up and Jeremiah gave him an exasperated smile. "And you'd send him where, Blackgate? Listen, I completely agree with you. He's absolutely and cognitively responsible for his crimes, but it's not as simple as that." He uncrossed his arms and braced himself against the desk. "The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane is this place's proper name. Your defendant suffered a severe psychotic break resulting from the incident of having a wooden mask burned into his face. He is not merely a patient, you understand."
"No," the man still seated shook his head, "I don't. I don't follow at all."
Jeremiah pursed his lips and looked above the man as if seeing beyond the room. He shook his head. "I shouldn't have presumed. Perhaps my words were not as predictable as I thought." He returned his gaze to him. 'Or you're even more of an ape than I thought before.' He straightened.
"This facility isn't coddling him. It's using him. Roman Sionis, your self-proclaimed Black Mask, is a learning opportunity. He can fill the role of garden variety crime head, but he's much more than that. If understanding can he made of him, it could mean many things for the betterment of Gotham. You see, you assume wrong about my operations, Mr. Stiles." Jeremiah strolled back around his desk to grab his coat. "I care very much about the mentality of my patients, but one goal of mine is not merely giving these men and women their own private island, I house them here for many reasons. They're safer here for one. Prison would be even better for many of them, but my main goal is understanding." He slipped his lab coat over his shoulders and brushed at the wrinkles. "Your judge need a diagnosis? I can give him one. My secretary will show you out."
He had patients to see.
That had been days ago, and yet the conversation still rang in his head. Stiles hadn't understood. He hadn't even taken anything of value from their conversation. That was obvious, in that his office and secretary were still receiving calls from him and his firm about when they would get his diagnosis.
Jeremiah was not a fool. Most of his "criminally insane" patients would never be cured and even cured, they wouldn't be released. They'd be declared fit for trial and then carted right off to court where they would be lucky to get life. But freedom?
What a lie.
Arkham Asylum wasn't just an institution of mental health. It was a prison, a prison separate from Gotham's main of Blackgate. They could lock away the worst of Gotham's nasties in Arkham. They could make them someone else's problem; it was cheaper to lock them away for life behind Arkham's bars instead of frying them. It always came down to money. It always would. Money, fear, and cruelty--they made the world go round. Then every so often there would come a cocky lawyer; someone who wanted to make a name for themselves that would come slithering into Arkham spouting their morality and ethics nonsense. They wanted to change the world, or so they wanted everyone to think. It was always about greed.
The patients, inmates, prisoners would always return to Arkham. Nothing and no one would change that. Jeremiah just took advantage of it. He made the best out of a bad situation. He used his patients, the ones society ousted to learn.
They were the brightest, the best, the sickest. And Jeremiah Arkham would understand. There nothing left but to understand. They were incurable and in the world, Dr. Arkham had seen, they were some of the sanest.
Jeremiah sat within one of the bland session rooms in Arkham, notebook atop the table along with a tape recorder. He had a pen in his pocket and his eyes glanced to his wrist. Any minute now, Roman would be escorted in and the session would begin. Had this been a normal day, Arkham would simply have constructed his report from the notes of Mr. Sionis's doctor, but the woman had quit. Roman had done something. How typical, but if Stiles wanted his report so had, he'd receive it hand-typed and sealed by Dr. Arkham himself.
He plucked his glasses from the front pocket of his lab coat and slipped them over his nose.
It wasn't the immaculateness of dress, though they always were sharply dressed: shirt tucked, tie straight, cuffs buttoned and with flashy, polished cufflinks on their suit jackets. It was the toss of their heads. They held their chins up, gave him smug smiles as if they were the educated ones. In fact, that's exactly what was happening at that moment.
Jeremiah kept his own face straight compared to the lawyer's even, white smile. Dr. Arkham stood up, his lab coat discarded over the back of his chair. The sleeves of his chocolate button-up were pushed to his elbows. He moved to stand in front of the seated man and leaned back against the edge of his desk, arms crossed. "To be more specific, you need to understand something about Arkham as it pertains to your defendant. This facility was built in the early 1920s to deal with those of society whose...appetites[/u] were more depraved than the usual mental patients. My uncle believed insanity and perversion to be a disease, despite succumbing to that which he wanted to oust. Unfortunate that he too went insane, but a philosophy such as his was not usual at the time. Of course his outlook never changed, even as he too lost his mind, but that's a story for another time. You're here to talk about-"[/color]
"Yes, and as I've said, some of his malicious and depraved state of mind has not need to be in facility having idle chit-chat or flirting with his doctors. He is not only aware of his crimes, but he takes pride in them, which is exactly why he should-"
"Remain here."
The lawyer's head snapped up and Jeremiah gave him an exasperated smile. "And you'd send him where, Blackgate? Listen, I completely agree with you. He's absolutely and cognitively responsible for his crimes, but it's not as simple as that." He uncrossed his arms and braced himself against the desk. "The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane is this place's proper name. Your defendant suffered a severe psychotic break resulting from the incident of having a wooden mask burned into his face. He is not merely a patient, you understand."
"No," the man still seated shook his head, "I don't. I don't follow at all."
Jeremiah pursed his lips and looked above the man as if seeing beyond the room. He shook his head. "I shouldn't have presumed. Perhaps my words were not as predictable as I thought." He returned his gaze to him. 'Or you're even more of an ape than I thought before.' He straightened.
"This facility isn't coddling him. It's using him. Roman Sionis, your self-proclaimed Black Mask, is a learning opportunity. He can fill the role of garden variety crime head, but he's much more than that. If understanding can he made of him, it could mean many things for the betterment of Gotham. You see, you assume wrong about my operations, Mr. Stiles." Jeremiah strolled back around his desk to grab his coat. "I care very much about the mentality of my patients, but one goal of mine is not merely giving these men and women their own private island, I house them here for many reasons. They're safer here for one. Prison would be even better for many of them, but my main goal is understanding." He slipped his lab coat over his shoulders and brushed at the wrinkles. "Your judge need a diagnosis? I can give him one. My secretary will show you out."
He had patients to see.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That had been days ago, and yet the conversation still rang in his head. Stiles hadn't understood. He hadn't even taken anything of value from their conversation. That was obvious, in that his office and secretary were still receiving calls from him and his firm about when they would get his diagnosis.
Jeremiah was not a fool. Most of his "criminally insane" patients would never be cured and even cured, they wouldn't be released. They'd be declared fit for trial and then carted right off to court where they would be lucky to get life. But freedom?
What a lie.
Arkham Asylum wasn't just an institution of mental health. It was a prison, a prison separate from Gotham's main of Blackgate. They could lock away the worst of Gotham's nasties in Arkham. They could make them someone else's problem; it was cheaper to lock them away for life behind Arkham's bars instead of frying them. It always came down to money. It always would. Money, fear, and cruelty--they made the world go round. Then every so often there would come a cocky lawyer; someone who wanted to make a name for themselves that would come slithering into Arkham spouting their morality and ethics nonsense. They wanted to change the world, or so they wanted everyone to think. It was always about greed.
The patients, inmates, prisoners would always return to Arkham. Nothing and no one would change that. Jeremiah just took advantage of it. He made the best out of a bad situation. He used his patients, the ones society ousted to learn.
They were the brightest, the best, the sickest. And Jeremiah Arkham would understand. There nothing left but to understand. They were incurable and in the world, Dr. Arkham had seen, they were some of the sanest.
Jeremiah sat within one of the bland session rooms in Arkham, notebook atop the table along with a tape recorder. He had a pen in his pocket and his eyes glanced to his wrist. Any minute now, Roman would be escorted in and the session would begin. Had this been a normal day, Arkham would simply have constructed his report from the notes of Mr. Sionis's doctor, but the woman had quit. Roman had done something. How typical, but if Stiles wanted his report so had, he'd receive it hand-typed and sealed by Dr. Arkham himself.
He plucked his glasses from the front pocket of his lab coat and slipped them over his nose.
