Breach of Promise (21 page)

Sutton J. Hallard, Ph.D. Clinical and Forensic Psychology
It was dated and signed.

I looked up at Alex. “Meaning basically the guy knows whereof he speaks?”
“Just read,” Alex said.
I turned to the next page and saw this:

CONFIDENTIAL. DO NOT DUPLICATE FOR DISTRIBUTION. ALL INFORMATION CONTAINED HEREIN SHOULD BE KEPT FROM CHILDREN.

“This sounds horrible,” I said.
“The page you’re reading is boilerplate. Turn to the summary section, which starts—” Alex shuffled through the report—“on
page forty-eight
.”
I did as ordered and started to read.

“History!” My eyes were stinging with outrage. “Of abuse?” “We’ll get into that,” Alex said. “I want you to read the rest of the section.”

 

I tried, my face boiling all the way.

“Paranoia! Alex, this is so unfair.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I don’t want to read any more.”
“Read it, because you need to help me understand it.” “I’ll help you understand it. It’s all a lie.”
“All of it?”
I threw the report on the ground. “Whose side are you on?” Alex kept cool. “If you react this way in court, the judge is

going to conclude that the report is all true. Can you see that?”

Ms. Montgomery represents that she is fearful of Mr. Gillen’s anger, and what that might mean for her safety and that of Madeleine. While Mr. Gillen has expressed an interest in religion as a way to deal with his anger, he has not as yet taken any specific steps toward anger management. He does appear aware that he needs such counseling.

“Wow,” I said. “He threw me a bone.”

 

Alex said nothing.

Madeleine has been reluctant in her responses concerning her father. She expresses that she does not wish to visit with him unattended by a monitor, but that she would prefer there be no visitation.

My heart, broken in half, was now shattering into smaller bits. Tears came to my eyes. I tried to stop them, but there was no way.
I threw the report on Alex’s desk. “I can’t read anymore.”
Alex said, “Mark, I need you to—”
“No! Not now.” I turned toward the door.
“Mark—”
“Please. In God’s name. Do something.”
I left before she could say another word.

2

“You look bad,” Roland said.
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean Freddy Krueger bad. Ugly bad.”
“Thanks again.”
“Meaning what’s up?”
I was at Roland’s NOHO club again, sitting at a table with my

piano-playing friend, trying to get out of myself. I told him about the report issued by Sutton Hallard.
“Bad,” Roland opined.
“It’s like I’m in this nightmare I can’t wake up from.” I was working on a Coke, wishing it had a heavy dose of rum in it. But no, I was determined not to get back into the drinking thing.
“What’s next?” Roland said.
“The hearing. Comes up in a week.”
“What happens there?”
I shrugged. “The lawyers duke it out.”
“So will Maddie be there?”
“Probably not.”
“Paula?”
“For sure.”
“Troncatti?”
I lifted a glare. “If he is, I may do something I’ll regret.” “Don’t talk that way.”
“I mean, it’s all slipping away from me.”
“Your lawyer okay?”
“She’s not in the same league as the other guy. Money buys you certain things.”
“It’ll work out.” Roland patted my arm. “You’ll see.”
But I didn’t see. “What makes you such an optimist?”
“He’s watching.”
“Who?”
Roland pointed upward.
“God?”
Roland nodded.
“His eyesight isn’t so good.”
“God plays jazz.”
“Right.”
“No, think about it. God’s the ultimate jazz man. Bible says the universe was chaos till God starting playing. A riff on light, and there it was. Light! Plays a little with the ocean—fish! I mean, where’d that come from? Fish? Jazz. So he gets hot, keeps jamming, makes a man.”
“Big finish, huh?”
“Only he’s not finished. Man keeps messing up, doing bad things, hitting all the wrong notes. But God still plays so man can hear the music. And the great thing is, we can jam with him if we want to.” His face brightened. “This is good stuff. You writing this down?”
“Sorry.”
“Thanks a lot, man. I’m tossing out genius and you just sit there.”
“I heard you.”
“I hope so.” Roland stood up. “I gotta go play. Wait around, huh?”
I had another Coke as Roland got ready to play. Then Milo Ayers, the owner, came over to my booth. “Hey, good to see you, my friend.”
I shook his hand. “You too, Mr. Ayers.”
“How’s things?”
“Hanging in there.”
“You ever get a lawyer, like we talked about?”
“It’s been in all the papers,” I said.
“Never read ’em. Too depressing.”
“Yeah. I couldn’t afford your friend, but I found another one. I’m in the middle of things right now.”
Milo Ayers, like a concerned uncle, slid into the booth next to me. “She’s not cooperating, your wife?”
“No.”
“Going to court?”
“Soon.”
“You let me know how it turns out, eh?”
I looked at him, wondering why he should be so concerned about my little problems.
“I mean it,” he said. “Consider me a friend. Who can get things done.” He winked, patted me on the shoulder, and left.
And then Roland started playing a nice rendition of the old Billie Holiday song, “Ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do.”

3.

When I got to the courthouse on the big day (without the benefit of a sound sleep for at least a week), I could see there was a media camp set up on the walkway between the two main buildings. Word had gotten around that Troncatti and Paula were going to show up at the hearing together. I’d seen that report on a cable program, as if it were the opening night of some rock concert. These two were the new darlings of the paparazzi.

I, on the other hand, was the news equivalent of chopped liver. None of the eager reporters recognized me as I made my way from an overpriced downtown parking lot toward the security doors of the Los Angeles Superior Courthouse. As anonymous as an unproduced screenwriter, I ambled past the reporters, who had the look of circling sharks in their eyes. I just wanted to get inside with the real sharks—the lawyers who would be doing battle for my future.

But along the way, I changed my mind. In Los Angeles, live media events are not to be avoided. I was half an hour early anyway. So I bought an
LA Times
from the machine and waited to catch the show like everyone else.

I also knew, but didn’t want to admit, that I wanted to see Paula, live and in person. I wanted to watch her body language as she made her appearance. Maybe I was just a glutton for punishment.

There was no mention in the
Times
of the hearing, or Troncatti and Paula. Not that I could find, anyway. Instead there was the usual spate of bad news from the Middle East, our own inner city, along with today’s special guest disaster area, Tennessee, which was experiencing massive flooding.

The world, in other words, was spiraling along as always, and for a fleeting moment I forgot about my troubles. Who was I, in the grand scheme of things? With people being slaughtered over barren strips of land, or losing their homes and, in some cases, lives, under the grinding forces of nature?

Who cared what happened to me?
The answer came like a cliché: God. God was supposed to care. That was what I was told in church, in Bible study, by friends. So maybe there would indeed be a party of One who gave a rip about what became of Mark Gillen after today.
Can you hear that, Lord? Consider it a prayer, will you?

I turned to the sports section. The Dodgers were in the wild card hunt, half a game behind the Giants. Then I noticed the reporters suddenly start to mill around like anxious sheep. Camera lights flicked on, making it seem like a small, artificial sun just erupted. People on the outside got the message something was up and angled in for a closer look. I was one of those people.

And suddenly, there they were.
Troncatti was taller than I thought he’d be. He wore the obligatory shades and had some sort of furry thing around his neck— either the carcass of a weasel or a fashionable item from some Italian men’s store. His hair was longish and stylishly unstyled. His bearing was roguish and bad-little-boy. Along with plenty of money.
Paula was also in dark glasses along with a thousand pounds of jewelry. I could hardly believe it. She’d gone from being a good, working actress to some sort of Brentwood diva. I remembered reading about Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton back in the sixties. How they hooked up and became jet-set icons and “stars” more than real actors who cared about the craft.
Was that what I was observing now? The ruination of Paula Montgomery? We used to talk about how we wanted to be real actors, do Shakespeare together, maybe start a theater company someday. Dreams. Everything fades in the green light of money and the crush of media attention.
Troncatti started making some statement. Bryce Jennings, shorter than the director, was almost obscured by the thrusting microphones. He’d do his talking in court, of course, but right now he seemed more like a puppet master. Did he have his hand up Troncatti’s back, controlling the whole deal?
I edged closer, trying to catch some of what Troncatti was saying. Like most Italians, he was doing a lot of talking with his hands. And I could tell, even from this distance, that this guy had a personal magnetism that would be hard to resist.
The reporters weren’t resisting at all. They were eating up his every word. And I had a quick, stomach-churning thought that I wasn’t in this guy’s league, never would be, and no wonder Paula was attracted to him.
Paula was standing by his side, holding his arm, but looking subdued. No smile on her. I thought for a second she was going to turn and run toward the courthouse. That would have been news.
But she didn’t move. She kept her lips pursed and her gaze forward while Troncatti kept flapping his yapper.
I strained to hear.
“—to all of our friends,” he was saying in his accented voice, “and their support, we cannot say more. We are grateful for what is being shown to us. But we remember, always, this is not about the two of us alone, but of Maddie, beautiful Maddie, and what is best for her.”
My heart was really pumping now and the air felt hot and sticky. I was starting to sweat under my arms. But still I couldn’t turn away. It was like watching a car wreck; the car wreck was me.
Voices shouted more questions. Troncatti started to answer, but then Jennings stepped in and took over. He pulled Troncatti forward, parting the Red Sea of reporters. From where I was standing, near a brown trash can, the Israelite army would pass within a few yards.
I waited, hoping to get a closer look at the happy couple.
Paula glanced over and saw me, through a crack in the reporter mob. Very clearly and directly, her dark glasses looked at my face. I knew she saw me, because her mouth dropped open a little.
The power of surprise.
What surprised
me
was how I felt. I didn’t know I was capable of such depths of hatred and rage. But the surprising thing, the shocking thing, the thing that almost sent me screaming into the street, was the other part of the feeling—longing.

Y ou’re so sunk. You still love her. Even while she and Italy Boy are sticking the spikes in you!
And then, just as quickly, she had her back turned to me. The reporters, amoeba-like, moved almost as one organism, after the couple du jour. And I almost lost my breakfast. I realized I was hugging the trash can to keep from doubling over.

4

“Remain seated and come to order,” the bailiff said. “This court is now in session. The Honorable Harold J. Winger presiding.”
The judge, his robe sweeping along with him, hotfooted it to the bench. He looked all business today. And like he’d already made up his mind.
My neck started to itch, in part because my shirt collar was too tight. I hadn’t bought a new shirt in years, or worn a tie in months. Sweating outside during the little press conference didn’t help. It was just past nine on a hot morning and stains were already appearing under my arms. The air conditioning in the courtroom was a little too cold. I’d probably come out with a case of pneumonia. But that was the least of my worries.
My biggest worries were sitting on the other side of the courtroom. Paula was enthroned, like a queen, next to Bryce Jennings. Troncatti was in the gallery section, near the slatted wood wall. He still had his dark glasses on. His limo driver, who I had somehow missed on the outside, was seated next to him, all brooding and Vin Diesel-like. Troncatti’s bad boy bodyguard. There were a couple extra deputy sheriffs in the aisles, no doubt to keep autograph hunters and troublemakers at bay. A whole bunch of reporters, ready to scribble, were in the other seats.
“This is a custody hearing in the matter of Montgomery versus Gillen,” the judge said. “State your appearances.”
The reptile representing my wife stood up. His suit was perfect. Some men just are born to wear expensive clothes. Jennings was one of them. I wanted to stuff one of my nice T-shirts into his mouth.
“Good morning, Your Honor. Bryce Jennings for the petitioner, Paula Montgomery.”
My lawyer, raring to go, got to her feet. “Alex Bedrosian for the respondent, Your Honor.”
“Parties are present with counsel,” Judge Winger said. “Very well. Mr. Jennings, call your first witness.”
Jennings swept his arm toward the gallery. “Petitioner calls Dr. Sutton Hallard.”
Like a rabbit appearing out of a hat, Sutton Hallard stood and ambled down the aisle. Reporters craned their necks and wrote in their little pads. The drama was about to begin.
Hallard stood like a bedpost as the clerk swore him in. Then he took his spot on the witness stand. He looked fresh and composed, as if he’d done this a thousand times before. Which he probably had.
“Good morning, Dr. Hallard,” Jennings said, as if this were some tea party.
One lump or two?
I thought.
“Good morning,” Dr. Hallard said.
“You are the court certified evaluator in this matter?”
“I am.”
Jennings snagged some papers from his table. “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”
“You may,” said the judge.
Jennings placed the papers on the rail of the witness box. “Is this the report you prepared and submitted to the court?”
Hallard gave it a quick glance. “Yes, it is.”
“Is that your signature on the cover of the report?”
“It is.”
“Thank you. I am not going to go over all of the ground you covered here, Doctor. The court has read the report. I would, however, like to have you expand upon a few matters.”
“I’d be happy to.”
I just bet you would,
I thought.
In your completely objective and unbiased fashion, right? And what right do you have to be happy about it?
“Dr. Hallard, on
page seven
of the report you reference Mr. Gillen’s charge that his monitored visit with Madeleine on August 17 was
sabotaged.
You also state that the evidence for any interference with this visit was not forthcoming, and further that Ms. Montgomery denies any such charge. Do you recall that?”
“I do.”
“Is it uncommon for one party in a custody dispute, such party being challenged on his or her parental competence, to react with charges against the other party that may, in fact, be completely fabricated?”
“Objection,” Alex said. “Assumes facts not in evidence. The report of Dr. Hallard is only his opinion.”
“It is merely a hypothetical, counsel,” Bryce Jennings said with a condescending smirk. He looked at the judge. “I am entitled to ask a hypothetical question. This witness is an expert. The court has approved him in that regard. Further, the evidence code permits facts or data which are reasonably relied upon by experts in their particular field, to be considered in a hypothetical question. Such data is in the report.”
“Whether this data is reasonable is what is at issue,” Alex said. “Much of what is in this report is bogus.”
“All right,” Judge Winger said. “I’m going to overrule the objection. You will have the chance to cross-examine the witness, Ms. Bedrosian. Go ahead, Mr. Jennings.”
Bryce Jennings repeated the hypothetical.
“No,” Sutton Hallard said, “it is not uncommon for this to occur. It is, in fact, all too frequent. When one party perceives that evidence is mounting against him, resorting to false charges may be the last, desperate ploy.”
The good doctor was calling me a liar, a desperate liar willing to say anything to win. Funny, but I thought that was what Bryce Jennings was.
Why don’t you psychoanalyze him, Sutton? There’s one for your medical journals.
The assassination of the character of Mark Gillen continued. Jennings asked, “Does it sometimes happen that the party making the allegations actually comes to believe they are based on fact, when they are not?”
“Sometimes, yes.”
“In which case, the party is somewhat delusional?”
“Or perhaps completely delusional. But, I must add, this is rare.”
“But it does happen?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have an opinion as to whether it has happened to Mr. Gillen?”
Sutton Hallard’s beady eyes—at least that’s how they looked to me, Mr. Delusional—bore in on me for a second.
“I would not like to speculate on that,” he said.
How big of you,
I thought.
But you’ll speculate on everything else.
The witness added, “Although . . .”
“Yes?” Bryce Jennings prodded.
“There is an aspect to Mr. Gillen’s behavior that may point, in a small way, in that direction.”
My hands were squeezing the sides of my chair now. Was I hearing right? Was he going to say I really was delusional, crazy, a wild-eyed danger to society? If he was, I thought I might prove him right by jumping into the witness box and pulling his tie extra tight.
“What aspect would that be?” Bryce Jenning asked.
“Mr. Gillen has made a sudden leap into religion,” the good doctor explained. “This coincides with the timing of this custody dispute. Now, religion can be a perfectly healthy way for people to deal with problems in their lives. But under certain conditions, it can be an escape from reality.”
I had this terrible feeling that Hallard had rehearsed this little speech, and he and Jennings had set it up to appear spontaneous. My anger was flaring, but if I was going to be painted as a religious nut, I thought it might be good for some Old Testament action to happen right here in court. Maybe a pillar of fire to consume Hallard and Bryce Jennings, right in front of everyone’s eyes.
Is that admissible enough for you, Your Honor?
Hallard continued. “In this instance, from what I have gathered from Mr. Gillen, he has gone rather quickly into a constricting form of Christianity. It offers him the sudden and comforting appearance of black and white, good and evil, and makes it easy for him to separate himself from Ms. Montgomery in this fashion. This, of course, raises concerns for—”
“Objection!” Alex’s voice rang out, louder than I’d ever heard it. “Is this court seriously going to entertain the religious bigotry we are hearing from this witness?”
Winger drummed his fingers on the bench. “Do you have grounds for your objection?”
“Relevance to start with. Materiality. Competence. This witness is not an expert in the field of religion. Furthermore, we have First Amendment implications here. The right of free exercise. To make my client’s religious affiliation grounds for denying custody is unconstitutional.”
“If I may?” Bryce Jennings said.
Judge Winger nodded at him.
“Ms. Bedrosian’s impassioned speech notwithstanding, there is a line of cases which makes religious affiliation one of several factors to consider in custody matters. The court must always seek the best interest of the child, and how religion may affect the child is of critical importance. It is quite true that religion alone has not been held dispositive. However, it has certainly been considered along with all other factors. If the court wishes, I can prepare points and authorities.”
“I am aware of the cases,” Judge Winger said. “What about Ms. Bedrosian’s argument that Dr. Hallard is not an expert in the field of religion?”
“If Your Honor please, I can qualify him in that regard.”
“Go ahead.”
Jennings turned back to Hallard. “Doctor, what is your background with regard to religious studies and its psychological impacts?”
“As part of my doctoral program at Johns Hopkins, I took a seminar in comparative religion with Dr. Simon Stuart, of Princeton Theological Seminary. That resulted in a paper in which I compared the religious teachings of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam with regard to the mind’s place in monotheistic moral systems.”
If this was gobbledygook, it was sure impressive sounding. I could feel the heat emanating off Alex. She wanted to get at this guy. But did she have the weapons?
“I also contributed a paper to the
Journal of Theological Studies
on the impact of religion on various mental states.”
“Is one of those mental states relevant to this case?”
“Yes. I have concluded that Mr. Gillen has a problem with anger, and that is one of the mental states I explored in this paper.”
“Your Honor,” Jennings said to Judge Winger, “I submit that Dr. Hallard is qualified to offer an expert opinion in the matter of religion, when it has a direct bearing on the question to be decided, namely, the competence of Mr. Gillen as a parent.”
With hardly a second to think of it, Judge Winger said, “I agree.”
Alex objected again, the judge denied it again, and Bryce Jennings smiled as he asked his next question.
“How do anger and religion play a role in the matters at issue?”
“It is quite common for the sudden adherence to a fundamental religion to result in the subject’s attempt to sublimate, rather than deal openly with, perceived personality problems. In the case of anger, the subject may attempt for a time to keep from expressions of anger and may even be successful in the short term.”
“What about the long term?”
“Inevitably, the suppression results in an explosion. A fit of rage may result with attendant violent manifestations. The subject, feeling massive guilt, may then go to the opposite extreme in his religious life.”
“Expand on that, if you will.”
“There will be a tendency to become something of a fanatic in religious exercise. And this is where I am most concerned about the child in this case.”
“Tell the court.”
Sutton Hallard, all professional dignity and with the calm of a professional hit man, half-smiled at the judge. “I am concerned that Madeleine would be subject to the more harmful effects of religious fundamentalism with Mr. Gillen. His religious sensibilities are still quite new, and until there is a record of his being able to deal with those, I fear harm may come to the child.”
“What sort of harm?”
“It runs the gamut, from psychological harm in the form of thought control, to physical violence in the form of corporal punishment.”
Alex couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Your Honor, I object in the strongest terms possible to this testimony, ask that it be stricken, and that you do not consider it in any way in your decision. This is patently unconstitutional and outside the purview of this witness’s alleged expertise.”
The entire courtroom seemed to take a collective breath. The judge thought about it for about two seconds.
“Overruled.”
I felt like I’d been socked in the mouth, and I know Alex felt the same. We were both reeling as Bryce Jennings finished with Sutton Hallard.
Alex requested a short recess.