Dante's Dilemma (15 page)

The first sign of trouble came back at my desk, after I slit open the envelope and shook out the contents. In addition to a bunch of paper, I was expecting some kind of digital file. But there was none. No thumb drive or CD. No indication that any copy of Brad's report existed beyond what I was holding in my hot little hand. Maybe O'Malley had instructed him to limit the number of copies. Maybe Brad had been paranoid about its contents leaking out. The only sure thing was that it created a pain for me, since I would have to scan all the pages before I could listen to them on my computer. Sighing, I got that process underway, figuring from the size of the report it would take a good half hour.

There wasn't much to do while I waited, so I went over to my box of toys, found my Ohio Art Astro-Ray Gun set, taped the target to a bare section of wall, and spent the next twenty minutes shooting at it and feeling sorry for the children of today who have only video games to play with. I even managed to land a few suction darts on the six-inch cardboard circle.

When the scan was finally complete, I donned my headset and began listening.

While there are no hard-and-fast rules about how much should be included in a forensic report, Brad had done a very thorough job. His report began with a summary of the referral and the legal issues it was intended to address. This was followed by a chronological list of the dates he had met with Lazarus, including the nature of the contact—for example, interview, psychological testing, and so on—and the time spent during each session, all of it cross-referenced to his recordings and the Cook County Jail visitors' log. He identified his sources of information, such as academic, medical, and employment records, along with a list of each test and procedure he conducted. Last, before launching into an interpretation of the facts, he included a neutral, yet detailed description of Rachel Lazarus's background and the events leading up to her husband's death.

It was a well-organized document that up to this point gave no hint of the author's leanings in the best forensic-expert manner.

I read on, especially interested in how Brad had handled Lazarus's claimed inability to remember much about the night her husband died. Amnesia is easily faked and frequently fabricated, especially in legal settings where it may help excuse a defendant's conduct. Although clinicians are trained to ask questions that reveal when a subject is lying, nothing is foolproof and it's often difficult to say when reports of limited memory are genuine.

While not exactly “truth serums,” certain narcotics may be helpful in this situation to lower the amnesiac's defenses and permit “lost” memories to surface. Likewise, the examiner may try hypnosis. Both are controversial. Even in individuals like me with strong eidetic capabilities, memory is influenced by a number of factors and can never be deemed completely accurate. In addition, some individuals don't respond to drugs or hypnosis, especially if they have rehearsed a story many times.

With the permission of Lazarus's first attorneys, Brad had first elected to try Brevital, a general anesthetic administered intravenously. The Brevital interview was a complete failure. Even in a completely relaxed state, all Lazarus could remember was seeing her husband with his head smashed in and the poker in her hand, leading to her assumption they had fought. Hypnosis had also failed to elicit any more detailed recollections.

Brad had further tested whether Lazarus was feigning a mental disorder using a psychological assessment tool known as the Structured Interview of Reported Symptoms or SIRS, along with the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory and several other measures that also tend to reveal, if indirectly, whether or not an individual is mentally ill. The scores obtained from all these tests were consistent with the idea that Lazarus was under severe psychological stress both before and after she attacked her husband.

Pleased with where Brad's report seemed to be headed, I proceeded ahead quickly, setting my ears to browse mode and sending my cursor down the pages at a brisk pace, picking out bits and pieces of information but not giving them my full attention. My thoughts wandered, and I was lazily considering when to break for lunch when I reached the final section of the report.

Even then, I was several sentences into it before I realized what I was hearing.

“. . .
 firmly of the opinion that Ms. Lazarus is prevaricating
 . . .”

I stopped and sat straight up.

Removed my headset and let it drop to my shoulders.

Rubbed my ears.

Put the headset back on and returned the cursor to the top of the page.

But there it was, in stark black and white—or would been if I could have seen it on the screen:

“. . .
 regretfully unable to say that at the time of the alleged offense the accused suffering from a psychological disorder that affected her ability to perceive reality or distinguish between right and wrong. Though such conclusions depend a great deal on the subjective impressions of the examiner, I am firmly of the opinion that Ms. Lazarus is prevaricating about the circumstances surrounding her husband's murder
 . . .”

I felt the blood drain from my face and read on:

“
During numerous sessions in which I was able to assess Ms. Lazarus's truthfulness through careful observation of her facial expressions, mannerisms, and modes of speech, Ms. Lazarus appeared to me to be a talented, in fact pathological liar. It is, of course, not my role to adjudicate her guilt or innocence, and I leave it to the jury to decide whether she has been coached to tell a story that might bring down a lesser sentence upon her. But as a psychiatrist with many years' experience, the indications that she has consistently misrepresented her mental state, both on the date in question and throughout the period following her arrest and incarceration, are quite unmistakable. Indeed, one would have to be blind not to see them.
”

I felt unmistakably ill.

“
Which is not to say that Ms. Lazarus's reported symptoms lack any resemblance to those of a legitimate PTSD sufferer. To a less-experienced mental-health professional, or one harboring unacknowledged biases, her story might well be regarded as genuine and deserving of sympathy. The reality of psychiatry is that it is not a science. Opinions differ, and some practitioners will see the signs and symptoms of mental illness where none are reasonably present. I can only state my own views in the matter—namely, that Lazarus acted intentionally on the night she went to her husband's home, seeking retribution for what was concededly a lengthy history of domestic abuse, and that she was fully capable of appreciating the wrongful nature of her conduct when she murdered and subsequently mutilated him as a symbol of her deep-seated rage.
”

I was shaken to the core.

So I did the only thing I could think of under the circumstances.

I went down the hall to seek Sep's advice.

“Odd,” Sep remarked, after I'd finished telling him everything. “And nothing in any of his previous work predicted he would come out that way?”

I shook my head. “If I didn't know better, I'd think the last part of the report was written by an entirely different person.”

“I wouldn't rule that possibility completely out.”

“You mean that the report was altered? But how? The envelope it was in was taped shut when it was given to me, and it's been sitting here inside a locked file cabinet for all of the last month. Yelena may not be diligent in all things, but she guards my files as if they contained her entire collection of Victoria's Secret.”

“I wasn't suggesting it was tampered with. Didn't Stephens have Parkinson's disease?”

I considered this. “You're saying his reasoning may have been impaired?”

Sep said, “It's one hypothesis. The man was in his fifties, wasn't he? It's not unusual for Parkinson's patients to begin showing signs of dementia at that age.”

It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility, but I doubted it. “The last time I saw Brad, he seemed as sharp as ever. And the way the conclusion's written—other than coming completely out of left field—sounds professional enough. Take a look for yourself.”

Sep took a few minutes to read the pages I'd hurriedly gathered up from the scanner and brought with me. When he got to the end, he harrumphed and set them down on his desk with a disapproving thud. “Yes, he does seem very sure of himself. I didn't know the fellow all that well, but I'm afraid I agree with you. These aren't the words of a dementia patient. Tell me, was Stephens always this arrogant?”

I was quick to come to my dead friend's defense. “Arrogant? No, that's the last word I'd use to describe him. What makes you think so?”

“Presuming he could spot a liar from her body language. Yes, I'm aware that everyone thinks liars give themselves away. Upward eye movements and all that poppycock they teach at police academies and throw around on television. But it
is
a fiction. Or do you dispute that?”

I had—at one time. Though study after study shows that people identify liars no more accurately than a coin toss, there was a time when I was as unconvinced as the rest of the world, certain that if others could detect the lie on my face—if not the gymnastics of my overactive knee—I was equally skilled at interpreting the tics, body postures, and shifty glances that betrayed theirs. It was only when I could no longer see those things for myself that I conceded the possibility—no, the
necessity—
that the studies might be right.

Sep was quick to interpret my silence. “Is that what you're concerned about? That Stephens saw something you didn't?”

“You have to agree it's a legitimate fear.”

Sep sighed. A less astute man would have rushed in to offer platitudes and sugarcoated reassurances. Reminded me that I was still as good as I used to be, that a psychiatrist didn't really need his eyes to see what was in a person's heart. Not Sep, who always seemed to understand me better than I understood myself.

“Tell me everything you heard when you were with Lazarus,” he commanded quietly.

I took him through my interview, summarizing Lazarus's responses to my questions and describing the way she had phrased them. “She wasn't always eager, but she answered everything I asked—without hesitation or any kind of qualification.”

“And she wasn't being theatrical—trying to impress you with the severity of her symptoms?”

“No. If anything, she was downplaying them.”

“Inconsistencies in her story?”

“None.”

“What about her mood?”

“Somber and serious, but that's exactly what I would expect given the circumstances.”

“Any signs of disordered thinking?”

“No. She seemed well-grounded in reality—if showing all the signs of clinical depression. Honestly, I would never have guessed in a million years she was lying.”

Sep leaned back in his chair and was quiet for a moment. I visualized his characteristic pose when he was presented with a problem, steepled fingers against pursed lips, eyes fixed absently on some distant object.

“Well, then,” he said finally, “it sounds to me like you should trust your judgment. Or resign. There's no shame in backing out. Let someone else take your place.”

I considered telling him about Jonathan's implied threat but decided against it. It would only send Sep into a rage, and I couldn't prove anything—Jonathan had been too careful. “It's too late for that. And if I don't speak up for Lazarus, who will? But you see the predicament it puts me in?”

“Yes, that's obvious. You'll have to state your disagreement with Stephens for the record.”

“And I can't very well say Brad's opinion is ‘poppycock,' to use your phrase. Our entire system rests on the idea that the average man or woman can spot a liar at a glance. That's the whole reason we have juries, so they can decide—”

I stopped in midsentence, remembering something Hallie once told me.

A strategy had just suggested itself.

The only question was—could I make it work?

FIFTEEN

Ten days later, I was seated on one of the scarred benches at Twenty-Sixth and Cal, waiting to be called as a witness in the Lazarus trial.

When I arrived at the courthouse that morning, the television crews were out in droves, crowding the entrance like an impromptu carnival. Boris dropped me off next to one of the vans idling on the street, and I used the sound of the motor to find my way around the front bumper and to the curb. Even wrapped in my burka-like winter garb, the cane was a dead giveaway, and I hadn't gotten more than a few yards before I was stampeded by a posse of over-caffeinated journalists.
“Doctor, can you tell our viewers anything about your testimony today? Was Lazarus insane when she murdered her husband? Did she fear for her life?”
I managed to push all of them off except for a WGN anchorwoman who clung to me all the way up the walk to the door. “Have you been blind your whole life?” she asked just as I was about to escape inside. “Not yet,” I answered, leaving her to figure that one out.