At the defense table, Chrissy sobbed quietly. Schein's mouth moved but nothing came out. He reached for the pitcher, and his hand shook as he poured water into a glass. It took another moment for him to have a sip, then say, "No. My personal feelings had nothing whatsoever to do with my diagnosis."
"Then why, Doctor, even after Chrissy denied that her father abused her, did you suggest that he had?"
"I didn't suggest anything. I continued the inquiry."
"So you did," I said, hitting the Play button.
"Christina, memory is a funny thing. There are memories we recall and some we just feel. What do you feel?"
''I don't know. Strange things.''
"Ah, that may be the beginning. Do you know what sex is?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever have sex with your father?"
A sob. Then,
"I don't remember that."
''But you 're crying. Why are you crying?"
''I don't know.''
"Christina, have you ever seen the tracks of a wild animal in the woods?"
"Not in the woods, but I've seen turtle tracks on the beach."
"And did you see the turtle, too?"
"Not always. Sometimes just the tracks."
"But you knew the turtle had been there."
"Yes."
"I can see the tracks of the animal all through your life. The monster has been there. I think you see it, too, but you've covered it with layers of dirt. Can we scrape through that dirt, can we uncover the monster?"
''I don't know.''
Click.
"What was that, Doctor?"
"What?"
"Didn't you just hit the Stop button before asking more questions?"
He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "No, I wouldn't do that."
I stopped the tape and gestured toward Margie, the court reporter, huddled over her stenograph. "Because that would be the equivalent of the reporter failing to take down some of these proceedings, correct?"
"I suppose."
"Which would create a false record, isn't that right?"
"I don't know if I'd say false, but at least an incomplete record," Schein said.
"And therefore a misleading record?" I do not give up easily.
Exasperated now. "Yes, it could be."
Sometimes the truth comes hard, but as Charlie would say,
magna est veritas
.
Again, I hit the Play button, and after a few seconds, we heard Schein's voice.
"Let's talk about your father."
"I always loved my daddy. Always."
"Good Chrissy. That's a good girl."
"And my daddy always loved me."
"Did he?"
"Daddy told me I was his best girl, and now that Mommy's sick, I . . ."
"What, Christina?"
"I remember now. I remember."
"Very good, Christina. Very good. What do you remember?"
"I make Daddy happy. I pretend I'm Mommy."
"Does he come to your bedroom?"
"Yes."
"Do you have sex with your daddy?"
"Of course I do, silly. I'm his wife."
I shot a look at the jury. Appalled. Disgusted. Compassion for little Chrissy. Which I needed to convert into compassion for big Chrissy, and to do that, I had to prove that something worse had happened to Chrissy than being abused by her father. I had to prove she had been tricked into killing the innocent father she loved by a devious shrink who had implanted false memories in her.
"Now, Dr. Schein, what happened when the recorder was turned off?"
"I have no recollection. I don't know. I could have made a phone call. It could have been anything."
"Anything? Including suggesting to Chrissy—your hypnotized, drugged, anxiety-ridden patient—that her father committed unspeakable acts though she could not remember them?"
"No! I didn't do that."
And I couldn't prove it. But I sure as hell could suggest it.
I played three more tapes, each more graphic than the last. From the anguish in Chrissy's voice, there was no doubt she believed her father had abused her. That was the tightrope I had to walk. She might have shot an innocent man, but she sure as hell believed he was guilty. At the defense table, Chrissy sat looking straight ahead. The jury could see that magnificent profile, a single tear tracking down a cheekbone.
I thumbed through my notes and took a deep breath. All I had to do now was take the damning evidence against my client and turn it around. Finally, I announced, "Your Honor, we'd like to play the last tape, number twenty-seven."
I waited for Socolow, and it didn't take long. "Judge, there's no such tape on the exhibit list," he said. "It stops at twenty-six."
I walked toward the prosecution table and handed Abe a transcript of the final tape. "It's newly discovered evidence," I said placidly, "and there's no prejudice to the state."
"No prejudice!" Abe seemed happy to be angry. "There's always prejudice in surprise. Unless there's a good reason for the failure to discover . . ."
Abe stopped. He was reading the transcript. Then he looked up at me and whispered, "Are you crazy, Jake? You'll be disbarred for incompetence."
"If that were an offense, half our brethren would be selling whole life," I whispered back.
"Gentlemen," the judge interrupted, "would you care to include me in your colloquy?"
"The state withdraws its objection," Socolow said, trying to stifle his smile.
The first voice was Chrissy's.
"I've thought more about what we discussed yesterday."
"The need for goals?" Schein.
"No. What we talked about afterward."
"Oh, that."
"I've made a decision that you're not going to like."
''Maybe you shouldn't tell me.''
"But I've told you everything else. I can't imagine not telling you first.''
"All right then. But first, let me . . ."
The familiar sound of papers rustling and a chair squeaking and a click. Not the internal sound of the recorder being turned off, but the tape picking up the sound of a button being pushed on a different recorder. I hit the Stop button.
"What was that sound?" I asked.
"I must have turned off the recorder."
"So you were mistaken a few minutes ago about never turning off the recorder in the middle of a session?"
He threaded his hands together and twisted them at his knuckles. "Yes, but . . . well, there was the auxiliary recorder, so there was really no loss of information. I mean, the tape we're hearing is from the auxiliary recorder."
"But you didn't turn over this tape to the state, did you?"
"No, it must have been . . . overlooked."
"And you didn't give it to me until the eve of trial?"
He reddened. He had never thought I'd use it. Why would I? It proved the state's case of premeditation.
"No, as I say, I had forgotten all about it."
"And you never told Chrissy about it?"
"No."
I hit Play.
"Is it off?" Chrissy.
"It's off." Schein.
"Well, like I said, I was thinking . . ."
"Yes?"
"I've bought a gun."
"I thought you were just going to visualize it."
"No. That's not enough. I've got to kill him."
"Figuratively? As part of therapy?"
"C'mon, Larry. That isn't what you meant. It couldn't be."
"I didn't mean anything. I raised certain hypothetical actions, all intended to be therapeutic.
"I decided last night. I couldn't sleep. I haven't slept through the night in weeks. I'm having nightmares and migraines.''
"It's all part of the process. The pain is coming out. "
"No, it's not. May it will after . . ."
"After?"
"I'm going to kill my father for raping me. I'm going to kill him for ruining my life and for ruining Mom's. "
"What would that solve?"
"I don't know. But I'm going to do it. You've shown me what the bastard did to me. Now I know why everything in my life has been so—''
"You'll be caught."
"I saw on Oprah, the other day, a woman who shot her husband after he'd beaten her. She got off."
"I don't know.''
"Oh, Larry, don't look so depressed. That's funny, isn't it? I mean, you're treating me, and I say you're depressed.''
"You know I can't endorse what you're planning."
"You can't stop me either. "
"I'm not even sure you're serious. Most people never act on their revenge fantasies.''
"You've helped me so much. I'll just be so glad when it's over."
"What, therapy?"
"No, Larry, when the bastard is dead."
The tape ran out, and the jurors exchanged glances. Why's the shyster trashing his case? Just hold on, ladies and gentlemen. There's still a rabbit in the hat.
"Dr. Schein, you knew you were being recorded, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"And my client didn't?"
"That's correct."
"Which is a crime in this state," I said in my best accusing tone.
"I didn't know that," Schein replied.
I moved back behind the jury box. I wanted them to watch the witness. "And this was the fourth therapy session after you suggested to my client that her father had raped her as a child?"
"It was the fourth session after Chrissy recovered her repressed memories of having been raped."
"And this was the last session you would ever have with my client?"
"Yes. Two days later, Christina killed her father."
"If you don't mind, Dr. Schein, we'll let the jury determine just who killed her father." His head snapped back as if I'd hit him with a quick jab. I walked back toward the defense table. Chrissy looked up at me, her eyes misty. I examined a legal pad filled with doodling. I knew the jury was watching, so I wrinkled my brow and studied the pad as if it contained the secret of cold fusion, then resumed my position at the rear of the jury box. Like sex, good cross-examination requires pacing. Start with a little foreplay, build slowly to a crescendo, and wham! Take a few breaths, then start all over again, preferably from a different angle.
"Correct me if I'm wrong. Doctor, but it would appear that on June fourteenth, at approximately four-thirty P.M., Chrissy Bernhardt told you in no uncertain terms that she had bought a gun and planned to kill her father."
"Yes. She said those things."
"You're a close friend of Guy Bernhardt's, correct?"
"Yes."
"Once Chrissy told you of her plan to kill her father, you must have picked up the phone and called Guy Bernhardt."
"No. I didn't do that."
"Then you must have called Harry Bernhardt to tell him that his life was in danger."
"No."
My face reflecting my rehearsed astonishment, I asked, "Did you call the police to warn them of your dangerous client?"
"No. I didn't consider her dangerous."
"Even though you diagnosed her as suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder, the same malady as Vietnam syndrome, in which combat veterans sometimes go berserk?"
"That's relatively rare."
"So you're telling this jury that you didn't warn Harry, you didn't warn Guy, and you didn't alert the police, correct?"
"Correct."
"Then let's see what you did do. Did you seek a court order that would require her hospitalization and testing?"
"No. I tried to talk her out of killing her father."
"How? By saying, 'I can't endorse what you're planning'? Pretty tough language, Doctor."
The judge cleared his throat. "Mr. Lassiter, please refrain from sarcasm."
"Sorry, Your Honor," I said halfheartedly. Sarcasm is to me what scratching is to a center fielder. I turned back toward the witness stand. "Doctor, where were you on the night of June sixteenth?"
"I had dinner with a colleague at the Hotel Astor on South Beach."
"How did you learn of the shooting?"
"The police called Guy. He called the hotel and had me paged. He told me that his father was in surgery at Mount Sinai."
"And he wanted you to get to the hospital as quickly as possible?"
"Well, yes. Guy was an hour away, and I was much closer."
"Did he tell you who shot his father?"
"Yes."
"Did you, on that occasion, say, 'By the way, Guy, forty-eight hours ago, Chrissy threatened to kill your father. So sorry I neglected to mention it'?"
"No. I maintained the confidentiality of my patient's communication."
"How admirably ethical," I said, and Judge Stanger shot me a warning look.
"By the way, Doctor, why weren't you and Guy at Paranoia with Harry Bernhardt?"
"Why should we have been?"
I opened a little black book so recently produced by the state attorney. "Because, according to Harry Bernhardt's appointment book, he was to meet you and Guy there at eight o'clock."
"I don't know anything about that," he said quickly. "You'll have to ask Guy."