The Cathar Secret: A Lang Reilly Thriller (13 page)

     Marcie held up a cassette as though that explained everything. "I made you a copy. You can listen to the session yourself."

     Paige wanted to scream, to slap sense into Marcie. Instead, she glanced to the chair where Wynn-Three sat quietly. Compared to his normal restless, boisterous self, the child was nearly catatonic.

     She inhaled, her newly shaped nails digging into the palms of her hands. "Hypnosis. I suppose your next idea will be an exorcism. He isn't going to get over whatever is disturbing him because you think he had a prior life or is in contact with someone by telepathy or whatever. You may well have made his problems worse. You sure as hell aren't helping." She stopped to breathe deeply again, just the way the women's magazines said to manage
anger. "Do you have any idea what damage you might have done?"

     For the first time, Marcie looked genuinely contrite. "Damage? You know I wouldn't hurt Wynn-Three."

     Paige pointed. "Does he look like a happy, normal three-year-old to you? What the hell else have you done when he was with you?"

     
Anyone who has contact with your son.

     Marcie stopped, open-mouthed. "I'm not sure I like what you're implying. Are you accusing me . . ."

     "I'm accusing you of putting Wynn-Three at risk at the minimum, of one of the stupidest things I've ever heard of. Or craziest."

     Marcie brandished the tape again. "At least listen to this."

     A child, possibly molested, with a threat of child protection services pending, a legal career forsaken, and a husband too busy to be bothered, and now betrayed by the babysitter, a person she trusted. All to be set right by a tape? Paige snapped. She snatched the cassette and threw it as hard as she could with one hand. The other landed in a slap across Marcie's face that resounded like a gunshot. Marcie's hand flew to her cheek and Wynn-Three began to scream in terror.

     "Now look what you've done, you stupid bitch!" Paige snarled.

     Marcie, hurt more by Paige's reaction than the physical act, rubbed the growing red blot on her cheek. A tear coursed down her face and dripped from her chin. "I was only trying to help."

     Paige did not realize she was screaming. "Help! He doesn't need that kind of help! If you've harmed him in any way . . ." She gulped, struggled for breath and started over in a low, barely audible tone that Marcie found more threatening than the screaming. "Get out. Get out
now.
If I ever see you within a hundred yards of Wynn-Three again, I'll have the police on you. Or men in white coats with large nets. Do you understand?"

     Marcie understood the first part at least. Wynn-Three was still weeping uncontrollably as she left.

     Back in her house, Marcie sat before the computer, staring at the blank monitor as though trying to compel it to give her a sign, tell her she had done the right thing. She had tried to do Paige and Wynn-Three a service, spent her last dime to do it. The thanks she had gotten was being slapped like an unruly child.

     It is too easy to rationalize actions less than honorable by the exigencies
of the moment. Original motives easily slip from memory to be replaced by situational ethics. Marcie did not consider the real reason she had contacted Dr. Balisha as she booted up the computer and began to type. In light of what Paige had done, Marcie felt entirely justified in furthering her own career.

United States District Court
for the Northern District of Georgia

Richard B. Russell Building
A Few Minutes Later

J
UDGE EDGAR CRAIG'S DESK FORMED THE
top of a T, the longer part being a table. Wynton, Glen Richardson, and Charlie Frisk sat on one side separated from the plaintiffs' lawyers on the other by stacks of paper. The final pretrial conference before selecting a jury Monday morning in
Adams et al. v. United Bank and Trust
was about to begin.

     Judge Craig rubbed his shiny black scalp as though polishing its sheen. It was a familiar gesture, one that, along with the eyeglasses roughly approximating the numerical figure, had won him the sobriquet of "Eight-Ball Edgar" before he had ascended the federal bench. His deep Southern drawl and simple demeanor suggested a slow mind, a mistake few lawyers made more than once. Although he had been born in rural Georgia, Harvard law degrees were not awarded to the dim-witted.

     "Y'all made the last ditch effort to settle this matter?" the judge wanted to know.

     "We've offered what we consider to be fair in light of the questionable liability, Your Honor," Richardson said.

     William "Buddy" Karp, lead counsel for the Plaintiffs, made a steeple of his fingers as he leaned forward, resting elbows on the table. "'Fair' is in the eye of the beholder, Your Honor. We believe a jury will find the issue of liability far from questionable."

     Judge Craig settled back in his chair. He'd heard it all before. Hundreds
of times. "Well, that's what a jury's for, I guess." He turned to Richardson. "Counselor, 'fore we strike that jury, though, you might want to remind your client here that banks are not the beloved of the common man, 'ticularly with all the foreclosures in the last few years."

     Karp made no effort to suppress his grin before the judge turned to him. "An' class actions aren't the public's favorite, either. Lotta folks blame plaintiffs' lawyers for driving up ever'thing from the cost o' insurance to the high price o' their prescriptions. You get one or two Medicare recipients on that jury who have to scrape by to buy their heart medication, your boat jus' might be sunk." He looked from one side of the table to the other. "As you fellas know, a trial is like a butcher shop: you go in with a whole carcass and come out with sausage."

     None of this was surprising to the lawyers. Any judge who had more than one case on his trial calendar was going to pressure the litigants to settle, particularly one where the trial would likely last two or three weeks. If every civil case filed were actually tried, the already overburdened civil justice system would collapse. This little judicial homily was designed to persuade clients who might have somewhat less faith in their case than their lawyers did. Attorneys not only expected it; they forewarned their clients.

     There was a moment of silence before the judge spoke again as he picked up the pretrial order. "Okay, then, let's run through the rules real quick. You fellas know 'em but I'd soon as not waste any time we don't have to. Unlike state court, I do the
voir dire
, ask the questions you supplied me, of the potential jurors. You don' unnerstan' something, you get to ask for a clarification. There'll be twelve in the box. Each of you get three strikes, leaving six. Plaintiffs go first. Questions so far?"

     No one had any.

     Judge Craig adjusted his glasses preparatory to resuming. "Okay, we got over a hundred plaintiffs, seein' as this is a class action. No room for all of 'em in the courtroom . . ."

     There was a knock on the door to his office and his secretary's head poked in. The judge made no effort to conceal his annoyance. "Yes?"

     "Sorry for the interruption, but Mr. Charles's wife's on the phone. She says it's an emergency. Tried his cell but of course it's turned off."

     There was total silence for about a three count before the judge nodded to Wynton. "Well, go ahead, take it. Hope it isn't serious."

     It better be. Paige knew pretrial conferences before U.S. District Court judges were not something disrupted on a whim. He felt eyes boring into his back as he got up and headed to the outer office.

     The secretary nodded toward his left. "You can use the one in the law clerk's office. He's on break."

     As he reached for the phone, Wynton felt equal dread of what might have happened at home and the consequences of the interruption. "Paige, you better have a good reason for this call."

     It was the wrong opening.

     "Excuse me? I know it isn't nearly as important as what you're doing." She responded, spewing sarcasm rather than just dripping with it. "But your son is semihysterical."

     
Your son.
Always a bad sign.

     The screams in the background made the description superfluous. The longer he listened, the more convinced Wynton became that there was no "semi" in front of Paige's emotional state. Hypnotism? Auschwitz? Reincarnation? What the hell went on after he left for work in the mornings?

     Wynton became aware he was squeezing the phone hard enough to turn his knuckles white. "Slow down, Paige. Start at the beginning."

     A chronological recitation of the afternoon's events didn't make a lot of sense, either.

     She ended with, "And I've called Dr. Weiner . . ."

     "The head packer who threatened us with DEFACS?"

     "If you have a better suggestion, now is the time to share it."

     "You might start with Dr. Long, Wynn-Three's pediatrician."

     "Who do you think told me to call Dr. Weiner?"

     Wynton glanced at his watch. "Okay. Look, I'll be home in an hour, hour and a half . . ."

     "Wynton, I need you
now.
"

     "So does Glen Richardson."

     There was a pause and the sound of an intake of breath. "Of course. Why would I think Wynn-Three and I were more important to you than Swisher & Peele? After all, we're only your family."

     "Paige, what can I add? If you can tell me what I can do that you can't . . ."

     "Sorry to have bothered you."

     The line went dead.

     The ride back to the office in Glen Richardson's Mercedes started in silence, hardly what Wynton would have expected on the eve of a major trial. Normally the two lawyers would be debating last-minute strategy. Wynton was all too aware of what the senior partner might be thinking.

     They were pulling into the underground parking lot when his thoughts were confirmed. "Wynton, is there anything at home to distract you for the next week or two, some family problem? If so, now is the time to bring it up."

     And pass up the best shot at making senior partner he would ever have? "No, nothing like that. Wynn-Three was just, just taken ill. You know kids: fever of over a hundred today, want go out and play tomorrow."

     Richardson slid the car into his reserved space. "I recall, Paige wasn't one to overreact. You sure everything's okay? I mean, I could get Beth to sit second chair."

     And Beth Willis would love to. Only slightly junior to Wynton, personified "pushy." She viewed every achievement as her own and every failure the result of sexism in a supposedly all-male world. She never missed an opportunity to attempt to insert herself into the firm's business rather than to waiting to be assigned, as every other associate and junior partner did. It would take days for her just to get up to speed in this case, however. She would have to learn the placement and sequence of evidence. It was axiomatic that an exhibit that couldn't be produced in less than five seconds was worthless, as well as annoying to judge and jury. Mentioning Beth Willis was more of a threat, a reminder that family came first at Swisher & Peele only if Swisher & Peele was the family.

     Wynton climbed out of the car. "Don't even think about it."

     "Glad to hear it," Richardson said in a tone that indicated he had expected just that response. "Want to grab a bite of early dinner before we start a final review of witness testimony?"

     Wynton groaned inwardly. He would be lucky to get home before midnight.

Office of Sylvia Weiner, PhD

132 17th Street

At the Same Time

"H
YPNOSIS!" DR. WEINER SNORTED. "WORTHLESS! WORSE
than worthless! Look what ideas that quack put into the child's head! If that tape's any indication, I'd say he not only hasn't helped, he's done harm."

     Both she and Paige looked over to the couch where Wynn-Three was sleeping. The pediatrician had prescribed a light sedative as a temporary fix until mother and psychiatrist could calm him down.

     "But he is a doctor," Paige protested. "How was I to know . . . ?"

     "Doctor of what?" Dr. Weiner sniffed. "And from where? A few hundred bucks plus postage buys the degree of your choice from any number of diploma mills." She pointed to several framed documents on the wall. "Did you check his credentials?"

     Paige dabbed at her eyes with a tissue from the box on Dr. Weiner's desk. She had managed to keep her composure until Wynn-Three had drifted off under the influence of the drug. Then the last few hours' tension had broken through the floodgate. "No, but Marcie said . . ."

     A single glare from the psychologist ended that thought.

     "But what do you make of the tape?"

     "Poppycock!" Dr. Weiner spat. "That's the problem with hypnosis: the subject will gladly blab on and on about his last reincarnation as well as all future ones, anything the hypnotist might suggest. That's why the procedure is usually useless. The subject is extremely sensitive to any suggestion,
real or perceived. The subconscious cannot distinguish between fact and imagination."

     "But you heard the tape. There wasn't any suggestion."

     The psychologist scowled at the tape player. "No suggestion to us, perhaps; but to someone under hypnosis? Even the question 'who are you' could be interpreted by the subject to mean he is someone other than himself and that he needs to rummage around his subconscious to find a different personality."

     "But," Paige protested, "this man Solomon whoever. Wynn-Three never knew any such person and I'm fairly certain he's never heard of Auschwitz."

     "With all the access to TV and the Internet, how can you be sure what the child might have been exposed to? Particularly if he was with this Marcie person."

     "Marcie wouldn't . . ."

     "Wouldn't what?" Dr. Weiner was polishing her glasses angrily as though they had offended her. "She apparently thought it would be therapeutic to expose Wynn-Three to some hypnosis charlatan. Or did she have some agenda of her own?"