Killer

CHAPTER 2

When the divorce process begins, some people shoot out of the gate like corrida bulls, itching to inflict damage. Others declare good intentions and delay the attack. A small percentage manage to maintain civility, but the default is guerrilla warfare.

Combatants who have children often end up obsessing on the kids. That includes people who don’t much care about being parents but lie and say that they do. Admitting apathy about your offspring — going public with those fantasies you’ve had for years of divorcing the whole idea of family life — breaks a lot of social rules.

Parents who couldn’t care less about the kids often fight the hardest because it’s all about winning.

In the worst of divorces, children become hand grenades. Allegations of neglect, cruelty, and abuse surface, usually false. But when kids are involved everything needs to be checked out. Those are the cases when the courts call someone like me in to offer wisdom.

There’s another side to my professional life: working with Lieutenant Milo Sturgis on hideous murders.

That’s the easy stuff.

Back when I left Western Pediatric Medical Center and began private practice, I avoided child custody cases, going so far as to refer away patients remotely likely to become embroiled in legal conflicts. I knew that court work was lucrative but I always had plenty of work, and colleagues who’d struggled to work within the system described it as an unpredictable mess cobbled together by a loose confederation of morons and sadists.

Best interests of the child, indeed.

My practice rolled along nicely: mostly good people bringing in mostly good kids with problems that could be handled short-term. The kind of patient load that can make you feel like a hero and who doesn’t like that?

Then a child I was already treating became a custody case. Four-year-old Amy was being raised by a single mother who’d done a fine job, overall, but had come to me for pointers on discipline and development and school placement. The quiet little girl owed her existence to a one-night stand between Mom and a father she’d never met: a then-married, former Washington State trooper fired for taking bribes and suspected of worse.

Said dad had never been in Amy’s life nor had he paid a penny of child support. Amy’s mom had filed for payments but had never pushed; she was making do and the status quo seemed fine.

One evening her doorbell rang and there he was, trying to grope her and kiss her, leering smugly when she backed away as he served her with papers for a joint custody suit. Recently divorced, he’d been denied contact with his other two children, had been spottily employed since being booted from law enforcement, decided it was time to “get involved with the kid. She kind of looks like me, anyway.”

You’d think there’d be no chance of his muscling into Amy’s life. You wouldn’t be counting on the morons and the sadists.

“Dad” had hired a lawyer with an aggressive streak and that legal eagle had brought in a psychologist whose wordy report strongly recommended fifty-fifty joint physical and legal “sharing,” which would entail Amy flying between L.A. and Spokane on a weekly basis. All in “the obvious best psychosocial interests of this child.”

The author of that bit of brilliance, a woman named Joan Mort, hadn’t met Amy or her mother, relying, instead, upon “well-documented research data on the deleterious effects of paternal absence, particularly for prepubescent girls.”

Amy’s mother was already scrimping to pay for therapy so I took the court case gratis and wrote my own report. The judge, one of those jurists who actually reads what lands on his desk, called for a meeting in chambers with both attorneys and both experts.

I encountered Dr. Joan Mort as she walked up the court corridor. An older woman with a slight walleye and all the right paper credentials, she had a bouncy step and one of those soft, pseudo-sweet therapy voices that cloys quickly. She gripped my hand with both of hers, said it was a pleasure to meet me, had appreciated my input. As if we were both on the same team.

Once inside, she volunteered to go first. Speaking slowly and clearly, in a well-practiced academic tone that drew heavily on jargon, she managed to couch the absurdity of her argument with apparent scholarship. Made delivering a four-year-old to the mercies of a felonious stranger sound almost reasonable.

Flipping the final page of her report, she patted my hand and smiled reassuringly.

Your turn, sonny boy.

I began with a point-by-point refutation of her little oration, keeping my voice even as I slid into a side lecture on quacks and whores-for-hire willing to say anything for a fee. Using temperate language, of course. (“Superficial so-called evaluations that fail to pay attention to the patient nudge up against scientific and ethical boundaries, at best. At worst they cross those boundaries in a highly destructive manner. I find that inexcusable in any case but particularly destructive and cruel when a child’s well-being is at stake.”)

Mort and the lawyer who was paying her blanched. So did Amy’s mom’s attorney.

But the judge was working hard at not grinning. Thanking everyone, he adjourned the meeting. Joan Mort marched ahead of everyone and I thought she’d lost some bounce in her step.

The following morning the judge called and asked if we could meet.

“May I ask why, Your Honor?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“About Amy?”

“No, that’s resolved. In a manner that won’t make you unhappy. I’d like to discuss some general issues. If you need to be paid for your time, the court’s got a little discretionary fund.”

“No need,” I said, “but you can buy lunch.”

We met at a steak house near the downtown court building, a place Milo frequents when he’s testifying or meeting with deputy D.A.’s. His waistline-busting approach to nutrition features enough red meat to feed a bunkhouse full of ranch hands and I’ve never seen him leave with a doggie bag. The judge, a trim man in his sixties, nibbled a six-ounce rib eye and sipped a martini and told me he liked my style and would appreciate my joining the panel of custody evaluators employed by the court.

I said, “Is Joan Mort on the panel?”

“She is.”

“Then forget it.”

“It’s a list, Dr. Delaware. No list is perfect.”

“Granted, but that’s a club I’m not interested in joining.”

“High standards.”

“I try.”

“Hmm,” he said. “You don’t hem and haw like most shrinks.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“So you won’t consider it? You really should, precisely because of people like Mort. There’s work to be done refining the system.”

“I’m sure there is but I’m happy with my practice and I really don’t want to dive into the …”

The word I’d been thinking of was “muck” but while I groped for a more appetite-friendly synonym, he said, “Cesspool? Hell, yeah, it can stink to high heaven. But here’s the thing: In a few weeks I’m going to be appointed presiding judge and I’m thinking I can clean things up. Why not help me, Doctor?”

“By targeting the bad ones? I’m not a henchman.”

“No, no, I’m not asking you to break some code of silence. Just do good work consistently and help raise our standards. Right now the only cases I’m able to ensure get done right are my own. Once I’m presiding I’ll theoretically have more control, but in truth, I won’t once the other judges get their assignments. Because each of us is a despot in his or her courtroom. One of my esteemed colleagues would have to rape a goat in the hall to get bounced.”

The image made me smile. “The corridors of justice takes on a new meaning.”

“Ha.”

I said, “Why bother with one new psychologist?”

“Because it’s a start. There are other decent evaluators, even some on the panel. But I’ve never seen anything quite like your level of … assertiveness. We can use some serious cojones.”

“Flattered, Your Honor, but—”

“Steve’s fine.”

“Legal work’s just not my thing, Steve.”

Shrugging, he sliced steak into little trapezoids, ate and drank. A few moments later: “How about this, Alex: You won’t need to join the panel, we’ll start with me referring cases to you directly. And encouraging my brighter colleagues to do the same. You’ll never end up looking like a trial slut because you’ll be working for the court, not the parties. As an objective finder of fact.”

“All that from the discretionary fund?”

“No, you’ll be reimbursed like everyone else.”

“By the parties.”

“Fifty-fifty, so there’ll be no favoritism.”

“Steve, when people pay bills, they start to feel entitled.”

“I’ll make the rules clear.”

“On top of that, the bills would be substantial,” I said. “Because I think the usual approach — brief interview, a few psych tests, boilerplate report — is a joke. The right way takes time and time is money.”

“Your fees are your business.”

“I’m talking billing for home visits, school visits, interviews with extended family, friends, anyone I feel is relevant. Travel time, too — charging portal-to-portal, the way lawyers do.”

“From the moment you leave your office to the moment you return. Seems fair to me.”

“I’d insist on a retainer up front.”

“Same answer.”

“I’d double my therapy fee. We’re talking big bucks, Steve.”

He put his fork down. “So you won’t be working on any charity cases. Fine, they rarely drag on, anyway.”

“The money runs out, the lawyers stop filing.”

He smiled. “You don’t want to do this so you’re attempting to price yourself out of the market. Sorry, Alex, not an effective argument. If someone balks at paying, let them complain to me. And frankly, I hope you get prosperous out of this, I’m all for prosperity. You put your time in at Western Peds. My son worked there as a pharmacist, I know the pay scale. So obviously you did your bit for the public interest.”

“You’ve researched me.”

“I wanted to make sure what I saw in my chambers was backed up by substance. You have an impressive résumé, exactly the kind of research experience that’ll hold up under cross.”

Gin and vermouth disappeared down his slender gullet. “Yes, that was an attempt to further stroke your ego. Did it work?”

I didn’t answer.

He said, “You’re really that obdurate, huh? Damn shame, you could’ve made a difference.”

He motioned for the check.

I said, “Fine, I’ll try it.”

“Excellent. How about some dessert?”

“No, thanks.”

“Then none for me, either — and put that plastic away, this is on me.”

“Not necessary,” I said.

“Not necessary but good manners. Something both of us would like to see more of, Alex, in our quest for truth, justice, and the American way.”

We left the restaurant and handed our tickets to the parking valet. The judge’s drive was a newish, black Porsche 911. When he saw my Seville, he said, “Blast from Detroit’s past. You’re a loyal fellow.”

Before I could answer, he was behind the wheel, gunning his engine. Rolling forward a few feet, he stopped, motioned me closer.

As I leaned in, he said, “Count on Joan Mort to resign from the panel, soon.” Big grin. “At least she responds to constructive criticism.”