Lost Girls

chapter 34

It is my opinion that Thomas Tripp's profile is consistent with that of a reactive psychotic.'' This is Goodwin's expert shrink, perched high in the witness box, eyes held open in the falsely earnest, disinterested way common to those of his profession. This one, however, is even worse than most: all clipped beard, fleshy lips, designer glasses that look like some kind of ancient navigational device. Whenever he finishes speaking he turns first to the bench, then to Goodwin, and finally to me, giving each of us the same blinking second and a half of gooey innocence, as if to say, You see, I have no personal interest in this. I'm merely offering my professional opinion. But what all of us know--even Goodwin deep down--is that this guy's a prostitute. A $400-an-hour witness-fee hustler who would declare his own mother a reactive psychotic under oath if a lawyer hired him to.

''Could you please explain for the court, in general terms, what a reactive psychotic is?'' Goodwin is asking, turning to the jury with a pained look. He knows as well as I do they're not so good with words greater than two syllables.

''Well, the term describes an individual who, as a consequence of suffering a certain trauma--an emotional trauma--responds in an extreme way. The brain defends itself by shutting down some of its elementary faculties or dissolves previously held behavioral boundaries, such that the result is a psychotic state which may be either short-lived or prolonged.''

He gives us the punctuating look again: one, two, three. Just trying to help, his fussy beard and glasses say. I just happen to know all about this stuff. I'm an expert.

''I think it's important to emphasize that I'm just dealing here with a case profile,'' he's saying now--what the hell's his name? Ganzer? Panzer? ''Mr. Tripp has never been a patient of mine, so I can't speak to any extensive personal knowledge of his history. But I feel, based on the information in the file provided to me by the Crown, that I am able to make some tentative conclusions.''

''That's fine. But just to get all of this straight, are you saying that it is your view--your tentative view--that Thomas Tripp is insane?''

Nice one, Pete. Serve the good doctor a high beachball just to make sure he can smash it back.

''No, not at all. No, no. In fact I'd like to make it very clear that psychotic behavior or the presence of a psychotic condition does not necessarily mean that the subject is insane. Indeed, it is my understanding that being legally insane has nothing to do with being psychotic, neurotic, or otherwise, but concerns the subject's ability to understand the difference between rightful and wrongful actions.''

At this point I rise. Slowly though, pushing back my chair and lifting myself up with hands planted on the desk in front of me.

''I object, Your Honor. The doctor may be an expert able to provide descriptions of certain psychological illnesses for the general education of the jury, but he is surely not an expert for the purposes of articulating the legal definition of insanity. And even if he were, this is not an issue in the current proceedings. Nor will it be.''

I slouch back down again, keeping my eye on the doctor. And he returns my stare without change in what I now see as his decidedly pubic face.

''Quite right, Mr. Crane. Doctor, I would ask that you limit your comments to the area of your particular expertise,'' Goldfarb tells him, but her heart's not in it.

''Of course. I apologize, Your Honor,'' Dr. Pubic minces.

Then Goodwin's back up there, guiding his man through the file, the sorry history of Tripp's life. A bright student through university and teacher's college, an early marriage to his high school sweetheart, the slow climb up the departmental seniority ladder, the birth of a daughter. Fully functional domestic support systems is how the doctor puts it. Then it all starts to fall apart. The marriage first, followed by much unsuccessful counseling, the loss of his only child. Isolates himself from whatever friends still bothered with him. The only thing he could apparently still focus on was the Literary Club, with meetings held once a week and a total membership of two.

''But many of us have to go through stresses of this kind in life, Doctor, and not all of us are psychotics,'' Goodwin is saying, looking once more to the jury, whose very faces seem to prove him wrong. ''So what's the difference, in your view, between a reactive psychotic and any other person who's undergone emotional trauma?''

''Actually there's a few differences,'' the doctor chirps. ''Generally speaking, there are three categories of psychological activity: normal, neurotic, and psychotic. Arguably there is also a fourth--insanity--but I guess we'll leave that aside for the moment.'' Another look in my direction at this, his eyes milky circles. ''Now, neurotic behavior involves any number of symptoms, including anxiety states, hysteria, obsessional neuroses, and others. The distinction between these and a true psychotic is that a neurosis embodies what may be called a mental conflict, but the basic character of reality remains, whereas in the psychotic the very structure of reality itself is altered. Put another way, the real and the unreal are so confused that eventually they become one and the same. Now, in Mr. Tripp's particular terms, I think we can draw certain broad characteristics of . . .''

He goes on to make sweeping, objectionable swipes at my boy Tripp, the sort of prejudicial psychobabble that should have me leaping to my feet every five seconds, but I remain seated and silent. The truth is all this talk has me considering my own troubled profile. What would the doctor-- any doctor--make of an admitted seer of visions, subject of phantom visitations well beyond the mere bed-shaking, key-hiding, footstep-on-the-stairs variety? As the doctor's lips smack away at painting my client out as Norman Bates, I wonder whether I myself may have graduated from harmless neurotic to a more advanced stage. The water certainly tastes bad up here but is likely still well below government-recommended levels for mercury and lead, and I haven't eaten anything since my arrival except for factory-made sandwiches enriched with enough preservatives to keep them fresh deep into the twenty-first century, so it can't be poisoning. It also seems I don't qualify as a reactive psychotic, given that I haven't reacted to anything in the past twenty years. So what is it, then?

I make a mental note to eat more fruit.

''Although Mr. Tripp made no detailed statements of any kind to the police following his arrest,'' Goodwin is saying now, eyes cast downward at the prepared questions he's plowing his way through, ''he did, however, at one or two points during initial questioning, state that he had nothing to say, and even if he did, he couldn't remember. My question to you, Doctor, is this: Can memory also be affected in situations of trauma?''

''Absolutely,'' says the hairy mouth. ''Again, I can't speak directly to Mr. Tripp's condition, but there are documented cases where extreme stress has given rise to nothing more or less than clinical amnesia. That is, an entire section of the individual's life is not merely repressed but, in effect, wiped out entirely.''

''Is this lost memory recoverable?''

''Potentially.''

''So if Mr. Tripp were to testify that he can't remember any events of Thursday, May the twelfth, for example, we wouldn't be able to tell if it's a case of amnesia or whether he's just--''

''Objection!''

I'm up. I've let too much slide between the fat man and Dr. Pubic already, but now they're about to go right off the map.

''The doctor is in no position to hypothesize on testimony that hasn't and may never be heard. Your Honor, I really think the Crown has now reached the absolute limit on advancing any probative evidence from this witness.''

''That's fine. I'm done anyway,'' Goodwin grins before dropping into his chair.

''Mr. Crane, perhaps this would be a good time for our afternoon break.'' Goldfarb sighs, rubbing her eye with the heel of her hand. ''Back here in ten, people.''

I'm the first one out. Make my way to the bathroom and lock myself in the stall farthest from the door. Time for some clarity assistance. And here it comes, lumped out over the back of my hand, individual grains tumbling off the pile and onto my pants, the toilet seat, the floor. In my haste to get some of it in I break one of my own fundamental rules of cocaine etiquette: I snort. An industrial nasal suck that echoes off the tiled walls and aluminum partitions. And another. Then, most shameful of all, I allow an involuntary Oh, yeah to croak past my lips before I pull back the bolt and step out to the sinks.

Crank the taps until the water rushes hot and loud. When I think I can actually hear my skin start to pucker I lift my head and peer into the mirror's fog with a startled breath.

Movement behind me within the billowing gray. Something over my right shoulder that definitely wasn't there before. A disembodied head floating closer, its face enlarging to reveal a lick of damp hair across the brow, eyes screwed deep in their sockets.

''McConnell.''

I may say this, I may not. My heart beating in painful hiccups.

Why him? Probably heard me in the stall, too, which explains the crude smirk held stiff on his face. And now I can't stop myself from sniffling. Wiping too. The back of my hands, the palms. Both wrists glazed in clear snot.

''Don't look so good there, hotshot,'' he says.

''I'm fine, thank you.'' The water splashing up, spotting through my shirt in warm bites.

''So. The client's a child murderer and the lawyer's a junkie. Nice.''

''There's a big difference--'' I begin, but the distinction's lost in a fainting flush of adrenaline. I shut off the water with a screech of the tap, my face a lump of dripping dough in the mirror before me. Turn to find that McConnell now stands closer than I thought. That even if I move now I'll have to step around him to get out.

''Don't go just yet, Mr. Crane. We have a few minutes before you have to be back in there to tell your dirty lies.''

''Lies?''

''Like how you had such a nice and friendly interview with me before the trial as if I was your best buddy or something. Made it sound like we were both on the same side, which as you know couldn't be further from the truth.''

''Are you on anybody's side in this besides your own?''

''What are you saying?''

''Brian Flynn told me that you've never spoken to him about his own loss. That you wouldn't even return his calls. I would've thought the two of you had a lot in common. But apparently you didn't see it that way. Must have thought your daughter was better than his, I guess. Then again, you always made it clear that you never liked Ashley. You wouldn't deny any of that, now, would you?''

I have no idea where this comes from. Gulping for air, cocaine tears trickling over my cheeks that I can only hope McConnell mistakes for sweat. All I want is to get the hell out of here and I'm provoking the man who stands between me and the door. Fucking lawyers. They never give up.

''She wasn't the right sort for Krystal,'' McConnell is saying. ''And so what? It wasn't her fault her father's a bum.''

''He's on disability,'' I offer foolishly. ''His lungs.''

''A man has to work.''

He lifts his hands to rest on the leather belt straining at his waist.

''Maybe a man feels like he has to do other things, too, sometimes,'' I say.

''What do you mean?''

I ignore the question, fall back to let my ass rest against the slippery edge of the sink. ''Sounds to me like your daughter had a good reason to run away from home.''

''You say another thing like that and I'll rip your goddamn throat out.''

''That's a threat.''

''No, sir. It's the truth.''

I push myself away from the sink with both hands as though launching a boat into rough water. Legs poured full of gelatin. Heading for the space between McConnell and the stalls next to him where there might be enough room to get by without touching.

''You think you don't feel so good now?'' he hisses, reading my mind. ''Believe me. This is nothing compared to the fire you're going to burn in when you're dead and buried, hotshot.''

I'm directly in front of him now, eyes level with his stubbled, heaving Adam's apple. It's clear that if there was room to pass around him a moment ago it's gone now. He's going to have to move. Or drop dead. Or explode into a fluttering cloud of ash.

''I would think that you should be worried about hell yourself,'' I tell him, my face weaving a foot and a half below his chin, ''seeing how you know that you never loved your daughter properly when she was alive, and now that she's dead you're--''

But I'm not allowed to finish. It's McConnell's palms slammed into my chest that prevent me. Lifting me an inch off the floor until my back crunches into the aluminum of the paper-towel dispenser. Part of me--a flailing hand or elbow--connects with the silver button on the hand dryer, and now there's a distant jet-engine drone along with the whirring of pressurized blood in my ears. And something else. A looping incantation pushing through everything, plaintive and thin.

''How dare you? How dare you? How dare you?''

I say nothing in response. I don't resist. Eyes on the four of our shoes assembled together like awkward dance partners. Then McConnell pulls his hands away and I slump in the effort to support the whole of my weight on my own again. When I finally look up it's to see his face twisted in what appear to be equal parts grief and puzzlement. But arms slack at his sides, no words left in him. Take the chance and slide to the door, blindly push my way into the cool air of the hall.

I manage to lurch back to the courtroom and sit at the defense table with eyes on the clock, refusing to look back into the gallery. Willing the sweat beading up on my forehead to stay where it is. But when Goldfarb calls me to my feet again it falls over my face anyway, salt drops trickling into eyes and open mouth.

''Now, Doctor,'' I start, clearing my throat with a loud percolation of loose stuff. ''I'll make this brief because, with all due respect, a cross-examination of a witness who has been unable to offer any evidence is a waste of the court's time. Nevertheless, for the sake of clarity, let me hit a couple of points. You have never met, let alone spoken to or examined my client. Is that right?''

''That's correct.''

''So all you're dealing with are mere possibilities--conditions that may or may not be applicable to Mr. Tripp?''

''I was asked to provide background on some established profiles.''

''Profiles, yes, but you don't know Mr. Tripp any better than you know me, or Justice Goldfarb, or him.'' I stab a finger in the direction of one of the jury's lumberjacks. ''Do you, Doctor?''

''There's a difference between knowing and the consideration of one's behavioral traits and tendencies.''

''There is? Could you explain that for me?''

''Well, simply put, psychology is the science of personality, whereas knowing someone is something, well, deeper.''

''Deeper. You mean 'deep' like the truth? To know someone is to know something of the truth about them?''

''I suppose, in a manner of--''

''And science, as you've said, isn't about the truth per se. It's about traits and tendencies. It's about categorizing, yes? Psychosis, neurosis. Sane, insane. It's about fitting people into slots. Isn't that right?''

''If by that you mean diagnosis, then, yes, that's a primary clinical function.''

''But it's not a primary clinical function to know a person, though, is it? Because, in the end, science can't tell us why a man does what he does or why he doesn't, why he forgets or why he remembers, can it?''

''I would suppose not with the precision you're suggesting, no.''

I wipe my face with the arm of my jacket and take two jagged breaths through the broken glass in my chest. My head separating from my neck, rising up into the white globes of the ceiling lights.

''So let me ask you. What good are your psychiatric speculations to this court, Doctor--a court charged with the job of determining innocence or guilt--if those speculations can say nothing about why?''

''I don't understand the question.''

''How's this, then? How can you, a psychiatric expert, say anything about my client when knowing him isn't your business?''

Approving coughs from the gallery. A telltale smirk at the borders of Goldfarb's lips. Goodwin harrumphs. But then, for the first time all afternoon, the expression on the doctor's face changes. The mouth puckers, the furry chin juts out, and the eyes--goddammit if the eyes don't twinkle .

''From what I can tell, I'm very glad I don't know your client, Mr. Crane,'' he says. ''But then again, as you've said, knowing him isn't my job. So I suppose it must be yours.''