Other people

Twenty-nine Koch

Dr. Allanberg and his wife, bless them both, took me to Lincoln Center to hear Moussorgsky, and I come home in a cab, euphoric, a bit tired, happy, the music still in my ears. The doorman tells me a patient is waiting for me in the lobby. Who? I have no appointments this late at night, no new patients to see, and the doorman brings me over to a very short man sitting in a lobby chair and he shakes my hand and says, "My name is Brady, Dr. Koch."

This man, whose eyebrows go straight across his forehead in a most unusual way, glances at the doorman who has retreated out of earshot out of politeness, then says, "I must talk to you."

"Who are you?"

"I'm a lawyer," he says. "I've come to see you about a psychiatric patient of yours who you are treating for mental illness, and who is accusing a client of mine of an imaginary rape, and I am terribly concerned about the man's wife, his children, and I need your suggestions. Please, Dr. Koch."

"I'm afraid I cannot talk about a case to anyone except the patient." What has this tiny man to do with Francine?

"I think it's imperative that I see you now, Dr. Koch. You'll understand the moment I explain."

"Impossible," I say. Yet I am curious. "Perhaps we could make an appointment," I say. "When a patient cancels, I could call you…"

I can see the doorman staring at us. Shall I order the man away?

"Dr. Koch," says Brady, "this is a private matter."

Of course it is private, between Francine and myself and no one else.

"It is essential," says Brady.

I am a European idiot. Is it politeness to this stranger that makes me invite him up? Or my curiosity?

As we go into the living room I say, "I am really very tired." Why is he looking around the apartment that way?

"I'll be brief," says this Mr. Brady, sitting down. He puts each hand, fingers extended, on one knee, very symmetrical. "I am a lawyer. I represent Harry Koslak, who has been indicted for an alleged offense against a patient of yours, Francine Widmer. In the event that this case is not dismissed and we go to trial, I intend calling you as a witness for the defense."

I start to object and he says, "One moment. My client will of course pay at the usual specialist rates for your time when you testify and any preparatory time involved, or we can subpoena you, as you wish. I have studied the case and I believe your patient is a high-strung woman of easy morals who has a history of sexual relations with others in extralegal circumstances. Please let me continue. I know you have a confidential relationship to your patient, but at the same time you have the reputation, I have checked, of a kindly man, and I assume you would not want to see the father of two young children go to jail for accepting the favors of a young woman who has given those favors to others on repeated occasions. It is making too much of a minor thing. It is possible that Miss Widmer's testimony on the stand over several days would be too trying for her. Perhaps this whole matter can be disposed of expeditiously, without unnecessary pain to anybody, but to do so I would need to review the record of her treatment. I could, of course, have another psychiatrist testify as to her psychological condition based on her testimony or any pretrial testimony that is admissible, and you might then be subpoenaed to support or contradict specific points in his testimony, but as you can see, that would make for a very long drawn-out procedure painful to all parties. If you cooperate now, it would speed things up immeasurably, and as a courtesy, for your cooperation, I would be pleased to arrange for a donation of a thousand dollars to your favorite charity, or if you would prefer the cash so that you could make the donation yourself, that could also be arranged, what do you say?

This is unbelievable. I have heard of such people. "One moment," I say. I go to my study and dial Thomassy's home number — thank heaven I have it — and apologize for waking him at that late hour. He says he was not asleep. In the background I can hear a woman's voice. Is it Francine? I tell Thomassy who I am being visited by and the essence of what he has said.

"Let me talk to him," says Thomassy.

I go to the living room where Brady is now pacing and I point to the extension phone and say, "Could you pick up please?" and then I hurry back to my study like a mischievous child to listen in.

"Brady," he says, "what the fuck are you doing there?"

It is a very short conversation, an exchange of expletives and tough legal phrases I do not grasp, and they hang up. I put the telephone on the cradle and go back to the living room, but Brady, glaring at me, says not so much as a good night, and leaves.

I feel a tightness like a pre-angina condition as I prepare for bed. I try to read. Hopeless. This man Brady will get what he wants if he has to disembowel me. Can one fight back against people like that? Or does one wait in bed, foredoomed, for the sounds of Kristallnacht?