The Eumenide

Suddenly Anna remembered the appointment with Krueger she’d made the night before. And realized she’d forgotten to tell Consuelo about it.

The latter’s smile disappeared. “Do you want me to go in with you when you talk to him?”

Anna grimaced, imagining what kind of sensitive and compassionate things Krueger might say to Consuelo. “It might be better if I talked to him alone.”

For someone who was supposed to be on her side, the lawyer was sometimes incredibly hard on Consuelo. Anna had asked Krueger once why he’d even taken her case. He’d shrugged and said, “Everybody’s entitled to legal representation.” Then he’d looked at her strangely. Almost—guiltily. “And I have personal reasons too.”

After parking hurriedly, Anna removed the shopping bag she’d loaded into the trunk last night. Although Consuelo didn’t ask what was in it, Anna knew she could guess what it contained.

Krueger’s office building had seen better days. After riding a rickety elevator to the sixth floor, they walked to a door that desperately needed a new coat of paint. On the translucent pane of glass forming its upper half were the words, “R. F. Krueger, Attorney at Law.” Since the last time Anna was here, a fellow fan of old movies had used a black marker to add “U.” before the lawyer’s name, and “reddy” after his middle initial.

The gum-popping nubile redhead at the secretary’s desk was new, too. Anna wondered what had happened to the bleached blonde. She noted that both the former secretary and her successor had several things in common. Both seemed likely to have had cosmetic surgery involving their pectoral regions. And both favored tight white blouses.

“He’s still with a client. Have a seat.” The secretary pointed at several dilapidated chairs.

The intercom on her desk snapped on. “Crystal, it’s three o’clock. Is anybody out there?”

“Yes.”

“Is one of them a tall woman, natural blonde, late thirties, pleasingly plump, wearing a tight white blouse?”

The secretary squinted at Anna. “Yeah, except it’s a loose pink one.”

The intercom clicked off. Immediately Anna heard shouting from the door behind the secretary. Then it flew open and a small elderly man with glasses askew catapulted out the door. He protested, “But we haven’t finished talking about my—”

“Sorry,” Krueger interrupted, his bulk blocking the entrance to his private office, preventing the man from reentering. “My secretary will give you another appointment for tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Tomorrow!” Krueger motioned Anna to enter, closed the door behind them, then settled down into a swivel chair behind his desk. “Some people,” he said. “Just because you take their money, they think they own you.”

Krueger’s office was filthy. Huge law books were scattered across the floor. His desk was littered with empty snack food bags and carry out containers.

The lawyer gestured at her shopping bag. “Buy anything for me?”

Anna placed the items in the bag on his desk. Krueger examined them carefully. She noticed his fingernails were disgustingly long and sharp.

“Did you call the cops?”

“No.”

Krueger shook his head. “Should have. Not that they’d have done anything with this stuff. But if they filed a report, I could use it as one more piece of evidence if somebody does catch her in the act.”

“Is there any way you can prevent her from doing anything like this again? Maybe a restraining order?”

Krueger shrugged. “Might be able to get one. Won’t do much good, though. There’s no law against giving anyone ‘gifts.’ ”

“But they’re a form of psychological attack!”

“True. And let’s face it. You-know-who is more qualified than anyone else to mess with Consuelo’s mind.” He paused. “Present company excepted, of course.

“But a judge probably won’t see it that way. If it was some innocent young thing being harassed by a drooling thug, getting a restraining order would be no problem. Trouble is, I doubt Consuelo would be the person the judge would sympathize with.”

“But that’s not fair! Now that she’s cured, Consuelo is innocent in the moral sense of the word!”

Krueger grunted. “Maybe. But in the eyes of the law, she’s still as guilty as sin.”

“Then the legal system needs to get rid of that Dark Ages mentality. This is the twenty-first century! All these people have labeled Consuelo as being ‘evil,’ and now they want to keep on punishing her instead of trying to help her! They treat her like she was some kind of monster, instead of a human being who was mentally ill and not fully responsible for her actions!”

The lawyer nodded vigorously. “You’re so right. How could anyone hate her or think she should be locked up? Everybody makes mistakes. If she says she’s sorry and promises never to kill any more people, we should let bygones be bygones.”

Anna struggled to control herself. The man’s sarcasm was so irritating! “Don’t misunderstand me. What Consuelo did was terrible and wrong. And I remember very well what she was like before the treatment. At that time, she needed to be in prison, so she couldn’t hurt anyone else, or herself. But that’s no longer necessary. She’s cured now, and to punish her for things she did when she was sick is cruel!”

Krueger put his feet on the desk. “Tell me, Doc. How do you know she’s cured? Maybe this sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice stuff is just an Oscar-winning act. How do you know she isn’t laughing inside, at how she’s fooled all you high-powered doctors and the parole board?”

Yes, how do you know?

“All of Consuelo’s post-treatment test results were perfectly normal. Not just the psychological profile tests either, but ones she couldn’t possibly fake. Like the microaveraged EEG, her 5-HIAA levels, the ultra-resolution PET scans—”

Krueger interrupted her. “Spare me the jargon. The bottom line is, until you docs come up with some way to read minds, the only way to judge if she’s really ‘cured,’ like you claim, is to see how she acts. And that’s still a lousy way to judge people. If you’re dealing with somebody who’s smart and sick enough, you can really get fooled.

“I remember one client in particular. Middle-aged, distinguished-looking. Great sense of humor. Pillar of the community. He had busloads of character witnesses at his trial. Not the kind of person who rapes teenage girls and tortures them to death. ‘A clear case of mistaken identity,’ I said. ‘DNA evidence isn’t infallible.’ The jury wasn’t gone long enough for me to go take a leak before they found him ‘not guilty.’ ”

His eyes seemed to sadden. “A month later, the cops caught him red-handed hacking up the body of his latest victim.”

Krueger’s usual cynical look returned. “When something like that happens, it’s time for Plan B. You try to show why your client isn’t fully responsible for what they did. What you doctors have done is hand defense lawyers the perfect excuse. ‘It’s not my client’s fault. He just has bad genes!’ ”

“But that’s not necessarily true! An individual’s personality and actions are influenced by their biological makeup. Rarely, with diseases like schizophrenia, or more subtle defects like the one Consuelo had, genetic influences are so strong they practically make a person act a certain way. But usually non-biological factors, such as what a person’s been taught is ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ ‘right’ or wrong,’ are stronger.”

Krueger nodded. “The old question of ‘nature versus nurture.’ But don’t people also act the way they do simply because they want to? Because they decide to do something?”

“Well—of course. Within the biological limits Nature gave them, and what they’ve learned from interactions with their environment, especially other people, a ‘normal’ adult also makes conscious choices.”

“In other words, how people act is based partly on things they have little or no control over, like how their brains are ‘wired,’ or what they’re taught—and what they deliberately choose to do.”

Anna nodded. “Yes. But it may be very difficult to say how much each of those factors contributes to a particular individual’s actions.”

“That is a problem, isn’t it? Unfortunately, the legal system has to deal with it all the time. Prosecutors tend to argue a person should be held completely responsible for their actions, and downplay mitigating circumstances. They try to keep justice simple. ‘Just the facts, ma’am.’ ‘An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ Black and white, with maybe a few shades of gray.” He waved his hand at the items on his desk. “Just like Consuelo’s gift-giving ‘nemesis’ seems to be doing.

“When you’re defending somebody, though, it’s just the opposite. If it’s obvious your client did what they’re accused of, the fallback position is to come up with plausible reasons for what they did. Like, ‘My client had a rotten childhood.’ Or, better yet, accusing the victim of the crime, or ‘society’ of being responsible instead. With some of my clients, I’ve had to come up with really creative excuses. Funny thing is, the more outrageous they are, the more juries are inclined to swallow them. The old ‘big lie’ theory, I guess.”

Krueger frowned. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not all b.s. If you or I had been abused or neglected when we were kids, or grew up in a neighborhood where the most lucrative career choices were pusher or hooker, maybe we wouldn’t have grown up to be the fine, upstanding citizens we are either. ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’ ”

He slid his feet off the desk. “And whether you think it’s fair or not, I and every other defense lawyer will have to exaggerate this bad genes’ excuse if we don’t want to get sued for legal malpractice!” A mock-sincere look came to his face. “ ‘Distinguished members of the jury, it’s now been scientifically proven that a person can kill other people, not because they chose to do it, but because of the way their brain is made.’ Then I’ll talk about the ‘neuropsychiatric defect’ Consuelo had, and how you turned her into a model member of society by treating it. ‘My client couldn’t help himself. It’s not his fault doctors don’t know yet what kind of brain disease made him kill those people! It’s not his fault they don’t have a cure for it, like they found for Ms. Lopez!’

“Or maybe, with a conservative jury, I’ll use that old Sunday School idea of ‘original sin.’ You told the parole board all of us have—what was it?—‘neurobiologically-mediated personality traits.’ That the difference between a psychopath and somebody normal like you or me is just what particular traits and tendencies each person’s brain is preprogrammed to have.”

“Yes, but—”

“But that means some poor souls, just by bad luck and no fault of their own, are born with brains more susceptible to doing ‘evil.’ And isn’t it only fair those of us who were ‘luckier’ and got ‘healthier’ brains should feel compassion for our less fortunate brethren?”

Krueger glared at her. “Let me tell you what this ‘treatment’ you doctors have come up with is going to do. Other lawyers are going to twist the facts about it too, and dream up even more imaginative excuses to help their clients shirk responsibility for what they did. For every person like Consuelo you help, a lot more people will get less justice than they deserve because of what you’ve done.

“Hell, you’ve given a ‘scientific’ excuse for anarchy! Now anybody can say, ‘I can do what I want, when I want to do it. But nobody can hold me accountable if anything I do hurts me or anybody else, because it’s just the way my brain is made.’ And you can’t have much of a society, or anything approaching justice, if people’s freedom isn’t coupled with a strong sense of personal responsibility!”

Anna blinked. “But that’s not what we intended to do! We just wanted to help Consuelo and others like her! What you’re talking about is a perversion of the truth and what we tried to do!”

“Good intentions don’t mean anything. The only thing that matters is what actually happens after you do something, and not what you wanted to happen.”

Krueger looked at her contemptuously. “You ivory tower science types think truth is something objective. That it’s just waiting to be discovered, then everybody will agree what it is. But in the real world—like with juries—what is true is less important than what you can convince people is the truth. Maybe that’s not the way it should be. But that’s how it is.”

He snorted. “If your treatment really did work, I guess Consuelo is now the only good’ person in the world. The only one free of ‘original sin’—if you believe in that crap. Problem is, you doctors still haven’t come up with a magic pill to ‘save’ the rest of us sinners, and make us into little angels too. When you do, we can all beat our swords into plowshares, and the meek will inherit the Earth.”

His eyes bored into hers. “But until you do it, there’s going to be hell to pay!”

Anna tried to think of an answer. Before she could, Krueger grunted, “But hell, what am I doing, telling you that people are complicated.”

Anna looked at him, very confused. “Yes, they are.”

The lawyer motioned toward his desktop, “i’ll keep this junk you brought. Maybe I’ll figure out some way to use it to keep her from harassing Consuelo. In the meantime—both of you better be careful. She’s probably just out to get Consuelo. But she might figure ‘The friend of my enemy is my enemy too’—and also try to get you.”

Anna nodded. As she got up to leave Krueger said, “One more thing.”

The eyes in his pudgy face lingered lasciviously on her chest. “That pink blouse you’re wearing is my second-favorite.”

Consuelo didn’t ask what Krueger said, and Anna was too lost in her own thoughts to tell her. An hour later they drove back onto the single, elm-lined street of her subdivision. Arriving at the house, Anna checked the mail and looked for packages on the front porch. Today, at least, there was nothing new to worry about.

The supper Consuelo made that evening was her finest yet. Normally Anna didn’t care for mutton, but the way Consuelo made it was wonderful. As she passed a basket of hot rolls to Anna, the younger woman said, “I want to thank you again for everything you’ve done for me.”

Consuelo poured a little wine into Anna’s glass. “Whatever happens, I hope your memories of me are good ones.”

Her words made Anna uneasy. “Are you afraid something is going to happen to you?” Or are you planning to do something?

Consuelo sighed. “I don’t know what’s going to happen. It seems like I’m just living from second to second, with no control over what happens to me.”

I know the feeling. “This is a difficult period of transition for you. It’s going to take time for you to get your life back on track. But I know you can do it.”

Consuelo smiled. “Thank you. You’ve been very kind to me, and I’ll never forget you.”

The rest of the evening went quickly. Consuelo sat silently on the couch in the family room, seemingly lost in her own thoughts. Nestled nearby in her recliner, Anna brooded over what Krueger had said in his office. Earlier she’d turned the radio on and tuned in a classical music station. The choral music playing softly in the background made the atmosphere even more somber.

Consuelo got up. “I think I’ll go to bed now.”

“Is there anything special you’d like us to do tomorrow? Remember, we’ll have the whole day together again.”

“I’ll think about it.”

After Consuelo went upstairs, Anna remembered the things they’d bought today were still piled on the dining room table. She walked to the other room and examined each of their purchases carefully. Picking up the small figurine Consuelo liked so much, Anna carried it to the family room. She set it on an empty shelf, then stood back and gazed at it pensively. The little face of the figurine smiled sweetly back at her. Anna noticed the boy’s hair was black—just like Chuckie’s, or his father’s. In fact, Chuckie would have been five now, just like that boy—

The music in the background ended. As Anna turned off the radio the announcer said, “You have just heard a performance of the oratorio Christ on the Mount of Olives, by Ludwig van—” Then, her back hurting again, she went upstairs.

But instead of going to bed, Anna walked to one of the two doors she always kept locked. Using a key she took down from the lintel, she unlocked it and entered the room. Fifteen minutes later, her eyes wet and red, Anna emerged and went to her own bedroom.

That night she cried herself to sleep.

Anna woke abruptly from a nightmare, a scream strangling in her throat. She was driving their old Volvo on a dark moonless night along a lonely country road. On her right Chuckie was sleeping in his car seat. She glanced in the rearview mirror at the back seat of the car. Even Charles had dozed off, his mouth hanging open. Becky, their four-year-old, was also asleep, snuggled against her daddy.

Suddenly, in the glare of her headlights Anna saw someone standing in the middle of the road just ahead. It was Krueger, leering at her and playing with his crotch. After an instant’s hesitation her foot slammed down on the brake. As the car skidded toward him Krueger never moved. The leer was still on his face when the vehicle hit him and sent his body careening off into space. Then the car was spinning out of control, she screamed as it turned over and over—!

Anna finally stopped hyperventilating. Sitting up in the large empty bed, she clutched her knees and rocked gently, remembering…

They’d spent a wonderful weekend together at that resort by the lake. Early Sunday evening, Charles suggested they change their original plans and stay there overnight. Everybody’s tired, he’d said, especially the kids. We can drive back home in the morning.

But she insisted they stick to the schedule and go back that evening. “I have patients scheduled in the office tomorrow morning,” she said. “I have a responsibility to them!” And no, she wasn’t going to call Bill Skinner to cover for her. Her partner didn’t know the patients as well as she did. It wasn’t fair to Bill or to her patients.

Even now, four years later, Anna couldn’t remember exactly what happened. Maybe, like the rest of her family, she’d fallen asleep too—just long enough to lose control of the car.

They said that Charles and Becky died almost instantly. Maybe, sleeping in the back seat, they just never woke up—never suffered, never knew what happened. The airbag helped her escape with only a concussion, a compression fracture in her lumbar spine, and a few other broken bones.

But Chuckie was too tiny for even the special “ChildSafe” airbag on his side of the car to help him much. A week after the accident, they wheeled her to the pediatric ICU to be with him one last time. Anna knew all too well what the criteria for “brain death” were, and what had to be done. As the pediatrician solemnly turned off the ventilator, she’d clutched the hand of the still, broken body of the little boy on the bed and cried until they had to gently wheel her away.

Months later, Anna decided that going back to work was the only thing left for her to do. Though it was too late for her, at least she could salvage something from her life by helping other people. Or maybe it was just her damn obsessive-compulsive nature taking over again. A single-minded devotion to “duty,” “hard work,” and “being productive.” That personality trait had served her well for many years, helping her excel in college and medical school, making her successful and respected by colleagues and patients.

And that same personality trait had destroyed her life, and those she loved.

It would be so simple, so comforting, to blame her own biology for what she’d done. To say her brain was subtly “programmed” to act that way, so what happened wasn’t entirely her fault. But Anna wouldn’t let herself off that easily. She had made a foolish choice—not deliberately, but because she was careless, and had the wrong priorities. Her family had paid with their lives for her mistake. And now she had to live in a lonely hell of her own making.

The clock on her nightstand showed three in the morning. Sighing, Anna lay down again. There was no way she was going to find answers for the questions tormenting her right now. Better to just get some sleep.

Then she remembered something Bill Skinner said sometimes. In the light of day it always sounded trite. But now, with darkness all around her, it seemed strangely profound and comforting.

“Even psychiatrists get the blues.”

At ten o’clock the telephone rang and woke her up.

It was Mike, her secretary at the office. “Dr. Young, I wasn’t able to reach four of the patients you have scheduled for this afternoon and rebook them. What should I do?”

Without thinking she said, “That’s all right. I don’t want them to make a wasted trip. I can come to the office for a few hours and see them.”

After she hung up Anna remembered she’d promised to spend the whole day with Consuelo. Now she was going to break that promise. No, before she went to work, she needed to talk with Consuelo about it. After dressing, Anna walked downstairs to find her.

The house was deathly quiet. Consuelo wasn’t downstairs. Anna checked the backyard. She wasn’t there either.

Then Anna knew what had happened. Consuelo must have run away! She remembered the strange things the younger woman had said the night before, and suddenly it seemed inevitable. It just goes to show, she told herself bitterly, you can never really be sure what’s going on in another person’s head, or trust them completely.

But as she started to phone Krueger to tell him, Anna thought of one last possibility. Going back upstairs, she peeked in Consuelo’s bedroom.

Consuelo lay on her bed, sleeping peacefully. On her face was a look of angelic innocence.

Anna sighed in relief, then berated herself for her lack of faith. It was “reasonable” and “prudent” not to trust Consuelo completely. She still found it difficult to make the leap from “I think she’s cured,” to really believing in Consuelo.

Anna smiled slightly. Although she hardly thought of him as a theologian, maybe Krueger was right about that too. Wouldn’t it be nice to think that, of all the adults on Earth, the “new” Consuelo was the only one who was truly “good”? The only one whose—what did Krueger call it—“original sin” had been wiped clean?

She didn’t have the heart to wake Consuelo. So she wrote a brief note explaining she’d been called unexpectedly into work, and would be back soon. Anna quietly placed the note on a corner of the desk in Consuelo’s bedroom, and left.

But as Anna drove to her office, a nagging doubt tugged at the corner of her mind. She was doing the right thing, wasn’t she? She had an obligation to the patients scheduled to see her, and had to fulfill it. And she’d also taken care of her duty to Consuelo, by letting her know where she was going and that she hadn’t abandoned her. Yet, as reasonable as that analysis seemed, Anna still had a sense of foreboding. A feeling that, somehow, she was making a mistake.