Paul Levine - Flesh and bones

"Gentlemen," the judge interrupted, "would you care to include me in your colloquy?"

"The state withdraws its objection," Socolow said, trying to stifle his smile.

The first voice was Chrissy's.

"I've thought more about what we discussed yesterday."

"The need for goals?" Schein.

"No. What we talked about afterward."

"Oh, that."

"I've made a decision that you're not going to like."

''Maybe you shouldn't tell me.''

"But I've told you everything else. I can't imagine not telling you first.''

"All right then. But first, let me…"

The familiar sound of papers rustling and a chair squeaking and a click. Not the internal sound of the recorder being turned off, but the tape picking up the sound of a button being pushed on a different recorder. I hit the Stop button.

"What was that sound?" I asked.

"I must have turned off the recorder."

"So you were mistaken a few minutes ago about never turning off the recorder in the middle of a session?"

He threaded his hands together and twisted them at his knuckles. "Yes, but… well, there was the auxiliary recorder, so there was really no loss of information. I mean, the tape we're hearing is from the auxiliary recorder."

"But you didn't turn over this tape to the state, did you?"

"No, it must have been… overlooked."

"And you didn't give it to me until the eve of trial?"

He reddened. He had never thought I'd use it. Why would I? It proved the state's case of premeditation.

"No, as I say, I had forgotten all about it."

"And you never told Chrissy about it?"

"No."

I hit Play.

"Is it off?" Chrissy.

"It's off." Schein.

"Well, like I said, I was thinking…"

"Yes?"

"I've bought a gun."

"I thought you were just going to visualize it."

"No. That's not enough. I've got to kill him."

"Figuratively? As part of therapy?"

"C'mon, Larry. That isn't what you meant. It couldn't be."

"I didn't mean anything. I raised certain hypothetical actions, all intended to be therapeutic.

"I decided last night. I couldn't sleep. I haven't slept through the night in weeks. I'm having nightmares and migraines.''

"It's all part of the process. The pain is coming out. "

"No, it's not. May it will after…"

"After?"

"I'm going to kill my father for raping me. I'm going to kill him for ruining my life and for ruining Mom's. "

"What would that solve?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to do it. You've shown me what the bastard did to me. Now I know why everything in my life has been so-''

"You'll be caught."

"I saw on Oprah, the other day, a woman who shot her husband after he'd beaten her. She got off."

"I don't know.''

"Oh, Larry, don't look so depressed. That's funny, isn't it? I mean, you're treating me, and I say you're depressed.''

"You know I can't endorse what you're planning."

"You can't stop me either. "

"I'm not even sure you're serious. Most people never act on their revenge fantasies.''

"You've helped me so much. I'll just be so glad when it's over."

"What, therapy?"

"No, Larry, when the bastard is dead."

The tape ran out, and the jurors exchanged glances. Why's the shyster trashing his case? Just hold on, ladies and gentlemen. There's still a rabbit in the hat.

"Dr. Schein, you knew you were being recorded, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"And my client didn't?"

"That's correct."

"Which is a crime in this state," I said in my best accusing tone.

"I didn't know that," Schein replied.

I moved back behind the jury box. I wanted them to watch the witness. "And this was the fourth therapy session after you suggested to my client that her father had raped her as a child?"

"It was the fourth session after Chrissy recovered her repressed memories of having been raped."

"And this was the last session you would ever have with my client?"

"Yes. Two days later, Christina killed her father."

"If you don't mind, Dr. Schein, we'll let the jury determine just who killed her father." His head snapped back as if I'd hit him with a quick jab. I walked back toward the defense table. Chrissy looked up at me, her eyes misty. I examined a legal pad filled with doodling. I knew the jury was watching, so I wrinkled my brow and studied the pad as if it contained the secret of cold fusion, then resumed my position at the rear of the jury box. Like sex, good cross-examination requires pacing. Start with a little foreplay, build slowly to a crescendo, and wham! Take a few breaths, then start all over again, preferably from a different angle.

"Correct me if I'm wrong. Doctor, but it would appear that on June fourteenth, at approximately four-thirty P.M., Chrissy Bernhardt told you in no uncertain terms that she had bought a gun and planned to kill her father."

"Yes. She said those things."

"You're a close friend of Guy Bernhardt's, correct?"

"Yes."

"Once Chrissy told you of her plan to kill her father, you must have picked up the phone and called Guy Bernhardt."

"No. I didn't do that."

"Then you must have called Harry Bernhardt to tell him that his life was in danger."

"No."

My face reflecting my rehearsed astonishment, I asked, "Did you call the police to warn them of your dangerous client?"

"No. I didn't consider her dangerous."

"Even though you diagnosed her as suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder, the same malady as Vietnam syndrome, in which combat veterans sometimes go berserk?"

"That's relatively rare."

"So you're telling this jury that you didn't warn Harry, you didn't warn Guy, and you didn't alert the police, correct?"

"Correct."

"Then let's see what you did do. Did you seek a court order that would require her hospitalization and testing?"

"No. I tried to talk her out of killing her father."

"How? By saying, 'I can't endorse what you're planning'? Pretty tough language, Doctor."

The judge cleared his throat. "Mr. Lassiter, please refrain from sarcasm."

"Sorry, Your Honor," I said halfheartedly. Sarcasm is to me what scratching is to a center fielder. I turned back toward the witness stand. "Doctor, where were you on the night of June sixteenth?"

"I had dinner with a colleague at the Hotel Astor on South Beach."

"How did you learn of the shooting?"

"The police called Guy. He called the hotel and had me paged. He told me that his father was in surgery at Mount Sinai."

"And he wanted you to get to the hospital as quickly as possible?"

"Well, yes. Guy was an hour away, and I was much closer."

"Did he tell you who shot his father?"

"Yes."

"Did you, on that occasion, say, 'By the way, Guy, forty-eight hours ago, Chrissy threatened to kill your father. So sorry I neglected to mention it'?"

"No. I maintained the confidentiality of my patient's communication."

"How admirably ethical," I said, and Judge Stanger shot me a warning look.

"By the way, Doctor, why weren't you and Guy at Paranoia with Harry Bernhardt?"

"Why should we have been?"

I opened a little black book so recently produced by the state attorney. "Because, according to Harry Bernhardt's appointment book, he was to meet you and Guy there at eight o'clock."

"I don't know anything about that," he said quickly. "You'll have to ask Guy."

I planned to do just that, but first, as my granny would say, I had other fish to fry.

"What did you do after being informed of the shooting?" I asked.

"I paid my bill immediately, got my car, and rushed to Mount Sinai."

"What time did you leave the hotel?"

"I don't recall. I wasn't paying attention to the time."

I put down Harry's appointment book and picked up another file, pulling out a copy of a credit charge slip. "If you paid your bill at eleven-oh-one P.M., would it be fair to say that you left the hotel in the next three or four minutes, say eleven-oh-five P.M.?"