Jonathan Kellerman - Therapy

Silence. Gull moved closer to Larsen. Larsen didn’t budge.

Sam Diaz said, “This one’s cagey. Bet he’s dry as a bone.”

Fourteen seconds; fifteen, sixteen.

Gull: “Is something going on, Albin? Because if there is, I need to know. I’m the one they’re harassing, and I don’t know what to tell them. Is there something I should know?”

Larsen: “Why would there be?”

Gull: “They- they seem so sure of themselves. As if they’re really onto something. I know you and Mary wanted me to see more Sentries patients, but I told you, I really wasn’t into it. So why would they be bothering me ? I had nothing to do with the program.”

Silence. Nine seconds.

Gull: “Right, Albin?”

Larsen: “Maybe they think you’re knowledgeable.”

Gull: “I’m not.”

Larsen: “Then you should have nothing to worry about.”

Gull: “Albin, is there something to worry about?”

Larsen: “What did you tell them about your billings?”

Gull: “That I billed for the few patients I saw, and that was it. They were skeptical. I could see it in their faces. Just about came out and called me a liar and said they found what I was telling them hard to believe. Even though it was true- you know that, Albin.”

Eleven seconds.

Gull: “Come on, Albin. Is there some billing thing I don’t know about?”

Larsen: “This is really upsetting you.”

Gull: “Don’t play shrink with me, Albin.”

Larsen placed a palm over his heart and smiled faintly.

Gull: “I ask you a straightforward question, and you come back with ‘This is really upsetting you.’ I’ve been through the wringer with those fascists, this isn’t the time for Rogerian bullshit, Albin.”

Sixteen seconds. Then Albin Larsen stood, and Sam Diaz said, “Uh-oh.”

Larsen walked several feet away from the table, hands clasped behind his back. Closer to the play area. A professor thinking deep thoughts.

Franco Gull glanced back in the direction of the truck. Helpless expression on his moist face. Looking right at us.

Milo said, “Idiot.”

Larsen returned to the table and sat back down. “You’re obviously upset, Franco. Mary’s death and what it means for us is upsetting.”

Gull: “That’s the thing, Albin. I get the feeling- from them, the police- that they think Mary’s death had something to do with Sentries. I know that’s sounds crazy, but if that’s what they think, who knows where it will lead?”

Four seconds.

Larsen: “Why would they think that?”

Gull: “You tell me. If you know something I should know, you have to tell me, it’s only fair. I’m on the hot seat- you have no idea how they treat you when they suspect you of something. They phone me incessantly, have me break appointments and come in for interrogations. Have you ever been in a police station, Albin?”

Larsen smiled. “From time to time.”

Gull: “Yeah, probably some place in Africa, whatever. But you haven’t been a suspect. Let me tell you, it’s not fun.”

Thirteen seconds.

Gull: “They call it interviewing, but it’s interrogation. I swear, Albin, I feel like some character out of a goddamned movie. One of those Kafkaesque things, Hitchcock, everything happens to the unsuspecting fool, and I’m he.”

Larsen: “It sounds dreadful.”

Gull: “It’s horrendous . And disruptive- it’s starting to affect my work. How the hell am I supposed to concentrate on patients when the next message on my machine could be from them? What if they start shoving paper at me- subpoenas, whatever it is they use. What if they try to comb through my records?”

Larsen: “Did they use the word ‘subpoena’?”

Gull: “Who remembers? The point is, they’re rooting around like truffle pigs.”

Larsen: “Rooting. That’s all it is.”

Gull: “Albin, I feel I’m not getting through to you.” He took hold of Larsen’s shoulders. Larsen didn’t move, and Gull’s hands dropped. “Why are they focusing on Sentries? Tell me the truth: What were you and Mary up to?”

Silence. Six seconds.

Larsen: “We were attempting to inject some compassion into the American criminal justice system.”

Gull: “Yeah, yeah, I know all that. I mean nuts and bolts, the billing. It’s the billing they’re latching onto. They just about came out and said they suspect us of Medi-Cal fraud, Albin. Were you fooling with the billing?”

Larsen: “Why would I do that.”

Milo said, “Cagey bastard.”

Gull: “I don’t know. But they suspect something. Before this thing spins out of control, I need to know if there’s any truth to their suspicions. Even if it was some kind of mistake, some paperwork thing. Did you- or Mary- do anything- anything at all- that would give them fuel? Because I think they’re after blood, Albin. I really do. I think Mary’s death got them thinking in a whole bizarre direction. Obsessive. Like that patient of Mary’s who died- you know I treated him. Gavin Quick. Kid was four-plus OCD in addition to all his other problems. I was happy to dump him on Mary but I swear, Albin, dealing with them I started to feel I was being forced into some OCD soap opera. The same questions, over and over and over. As if they’re trying to break me down.”

Eighteen seconds.

Gull: “You’re not saying anything.”

Larsen: “I’m listening.”

“Fine… you know how it is with obsession. The patient gets into something and keeps going at it. Which is okay when you’re the therapist and can establish boundaries. But being on the receiving end- these are not sophisticated people, Albin, but they are persistent. They perceive the world in hunter-prey terms and have no respect for our profession. I’m feeling like I’m set up to be the prey, and I don’t want that. And I shouldn’t think you’d want it, either.”

Larsen: “Who would?”

Milo said, “Such empathy.”

Sam Diaz said, “If this guy was hooked up to the poly, the needles wouldn’t even be quivering. Gull, he’d make the machine explode.”

Gull waved his hands. Diaz backed the camera several feet farther, establishing postural context.

Larsen just sat there.

Thirty-two seconds of silence passed before Gull said, “I have to say, I’m feeling a little… dismissed, Albin. I asked you substantive questions, and you’ve given me nothing but bland reassurance.”

Larsen placed a hand on Gull’s shoulder. His voice was gentle. “There’s nothing for me to tell you, my friend.”

Gull: “Nothing?”

Larsen: “Nothing to be concerned about.” Three seconds. “Nothing to lose sleep over.”

Gull: “Easy for you to say, you’re not the one who’s being-”

Larsen: “Would it make you feel better if I spoke to them?”

Gull: “To the police?”

Larsen: “To the police, to the Medi-Cal people. Anyone you like. Would it make you feel better?”

Gull glanced back toward the truck, then he returned his attention to Larsen. Larsen was watching the children, again.

Gull: “Yes, as a matter of fact it would. It would make me feel substantially better, Albin.”

Larsen: “Then I will do that.”

Six seconds.

Gull: “What will you tell them?”

Larsen: “That nothing… untoward has gone on.”

Gull: “And that’s true?”

Larsen gave Gull’s shoulder another pat. “I’m not worried, Franco.”

Gull: “You really think you can clear things up.”

Larsen: “There’s nothing to clear up.”

Gull: “Nothing?”

Larsen: “Nothing.”

Milo said, “Cold bastard. He’s not gonna spill, so much for this.”