Сэмуэль Шэм - Mount Misery

When Schlomo testified he was terrific. Wise, funny, sad, angry. A man of the people. An esteemed professor high above the fray. Mesmerizing.

Even I, knowing the truth, half believed him. It was weird, just how convincing he could be. Not only was he totally entertaining, with his Borscht Belt humor about the accusations, but he came across as a victim himself, filled with-his word, said with a fist clenched over his heart-tsouris. This, he explained, was a Yiddish word meaning total grief. He gave the derivation and usage in great and teary detail.

Schlonio conveyed to us all not only his resilient humor, but also his pain, his heartache for everyone involved, especially "my poor bubble, Dr. Lowell." He spoke from his kishkees. He laughed through his tears. He dressed so sloppily, looked so ugly, sounded like such a poor schlemiel, it seemed impossible that a woman would fall for him, especially not a woman as strong and sure of herself as A.K. By the end of his testimony I thought he had the jury eating out of his hand. Even the judge, a stern old New Englander named Shipley, tall as a tree and with a face like the Old Man of the Mountain, laughed twice, and once seemed on the edge of tears.

A.K., unfortunately, came across as she was: cold, unknowable and unknown, making no real contact with the jurors. With her soul so hidden, it seemed that she just might be crazy, making all this up. Especially when her stiff, guarded words were seen against the backdrop of Schlomo's spilling his guts in such a seemingly sincere, convincing, and entertaining way.

Schlomo testified under oath that he could not possibly have abused A.K. because he had been impotent for a decade at least. In a spectacular piece of bravado, his wife Dixie Dove took the stand and, with a humility that was truly heart-wrenching, said:

"Yes, Schlomo Dove has been important for at least the last ten years."

Everyone cracked up. Schlomo laughed as hard as anyone. He was enjoying this, his moment of national-hell, international-fame. Half of Hollywood-the psychoanalyzed half-was said to be calling. He was becoming a star.

In cross-examination, A.K.'s lawyer, a fit, handsome forty-ish man named Darney, leaped on this "limp-penis defense." He introduced extensive notes from A.K.'s contemporaneous journal describing Schlomo's erect penis in no small detail.

"And even if you were impotent, Dr. Dove," Darney said, voice rising in accusation, "have you not fingers? A tongue? Toes? Toes, Dr. Dove, have you not toes?"

Attention turned to Schlomo. We all half expected Schlomo to say, "No, they've all been amputated, your honor." But no. Shaking his head in wonderment, Schlomo said, 'Toes, ten. Tsouris, plenty."

How could you not smile at this?

Finally, after seeing much legal infighting around Exhibit A, the condoms in the Ziploc bag, the jury saw Exhibit B, the bananas. A.K. testified that these were used by Schlomo for masturbating her. Schlomo testified that they were used to make sure his potassium level stayed normal, as he was on diuretics for his heart failure, which, in his words, "is killing me slowly, and deep down is the cause of my impotence."

Ms. Green, Schlomo's sweet young reptile of a lawyer, tried everything to demolish A.K.'s character. She quoted from Schlomo's voluminous notes from his psychoanalysis of her. Nothing suggested the slightest physical involvement. All described just what a depraved sick person A.K. really was. She'd changed her name. She'd changed her nose. Was this not proof of instability?

But A.K. too had taken notes on her psychoanalysis with Schlomo, notes that described in lurid detail their several years of sexual acts. In addition, A.K. was now a respected member of the psychoanalytic community, and marched out witness after witness attesting to her fine character. After all, she had been analyzed, hadn't she, by one of the self-confessed "best analysts in town, if not the world"-Schlomo Dove. Hadn't Dr. Dove, head of the Freudian Institute, put his imprimatur upon her, terminating with her successfully? Hadn't Schlomo, when she'd gone to him for a match with an analyst, told her, "You have all the warmth of the sun, but you keep giving it away to others, leaving you sad and lonely"-and then kept

her for himself?

Beside me, Zoe and Lily Putnam squirmed at these words. The trial kept moving from this sense of human tragedy to

farce. Some of it was so surreal that after it happened you couldn't believe that it had happened, except that it had. It was like America in that way, where, ever since Nixon, really, anything you thought of as a flagrant exaggeration of reality turned out, years later, to be a gross underestimate. In just a few decades the surreal in our country had turned real. What did this say about what would count as reality in our future?

The most surreal exchanges were around the Schlomo penis.

Schlomo's lawyer asked A.K. whether the Schlomo penis was circumsized.

"Yes," A.K. said.

"It would please the court," Ms. Green said with a dramatic flourish of her arms and in the voice of a premenstrual diva, "that the correct answer is 'only partially.' The Schlomo Dove penis is only partially circumsized!" Dramatic pause. "Your honor, I rest my case."

Schlomo beamed with pride. As his lawyer sat, he gave her a high five.

"One of the main bones of contention," said Darney, A.K.'s lawyer, in what I thought was a particularly inept turn of phrase, "is the doctor's penis. On the one hand, is it circumsized? On the other hand, is it not? Is it perenially flaccid, or is it capable of erection? Your honor, defense claims it is 'only partially' circumsized-whatever that boils down to, and-to quote Dr. Dove's words in his deposition-'always soft as lin-guini.' Parenthetically, I would point out that there is linguini, and there is linguini. Uncooked, it is hard. The phrase 'al dente' also comes to mind." The judge rolled his eyes, and gestured counsel to get on with it. "Your honor, counsel sees no other route than to have Dr. Schlomo Dove's penis examined by a medical expert, to see if, number one, it is circumsized or not, and number two, if it can maintain an erection."

"What?" Schlomo screamed, shooting to his feet, "you wanna see if I can get it up?"

"Objection!" Ms. Green screamed, shooting to her feet at the same time. "The penis is a red herring!"

"Oy, what a slip!" Schlomo said.

"OhmyGod," Ms. Green said.

Everyone cracked up, even the judge.

Banging his gavel, shaking his craggy head, the judge then called the attorneys to the side bar. They argued heatedly. The judge recessed, and called them into his chambers. We adjourned for the day.

The next day the judge ruled against A.K. The crafty old judge hinted that-perhaps fearing Dershowitz sinking his teeth into it-the penis would be an awkward exhibit to maintain at the appellate level, "if it could get up that far." The Schlomo penis was put to rest. Advantage, Dove.

The judge charged the jury on "the burden of proof" in such strict terms that it seemed to me our case was lost. Schlomo had been mesmerizing, A.K. unfathomable. Mr. Darney pointed out that in mesmerizing the members of the jury, Schlomo was doing exactly what had been done to seduce A.K. Further, Darney painted a vivid picture of how A.K.'s cool hiddenness and "sour demeanor" were the result of being an abuse survivor. But even to us this seemed a last-ditch effort by a desperate advocate, incidental, doomed to fail.

Berry and I left for our drive to Arizona. The jury stayed out five days. A finding for Schlomo, the defendant, seemed inevitable.

Last night we got the verdict, in Zoe's overnight letter.

The jury found for the plaintiff, A. K. Lowell, on all counts.

A sweet victory for A.K. Only Berry and I and A.K. herself knew just how sweet. I would return her ledger to her. Her own abuse of Oly Joe would remain a secret.