Rafael Yglesias - Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil

Her show of support was important since she had treated his victim, his niece. Shawna was now living with a Quaker couple in Pennsylvania who planned to adopt her. She had adjusted well to her new circumstances. The immediate symptoms of her suffering — she had been neglected by her mother and beaten by her mother’s boyfriend for years before Albert’s assault — were relieved. Her reading and writing had improved dramatically; she made friends easily, slept and ate well. Nine months ago, before Diane’s therapy, those basics were almost impossible for Shawna. Indeed, at the time, a social worker and a psychologist appointed by the court to evaluate Shawna had labeled her as “learning disabled” and “preschizophrenic.”

[The latter is a new vogue term. It’s gibberish. Everyone who is not schizophrenic is preschizophrenic. The psychologist brilliant enough to predict schizophrenia is yet to be born.]

A few months before this hearing, Albert wrote his niece a letter apologizing for the rape. Shawna replied in a big hand, full of lovely circles. She wrote on lined yellow note paper: “Jesus loves you, Al. And I love you.” Both letters were in the brief submitted to Judge Torres.

We watched her study them or at least appear to; she had had two weeks to review all the documents. Also in attendance were our and Albert’s lawyer, Brian Stoppard, and an assistant district attorney, Richard Bartell.

“Are you sorry for what you did to Shawna?” Torres asked, dropping Albert’s apology on her desk.

“Yeah,” Al said, wildly searching Torres, then me, and finally Diane. Diane touched the sleeve of his blazer.

“What are you sorry about?”

“What?” Albert said, startled.

“What is it about what you did to Shawna that you regret?”

Albert looked to me, bewildered. “Tell her the truth, Al,” I said. Diane frowned at me, puzzled. Although she saw Albert every day, she hadn’t been working with him and we tried to avoid, in the interests of romance, bedroom work chatter.

“I’m sorry that—” Al glanced at me again. I nodded. He continued to Judge Torres, “I’m sorry I uglified sex for her. It’s a beautiful thing. I was wrong to do it ugly.”

Diane took off her eyeglasses and wiped them with a piece of tissue from her pocket — that meant she was nervous. The judge frowned at me. As for the assistant DA, Bartell, until then he had taken as neutral a tone as possible for a prosecutor, not withdrawing the State’s request that Albert should be locked up, yet not making the case with much passion. He lowered his eyes at Al’s comment. I bet he was thinking he’d better get tougher. He could see the headline: THEY LET HIM FREE TO RAPE AGAIN.

Albert, unaware his comment was worrisome, snapped his fingers softly, a tic when anxious. That, along with poor grades, restless shifting of feet and colorful speech, had earned him the diagnosis of attention deficit disorder.

I said to him quietly, “Al, I know you’re nervous — I think we’re all nervous, but snapping your fingers is probably making everybody more nervous.”

“Oh.” Al grabbed his right hand with his left, as if his will alone couldn’t control it. “Sorry,” he added to the judge. “Just a habit,” he said. He glanced at me and I nodded to encourage him to expand on his explanation. I had told him many times that he lived in a world with a sensitivity to the actions of young black males which, no matter how unfair or fair, shouldn’t be underestimated. I told him not to modify his behavior. Instead, he should talk more about his desires and fears, making clear what he was feeling, to become, as much as possible, an individual human being in the eyes of the prejudiced. “I’m scared,” he said to Torres. “That’s why I do that. I’m real scared right now.”

I wondered if Torres knew how hard it was for Albert to make that admission — an admission of weakness that could get him killed in the projects.

The judge nodded. “I understand. There’s nothing to be scared of—”

“Forgive me, Judge,” said Brian Stoppard, the only one who seemed calm, “but there is a lot at stake here for Albert. His fear, as Dr. Neruda would say, is realistic.”

I appreciated Brian’s comment. I don’t think Torres did. Needling a judge might seem stupid, but Brian had succeeded for us in every case, using a demanding, sometimes condescending attitude.

“Of course this is a serious situation,” Torres said to Brian testily. “Thank you for reminding me.” She softened to speak to Albert. Perhaps that was the point of Brian’s tactic: to make himself, the white middle-aged man, appear more aggressive than his client. “Albert, I want to do what’s best not only for society but for you as well. The law understands that you’re still a minor, a child. Punishment isn’t all we’re interested in. We want to help you change. Could you explain to me a little more what you mean when you say you regret making sex ugly? Does that mean you wish you had had sex with Shawna instead of raping her?”

“Judge—” Brian started.

She shut him off. “Don’t interrupt, Counselor.” She looked at Albert.

He rubbed his hands together hard enough that we could all hear the friction on his skin. He turned to me, eyes pleading.

“Keep telling the truth, Al,” I said.

He answered her question, but addressed me, “You know things like that were done to me too. Now I see sex as ugly. The ugliest ugly. I did that to her. I don’t know. Maybe it always be ugly to me. Didn’t want to do that. That stay with you always. Didn’t want to do that shit to Shawna. She’s real pretty and that fucked it for her. That’s the worse thing I did.”

Diane had not only relaxed — there were tears forming. Bartell stared at Albert, amazed. The judge put a hand to her chin and appeared very wise. “I think I understand. Now tell me, Albert, do you understand that it’s wrong to have sexual relations of any kind with a child?”

Albert’s mouth hung open. His hands continued rubbing. I could see that he didn’t understand what the judge was worried about.

“Judge,” I said, “may I ask your question in a slightly different way to Albert?”

“Yeah!” Albert said loudly, relieved.

A laugh escaped from Bartell. Immediately, he shut it off.

Albert’s handsome face became a mask of disdain. I understood that in fact he was embarrassed and frightened, but his strong features and dark skin would appear scary to a stranger, especially a white stranger. “Shit,” he mumbled.

“What did you say, Albert?” the judge asked.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to talk out of turn.”

Torres nodded for me to proceed.

I asked, “Albert, would you like to have sex with Shawna?”

Albert frowned. He snapped his fingers three times quickly, as if summoning a waiter. “That what she mean?”

“The judge would like to know if you want to have sex with children.”

“That what she think of me?” he asked, not demanded.

“No, Albert,” Torres said. “I don’t know. I’m asking.”

“Don’t she know?” Albert continued talking to me as if we were alone in the room. I’m sure that rudeness seemed arrogant. I knew it to be fear.

“You should tell the judge everything. That’s the only way you can be sure she knows what she needs to know. You can’t count on us.”

Albert faced Torres like a soldier reporting. “I can’t do it, you know? I can’t have sex. They say my …”he gestured, shyly, at his crotch, “they say it’s fine. But not in my head, you know? It’s uglified. Rafe — I mean, the doctor — he thinks it will change. But I don’t know. I can’t fuck anybody.” Al realized the word he had used and quickly added, “Sorry, I don’t mean to disrespect you. That’s just the word, you know. I’m sorry.”