Andrew Vachss - False Allegations

He took a short breath. When I didn't say anything, he rolled on like there had been no pause. "For example, the law should be that every single abortion performed on a minor must include the preservation of fetal tissue for DNA analysis. You could not ask for better, stronger proof of incest, if it actually caused the pregnancy. But the anti–abortion crowd, those so–called 'pro–family' people, they are bitterly opposed. And they have enough clout in Congress to keep such a law off the books."

"Kids don't vote," I said softly. Thinking: They don't carry guns either. Until they get older. And then they almost always shoot each other.

"Politics doesn't interest me," Kite replied. "The political process is tawdry, as whorish as anything you could find in Times Square. I'm not an organizer. I don't speak at conferences. I don't go to demonstrations. I'm not even an activist. I hunt…the truth. My contribution will be the FSG syndrome," he said, voice thickening. "And I do not intend to have all my years of research and investigation trivialized by snide little comments about my objectivity. My syndrome has validity only through contrast ," he continued, his no–color complexion blotching red. "That is the very essence of investigation: friction creates heat, and heat creates light. The light of truth."

"And I come in…where?" I asked him, calling a halt to the flow. I could hear a harsh, resentful intake of breath somewhere behind me. Heather, angry that the minister's sermon was interrupted by some fool talking in church.

He took a deep breath. I heard the tap of spike heels. Heather brought him an earless white china cup, holding it in both hands like a precious offering. He sipped from the cup, inhaling the fumes as he did, pulling in calm. "Forgive me," he said quietly. "I am not normally a passionate man. This…my syndrome…is the one thing that inspires me to emotionalism. Your question is a fair one. I should have anticipated it—and answered it—first. Mr. Burke, I am not usually publicly associated with the cases I investigate. I have no desire for the spotlight, quite the contrary, in fact. But I realize that all causes need publicity if they are to capture the imagination—and the support—of the public. An hour on Oprah is, regrettably, worth more to a cause than a hundred articles in the most prestigious journals.

"Indeed, I will be completely honest with you: Miss Winfrey is one of my objectives. She combines a massive audience with a high degree of personal credibility. And on this particular issue, child sexual abuse, she has been a leading figure in American consciousness."

"I still don't get it," I told him. "You can't just call up and book a spot on Oprah . She doesn't do Siamese–twin lesbian dwarf adultery stuff the way the others do."

"Mr. Burke, believe me, I have thoroughly researched all the available television talk shows. In fact, I've made poor Heather monitor them every day for months," he said, glancing over my shoulder. She made some little sound, too faint for me to recognize. "The sexual abuse industry has made it impossible for a straightforward victim to tell her story. Simple incest won't even get you a booking on the trash shows anymore. It isn't good theater. But in a short time," he said soberly, "a young woman is going to come forward with the most shocking allegations concerning a major figure in a religious organization. She will have no conventional proof other than her own word. She will be immediately embraced by one end of the continuum…and immediately attacked by the other. I plan to stand with her, right in the middle of that firestorm, because every word she will utter will be the truth . I expect to defend her against all the so–called investigators who will try to tear her story apart. For the first time in my career, I will personally handle a case," he said, voice gathering momentum. "As her attorney, I will sue not only the perpetrator of the crimes against her; I will sue the organization which spawned him and tolerated his predatory conduct. I will fight them when they raise the statute of limitations; I will fight them on the law; I will fight them on the facts." He took a deep breath. "And I will prevail. The truth will prevail."

"So this is all about a lawsuit?" I said.

"No, Mr. Burke," he said sharply, "this is not about a lawsuit. It is about the launch of a new era in the investigation of child sexual abuse. This case will be my credential, my entrée to the rarefied air of public credibility. You see, I do expect to be on Oprah . But without my client. The show will not be about this one case, it will be about my syndrome. Before I can establish a new method of investigation, which will disprove false allegations, I need to establish that some allegations are true. Yes, this one case will get me on the show. But I will use the time to illustrate dozens of other cases. Cases in which my syndrome was employed as the ultimate litmus test."

"Yeah, all right. But I still don't see where I come in."

"Because I have to be sure , Mr. Burke. Everything is riding on that one foundation. And unlike others in my profession, I will never fall victim to arrogance. I am convinced to a moral certainty that this young woman is telling the truth. But I cannot take chances, not with an undertaking of this magnitude. I want you to step in now. I want you to do anything you can, and I mean anything at all, to break the young woman's story. If there's a defect anywhere, I want you to find it."

"But if I did find one…?"

"Then there is no case," he said flatly. "And I will wait patiently for another which appears to meet all my criteria. This isn't about money for me, not at all. In fact, I am taking this case pro bono , waiving my fee entirely, including expenses. But I know I will come under fire, and I simply cannot risk being wrong."

"How do you expect me to—?"

"I don't care what you do, Mr. Burke. I hope I made that crystal clear. I want the truth. Wherever it may be found and whatever it turns out to be. My client has pledged full cooperation. She will answer any questions you have…and do whatever else you want."

"You polygraphed her?"

"Yes. Two separate examiners, with impeccable credentials. No deception was indicated.

"She saw a psychiatrist?"

"And a psychologist. Both agreed: Post–Traumatic Stress Disorder. The psychologist's diagnosis included child sexual abuse as proximate cause. The psychiatrist wouldn't go that far…but they never do."

"Medicals?"

"Inconclusive. You'll see for yourself."

"Independent corrob?"

"Same answer."

"How much time would I have?"

"As much as you need," he said. "I am not going to move forward until I'm absolutely certain. You are the last piece of the puzzle, Mr. Burke. My own investigation is completed—the lawsuit awaits only your own."

"You went to a lot of trouble," I said quietly.

"I always do," he replied.

I could feel Heather behind me, the sheer intensity of her pushing against the cushion of air between us. "How would we work it?" I asked him.

I couldn't read his eyes behind the pink glasses. A tic jumped in his face. "We both know paying someone by the hour leads to potential corruption," he said calmly. "The same goes for paying by the result. I propose a flat fee, open–ended. I will be buying your complete investigation, for as long as it takes. And your confidential report."

"I won't—"

"Not in writing, Mr. Burke. You report to me. Verbally. Your name never comes into this."

"And you wouldn't expect me to testify?"

A smile snaked its way from one corner of his mouth, disappearing when it reached the far end. "No offense, Mr. Burke, but your record makes you something less than an ideal candidate for courtroom testimony."