Chapter

12

Wednesday morning I was back in Beverly Hills, in the penthouse offices of Trenton, Worthy and La Rosa. Waiting to give my deposition in a rosewood-paneled conference room slathered with abstract art and furnished with butter-colored leather chairs and a football-shaped smoked-glass table.

Mal sat next to me, grubbily trendy in an unstructured silver silk suit, five-day beard, and shoulder-length hair. Behind us was a blackboard on a rosewood easel, and a luggage rack holding a calfskin suitcase—Mal’s one-up on briefcase toters. Across the table sat a legal reporter with a steno machine. Surrounding her were eight—not seven—attorneys.

“Insurance company sent three,” Mal whispered to me. “Those first three.”

I looked at the trio. Young, pin-striped, funereal.

Their spokesman was a big, prematurely bald fellow in his early thirties named Moretti. He had a meaty cleft chin, wide shoulders, and the charm of a drill instructor. One of Mal’s secretaries served coffee and sweet rolls, and as we ate, Moretti made a point of letting me know he’d been a psych major at Stanford. He dropped the names of prominent professors, tried unsuccessfully to engage me in shoptalk, and watched me over the rim of his coffee cup with sharp brown eyes.

When I presented my report he moved to the edge of his chair. When I finished he was the first to speak. The other lawyers deferred to him. Like any wolf pack, they’d chosen their lead killer and were content to sit back and let him open the first wounds.

He reminded me that I was legally bound to tell the truth, just as if I were in court, that I was testifying under penalty of perjury. Then he removed a phone-book-thick pile of photocopied articles from his briefcase and made a show of stacking the papers on the table, shuffling and sorting and squaring off the corners. Lifting the top article, he said, “I’d like to read you something, Doctor.”

“Sure.”

He smiled. “I really wasn’t asking permission, Doctor.”

“I really wasn’t granting it.”

The smile disappeared. Mal nudged me under the table. Someone coughed. Moretti tried staring me down, then put on a pair of rimless octagonal glasses, cleared his throat, and began to read. He finished a paragraph before turning to me. “Familiar, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the source?”

“It’s the introduction to an article I published in The Journal of Pediatrics in 1981. Summer of ’81, I believe. August.”

He examined the date but didn’t comment on it. “Do you remember the gist of that article, Doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Could you summarize it for us?”

“The article describes a study I did from 1977 through 1980, when I was at Western Pediatric Hospital. The research was funded by the National Institute of Mental Health and was designed to learn the effects of chronic disease upon the psychological adjustment of children.”

“Was it a well-designed study, Doctor?”

“I believe so.”

“You believe so. Tell us what you did in this well-designed study—be specific about your methodology.”

“I administered several tests of psychological adjustment to a sample of sick children and a control group of healthy children. The groups were matched in terms of social class, parental marital status, and family size. There was no significant difference between the groups.”

“No significant difference on any measure of psychological adjustment?”

“That’s correct.”

Moretti looked over at the legal reporter. “He talks fast. Do you have that down?”

She nodded.

Back to me: “For the sake of those of us who aren’t familiar with psychological jargon, specify what no significant difference means.”

“The groups were statistically indistinguishable. The average scores on these measures were similar.”

“Average?”

“Median—the fifty percent mark. Mathematically, it’s the best measure of typicality.”

“Yes, of course, but what does all of that mean?”

“Chronically ill children may develop some problems but being sick doesn’t inevitably make them neurotic or psychotic.”

“Hold on for a moment,” said Moretti, patting the stack of papers. “I don’t see mention of any problems here, Doctor. Your basic finding was that the sick children were normal.”

“That’s true. However—”

“You spell it out right here, Doctor.” He held up the article, flipped a page, and jabbed his finger at it. “Right here in Table Three. ‘Spielberger State Anxiety scores, Rosenberg self-esteem scores, Achenbach Adjustment scores were all’—and I’m quoting verbatim—‘within normal limits.’ Put in simple English, these kids were no more nervous or insecure or maladjusted or neurotic than their healthy peers, were they, Doctor?”

“This is starting to sound argumentative,” said Mal. “We’re here to find facts.”

“Quasi-facts, at best,” said Moretti. “This is psychology, not science.”

“You quoted the article, Counselor,” said Mal.

“Your witness’s report seems to be contradicting his own published work, Counselor.”

“Would you like me to answer your question?” I asked Moretti.

He removed his glasses, sat back, and gave a quarter-smile. “If you can.”

“Read the discussion section,” I said. “The last three paragraphs specifically. I list several problem areas chronically ill children have to deal with throughout their lives—pain and discomfort, disruption of school due to treatment and hospitalization, body changes brought about by both disease and treatment, social rejection, overprotectiveness by parents. In general, children cope well with these problems, but problems still exist.”

“The discussion section,” said Moretti. “Aha. The place researchers dump their conjectures. But your own data—your statistics say otherwise. Really, Doctor—”

“In other words,” Mal broke in, turning to me, “what you’re saying, Dr. Delaware, is that sick children and traumatized children face a constant flood of challenges—life is agonizing for them—but some are able to handle it.”

“Yes.”

Mal swept his eyes up and down the table, avoiding Moretti, establishing momentary eye contact with each of the other lawyers. “No reason to penalize a child for coping well, is there, gentlemen?”

“Who’s the witness here?” snapped Moretti, waving the reprint.

“No reason to penalize a child for dealing with his trauma,” said Mal.

“Trauma?” said Moretti. “There’s nothing in this article about traumatized children,” said Moretti. “These are chronically ill kids—chronic, as in long-term. Darren Burkhalter is a one-shot deal. He has no ongoing pain or physical change to deal with. He’d be even less vulnerable to problems than someone chronically disabled.”

He allowed himself a full smile.

To him it was all a game. I thought of little boys engaging in back-alley pissing contests and said, “Good point, Mr. Moretti. Chronically ill and traumatized children are very different. That’s why I was wondering why you quoted from the article in the first place.”

A couple of the other lawyers smiled.

“Touché,” Mal whispered in my ear.

One of the other insurance lawyers was whispering in Moretti’s ear. The lead man wasn’t pleased with what he was hearing but he listened impassively, then put the reprint aside.

“All right, Doctor, let’s talk about the whole notion of early childhood trauma. Your conclusion, as I understand it, is that Darren Burkhalter will be scarred emotionally, for life, because of his presence during an automobile accident.”

“You understand wrong,” I said. Moretti reddened. Mal raised his eyebrows and gave a soft whistle.

“Now, Doctor—”

“What I did say, Mr. Moretti, was that during my examination of him, Darren Burkhalter exhibited classic symptoms of trauma for a child his age. Sleep problems, nightmares, phobias, aggressiveness, hyperactivity, tantrums, periods of increased clinginess. According to both his mother and his day-care teacher, he showed none of these behaviors prior to the accident. It’s reasonable to assume they were related to the accident—though I can’t prove that with hard data. Whether or not these problems will develop into chronic disabilities isn’t clear, although the risk is high if psychotherapy doesn’t continue. In addition, Darren is lagging in his speech and language development—his milestones are several months behind average. How much of that is due to the trauma is impossible to judge, but it’s well worth thinking about when considering this child’s future.”

“It certainly is impossible to judge,” said Moretti. “My reading of the literature in your field is that intelligence is primarily genetically determined. The best predictor of a child’s IQ is his father’s IQ—Katz, Dash, and Ellenberg, 1981.”

“This father’s IQ will never be tested again,” said Mal.

“In lieu of that, I requested that Mrs. Burkhalter take an IQ test, but you refused that request, Mr. Worthy.”

“She’s had enough stress, Counselor.”

“No matter,” said Moretti. “Inferences may still be drawn from what we know of these people. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Burkhalter finished high school. Both were dropouts, worked at menial jobs. That indicates a less than average genetic endowment for this family. I wouldn’t expect Darren to be average. Would you, Dr. Delaware?”

“It’s hardly that simple,” I said. “Parental IQ predicts children’s IQ better than most other factors, but it’s still not a very good predictor, accounting for less than twenty percent of the variance. Katz, Dash, and Ellenberg emphasize that in their follow-up 1983 study. One out of five, Mr. Moretti. Not great odds for a bet.”

“Are you a gambler, Doctor?”

“No. That’s why I took this case.”

The reporter smiled.

Moretti turned to Mal. “Counselor, I’d advise that you counsel this witness on appropriate demeanor.”

“Consider yourself advised, Dr. Delaware,” said Mal, fighting a grin. He flashed his cuffs and studied his Rolex. “May we proceed?”

Moretti put his glasses back on and scanned some papers. “Dr. Delaware,” he said, then paused as if anticipating a punch line. “Come now, Dr. Delaware. You’re not saying that except for the accident, Darren Burkhalter would have been expected to become a nuclear physicist, are you?”

“No one knows what Darren would have become or what he will become,” I said. “Right now, the facts are that following an unusually severe psychological trauma, his language is below average and he’s experiencing severe stress.”

“What was his language like before the accident?”

“His mother reports he was starting to talk. However, after the traum—”

“His mother,” said Moretti. “And you base your conclusions on what she tells you.”

“Along with other input.”

“Such as your interview with his day-care teacher.”

“Such as.”

“His teacher’s your expert witness?”

“She seemed very credible and had a good understanding of Darren. She reported that the parents were very involved, very loving. His father, in particular, had taken an interest in his—”

“Yes, let’s talk about his father. Gregory Joe Burkhalter had a criminal record. Are you aware of that, Doctor?”

“Yes I am. A conviction for petty theft, several years ago.”

“Petty theft and larceny, Doctor. He did jail time.”

“What’s the point?” asked Mal.

“The point, Mr. Worthy, is that your expert, basing his opinion on an individual who would not qualify as an expert in court, wants to make a case for this father being a major source of intellectual stimulation for this child, hence major material and emotional loss due to paternal death. This father was a criminal, minimally educated …”

“Mr. Moretti,” I said, “is it your position that only educated parents are worth grieving for?”

He ignored me. “… while, in point of fact, the data pertaining to the case in point indicate a socially and emotionally impoverished …”

He went on for a while, picking up volume and speed, fairly glowing with combat lust. Mal, too, was caught up in the joust, poised for the riposte.

More pissing. And the truth be damned. It started to really get to me and I broke in, raising my voice to be heard over the tide of legalese: “Mr. Moretti, you’re a classic case of a little knowledge being dangerous.”

Moretti rose half out of his seat, caught himself, then settled back down and bared his teeth. “Getting defensive, Doctor?”

“This was supposed to be a fact-finding meeting. If you want to hear what I have to say, fine. If you want to play ego games, I won’t waste my time.”

Moretti clucked his tongue. “Mr. Worthy, if this is a portent of his courtroom behavior, you’re in a heap of trouble, Counselor.”

Mal said nothing. But he scrawled on his note pad: Have I created a monster? then covered it with his hand.

Moretti didn’t miss it: “Anything we should have on the record, Counselor?”

“Just doodling,” said Mal and he began to sketch a naked woman.

“We were talking about childhood trauma,” I said to Moretti. “Would you like me to address that issue or am I through?”

Moretti tried to look amused. “You may address it if you have something to add to your report.”

“Since you drew faulty conclusions from my report, I have plenty to add. Darren Burkhalter is suffering a post-traumatic stress reaction that may convert to long-term psychological problems. Brief play therapy and counseling for the mother have brought about some symptom reduction but much more treatment is indicated.” To the other lawyers: “I’m not saying long-term psychological problems are inevitable, but neither will I rule problems out. No reasonable expert would.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Moretti, “this child is two years old.”

“Twenty-six months.”

“Same difference. He was eighteen months at the time of the accident. You’re telling me that you’ll be willing to go into court and testify under oath that when he’s twenty-six years old, he could be psychologically affected by an accident that took place when he was a baby?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. A traumatic scene that vivid and bloody, buried in his subconscious—”

Moretti snorted. “What does a subconscious look like, Doctor? I’ve never seen one.”

“Nevertheless, you have one, Mr. Moretti. As do I and everyone else in this room. In simple terms, the subconscious is a psychic storage bin. The part of our mind where we put experiences and feelings we don’t want to deal with. When our defenses are down, the bin tips over and some of the stored material spills out—dreams, fantasies, seemingly irrational or even self-destructive behaviors that we call symptoms. The subconscious is real, Mr. Moretti. It’s what makes you dream of winning. A big part of what motivated you to become a lawyer.”

That got to him. He took pains to be cool but his eyes twitched, his nostrils opened, and his mouth drew so tight it puckered.

“Thank you for that insight, Doctor. Send me a bill—though judging from what you’re charging Mr. Worthy, I don’t know if I can afford you. In the meantime, let’s stick to the accident—”

“Accident doesn’t begin to describe what Darren Burkhalter experienced. Disaster would be more accurate. The boy was napping in his car up until the moment of impact. The first thing he saw when he woke up was his father’s decapitated head flying over the front seat and landing next to him, the features still twitching.”

Several of the lawyers winced.

“It missed falling right in his lap by inches,” I said. “Darren must have thought it was some kind of doll because he tried to pick it up. When he pulled away his hand and saw it covered with blood—saw what it really was—he went hysterical. And stayed hysterical for five full days, Mr. Moretti, screaming ‘Dada!’ totally out of control.”

I paused to let the image sink in. “He knew what was happening, Mr. Moretti—he’s played it out in my office every time he’s been there. He’s clearly old enough to form a durable memory. I’ll quote you statistics on that, if you’d like. And that memory won’t disappear simply because you want it to.”

“A memory that you’re keeping alive by making him go through it over and over again,” said Moretti.

“So what you’re asserting,” I said, “is that psychotherapy is making him worse. That we should simply forget about it or pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Double touché,” whispered Mal.

Moretti was bug-eyed. “It’s your position that’s under scrutiny, Doctor. I want to see you back up all this early trauma talk with data.”

“I’d be happy to.”

I had my own stack of articles, pulled them out, cited references, tossed out numbers, and gave a somewhat manic lecture on the development of memory in children and their reactions to disaster and trauma. I used the blackboard to summarize my findings.

“Generalizations,” said Moretti. “Clinical impressions.”

“You’d prefer something more objective?”

He smiled. “It would be nice.”

“Terrific.”

A secretary rolled in the video monitor, slipped the tape into the VCR, dimmed the lights, and pushed the PLAY button.

When it was over, dead silence. Finally, Moretti smirked and said, “Planning a second career in the film business, Doctor?”

“I’ve seen and heard enough,” said one of the other attorneys. He closed his briefcase and pushed his chair from the table. Several others did the same.

“Any more questions?” asked Mal.

“Nope,” said Moretti. But he looked buoyant and I experienced a pang of self-doubt. He winked and saluted me. “See you in court, Doctor.”

When they were all gone, Mal slapped his knee and did a little dance.

“Right in the cojones, absolutely beautiful. I should be getting their offers this afternoon.”

“I made a stronger case than I’d intended,” I said. “Bastard got to me.”

“I know, you were beautiful.” He began collecting his papers.

“What about Moretti’s parting shot?” I asked. “He looked happy about going to court.”

“Pure crapola. Saving face in front of his partners. He may be the last to settle, but believe me, he’ll settle. Some asshole, eh? Has a rep as a real black-hearted litigator, but you slammed him good—your little jibe about the subconscious was right on the mark, Alex.”

He shook his head with glee. “God knows how tight he had to hold his sphincter not to shit right then and there. ‘And a big part of what motivated you to become a lawyer.’ I didn’t tell you this, but Moretti’s dad was a big-shot psychiatrist in Milwaukee, did a lot of forensics work. Moretti must have hated him because he really has a thing for shrinks—that’s why they assigned him this one.”

“Stanford psych major,” I said. “Blah blah blah blah blah.”

Mal raised his arm in mock terror. “Boy, you’ve really become a nasty bastard, haven’t you.”

“Just tired of the bullshit.” I walked to the door. “Don’t call me for a while, okay?”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong, Alex. I’m not putting you down. I like it, I mean I really like it.”

“Flattered,” I said. And I left him to his triumphs and his calculations.

        

When I got back home the phone was ringing. I picked it up at the same time the service operator did, heard Del Hardy’s voice asking for Dr. Delaware. I broke in and told the operator I’d take it.

“I found out a little,” he said. “Couldn’t get much help at Hollywood but spoke to one of the coroners. You in any mood to hear that kind of thing?”

“Go ahead.”

“Okay, first off is time of death—between eight P.M. and three A.M. Sunday. Second is cause of death. Twenty-two caliber bullet to the brain. It passed right into the cerebral cortex and bounced around in there, the way a small-caliber bullet will, doing lots of damage. Third, there were heavy amounts of alcohol and barbiturates in her system—borderline lethal dosage. Coroner also found some old scars between her toes that looked like tracks. You ever know this lady to be into heavy drugs?”

“No,” I said. “But it was a long time ago.”

“Yeah. People change. It’s what keeps us busy.”

“OD and a bullet,” I said.

“Seriousness of intent,” said Del. “Especially for a female, though if she really wanted to be sure, eating the gun would have been the thing to do, straight into the medulla, wipes out the autonomic system and cuts off respiration. But most folks don’t know that, they watch TV, think the temple shot …” He stopped. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “With that much downer in her system, wouldn’t she be too drowsy to shoot?”

“Not right away,” said Del. “Now here’s the interesting part: Coroner told me their office processed the case quickly, orders of the boss—their usual average is six to eight weeks this time of year. They got orders, also, not to discuss it with anyone.”

“Why all the secrecy?”

“Pathologist got the clear impression it was a rich-folks case, grease the skids to the max, keep it hushed.”

“The department released information to the press.”

“Controlled info,” said Del. “Strategic thinking. If you say nothing about something, and someone finds out you were holding back, they immediately start thinking conspiracy. Telling them what you want is safer, makes you look open and sincere. Not that there’s much to tell on this one—straight suicide, no evidence of foul play. As far as the drug-gun combo, the pathologist had two scenarios: A, she cocktailed booze and dope to do herself in, then changed her mind and wanted to get it over faster or maybe more dramatically and went for the gun. Makes sense to me—suicide’s a message, right? You guys taught us that—final statement to the world. People can get really choosy about how they phrase it, right?”

“Right. What’s B?”

“She used the dope and the booze to lower her inhibitions, build up enough courage to shoot herself. When she was feeling sufficiently mellow, she pulled the trigger. Either way you look at it, the end result’s the same.”

“Did she leave a note?”

“No. Lots of people don’t. Right?”

“Right.”

“Like that Canadian guy, McWhatsisname said, the medium can be the message all by itself.”

“Who’s the detective in charge of the case?” I asked.

“Guy named Pinckley, just left yesterday for vacation in Hawaii.”

“Convenient.”

“I wouldn’t get in an uproar over that,” said Del. “Vacations are scheduled way in advance. Pinckley’s a serious surfer—he used to compete nationally. He goes every year around this time, in order to catch the big ones at Wiamea. I called Hollywood and confirmed it—the duty roster’d been set months ago.”

“Who took over from Pinckley?”

“Nothing to take over, Doc. The case is closed.”

“What about Trapp being up at her house?”

He lowered his voice. “I said I found out a little, remember? That didn’t include walking into my captain’s office and giving him the third degree.”

“Okay, sorry.”

“No apology necessary. Just gotta be careful.”

“Anything else, Del?”

Pause. “How well did you say you knew her?”

“It had been six years since I’d seen her.”

“Well enough to know that she wasn’t any nun?”

“Well enough.”

“Okay. If you were next of kin or a husband, I wouldn’t be telling you this. It’s strictly off the record. My source at Hollywood says there’s a rumor drifting around the station that when they went up to her place, one of the techs found a porn flick hidden under the mattress—nothing sophisticated, just a loop. But a loop with her in it. She might have been a doctor but she had other talents.”

I sucked in my breath.

“Doc?”

“Is the loop still in the evidence room, Del?”

“Not everything makes it to the evidence room.”

“I see.”

“Case like this, it works out better for the lady. What’s better, having the damned thing stored in some cop’s underwear drawer, pulled out once in a blue moon for private screenings, or letting the papers get hold of it—‘Doctor Had Secret Life’? You know what they’d do with that. I mean this loop wasn’t Disney stuff.”

“What was on it?”

“What you’d imagine.”

“Could you be more specific, Del?”

“You really want to hear this?”

“Go ahead.”

He sighed. “Okay. What I was told was that it was one of those doctor-patient things. You know, checkup turns to sex? She was the patient; some guy was the doc.” Pause. “That’s all I know. I did not see it.”

“Did she leave anything else behind, like patient files?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“What about the quick sale on her house?”

“With the case closed there’d be no reason not to sell.”

“Did she own the house?”

“I didn’t check that.”

“What about the twin sister? Has anyone located her?”

“No Shirlee Ransom on any of our files, which means nothing—she wasn’t a criminal. But DMV didn’t have her either.”

“They wouldn’t. She couldn’t have driven a car.”

“Whatever. Searching for heirs isn’t our business, Doc. Whichever lawyer’s probating the will would have to hire someone private. And to answer your next question, no, I don’t know who that is.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks for your time.”

“No problem. Glad to give it. When I have it.”

Which was a polite way of saying Don’t bother me anymore.