"Who were they from?"
"That wasn't on the—"
I stood there waiting, holding the money.
"There wasn't no name besides hers," she said. "All I could see, they come from New York."
"I could get in trouble for this," the black man with the shaved head said. "Real trouble, man." His arms bulged from the short sleeves of his white cotton orderly's shirt. A dull white patch of skin ran across his lower cheek. Knife scar.
"They're just photocopies, right?," I told him. "No big deal."
"Fuck if it ain't, man. They catch me doing it, I'm gone. His–tor–ee, Jack. Just like that."
"Yeah. Well, it's already done, true? You got them right there in your hand."
"That's right," he said, neck muscles rigid. "And they ain't going in your hand unless I see some green."
"Five yards, like I said. I'm holding the coin—let me see the goods."
He spread the paper out across the scarred wood table in the barbecue joint, glancing over his shoulder as he did. I didn't touch the paper, just scanned it quickly with my eyes: the name and Social Security number matched against what I had. Date of birth too. Okay.
"Let's do it," I said, reaching into my pocket.
"Hold up, man," he said, covering the paper with a large, thick hand. The nails were long, yellowish and horny, starting to hook. "Like I told you…this is hot stuff. Seems like there oughta be something more in it for me."
"There isn't," I said flatly.
"A couple more yards won't hurt you," he said sullenly.
"It's not in the budget."
"Yeah, well fuck a whole bunch of that 'budget' shit. Man, that's all I hear at the hospitaclass="underline" 'Budget.' I got me a budget too."
"We had a deal," I reminded him.
"Yeah, well, deals get changed."
I held his eyes for a few seconds, the brown iris running into the yellowish white. The last time he'd been to prison, he probably got some strange ideas about white men—if I went a dime over what I'd agreed, he'd be thinking "fish," and that wouldn't do. "Maybe some other time," I said, ice–polite, getting up.
"Wait up, man! Don't be so cold."
"Those papers are no good to you," I said quietly, still standing. "They aren't worth a dime. Fact is, I don't take them off your hands, you got to burn them. I got five hundred dollars in my pocket. I'm gonna trade or fade, pal. Pick one."
He held out his hand for the money, muttering something under his breath.
I got what I paid for. The hospital had wanted to hold her after the emergency admission, but the "AMA" note at the bottom of the chart told the story. She had signed herself out Against Medical Advice. She hadn't opened up to the social worker who'd interviewed her—not a single mention of the hair–pulling. And not a hint of Brother Jacob anywhere in the slim file of papers.
A psychiatric resident had written up the case after speaking to her, laying it out in the cold language shrinks use to label human beings.
DSM III–R DIAGNOSES (DISCHARGE)
A) POST–TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER, 309.89
B) R/O DYSTHYMIA
C) R/O MAJOR DEPRESSION, RECURRENT, UNSPECIFIED
A) HISTRIONIC PERSONALITY FEATURES
B) R/O BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER
A) SUICIDE ATTEMPT
B) ASTHMA
Back in my office, I used my own copy of the DSM—the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—to decode the shorthand. The suicide attempt was the "presenting problem." The clinical picture was mostly guesses: "R/O" means "rule out"—a possibility they wanted to consider once they got her into treatment.
But that never happened.
They put down getting fired and breaking up with her boyfriend as "psycho–social stressors," writing it like they happened at the same time. Probably the way she told it.
And the GAF was "Global Assessment of Functioning." The score was her highest level in the last year. A 55 meant "severe symptoms; significant interference in functioning." Good guess.
The whole file was nothing but outline sketches. Except for one handwritten note: "Patient states she has attempted suicide at least twice before. Expressed regret only in her lack of success…'I even failed at this.' No insight exhibited during interview."
If Jennifer Dalton knew why she tried to take herself off the count, she wasn't telling.
Not them. And not then.
"Doc," you remember that guy you told me about, Bruce Perry? The one working on the brain–trauma stuff?"
"Yeah," he said slowly, waiting for the punch line. "You got a good memory, hoss."
"I got a case. A legit case," I assured him quickly. "And I think he's the man for me to talk to. Can you set it up?"
"I'm listening," Doc said, his wrestler's upper body shifting behind the cluttered desk, eyes homing in the way they did years ago when we first started talking. When I was inside the Walls. Telling me there better be more.
"I've been doing a lot of that myself—listening," I told him. "A girl says something happened. A long time ago. It happened, but she didn't know it. Or didn't remember it, anyway. Until now."
"Recovered memory?"
"That's what she says."
"And you say…?"
"I don't know what to say. That's the job—for me to say."
He leaned back in his chair, eyes still on mine behind the wire–rimmed glasses he always wears. "We go back a long way, Burke. You've spent more time studying child abuse than any Ph.D. I know. Your gut's as good as anyone's. What do you need Perry for?"
"He's a science guy, right? Hard science, not the blah–de–blah stuff."
"Like I do?" Doc asked. Not challenging me, just getting at it, the way he always did.
"What you do…it's only as good as the guy doing it, right?"
"Sure. Same as building a house. Or fixing teeth. Or playing the piano."
"But there's a truth somewhere, Doc. A true truth. Like the way they test for gold—you drop the chemicals on the metal and you see the truth."
"You think Perry's stuff is like that?"
"Don't you?"
"I'm not sure yet, hoss. Could be. Tell you what—I'll give him a call and tell him the truth. About you too, understand? He wants to go for it, that's up to him."
"Thanks Doc. I owe you."
"Yeah, right," he said, waving me out of his office.
The flight touched down at Houston International at two–thirty, on time even with the transfer from DFW—there were no nonstops out of New York and you couldn't pay me to fly out of Newark. When I got to the hotel, there was a note waiting for me at the desk.
"Hi! We're already here, me and Jennifer. It's all set up. Dr. Perry said to call him as soon as you're settled."
The handwriting was rounded, immature. Signed: "H."
"The best predictors of current functioning are past experiences. The most critical part of any evaluation, then, is getting a thorough, accurate history," the man said, smiling sheepishly as though he knew how pompous the words sounded. He was tall, well put together, with a frank, open face and thick tousled hair. Looked like a recruiting poster for North Dakota. "Childhood experiences have a grossly disproportionate effect on adult functioning…and those experiences are almost exclusively provided by adults."
"But what if the patient is the only source of that history, Doctor?" I asked him, watching my language, wondering what he'd been told about me. I'd already guessed the dress code wrong: I had on a dove–gray silk suit and a conservative tie; he was wearing a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of weathered jeans over scuffed cowboy boots.
"It's doesn't matter. I would still look for a set of emotional or social characteristics in the family which would increase a child's vulnerability—those factors which make children feel isolated, inadequate, lonely, unattractive, incompetent…different," he said, leaning forward, engaging me, telling me to ignore the heavy language and listen to the core. "A harsh, demanding, cold parent…an overwhelmed, depressed parent…absence of supportive extended family…social isolation…a parent who was raised abusively who hasn't come to terms with it—"