But he could tell that Hairball was sulking today. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what the guys were saying. He had a grim expression on his face and a faraway look in his eyes while he paced in the middle of the circle.
Wulfe knew it was the article in yesterday’s paper by that smart-mouthed prick Hunter. He was pissed off when he read it, so he could only imagine how pissed The Hairball was. It was bringing all sorts of unwanted attention to the shrink’s programs, including this one.
That could screw his own chances to get out early. He had to try and move the ball down the field now, if he could.
“Excuse me, Bo,” he said, “I’m sorry for interrupting. But I wanted to ask Dr. Frankfurt something.”
The dude blinked. “Ah…okay.”
The shrink frowned at him. “Mr. Wulfe?”
“I hope I’m not being out of line, doctor-and please tell me to mind my own business if I am. But you seem-I don’t know, a bit distracted today. I just wonder if there’s a problem?”
Frankfurt blinked in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed and his mouth began to work before he finally spoke. “Yes. As a matter of fact, there is a problem.”
It was as if Wulfe had lanced a boil. The shrink started to pace more rapidly around the middle of the circle, his words pouring out in a torrent.
“Perhaps some of you saw the Inquirer yesterday. That horrible article about the MacLean Foundation and its inmate rehabilitation programs?” The guys looked at each other and some nodded. “Well, as you may know, I head the Psychological Services Program for the foundation. And this outrageous attack cuts at the heart of everything we’re trying to do. Including this counseling program.”
Everybody made the appropriate faces and angry noises.
“The author, some hack writer named Dylan Hunter, who must think of himself as the Lone Ranger, has been riding his ‘crime-fighter’ hobby horse for months. He’s doing tremendous damage to years of work serving clients like you, undermining our public and political support. I just spoke to Kenneth MacLean himself about an hour ago, and he’s extremely worried that some key backing we’ve had for the sentencing reform bill in Congress might now be in jeopardy. In fact, immediately after this session, I have to drive to Washington for a press conference with him. We’re going to set the record straight.”
Wulfe nodded sympathetically at the jerk. “I’m truly sorry, doctor. Your work has been such a big help to all of us, and I’m sure to many others.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wulfe. I appreciate that more than you could know.”
Oh, I’m sure of that, Hairball.
“It’s really an either-or choice for society,” the pompous ass continued. “We can dwell in the bitter past, looking behind us down the path of retribution and recrimination. Or we can look forward and take a new path to personal rehabilitation and restoration.”
“What he’s writing, if you ask me, it’s downright un-Christian,” Wulfe interjected. “It’s contrary to the virtues of forgiveness and trust as rewards for sincere repentance.”
“Amen, brother!” Preacher Jim chimed in.
“Precisely!” The Hairball said, nodding enthusiastically.
Encouraged, Wulfe stood and kept going, taking care to keep his voice restrained. “I think it all comes down to this: How do the American people want to see themselves when they look in the mirror? As cold-blooded, Old-Testament, eye-for-an-eye savages? As an angry lynch mob looking for revenge for every slight against them? Or do they want to look into that mirror and see a reflection of the New Testament virtues of mercy and compassion and human salvation?”
He nodded as he said it, looking around the room at the others. They caught on and nodded in agreement, and Preacher “amened” him twice more.
“What I’ve learned here from you, Dr. Frankfurt,” he concluded, “is that the lessons of psychology are really the same lessons that we can find in the Sermon on the Mount. And I’m grateful to you for teaching me that.”
The Hairball stared at him, blinking rapidly. For a minute, he thought crazily that the idiot was going to rush across the room and hug him; it seemed all he could do to contain himself.
“Thank you, Mr. Wulfe!” he said at last. “As I mentioned, I have to go to Washington now, so I’m going to cut this session short today. I hope we’ve all learned something from Mr. Wulfe’s heartfelt words. I want us to ponder them until we meet again on Thursday. That will be all for now.”
The men looked at each other and got up to leave.
“Adrian, if I could have a word with you for a moment.”
So it’s Adrian now. Wulfe sat back down as the room cleared.
“Let me tell you how much I was moved by your eloquent statement just now. I want to thank you for that, and also share with you how impressed I am by your progress.”
“I certainly couldn’t have gotten this far without your help, doctor.”
“You’ve already demonstrated your maturity in so many ways over these many months. I’ve shared with my colleagues the story of your enormous restraint, compassion, and dignity during your meeting with Mrs. Copeland two months ago. You’ve also taken a leadership role here in Group, and your behavioral record in Claibourne has been spotless. Adrian, I want to say that I consider you to be an exemplary client.”
“Dr. Frankfurt…I just don’t know what to say to that.”
“I know that it’s highly unusual, given the crime for which you were convicted, but there’s no question in my mind, none at all, that you’ve earned placement in the Accelerated Community Reintegration Track.”
Yes. Wulfe’s heart was pounding. He did his best to push his face into a humble expression of speechless gratitude.
“Given the current circumstances,” The Hairball went on, “with all this media sensationalism and vigilante rubbish, I’m not sure how much longer we’ll even have enlightened programs such as this one. So I want to make sure that I initiate your transition right away. And as a first step in your reintegration, Adrian, I’m recommending you for your initial community furlough this coming Christmas.”
Nobody else was in the room, so it was time for Stanislavsky. The first tears began to flow as he reached out and clutched the shrink’s hand.
“Dr. Frankfurt, you can’t begin to imagine how important this opportunity is to me. And let me assure you, I know how to take full advantage of it.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Washington, D.C.
Monday, November 17, 2:02 p.m.
Kenneth MacLean checked his watch as a straggler entered the room at the back, found a chair, and sat down. He turned and smiled reassuringly at Dr. Frankfurt, who was seated beside him, sweating and tapping his foot. Then he rose from his chair and took position behind the podium.
Before him, nearly three dozen seats in the Murrow Room on the thirteenth floor of the National Press Club were filled with reporters, and no less than five television cameras faced him from the back and sides of the room. It was exactly the kind of media circus he’d done his best to prevent, all along. But the “D.C. vigilantes” story had gone national weeks before, and now the Inquirer had tried to link those lurid stories directly to his foundation.
To him.
He fought down his anger while he shuffled his notes. It would be counterproductive to lose his temper here, in spite of how unfair the smear campaign was. He had to remain calm and focus on the facts. For the facts were on his side. He raised his eyes. Many of the reporters were reading the materials in the press packets they had distributed. Good. He knew that much of that information would find its way into the stories they filed this evening.
He spotted George and Wendy, Congressman Horowitz’s aides, sitting near the back. They would be reporting back to their boss on how it went. He took a deep breath, knowing that his life’s work was on the line. He let it out slowly, smiled, and began.