He’s a good man. A good clinical psychologist. So why would he go off on his own and try electric skin shock without going through the process of getting the Human Rights Commit tee’s permission? I haven’t got the slightest idea.”
So much for easing into the subject. I try to keep in mind that Spath’s job has been jeopardized by Andy’s actions. If Andy is going to be helped by this man on the witness stand, it will have to be in bits and pieces. A good man here, a good clinical psychologist there. I try to back up.
“Why do you think a mother would let someone try shock on her child?”
Spath’s mustache, probably intended to give his face a more masculine look, almost succeeds, but not quite. His face is not so much soft as it is delicate. His nose is as thin as a communion wafer, and his tiny ears (partially hidden by a mass of thick brown hair) remind me of a bat’s. “To try to help her, of course,” he says archly.
“But the problem is we don’t know how to help children like Pam, and Andrew knew that.”
I fold my arms against my chest to keep them still, re minding myself not to argue with this man. My hope is that he will bring himself to admit (assuming it is true) that he knew Andy was going to try shock and will have the courage to admit it. I say innocently, “I thought the literature shows that shock works.”
For a moment I think I see real conflict in Spath’s face, which seems to collapse downward, but despite a brief nod, he says curtly, “The literature doesn’t prove anything from a statistical point of view because there hasn’t been enough research.”
This statement doesn’t qualify as a denial, and I press on.
“If you had a child that was retarded and self-abusive, wouldn’t you be tempted to try everything possible to help her?”
“Mr. Page,” Spam says, a note of exasperation creeping into his tone, “from a purely personal point of view, I sympathize with Andrew. I like him; I hired him because I thought he was qualified, and because I think this state needs to educate and hire more black professionals. I don’t even try to imagine what care for retarded black children was like before integration. But if a treatment plan involves aversive stimuli, we follow a certain protocol, and Andrew ignored it.”
I look over his shoulder at a picture of a grimy child working presumably in a cotton mill. Something, I don’t know what, tells me this man knew in advance what Andy was doing. He doesn’t seem like the conventional cover-your-ass manager I used to see when I worked for the state as a social worker investigating dependency neglect cases.
“If he had gone through the human rights committee,” I ask, “is there a chance it would have approved shock?”
Spath doesn’t hesitate.
“I seriously doubt it. Highly aver sive techniques are no longer in vogue today.”
I note that he didn’t say they don’t have their place in treatment of the retarded, but I can’t figure out how to use it to my advantage. Spath turns his back on me to pour himself a cup of coffee. He is fussy as an old maid, painstakingly measuring out a teaspoon of sugar as if that were all he had been put on earth to accomplish. I say, “This, I’m sure, won’t come as any surprise to you, but Andy told me that he thought he could talk you into purchasing remote-control shock equipment once he demonstrated that Pam was responding to shock.”
Spath silently stirs his coffee. If he at least concedes that he might have considered the idea, I can argue to the jury that what Andy did wasn’t so rash after all. It was just a matter of no one’s having the courage to try a controversial treatment. Had there not been an accident, Andy would have been regarded as a hero even if nobody had the guts to say so publicly. Spath finally removes the spoon and lays it up side down on a clean napkin.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way,” he says, giving me a strange, false smile as if he knows perfectly well that ends invariably justify means, since history is written by the winners.
“Why not?” I press him, still hoping fora miracle.
“Isn’t the point to help people?”
“This is not a field in which people are encouraged to free-lance,” he says.
“What happened to Pam, I think, proves that.”
I watch Spath sip at his coffee. I don’t hear any conviction in his voice. He sounds like one of those C.I.A. flacks who routinely refuse to acknowledge we are engaged in subversion of other governments. Iwanttosay: I think you’re lying.
You let Andy try shock on the condition that he not implicate you if something went wrong. Instead, I keep silent, afraid to alienate this man, who, if he were willing, could deflect much of the blame from my client, although at the risk of further damaging his own career. He hired Andy; he’ll be damned if he’ll try to save him. They must have talked about aversive measures like shock many times. Andy is the only Ph.D. on staff at the moment; the facility is too small (only 150 residents) for them not to have been in frequent contact.
There is bound to be a conspiracy of silence among Olivia, Andy, and Spath that I haven’t yet breached.
Spath is willing to discuss other things-his background (a master’s in the administrative side of social work), Olivia (a desperate parent consumed by unjustified guilt), deinstitutionalization (a misguided movement that will lead to unimaginable horror stories of homeless, abused, and ill retarded people), his institution (woefully underfunded, which is the reason for the lack of meaningful training programs for people like Pam). It is as if I were talking to Andy.
The only difference is the accent. As I get up to leave, I ask, “Do you miss England?”
Spath gives me a weary smile.
“Never been there.” Before I can ask what must be a tiresome question, he says, “My father was from London. He gave me my accent and for some reason I’ve never lost it.”
I leave, realizing for the hundredth time since I started practicing law that my assumptions are my worst enemy. I resist the temptation to go by and see Andy. I am coming back out here in a couple of days, but I want to see if Olivia is willing to talk to me first. Of the people
in this suspected alliance, she has nothing to lose by the truth, since she has already lost everything she possibly can. I drive home, thinking I’d be a decent lawyer if I could read my clients’ minds.
Right now, I’d settle for some facts.
14
As Olivia Le Master inspects my office, I note an unexpected air of contrition on her part. She seems to be looking for something nice to say about my office, which will require a major feat of diplomacy. Two weeks ago Rainey brought by a philodendron to hang from my ceiling; however, I have already begun to violate my blood oath to water it. Instead of having a healthy, sleek, green appearance, its leaves are brittle, yellowish, and paper-thin. Typically, I don’t notice it until Julia comes in and stares in horror and makes snotty remarks about how some people shouldn’t be permitted to own living things.
Olivia refuses my offer of a cup of coffee and swallows hard before saying in a small voice, “I’m sorry about the way I testified at the hearing. When I got on the witness stand, I realized I felt some anger toward Andy I hadn’t been aware of.”
Guilt. God, I wish I owned the patent on it. I lean back in my chair and snack on a piece of ice, my newest weight-loss device. I’ve gained five pounds just watching Clan eat.
“I confess I was extremely disappointed in your testimony,” I respond, relieved I don’t have to try to figure out how to initiate this topic. Scolding witnesses is a tricky business.