“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?”