Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil (57 page)

A few months before this hearing, Albert wrote his niece a letter apologizing for the rape. Shawna replied in a big hand, full of lovely circles. She wrote on lined yellow note paper: “Jesus loves you, Al. And I love you.” Both letters were in the brief submitted to Judge Torres.

We watched her study them or at least appear to; she had had two weeks to review all the documents. Also in attendance were our and Albert’s lawyer, Brian Stoppard, and an assistant district attorney, Richard Bartell.

“Are you sorry for what you did to Shawna?” Torres asked, dropping Albert’s apology on her desk.

“Yeah,” Al said, wildly searching Torres, then me, and finally Diane. Diane touched the sleeve of his blazer.

“What are you sorry about?”

“What?” Albert said, startled.

“What is it about what you did to Shawna that you regret?”

Albert looked to me, bewildered. “Tell her the truth, Al,” I said. Diane frowned at me, puzzled. Although she saw Albert every day, she hadn’t been working with him and we tried to avoid, in the interests of romance, bedroom work chatter.

“I’m sorry that—” Al glanced at me again. I nodded. He continued to Judge Torres, “I’m sorry I uglified sex for her. It’s a beautiful thing. I was wrong to do it ugly.”

Diane took off her eyeglasses and wiped them with a piece of tissue from her pocket—that meant she was nervous. The judge frowned at me. As for the assistant DA, Bartell, until then he had taken as neutral a tone as possible for a prosecutor, not withdrawing the State’s request that Albert should be locked up, yet not making the case with much passion. He lowered his eyes at Al’s comment. I bet he was thinking he’d better
get
tougher. He could see the headline: THEY LET HIM FREE TO RAPE AGAIN.

Albert, unaware his comment was worrisome, snapped his fingers softly, a tic when anxious. That, along with poor grades, restless shifting of feet and colorful speech, had earned him the diagnosis of attention deficit disorder.

I said to him quietly, “Al, I know you’re nervous—I think we’re all nervous, but snapping your fingers is probably making everybody more nervous.”

“Oh.” Al grabbed his right hand with his left, as if his will alone couldn’t control it. “Sorry,” he added to the judge. “Just a habit,” he said. He glanced at me and I nodded to encourage him to expand on his explanation. I had told him many times that he lived in a world with a sensitivity to the actions of young black males which, no matter how unfair or fair, shouldn’t be underestimated. I told him not to modify his behavior. Instead, he should talk more about his desires and fears, making clear what he was feeling, to become, as much as possible, an individual human being in the eyes of the prejudiced. “I’m scared,” he said to Torres. “That’s why I do that. I’m real scared right now.”

I wondered if Torres knew how hard it was for Albert to make that admission—an admission of weakness that could get him killed in the projects.

The judge nodded. “I understand. There’s nothing to be scared of—”

“Forgive me, Judge,” said Brian Stoppard, the only one who seemed calm, “but there is a lot at stake here for Albert. His fear, as Dr. Neruda would say, is realistic.”

I appreciated Brian’s comment. I don’t think Torres did. Needling a judge might seem stupid, but Brian had succeeded for us in every case, using a demanding, sometimes condescending attitude.

“Of course this is a serious situation,” Torres said to Brian testily. “Thank you for reminding me.” She softened to speak to Albert. Perhaps that was the point of Brian’s tactic: to make himself, the white middle-aged man, appear more aggressive than his client. “Albert, I want to do what’s best not only for society but for you as well. The law understands that you’re still a minor, a child. Punishment isn’t all we’re interested in. We want to help you change. Could you explain to me a little more what you mean when you say you regret making sex ugly? Does that mean you wish you had had sex with Shawna instead of raping her?”

“Judge—” Brian started.

She shut him off. “Don’t interrupt, Counselor.” She looked at Albert.

He rubbed his hands together hard enough that we could all hear the friction on his skin. He turned to me, eyes pleading.

“Keep telling the truth, Al,” I said.

He answered her question, but addressed me, “You know things like that were done to me too. Now I see sex as ugly. The ugliest ugly. I did that to her. I don’t know. Maybe it always be ugly to me. Didn’t want to do that. That stay with you always. Didn’t want to do that shit to Shawna. She’s real pretty and that fucked it for her. That’s the worse thing I did.”

Diane had not only relaxed—there were tears forming. Bartell stared at Albert, amazed. The judge put a hand to her chin and appeared very wise. “I think I understand. Now tell me, Albert, do you understand that it’s wrong to have sexual relations of any kind with a child?”

Albert’s mouth hung open. His hands continued rubbing. I could see that he didn’t understand what the judge was worried about.

“Judge,” I said, “may I ask your question in a slightly different way to Albert?”

“Yeah!” Albert said loudly, relieved.

A laugh escaped from Bartell. Immediately, he shut it off.

Albert’s handsome face became a mask of disdain. I understood that in fact he was embarrassed and frightened, but his strong features and dark skin would appear scary to a stranger, especially a white stranger. “Shit,” he mumbled.

“What did you say, Albert?” the judge asked.

“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to talk out of turn.”

Torres nodded for me to proceed.

I asked, “Albert, would you like to have sex with Shawna?”

Albert frowned. He snapped his fingers three times quickly, as if summoning a waiter. “That what she mean?”

“The judge would like to know if you want to have sex with children.”

“That what she think of me?” he asked, not demanded.

“No, Albert,” Torres said. “I don’t know. I’m asking.”

“Don’t she know?” Albert continued talking to me as if we were alone in the room. I’m sure that rudeness seemed arrogant. I knew it to be fear.

“You should tell the judge everything. That’s the only way you can be sure she knows what she needs to know. You can’t count on us.”

Albert faced Torres like a soldier reporting. “I can’t do it, you know? I can’t have sex. They say my …”he gestured, shyly, at his crotch, “they say it’s fine. But not in my head, you know? It’s uglified. Rafe—I mean, the doctor—he thinks it will change. But I don’t know. I can’t fuck anybody.” Al realized the word he had used and quickly added, “Sorry, I don’t mean to disrespect you. That’s just the word, you know. I’m sorry.”

Embarrassed, Bartell averted his face from Albert to stare at Torres’s shelves. He had read my report so I assume his reaction was to the spectacle of Albert’s admission of impotence, not to the fact.

Torres, however, reacted well. She was matter-of-fact. “Albert, I see now how I misunderstood you. I don’t think I asked you the right question. Let’s say Dr. Neruda is right. I’m sure we all have confidence he is, and your problem eventually goes away and you can have sex whenever and with whomever you wish. Okay? Can we suppose that?”

“Yes, ma‘am,” Albert said.

“Would you then try to have sex with a child?”

“Course not.” Albert was insulted. I knew because he sucked in his left cheek as if to bite it. “I thought I said that.”

Torres looked down at the papers on her desk. She spoke with a lowered head. “Dr. Neruda, at your clinic there is no security, correct? Any of the young men could simply walk out?”

“Yes.”

“Your Honor,” Stoppard began, “they are supervised at all times—”

“I know, Counselor. I meant, specifically, that they are not locked in at night or during the day for that matter. Their presence and time is accounted for, but they’re on their honor in terms of leaving the grounds, is that correct?”

I answered, “They are not permitted to leave the grounds without us and they are supervised, but there is no physical barrier to escape. Of course, Albert has lived within those rules for the past six months.”

“There was a seven-month gap between Albert’s attack on Shawna and the child at the shelter. What makes you confident that Albert will continue to be responsible?”

“I’ve worked with Albert five days a week and sometimes on weekends for six months. That is the equivalent of years of therapy for most people. I believe I know him well, perhaps better than anyone but Albert himself. His desire to live a productive self-sufficient life, a life where he can be a useful member of our world, is very strong. In fact, I believe his violence against Shawna was a perverted expression of a desire to be helped out of the hopelessness and violence of his family. I don’t think Albert will run from his friendships and his work at our clinic because it’s a safe place for him. As you know, he and the other boys are tutored daily. They have the opportunity to make friends in the local basketball and soccer leagues. He has a life with us that he would miss. That’s the best barrier against violence and escape anyone can create.”

Judge Torres opened a folder and gestured at a paper. “I have an amicus brief filed by the Yonkers Adolescent Center and Metropolitan State. They both endorse your therapy, Doctor, and recommend Albert stay at your clinic. But they also decline to agree with your statement that Albert isn’t dangerous to himself or others. Met State goes so far as to recommend that you install security measures. I’m sure you understand, Doctor, that my concern for Albert’s well-being must be secondary to the well-being of society. Besides what you have already said, what further assurance can you give me that Albert won’t do harm to others?”

“I can’t think of anything, Your Honor, except that I am putting my clinic, both its federal and state funding, as well as my own money, at risk. If Albert runs away or is violent then our work and my reputation will be severely damaged. May I also comment that, in my opinion, the reservations expressed by Yonkers and Met State are a statement for their self-protection, rather than a prediction of Albert’s behavior.”

Torres smiled shyly. “I’m afraid, Doctor, that as a jurist I can’t read beneath the lines as you do in your profession. I must take them, as I take you, at face value.”

“I understand,” I smiled back. “As I say, I’m prepared to stake my reputation and the survival of our clinic on Albert. That’s as much confidence as I’ve got in me.”

Torres said, “And that’s as much confidence as the law has a right to expect.” She opened her hands in a gesture to Albert. “It’s up to you. You have a chance to make a good life for yourself, Albert.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN
Change

A
WEEK PASSED WITHOUT
G
ENE APPEARING.
F
INALLY HE LEFT A MESSAGE
saying he would come in at his regular time the next day and I should call back if there was a problem. I cleared the hour—Diane and I had planned to have lunch—but didn’t respond, curious to see if he needed reassurance to show up.

He didn’t. He entered with a determined air, a new attitude, striding to his chair, sitting upright, eyes unflinching. “You’re right,” he said. He waved a hand. “I thought about it for days and days. I practically crashed my car into a tree going back to the office—you know, the day I walked out. By the way,” he said, glancing away briefly, then forcing his eyes to me, “I’m not paying for the two sessions I missed. You threw me out. I mean, that’s what seems fair. I know I left, but you pushed me out.”

Gee, that meant I would be out one hundred dollars. “I agree,” I said solemnly. “Does this mean we’re resuming therapy?”

“If you’re willing,” Gene said. “You’re right. I’m weak. I’m scared. I’m chicken. I’m going to start behaving differently, but I could use a friend—” He stopped. “But you’re not a friend, are you?”

“I feel friendly toward you. Friendship is different than being a doctor and a patient, though.”

“I need your help,” Gene said boldly, not sounding as if he needed anyone. “Is that bad? Is that part of what’s wrong with me?”

“In a way.”

“So I shouldn’t be here?”

“If you are going to make a serious effort to change your life, it’s reasonable to want an ally. I’m happy to be in my comfortable boat rowing along while you swim to a new land, Gene. I won’t get wet. I won’t drown. I don’t think you’ll drown either. What I don’t want is to stand beside you on the shore wondering if the water’s safe. It isn’t safe. And I can’t do the swimming for you.”

Gene became thoughtful and silent for a while. He crossed his legs, rubbed his chin, and then commented, “I think I should ask for a raise.”

“So do I.”

“Stick has invited me to his house. I mean Pete and Cathy too. For a barbecue. Black Dragon has a green light. We have to have a prototype in a year. I know what that means. In a month, he’ll cut the deadline to six months. I’m going to be working like a dog. And I’m the project director. He can’t trust me with the company’s biggest new product and pay me fifty thousand.”

“Sounds right.”

Without any transition, Gene said in a rush of words, “I’ve been going to prostitutes.”

I waited for him to elaborate. He shrugged and seemed to wait for me. “This past week?” I asked tentatively, “Or … ?”

“No, for the whole time I’ve been seeing you. I’m up to about once a week now. I’ve been seeing this one—uh, she’s a blonde—her name, well, she says her name is Tawny. That’s not her real name.”

“Doesn’t sound it.”

“I’ve lied to you about it.”

“Okay.”

“Ever since that time in Boston, I’ve been going to whores. And I never told you.”

“Gene, that’s your privilege. You want to lie to me, you’re going to succeed.”

“You’re not angry?”

“Not about your going to prostitutes.”

“But you are angry?”

“I’m annoyed you didn’t tell me, because that meant you wasted some of your time here, and that means you wasted some of mine as well.”