Judgment Day (28 page)

Crow paused, amused because in this case all three were out to stop the cult.

"Earth orbit and the moon are too close for a group this paranoid."

"Mars. It's Mars, isn't it?" Stoop asked, his eyes bright with anger.

Now all turned to Cox.

"Mars is only half the size of Earth and has only about a third of the gravity. The Martian day is almost identical to Earth's—twenty-four hours and thirty-seven minutes. The atmosphere is carbon dioxide, and thin—about one-hundredth the pressure of Earth. Even so winds can reach two hundred miles per hour. And it's cold. Temperatures average minus sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit."

"They couldn't live there either," Goldwyn said, cigar tight in his teeth.

"Not easily, but at the equator, at perihelion—when Mars is closest to the sun—the surface temperature can reach eighty degrees. Colonists could not travel without breathing apparatus, but Mars has potential the other planets don't. The atmosphere could be improved and with enough time the planet could be terraformed into something more Earth-like. It would mean warming the poles to melt the ice cape to release the water."

"Not possible," Goldwyn objected.

"Have we seen the limits of their technology?" Cox asked.

Crow watched Stoop out of the corner of his eye. His bright eyes were now flaming, his fists were clenched and his lips tight.

"They would rape that planet just like this one," Stoop said. "They must be stopped."

Crow nodded seriously, repressing a smile. Once again he had all his guns firing.

CHAPTER 52 INVESTIGATION

Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them. For it is shameful even to mention what the disobedient do in secret. But everything exposed by the light becomes visible . . .

—EPHESIANS 5:11-13

P
roctor's followers were a scruffy-looking lot. Weathered by farming or construction, their working-class exteriors distinguished them from educated folk. Rough-looking, red-necked from honest work, and committed to Jesus Christ, they felt called by God to defend the faithful against any and all enemies, whether human or supernatural. They trained with light arms every weekend and were as battle-ready as a National Guard unit—many were still active. Proctor drilled them for full-scale warfare, but so far God had limited his army to security detail for Shepherd's Fellowship—Proctor's wolves were guarding Shepherd's sheep.

Shepherd had asked Proctor to "investigate Rosa Quigly," and Proctor put his best people on it. He looked into her personal life—finances, lovers, health issues—and her professional life—former patients, ethical violations. Shepherd needed the kind of dirt that the government was using against him. Unfortunately, there were few in Proctor's army who could move among professionals. Richard Green was one of the few. Cleanshaven, good-looking with short blond hair, blue eyes, and straight white teeth, he cleaned up well and could pass for a professional in the right clothes.

Rich's father had brought him into Proctor's army when he returned from college to work the farm. Only a dissertation away from a doctorate in psychology, Rich answered an altar call and came to know the Lord. At that moment he realized he had been worshiping at the altar of psychology instead of the altar of the Lord. Unwilling to exchange eternal life for a graduate degree, Rich had returned to the family farm. Three months later he joined Proctor's army.

Rich began his research by accessing databases nationwide from the attic of an eighty-year-old farmhouse. Rich also visited people who knew Rosa and her work, pretending to be a potential client. Now Rich was ready to report. Proctor's compound had a small lake and they were sitting on the dock, dangling their feet in the cool water.

"Our Miss Quigly hasn't published much," Rich was saying. "She's made some money on a handbook for helping patients recover repressed memories. The book is widely used by feminist therapists, but experimental psychologists generally dislike it. I talked with a researcher at the University of Washington who called the techniques in her book manipulative and dangerous. Still, judges continue to refer children to her."

"Including Cannon-Tucker," Proctor said.

" Quigly's name appears in numerous articles about the Tiny Tots Daycare case," Rich continued. "Quigly was one of three therapists assigned to the case and the most successful—successful by her definition. The children under her care remembered more bizarre stuff than other children.

There were claims that adults urinated on them and forced them to eat feces. Strange thing is that none of their parents ever noticed their children smelled funny when they were picked up from the center."

Proctor shook his head in disbelief.

"Kids won't eat broccoli without a fuss, how'd they get them to eat feces?"

Rich laughed.

"That daycare center didn't have showers or tubs, only toilets and sinks.

There was no way to clean the children up before sending them home.

Besides, the facility is an open design. The only rooms with full walls are the bathrooms and the storage rooms, which are jammed with junk. People came and went all day long, dropping kids off and picking them up and no one ever saw anything out of the ordinary. Still, the owners were convicted and three employees plea-bargained to get lighter sentences. After it was over even the prosecutor complained Quigly pushed her children too far. All those bizarre memories made the charges less credible."

"Anything else we can use?" Proctor asked.

"The defense charged she was leading the children in therapy with coercive questions. The transcripts show that she would suggest that an adult did something to them, then scold them if they denied it and praise them if they said they remembered. She gradually shaped their memories. The case was nearly thrown out because of her, but the judge permitted the testimony. To satisfy the defense the judge instructed the jury to consider the effect of the leading questions in their deliberations."

"The judge wanted that conviction," Proctor said. "Tucker-Cannon wants hers too."

"I also met with Quigly's father. She's accused him of sexual abuse. Quigly's father is convinced he's the victim, not his daughter, and blames his daughter's therapist, a woman by the name of Liz Timmons. His wife and Rosa's sister support his version of their childhood. They filed a lawsuit against Timmons, but it was thrown out."

Quigly's father might be useful in defense of Mark and Floyd.

"Are they recording the sessions with the Remple children?"

"Yes. Stephen has seen the transcripts and Quigly's not making the same mistakes that she did before."

"You can't get inflection from a transcript," Proctor said. "Can we get a look at the recordings?"

"They will be made available to O'Malley in three weeks. He's prohibited from letting anyone except a court-approved licensed therapist review them."

Proctor swished his feet in the cool water, enjoying the contrast with the August heat on his head. He didn't trust the therapist to turn over the recordings in good condition—the government had a history of mysterious gaps in tapes, disappearing E-mail, and misplaced documents.

"We need to see those records now," Proctor said.

Rich nodded. Like a good soldier he didn't question orders.

"There's minimal security on her building," Rich said. "Getting in is easy but there's over fifty hours of sessions. That's a lot to
go
through. We better copy them. Is Guy okay for the third man?"

"Yes. Pick two others as lookouts."

"When do you want to go?" Rich asked.

"Immediately?"

"I'll get busy," Rich said.

Proctor swished his feet in the water. Closing his eyes he looked into the pond, seeing through the glare into the depths. A trout hung motionless near the bottom, unaware he was being watched. Miss Quigly was like that trout, Proctor thought. Now he would see if she was as easily caught.

Two nights later, they were ready. Rich drove the van, Proctor in the passenger seat, the others in the back. It was midnight and few cars were on the street. It was the third trip past the clinic, making sure the coast was clear. The Womyn's Counseling Center was an old mansion remodeled into a professional building. Planned Parenthood had an office there, fortunately their clients' abortions were performed down the block at a women's clinic. Security was tight around abortion clinics, but the counseling center had avoided most of the protests. The largest space was leased by two psychologists and Quigly, who practiced with a Master of Social Work degree.

After the third pass they parked around the block, then cut down an alley lined with Dumpsters. One man remained in the van, a second posted himself in the shadows across from Quigly's building. Carrying packs, Proctor and Rich waited across from Quigly's building while Guy forced an entry. The only security was a simple door and window alarm and Guy quickly bypassed it, opening a window and crawling inside. A few minutes later the back door opened a crack.

Proctor led Rich into the back, closing the door behind. They paused, watching the alley, then Proctor checked in with the others.

"Blue?"

"Clear," came Jim's reply from the van.

"Red?"

"Clear," said Nick from the alley.

Guy and Rich clicked on pencil flashlights. Proctor closed his eyes, seeing better than his men. They moved down the hall to the sparsely furnished waiting room. There was a couch, two chairs, and end tables with magazines, coloring books, and crayons. A receptionist's desk faced the front door and a lone filing cabinet stood in a corner. Rich started toward the filing cabinet.

"Leave it," Proctor ordered. "We're looking for something bulkier."

Quigly's office door was locked but Guy opened it with a sliver of plastic slid between the door and the frame. Once inside the office, they spread out looking for storage spaces. There were two small rooms off the office, one housed a mini-kitchen, the other a storeroom with movable shelves that could be stacked tightly to one side. The shelves were packed with videotapes and disks. The recordings were organized by name and date and they found those for the Remple children on disk.

Unpacking two laptop computers they plugged them into a multiple socket extension, the red power lights glowing. They started with the earliest disks and soon the machines were humming. Guy and Rich could feed the machines, so Proctor wandered around Quigly's office. There was a desk pushed in a corner, the top neat with a single unit TV and DVD player in the corner. He hit the power button and eject, but no disk emerged. Pencils and pens littered the center drawer, and file folders filled the right bottom. The top left drawer was locked. Proctor used a knife to force the drawer open. Inside he found a loaded. 38-caliber revolver. The gun had no safety and there was no trigger lock. Proctor put the gun back, relocking the drawer. Now he looked around the rest of the office.

The walls were decorated with macrame. In every corner there were stands holding large plants. The centerpiece of the room was a rocking chair, sitting in front of a rug. A large chest sat next to the chair, a camera on a tripod pointed at the rug. Sitting in the rocker, Proctor imagined terrified children, ripped from their families, at the mercy of the woman in the rocker. How vulnerable they would be, desperate to get home, nothing familiar to comfort them, only the strange woman rocking back and forth.

Proctor studied the room, every decoration organic, or organic-looking. Then he spotted the flamingos on the wall, etched onto a mirrored surface, looking like some cheap carnival prize. The flamingos didn't fit. He closed his eyes and the mirrored surface was gone—he could see another camera behind the flamingos. Walking with his eyes closed he went into the kitchenette. A cupboard covered the wall hiding the camera. Opening the doors he found shelves holding mugs, coffee supplies, and boxes of cookies. Tapping on the wall he could hear the hollow it hid. Returning to the other side he opened his eyes so he could see the flamingos. The frame was screwed to the wall but when he pushed up on the glass it slid up and out. Behind it was the camera. It was empty. Replacing the glass, he returned to the kitchen, opening the cabinet next to the first. It held boxes of paper and stacks of yellow pads. He removed the supplies, then pulled out the shelves. Closing his eyes he studied the edges of the cabinet. A thin line ran around the inside, the shelves mounted only to the sides of the cabinet, not the back. Sliding a knife blade into the crack he pried the back out, revealing stacks of disks, some labeled with the Remple name. He picked the earliest dates he could find and carried them to Guy and Rich.

"Copy these instead," he said.

Once the computers were burning copies, Proctor showed them the hidden trove. Then Proctor returned to Quigly's rocker, thinking of the trout hidden deep in his pond, and of dropping a lure, hooking it, and reeling it in.

CHAPTER 53 EVIDENCE

The therapist must ask herself, how far she is willing to go to help her client uncover the repressed truth? I'm prepared to go as far as is necessary.

—
HIDDEN TERRORS.' WOMEN IN THERAPY
, ROSA QUIGLY,

W
alter Hanson finished his objection, then waited for Judge Tucker-Cannon to rule. Stephen had Floyd and Mark back in court, the judge ready to hear his arguments for why the testimony of Faith and Daniel should be excluded. After finally receiving access to the recordings, Stephen had been granted a hearing.

"Mr. O'Malley may proceed," the judge said. "The more of this we get out of the way before the trial the smoother things will go."

Hanson accepted the ruling, his motion perfunctory.

"Thank you, Your Honor," Stephen said. "After finally getting access to the recordings of the therapy I discovered that there are discrepancies between what the transcripts indicate and what actually took place."

Hanson watched Stephen, curious.

"Before I replay the first session, I would like to call Rosa Quigly to the stand to clarify the intent of the sessions she held with the children,"

Stephen said.

Hanson did not object and Quigly was brought in and sworn. Dressed in

a long flowered skirt with a blouse and vest, hair pulled back in a bun, she looked grandmotherly.

"Permission to approach the witness?" Stephen asked, then showed her a labeled DVD case.

"Do you recognize this disk?"

"It's the recording of Daniel Remple's first therapy session."

"If the bailiff would play this, please," Stephen said, handing it over and then returning to the table.

The bailiff put the disk in the player and soon Daniel appeared on the screen, standing in a doorway holding a woman's hand. He wore jeans and a red plaid shirt, his lips tight, his eyes puffy. Floyd let out a little gasp at the sight of his son. The judge silenced him with a sharp rap of her gavel.

"This is Daniel," said the woman holding Daniel's hand.

Daniel's head dropped, his hair hiding most of his freckled face.

"Hello, Daniel," Quigly said off camera. "How old are you?"

"He's five," the woman holding his hand said.

"Come over here, Daniel," Quigly said. "Not too near my rocker, though, I don't want to rock on you."

Daniel stood still, his fingers going into his mouth. He sucked furiously. Minutes went by and the video showed only Daniel sucking his fingers, then the fingers came out. "I want to go home," he said, the fingers going back into his mouth. Two sobs racked his body.

Mark looked at Floyd who wasn't handling it well. Tears were streaming down his face. Then Floyd glared at Quigly, his gaze pure hatred. Quigly ignored the defense table, her eyes fixed on the video.

"Let's talk about that," Quigly said on tape.

The fingers remained in Daniel's mouth and he stayed where he was. More minutes passed before the fingers came out again.

"If I talk to you can I go home?" Daniel said.

"Let's talk about home."

Now Daniel sucked on his fingers furiously. His head tilted up and he looked past the camera. After a minute he stepped forward and paused, his head down. Another minute passed, then he walked slowly toward the camera, head down, fingers in the mouth. When he reached the rug at her feet he plopped down cross-legged, fingers still deep in his mouth.

"I want to go home," he said.

Floyd sobbed with the pain his son's pleas caused.

"My job is to help you go home," the therapist said.

"Huh?"

"That's what I do, I talk with children and when we're all done talking most of them get to go home."

"Today?" Daniel asked hopefully.

"No, not today."

His fingers went back into his mouth and he mumbled, "I hate that place."

"You won't be there long. Soon they'll find a nice family for you to stay with."

"I want to
go
home."

"You can't go home today, Daniel, because of what happened."

"What happened?"

"You know."

"I do? What?"

Stephen pushed PAUSE with Daniel's confused look on the screen, his questions hanging in the air. Then Stephen turned to Rosa Quigly who looked confident.

"Daniel doesn't seem to think his father or anyone else did anything bad to him," Stephen pointed out.

"He is still in denial at this point," Quigly said calmly. "The memories of what was done to him are so terrible his conscious mind can't cope with the pain. Betrayal by the father is the worst pain a child can experience".

"If the memories are repressed, then there is no way to know whether a person has them or not, is there?" Stephen asked.

"There can be symptoms," Quigly said. "Nightmares, bed wetting, shyness, fear of strangers—all can be indicators."

"Most children have nightmares at times, many wet their beds, most are shy around strangers—parents actually encourage that. Isn't it true that virtually all children exhibit these behaviors at some time or another?"

"Sexual abuse is more common than you are willing to admit," Quigly snapped.

"Is it universal?"

Now Quigly leaned back in the witness chair, as if she were supremely confident in her answer.

"We don't yet know the extent of the problem."

"Except for an occasional nightmare, Daniel showed none of those behaviors you listed. In fact, until he was taken from his home, his teachers and neighbors report he was a happy little boy devoted to his father."

"Not all abused children exhibit these symptoms and many identify with the sexual aggressor in an attempt to reduce the emotional pain of the abuse."

Stephen looked at his yellow pad, then asked, "So, any child, whether they show the symptoms or not, may have been sexually abused?"

"Yes."

"Then how can you tell the children who have been abused from those that have not?"

"Through therapy we can uncover the repressed memories."

"A difficult process?"

"Sometimes."

"Daniel has been in therapy for nearly six months."

"His memories were deeply repressed."

"Are you familiar with 'false memory syndrome'?" Stephen asked abruptly.

Now Quigly's eyes flared, but her tone remained even.

"No psychiatric or psychological association recognizes that as a diagnostic category."

"Isn't it true that memories can be implanted into people through hypnosis?"

"I don't use hypnosis."

"Is it true that memories can be implanted through hypnosis?" Stephen repeated.

"Some believe that," Quigly conceded.

"Isn't it true that if a person is under extreme stress their memory can be altered?"

"No, it's . . ."

Rosa Quigly stopped in midsentence, realizing she was about to undercut her own testimony.

"You can't have it both ways, Ms. Quigly. Either memories can be altered under stress or they can't. Which is it?"

"Memories might be suppressed under stress but that doesn't mean they are altered."

"Really? If I suddenly couldn't remember part of my childhood you wouldn't call that an altered memory?"

"It's an incomplete memory."

"If I suddenly remembered that I had been kidnapped by aliens from outer space would that be an alteration?"

"It would be a hallucination."

"Why?"

"Because you were never kidnapped by aliens."

"How do you know?" Stephen asked in a kindly voice. "Would you believe I was kidnapped by aliens if I could produce confirming witnesses?"

"It's a ridiculous question."

"Then there's no harm in answering it."

Rosa's face was flushed, her answer crisp.

"If enough reliable witnesses supported your claim to being abducted by aliens then I would believe it."

"If a little boy told you he wasn't molested by his father or the pastor of his church, and his friends, family, and the child's teacher told you it never happened would you believe that boy?"

Quigly glared but was spared from answering by Hanson's objection.

"Your Honor, Mr. O'Malley is being argumentative. This hearing was called because of some alleged irregularities with the therapy. Mr. O'Malley seems to have forgotten that."

"I agree," the judge said. "What is the point of this?" Tucker-Cannon asked.

"I'll be returning to the recording in just a minute, Your Honor. I have just a few more questions."

The judge looked unhappy but allowed Stephen to continue, warning him to get to the point.

"Daniel showed none of the symptoms of sexual abuse before therapy—"

"He sucked his fingers," she interrupted.

"That wasn't on your list of symptoms," Stephen said. Then holding up a copy of her book, Stephen said, "Finger sucking isn't listed in your handbook."

"It would be included under the general category of 'anxiety behaviors.'"

"Couldn't every habit?"

"Objection," Hanson shouted.

"I'm about to my limit," the judge said.

"I apologize," Stephen said quickly. "Just a couple of more questions."

The judge thought long and hard but finally nodded and Stephen continued.

"Did you know that Stephen didn't start sucking his fingers until after he was taken from his family?"

"I didn't interview the family."

"Don't you practice family therapy?"

"I know the family through Daniel's memories."

"But you believe his memories were altered through trauma. So, how can you trust his memories?"

"His memories weren't altered, they were lost and then recovered."

"Daniel's memories of abuse weren't constructed in therapy?"

"I don't tell the children what to remember, they remember it on their own."

"So you never suggest to a child they must remember something specific?"

"Never."

"Did you suggest memories to the children in the Tiny Tots Daycare case?"

"I never told those childien what to remember—I was assertive in the therapy, but the children needed to break through the stress barriers. Besides, I have refined my technique so there is no question that the Remple children are uncovering real memories."

"Wasn't the concern in the Tiny Tots case that the children were coerced into remembering things that never happened?"

"They weren't coerced."

"Hypothetically. If a child was deliberately stressed by a therapist—say the therapist threatened to never let them see their parents again—might the resulting anxiety be so great that the child's memories could be altered in order to reduce the anxiety?"

Now Quigly glared at Stephen, her jaw working back and forth.

"That didn't happen," she said in slow heavy speech.

"Hypothetically, could it happen?"

More teeth grinding, then, "Some believe that."

"But you were careful not to coerce the children, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Thank you, Ms. Quigly. Let's watch the rest of the session."

When all eyes in the court were on-screen, Stephen turned and winked at Mark, but as the therapy proceeded Mark saw nothing to give him hope. The transcripts appeared accurate. When Daniel used the daddy doll to give the little boy doll a horsey ride, Floyd smiled.

The therapy session ended abruptly, Quigly saying, "You can come and play again, Daniel, but right now it's time to leave."

"Can I go home?" he asked.

"Not today."

"But I talked to you," Daniel protested.

"You did very well, but we need to talk some more."

Daniel's eyes swelled with tears again.

"I don't want to go back there."

"It won't be much longer, I promise. We'll get you a family to stay with."

"I want to
go
home," Daniel pleaded.

"Would you like a cookie to take with you?" Quigly asked, now coming partly into view, then the image disappeared, the screen turning blue.

Hanson was on his feet almost immediately.

"Your Honor, what's the point of all this? If you followed along with your transcript you'll see that it matched word for word what we've been watching."

"I agree, Mr. Hanson," Judge Tucker-Cannon said. "Mr. O'Malley, you appear to have wasted the court's time."

"One last question, please, then I'll make my point," Stephen begged.

The judge nodded reluctantly, and Stephen stood.

"Ms. Quigly, each of your tapes ends with Daniel getting a cookie. Is that how you end your therapy sessions?"

"Yes. The cookies help the children know when it's time to go and it helps them begin to feel good about themselves again."

"Thank you, Ms. Quigly." When she started to leave the stand he said, "Would you wait one more minute."

Stephen opened his briefcase and pulled out another disk, handing it to the bailiff.

"We're not going to watch another therapy session, Mr. O'Malley," Tucker-Cannon said.

"It's not another session, it's the same one."

"I object," Mr. Hanson said.

"If the court doesn't see the relevance of this disk you can hold me in contempt," Stephen said.

"I will," the judge assured him.

Inserting the new disk, the screen showed the same therapy session but shot from a different angle. Daniel was there in profile, just at the edge of the image, Quigly sitting at the other side of the screen in her rocker. In the witness chair Quigly looked shocked, her mouth open, her eyes wide.

"That's a private recording, Your Honor," Quigly shouted frantically.

"What is this, Mr. O'Malley?" the judge asked.

"These recordings were made secretly by Ms. Quigly, Your Honor. They were delivered to me anonymously, probably by someone who works with Ms. Quigly and is concerned about her methods."

Now Hanson, the judge, and Rosa Quigly all exploded at once. Stephen waited while the judge shouted the others down, finally banging her gavel. When the hullaballoo had died down the judge turned back to Stephen.

"Let's put the question of how you came into possession of these tapes aside for a moment. Since we have already seen this session, what is the point of seeing it again?"