Killer (2 page)

Amy’s mother was already scrimping to pay for therapy so I took the court case gratis and wrote my own report. The judge, one of those jurists who actually reads what lands on his desk, called for a meeting in chambers with both attorneys and both experts.

I encountered Dr. Joan Mort as she walked up the court corridor. An older woman with a slight walleye and all the right paper credentials, she had a bouncy step and one of those soft, pseudo-sweet therapy voices that cloys quickly. She gripped my hand with both of hers, said it was a pleasure to meet me, had appreciated my input. As if we were both on the same team.

Once inside, she volunteered to go first. Speaking slowly and clearly, in a well-practiced academic tone that drew heavily on jargon, she managed to couch the absurdity of her argument with apparent scholarship. Made delivering a four-year-old to the mercies of a felonious stranger sound almost reasonable.

Flipping the final page of her report, she patted my hand and smiled reassuringly.

Your turn, sonny boy
.

I began with a point-by-point refutation of her little oration, keeping my voice even as I slid into a side lecture on quacks and whores-for-hire
willing to say anything for a fee. Using temperate language, of course. (“Superficial so-called evaluations that fail to pay attention to the patient nudge up against scientific and ethical boundaries, at best. At worst they cross those boundaries in a highly destructive manner. I find that inexcusable in any case but particularly destructive and cruel when a child’s well-being is at stake.”)

Mort and the lawyer who was paying her blanched. So did Amy’s mom’s attorney.

But the judge was working hard at not grinning. Thanking everyone, he adjourned the meeting. Joan Mort marched ahead of everyone and I thought she’d lost some bounce in her step.

The following morning the judge called and asked if we could meet.

“May I ask why, Your Honor?”

“I’d like to talk to you.”

“About Amy?”

“No, that’s resolved. In a manner that won’t make you unhappy. I’d like to discuss some general issues. If you need to be paid for your time, the court’s got a little discretionary fund.”

“No need,” I said, “but you can buy lunch.”

We met at a steak house near the downtown court building, a place Milo frequents when he’s testifying or meeting with deputy D.A.’s. His waistline-busting approach to nutrition features enough red meat to feed a bunkhouse full of ranch hands and I’ve never seen him leave with a doggie bag. The judge, a trim man in his sixties, nibbled a six-ounce rib eye and sipped a martini and told me he liked my style and would appreciate my joining the panel of custody evaluators employed by the court.

I said, “Is Joan Mort on the panel?”

“She is.”

“Then forget it.”

“It’s a list, Dr. Delaware. No list is perfect.”

“Granted, but that’s a club I’m not interested in joining.”

“High standards.”

“I try.”

“Hmm,” he said. “You don’t hem and haw like most shrinks.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“So you won’t consider it? You really should, precisely
because
of people like Mort. There’s work to be done refining the system.”

“I’m sure there is but I’m happy with my practice and I really don’t want to dive into the …”

The word I’d been thinking of was “muck” but while I groped for a more appetite-friendly synonym, he said, “Cesspool? Hell, yeah, it can stink to high heaven. But here’s the thing: In a few weeks I’m going to be appointed presiding judge and I’m thinking I can clean things up. Why not help me, Doctor?”

“By targeting the bad ones? I’m not a henchman.”

“No, no, I’m not asking you to break some code of silence. Just do good work consistently and help raise our standards. Right now the only cases I’m able to ensure get done right are my own. Once I’m presiding I’ll theoretically have more control, but in truth, I won’t once the other judges get their assignments. Because each of us is a despot in his or her courtroom. One of my esteemed colleagues would have to rape a goat in the hall to get bounced.”

The image made me smile. “The corridors of justice takes on a new meaning.”

“Ha.”

I said, “Why bother with one new psychologist?”

“Because it’s a start. There are other decent evaluators, even some on the panel. But I’ve never seen anything quite like your level of … assertiveness. We can use some serious cojones.”

“Flattered, Your Honor, but—”

“Steve’s fine.”

“Legal work’s just not my thing, Steve.”

Shrugging, he sliced steak into little trapezoids, ate and drank. A few moments later: “How about this, Alex: You won’t need to join the panel, we’ll start with me referring cases to you directly. And encouraging my brighter colleagues to do the same. You’ll never end up looking like a trial slut because you’ll be working for the court, not the parties. As an objective finder of fact.”

“All that from the discretionary fund?”

“No, you’ll be reimbursed like everyone else.”

“By the parties.”

“Fifty-fifty, so there’ll be no favoritism.”

“Steve, when people pay bills, they start to feel entitled.”

“I’ll make the rules clear.”

“On top of that, the bills would be substantial,” I said. “Because I think the usual approach—brief interview, a few psych tests, boilerplate report—is a joke. The right way takes time and time is money.”

“Your fees are your business.”

“I’m talking billing for home visits, school visits, interviews with extended family, friends, anyone I feel is relevant. Travel time, too—charging portal-to-portal, the way lawyers do.”

“From the moment you leave your office to the moment you return. Seems fair to me.”

“I’d insist on a retainer up front.”

“Same answer.”

“I’d double my therapy fee. We’re talking big bucks, Steve.”

He put his fork down. “So you won’t be working on any charity cases. Fine, they rarely drag on, anyway.”

“The money runs out, the lawyers stop filing.”

He smiled. “You don’t want to do this so you’re attempting to price yourself out of the market. Sorry, Alex, not an effective argument. If someone balks at paying, let them complain to me. And frankly, I hope you get prosperous out of this, I’m all for prosperity. You put your time
in at Western Peds. My son worked there as a pharmacist, I know the pay scale. So obviously you did your bit for the public interest.”

“You’ve researched me.”

“I wanted to make sure what I saw in my chambers was backed up by substance. You have an impressive résumé, exactly the kind of research experience that’ll hold up under cross.”

Gin and vermouth disappeared down his slender gullet. “Yes, that was an attempt to further stroke your ego. Did it work?”

I didn’t answer.

He said, “You’re really that obdurate, huh? Damn shame, you could’ve made a difference.”

He motioned for the check.

I said, “Fine, I’ll try it.”

“Excellent. How about some dessert?”

“No, thanks.”

“Then none for me, either—and put that plastic away, this is on me.”

“Not necessary,” I said.

“Not necessary but good manners. Something both of us would like to see more of, Alex, in our quest for truth, justice, and the American way.”

We left the restaurant and handed our tickets to the parking valet. The judge’s drive was a newish, black Porsche 911. When he saw my Seville, he said, “Blast from Detroit’s past. You’re a loyal fellow.”

Before I could answer, he was behind the wheel, gunning his engine. Rolling forward a few feet, he stopped, motioned me closer.

As I leaned in, he said, “Count on Joan Mort to resign from the panel, soon.” Big grin. “At least she responds to constructive criticism.”

I didn’t hear from Steve Yates for nearly two months and figured he’d changed his mind. But shortly after his promotion to presiding judge was noted in the
Times
, he sent me my first case, a dispute between two well-meaning, caring parents whose blood had been heated for battle by a pair of pit-bull attorneys.

I researched the lawyers first, learned they’d both been through messy divorces of their own. Then I met with each parent individually, absorbed more than my minimum daily requirement of vitriol, and made an appointment for the three children.

I found the youngsters well adjusted but understandably anxious. Ignoring repeated phone calls from the lawyers, I brought the parents back in, told them they were good people being led astray and their choice was to switch gears immediately or risk turning their kids into long-term therapy patients. They both took umbrage at that and attacked my argument. The mother went further and questioned my qualifications. Only hostility toward her prevented the father from agreeing.

I persisted and kept taking on the bad-guy role and that nudged the two of them into an ad hoc alliance as
Good Parents
. A few more sessions of that and they’d agreed to persist in their financial battle while keeping the kids out of the fray. I told them that was the least they could do and the three of us grumbled through another couple of sessions that finally produced a reasonable custody arrangement. In my report, I credited the parents’ hard work. Judge Yates quoted me in his final judgment, redacted the names of the participants, and distributed his opinion to the other judges as an educational tool.

Surprised at the quick resolution, I realized that some of the five-thousand-dollar retainer I’d taken hadn’t been earned. I mailed checks to each parent, received a floral-scented card and a bottle of Armani cologne from the wife, a softcover book on baseball from the father. Accepting gifts in barter was unethical so I gave the cologne to my fishpond maintenance guy, donated the book to a local library.

The next case from Yates arrived a month and a half later. So far, the pace was fine, allowing me plenty of time for my therapy patients.

Number Two was different: a pair of decent lawyers working for a pair of highly obnoxious litigants. An agreement was eventually drafted but I had no faith in its life span. Still, I ended up feeling I’d done my best, had a chance of making a small difference in the life of two already jumpy, compulsive children.

That time, the retainer was more than used up. I didn’t bother to bill for the overage.

Eight days later, I got Case Three. Four through Seven arrived in rapid succession and by year’s end I’d filed thirteen reports and had a good feel for the system. Such as it is.

The way it works in L.A. County is when opposing parties can’t work out their differences quickly, the court mandates mediation carried out by its own employees. The mediators are social workers or master’s-level mental professionals and some of them are excellent. However,
their workload is massive and the arbitration process needs to be brief. The penalty for failing to reach an easy agreement is nil: Files are tagged as unresolved and sent back for additional consultation by psychiatrists and psychologists on the court panel or an expert agreed upon by both parties.

Or one highly recommended by the presiding judge.

Sometimes that second step helps, often it doesn’t. Because asking people who communicate horribly to jointly maneuver the complexities of child rearing is like expecting a chimp to teach physics.

Also, as Yates had warned me, judges retain dictatorial powers in their courtrooms and while some use their authority wisely, others are Ghadaffis in black robes with tenuous links to reality.

When Steve was able to stick with a case, the chance of resolution was excellent. When he needed to punt to another judge, the outcome was a random toss no matter what I did. That should’ve been enough to make me quit but I discovered that bad outcomes bothered me less than I’d expected, because the happy endings were so gratifying. And even with the nasty ones, I was able to sneak in some supportive therapy for the kids.

But in truth, it was more than that. New situations teach you about yourself. I’d earned a Ph.D. at twenty-four, briefly contemplated adding a law degree, decided white-collar combat wasn’t for me. Because my goal was to
nurture
, not to fight.

But, surprise, surprise, matching wits with attorneys turned out to be
fun
. I
enjoyed
a good tussle.

That extended to the infrequent cases when I actually had to testify. The first time—Case Eight—I was nervous as hell and struggled to conceal my anxiety. By the time I left the stand, I was fighting smugness, and from then on testifying became an enjoyable experience that left me adrenalized. Because most lawyers function well short of Perry Mason. And expecting mental health types to be bumbling wimps, they’re ill prepared for self-confidence and assertiveness.

I developed a reputation as a compulsively thorough, hard-to-crack sonofabitch and that led to minimal cross-examination.

That notoriety hadn’t reached the senior partner at a top Beverly Hills “family law” firm when he cold-called me regarding Case Eleven. Sterling Stark wasn’t directly involved but one of his associates was and he wanted to “weigh in personally.”

“About what, Mr. Stark?”

“Read your report, Doctor.” A beat. “Don’t
like
your report, Doctor.”

“Okay.”

“You’re going to change it.”

“Pardon?”

“I want you to change it, Doctor.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Don’t you want to know how I want you to change it?”

“Nope.”

“Not interested at all?”

“The report was accurate.”

“Says you. Trust me, Doctor, you’ll change it.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll subpoena you as a regular witness, not an expert witness. Do you know what that means, Doctor?”

“Tell me, Mr. Stark.”

“You won’t get paid for your time.”

I said nothing.

“I’ll tie you up for weeks,
Mister
Delaware. I’ll toss ethical charges into the mix, file and postpone and re-file and re-postpone. You’ll end up sitting on those hard benches in the court corridor until your ass turns blue.”