The Ninth Session

by Deborah Serani

  I nodded my head. I noticed it felt far too heavy on my neck and shoulders.

  “Great. After I ask you my questions, the jurors may have some of their own. Or they may not have any at all. You can never tell, but I want you to be prepared.” Clark rose from his seat. “Okay, Dr. Reese. Stay here. I’ll be back to get you, but first I have to get things started inside.”

  Clark placed Luke’s file under his arm and left the room.

  I slouched back in the chair. Closing my eyes, I thought about Ryan and how I’d rest my hand just beneath his breastbone when we were in his hospice bed. How I'd touch that chakra point, hoping my love flowed through him to strengthen his failing body. Now, at this moment, I opened my eyes, rubbed my hands together, and placed them on my solar plexus.

  I heard footsteps echoing in the hall, their sound coming closer and closer to me. I stood up, ready for Clark and met him by the doorway.

  “No worries, now, okay?” he said, encouraging me as we walked.

  “No worries,” I repeated.

  Clark opened the jury room door, and a court officer escorted me to the witness bench. As she walked with me, I noticed her right hand held the gun resting in her side holster.

  I sat down and looked around the room. Everything was just as Clark described. I made eye contact with the jurors and counted them. Twenty-three. Eleven men and twelve women. Some smiled at me, while others looked down, taking notes. Each had files and papers stacked in front of them.

  The room remained quiet as we waited for Clark to close the door and take his seat behind the prosecutorial bench. By his side was an older man, the court reporter, readying his fingers above the stenography machine.

  The court officer waited for me to settle into the witness chair and then moved to the side. Within seconds, a stocky court clerk walked in front of me. Next to his official shield, I saw a photo identification badge showing his last name in capital letters, KEEL.

  “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help you God?” Keel asked.

  I raised my right arm up. “Yes.”

  “State your name for the record,” Clark said from his seat.

  “Alicia Reese.”

  “What is your profession?”

  “I’m a psychologist.”

  “A Ph.D. psychologist, a doctor, correct?

  “Yes,” I said, nodding to the jurors.

  “Please tell the jury what a psychologist does.”

  “Well, a psychologist is a person who’s been trained to do clinical therapy, perform psychological tests, or conduct research. A psychologist can teach at a university setting or do consulting in the business field.”

  “Just for clarification purposes, a psychologist is different than a psychiatrist, yes?”

  “Yes. A psychiatrist is trained as a medical doctor and receives specialized training after medical school in aspects of the mind and behavior, whereas a psychologist is entirely trained in the mind, behavior, and personality, without the medical training.”

  “Could you go into the differences a bit more, Dr. Reese?”

  “There are similarities between psychologists and psychiatrists, so their professions often get confused. But there are differences as well.”

  I noticed how talking about this clinical aspect helped to alleviate my anxiety. I was never surprised at how my clinical posture centered me.

  “Both clinical psychologists and psychiatrists perform psychotherapy. Both are trained in diagnosis and treatment of disorders. But psychiatrists can prescribe medication. For the most part, psychologists do not prescribe.”

  “So it would be accurate to say that as a psychologist, you provide talk therapy to individuals who seek you out.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how long have you been a practicing psychologist?”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Have you, pursuant to the subpoena, Dr. Reese, brought the records requested to court today?”

  “I have.”

  “And please provide the grand jury the name of the individual who is the subject of those clinical records?”

  “Lucas Ferro.”

  “How do you know Mr. Ferro, Doctor?”

  “He was a patient.”

  “Tell us in what capacity you were treating Mr. Ferro.”

  “I began working with Mr. Ferro a few weeks ago. He was experiencing panic and anxiety.”

  “To be specific, you began treating Mr. Ferro on Monday, June 5th 2017, is that correct?”

  “Yes, that was the first session.”

  “And how was treatment progressing?”

  “Mr. Ferro had violent urges and was having panic attacks as a result. He was working hard to reduce symptoms and behaviors.”

  “Doesn't the treatment plan include a provision that Mr. Ferro would call you if his urges were hard to control?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In the early morning of Friday, June 23rd, Mr. Ferro called you on your cell at 11:41 p.m. and said he was having a violent impulse.”

  “Uh –yes.”

  “Mr. Ferro indicated he had abducted a woman and that he was going to harm her. Is that correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So, at the time of the call, Aurora Jean Sheridan was still alive?”

  “Yes.” A burst of sweat trickled down my neck as I spoke the lie aloud.

  “Tell the jury what happened next.”

  “I told Mr. Ferro I'd be right there.”

  “Then you called the police”

  “I called 911 as soon as I finished speaking with Mr. Ferro. I told the dispatcher where he was and that the police should go there.”

  “Why did you do that, Dr. Reese?”

  “By law, I have to inform the police if a patient communicates a wish, plan, or intent to harm someone.”

  The room fell quiet. I watched as all the jurors took notes, and then I turned my gaze to where Clark was sitting.

  “Thank you, Dr. Reese.” Clark turned his attention to the jurors. “Does anyone have any questions before we dismiss this witness?”

  I felt a wave of panic as Clark asked the jurors. I took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. I worried if I could stay composed if more detailed questions were asked.

  I looked at them.

  Shrugs, nods, and silence.

  No one appeared eager to ask any questions.

  “Let the record reflect, no questions from the grand jury for this witness,” Clark said. “Dr. Reese, you can go now. The court thanks you for your time.”

  I said nothing but nodded. I looked at Clark as I exited the witness bench and smiled thinly to the jurors as the court officer Keel escorted me to the door.

  As it closed behind me, an enormous wave of panic hit. I hurried down the hallway to the elevator, fighting the sudden hyperventilation.

  Changing my mind, I took the stairs instead and pushed through the choking sensations as I ran down the steps. My chest tightened as I passed several people in the staircase, and my legs began to feel weak as I neared the lobby. A dizzying haze gripped me as I exited the building and made my way to the car. But I couldn’t outrun the mounting anxiety, and I let it take hold of me as I slumped in the driver’s seat.

  It was a long while before I was able to leave the parking lot.

  I knew that the Grand Jury itself didn't determine a person’s guilt or innocence. The Grand Jury only determined whether there was enough evidence to indict a person. In New York State, there'd have to be at least twelve votes to register an indictment in a criminal case.

  When I called in for my messages later that afternoon, there was a one from Clark.

  “Hi Dr. Reese. It’s Jeremy Clark. Wanted to thank you for today—and to let you know the Grand Jury made a unanimous decision. Ferro will be charged with one count of intentional murder, murder in the second degree, and one count of rape in the first degree. I
f Ferro goes to trial and is found guilty, he'd likely serve two consecutive 25 year to life sentences. I’ll let you know when the case gets calendared—for days we’re going to need you to testify. But that’s not going to be for a while, though. Okay, I’ll be in touch.”

  I listened to the message again.

  I replayed it three more times.

  And then deleted it.

  Oyster Bay

  Friday, July 14

  I

  stayed in bed until early afternoon. I didn’t have to be in the office until two o’clock, but I did have to get moving.

  I'd spent the last two weeks dodging the media as the Associated Press picked up the Sheridan murder from the news wires. What began as a local story was now a national headline. The twenty-four hour cable news stations obsessed over the case, inviting legal and psychological pundits to mull over the specifics of the Tarasoff ruling in hotly debated formats.

  Morning television programs joined sensationalism with segments like “Therapy and Confidentiality—What You Need to Know.” Newspapers featured pictures of Luke, AJ, and the ongoing investigation.

  Photographers took pictures and videos of me talking at my home, walking into my office, and driving in my car. I felt the knowing stares from strangers when I made the necessary trips out of my house. Shopping. Gassing up the car.

  Living with the decision I chose wasn't easy. Not that I thought it would be. But I didn’t anticipate how living with a lie would press so heavily on me.

  Some moments, I considered my abandonment of professional ethics the right thing and a brave decision. Luke was a psychopath. Recovery for him was poor. But my betrayal was a duplicitous act.

  I found I was suffering physically with splintering headaches and back pain. I wasn’t sleeping well, and when I did, I found myself recalling disturbing dreams the next morning. I worried if I couldn’t find a better way to cope with this conflict, an emotional and physical collapse would soon follow.

  The decision to stop practicing grew within me during this time. I couldn’t continue to do clinical work because I crossed the ethical line. Making that decision helped me atone for my transgression with Luke. It also put to rest the conflicts Dr. Prader had about my future professional life.

  I took a long shower, letting the mist of the hot water surround me. I lingered in the steam, allowing the warmth to awaken, comfort, and revive me. The lavender body wash helped to lift my mood, and before long, I felt myself emerging into the here and now.

  I dressed, dried my hair, and put on a touch of makeup. I didn’t have much of an appetite, but I grabbed an energy bar from the cupboard and nibbled at it as I drove to the office.

  “Thanks for meeting me here, Pete,” I said.

  “How are things, Doc?”

  “Pretty good, all things considered.”

  “When did you want to leave the building?”

  “Well, the lease is up in eight months. Is there any way we can make that happen sooner?”

  Peter Carruthers was a successful real estate entrepreneur with many office properties on the North Shore of Nassau County. He was an older man, glossy though not slick, but a businessman nonetheless. I didn’t know what to expect about breaking the lease.

  “To tell you the truth, I hate seeing my building in the paper and on the television. Not good for business.”

  “I bet.”

  “You’ve been with me a long time. Never late with a payment, even when things were bad for you.”

  “So what are you thinking, Pete?”

  “I’m thinking, give me one more month’s rent, and we’ll call it a day.”

  “That’s generous.”

  “I’ll get the papers drawn and have them sent to you ASAP.” Pete reached out and grabbed my hand tightly, giving it a squeeze. “Listen, kid, you need to find some good luck out there.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  I reached forward and hugged Peter, which took him by surprise, given our relationship was quite a formal one. Then I turned and proceeded down to my office, not giving him a chance to say anything else.

  I spent the rest of the day calling patients and setting up appointments in order to terminate my work with them. The recent events made it easy for them—as well as my colleagues—to understand my need to stop working.

  The important task though, was not to make this about me, but to make this unplanned transition for my patients to new therapists as easy as possible. So many emotions regarding my departure would arise, and I wanted every patient to have time to process them with me.

  I pulled a heavy tufted chair up to the long picture window. I lifted the blinds as far as the cord would take them, filling the room with a magnificent glow of light. I sat down, leaned my elbows on the cool window frame, and rested my chin on my hands.

  The beach was busy with people sunning themselves. Children were digging in the sand, running by the water’s edge. On the bay, several jet skis zoomed across the water, careful not to interrupt a nearby motorboat and its water skier.

  In the distance, I saw the sails of long-necked boats finding the wind, while others set anchor in well-chosen spots.

  And across the bay, on Centre Island, my eyes took in each of the mansions that graced the coastline.

  I loved this view.

  I loved this place.

  And I loved my work.

  Those sentiments were, clearly and forever, in the past tense now.

  I lifted my hands up, palms towards me, and then pivoted them away in a turning motion. It’s the sign for finished. It’s the sign for all done.

  That’s what I felt.

  And that’s all it was.

  Mineola

  Tuesday, July 18

  D

  etective Skolnik asked me to come to the Homicide Squad first thing in the morning, so I arrived promptly at nine a.m.

  I parked my car on Franklin Avenue and took the sidewalk path to the Nassau County Police Headquarters. Before I reached the entry doors, I passed the Police Memorial Park, which honored officers who died in the line of duty. I noticed the half-mast flags sloped downward, stock-still from the windless summer heat of the day.

  I entered the building and checked the directory for the Homicide Division. I walked up one flight of stairs and tried to keep my nervousness under wraps.

  “Deep blue ocean water,” I said, using imagery to relax. I paused before entering the squad room. “Cool green cut grass.”

  I swung the door open to find the room bustling with activity. In an alcove apart from the squad room, I saw a tiny waiting area.

  “Dr. Reese to see Detective Skolnik,” I said to the woman typing at a desk.

  “He expecting you?”

  “Yes.”

  She stopped her fingers mid-air and whisked off her bifocals to get a good look at me. She jogged her head to the side. “In there.”

  I moved into the center of the squad room and looked for Detective Skolnik. I found him near the coffee maker.

  “Detective?”

  “Yeah?” Skolnik said, looking confused. “Oh, Dr. Reese.”

  “You did say first thing this morning, right?”

  “Yeah. I did. Forgot what you looked like.” Skolnik walked to his desk and motioned for me to follow, dragging a chair for me to sit in.

  “So, what questions do you want to ask me?”

  “Just a couple of things. Shouldn’t take too long,”

  “Will Detective Lombardi be joining us?” I asked, preferring her good cop persona over his bad cop one.

  “She should be here soon.” Skolnik pulled out Luke’s file and thrust his thick index finger to a spot on the paper. “You were working with Ferro only a month, right?”

  “Just over three weeks.”

  “Ever met him before that?”

  “No.”

  “So, he makes an appointment, you work with him a while, and then he murders the Sheridan girl
.”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “And you never saw him before that.”

  “Right.”

  Skolnik scribbled some notes and shook his head in a slow and deliberate manner.

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “No need to get uptight, Doc,” Skolnik said.

  “We’re just checking logistics,” Lombardi said, pulling a chair up. “Did you know Ferro beyond your working relationship?”

  “You mean, outside of the office?”

  “Yes. Did you have a personal relationship with the suspect?” Lombardi asked.

  “No. Why would you think that?”

  “So, there’d be no reason for him to be seeing you outside of the sessions,” Lombardi said.

  “Yes. No reason.”

  My anxiety began to worsen. Agitated, I looked at Lombardi and Skolnik, trying to figure out what they were trying to get at. “Is this about the black Cadillac?” I asked suddenly.

  “What Cadillac?” Lombardi asked.

  “I called and left a message with a Detective after Luke was arrested. Detective Silvestri. He said you weren’t in and that I could leave the information with him.”

  “Doc, there’s no Silvestri in homicide,” Lombardi said.

  “Jesus Christ, she means Sal Vestrese,” Skolnik said, slamming his fist on the table. “Goddamn clerk never takes a good message.” Skolnik stretched out his neck, jutted his jaw, and tried to compose himself. “What did you tell Vestrese?”

  “I thought you should know that for a while, I noticed this black car around my house a couple of times. At first, I thought it could be Luke. I was able to get the first three letters of the license plate and had a friend run a check for me.”

  “What did you find out?” Skolnik asked.

  “Car’s part of a fleet of limousines. They do business somewhere in Manhattan, I think.” I opened a zipped partition in my handbag and pulled out the sheet Steve gave me a while back.

  Skolnik looked at Lombardi. “I’ll run it.”

  “Listen, that’s not what we’re talking about,” Lombardi continued. “We found some photos at Ferro’s place.”