The Seducers

by Martin Shepard

  “In your research did you find any common factor to account for these intimacies?”

  “There was one. That factor is the strong bond that forms between doctor and patient during the transference process, an influence that certain disreputable therapists have exploited, causing great harm to their patients.”

  Al leaned against the jurors’ box and asked:

  “Would you tell the jury the circumstances under which you examined Ms. Lewis?”

  “Gladly. I interviewed her at your request in your office on January sixth of this year for the purpose of giving an opinion regarding the cause of her hospitalization.”

  “And would you give us the results of that examination?”

  “I found a person who was the product of a broken home, a shattered adolescence and a broken life. As a child, she suffered sexual exploitation by a foster parent, and later grew into a lonely, sexually inhibited and withdrawn young woman, without interest, joy, or friends. And,” he proudly announced, “I felt that there was a direct link between Ms. Lewis’ treatment by Dr. Lippman and her subsequent confinement.”

  “What, in your opinion, specifically caused this deterioration in her psychological state?”

  “Guilt, brooding, and the feelings of rejection and remorse when Lippman terminated treatment built up into a schizophrenic episode.”

  “Is it usual for patients to react so strongly toward the termination of treatment?”

  “No, it is not. But this case involved unusual circumstances in that she reported a sexual relationship with her doctor. This added to a feeling of intense betrayal when he ceased seeing her.”

  “And what is your opinion regarding the veracity of this claim?”

  “I believed her.” Heads nodded in the jury, sighs came from the gallery, reporters scribbled in their notebooks and Clayburg looked at Arlene sympathetically as she smiled, wanly, back. “There was nothing inconsistent about what she reported. Her account was presented in a logical and reasonable way and my opinion is that it was factual.”

  Al turned to face Norman.

  “Had she experienced anything delusional or hallucinatory about the episode?”

  “There was nothing delusional or hallucinatory about it at all. She merely said about herself that she is easily talked into things.”

  “Your witness.”

  Norman ambled toward the docket. “Now, Doctor,” he began with exceptional deference, “I would like to learn a bit more about psychiatric practice. Could you tell me, what is the average length of treatment for schizophrenic patients?”

  “Well, as one hospitalized patient put it when asked that same question by a first-year resident, ‘Longer than a day and shorter than a lifetime.’”

  A ripple of laughter, the first of the trial, erupted from the spectators. Judge Margolis gaveled them to silence. So, he wants to spar, does he? All right.

  “You are a practicing psychoanalyst, are you not?”

  “I am,” Clayburg answered smugly.

  “And your treatment, sir, how long does that last … shorter than a lifetime, I trust?”

  Clayburg’s eyes narrowed. Norman’s changed tone was abrupt, and he was not used to being challenged.

  “Usually two to six years.”

  “Really?” Norman drew the word out. “Why so long?”

  “It takes quite a while, for any number of reasons.”

  “What might those be?”

  “Well … it takes time to restructure the personality, time to explore early childhood trauma, time to discover hidden motivations.”

  Excellent. He could not be better.

  “And that exploration of hidden motivations, unknown data, and all the rest couldn’t be accomplished more efficiently … say in two to six months?”

  “No.” He was emphatic. “Not at all. Not when one utilizes depth therapy.”

  “What would you say, then, if some doctor claimed to be able to diagnose and cure a patient in an even shorter period of time? Like two to six weeks?”

  “I would say that man was either deluded or a charlatan. Why, a correct diagnosis alone often takes several weeks.”

  How lucky could he get. Norman could not improve Clayburg’s answers if he wrote the script himself.

  “And how much time did you spend diagnosing and exploring the motivations of Arlene Lewis?”

  Charles Clayburg saw the question coming and was livid for having helped set up this trap.

  “One hour.”

  Norman seemed indignant.

  “And on the basis of one hour you dare to sit up here and give us this weighty opinion?”

  Deflated, he still stuck to his guns.

  “It is my opinion.”

  “Now—and I’d like a simple yes or no answer, for another doctor’s life hangs in the balance—is it not possible you erred? That a well-rehearsed answer fed you by an easily led young woman might have taken you in?”

  “Objection. That question insinuates prevarication and is personally slanderous.”

  “Sustained.” Margolis waved his finger at Norman. “I do not want to ask you again to limit your cross-examination to the material presented. Aspersions as to the ethics of opposing counsel, unless substantiated by fact, will not be tolerated in this court.”

  Norman bowed repentantly, satisfied that the jurors got his message. “Excuse me, your honor, but my concern for my client’s cause got the better of me. May I rephrase the question?”

  “You may.”

  “Could your opinion be wrong?”

  “Yes,” he had to admit, lest he sound too much like God, “it could. It is, after all, only an opinion.”

  “No more questions.”

  So far, so good. There was a phrase he’d remembered from Robert Altman’s film, Nashville. “The role of the lawyer is to clarify or confuse, depending on the interests of his client.” It was the best practical definition of law he’d ever heard and Norman was satisfied that he was confusing things perfectly, effectively neutralizing the testimony of the first two psychiatrists. But Dr. Arthur Matthews, this Wednesday morning, could prove more difficult.

  Art was effective from the moment he was asked to raise his right hand and “solemnly swear to tell the truth, the.…” because his left hand was raised in error. His youth, inexperience and nervousness added to his credibility and stood in sharp contrast to the glib and ready opinions offered by Clayburg.

  Under direct examination he described first meeting Arlene when she was admitted to Bellevue. He read from the nurse’s report that Newfield handed him, plaintiff’s exhibit “A.”

  “September third: The patient sits mutely, clutching her wrists with her hands, and seems on the verge of crying.…

  “September sixth: Still no contact. Patient remains apathetic, withdrawn, not verbalizing. Avoids staff and patients alike.…

  “September eleventh: Condition unchanged. Manages to attend to toilet functions on her own and eats without interest when food is placed before her. Otherwise seems out of contact.”

  And on it went.

  Next, Al asked him to describe the treatment Arlene was given. Art talked rapidly about his initial phone conversation with Jonas, all the while avoiding looking in Lippman’s direction.

  “Could you slow down a bit,” Judge Margolis asked in a fatherly way.

  Yes. He’d try. Dr. Lippman seemed perplexed by the breakdown, came to visit once, acknowledged terminating treatment and asked to be kept informed. “When Arlene … Ms. Lewis … failed to respond to psychotherapy—I mean she didn’t talk at all—the senior psychiatrist prescribed a series of electroconvulsive shocks.”

  Playing to the passions of the jurors, and over Norman’s objections, Newfield drew out the process of shock therapy step by step; the fears certain patients had of it, the names and quantities of drugs injected in order to relax the muscles, the amount of current used, and the number of treatments Arlene had.

  Throughout this questioning, Al continued to hove
r protectively over Arlene. Something fishy about it, Norman thought. Too melodramatic. Or was it too real? What was it? Ah, yes. Newfield was her next-door neighbor. Well, maybe he was overly involved emotionally.

  Al directed Art’s testimony adroitly, allowing the jury to share his puzzlement over the cause of Arlene’s breakdown and his startling discovery when she began to speak.

  “Did you believe her story at first?”

  “No. I did not. I’d known Jonas Lippman at the Analytic Institute as a man of excellent reputation and character. And so I dismissed Ms. Lewis’ initial report as fantasy.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “The consistency of her story, once she began to recover. There were incidents and anecdotes too detailed to be feigned. And it explained things very well. It was the missing key that accounted for everything. Given her background, her sexual fears, her prior adjustment, and then an episode like this, it all fit together.”

  Looking at Norman, Al asked his last question. “And you have examined her for more than an hour, I trust?”

  “Yes, sir. Lots more than that. I’ve treated her during her hospitalization and since then as an outpatient. And I’m still seeing her in the clinic twice a week.”

  There were only a few points Norman wanted to make during cross-examination, none of them telling but worth placing on the record. The first was to have Art Matthews elaborate on Jonas’ good standing prior to these allegations.

  “Among the students he was considered one of the most able analysts at the Institute, well trained and deeply respectful of patients and supervisees alike.”

  “And you had known him as a supervisee for some months?”

  “Yes. And I felt the experiences I had with him were quite useful. That’s why I was doubly shocked when Ms. Lewis told me of her affair with him.”

  The second had to do with introducing doubt regarding credibility. It was less successful.

  “Now … if you were fooled by Dr. Jonas Lippman, is it not conceivable that you’ve been fooled by Ms. Lewis?”

  “Anything is conceivable. But I doubt it. As a therapist you learn a lot more about someone than you do when you’re being supervised. You get a fuller glimpse into their private lives. So I don’t think I’ve been taken in by her at all.”

  Lastly, Norman stressed that Jonas had, indeed, seen Arlene at the hospital.

  “Is that the sort of thing you’d expect a guilty man to do?”

  “No … Not at the time. That troubled me, too. But later on, I thought, under the circumstances, what else could he do?”

  This was not helping very much at all, and for a moment Norman thought of ending his questioning. But at the last second a further thought occurred. If he could not shake Art Matthews’ testimony, at least he might try to show that Arlene had not suffered any permanent harm.

  “Now, Dr. Matthews. Does it ever happen that a person suffers a breakdown where no cause is ever elicited?”

  “Yes. That happens frequently. We speculate as to the reasons but often find none we can prove.”

  “You’re also aware of plaintiff’s case, I presume? That she charges great damage resulting from her treatment by Dr. Lippman?”

  “I am aware of that. Yes, sir.”

  “Now, just assuming her breakdown occurred for unexplainable reasons, would you say her condition today is worse than before she started therapy with Jonas Lippman?”

  “In what way?”

  “Well.… You were sitting in this courtroom when Drs. Fisk and Clayburg testified, were you not?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you heard them talk,” he lowered his voice in mock gravity, “of the irreparable damage that can be done if a doctor has sex with a patient; how she couldn’t establish a trusting relationship with another doctor, how she’d come to think of sex as something evil and dirty, how it would affect her capacity for love?”

  “Yes. I heard that.”

  “So tell me. Do you think Ms. Lewis has a trusting relationship with you?”

  “Yes,” Art answered, modestly. “I do.”

  “Then that ability to trust is not damaged.” He looked at the jurors, then at Arlene. He was on a fishing expedition, that was for sure, but the waters seemed promising. “Now … regarding her capacity for sex. As her current psychiatrist, she must confide these things to you, does she not?”

  “She does.” Art looked uncomfortable, wary of divulging personal matters told to him in the privacy of their sessions.

  “Has she had sexual relations with men since her treatment with Dr. Lippman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you describe them.”

  “Objection.” Newfield was off his chair once more. “This trial concerns the issue of whether Jonas Lippman was or was not intimate with Arlene Lewis. Questions about other aspects of her sex life represent an unwarranted invasion of privacy, a violation of doctor-patient confidentiality, and a tasteless disregard for propriety.”

  “Your honor.” Norman was puzzled by Al’s vehemence. They both knew of the tawdry sex Arlene had flung herself into prior to her admission to St. Vincent’s. It was all part of the Bellevue Hospital record—the same record Al had introduced into evidence. Surely he realized Norman might try to capitalize on it; might conceivably even try to portray Arlene as a wanton slut. But that objection should come later. So what the hell was going on now? But the judge was waiting for his explanation.

  “This case has two aspects. Was my client guilty of malpractice, and if so, what are the damages that ensued? I believe my questioning is relevant to this second matter. Nor do I believe it fair for Mr. Newfield to present a witness who is allowed only to give evidence damaging to one party.”

  Margolis looked at Newfield thoughtfully.

  “I appreciate the delicacy of these matters and am not inclined to allow this testimony to deteriorate along True Confessions lines. Nevertheless,” Newfield’s incipient smile was short-lived, “Mr. Rosenkrantz’s argument is well taken. I’d be remiss in allowing onesided testimony only.

  “You may proceed, Mr. Rosenkrantz. But I expect you to do so cautiously.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” Norman nodded, reapproaching Art Matthews.

  “I repeat. Has she had sexual relations since treatment ended?”

  “Yes. She has.”

  “Could you describe these episodes?”

  “Objection.” Al was seething. “The identity of Ms. Lewis’ lovers is not a matter of concern for this court.”

  “Sustained.”

  Now that has to be out of left field. Who asked anything about names? Who even knew their names? Norman guessed that Al was worried about something. What was it?

  Art Matthews’ expression was guarded as Norman asked, “And has she functioned adequately in this area?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Just prior to hospitalization she took part in a sexual act that was perceived as evil and dirty. Recently that has not been the case.”

  Aha! So there’s been someone else, has there? “So that ability has also not been permanently damaged.”

  “No,” Art acknowledged. “It has not.”

  “Now,” he looked at Al. Why was he so fidgety? “Both you and Dr. Clayburg mentioned that Ms. Lewis fell in love with Jonas Lippman. Has that capacity been damaged?”

  “No.” Art looked down, his voice trailing to a whisper as Newfield grew unnaturally still. Arlene looked at Al uneasily. Neighbor, lawyer, protector … lover? Could they all be one? Had his contrived defense accidentally mirrored reality? If his hunch was correct, this fishing trip was about to yield a bountiful catch.

  “In other words, she’s subsequently talked of being in love.”

  “Yes. She has.”

  “I’ve only one more question,” Norman said, sidling over toward the jurors. “Would Arlene Lewis’ current lover happen to be an attorney named Newfield?”

  “Objection! Objection!”
<
br />   “Sustained.”

  Norman had all he could do to keep from dancing a jig. By his objection, Al had implicated himself. A helpless patient led astray by the cock of an evil doctor? How about substituting lawyer? He could envision his summation already.

  What a glorious moment this was; to go after a fish and come up with a whale.

  32

  “Pick up a copy of tomorrow’s Daily News.” Rosenkrantz sounded gleeful. “You’ll really enjoy it.”

  “Enjoy what?”

  “The headlines. Two-inch type! It’s about time we turned it around.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “Go see for yourself. I don’t want to spoil your fun.”

  Jonas heard the click on the other end of the line, hung up the receiver and looked at his watch. Ten-thirty P.M. Enough time to go over to Broadway, pick up the morning papers, and still get back for the eleven o’clock news telecast. He slipped into his moccasins, fetched a jacket from the hall closet, checked to see if he had his keys and sufficient money, and left, taking the back staircase to the lobby.

  Walking alone along Ninety-sixth Street at night was not the safest thing one could do. He tried to choose a path that took advantage of street lights yet avoided cars parked at the curbside or the entranceways of adjoining buildings. At Columbus Avenue, Jonas gave a wide berth to the band of black youths in front of the methadone maintenance center. West of Amsterdam Avenue he crossed the street to avoid a larger pack of younger children.

  Broadway represented safety. “Felliniville,” he’d dubbed that intersection. Trains, buses, benches on the traffic island, hookers, pimps, junkies, crazies, all-night coffee shops, bodegas, movie theaters, and McDonald’s. Groups of people moving, standing, eating, chatting, yelling, all under the watchful eyes of two uniformed members of the Twenty-fourth precinct. Relaxing a bit, he made his way to the corner kiosk. There, amidst cigarettes, girlie magazines and candy bars, were the first editions of tomorrow’s papers.

  “Times and a News,” Jonas asked the stocky, unshaven vendor.

  “Thirty-five cents.”

  He changed a dollar, took the papers, stepped back from the front of the newstand, and let the tabloid’s headline sink in: