Yesterday, as soon as he had learned of the forgery. Marshal had panicked and dialed Melvin's number. As he listened to the phone ring, he made a sudden decision that he didn't want Melvin; he wanted a more sympathetic and high-powered attorney. He hung up the phone and immediately dialed Mr. Jarndyce, a former patient, one of San Francisco's most eminent attorneys.
Later, about three a.m. that night. Marshal realized that it was imperative to keep this whole incident as quiet as possible. He invested with an ex-patient—many would be critical of him. That, itself, was bad enough, but he felt like an idiot to have been hoodwinked in this fashion. All in all, the fewer people who knew of this the better. In fact, he should never have called Jarndyce—that, too, was an error in judgment, even though therapy with him had ended
many years ago. His disappointment, therefore, that Mr. Jarndyce was unavailable had now changed to relief.
"I'm available for this matter for as long as you need me, Dr. Streider. I have no travel plans, if that's what you mean. My fees are two hundred fifty an hour, and confidentiality is total, the same as in your profession—if anything, even tighter."
"I'd like that to include Mr. Jarndyce. I want everything to remain strictly between the two of us."
"Agreed. You can count on that. Dr. Streider. Now let's begin."
Marshal, still leaning forward on the edge of his chair, proceeded to tell Carol the entire story. He spared not a single detail, save his concern about professional ethics. After thirty minutes he finished and sank back in his chair, exhausted and relieved. He did not fail to note how consoling it was to share everything with Carol and how attached to her he already felt.
"Dr. Streider, I appreciate your honesty. I know it wasn't easy to relive all these painful details. Before we proceed, let me ask you something: I noticed the forcefulness with which you said, more than once, that this was an investment and not a gift and that Mr. Macondo was an ex-patient. Is there some question in your mind about your behavior—I mean, about professional ethics?"
"Not in my mind. My actions are beyond reproach. But you're right to call attention to that. It may be an issue to others. I have been highly vocal in my field about upholding professional standards of ethical behavior—been on the state medical ethics board, and head of the psychoanalytic task force on professional ethics— and therefore my position in these matters is a delicate one; my behavior must not only be above approach, but appear above reproach."
Marshal was perspiring heavily and took out a handkerchief to wipe his brow. "Please understand . . . and this is reality, not paranoia ... I have rivals and enemies, individuals who would be only too eager to misinterpret some piece of my behavior, who would be delighted to see me fall."
"So," Carol said, lifting her eyes from her notes, "let me ask again, is it true that you have absolutely no personal doubts about violation of therapist-patient financial boundaries.'*"
Marshal stopped wiping his forehead and looked, with surprise, at his attorney. Obviously, she was well informed about such matters.
"Well, it goes without saying, in retrospect, I wish I had behaved
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differently. I wish I had been a stickler, like I usually am, for such matters. I wish I had said to him that I never invest personally with patients or ex-patients. Now, for the first time, it dawns on me that such rules are protective not only of the patient but of the therapist as well."
"These rivals or enemies, do they represent ... I mean, are they an important consideration?"
"I'm not sure what you mean . . . well, yes ... I have real rivals. And, as I have implied, I am most anxious . . . no, let me change that . . . I'm desperate . . . for privacy in this matter . . . for my practice, for my professional associations. So, the answer is yes; I want this whole nasty business kept quiet. But why do you persevere on this particular aspect.''"
"Because," Carol responded, "your need for secrecy bears directly upon the recourses available to us—the greater your wish for secrecy, the less aggressive we can be. I'll explain that more in a minute. But there's another reason I ask about secrecy—it's academic since it's after the fact, but it may be of interest to you. I don't want to be presumptuous. Dr. Streider, in telling you about psychological matters, but let me point out something about the way the professional con man always works. He makes a point of getting his victim involved in a scheme in which the victim feels that he, also, is engaged in something marginally dishonest. In that fashion the victim becomes—what shall we say?—almost a co-conspirator and enters a different state of mind, a state in which he abandons his ordinary caution and discrimination. Furthermore, since the victim feels even slightly conspiratorial, he is disinclined to seek input from the reliable financial advisers he might ordinarily employ. And, for the same reason, after the swindle, the victim is disinclined to prosecute vigorously."
"This victim has no problems in that sphere," said Marshal. "I am going to get that bastard and nail him to the wall. No matter what it takes."
"Not according to what you've just told me. Dr. Streider. You've said that privacy is a priority. Ask yourself this question, for example: Would you be willing to be involved in a public trial?"
Marshal sat silently, head bowed.
"Sorry, Dr. Streider, I've got to point this out to you. I don't mean to discourage you in any way. I know that's not what you need now. But let's go on. We've got to look closely at every detail. It seems to
Lying on the Couch ^ 3 17
me from everything you've said that Peter Macondo is a pro—he's done this before, and it's highly unhkely that he's left us a good trail. First, tell me what investigations you, yourself, have made. Can you list the people he's talked about?"
Marshal recounted his conversations with Emil, Roscoe Richardson, and the University of Mexico provost. And his inability to contact Adriana and Peter. He showed her the fax he had received that morning from the Pacific Union Club—a copy of a fax from the Baur au Lac Club in Zurich stating that they had no knowledge of a Peter Macondo. They verified that the fax had been sent on their stationery and from the fax machine in their library, but they stressed that any member, any guest, or even former guest, or even a guest at the hotel that adjoins the club, could easily have walked in, borrowed their stationery, and used that fax machine.
"Is it possible," Marshal asked as Carol read, "that incriminating evidence may be found on that fax, or on the fax from the University of Mexico?"
"Or, that alleged fax from the University of Mexico!" Carol rephed. "He probably sent that to himself."
"Then maybe we can find the location of the machine it came from. Or fingerprints? Or interview the jewelry store salesman again—the one who sold him my Rolex? Or the airline records to Europe? Or passport control?"
"If, indeed, he went to Europe at all. You only know what he told you, Dr. Streider—what he wanted you to know. Think about it: there is not a single independent source of information. And he paid cash for everything. No, there's no question—your man is a real professional. Naturally we must inform the FBI—undoubtedly the bank has already done so: they are required to report international fraud. Here is the number to call; simply ask for the on-duty agent. I could assist you with this, but it would only run up your legal expenses.
"Most of the questions you're asking," Carol continued, "are investigative, not legal, and best answered by a private detective. I can give you a referral to a good one, if you wish, but my advice is, be careful; don't plunge too much more of your money and energy in what will probably be an empty chase. I've seen too many of these cases. This kind of criminal rarely gets caught. And if they do, they rarely have any money left."
"What happens to them ultimately?"
"They're basically self-destructive. Sooner or later your Mr.
3 I 8 ' ^ Lying on the Couch
Macondo will do himself in—take too great a risk, perhaps try to swindle the wrong person and find himself dead in the trunk o
f a car."
"Maybe he's already starting to do himself in. Look at the risk he took here, look at his target—a psychoanalyst. I admit it worked on me, but still he's picking a highly trained observer of human behavior—one very likely to spot deception."
"No, Dr. Streider, I disagree. I've had a great deal of experience which suggests exactly the opposite. I'm not at liberty to discuss my sources, but I have evidence that psychiatrists may be among the most gullible of people. I mean, after all, they are accustomed to people telling them the truth—people paying them to listen to their true stories. I think psychiatrists are easy to swindle—you may not be his first such victim. Who knows? Swindling therapists might even be his modus operandi."
"That suggests he's trappable. Yes, Mrs. Astrid, I do want the name of your detective. I was an all-American linebacker; I know how to pursue and I know how to tackle. I'm so caught up, so tense—it's up to my eyeballs now—I can't let it go. I can't think of anything else, I can't see patients, I can't sleep. I have only two thoughts in my mind now: first, ripping him apart and, second, getting my ninety thousand dollars back. I am devastated by the loss of that money."
"All right, let's turn to that. Dr. Streider, give me a picture, if you will, of your financial situation: income, debts, investments, savings—everything."
Marshal spelled out his entire financial situation while Carol rapidly took notes on sheet after sheet of lined yellow paper.
When he had finished. Marshal pointed toward Carol's notes and said, "So, you can see, Mrs. Astrid, I'm not a wealthy man. And you can see what it means to me to lose ninety thousand dollars. This is devastating—the worst thing that's ever happened to me. When I think of the months and months I worked for this, waking up at six to squeeze an extra patient in, following and trading my stocks, daily phone calls with my broker and financial adviser, and . . . and ... I mean ... I don't know how I can recover from this. This is going to scar me and my family permanently."
Carol studied her notes, put them down, and in a soothing voice said: "Let me try to put this into perspective for you. First, try to understand that this is not a ninety-thousand-dollar loss. With the
record of a forged bank-guaranteed note, your accountant will treat this as a capital loss and offset the substantial capital gains you've had in the past year and are likely to have in the future. What's more, three thousand a year may be used to offset regular income for the next ten years. So, in one stroke, we've just cut your loss substantially—down to less than fifty thousand.
"The second, and the last point I'm going to have time to make today—I've another client waiting—is that, as I look over your financial situation from the information you've supplied me, I see no devastation. You've been a good provider—an excellent provider— for your family, and you've been a successful investor. The truth is, this loss will not materially change your life in any fashion!"
"You don't understand—my son's education, my art—"
"Next time, Dr. Streider. I must stop now."
"When is the next time? Do you have any time tomorrow? I don't know how I'm going to get through the next few days."
"Yes, three o'clock tomorrow? Is that okay?
"I'll make it okay. I'll cancel whatever I have. If you knew me better, Dr. Astrid—"
"Mrs. Astrid, but thanks for the promotion."
"Mrs. Astrid . . . but I was going to say that, if you knew me, you'd appreciate that the situation must be grave indeed for me to cancel patients. Yesterday was the first time I've done that in twenty years."
"I'll make myself available to you as much as possible. However, we also want to keep costs down. I feel awkward saying this to a psychiatrist, but the best thing for you now is to speak intimately to a confidant—a friend, a therapist. You are stuck in a perspective that is increasing your panic, and you need other points of view. What about your wife?"
"My wife lives in another world—an ikebana world."
"Where? Ike . . . what? Sorry—I don't understand."
"Ikebana—you know, Japanese flower arrangement—she's addicted to it and to her Buddhist meditating cronies. I hardly ever see her."
"Oh, oh ... I see .. . what? Oh, yes, ikebana . . . yes, I've heard of that . . . Japanese flower arrangement. I understand. And she's away—you say lost in that world? Not home much? . . . why, that must be awful for you. Dreadful. And you're alone . . . and you need her now. Dreadful."
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Marshal was surprised, but touched, by Carol's nonlawyerly response. He and Carol sat silently for a few moments until it was Marshal who had to say, "And you say you have another client
now
Silence.
"Mrs. Astrid, you say—"
"Sorry, Dr. Streider," Carol said as she rose, "my mind wandered for a minute. But we meet tomorrow. Hang in there. I'm on your side."
TWENTY-FOUR
fter Marshal's departure, Carol sat stunned for several minutes. Ikebana! Japanese flower arrangement! There could be no doubt about it—her client, Dr. Streider, was Jess's ex-therapist. Jess had, from time to time, talked about his previous therapist—always in highly positive terms, always emphasizing his decency, dedication, helpfulness. At first, Jess had evaded Carol's questions about starting therapy with Ernest, but as their relationship deepened, he told her of that April day when, deep in the boughs of the weeping scarlet maple, he came upon the shocking sight of his therapist's wife locked in deep embrace with a saffron-robed Buddhist monk.
But Jess had made a point of honoring his former therapist's privacy, and hadn't revealed his name. But there could be no mistake about it, Carol thought: it had to be Marshal Streider. How many therapists have a wife who is an ikebana expert and a Buddhist? Carol could hardly wait to see Jess at dinner; she could not
3 2-2. '-^ Lying on the Couch
remember the last time she had been so eager to share some news with a friend. She imagined Jess's expression of increduHty, his soft, round mouth saying, "No! I can't beHeve it! How awful—ninety thousand dollars! And, believe me, this man works hard for his money. And of all the people in the world, he came to you!" She imagined him listening to every word. She would stretch the details out to extend the juicy story as long as possible.
But then she abruptly cut herself short when she realized she couldn't tell Jess this. / can't tell him anything about Marshal Streider, she thought. / can't even reveal that I've seen him. I'm explicitly sworn to professional secrecy.
Yet she ached to tell him. Maybe, someday, there would be a way. But for now she had to be content with whatever meager nourishment she could extract from the thin gruel of honoring her professional code of behavior. And to be content, also, with behaving as Jess would have wanted her to behave—to offer all possible aid to his former therapist. This would not be easy. Carol had never met a shrink she liked. And she liked this particular shrink, Dr. Streider, less than most: he whined too much, took himself too seriously, and resorted to puerile macho football images. And, even though he was momentarily humbled by this swindle, she could sense his underlying arrogance. Not hard to understand why he had enemies.
Yet Jess had received much from Dr. Streider, and so Carol, as a gift to Jess, made a commitment to extend herself to help this client in every way possible. She liked giving Jess gifts, but a secret gift— to be a covert good Samaritan, for Jess not even to know of her good deeds—that was going to be difficult.
Secrets had always been her strong suit. Carol was a master of manipulation and intrigue in her litigation work. No Htigator liked to oppose her in the courtroom; she had accrued a reputation for being ingeniously and dangerously devious. Deception had always come easy to her and she made few distinctions between her professional and personal behavior. But in the last few weeks she had grown weary of deviousness. There was something deliciously refreshing in being honest with Jess. Every time she saw him, she tried to take some new risk. After only a few weeks, she had revealed more to Jess that
she had ever shared with any other man. Save for one topic, of course: Ernest!
Neither talked much about Ernest. Carol had suggested that life would be less complicated if they did not speak of their therapy to
Lying on the Couch ^ 3 2.3
each other and not speak of each other to Ernest. At first she would have hked to turn Jess against Ernest, but she dropped that plan quickly—there was no mistaking that Jess was benefiting greatly from therapy and liked Ernest enormously. Carol, of course, revealed none of her devious behavior or her feelings about Ernest.
"Ernest is an extraordinary therapist," Jess exclaimed one day after a particularly good session. "He is so honest and human." Jess went on to describe their session that day. "Ernest really homed in on something important today. He told me that whenever he and I got closer, whenever we moved into greater intimacy, then I invariably pulled away, either by making some homophobic joke or by launching into an intellectual diversion.
"And he's right, Carol, I do that all the time with men, especially my father. But I'll tell you what was amazing about him—he went on to acknowledge that he, too, found intense male intimacy uncomfortable, that he had colluded with me by being distracted by my jokes or by joining me in some intellectualized discussion.
"Now isn't that an uncommon kind of honesty from a therapist?" Jess said, "especially after so many years with distant, uptight shrinks. What is even more amazing is how he can maintain this level of intensity, hour after hour."
Carol was startled to hear how self-revealing Ernest was with Jess and, in a strange way, almost disappointed to learn that it was not just with her that he was. In some odd way she felt tricked. Yet Ernest had never implied that he treated her any differently than his other patients. The thought grew stronger that she might have been mistaken about him, that his intensity was not, after all, a prelude to seduction.
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