He Said, She Said

by John Decure

  “Letting me preside over this ridiculous little giveaway. This is part of your rehabilitation plan for me?”

  “Bradlee—”

  “You saw the way Doctor Don was taking my measure.”

  Mendibles about-faced dramatically, as if Dr. Don were standing behind us in the empty hallway.

  “No, I missed that.”

  “He’s a predator.”

  “Oh, really?”

  My boots requested permission to kick the shit out of him. I closed my eyes and fired off a response: permission denied.

  “Yes. Really.”

  “Well, proving it’s something else, and this case has holes. Look, don’t complicate this unnecessarily. Just get back in there and talk with them, see if they’ll take the deal. I can assure you, the board will be forever grateful.”

  I was tired of this tap dance.

  “Soon as you clue me in.”

  “I have no idea—”

  “Bullshit. What’s behind door number three?”

  Mendibles sighed, but it was for show. I stood tall and straight and inescapably in his path. My show of strength seemed to clear my head, and I took note of it.

  He reached into his briefcase, which was so beat up it could have been cobbled together from old tire treads. He fished around until he pulled out the proposed stip, then handed it to me. I appreciated the fact that he refrained from another sales pitch, but he was too much a disappointment to me to be handing him any compliments. I leaned back, against the wall, crossed my legs and read.

  Flipping back through the pages, I could scarcely believe what they outlined: a year of probation, a course in record-keeping, another in prescribing; an agreement that if the board put on its case, it could establish a prima facie factual basis for discipline, but no actual admissions to wrongdoing.

  “I’m arguing the motion first,” I said when I was done.

  “No way. There’s not one good reason to do that.”

  “Here’s one. I’ll win, which will give us an advantage. That way we can ask for something more than probation, which you know is damn near nothing. Maybe a year’s suspension from practice, at least.”

  “Bradlee.” His tone was paternal and I did not care for it.

  “Raul.”

  “This deal was approved by the board’s chief of enforcement.”

  “I don’t care if the Pope blessed it. It’s garbage.”

  “It’s perfectly appropriate based on what we can prove—”

  “It’s a giveaway. Fallon doesn’t even have to admit what he did.”

  Mendibles’s chest heaved as if he were going to explode on me, which would have been a first. But he merely paused.

  “You seem to be forgetting something.”

  In that instant my head ached. Suddenly, and badly. Pinprick little spots appeared before my eyes and I thought my ears would bleed. And oh—forsaken girl, you’ve got no meds, or booze, with which to deal. I rallied hard to hang in, to hang on to the conversation at hand.

  “You all right? You look a little tired.”

  “Okay,” I said, “don’t make me guess.”

  “The victim’s not cooperating. Without her, we can’t prove anything.”

  Shit. That was a point I couldn’t argue and he knew it.

  I stayed stuck, leaning harder against the wall, spent by my herculean efforts at sustaining concentration. I was pretty sure I had an Oxy or two buried in the glove box of my Chevelle, and now I wanted them both as badly as I needed to breathe.

  “We’ll talk settlement,” I conceded, “if that would make the board happy. Just talk. See if they bite on the concept. No specific parameters. Maybe we can get more than that shitty bottom line.”

  My supervisor offered me a careful smile. “That’s a plan.”

  “But if there’s no deal, I’m arguing that motion,” I added with an edge of defiance.

  Mendibles closed his eyes as if he were the one needing meds.

  “They’ll take the deal I showed you, Bradlee.”

  He studied my sad expression.

  “What?”

  “I’m disappointed. In this job.”

  No, that was a lie.

  “I’m disappointed in myself. For signing on for this… bullshit. And you, Mendibles.”

  “Don’t look at me, I enjoy my work. It’s very rewarding.”

  “How could you do this?”

  “Bradlee—”

  His phony caring tone further clarified my thoughts—and I took note of it.

  “Don’t deny it.”

  “Sometimes we have to…”

  Blah, blah, blah…. I tuned the rest of his necessary evils speech out. A deal was to be struck outside the courtroom, where lawyers would peek and whisper and pace before reentering the courtroom with smiles and winks for the court reporter and good news, wouldn’t you know, for a settlement judge who just wanted to go home anyway.

  Inside my head I was getting wobbly, the fog creeping back in. I shut my eyes, saw a fresh swirl of candy-colored rainbow dots that seemed close up and then were far, far away, like a painting, a portrait of an ancient galaxy. I pictured myself floating away to that galaxy to live in stark isolation as a mercenary for hire, but there was no work, no one there to fight, no foe except a stinging, all-consuming loneliness…. Sighing, I breathed inside the welcome blackness until I heard footsteps.

  Behind Mendibles, down the hall in the direction of the elevators, a tall, sandy-haired young man in a wrinkled tweed sport coat was coming down the still-empty corridor, headed toward us. The man’s voice was deep but soft when he stopped beside Mendibles and me.

  “Can you tell me where the case involving Dr. Donald Fallon is being heard?”

  I guessed this was Dr. Craig Weaver, the psychiatrist and subsequent doctor to our victim, Rue Loberg. Weaver, the new therapist who’d no doubt inherited the shitstorm of problems Dr. Don’s bad behavior had caused. The defense wanted his records so they could find out what she’d talked with Weaver about: whether she’d been devastated by what Dr. Don did to her, or whether—the defense was hoping—she’d barely mentioned anything of the sort.

  Mendibles and I introduced ourselves. When Weaver asked about the status of the motion to compel his patient’s records, I said nothing, thinking: Not my swamp to swim in, Mendibles. You tell the guy.

  Mendibles soft-pedaled the situation, explaining that the fight over the records may not have been necessary, not now. Though he couldn’t discuss the details, the case looked like it may be reaching a resolution. Maybe I’m judging, but when I heard my boss use that word—resolution—I really despised him for saying it so easily. It was a fraud, a travesty, a grievous blow to the basic notion of fairness and due process of law. Fundamentally good doctors routinely got worse than this deal for making honest mistakes in difficult medical situations. Oh, Mendibles, with your goddamned resolution! Lightning should have struck your ass down for using that word.

  Weaver didn’t mask his bewilderment, and when Mendibles offered no further justification, Weaver turned to me. I must have looked like I wanted to take a hot shower to wash away the “resolution’s” lingering stench, because Weaver’s face had fallen. I decided that, in a case where there was already so much wrong, it would be a further injustice for me to support the deal in any way. I could, however, discuss the more practical problems that a trial in this matter would present.

  So I told the doctor how cases like this sometimes are settled due to evidentiary hurdles that can’t be overcome. How our burden of proof, which is clear and convincing evidence, is very high. How the burden cannot be met without solid evidence and testimony across the board.

  “Without the victim,” I said, catching myself. “I mean, without Mrs. Loberg’s testimony, we wouldn’t be able to meet our high burden of proof, and since she’s unavailable—”

  So much for my clarifying focus; as I rambled on, a woman had slipped in behind Weaver. She was pretty, maybe forty-five years old, with a roun
d, girlish face and blond bangs sprung from darker roots. Her gray pantsuit was prim, like an outfit she’d laid out with a court appearance in mind. I was impressed with the preparation on display.

  “Excuse me, please, miss,” she said. “But, uh, I will testify. That is, if you still want me to.”

  My head cleared again, the outline of a courtroom battle springing into shape. And I took note. My smile for Mendibles told him the settlement he’d been pimping was all but dead. I held out my hand to my new star witness.

  “Mrs. Loberg. Thank you so much for coming.”

  “Sure. You’re welcome and… h-hi.”

  “I’m Bradlee Aames.” Then I introduced Mendibles as if he were the trash collector. He took it lying down, and my head cleared a tad more.

  “I’m in time to testify, right?”

  “Your timing is fine, ma’am, but you won’t be a witness today. We’re just arguing a pre-trial motion. Soon, though, when we come back for trial. You’ll tell your story to a judge, and I’ll be there to take you through the process.”

  “That is, if the case can’t be resolved before trial,” Mendibles said. “There’s a possibility of settlement.”

  Jesus, he sounded like a sideline water boy warning the quarterback to keep an eye out for hailstorms.

  “Is that likely?” Dr. Weaver asked.

  “Anything’s possible,” I said. “But I’m not counting on it.”

  My comment had Mendibles shuffling and agitated. By now, he had to be regretting his decision to bring me in on this case, big time. Well, that was just tragic. I didn’t care if I had to be the one supplying the conscience on this case. In a face-off with a victimizer like Fallon, my attempt to do the right thing would hardly qualify as a heroic gesture.

  “I can’t imagine him giving up without a fight,” Weaver said. I loved Weaver’s thinking: he’d assumed our deal was to force Dr. Don to resign. Loved his thinking so much that I shot Mendibles a little told-you-so wink.

  “You can count on me, Miss Aames,” Rue Loberg said.

  Jesus, she was earnest. Almost too much so. But that was okay; on the stand, her sincerity would play well.

  “That’s good to know,” I said. “Thank you.”

  And so, I thought, the unreliable, written-off Rue Loberg rises from the ashes. Well, well, well…. Maybe she was tough, tougher than anyone might have imagined.

  Mendibles was a cheap second-rate little bottle-rocket of pent-up dismay, about to blow, but I could not have cared less. Come to think of it, he always seems pent-up around me, another thought that cleared my head a touch. I took note. Then I invited Weaver and Rue Loberg into Department 8, to watch us argue the defense’s motion to obtain Dr. Weaver’s records.

  “Should be good theater,” I said. “Three defense attorneys.”

  “Oh my,” Rue Loberg said.

  Damn—my show of casual confidence had been at her expense. I reached out and touched her hand, which for me, is something I don’t do with any kind of ease.

  “Just know, we’re gonna win.”

  They both seemed genuinely thrilled as I led them inside.

  “Well, aren’t we in charge?” Mendibles muttered behind me.

  “So much for door number three,” I whispered back.

  The bottled-rocket shook his head, whispered so quietly I could tell he didn’t intend me to hear him. But my mind was clear with purpose and control and pre-fight adrenaline and… dominance. I heard what the bottle-rocket said:

  “What you don’t know, Bradlee. What you don’t even know…”

  5

  RUE LOBERG

  Scared—frightened right down to my socks is what I was, going in there, in to this… gosh, pretty small courtroom with Dr. Weaver. First off, I’m not much when it comes to confrontations; and secondly, I tend to get nervous in new situations, so I was already zero for two walking in the place. (Wow, the floors were carpeted and instead of feeling like a court of law, the place was more like a… this big living room.) But then, Dr. Weaver, he knows these things about me and I trust him. I’ve been talking to Dr. Weaver ever since I lost it all: Andrew and the kids, my marriage, and my dignity—pretty much everything, the sum total of what I am, or at least what I used to be. That’s true: ever since I hit bottom, I’ve been a patient of Dr. Weaver’s. If I’m ever gonna get back out of the hole I dug for myself, it’ll be with his careful guidance.

  You might think that’s nuts, considering my track record when it comes to trusting men in authority positions. That may be true, all right. But I’m leaving the issue of the future up to the Lord at this point in time. What will be, it’s God’s will from here on out. I’ve been such a bad judge of people my whole life I don’t see any other choice now but to give it up to Him, let Him decide my fate. I know, it sounds stupid, but there you go.

  And one more thing on the subject of fate: I do believe Dr. Weaver was heaven-sent.

  It’s hard for me to even think I was that jumpy, vulnerable person before; I mean, Dr. Weaver’s helped me see it so much more clearly than ever before, see myself. Six months ago he started me off in my first session by asking me to tell about my family, my childhood growing up, and I still can’t even believe what I told him. What came flying right out of my mouth.

  Normal, I said. Nothing really out of the ordinary.

  Mom, Dad, my big brother Hiram, and baby Crystal.

  Why, Dr. Weaver asked like a good listener would—why would you call your sister a baby, when by now, she’s all grown-up?

  Well, I told him, she probably is all grown-up, so you’re right. Then I started to cry and didn’t stop for a long, long time. When I finally did bring myself to stop—had to use up a whole box of tissues to do it—I told Dr. Weaver she’d only be a grown-up if she were alive, and only God or Crystal or the man who took her would know that. So baby Crystal, that’s how I think of her since that’s how old she was when she was taken, taken away that day in the park, right off the swing-set next to mine.

  Then I told him what my parents told me, what they knew to be true: that it was all my fault.

  Evil girl.

  Evil Rue.

  Same thing Father McManus said, which made me feel so low, hearing that from a priest, that the so-called acts of absolution, those things he did to my body to cast out the demons, acts he performed for me, on me, when nobody was around to see—not even God, he said—well, even that couldn’t make me feel any lower.

  I give Dr. Weaver a lot of credit for not barring the door after that first session to keep me out. He got me to face a lot of my troubles, though, past and present. Got me sold on the idea that if I face my problems, it may hurt and hurt a lot, but in time the pain does go away.

  I’m still in a world of hurt, waiting for that going away part to kick in.

  So then, how does a woman whose last therapist put the big scare in her, then used and abused her for his personal, sexual pleasure—how does she wind up seeing another male therapist? What is she, stupid or something? What—was she, asking for it? Is she asking for it now?

  I know that’s what any reasonable person would think, and really, it’s all right, I get it. I’m fair game for that kind of criticizing. All I can say is what Dr. Weaver said, which is: I’ve got some issues to work on having to do with men in positions of power and authority. Fair enough.

  Now, Dr. Weaver is a by-the-book kinda guy, and when I told him all about my problems with Dr. Don, he did offer to refer me to a female therapist, a colleague, in the event that it might cause me discomfort, you know, discussing personal, sexual issues with a man. But then, the colleague of his I went to see, nice enough woman with a nose like a hawk’s beak, she all but referred me right back to Dr. Weaver. It was my decision, she told me, but he’s very, very good. A college professor, a scholar in medical ethics, lots of expertise dealing with tough stuff like depression, addictions of every stripe, suicide prevention, and sexual exploitation; so apparently, they don’t come any better equipped than h
e is. I’d be lucky to work with him, she said.

  Lucky usually doesn’t describe me or my situation, but in this case, I believed her. She was nice. Kept the tissues coming when I needed them and threw the used ones away without blinking an eye. When someone is nice to me, I take notice. Not that I’m feeling sorry for myself or anything, but being treated nicely qualifies as an occasion.

  But lucky I was: Dr. Weaver probably saved my life. I was so deep in that hole of my own making I couldn’t have ever climbed out of it alone, yet he helped pull me out, got me into detox and Al-Anon right off, never bothering with my many colorful excuses for why I truly did need five prescriptions for narcotics, antianxiety meds, and painkillers; why three glasses of cabernet a night were just good for the circulation, a health fact the French have been wised up on for decades. We talked it through, getting at the root causes for why I’ve made myself a human welcome mat for thirty-nine odd years. It hurts, and it’s scary, and I still cry a lot and see a loser and an idiot victim staring back at me from the mirror, but at least I’m not a substance-abusing idiot victim, drinking up to improve the old cardiovascular health but not a darn thing else.

  My weak stabs at humor aside, I do think my treatment’s working. Lately, at night I keep having this dream that I’m coming out of this old brick well that’s deep as a canyon and pitch dark. I come out and I’m at the foot of this huge mountain, and I start climbing, climbing all the way up, so high I’m almost up in the clouds and finally, when I reach the top, all sweaty and panting, I find a dragon. And he talks to me—yes, a talking dragon in my dream. His name is Iago, and he’s one fearsome beast with huge veiny silver wings and a forked tongue that spits fire and these claws like hooked knives, and he likes me, so much that he even asks if he can be my buddy, my pet. So I say sure, yes, of course, and I climb upon his scaly black neck and hold on tight and back down the mountain we go, swooping down through parks and churchyards and alleyways, saving damsels in distress from the pimps and muggers and rapists and kidnappers that never met a soul they didn’t want to rob blind. And in the end, I’m looking for someone, that one last damsel I can’t find, and I know that she is looking for me because she wants to save me, which makes her distinct from all the others, and I know it’s right, it’s important, to keep on searching for her. I try and I try, but she’s not there. I can’t find her, then the dream ends, which, the sting of failure I feel, it hurts so bad it wakes me up, every time. Crying over my failure—but wait, what I do find is that I now have something more than when I went to sleep: hope. As if I’m about to be a part of something bigger than this measly, ruined life. Awake, I gasp for that first conscious gulp of air as the dream fades, and then all I want to do is take another breath, and another.