He Said, She Said

by John Decure

  They started with my background. Always funny, how they act all impressed when they hear about my credentials, as if any man like me with a resume must have stolen it from a white person.

  Ms. Aames ran the show. I started to tell her about Mr. Loberg hiring me to investigate his wife, and Mrs. Loberg’s goings-on with the psychiatrist, but the defense lawyer, Mr. Heidegger, he jumped out of his seat and told the judge I couldn’t say anything because my investigation was confidential, that he knew that from the civil case. I thought Ms. Aames would never get to speak, but she just chilled, let the judge get tired of hearing Heidegger. Then she told the judge Mr. Loberg had waived any confidentiality when he testified earlier in the case, this case.

  Mr. Loberg? I was thinking.

  I have to say, I was impressed that Andy Loberg had shown his face in here, because the last time I saw him, he wanted nothing to do with this business about Dr. Don. Must’ve had his own Ida Mae backing him.

  Or that prosecutor. Fine-looking woman, Ms. Aames, I admit that’s what’s foremost on my mind whenever I look at her. But then, something about her was too wound up. Like, if she was armed, you’d best duck for cover.

  The lawyers for Dr. Don, they just kept going on and on about how I shouldn’t be here at all; and Ms. Aames, she stayed on my mind, her pretty face right across from me, where I was sitting, could see her tensing and twitching, like her insides were twisted up. Reminded me, Ms. Aames with that handsome troubled face, of the summer when I was a boy in Terrebonne Parish, got a job at the fairgrounds, cleaning out stalls where they had horse races. Backbreaking work at ten cents a stall, man, and I was standing in foot-deep horse dung. The stalls, they were supposed to be empty when I’d come round to clean them, but this one afternoon, a filly that got scrubbed from the card at the last minute because of an infected hoof got left behind and was probably sleeping off the meds they gave her when I came stumbling along. Anyway, I start pitching dirty hay out of that stall and that horse wakes up, bolt upright, and we see each other, eye to eye, both of us surprised as hell. Horse might’ve killed me if the kick it tried connected, but I got out of there, left that pitchfork right on the ground, didn’t care. The filly, she ran out the open stall, ran free for fifteen, twenty minutes, bucking hard and nothing could calm her down. Turns out that horse was a little mad, and the hoof disease pushed it over the edge. Never ran another race; I think they put her down.

  Maybe I’m wrong and I hope I am, but to me, Ms. Aames, she had the same look in her eyes as the filly did.

  So, after a while longer the judge got tired of hearing, Heidegger complain about me and said my testimony was proper. Well, I thought, I’m not sure about proper, but at least I can hope to live up to that standard.

  Ms. Aames questioned me, slow and steady, like she knew just how to get a witness to tell a story. And I did, told about how I got hired by Mr. Loberg, tailed Mrs. Loberg myself back to Dr. Don’s office building, figured out his window blinds were open enough so I could see inside, took some pictures.

  “No, I didn’t see genitalia, I couldn’t see that low, but I saw clothing coming off, Mrs. Loberg’s bare breasts once, Dr. Don getting on top of her on a couch.”

  Mr. Heidegger asked me if I brought the photos with me, to show them to the court today.

  “No, sir,” I said. “I don’t have them. I gave them, along with the negatives, to Mr. Loberg at his request.”

  Mr. Heidegger asked me if I wrote a report. I said no. He wanted to know why. I said Mr. Loberg told me his attorney in the lawsuit told him—

  “Objection,” Ms. Aames said. “That information is attorney-client privileged and confidential between Mr. Loberg and his counsel.”

  “Your Honor,” Heidegger said, “if he told the investigator, he waived that privilege.”

  The judge agreed with Heidegger and told me to answer the question.

  “Well, he said it’s better not to have a report because that way, they wouldn’t have to turn it over to the other side.”

  “You mean in discovery?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a lawyer.”

  “So, they were already planning to sue my client, Dr. Fallon, when they hired you, isn’t that true?”

  “Objection, calls for speculation,” Ms. Aames said.

  “If you know the answer, go ahead,” the judge told me.

  “Yes,” I said. “They wanted to sue.”

  There weren’t too many other questions, but man, I felt like I blew it when I talked about not writing that report. I almost stopped at Ms. Aames’s table to apologize to her when the judge excused me, but that would’ve looked terrible so I kept on walking. Back in that empty hallway, I got about halfway down to the elevators before I decided to stick around, wait for them to take a break. Honestly, I know what that Dr. Don did to the woman, how it wrecked their marriage, and she was a mess already. Now, I make it seem like I was part of a trap. Any fool could see that’s where the defense was gonna take this thing—we were all ganging up on poor Dr. Don, trying to fleece money outta him. Damn, I could’ve handled those report questions better. Truth is, sometimes I don’t write a report because they do take time to prepare, and sometimes a client doesn’t want to pay for one. I could’ve said that! Damn, I felt like I should apologize to Ms. Aames so I found a spot along the wall, leaned against it, and waited.

  A few minutes later, Ms. Aames came out, but she walked the other way without seeing me and went into a room farther down the hall in the other direction from me. I walked over and out she came, with a big, I mean very big, woman who looked like she’d seen a ghost or something. Ms. Aames was talking to her nice and soft, calming her down. Ms. Aames saw me and the thing about her eyes, the jumpiness, had changed—in fact, when I told her I wanted a brief word with her, it seemed like she was counting something, doing a math problem in her head. She asked me what it was, and man, I was too embarrassed to say right in front of that huge woman, a stranger and all. Last thing I wanted to do was say something stupid about myself testifying poorly and make this woman, who I was pretty sure by now was the state’s next witness, feel even jumpier about testifying herself.

  I told her not a problem, it could wait.

  The huge woman called to Miss Aames to say she forgot something and ducked back into the room she just come out of. Then Ms. Aames seized the moment, walked up to me close as if to say thank you, put her hand on my forearm.

  “Thanks for sticking around. We can walk out together when I’m done, if that’s okay.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sure. That’ll be fine.”

  I could tell Miss Aames wanted to talk about something on her mind but she wasn’t in a position to tell me what, not just then.

  Man, that’s when the thing that really bugged me about this case came right up to the surface, really got to me. A voice inside me said: What’s your hurry, man? Where you gotta be goin’ to, anyways?

  All this courtroom stuff had me thinking, again, about the job I did for Mr. Loberg, how seriously messed up this shit with Dr. Don had been from the start. Kind of thing you take for granted in my business, but the reality, it’s terrible just the same. Mrs. Loberg was a patient, lady with a lot of big problems that needed help, and the professional supposed to help her, a doctor at that, took a lot of her husband’s money and took advantage. Helped himself to her naked body. Man, I know it was business that brought me into this thing but there was something else about it, something Ida Mae knew all along. And this lady prosecutor who looked like she was carrying around a medicine ball on her back? She was in there fighting three lawyers just so I could open my mouth to say what I saw, saw with my very own eyes. And do a damn poor job on that witness stand, I must admit.

  The lady prosecutor knew, too.

  She came out of that room where her next witness was waiting, saw me. I smiled.

  “You look a little weary,” she said.

  “The truth shouldn’t be so hard to get to, Miss Aames. They took what I said and tie
d it up in knots.”

  She looked at me a little funny, but her face was kind.

  “It might seem that way, but that’s just how the law works.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She seemed okay with the lousy job I did on the stand and I wanted to say good luck or something light like that, but she said her next witness was waiting—and I knew it had to be the fat lady who forgot something. Door swung open on cue, the fat lady came out, looking ready to jump right out of her skin. Man, Miss Aames, you got a full plate, I was thinking.

  Feeling tired, I leaned against the wall, closed my eyes, picturing Ida Mae in that champagne-colored dress she wore to the city hall the day we tied the knot, girl putting her dainty little hand in mine, giggling as she slid the gold band onto my finger.

  So then, Ms. Aames, she’s done whispering with the big lady in the dress so wide it looks like a bed sheet, lady looking more nervous than I was the day I got hitched to Ida Mae. They were ready, so they walked on by me, and I had to turn sideways a little jus’ to make room. Truth is, the big lady’s not jus’ big, she’s giant, and panting and sweatin’ up a storm already, dabbing a hankie on her forehead while Ms. Aames is whispering something in her ear. Big lady turns quick and sees me looking her way, smiles at me and winks, like Don’t worry, my friend, this thing is in the bag.

  Well, how about that, she’s gonna give it a go, and I hope she fares well. And like that, I recognized the benefit that came out of my testifying. You do battle, it’s always better to have people around that have your back. The judge was getting a picture I couldn’t quite see on my own, but maybe I provided a solid piece of it, a piece only I could supply.

  Ida Mae was on my mind, her spirit telling me: Deshaun, you married a damn smart woman, all right.

  Mighty big of you to point that out, Ida Mae.

  Jus’ listen to me, hardheaded black man. You ain’t a bad fella yourself. You done right coming here today.

  Thank you kindly.

  Honest to God, I can’t explain—no, that’s a lie. Thing is, I wanted to hold on to that feeling longer. So I peeled myself off that wall, walked in behind them, and found a seat in the back of the courtroom to watch. Ms. Aames came over immediately, whispered she wanted me to sit with her at counsel table, if that was okay. She said it might help with the judge, he might see the state’s case more as a team effort.

  I said yes, yes—sure I will.

  Got that feeling again.

  20

  WENDY GLICK, MEDICAL DOCTOR

  Seventy-two. Yes, Wendy, seventy-two, and you’re still alive and well.

  Seventy-two hours—that’s how long it was since I last ingested a benzodiazepine.

  I knew that if I was going to testify, I couldn’t get through it by having to admit I was under the influence of meds of any kind. According to Ms. Aames, that kind of revelation is an instant credibility killer. She ought to know. Girl was fighting some kind of a battle, and I don’t mean the mostly civilized one happening in the courtroom. I mean, the Battle of Evermore going on inside her head.

  Guess we were a pair, she and I. My nerves had been shot for the entire week leading up to this day. Last night was a decided low point. I didn’t sleep a wink, finally giving up at 3:00 a.m.—just in time to turn on the tube and catch the weather report. Oy—so very glad I don’t live in the land of grain silos and cornhuskers. That was my quite rational conclusion. In the Midwest, they’ve got their snowdrifts and icy roadways that kill people. Here, you drive too fast, about all you do is arrive where you’re going sooner. Last night’s update featured a deadly pile-up outside of Omaha, some poor schmuck plastered like a june bug on the grill of an eighteen-wheeler. When the subject turned to LA, the TV weatherman had no real weather to report on, so he cracked wise about whether the “stars” would be visible at the Hollywood Bowl for some benefit concert tonight.

  Now that I can reflect on it, I think that weather report helped me, afforded me some perspective. Reminded me how lucky I actually am to be who I am, living where I live.

  So okay, my life is what it is. I’m fat and ugly, but lovable, if only you take the time to get to know me! My typical therapy session, I’ll listen to a reality-show producer kvetch about how his daughter is breaking the bank at Princeton, changing her major every time she brushes her teeth and charging Swedish massages to the credit card he gave her to buy groceries. So what? Boo-hoo. The kid’s helping the economy in New Jersey, I could sassily point out; or I might try some therapeutic tough love and make him sit through one of the same shitty TV shows that’s making him a mint, because I bet he doesn’t get around to watching that junk, and if he did, maybe he’d recognize how meager a contribution to humanity his shows offer. Life in a body-piercing salon; hillbillies catching giant catfish using their own ham-hock forearms as bait; a doggie-wedding consultant. But because I’m a professional, I retain my dignity, sighing and nodding sympathetically until he hands me a check and leaves. And if you’re inclined to call me a sellout of a therapist, I’ll tell you I am not because if a patient is willing to change and do the hard work, I’m always, always there to help. But the bottom line is most people don’t possess the will; they just want to talk, and they’ll pay me just to listen. It’s easy, doing what I do, listening mindfully to their often mindless chatter. So yeah, maybe I haven’t got it so great; maybe I’m not changing the world a patient at a time, the way I once thought I would. But I’m also not in a pile-up outside Omaha, waiting for the Jaws of Life to pluck me like a chocolate wedged between the sofa cushions; I’m not on my meds and can still apparently function; and I’m not in Bradlee Aames’s shoes.

  In my line of work you hear a lot of talk, and much of it is gibberish, but you also see with your own eyes the signs of mental illness. And Ms. Aames, this dear girl who seemed genuinely concerned with how I’d hold up on the stand, well, she was showing some serious signs: counting her steps as we walked, quietly conversing with herself about how she was real, the defense attorney’s last objection was real, I was real, but that wall of water at the end of the hall, sweeping our way? No, dear, though God love her, she said she wished she’d brought her surfboard. I’d observed without judgment as she touched every one of the black rosary beads around her neck, sequentially, as if she was pushing buttons at a console, her taut game-face hiding the meaning of each gesture but her lower lip quivering with secret words. Not that I’m one for armchair diagnoses—they’re unprofessional—but this girl was teetering on the brink of something deep and dark.

  Then again, who is Wendy Glick to judge? I admit I got dressed about eight times this morning, couldn’t decide what horrible, shapeless garment to drape over my horrible shapeless physique. I admit that when I saw how close the judge was from the witness stand, I thought he’d stare at my moles in revulsion before abruptly throwing up. But he didn’t. The oath was, well, just an oath; his greeting, friendly and apropos. Still, my mind was raked with worry.

  As lawyers go, Ms. Aames was brilliant, effortlessly walking me through the sexual exploitation scenario, every allegation. I had an easy time of it, starting with the Hippocratic Oath for every doctor, which is to do no harm, then breaking down the psychiatrist-patient dynamic, explaining how therapy is based on confidentiality and trust, how transference and countertransference—the natural strong feelings a patient can develop for her therapist, and the similarly natural reciprocal feelings the therapist experiences in return—can work. And how sometimes, in a case such as this, those phenomena can get horribly out of hand.

  “If the facts alleged are proven to be true,” Ms. Aames asked, “would Dr. Fallon have committed a departure from the standard of care?”

  “Yes,” I told her, “an extreme departure. What Dr. Fallon did to Mrs. Loberg was not only criminal, but from a professional standpoint, it was grossly negligent.”

  “You discussed her diagnosis of borderline personality earlier. Doctor, I’m not suggesting that anyone can predict human behavior with ab
solute certainty, but would you say Mrs. Loberg had a higher chance of becoming a victim of exploitation from her psychiatrist?”

  “Absolutely. Borderlines have more trouble delineating the parameters of their relationships with others. They also tend to be vulnerable to authority figures.”

  “Would Dr. Fallon, as a trained psychiatrist, know these weaknesses?”

  I shot my best disdainful glare toward the well-dressed man half bent over his notepad. He didn’t look up, though his flat-faced lawyer aimed a sourpuss face right back at me.

  “If he was any good, he would.”

  I could hear the judge tapping away at his laptop as I spoke, which I took to be a positive sign. In terms of saying what I needed to say for the state to prove its case, my testimony was effectively over. But the defense hadn’t taken their crack at me and I knew Ms. Aames would try to take the wind out of their sails by more gently having a go first-up.

  What I wasn’t ready for was how I’d react, minus any assistance from my meds. Funny—looking back, all I’m recalling about this part of my testimony is pieces, like a broken puzzle.

  Anxiolytics.

  Yes, I said. I’d taken them for years. Since my freshman year in high school.

  And benzodiazepines, I discussed them freely as well. School problems…

  You could call it a leave of absence. I was out all of one semester. They thought it was a breathing issue due to my, uh… weight problem. But I knew it wasn’t.

  Lorazepam.

  My father, he was so disappointed in me. His only daughter, who’d surely never marry.

  Sure, of course I tried all kinds of diets, stopped eating. Still didn’t lose weight. An internal medicine specialist isolated my problem, a rare thyroid condition.

  That’s right, a medical condition, I’m not just a fatty by choice. Essentially I’ve got the world’s worst metabolism…

  Robby Valderi. He was in my homeroom. Big, handsome jock, on the football team of course, but he could be mean. Really mean…