He Said, She Said

by John Decure

  “Badge,” he mutters.

  I bid him a good morning and ask him to step aside, as I am a subpoenaed witness scheduled to testify forthwith in a courtroom upstairs.

  “Step to your right,” he grunts, motioning toward the huddled souls lining the conveyor belt.

  Seizing the advantage, I unhesitatingly follow his directions, doing so literally, which places me directly at the front of the line. The congregation of the routinely oppressed murmur complaints and charges of favorable treatment from my flanks, but I look forward singularly, refusing to even acknowledge their inarticulate protests.

  “Belt,” he adds. “Shoes.”

  With an affable nod, I assure the young man that indeed, I possess both.

  * * *

  Six floors up, I promptly arrive at my destination but am informed by one of Counselor Heidegger’s associates that a motion is being argued and I’d best return in twenty minutes. So I ride the elevator back downstairs and venture into the ground-floor cafeteria, where I procure a cup of tasteless coffee and a blueberry muffin so hard that it warrants a geological study. (Note: witty, tone-setting turn of phrase—another keeper.) The woman behind the cash register smiles humbly. Perusing the hundred I’ve handed her, she frets in silence, digs under the black money tray, unearths a stack of twenties, and grudgingly makes change, counting the bills into my open palm with a shake of her head that only partly disguises her disdain. Reflexively thanking her—for no matter the circumstances, I never abandon the manners prerequisite to good breeding—I am given pause, and find myself wondering if somehow she knows about the task I am here today to perform. How many smartly attired elder statesmen of their professions, how many learned experts with mile-long curricula vitae—how many hired guns—has she laid those saucer-like eyes upon?

  Enough, perhaps, to peg me as easily as she’s just done while counting out my change. What kind of customer whips out a hundred to settle a five-dollar tab? (Note: On rewrite, let’s spin something more soul-searching into the mix.)

  Who could say? Certainly not I. But the cashier’s nose-wrinkling consternation annoys me, as I am reminded of the one woman in my life that I could never, ever please: my mother.

  Ah. Mum.

  Sipping my bland coffee, I absently make review of my written credentials, twenty-six pages of blood, sweat, toil, and tears, little of which came and went with a single acknowledgment from the one woman on this earth I most sought to impress and make proud. Mum—dead and buried now for nearly a decade, yet she still so effortlessly, readily invades my psyche…

  Berkeley? A state institution?

  Their medical school is excellent, Mum. Indeed, it’s ranking—

  I suppose your grandfather’s endowment to Stanford means nothing to you.

  No, of course it—

  —and to study medicine is all well and good, son, since your father is the chief of neurosurgery at the city’s finest hospital, but psychiatry? I simply don’t understand.

  It’s… what interests me, Mum. I’m fascinated by human behavior, by—

  Tell me, what “interests” you about a world gone mad, dear boy? I really must know…

  Alas, there was no telling my mother anything she did not wish to hear. (Note: too confessional by half; consider cutting.)

  Two tables away a pant-suited woman with a pile of blond hair and glasses with tiny gems sparkling in the frames erupts at something her lawyer has just said.

  “Admit it, when I… why? I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  The lawyer attempts to calm her with a soothing directive, but she refuses to make eye contact. As she fumes, her counsel, a reddish, puffy-necked man with the posture of a garden slug, reclines in his plastic chair and folds his hands on his lap, waiting. Of course he has all day, he’s billing her hourly. To him, observing a client’s tantrum is no different than filing a brief—and significantly less work for him.

  Blast it, I say to myself; rubbing elbows with the accused is no fun and makes for a miserable milieu. (Note: cut if tone is too whiny.) Duty calls. I take a final sour gulp of coffee and trudge upstairs once more.

  The courtroom is more compact than I’d imagined; the judge, a gray-haired papa-bear type, greets me as if he’s reserved the best seat in the house just for me. Settling in, I glance at Fallon, who peeks out from the opposite end of the defense table, shielded in part by Heidegger and his two grunts. Fallon’s eyes are watering like a hound dog that’s lost and needs to find its master, and he searches my face, beseeching me for a nod of acknowledgment, a wink—anything. Which, of course, I cautiously withhold. Good God, the man is pathetic, so driven is he to gain acceptance. To be liked.

  I am more than mildly disappointed to learn that the state’s attorney, a female with a family history of schizophrenia who’d become a major thorn in Heidegger’s side, is not in attendance. Quite a knockout, Heidegger had raved, but icy toward any friendly come-ons and all business in the courtroom. He’d paid me an extra fifteen-hundred—cash, no invoice or paper trail whatsoever, please—to read an old autopsy report on her dead father and render an opinion as to how her effectiveness could be effectively neutralized. I’d offered to refund the money, a response far more polite than my first reaction, which was to laugh in his face. But he held out for enlightenment, so I told him what he needed to know.

  That brilliant people the world over live with mental illnesses every day.

  Oh, it’s hardly a secret. Had he not heard of John Nash, the Nobel Prize–winning mathematician? Nijinsky, the spellbinding dance man? Kerouac? Granted, On the Road was a mess, but a stupefying, wondrous mess. Perhaps, I proffered, this young lady was simply very good at what she did for a living. (Note: a valid perspective, but won’t make the cut due to attorney-expert confidentiality; also suggestive of underhanded attorney-expert behavior. DELETE!)

  I can still easily recall her oddball name: Bradlee Aames. And I’d looked forward—even as a truck down in the street threatened to wipe me from the face of the planet—to coming face-to-face with her today, to matching wits. I must admit, not seeing her here, deprived of the chance to engage in intellectual combat with a worthy adversary, is more than mildly disappointing; it is a full-fledged letdown.

  Damn it all.

  And who, pray tell, is this unimpressive replacement sitting in for the fearsome, formidable Bradlee Aames? A haggard-looking man of perhaps forty, still young but fighting a losing battle against the bulging sag of middle age. His hair is curly and greasy, and so are his dark Hispanic eyes. (Note: nice detail, but may have to delete racial reference—let’s keep the tone PC throughout.) The rumpled suit looks slept in. Goodness, I’ve seen better-dressed valets at Trader Vic’s.

  My testimony proceeds relatively easily, although to lay the groundwork, lead counsel Heidegger has me first assume the preposterous narrative supplied by the amoral psychiatrist seated to his far left. (Note: scrub clean to protect the culpable.)

  “In such a case,” I tell the court, “when the former patient pursues the therapist, he must do what he can to dissuade the patient from such a course of action. Although he owes no formal duty to the former patient to do so, professional ethics and simple human decency would compel a compassionate, patient-first response.”

  “Any other duties for the therapist to consider?” Heidegger asks.

  “Well,” I say, rubbing my chin precisely as I’d rehearsed the night before, “there is something more.” (Note: true, but too revealing—cut.)

  “Go on, Doctor,” Heidegger coaxes me, as if the king’s ransom they were paying me wasn’t motivation enough.

  “Although I believe Doctor Fallon did his best under trying conditions, the standard of practice would require him to have made a patient referral for Ms. Loberg to see another therapist, since obviously her personal advances on her former therapist raised significant issues pertaining to her inability to comprehend, and respect, social boundaries.”

  “Yet, he didn’t make such a referral, Doctor.
”

  “No,” I concede gravely. “He did not, and I would consider that omission to be a simple departure from the standard of practice for a California psychiatrist.”

  I sit back, the issue settled, my goal achieved. This is because the negligence statutes for doctors require at least two acts of simple negligence for the charges to stick. Therefore, by my final assessment offered herein, Donald Fallon is legally blameless.

  “Now, Doctor, did you find any other instances in which Doctor Fallon departed from the standard of practice?”

  “I did not,” I say, as if I’ve been thirty years on horseback searching for the Holy Grail itself, but have come up short. (Note: colorful image, but a mite too cynical—consider cutting.)

  Heidegger thanks me genteelly. Now for the verbal fisticuffs of cross-examination…

  I shift in my chair, suddenly gratified to have run the gauntlet I’d run earlier downstairs. The hot-blooded, hot-footing harlot; the screech of smoking tires in the roadway; the grumpy guard keening for his next strip-search; the deplorable coffee—these tribulations, one and all, have served to gird my loins for battle and I feel ready to match wits with anyone. Even the rumpled replacement lawyer, this… Mr. Man-dee-bless…

  He begins by having me admit that my opinions are based on the facts as presented by Dr. Fallon. “Yes, of course,” I say.

  Then he provides me with the story as told from the perspective of the patient, Mrs. Loberg. Instead, this story features an opportunistic psychiatrist lying in wait for the troubled former patient, whom he lured back to his office after hours. Would that change my opinion, the rumpled lawyer asks, and how so?

  “Yes,” I say, “if indeed Doctor Fallon took advantage of this former patient, such behavior would be… frowned upon by the professional community, but not a standard-of-practice violation per se.”

  Goodness, what initially seemed a delightfully nimble phrase—“frowned upon”—I can now tell has fallen on deaf ears. (Note: smells defeatist—cut.)

  “‘Frowned upon?’” the judge repeats as if not quite believing what he’s heard.

  “Uh, yes, Your Honor. In the general neighborhood of negligent behavior, but not quite there.”

  Ms. Aames’s replacement pipes up: “You were paid a lot of money to come up with excuses like this ‘frowned upon’ business, weren’t you, Doctor?”

  “Objection! Argumentative!” Heidegger booms.

  “I’ll allow it,” the judge croaks with an edge of hostility. “Please answer the question, Doctor.”

  “My fees aside, this is my honest, unvarnished opinion,” I say too meekly. (Note: re-state this in a more dignified exchange, somehow.)

  “How much per hour are you being paid to testify today?”

  I tell them $1,000—but quickly clarify that I’ve only charged $750 for review of documents, meet-and-confer discussions, and the like. One would think such a distinction would soften the tone of this inquisition, but no one seems the least bit impressed by the reasonableness of my fees. (Note: eschew whininess.)

  The replacement lawyer is practically laughing at me.

  “How do you know behavior would be ‘frowned upon,’ Doctor? Did you take a poll of your colleagues’ facial muscles when confronting them with a sordid tale of sexual misconduct, similar to what the board has alleged here?”

  Again Heidegger objects; again, to no effect.

  “You made that up, didn’t you, Doctor?”

  I do my best to appear offended, which I am. Yet, I’m also acutely aware that I cannot plausibly bolster my comment with any empirical evidence, let alone peer review articles, research, or recognizable data of any sort. “Frowned upon?” Please, it was horse-pucky, tripe, doggeral… all right, then: pure bullshit. And I—and they—knew it. (Note: CUT CUT CUT!)

  But the worst is yet to come, because now the state lawyer grows wily.

  For the next several minutes he asks me easy questions about the extensive professional-practice history detailed in my curriculum vitae. Questions about how many patients I’ve seen weekly, monthly, and yearly in various settings over the course of my career. Hundreds of patients, thousands of visits. How many patients I’ve terminated from treatment. Hundreds. Impressive totals, stretched over a thirty-four-year career.

  I’m feeling much better now, reinvigorated, the blood filling back into my cheeks. Reflecting pleasantly on the overarching accomplishment, the achievement inherent with claiming such a long, distinguished body of work and time of service. Duly gratified, and duly satisfied—such that I walk right into the next few questions without even noticing how ensnared by my narcissism I’ve become. (Note: rework, excluding deleterious personal insights.)

  “So, Doctor, you’ve treated countless female patients, have you not?”

  “Why yes, I have.”

  “And some of those patients have had feelings of what you psychiatry specialists would call ‘transference,’ that is, strong personal feelings of affection toward you, the therapist?”

  “Yes. Again, it’s a common occurrence.”

  “And in your training and experience in psychiatry, are you aware that for the therapist on the receiving end of such affection, feelings of what is called ‘countertransference’ may occur?”

  Hmmm. The replacement lawyer apparently knows his stuff.

  “Yes, of course,” I say too eagerly. “But one must act appropriately.”

  Rats. I have just broken one of the rules of cross-examination: never to freely offer information which was not specifically requested.

  “And do what?” the prosecutor asks.

  “Well, you must discuss the patient’s feelings, the phenomenon of transference, explain what she’s feeling, and why. You must emphasize that there’s nothing wrong with having those feelings, they’re natural, but that they can take away from the patient’s therapeutic process, and indeed, she may now need to be referred to another doctor.”

  “That is the standard of practice when a patient demonstrates or expresses strong personal feelings for the therapist, correct?”

  “More or less, that is correct, Counselor.”

  “But what I just asked you about was what a therapist does when he, the therapist, experiences strong feelings for the patient. In other words, I want to know what you, Doctor Winston, would do when countertransference occurs.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, offering the judge a beseeching pair of eyes.

  But the judge looks away, refusing to rescue me.

  “I thought I’d answered the question,” I explain.

  The saggy prosecutor bears down briefly on his notes, then slowly looks up with large, sleepy-brown eyes, his serenity sending a jolt of terror down my spine.

  “I’ll say it again. What do you do yourself, Doctor, to deal with countertransference? Do you talk with the patient about it?”

  “Oh no,” I say, too eagerly yet again. “That would be too easy to misconstrue, not to mention disorienting to her, so you can say nothing to the patient, nothing.”

  “Is that because the psychiatrist is there to always act in the patient’s best interest, and talking about his feelings for her wouldn’t fit that model?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, what does a conscientious therapist do?”

  “Doctor,” the judge asks, “I’d like you to tell the court what you would do.”

  For the first time in this claustrophobic little setting I become aware of the electrical hum emanating from the metal clock on the wall, the seal of the State of California hovering like a Roman gladiator’s shield behind the judge’s chair. The court reporter, a middle-aged bespectacled woman with rope-like red hair and a double chin, appears pained; her lumpy bosom is tightly wrapped in a sweater, and I note that the air conditioning vents are lodged in the ceiling almost directly above her, in the room’s center. Mutely, she awaits my next utterance, her fingers curled above the odd black keyboard of her instrument of recordation.

  I attempt to formulate the per
fect statement, keeping track of my testimony thus far and its multiple objectives, the most paramount of which is to render Donald Fallon professionally blameless. Yet all I can think of with pounding clarity is: What would Mum say if she could see me now?

  The answer to that one I know with equal clarity.

  What a farce, a grand, comical farce this is, this game of made-up facts and conjured standards of duties owed to hypothetical patients. This is the sum total of your education and experience, son? To this you have aspired?

  “Doctor?”

  “Uh, yes, so sorry,” I say, still rattled by the ubiquitous specter of Mum. (Note: cut, cut, cut!)

  “Please answer the question,” the judge insists.

  “I… suppose I would discuss with a colleague, a mentor, an experienced psychiatrist whose opinion I trust, any feelings I’d have of countertransference, probe the root of those feelings that way.”

  Suppose? I am inwardly horrified. Good God, I’ve surmised instead of speaking from experience. My job is to empathize with the plight of Donald Fallon, and good God, I’ve just distanced myself—naturally, of course, but there it is.

  Absently I accentuate my misstatement by sliding a finger inside my collar, thinking: Just breathe, and this will pass. Heidegger is stock still, but his glare is arctic and accounts for the burning sensation on my neck and forehead. I swallow dryly, awaiting the inevitable. Should I ask for water? No—supplication is tantamount to weakness.

  The rumpled replacement for the formidable Ms. Aames, this Men-dee-bless, he may not look like much, but he hones right in on my tragically poor choice of words.

  “Doctor, do you feel the kind of transference and countertransference that seems to have occurred between Rue Loberg and Doctor Fallon is normal?”

  “Yes, I believe I’ve said so already.”

  “But your answer was speculative. Doctor Winston, with all the thousands of patient visits you’ve had, including your encounters with female patients who you believed were experiencing feelings of transference toward you, you’ve never experienced feelings of countertransference toward them, have you? That’s why you just had to ‘suppose’ what you’d do in a situation like Dr. Fallon was in with Mrs. Loberg, isn’t it?”