He Said, She Said

by John Decure

  The funny thing is, I never once thought of Bradlee the whole time. I’d never been in love with a woman and at the same time, recognized that I truly love my work.

  So this was quite the weekend for us, eh?

  Fuckin-A.

  Edgy!

  Knock it off.

  I didn’t get home Saturday until 9:30 p.m. Sunday, my schedule was shot—for months I’d been signed up for a mandatory continuing medical education course on prescribing practices and had to attend to keep my privileges—so I couldn’t make it over during visiting hours. Then last night, Rue Loberg phoned and asked if I could meet her in court. Her daughter Mindy was coming in to testify, and Rue thought it might get ugly, due to Mindy’s close proximity to ground zero when the Loberg family had been blown all to hell. Rue wanted to be there for Mindy, but she didn’t want to get overwhelmed and say or do anything she’d regret. Especially with Dr. Don right across the courtroom.

  I rescheduled two Monday appointments and said yes, I’d be there. Had no idea Bradlee would be up at that table when I walked in.

  Happiest day of my life as yet? Eh.…

  She didn’t turn around once to see me, which I admit made me feel unimportant, like a silly boy nursing an obsession. To rid myself of that unpleasant indicator of my emotional fragility, I consciously analyzed her as a physician would a patient.

  Okay, her other wounds could not have fully healed, not in such a short time, which meant she must be in a fit of pain to even sit upright—in a tumultuous courtroom setting, at that. So, how could she do it? The average patient, brain-cramped by the pounding, ever-present, drumbeat pain of serious head trauma and multiple bullet wounds would be more than happy to go the maximum-meds route, camping out on the couch in front of the tube with a half gallon of ice cream and far greater enthusiasm for penguin documentaries than discretion would normally allow.

  Not Bradlee Aames.

  Honestly, I couldn’t think straight.

  I’d silently slid into the seat next to Rue Loberg, whispering a hello to Deshaun Fellows, as if everything was oh so under control. But the tangle inside me had settled in my chest, and I could barely breathe. So who does a psychiatrist turn to when he has an anxiety attack?

  How about yourself, genius. Physician, heal thyself.

  That much I could attempt.

  I was secretly heartsick and bereft and, after all these years, had still yet to wash the blood of an adulterous girlfriend from my hands.

  Fine—there you have it. So deal, already, Craig. Deal.

  Now, if I knew anything as a therapist, I knew it was time to ask myself the question I ask patients the most in-session: how do you feel about that?

  How about accepting, Craig. So you’re a person with flaws. What it is, man. Congratulations, you’re human. Forgive yourself, and any others you’ve wronged. Atone.

  Guess I can do that, too. Don’t think I’ve got a choice any longer…

  Very perceptive, Dr. Weaver.

  No need to patronize. I’m ready…

  Good-bye, Deb.

  No—not now. Not ready.

  With my eyes closed, the lawyers’ vocal jousting was just a hum. There was peace in staring at nothing, and from that calm a link was formed to my slow, mechanical breathing until the in, the out, the in-again, the out-again became an abstraction, governed not by thought but by an instinct blessedly requiring zero maintenance.

  Aah, yeah, so much easier to just be, just be, man… I could have gone on this way for a much longer spell, floating gently downstream in unthinking quietude…

  But no, it should not and could not last. I was here for my patient. That meant I should be alert and aware, unselfishly so. Focused on her daughter’s testimony.

  Recalibrating my senses, I sat up and rubbed my eyes, my deadened ass-cheeks prickling. The arguments were winding down now, and Fallon’s lead attorney—Mr. Heidegger—the supercilious jerk, old spotted guy whose every word carried a hint of bitterness and holier-than-thou condescension, old Heidegger seemed to have the floor. He started by smarmily thanking Rue’s girl, Mindy, commending her for coming in to testify today, for doing her duty. (Shit—it felt like my duty to sock the self-satisfied smoothie right in the mouth.) Then he told her that even though she was a patient who’d come to Dr. Don with plenty of problems to discuss, he didn’t want to delve into those problems here and now, trampling all over her privacy.

  What a great guy, respecting Mindy’s secrets.

  I was suddenly furious. Not the usual Craig Weaver, the calm, even-handed therapist. I wanted to beat butts and take names. I wanted this pale, slightly google-eyed girl on the witness stand to hold steady under fire; for Dr. Don to lose his license, and access to unwitting victims, forever.

  More than anything, I wanted Bradlee Aames to prevail.

  “Is that all right,” the old lawyer asked, “that we simply leave the subject matter of your therapy be, Miss Loberg?”

  Gaining her trust, the jackass.

  “Fine with me,” Mindy said warily.

  “To me, the issue of your truthfulness, what we lawyers would call your credibility, that’s what I’m more interested in, Miss Loberg.”

  “Your call,” Mindy agreed—but she looked puzzled.

  “Now, in reviewing your patient file, I noticed your birthday, and let’s see, you just had one about three weeks ago, correct?”

  “You already asked me that. Yeah, I did, earlier this month, on the second. A Tuesday, I think. Yeah, a Tuesday.”

  “Now, Miss Loberg, you’re currently employed at a dance club called the X-Factory, is that right?”

  “Well, yes and no.”

  “Really? Please explain the ‘no’ part of your answer.”

  “That’s what it used to be called when it was a sports bar. You know, like, how they’ll call one special player on a team, could be the difference between winning and losing, the ‘x-factor’?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard the expression.”

  Mindy smiled a little, pleased to have displayed a depth of knowledge on the subject.

  “But now that it’s become a dance club, with guest djs and all, nobody really calls it that anymore. It’s just ‘The Factory.’”

  “Oh, I see.”

  Mr. Heidegger, he took his time being hammy, nodding as if he’d just absorbed a great truth. Then he attacked.

  “And, what is your position there, at the Factory, Miss Loberg?”

  “I’m a ‘shooter girl.’”

  “And what is a ‘shooter girl’?”

  “What it sounds like. I walk around the club serving shooters, you know, from a tray full of shot glasses.”

  “I see. And how many months ago were you hired?”

  Mindy did some mental math as her round blue eyes studied the ceiling. “Oh, about two—no, three months ago.”

  The old lawyer was hamming again, his face overwrought with consternation. “But, Miss Loberg, you only reached the legal drinking age three weeks ago.”

  “Well, yeah, but I don’t drink on the job, I just serve shots to customers.”

  Mindy searched the judge’s face, but from where I was sitting, I think she got nothing in return. The judge, who to me resembled Freud, seemed intent on observing everything while betraying zero emotion. Like a very good therapist—or a champion poker player.

  The air in this entire space seemed to have gone flat, as if punctured by the old lawyer’s sharp-edged little questions. I hated him, but he was good.

  “But, you do know that in this state it’s unlawful for anyone under the legal drinking age to serve alcoholic beverages, don’t you, Miss Loberg?”

  “Yeah, I guess that’s true.”

  “So, what I’m wondering is how you got yourself hired three months ago to be a so-called ‘shot girl’ when you were still legally under age.”

  “I, uh, dunno. I just applied.”

  “Miss Loberg, I want you to be aware that I can find out by using this court’s subpoena power.
I can make your employer turn over your job application, so we can see what you wrote on it.”

  Mindy shrugged. Bradlee seemed to wince when she saw her witness’s glib expression.

  “Do what you gotta do, I guess.”

  “But we’ll have to continue this trial, put it over to another date, so that I can bring you back into this courtroom to answer questions about that job application. I promise you, that won’t be pleasant.”

  Mindy turned to the judge. “He can do that?”

  “Yes, he can,” the judge told her.

  The old lawyer was in full control now, taking his time. “I’d much rather have you simply answer a few questions now, Miss Loberg, and answer them honestly, as you swore you would when you took that oath this morning.”

  “Okay. I don’t want to come back here again. Let’s get it over with.”

  “Did you lie about our age on your job application?”

  “I, uh, may have made myself a year older. But—”

  “Thank you. Tell me, how many days a week have you been working since you were hired at the Factory, Miss Loberg?”

  “The first month or so, two weeknights, and Sunday nights. You know, they gave me the slower shifts, ’cause I was new and at the bottom of the totem pole. Then I got another weeknight, and every other week a Friday night, too, a little upgrade in shifts. So, um, overall, I guess I’ve been at it about four nights a week, give or take.”

  The ornery attorney scratched out a few numbers, then sat back in awe, like Einstein on the brink of an epiphany. I hated his guts all over again.

  Wow, Craig, really getting in touch with your feral side—

  Yeah? Get used to it.

  “That means, if your birthday was a mere three weeks ago, Miss Loberg, you worked anywhere between thirty and forty-five shifts as an underage person, serving alcohol.”

  “I, uh, guess so.”

  “Did you know that if you were found out, your employer could have faced legal ramifications including fines, and perhaps even being ordered to shut down?”

  “Objection,” Bradlee Aames said. “Calls for a legal conclusion, speculation, and argumentative.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said, but his heart didn’t seem committed to defending Mindy. That damn Heidegger’s smile conveyed the power of ownership: this witness belonged to him.

  “So. You misled your employer, didn’t you?”

  “I needed the job. Really bad. Ian’s mom was on my case about—”

  “Thank you, you’ve answered the question. Now, Miss Loberg, isn’t it fair to say that you lied because you felt you had to?”

  She shook her head as if this was all a joke. “Guess that’s about the size of it.”

  “Now, getting back to the allegations in this case, if I might, you never saw Doctor Fallon touch your mother, did you?”

  “Oh, please. He had the total hots for her. Anyone with two eyes could see—”

  “Objection,” Heidegger said. “Move to strike as nonresponsive.”

  “Sustained. The answer is stricken from the record. Please answer the question, Ms. Loberg.”

  “No, I never saw them in the act or anything, thank God.”

  “And now that your mother’s story has been questioned, I would dare say refuted, you feel again compelled to lie, to lie on her behalf, don’t you?”

  “No. I would never do that. No way.”

  Attorney Heidegger held up his fingers to as if to count off points on his fingertips. “You needed a job, so you lied. Now your mother needs you to lie, so—”

  “We don’t even talk anymore, or see each other. I told her off, called her a… well, some awful names. How would I know what she needed, huh? How?”

  “You are lying for her now, aren’t you?”

  “Dream on, mister. I told the truth.”

  Fallon’s lawyer never even raised his voice, but Mindy Loberg had been brought to tears, her nose rubbed in her shortcomings, her mother’s weaknesses, and the rotting carcass of the Loberg family. I was spellbound with professional—and admittedly prurient—interest.

  “Thank you. Nothing further.”

  “I told the god’s-honest truth today!”

  “No further questions.”

  “But I did!”

  Bradlee Aames was asked for re-direct, but she passed. The judge thanked Mindy, and it was over.

  At that moment, to my view the law was as cold and hard and cruel as an ice pick to the base of the cranium, and I despised its brutal methods. But then… what else is there? Lie detectors are worthless, from a scientific standpoint—any first-year doctoral candidate would know that. And last time I checked, a reliable truth serum has yet to be developed. So this is it: a witness stand, an oath, some questions, and a whole lot of verbal jujitsu. And oh my God, talk about a dramatic confrontation! I was angry and exhilarated at the same time. As Mindy shrank back to the gallery, I noticed my hands were shaking.

  Leaning over toward Rue, I thought to whisper a few kind words of consolation. But I knew I was full of shit, speaking only for myself. I had no skin in the game. Quickly, Rue was up and out of her seat for Mindy, and the two shared a long hug before… they both shocked me by not fleeing the courtroom.

  “Hey, Doctor Weaver,” Mindy whispered, settling into the row behind me with her mother. “I do okay?”

  “Y-yes, you did great,” I mumbled.

  Jesus, I thought. Every woman associated with this case has twice the backbone I could ever dream of having.

  There was a pause in the action. My heart was leaping. I had a powerful impulse to step outside the courtroom, where hopefully, I could be alone with Deb. My former love, Deb. My head, my heart, my entire being were so overfilled that if I couldn’t shed some of the load I’d been carrying all these years, I’d be no good to myself, my patients… or Bradlee.

  I excused myself and went outside. Looked both ways, up and down the long carpeted hallway and saw no one.

  “Deb?” I said quietly. Leaning back, I closed my eyes, exhausted by the events of the last few weeks.

  So you’re tired, so what? You’re young. Keep pushing, you’re on a roll…

  “I’ll forever be sorry for what I did.”

  That was true. In fact, this case has made me think a lot about victimization of women; mostly, how easy it can be for a man so wrapped up in what he thinks he needs or wants to take a woman down that path, and not even notice until it’s too late and the damage is done.

  “To a certain extent I did use you, sexually—the time we rented a motel room in Laguna, and the parking-lot episode behind the triple-X theater come to mind—and emotionally, when I’d be insecure and say mean things; and as for getting too physical, I’ll always regret bear-hugging you onto the couch the night of that mall shooting when we had that stupid argument about gun control and I wouldn’t let you up till you admitted your statistics were just reiterated from your dad’s bogus rants.”

  I was a jerk. A loser. Rambling away in an empty government hallway.

  What the hell—here goes…

  “But, Deb, I did not kill you, I did not pull that trigger.”

  Whoa! About time, buddy!

  I know—I know. That was way too long in coming.

  Hanging on the walls, here in administrative court, are some beautiful reproductions of modern art. I’d barely noticed them before, but when I opened my eyes, a Jasper Johns abstract beauty filled my head with lines and shapes and textures so seemingly random but so powerfully linked, it was like my irises were flooded with light, temporarily blind. Blinking twice, three times, I rubbed my eyes hard, shut them, sunspots exploding inside my eyelids. Looked again—past the artwork, way down the hall, where a tall athletic figure, a man as tanned and virile and sunkissed as a Tahitian warrior, tipped his sunglasses—indoors?—Ah, you’re probably seeing things, so just go with it, man… in my direction, as if to acknowledge my progress with Bradlee. And Deb. And what—my life?

  Thank you, man, I want
ed to say. I’m trying—really, really hard.

  I’d seen that guy’s casual stance before, but couldn’t place it. A magazine article? Could be…. A piece on California cool? Mocking it while acknowledging its powerful allure? Something like that, just out of reach to me now…. Everybody wanting a piece of the same thing, which this guy knew he had. In spades.

  An attitude. A stance. Like…

  Surfing.

  A surfer. World famous. A surfer at the top of his game, in perfect balance. Like the streaking figure by the pier at Malibu…

  Blinked my eyes again to get a better look, to fix my compass. But he was gone.

  32

  BRADLEE AAMES

  Oh, God, my head is buried in burning coals! Face?—attached, I can pinch my cheeks. Hands, fingers—icicles! Another chill and my smallest quiver tugs at the bandages…

  The judge is back on the bench, so sit up. Ouch!—not that far, that fast.

  He says he’s making a tentative ruling. Breathe!

  A tentative can mean only one thing: I proved my case.

  Breathe; even if it hurts, just breathe…

  Here’s how the dominoes fall: Because I proved my case, the judge sees Dr. Don as a menace to his patients and the public, and with public protection in mind, he’ll have his proposed decision written and ready for the medical board to sign off on and order as soon as possible; the order will revoke Dr. Don’s medical license, ending his career as a psychiatrist; hence the tentative—fair warning to both parties that this process will move quickly.

  It’s over. But then, it isn’t.

  I’d better watch my mail at work, because the minute the order hits, the defense will file an appeal. They’ll rush off to superior court to get a stay of the board’s order, claiming the board abused its discretion by taking away Dr. Don’s license and livelihood without a basis of sufficient evidence.