by John Decure
Across from me, the firing line of tight-ass grimaces—courtesy of the chief bagman Heidegger, his stiffs, and a semi-hunchbacked Dr. Don at the far end—is truly photo-worthy. But damn, wouldn’t you know! I don’t have a camera.
Sons of bitches! Yeah, you, boys! All of you!
Silently, Heidegger mimics a tiny snake-hiss at me. Silently, I respond with my patented barely there, tough-titties-on-you smile. The judge keeps on, his every word perfuming the air on this glorious afternoon.
They can fight on all they want; hey, it’s a free country. But a stay of the board’s order is unlikely. So is a successful appeal. Cases like this rise and fall on the strength of the evidence, and that evidence came from three witnesses, Rue and Mindy Loberg, and Dr. Don. The wise, wonderful Judge Drummond essentially believed Rue and Mindy, and found Dr. Don’s testimony not credible. Because later on, appellate judges reviewing the case cannot observe the demeanor of witnesses who have previously testified, they must adopt the lower-court judge’s findings on credibility.
Therefore, an appellate court would not upset this wise and wonderful judge’s determinations on who told the truth and who lied.
The judge’s tentative is also intended to give unspoken, informal advance warning to Dr. Don that he’d better make some final arrangements for his patients, help refer them to other professionals as necessary. As for Fallon’s office staff, they’re about to get pink slips. The sooner they know, the better for them to start making other plans.
With the relief that the case is won, I unclench—only to be sucker punched by another hot blast of pain. I cautiously touch the back of my skull, can feel the throbbing bruised bone beneath my fingertips. The bullet wounds below are still tender, and I imagine them as open holes, leaking and draining away my strength, my essence. Touch my hip, expecting to dip into bloody wetness. No—nothing soaking through the skirt…
Paranoia?
Oh, please—how would a girl blessed with such a labyrinthine mind set ever puzzle her way through that one?
Could be, though: I’m still afraid to grope further, beneath my clothing, to check the wounds, assess their true status, lest I poke the wrong spot and spring a serious leak. Drain away. Better to become a silent freeze-frame of myself, not to tempt fate. But who am I kidding? Playing it safe doesn’t work for me.
So I sit very still, become stillness itself, but not like a mill pond; no, my version of still conjures a vision of a house of cards in a wind tunnel. Always doing it the hard way, the only way I know.
Fragile, yes, but alive, and damned satisfied.
Yes, yes, yes: I proved my case.
People in the gallery are watching me; some are present, and some not. I wish my not-present father was really here, wish I could turn and exchange a wordless glance with him, enjoy the nod of approval I know I’ve earned from the wise and savvy senior prosecutor warrior. So, a bit of madness runs in the family, so what? Good genes for the courtroom are equally undeniable as a genetic trait.
“Thank you for that,” I whisper barely audibly, though the belief that he can hear me is all that matters.
Yes, yes, hell yes! I proved my case.
“Pardon me?”
It’s Heidegger, and I have nothing to say to him. But he keeps staring implausibly.
“What?”
“You said something to me which I didn’t quite hear.” He sounded tired and dismayed by fate.
Had I just babbled unawares? So what if I did, he’d get over it. Then I had a thought, a reminder of an important piece of business.
“I want my stuff back.”
He stared blankly, betraying nothing, but I didn’t buy it. I turned to Mendibles and leveled the same look on him, then went back to Heidegger. “My documents, lifted from my apartment.”
They both began to protest, but I held up my hand to halt the bullshit before it started sliding downhill. “Enough said.”
* * *
MINDY LOBERG
The judge said he found my testimony ‘credible,’ even though I lied on that job application. He mentioned some other court case he read about before, a case that says a judge can accept some parts of a witness’s testimony even if he can’t rely on other parts. As for me, he said I displayed honesty in admitting what I did, and I credibly explained the pressure I was under to get a job. The same pressure, he said, that had brought me back to see Dr. Don for more therapy. That connection he found to be very believable. I guess my troubles with Ian and his family had a familiar ring to the judge.
My mom? All over the place. Mostly, she was crying—but what else could anyone expect? Held my hand so tight I thought my fingers would break off. Mouthed the words: Thank you, baby. Thank you, Sugar.
Sugar. Mom used to call me that when I was a toddler, because every time she’d turn her back on me, I’d race over to the sugar bowl on the kitchen table, wet a finger, and stick it in the bowl.
Sugar—dammit.
I had no interest in crying, but that one got me going. We sat there, holding hands and sniffling while the judge went on about who told the truth and who didn’t. Reminded me of what they taught us in Sunday school, that stuff about the rapture. When all will be revealed and we are judged before our Creator. This judge, he surely wasn’t God, but sitting there with my mom, it felt good hearing him laying down the law he could manage.
* * *
RUE LOBERG
Honestly, the decision didn’t surprise me. I admit, I was taken with the way Miss Aames summed up her case, and I knew the judge was, too. But there was one other difference between her summation and Mr. Heidegger’s, and I just happened to notice it. You see, the whole time Ms. Aames was talking—reeling off point after point about the evidence, the witness testimony, the law, her expert’s findings of gross negligence and boundary violations and sexual misconduct, and Dr. Don’s lying ways and his not-credible overpaid hired gun of an expert—the judge, he sat there typing like crazy into that laptop of his. And then, when Mr. Heidegger took his turn, the judge’s typing? It slowed way down to an occasional tippy-tap, at best.
God, I was so proud of Mindy the words simply escaped me. Out of all this ugly, unhappy, embarrassing awful mess, she’d been lost to me, and like Jesus’s parable of the prodigal son from the gospel according to Luke, chapter 15, now she was found. Funny—as much as I’ve been messed over in the name of religion, those stories from the Bible never faded away.
Thank you, Lord.
Proud of myself, too, I am. Maybe I couldn’t right all the wrongs I’ve done, but I righted one big wrong in my life, and it felt… well, downright glorious. Gave me the strength to walk across that courtroom and come up behind Dr. Don, who looked like he’d been run over by a truck. I startled him, and one of his legal goons tensed up like something bad was gonna happen, but I did what I came to do quick.
“I forgive you.”
He looked at me with the eye of a reptile waiting to strike. Made my heart freeze right in my throat.
“How convenient,” he replied. “But I’ve done nothing wrong.”
How about that? The man was beyond help, without a conscience. Kind of person who could never fess up to anything, too wrapped up in himself to even see anybody else. Least of all someone like me—a bloody pile of road kill, psychologically speaking, but with a flat tummy and a nice enough pair of legs. That’s about what that little weasel sees when I stand before him.
No more—I got out of there before his lawyers could start crying foul.
* * *
DONALD FALLON, MD
Oh, really, Mister Know-it-all? Hiding behind a cheap wooden edifice, in your cheap black flammable robe, you fat phony King Solomon, you!
So, these are your “findings,” eh, fool? The… delusions of a failed attorney paid a pauper’s wages to play the part of rent-a-judge? Bad actor—and you know I see your shallow performance for the sham it is, because not once have you dared to even look at me, you fake phony Solomon! Abominable coward, spewing
legal gibberish like dressing up a pig in a top hat and tails—well the show’s a bust, because the pig can’t dance!
And a hey-ho to you, Bradlee fucking Aames! I have a tool that will split you in half, steal the breath right out of your lungs the way you’ve stolen my medical license, you dirty slutty bleeding little bitch, I’ll make you REALLY bleed, all right! Bend over, and ye shall receive your due penance, little bitch Bradlee Aames!
Lawyers—costly, blood-sucking blabbermouth lawyers! Do NOT lean over for one more whisper or make one more goddamn hand signal to me, Terrence Heidegger, because so help me, I will chew off your ear and your there-there fingers, all of them! Go ahead, talk to me again about the retainer you’ll be requiring “in the unlikely event that we’d have to appeal,” and I’ll give you another unlikely event, you slimy cocksucker! Oh, you’ll see how it feels to be utterly dominated by your superior, and you’ll finally know why I do what must be done to the likes of walking stupid fuck-dolls like Rue white-trash Loberg. When you’re bent over and bleeding, you will be grateful, Counselor, because at last you will see that your put-upon client, Donald Fallon, MD, the man you have betrayed by rendering such consistently underwhelmingly substandard legal services, is merely maintaining the natural social order in this world full of victims and fuck-ups…
* * *
RAUL MENDIBLES
For a long time, I just sat behind her, closest to the door, listening to the judge, rehearsing what I’d say when the moment arrived. Congratulations were in order, of course, but what more then, I could not decide. An admission from me? She might not accept it; she’d instantly calculate the damage I’d knowingly inflicted on the board’s case and demand to know why. And I didn’t have the heart to lie anymore, not now. Another, even more personal admission was arguably called for—and impossible to deliver now, quite possibly for all time. I know I’m not enough of a man to take on any of that.
These things are hard to even admit to myself. But I must.
I know I’m not a special talent as a lawyer, so I’ve sought to distinguish myself as a leader, a supervisor. Among Mexicans born to immigrants—to simple people who view a college education as miraculous, and a professional, an abogado, as worthy to bow down to—I am an enormous, unqualified success. But a supervisor, at that? Ay Dios mio…. Since I’ve met the major and been promoted, at every family get-together and holiday celebration, I’m treated like a deity, the best seat at the table reserved for Raul, El Jefe, while tray after bowl after platter of greasy fried confections roll up to me in endless succession.
And yes, I enjoy the attention. Revel in it.
Despite my frequent bouts of self-delusion, I nonetheless know the difference between right and wrong; and the fact that I’ve done wrong, many times, never escapes me. For now, I’m too weak to share that shame with others, and certainly, not with Bradlee Aames. She has a distinctive spirit, a fire inside, a glow that flat-out mesmerizes me. I mistook that allure for sexual intensity. Yes, she’s very fine and, in the eyes of a married man, dangerous; but that isn’t the real attraction. Not until I saw her lying in a hospital bed did I realize that what drew me to her was her level of engagement, her willingness to fight instead of run away, both in the real world and inside her head—equally badass places, in her case. She’s as brave as I am fearful.
Oh, she might explode on me if I listed my misdeeds now, and considering her medical condition, that wouldn’t be good for her…
So how’s that for avoidance technique? I fail to confess my sins to her not due to cowardice; no—instead, I’m simply being considerate.
The judge is wrapping up. He thanks the parties for their cooperation, declares the record closed. Then he exits the bench, leaving me to my conundrum.
Bradlee begins to pack up her papers and pads. For now, I tell her she did a wonderful job, which is the truth. I promise myself to tell her more, in due time.
She leans closer and fixes her eyes on mine.
“I want you to know that I’ll never work for you again.”
“Wha—excuse me?”
“And if you fight me, I’ll expose you for what you did.”
“Bradlee, wait, can we just—”
“See that man over there?”
I turn to see Deshaun Fellows, the investigator. He is standing with his back turned, chatting with Rue and Mindy Loberg, smiles all around.
“That man knows a few things, firsthand, about the shit you pulled, and how that scum Heidegger was working the other side of this case the whole damn time.”
“Bradlee, I never—”
“Deshaun’s a good guy, Raul. He thinks I took a few bullets for him, which isn’t quite accurate, but that’s how he sees it. As far as he’s concerned, we’re down with each other, like blood. Friends for life. And that’s fine with me. I could certainly use more friends.”
“Hey, I’m on your side too, I—”
“Because here it is, boss. I ask him to scare up the dirty details on what you did? He’ll go to work, and he won’t stop until I get what I need. Then he’ll put it in a report. And testify, if I ask him to. You want to go there?”
“No, of course not! But this… wait! This isn’t necessary! Let me explain, let me—”
“No! Too late. Here’s how I see it. You’re transferring. I don’t care where, as long as you’re out of our section, A - S - A - P.”
My shoulders slumped. I rubbed my forehead as if to coax out the truth with just the right words. Instead, I came up just shy of blubbering.
“If I do that, I’ll lose my supervisor status.”
“How tragic.”
“I… please, let’s talk about this.”
“We have, Raul, and I really don’t care. I’ll never work for you again.”
“I can explain—”
“Too late. Transfer out. You do, and this shit you stepped in will be over.”
“Bradlee,” I said quietly. “I can fix this, I—”
“I’m done with you. We are done.”
Mutely I watched her pack her big black bag. My mind spun, racing to string together an explanation, a justification… God—even a pathetic plea would do, if it worked. Not a single word would rush forth to save me.
El Jefe esta muerto.
I am done.
* * *
CRAIG WEAVER, MD
Rue didn’t need me, but it was good to be there. She’d done it, facing down her fears by confronting her tormentor. Quite by surprise, she’d been rewarded with the chance to start over with her daughter. I hadn’t seen that coming.
Nor had I prepared myself for what my life would be like without Bradlee Aames, now that the case was over. Suddenly, it was happening. The judge disappeared out a rear security door, the court reporter wheeled her contraption right by us, and we were on our feet, smiling and milling about in the warm afterglow of victory. Dr. Fallon seemed angry as hell, swatting at one of his chief lawyer’s wannabe assistants when the guy tried to console him. I rather enjoyed that little tableau, but it didn’t last. An odd thing happened: from the gallery, the investigator, Deshaun Fellows, stepped forward toward the defense table. He first regarded Bradlee, who gave him some kind of a signal, I suppose. Then he swiveled between her table and the defense’s table, squaring his broad shoulders.
“Time to go,” I thought I heard him say with just a hint of menace. Stood tall, like a well-placed wall between Bradlee and Team Fallon as the parties packed up. Fallon, an arch manipulator to the bitter end, seemed particularly peeved, as he’d been shooting nasty glances Bradlee’s way. For his part, Fellows had what you might call a certain male intensity on full display and he put an instant stop to that nonsense. As in: game over, Dr. Don. Oh, man, was I ever digging that spectacle!
Within seconds the defense team had decamped, their hushed, finger-pointing exchanges echoing down the hallway with the chafing bite of sandpaper.
You’re a disgrace, Fallon, I wish I’d have told the doctor before he’d gone. But eve
n though they’d tried to get at my treatment records for my care of Rue, I never felt enough a part of this case to intervene like that—not firsthand. Maybe if I see him on the street… or in an alleyway. Ah, forget the creep, the psychiatric community surely will….
It was in that moment of rapturous schadenfreude that I received a tap on the shoulder, and there before me stood the object of my most intense affection. She reached into an oversize leather bag and pulled out a small book, a slightly frayed, faded-red hardbound volume of poetry.
“You left your book at the hospital, Doctor.”
I stood there, waiting for a plan. Close-up like this, her face was a picture of exhaustion suppressed or even altogether denied. But her eyes were quick and bright, and when she smiled, I lost all contact with the rational part of my brain.
I shrugged. “You’re supposed to call me Craig. Remember?”
“Right,” she said, seemingly enjoying my discomfort. “May I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Which poems did you choose to read?”
I hefted the compact little volume, which nonetheless felt substantial.
“I didn’t really choose. They were all good.”
“You read the whole thing.”
“Classics. I figured I couldn’t go wrong.”
“I see. How long did that take you, Craig?”
My face got warm when she called me by my first name. My primary objective now was not to humiliate myself by saying something hopelessly stupid.
“It didn’t seem like very long. I like poetry.”
Like a teenager, I stuck my hands in my pocket and rocked. As a guy I was pathetic. We’re talking no moves whatsoever.
Bradlee Aames came up close and kissed me on the cheek.
“I put a new bookmark in your beautiful little book. Bye.”
Then she turned to Mr. Fellows, the investigator. I watched dumbly as he snapped open the door for her. As she walked through, Fellows turned back and gave me a belt-high, crushing handshake.
