Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  To Ben’s happy surprise, Dr. Allyn performed sensationally. His demeanor was superb and his answers were lucid and concise. He came across as authoritative, but not overbearing; confident, but not egomaniacal. And his professional qualifications and publications on the subject of repressed memory were so extensive they couldn’t be seriously challenged. Even by Bullock.

  Once Dr. Allyn’s expertise was established, Ben launched into the heart of the matter—giving Carlee’s testimony the strength of scientific credibility. “Dr. Allyn, can you explain to the jury what is meant by psychogenic amnesia?”

  The doctor shifted his gaze to the jury box. “Psychogenic amnesia occurs when a person participates in or witnesses an event so frightening or threatening or guilt provoking that the individual blocks it out of his or her memory to avoid reliving that terrible moment.”

  “What kind of events could cause this reaction?”

  “Any shocking, horrible occurrence. One common cause is child abuse, physical or sexual. Evidence is mounting that such abuse is far more common than we in the psychiatric community realized, because many of the victims subsequently shut the horror out of their minds.”

  “What if a seventeen-year-old girl witnessed a gruesome, violent murder? Would that be sufficient to induce psychogenic amnesia?”

  “Given the right circumstances, it could well be.”

  “Psychiatrically speaking, how would such an event occur?”

  “First, you should understand that traumatic memories form in an altered state of consciousness in which the laws of ordinary memory do not apply. A blanket of amnesia can cloak memories of these intense, violent experiences, particularly when they occur while the person is still a minor. The memory remains suppressed until an adult experience pierces the veil.”

  “Would that adult experience be something equally intense?”

  “Usually not. No, in most cases, the event is something perfectly ordinary that nonetheless jogs the memory and unlocks the closed door.”

  “For instance, seeing something visually similar to the crime?”

  “Correct, but this recovery phenomenon isn’t limited to visual input. We have five senses, after all. As you may know, our sense of smell is the most acute of the five, and it is also the sense most closely linked to memory. A familiar smell can recall a past event more readily than any of the other senses.”

  The foundation was laid. “Dr. Allyn, do you know a woman named Carlee Crane?”

  “Yes. I had a private consultation with her earlier today. And of course I heard her testify.”

  “As you know, she testified that she witnessed a murder, repressed it, and was then reminded of it by several events that occurred while she was camping with her family. Doctor, I know you weren’t at the caddyshack the night of the murder, and you can’t possibly say with certainty what Carlee saw. But let me ask you this. Is what she described to the jury possible?”

  “Her tale of repressed memory is in complete conformity with the current research on this subject.”

  “So her teenage mind might have repressed that bloody murder?”

  “That is consistent with psychiatric opinions on this subject.”

  “And the incident at Turner Falls, where she saw her husband hurt himself, might have reawakened the memory?”

  “Even more than seeing—smelling. Remember, she testified that she detected the sickly sweet smell of blood. That’s an unusual, pungent odor—and one she might reasonably not have experienced during the intervening ten years. That may have been enough to bring the memories back.”

  Despite the relative lack of preparation, this testimony was proceeding even better than Ben had hoped. “To your knowledge, doctor, has the legal community addressed this issue?”

  “Oh yes. Since 1988, courts and legislatures in more than twenty-three states have made it possible to bring civil or criminal actions based upon recovered memories.”

  “And have people done so?”

  “I know of over three hundred lawsuits pending at this time involving repressed memories.”

  Ben whistled. “I guess this isn’t all that uncommon, then.” He flipped to the next page of his outline, hoping the jury was getting the message.

  “Well, it doesn’t happen every day, but evidence is mounting that it is far more frequent than we realize.”

  “And when these people do finally remember what happened, do they typically try to … resuppress the memories?”

  “That does sometimes happen, but that’s not the typical case. It is far better for the person to come forward with what they know. To cleanse themselves of it, so to speak. Only after the patient has retrieved the memory and integrated it in their conscious mind can the healing begin. Only then can the process of getting on with life become possible.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Nothing more at this time.”

  Ben felt a wave of relief as he sat down. That had gone without a hitch. He had not only gotten his eyewitness to tell her story, he’d gotten a psychiatric expert to make it seem credible.

  He patted Leeman on the shoulder. Things were looking up.

  “Well, then, Mr. Kincaid,” Judge Hawkins said. “Call your next—”

  “Excuse me.” It was Bullock, rising to his feet. “If I may ask just a few questions.”

  “Oh—of course.” Hawkins seemed faintly embarrassed. He had assumed—much like Ben—that if the man hadn’t crossed the eyewitness, he wasn’t going to cross her expert either. It appeared they were both wrong.

  “I don’t think this will take long,” Bullock said. He walked casually to the stand and positioned himself beside Dr. Allyn. “Doctor, you testified that a growing number of psychiatrists have come to believe that memories may be suppressed over long periods of time.”

  ‘That is correct.”

  “Is this … the only viewpoint on the subject?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Far from it. Many of my colleagues believe this whole idea of psychogenic amnesia is the biggest scientific blunder since Piltdown Man.”

  “Really,” Bullock said, with what sounded to Ben suspiciously like feigned surprise. “Why would they say that?”

  Dr. Allyn removed his glasses. “The problem is that no experiment has ever demonstrated empirically that this syndrome is real. Therefore, it cannot be proved. It is just a theory, not a fact. All the evidence is anecdotal, and it mostly comes from psychologists who have already presumed that the phenomenon exists.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Well, it’s a natural belief for a Freudian psychiatrist. It arises from the Freudian model of hysteria—which includes repression, the theory that we suppress what we cannot face. Unfortunately, over time, we have learned that Dr. Freud, brilliant though he was, had an extremely skewed scientific method. Very few of his findings are believed to be literally true today.”

  “You mean, not every guy wants to sleep with his mother?” Bullock cast an ironic smile toward the predominantly male jury.

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “If this repression concept doesn’t really exist, how can you explain all these people who claim to have repressed memories?”

  “If the theory is false, then these must be false memories.”

  “Meaning … lies?”

  “Not necessarily. Fantasies. Or hallucinations. Wish fulfillment.”

  “But not reality?”

  The doctor cleared his throat and looked directly at the jury. “No. Not reality.”

  Ben rose an inch out of his chair. What the hell was going on here? Whose expert was he, anyway? Bullock was leading Allyn down the primrose path, and the learned doctor was following him blindly. In fact, he seemed to be going … willingly.

  Bullock continued. “Surely a trained psychotherapist can distinguish a true memory from a false one.”

  “That’s not as easy as you might think. You have to realize that even with true memories, remembering is not an act of reproduction. It is an ac
t of reconstruction. As a person remembers, gaps and details are naturally filled in. Sometimes this accretion process occurs accurately. But sometimes not. Experiences can be altered as they’re hauled out of that gigantic file cabinet we call our brain.”

  “Could those gaps in a person’s memory be filled in by the suggestions of other people?”

  “Oh yes. Happens all the time.”

  “So if a person with … let’s say … an erratic memory came to someone else”—Bullock glanced at Ben—“and that someone gave her all the details of a certain event the way he wanted people to believe it happened, she might well start remembering that what she saw occurred as he described it.”

  Bullock had crossed the line from hypothetical to the present case. But that didn’t slow Allyn’s answer in the least. “That is correct.”

  Bullock stepped away from the witness. “Dr. Allyn, you told the jury that you examined Carlee Crane, correct?”

  “I interviewed her about this incident, yes.”

  “Well … what did you think of her?”

  Ben felt a sudden, painful pounding in his chest.

  “I thought she was young. Good-natured. Sincere …”

  Ben released his breath.

  “… but misguided.”

  Ben’s lips parted. His pulse raced.

  “Misguided?” Bullock leaped on the word like a mongoose on the attack. “Does that mean she’s not telling the truth?”

  “Oh no. I don’t think so.”

  The spectators in the gallery began to stir.

  “No,” Dr. Allyn continued, “she believes what she says, but that doesn’t mean it truly happened.”

  Something was wrong here. Something was very wrong. No expert witness would do this. No paid professional witness would be such a shameless turncoat. No one would be so cooperative on cross-examination. Unless …

  Unless that was what he had planned to do all along.

  “As I said,” Allyn continued, “Ms. Crane is a very good-natured, nurturing, maternal person. She told me she read a newspaper account about this trial, and later saw something on television about it. I believe that when she was exposed to these media influences, she felt a natural empathy for the defendant. She wanted to help him, but she had no means of doing so. And so her subconscious mind created a memory.”

  “A memory that would get him off the hook.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Even though she never saw the murder.”

  “That’s what I believe. She fabricated the entire incident.”

  Ben turned and saw Carlee in the gallery, her hands pressed against her face. Her husband was trying to comfort her, without much success. The look on her face was heartbreaking. She was being humiliated in public, just as she had feared. Carlee stood and ran out of the courtroom. Her husband rose to follow.

  His glaring eyes met Ben’s. The message was clear.

  You should’ve prevented this.

  This is your fault.

  “Would Ms. Crane be the first person who ever fabricated a memory?” Bullock asked.

  “Oh, far from it. I’ve been called in on several cases of purported juvenile sexual abuse, only to later find that the child wasn’t even living with the accused parent at the time the event supposedly occurred. In my office last week, a lady told me she woke up one morning and remembered that she had been abducted by a UFO and impregnated by aliens.”

  Bullock slowly returned to his table. “Dr. Allyn, do you believe Carlee Crane was an eyewitness to the murder of Maria Alvarez?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m sure she means well, but I don’t believe it”—he chuckled—“any more than I believed last week’s patient was carrying a Martian baby.”

  The jury smiled.

  “Thank you. No more questions.”

  The judge looked up from the bench. “Redirect?”

  Ben knew his expert had switched alliances in midtrial. A redirect would just be asking for trouble.

  But what the hell. He had to try. For Leeman’s sake. And Carlee’s.

  “Dr. Allyn, have you ever spoken to the prosecutor, Mr. Bullock, before today?”

  The doctor paused before answering. “No. Why?”

  Ben’s mind raced. Either he was lying, or this betrayal had been arranged through a third party. It was impossible to know. Ben hated cross-exing in the dark.

  “Have you spoken to anyone about your testimony?”

  “Mr. Kincaid, as you know, until this morning, I didn’t even know I would be testifying.”

  “Have you made a deal with the prosecutor?”

  “A deal? What are you babbling about?”

  “Why have you changed your testimony?”

  “Changed? Changed from what? This is the first time I’ve given it.”

  It was useless. Ben knew he had been stung, but he simply didn’t have enough information to prove it. “No more questions.”

  As he returned to his table Ben checked the faces in the jury box. No doubt about it. The effect of Bullock’s cross had been total and devastating. Carlee Crane would be written off as a well-meaning crackpot.

  Leeman Hayes was back to square one. With no defense.

  How could Bullock have known what was coming? How could he be so confident the expert would cave in during cross?

  As the doctor passed out of the courtroom Ben saw Bullock wink at a man in the back row. The man looked familiar.

  Ben craned his neck for a better view. It took him a minute to place the man. Then the light dawned.

  The air-conditioning company bill collector. The new one. The one who wouldn’t take “get lost” for an answer.

  The man who had staked out Ben’s office for the past few days.

  Ben turned toward Bullock, who was grinning broadly.

  Their eyes met. And it all became clear.

  The bill collector was a spy. Bullock’s spy. That’s how the prosecution knew Ben had a repressed-memory witness. They probably fed Jones the expert—an expert already prepped to shaft the defense during cross.

  No wonder Bullock hadn’t crossed Carlee. He knew he didn’t need to.

  The judge was pounding his gavel and shouting, trying to get Ben’s attention. “Any further witnesses, Mr. Kincaid, or does the defense rest?”

  God, no. Not now. Even if he had nothing more to say, he couldn’t leave me jury on this note. “We will proceed, your honor.”

  “Fine. Call your next witness.”

  “The defense calls—”

  Ben had to think on the spot. Where did he go now? Who was left? What else did he have?

  His eyes inadvertently returned to Bullock. He was leaning back in his chair, his arms folded, his legs comfortably crossed. He was so smug it was unbearable.

  Ben couldn’t leave it like this. No way in hell.

  He inhaled deeply and pulled himself back together. “The defense calls Ronald Pearson to the stand.” He paused. “Captain Pearson, that is.”

  67

  LIEUTENANT MIKE MORELLI PLODDED down the pavement of Third and Nowheresville. He was following the route outlined on his map, following a trail of ever-widening concentric, circles radiating from Tulsa International. He was hot and sweaty, his feet hurt, and he had blisters on both big toes. He told himself to ignore his discomfort. He wasn’t going to stop until he found what he was looking for.

  Mike might have been more willing to rest if a superior had imposed this impossible mission upon him, but since he’d thrust it upon himself, and since he knew it was only a matter of time until Blackwell brought it to an end, he couldn’t give up. He did feel bad about dumping Abie on Christina, especially when she already had Julia and what’s-his-face’s baby to worry about. Abie was pretty cute, even if he was a kid. It was hard to get too grumpy with someone who worshiped everything about you, including the rumpled coat you normally hid deep inside of.

  He had an obligation to give Abie some hope of long-term safety. And that hope could come about only if the man w
ho had kidnapped him was caught. Or dead.

  Mike thought he was getting closer. He couldn’t explain why, but that didn’t particularly trouble him. The longer he served on the force, the more he realized that data was not as important to a police officer as instinct. Maybe he was deluding himself; maybe he subconsciously assumed he must be getting close because his feet felt as if he had crisscrossed the whole city three times over. Then again, maybe his subconscious was zeroing in on something his conscious mind hadn’t discovered yet. Whatever. He thought he was getting close.

  Mike turned a corner too quickly and brushed shoulders with a burly teenage boy in a jeans jacket with the sleeves cut out. He was holding a can of spray paint.

  “Excuse me,” Mike said.

  The boy whipped around, then growled in a low voice. Yes, growled.

  Mike checked the emblem sewn on the back of his jacket. A snake curled around a handgun. He was a Cobra.

  Mike hated the Cobras. They pushed drugs. And they killed kids.

  And now this punk had the gall to growl at him. It would have given Mike great pleasure to call that an assault and give me clown a swift punch in the chops (in self-defense, of course), but for once, better judgment prevailed. Business before pleasure. Child molesters first; thugs second.

  He let the Cobra pass.

  Mike resumed walking. A few seconds later he turned the corner and noticed the stop sign:

  Obviously Cobra handwork. Now Mike wished he had stopped the creep; he was marking his territory and declaring his deadly intentions. Mike had learned that gang graffiti was neither random nor meaningless. You just had to know how to read it. The big letters at the top, the placa, was the territorial marker. The CB was the Cobra’s marker, KING was the kid’s gang name; DK meant Demons Killer, BOBA was undoubtedly the name of the poor Demon who had been targeted. And for what?

  No question. 187 was the penal-code number for homicide.

  After the hit, King would draw a cloud around Boba’s name, or perhaps add the letters R.I.P.

  Mike had been right. The Cobras were on the move, planning hits to undermine the Demons’ rival drug-distributing network. If something didn’t happen soon, it would be too late for Boba. And a lot of other kids as well.