Amnesia

by G. H. Ephron

  “But you’re innocent?”

  Jackson blinked at me. “You’re a smart guy. Suppose your ex-wife is killed at home. You’d be the most likely suspect, wouldn’t you? Your fingerprints on the fireplace poker, the kitchen knives. All the killer has to do is be careful and all the evidence points to you.” His logic took my breath away. I wondered if he knew. But he wasn’t looking for my reaction. He was wrapped in his own tale of woe. “And you know as well as I do she can’t remember zilch with a traumatic fronto-temporal injury to the brain.”

  That was a mouthful for a layman. “You sound like an expert.”

  “I read up on it. Someone needed to keep an eye on her doctors. Keep them honest. So that was me. Old Faithful. There, like I always am whenever she needs to be burped.”

  “You knew the victim?”

  “That asshole? So full of himself. To tell you the truth, I’m grateful to whoever killed him. Saved me the trouble.”

  “What made him an asshole?”

  Jackson fixed me with his eyes for a moment and then looked away. He shrugged. “With him, it wasn’t just sex. Said he was going to marry her. Kept putting it off. Said he was in the middle of some big business deal that was going to make a mint. As soon as his ship came in, they’d tie the knot. She swallowed it. Never did know what was good for her when it came to men.”

  I refrained from commenting on the irony of this. “How did that make you feel?”

  “How do you think it made me feel, Doctor?” Jackson asked. “I wanted to take a fireplace poker and beat the shit out of him.”

  “And did you?”

  “What do you think?”

  This guy was wearing a hole in my patience. “Mr. Jackson, I’m not here to play games with you. I’m here to assess whether you’re competent to stand trial. Are you feeling depressed right now?”

  “Wouldn’t you be?” He leaned across the table at me. “I’m depressed. I’m angry. And being in this hellhole sucks — it’s worse than county.”

  “You were in county when you tried to kill yourself?”

  He nodded and sank back into himself.

  “Are you feeling suicidal now?”

  “What’s the right answer?”

  “There is no right answer.”

  “Just help me understand this, Doc. You find me unfit for trial, they let me rot in here until I lose my mind completely. You find me competent, I get a lifelong vacation behind bars. Not much of a choice, is it?”

  “Are those the only options?”

  “You think a jury is going to find me innocent after sweet Syl points her pretty finger? I might as well commit suicide.”

  I contemplated Stuart Jackson. A smart man. A desperate man. Surely capable of passionate feelings, of violent anger. I admired his bravado in the face of a bleak future. I wondered, would a man this smart leave a piece of incriminating clothing as distinctive as a camouflage fatigue hat hanging around in a closet in his apartment? Maybe. If he were convinced that his victim couldn’t remember.

  “Mr. Jackson, has it occurred to you that if you succeed in taking your own life, everyone will assume that your ex-wife’s attacker has given himself the death penalty? Case closed, end of investigation.”

  For the first time since the interview started, his knee stopped jiggling.

  4

  I LEFT Bridgewater and was halfway home, turning the interview with Stuart Jackson over and over in my head, when I realized I had the car pushed up to 85 and I was clenching and unclenching my jaw. I slowed, checked the rearview mirror, and thanked the patron saint of scofflaws that I hadn’t been clocked. I didn’t need another ticket.

  Stuart Jackson hadn’t been what I’d expected. It pained me to admit it, but I’d expected him to be me, accused of murder, waiting for me to save myself. Big surprise — Stuart Jackson was a whole other person with his own complicated set of issues. A mess emotionally, depressed. But after what had happened, who wouldn’t be?

  Why was Chip wasting my time talking to him? Clearly he was competent to stand trial. One, he had all his marbles. And two, he wasn’t so guilt-ridden, confused, and depressed that he’d be out there helping the D.A. tie a noose around his own neck. Obviously the crux of the case, the proof of innocence or guilt, was in Sylvia Jackson’s head. Could she remember what she claimed she did — that was the key.

  That afternoon, I talked to Chip on the phone. He didn’t sound at all surprised when I told him Stuart Jackson was competent to stand trial. “And he’s become quite an expert on his wife’s condition,” I told him. “He’s right about one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If Sylvia Jackson did suffer a traumatic fronto-temporal injury to the brain from the gunshot, then she shouldn’t be remembering who shot her.”

  “Hmm,” Chip said. “Very interesting.”

  I didn’t smell a rat. I barreled on. “That’s where you should be concentrating your efforts.”

  “On Sylvia Jackson?”

  “On Sylvia Jackson.”

  “Assailing the credibility of the surviving victim? Very unorthodox, Peter. Could easily backfire.”

  He knows I find an argument irresistible. “Chip, you say there’s no direct evidence.”

  “Right.”

  “No witnesses.”

  “None.”

  “So everything hangs on her testimony. Her memory.”

  “And you think we can establish reasonable doubt?”

  “I think you’ve got a shot at it. Unless you have some other brilliant strategy up your sleeve.”

  “What do you need?”

  “What do you mean, what do I need? I gave you your hour. I even evaluated your client. I’m finished.”

  “Tell me the truth. Do you really think he’s guilty?”

  “Well, I —” I stopped myself. I was trying not to get sucked in but I was already up to my knees in quicksand. I had to admit, Stuart Jackson didn’t feel like a guilty man. He felt like a poor schnook.

  “He’s an innocent man who stands accused by the woman he loves.” Chip was pulling out all the stops. “It’s a double tragedy.”

  “She’ll make a helluva witness,” I commented.

  “You’re right about that. And you’d better believe, the prosecution’s case depends on it because she’s all they’ve got.”

  “Get the judge to let you examine her,” I said before I could stop myself.

  Chip choked and sputtered. “What judge is going to let us do that?”

  The guy could have qualified for an Academy Award. If we’d been face-to-face, I’d have been up and pounding the table. “It’s the only way.”

  “Can’t we just get someone to give expert testimony on traumatic brain injury and memory, evaluate the medical reports and talk about how her injuries are so grave that she couldn’t remember … . ?”

  “Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “Exciting stuff, memory theory. Guaranteed to anesthetize the jury. If you want a battle of the experts, then by all means get yourself a memory theorist. And don’t blame me when you’re disappointed because memory theory is full of qualifiers, maybes and buts standing in the way of the certainty you’re looking for.

  “But get an expert on brain trauma and memory in there to talk to her. Test her. See what’s going on with her memory now, after the injury. Then you might uncover something that could save Stuart Jackson’s skin.”

  “You know, there’s no precedent for it.”

  “Then here’s your chance. Create one.” I was breathing hard. Exhilarated. Like I’d just rowed across the finish line first.

  There was a pause. “I know of only one expert on brain trauma and memory who’s good enough to walk a jury through test results and theory without making Sylvia Jackson into a martyr. I need you, Peter.”

  This was where Chip had been headed all along. The trap was sprung — second time. I’d make an exceptionally stupid maze rat.

  “I’m not interested,” I said, but by now, my heart wasn’t in i
t. Chip didn’t say anything. “Really, I’m not interested,” I insisted, as if repetition could make a thing true.

  “Peter, tomorrow I’m going to petition the judge to let us evaluate Sylvia Jackson. If I get him to agree, then will you do it?”

  I swallowed. “We’ll see.”

  “I’ll take that as a maybe. I’ll get back to you as soon as we have an answer.”

  5

  I WAS at the nurses’ station a couple of days later, getting ready for morning rounds when Kwan stopped to pour himself coffee. “You signing autographs?” he asked.

  “Sure. Where do you want one?” I took a pen out of my pocket, uncapped it, and got ready to write on the sleeve of his Italian jacket.

  He opened a newspaper to a small article tucked well into the first section. “Jackson Defense to Call on Memory Expert.”

  I took the paper from him and sat down heavily. “Just what I need,” I muttered. Fortunately, the piece was short. Two inches of newsprint announced my being hired by the defense. By a small miracle, there was not one word in it about my wife’s murder.

  Until that moment, I’d been swept along in the good feeling of working again with Chip and Annie, distracted and energized by the intellectual challenge. Seeing it there in black and white made me queasy.

  Chip hadn’t actually come back to me and said, “So, what did you mean by ‘maybe’? Is it a yes or a no?” Instead, like a good advocate, when the judge agreed to an evaluation of Sylvia Jackson, Chip just kept moving forward as if I’d said I’d do it. And I hadn’t contradicted him. In fact, I’d been grateful that he didn’t put me on the spot — I might not have been able to wrap my mouth around an outright yes. Sending out a press release was his way of sealing the deal.

  Surely I hadn’t been naive enough to think I’d get through the investigation, the high-profile murder trial without finding my name in the press. Avoidance. Denial. Perfectly good coping mechanisms — perfect temporarily. Now I’d crashed head-on into reality. Time to face the consequences. If Kwan knew, so would anyone who read the Boston Globe. It was just a matter of time before my mother read it or one of her friends called her with the news. Better she heard it from me first.

  I handed the paper back to Kwan. “Do me a favor, please don’t post this one.” A few years ago, they did a feature article on me in the Living section. He’d framed a copy and hung it in the conference room over a sign that said: “Our Fearless Leader.”

  “Peter, you’re sure this is a smart thing? How’d they talk you into it?”

  “Actually, they let me talk myself into it.”

  Kwan gave me a knowing look. “Smart. That and a little flattery — does it every time.”

  “Good morning, I suppose.” It was Gloria. She yawned and sank heavily into the desk chair. “Could one of you take pity on me and pour me some coffee?”

  Kwan folded the paper and tucked it under his arm. “Have trouble sleeping?” he asked.

  “I slept like a stone, once I finally got home. I had to work a double.” I poured Gloria a mug of coffee and handed it to her. She cupped her hands around it, closed her eyes, inhaled, and took a sip. “Ah, that’s better.” She looked at Kwan. “Did you tell him about last night’s excitement?”

  “I was getting to it,” Kwan said.

  Gloria frowned and looked from Kwan to me and back again. Normally, we’d have discussed anything that went bump in the night first thing the next morning.

  “Go ahead,” Kwan suggested, “why don’t you tell him.”

  Gloria started. “Kootz got into it with O’Flanagan and —”

  Kwan jumped in, “and belted him upside the head, as they say.”

  “I thought you were going to let me tell this?” Gloria complained.

  Kwan put up his hands in surrender and the newspaper fell to the floor. Gloria and I collided reaching for it but she got there first. She continued, holding the newspaper and waving it as she talked. “I didn’t get in there until the fireworks were over. I think O’Flanagan was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know what that’s like … .” She stopped. “What are you staring at?” She looked at the folded newspaper still in her hand, then back up at me, her head cocked to one side. “I may be tired but I’m not dead. Something’s up.” She opened the newspaper. “What is it?”

  I pointed. She read the article. Then she took off her glasses and frowned. “Peter, you sure you’re ready for this?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know any such thing. “I got snookered. One minute I’m agreeing to an hour’s consult and then, before I know it, I’m evaluating the surviving eyewitness.”

  Her look hardened. “Peter, if you get snookered, it’s because you want to get snookered.”

  Gloria was right. I hadn’t been snookered. I’d taken the bait, nibbled on it, liked the taste, then chewed and swallowed. Now I had heartburn.

  I sighed. “I’ve got a phone call to make and then I think I’ll check in on Mr. O’Flanagan.”

  I walked down to the conference room to use the phone. On the way, my beeper went off. I was relieved that it wasn’t my mother. Whatever it was would hold until after I’d called her. She picked up on the first half-ring.

  “Hello, dear,” she chirped. She didn’t know yet.

  “Listen, I wanted you to hear it from me first —”

  “What should I hear from you first?”

  “I was thinking about working with the Public Defender’s Office on a new case.” It didn’t sound so bad when I put it that way. Unfortunately, it was a lie. “Actually, I’ve already started working on it.”

  Silence.

  “Mom?” More silence. “You still there?”

  “Of course I am. And here’s what I think of the idea. Bubkes. You don’t make enough money there at that fancy hospital you work at?”

  Nagging — it was a rare tactical error. For a moment, at least, I could feel put upon. “It’s not the money,” I said. My voice sounded brittle.

  “So what is it then?”

  That stopped me. Why was I getting involved in another murder case? Was my ego so big and my common sense so puny that I couldn’t see where this could lead? I dusted off the answer I would have given anyone who asked me that question two years ago. “I guess because it’s a mitzvah. Someone has to defend people who haven’t got the wherewithal to defend themselves. And I’m pretty good at it.”

  “Pssh,” my mother exhaled. She wasn’t buying.

  Now I had to defend myself. “You can say that all you like, but that’s the truth. This guy, the defendant? He reminds me of Uncle Louie. You know, wiry and smart. But a sucker for a pretty face.”

  “If he’s so smart …” she started, before amending it to, “so it’s another murder case.”

  “He’s innocent. I’m sure of it.” I felt suddenly deflated. “Pretty sure of it.”

  She didn’t say anything. I knew she’d be sitting there stone-faced. Silence had always been her greatest weapon. “Anyway — anyway, I wanted you to hear it from me. There’s a little article about it in the morning paper.” My mother groaned. “Page fourteen if you want to read about it.”

  “Please, please, please” — my mother sounded exhausted — “please, be careful.”

  I put down the phone feeling spent. I sat there breathing in and out, counting the breaths, and trying to collect enough energy to return the beep. I punched in the number. After one ring, an answering machine picked up. “You’ve reached Annie Squires … .”

  “Annie? Peter Zak, returning your call … .”

  There was a click, “Hey, Peter.”

  “Hey, yourself.”

  “I’m sitting here looking at a pile of Sylvia Jackson’s medical records and police interviews with your name on them.” I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t so sure that I was ready to start reading about bullet fragments lodged in the cerebral cortex. “I can drop them off later today.”

  I didn’t say anything. Bubkes, I heard my mother’s voice.

/>   “Or do you want me to drop them off at your house? I’ll be heading out that way late this afternoon. Either way —”

  “Right. You know where I am,” I muttered. Of course she did. The three of us had powwowed over cases in my living room many times. “Right. Sure, fine,” I added, to no one in particular.

  Annie ignored the awkwardness. “I don’t know about you, but I was stunned when the judge agreed to let us evaluate Sylvia Jackson. I think the D.A. was completely blindsided when Chip made the request. He blinked and the judge ruled in our favor. Of course, the downside is that Sherman’s been wounded where he hurts most — in his ego. This is not a guy who likes to be beaten.”

  I wasn’t looking forward to meeting Monty Sherman. Generally speaking, D.A.’s are a prickly breed to begin with, and this one was already aggravated.

  “Our office is setting up the dates and times for you to see her. Can you call in and tell them your schedule?”

  “Will do,” I said automatically.

  “So I’ll drop off the reports at your house?”

  It was a good thing I’d called my mother. With her built-in sonar for detecting movement around the house, she wasn’t likely to miss Annie Squires dropping off trial-related documents.

  “You okay with this, Peter?” Annie asked. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

  Of course I didn’t sound like myself. Should I suddenly start to sound like my old self, now that I was doing something that I’d done regularly before everything fell apart? If I’d been my own patient, I’d have observed that it was a first step.

  I hung up the phone and headed to the other end of the unit to visit Mr. O’Flanagan. I found myself wondering whether those reports would be there for me by the time I got home. Curiosity and interest were nestled in the anxiety lodged like a hairball in the pit of my stomach. Like many times over the last four days, I was actually thinking about something other than my patients or the past, and it felt good.

  I ran into our intern on my way to the common area to find Mr. O’Flanagan. Suzanne had been evaluating him, so I invited her to join me. We found him sitting placidly, staring off into space. I stooped and brought my face close to his. I could just make out a dark smudge under his bruised eye.