False Allegations b-9

by Andrew Vachss

  [Red] An "unfounded" allegation of child abuse does not mean the allegation was "false." The "unfounded" designation also applies to cases in which the investigation could not be completed because the suspects left the jurisdiction, etc. And many "founded" cases are never made the subject of a Child Protective Petition.

  [Blue] The "statistics" cited are not "statistics" at all. They are extrapolations based on estimates. No scientific validity.

  [Yellow] (1) Expert witness for the defense was quoted in an interview in which he defended "pedophilia" as an "alternate lifestyle." (2) Individual testifying here not recognized as "expert" by courts in three separate jurisdictions. (3) The term "validation" is a misnomer: "valid" means "true this time," while "reliable" means "true over time." (4) "Expert" cannot testify as to whether child is telling the truth—this invades the province of the jury.

  [Orange] Unsound research (sample too small, insufficient controls, et al.).

  [Green] Financial interest in outcome. Hidden agenda. Undisclosed connection to foundation named as principal in lawsuit. Settlement forced on defendant by insurance company.

  [Purple] Does not meet DSM–IV criteria for "syndrome." No data collected. Never submitted to refereed journal. Not scientific—merely the carefully packaged pronouncements of a merchant.

  [Tan] Case reversed on technical application of the Confrontation Clause. Media reports as "vindication" inaccurate.

  [Magenta] Statute of Limitations alert!

  [Cyan] (1) "Protective Parent" label entirely self–awarded, meaningless. (2) Diagnosis of Post–Traumatic Stress Disorder is not axiomatic indicator of child sexual abuse. Pressure to carry a false allegation could induce could stress in a child.

  [Pink] Journalists ranked on "Loyalty Index," set up a prediction model. 100% accurate: journalist's name a perfect predictor of the article's "findings."

  On the next page following, still in the same tiny handwriting, more notes:

  Hechler, The Battle and the Backlash…

  APSAC protocols…

  Salter, Treating Child Sex Offenders and Victims…

  "Expert" cites own articles as "source material"…

  NAMBLA member…

  501(c)(3) criteria precludes lobbying…

  And then the coda, all caps, double underlined, centered exactly at the bottom of the page:

  A TRUE DEBUNKER OPERATES WITHOUT AGENDA

  Kite's religion?

  I let it simmer a couple of days, waiting to see if Heather turned up the pressure. But the phone at Mama's stayed silent. Okay.

  "I'm ready to talk," I told her when she answered the phone.

  "Thank you so much," she whispered into the phone, an undercurrent of promise in her voice. "When can you do it?"

  "Tomorrow morning?"

  "I'll have to check—no, I know it'll be fine. Is ten all right?"

  "Yes."

  I docked the Plymouth in an outdoor lot north of the Fifty–ninth Street Bridge near the FDR and walked to Kite's building. I was dressed the same as I was the last time. Not because I thought Heather would pull the same stunt—I just wanted to make sure her memory was refreshed.

  She stood on the far side of the grille, wearing a black bustier under a transparent white blouse over black Capri pants anchored with a wide red belt. Her black–cherry hair was a lacquered helmet. Her eyes were little circles of orange glass in the dim light, bright even against the thick makeup. When she turned her back on me to lead the way, I saw she was back to spike heels. The left ankle was wrapped in tape—it must have been painful. I ignored the sway of her powerful hips, my eyes on her shoulders, but she stepped smoothly to one side to usher me into Kite's chambers without a hint of aggression.

  The butterscotch leather armchair was in place next to Kite's fan–shaped chair. He waved me over like he was an old pal who'd been waiting for me in our regular saloon. I took my seat. He didn't offer to shake hands. If he noticed anything different about my face, it didn't show on his.

  I heard the tap of her spike heels behind me. She leaned over with a glass of water, but she kept her head high, her nose almost in my hair. I heard a faint sniff, probably because I was listening for it. She was checking for cigarette smoke, her ankle reminding her not to relax her guard around me, but between the strong shampoo and the heavy gel, she didn't have a chance. I'd washed my hands in rubbing alcohol too, just in case.

  "I won't insult you by asking if you read the material I gave you," Kite said by way of opening. "I'm sure you wouldn't be here if you hadn't."

  "Okay," I said, staying inside myself. Thinking of that Zen rock, polished by years under the waterfall until it was as seamless as the water itself. Like Kite's rap. Prison is full of raps. Glassily ceramic, keeping your focus on the surface so you never looked inside. The cons who call themselves Aryans say blacks are mud people and whites are sun people. And the cons who call themselves Africans say blacks are earth people and whites are ice people. Two sides of the same smooth stone. And not a speck of truth under the sleek surface.

  "Do you have any reaction?" he asked, white eyebrows raised behind the pink glasses.

  "Liars lie," I said indifferently. "Guy rapes a woman in Dallas, he says it was consent, okay? Another guy rapes another woman in Chicago, he says it was consent too. That doesn't make it a national conspiracy. But some whore psychologist writes an article about some bullshit mental disorder that makes women who actually consented to sex scream 'Rape!' and all of a sudden, it's a fucking 'syndrome,' and defense attorneys have a field day."

  "It cuts the other way too," Kite said, leaning forward. "A gang of pedophiles sexually assault a child in Sweden. On the videotape, they're all wearing black. The same videotape shows up in the house of a collector in the United States. He's got a black shirt in his closet. So the police tell the newspapers they've cracked an international ring of child molesters."

  "Like I said: liars lie. So?"

  "So idiot therapists who do their incompetent 'validations' of child sexual abuse start adding 'Did he have a black shirt?' to their stupid checklists. And when they get an affirmative answer, as they inevitably will in some cases, there's their 'proof.' The first thing any charlatan needs is nomenclature. A special language. Trappings. That's the true genesis of psychobabble terms such as 'disclosure' and 'in denial.' Every good con man needs plausibility…"

  "People see what they want to see," I said. "Whatever pays their bills or races their motors. You pointed it out yourself, in the stuff you gave me."

  "And so what's missing?" he asked, making a temple of his fingertips, gazing out at me between them. "I'll tell you, Mr. Burke: objective, damn–the–consequences investigation. The entire problem with the so–called system is lack of objectivity. Prosecutors want to prove their cases, not find the truth. And defense attorneys…obviously, most of the time, it's their job to avoid the truth."

  "What about caseworkers?," I asked, knowing the answer. "Like for Child Protective Services?"

  "Please," he sneered. "Search as you might throughout this country, you will not find more undertrained, undersupervised, understaffed, and underpaid individuals. They operate entirely without protocols, without standards. Tell me this: Why should a case of suspected child abuse not be investigated the precise same way in Detroit as it is in Denver? In some jurisdictions, they use actual social workers. MSWs. In others, any college degree will suffice. Do you know what the Star Chamber was, Mr. Burke?"

  "England, right? Three, four hundred years ago? A little room where they dragged you in and told you you were guilty."

  "Close enough," he acknowledged. "For the child, for the putatively abused child, every single little caseworker is a personal Star Chamber. If that caseworker decides there is probable cause to proceed, so be it. But if he or she does not, then what? Nothing. Nothing at all. If the caseworker is a bigot, or a moron, or an overzealous do–gooder, that determines the result, not the facts. The true investigator is, first and foremost, a skeptic. He
does not operate under superstition or myth. But if you have a caseworker who doesn't 'believe' incest occurs, any investigation that individual performs will be fatally flawed…and the poor child won't have a chance."

  "And if they see incest under every bed…"

  "Yes! Then the poor parents won't have a chance either. In America, the predominant factor in the outcome of any child abuse case isn't the truth itself. No, it's the quality of advocacy on either side. An incompetent prosecutor, or even a lazy one, will result in more acquittals than even the most brilliant defense could provide."

  "Yeah, and—"

  "Of course"—he cut me off—"a sufficiently skilled defense can shred even the truest case. It happens all the time." He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Mr. Burke, I live in the crossfire between two armed camps: the 'Believe the Children!' lunatics and the 'False Allegations!' fanatics. My only weapon is the truth. And if my syndrome is to achieve genuine professional acceptance, I must avoid the personal stigma of being associated with either group. My credentials as a debunker are impeccable when it comes to child sexual abuse. I have exposed case after case of incompetent, shoddy, or outright fabricated allegations of child sexual abuse. But I have never taken the position that such things do not, in fact, occur…and I personally find every single such occurrence abominable. Most cases, if you work them diligently enough, are susceptible to actual proof. And if the law were brought into the twentieth century, that proof would be much more widely available."

  He took a short breath. When I didn't say anything, he rolled on like there had been no pause. "For example, the law should be that every single abortion performed on a minor must include the preservation of fetal tissue for DNA analysis. You could not ask for better, stronger proof of incest, if it actually caused the pregnancy. But the anti–abortion crowd, those so–called 'pro–family' people, they are bitterly opposed. And they have enough clout in Congress to keep such a law off the books."

  "Kids don't vote," I said softly. Thinking: They don't carry guns either. Until they get older. And then they almost always shoot each other.

  "Politics doesn't interest me," Kite replied. "The political process is tawdry, as whorish as anything you could find in Times Square. I'm not an organizer. I don't speak at conferences. I don't go to demonstrations. I'm not even an activist. I hunt…the truth. My contribution will be the FSG syndrome," he said, voice thickening. "And I do not intend to have all my years of research and investigation trivialized by snide little comments about my objectivity. My syndrome has validity only through contrast," he continued, his no–color complexion blotching red. "That is the very essence of investigation: friction creates heat, and heat creates light. The light of truth."

  "And I come in…where?" I asked him, calling a halt to the flow. I could hear a harsh, resentful intake of breath somewhere behind me. Heather, angry that the minister's sermon was interrupted by some fool talking in church.

  He took a deep breath. I heard the tap of spike heels. Heather brought him an earless white china cup, holding it in both hands like a precious offering. He sipped from the cup, inhaling the fumes as he did, pulling in calm. "Forgive me," he said quietly. "I am not normally a passionate man. This…my syndrome…is the one thing that inspires me to emotionalism. Your question is a fair one. I should have anticipated it—and answered it—first. Mr. Burke, I am not usually publicly associated with the cases I investigate. I have no desire for the spotlight, quite the contrary, in fact. But I realize that all causes need publicity if they are to capture the imagination—and the support—of the public. An hour on Oprah is, regrettably, worth more to a cause than a hundred articles in the most prestigious journals.

  "Indeed, I will be completely honest with you: Miss Winfrey is one of my objectives. She combines a massive audience with a high degree of personal credibility. And on this particular issue, child sexual abuse, she has been a leading figure in American consciousness."

  "I still don't get it," I told him. "You can't just call up and book a spot on Oprah. She doesn't do Siamese–twin lesbian dwarf adultery stuff the way the others do."

  "Mr. Burke, believe me, I have thoroughly researched all the available television talk shows. In fact, I've made poor Heather monitor them every day for months," he said, glancing over my shoulder. She made some little sound, too faint for me to recognize. "The sexual abuse industry has made it impossible for a straightforward victim to tell her story. Simple incest won't even get you a booking on the trash shows anymore. It isn't good theater. But in a short time," he said soberly, "a young woman is going to come forward with the most shocking allegations concerning a major figure in a religious organization. She will have no conventional proof other than her own word. She will be immediately embraced by one end of the continuum…and immediately attacked by the other. I plan to stand with her, right in the middle of that firestorm, because every word she will utter will be the truth. I expect to defend her against all the so–called investigators who will try to tear her story apart. For the first time in my career, I will personally handle a case," he said, voice gathering momentum. "As her attorney, I will sue not only the perpetrator of the crimes against her; I will sue the organization which spawned him and tolerated his predatory conduct. I will fight them when they raise the statute of limitations; I will fight them on the law; I will fight them on the facts." He took a deep breath. "And I will prevail. The truth will prevail."

  "So this is all about a lawsuit?" I said.

  "No, Mr. Burke," he said sharply, "this is not about a lawsuit. It is about the launch of a new era in the investigation of child sexual abuse. This case will be my credential, my entrée to the rarefied air of public credibility. You see, I do expect to be on Oprah. But without my client. The show will not be about this one case, it will be about my syndrome. Before I can establish a new method of investigation, which will disprove false allegations, I need to establish that some allegations are true. Yes, this one case will get me on the show. But I will use the time to illustrate dozens of other cases. Cases in which my syndrome was employed as the ultimate litmus test."

  "Yeah, all right. But I still don't see where I come in."

  "Because I have to be sure, Mr. Burke. Everything is riding on that one foundation. And unlike others in my profession, I will never fall victim to arrogance. I am convinced to a moral certainty that this young woman is telling the truth. But I cannot take chances, not with an undertaking of this magnitude. I want you to step in now. I want you to do anything you can, and I mean anything at all, to break the young woman's story. If there's a defect anywhere, I want you to find it."

  "But if I did find one…?"

  "Then there is no case," he said flatly. "And I will wait patiently for another which appears to meet all my criteria. This isn't about money for me, not at all. In fact, I am taking this case pro bono, waiving my fee entirely, including expenses. But I know I will come under fire, and I simply cannot risk being wrong."

  "How do you expect me to—?"

  "I don't care what you do, Mr. Burke. I hope I made that crystal clear. I want the truth. Wherever it may be found and whatever it turns out to be. My client has pledged full cooperation. She will answer any questions you have…and do whatever else you want."

  "You polygraphed her?"

  "Yes. Two separate examiners, with impeccable credentials. No deception was indicated.

  "She saw a psychiatrist?"

  "And a psychologist. Both agreed: Post–Traumatic Stress Disorder. The psychologist's diagnosis included child sexual abuse as proximate cause. The psychiatrist wouldn't go that far…but they never do."

  "Medicals?"

  "Inconclusive. You'll see for yourself."

  "Independent corrob?"

  "Same answer."

  "How much time would I have?"

  "As much as you need," he said. "I am not going to move forward until I'm absolutely certain. You are the last piece of the puzzle, Mr. Burke. My own investi
gation is completed—the lawsuit awaits only your own."

  "You went to a lot of trouble," I said quietly.

  "I always do," he replied.

  I could feel Heather behind me, the sheer intensity of her pushing against the cushion of air between us. "How would we work it?" I asked him.

  I couldn't read his eyes behind the pink glasses. A tic jumped in his face. "We both know paying someone by the hour leads to potential corruption," he said calmly. "The same goes for paying by the result. I propose a flat fee, open–ended. I will be buying your complete investigation, for as long as it takes. And your confidential report."

  "I won't—"

  "Not in writing, Mr. Burke. You report to me. Verbally. Your name never comes into this."

  "And you wouldn't expect me to testify?"

  A smile snaked its way from one corner of his mouth, disappearing when it reached the far end. "No offense, Mr. Burke, but your record makes you something less than an ideal candidate for courtroom testimony."

  "None taken," I assured him.

  "Then there's only the matter of your fee."

  "I don't know how to estimate a job like this," I told him. "Could take a long time to—"

  "I understand. Still…I was thinking, say, thirty thousand dollars. In cash, of course. Payable one–third now, one–third as you progress, and the final third when you tender your report."

  "I was thinking seventy–five," I said, taking the traditional gangster lawyer's route: more than double your asking fee, get the biggest chunk you can right then, and expect the client to stiff you for the rest. "Half up front, half when I'm done."

  "Yes, I'm sure," he said smoothly. "Perhaps a compromise is in order. Heather!"

  I heard the tap of her heels, caught a glimpse of her black–sheathed hips as she brushed past me to my left. She was back in a minute, carrying a slim black anodized–aluminum case. She bent forward, her back to Kite, and put the case in my lap.

  "There's fifty thousand dollars in there, Mr. Burke," he said. "In a form I'm certain will be acceptable to you. Will you take that as payment in full?"