Dante's Dilemma Page 13

  I shrugged once more, like it was nothing.

  “What’s the explanation?” Father Chuck asked.

  “Got into a shoving match with some PRs on the train.”

  “I don’t think so. They would have broken at least one of your arms.”

  “I run fast.”

  “I bet you do. You ever tell anyone about it?”

  “About gangs in the subway? I’m sure the Daily News is all over it.”

  “About how your old man beats the crap out of you.”

  I felt the heat rise in my face. “What do you mean? We’re a perfectly normal American family.”

  “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me so far. Does it bother you?”

  No. I enjoy being beaten to a pulp by my only living relative. Why do you ask?

  I looked down at my scuffed Wallabees, the only nonuniform attire we were allowed at school, and willed away the tears that were forming at the back of my eyes. The cigarette no longer tasted good, so I put it out.

  Father Chuck continued on a philosophical note. “You probably think no one cares, that it will always be this way for kids. But the tide is changing. People are finally starting to understand the effects of violence—how it destroys all of us, whether it takes place thousands of miles away or right here at home.”

  “You’re including the guys you work for in this big change of heart?”

  “You’re right. For too long the Church hasn’t practiced what it preaches. But that’s changing, too. In ten or twenty years—maybe sooner—corporal punishment will no longer be tolerated, even in religious schools. And your father would be forced to undergo counseling, if not arrested for what he’s doing.”

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. “He’s just trying to . . . I don’t know. I’m difficult.”

  “No you’re not, son. You’re just a kid with something eating at you. Like leprosy, only on the inside.”

  “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?” I asked, wishing he would just leave me alone.

  His next words floored me. “Just this. You seem to have a flair for science. Have you ever thought of becoming a doctor?”

  A voice abruptly jolted me back to the present. “Dr. Angelotti?”

  “Hmmm?” I said absently, still locked in the memory.

  “It’s me, Michelle Rogers. They asked me to come get you. The court has just recessed for fifteen minutes, but you’re up next.”

  I checked my watch. It was just after 10:30 a.m. on the third day of the Lazarus trial.

  SIXTEEN

  “All rise.”

  I stood stiffly behind counsel table while Judge Sanford Katsoros entered the courtroom, bouncing up to the bench like a beach ball. I’d been told he was a dapper man whose campaign slogan—“Justice with a Compassionate Hand”—could be viewed as false advertising since he always handed down the stiffest sentence the law would allow. On the other hand, “Judge Sandy” fancied himself an intellectual and would listen to arguments other jurists might find preposterous or at best far afield. Though he kept a firm grip on the proceedings, he encouraged healthy skepticism of the rules, leading to a reversal rate that would have gotten an NFL referee fired but failed to dissuade the voters who had thus far awarded him four terms.

  “You may all be seated,” the judge said after his clerk announced his name. The room was then still, except for the usual hushed coughs and scraping of feet. Judge Katsoros ruffled some papers and said, “Counsel, is there any business we need to conduct before I have the jury brought back in?”

  “No,” Hallie said, from somewhere off to my left. In the static, florescent lighting of the courtroom, I could see close to nothing, but I knew that Rachel Lazarus would be seated by her side, pale and thin and wearing what the newspapers referred to as a “subdued dark dress.” I wondered whether she would come to regard me as her champion or her executioner. Depending on how things went, I could end up being either.

  “I have one thing to raise,” Di Marco said from his position at my side.

  “Yes?” the judge prompted.

  “I’m anticipating a lengthy examination of the State’s next witness, Dr. Angelotti. Just to keep things moving, I’m wondering if defense counsel would be willing to stipulate to his qualification as an expert witness? That way we won’t have to waste the jury’s valuable time going over his résumé.”

  It was an unusual request—and a clever one. Normally, the lawyer who puts on an expert witness will want to spend as much time as possible dwelling on his or her credentials in an effort to sway the jury with their breadth and impressiveness. By foregoing that tactical advantage, Di Marco was already signaling his intentions. Though constrained to put me on the stand, he obviously hoped to keep the jury from paying much, if any, attention to me. I waited to see how Hallie would handle it.

  Rising, she said sweetly, “While I appreciate counsel’s interest in streamlining the proceedings, I for one would like to hear everything there is to know about Dr. Angelotti.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Di Marco snapped without thinking. “She has a copy of his CV. What else does she need?”

  “Counsel,” Judge Katsoros said sharply. “In my courtroom, lawyers are referred to as ‘counsel.’ Not as ‘he’ or ‘she.’”

  Di Marco hastened to rectify the mistake. “Yes, Your Honor. I apologize for forgetting that. But may I respectfully point out that Ms. Sanchez and Dr. Angelotti are already well known to each other?”

  “Why? Are they married?” the judge asked, drawing guffaws from the spectator section.

  “No,” Di Marco answered. “But she—that is, Ms. Sanchez—has previously retained Dr. Angelotti in a professional capacity. As a witness for one of her clients in a recent matter.”

  This sparked the judge’s interest. “Is that so, counsel?” he asked Hallie.

  “Actually, he was forced on me by circumstances,” Hallie answered, giving me a telepathic wink. “And performed only adequately on the stand. Frankly, I was surprised to hear that Mr. Di Marco chose him over other available experts. But whatever our past affiliation, my only duty in this case is to Ms. Lazarus. Therefore, I shall have to reserve judgment about Dr. Angelotti’s fitness as an expert until I have heard testimony about his qualifications—every last one of them.”

  “It’s her right,” the judge said to Di Marco, forgetting his own rule. “All right then, let’s hear what the fellow has to say.”

  The bailiff opened the door and the jurors shuffled in. In Illinois, criminal defendants are entitled to choose the size of the jury, and Hallie had gone for the traditional twelve, no doubt hoping to increase her chances of an acquittal. Of the panel that had been selected, eight were women and two belonged to minorities, a good outcome for Lazarus, though nothing was ever guaranteed.

  When they were settled, Di Marco called my name and I stood.

  To cane or not to cane? That was the question I’d mulled over on my way to court. Outdoors, leaving my white stick behind required a bravado bordering on lunacy. But inside, on relatively familiar ground, I could get by. Defense lawyers loved the cane and the morbid fascination it generated. They told me jurors never dozed when I was on the stand. But today was not the day to be courting their pity. By this time, I knew the standard setup of courtrooms at Twenty-Sixth and Cal reasonably well. The only challenge was getting myself over to the witness box without appearing drunk or disoriented.

  To counteract any such misimpression, I took the folded-up cane, which had previously been hidden in my lap, and placed it prominently on the table in front of me. I then strode as nonchalantly as possible out into the room, using the spatial sense that every blind person eventually develops to cross the short distance. A few tense moments later found me climbing into my seat a few yards away from the jury. To top off the performance, I turned toward them and smiled affably.

  My purpose wasn’t lost on Di Marco. As soon as I was sworn, he asked me if I’d forgotten something.


  “I don’t think so.”

  “I meant this,” he said, picking up the cane.

  “Oh, that,” I said. “Thanks, but as you can see, I don’t always need it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  To anyone familiar with trial dynamics, it must have seemed surreal. I was Di Marco’s witness, but instead of bolstering my credibility, he was doing his damnedest to call it into question. But I knew the rules. As long as I remained calm and cooperative—in legal parlance nonhostile—Di Marco couldn’t lead, cross-examine, or attack me outright.

  “So you’re saying you aren’t really blind?”

  Hallie rose and objected. “Your Honor, I have to say I’m confused. This sounds like cross-examination. And why is the witness’s visual impairment relevant?”

  “Yes, Mr. Di Marco,” Judge Katsoros agreed. “What is the purpose of these questions?”

  Di Marco retreated quickly. “My apologies to Dr. Angelotti. I only wanted to give him the opportunity to explain his condition—to prevent any misunderstanding on the jury’s part.”

  “I’ll allow you to proceed, then,” the judge said. “But politely.”

  Di Marco turned back to me. “So, Doctor, are you or aren’t you blind?”

  “Legally,” I answered, using a term I tend to avoid since it has no medical meaning. As I often had to explain, blindness exists along a spectrum—the true Fifty Shades of Grey—making the legal definition a more or less arbitrary construct. But to the majority of people, “legally blind” sounds far less incapacitated than “blind,” which is why I chose it.

  “‘Legally blind.’ What does that mean exactly?” Di Marco pressed on, still trying to gain an advantage.

  “It means I can claim an extra personal deduction when I pay my taxes,” I said in all seriousness.

  “Is that all?”

  “And that I could live off the generosity of the Social Security system if I had to.”

  Several of the jurors chuckled at this, causing Di Marco to realize the attack was backfiring. He dropped it, and we spent the next thirty minutes on my résumé, with Di Marco asking short, pained questions and me doing my best to supply fulsome, but not boastful answers. When that was finally over, he moved to have the court recognize me as an expert witness on matters pertaining to the mental state of the defendant, Rachel Lazarus.

  “Any objection?” Judge Katsoros asked the defense.

  “None, Your Honor,” Hallie said. “After listening to Dr. Angelotti’s many accomplishments, I’d be glad to have him working for me.”

  “Who says he isn’t?” Di Marco muttered under his breath.

  The main act was now ready to begin.

  Though it wasn’t required, in an ordinary situation, Di Marco would have started off by questioning me about everything I had done to prepare for my testimony. Like the lengthy recitation of my credentials, it would have been calculated to impress the jury with the scope and comprehensiveness of my investigation. The more work I had done, the more informed and credible my opinion would seem. And showing the jury that I had left no stone unturned would cut off the most obvious areas for cross-examination.

  But this was far from an ordinary situation.

  “Doctor,” Di Marco said when we were ready to begin, “will you explain for the jury the circumstances under which you were retained.”

  “I was hired by the State to examine Rachel Lazarus, and to render a professional opinion about her mental health at the time of the incident in question,” I said, steering well clear of words like murder, husband, and emasculation.

  “Rachel Lazarus, the defendant here?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Was this immediately after her arrest last May?”

  “No.”

  “Can you put a time frame on it for us?”

  “I first learned of the assignment in mid-December.”

  “And how did you learn about it?”

  “My superior informed me that my services had been specially requested by State’s Attorney O’Malley.”

  “Do you know the reason?”

  “I believe it was because, as we covered earlier, I have a specialty in post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  It wasn’t the answer Di Marco wanted. “That wasn’t what I was asking. To your knowledge, were you the first expert psychiatric witness retained by the State?”

  “No.”

  “There was someone before you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Dr. Bradley Stephens.”

  “Was Dr. Stephens known to you before that time?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “How was he known to you?”

  “He was known to me professionally through his writing and speaking engagements—and also as a friend.” I could have off left the last bit, but in the worst-case scenario I wanted the jury to know that I bore no animosity toward Brad.

  “What was your opinion of Dr. Stephens—professionally that is?”

  “I held him in very high regard.”

  “Why isn’t Dr. Stephens here today?”

  “He was killed in a hit-and-run accident shortly before I was hired.”

  “Tragic,” Di Marco remarked. It was probably sincere. “So you were hired to render a psychiatric opinion about the defendant in his stead?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Before we go any further, why don’t you state what that opinion is?”

  I realized I had been sitting rather stiffly in my chair. I assumed a more relaxed posture, folded my hands in my lap, and half-turned toward the jury. The courtroom was as hushed as a mortuary while I spoke:

  “It is my opinion that Ms. Lazarus’s behavior on the day of the crime is reasonably viewed as a reaction to severe and recurring stress, a psychological disorder recognized in the American Psychiatric Association’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders as post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. One symptom of this disorder is the individual’s attempt to ‘relive’ through thoughts and fantasies the original stressful episodes in an attempt to bring about a more successful—that is psychologically acceptable—result. These attempts are sometimes referred to as ‘flashbacks.’ During a flashback, an individual may feel detached or estranged from the world around him or her and later have no memory of what transpired. It’s as if he or she was in an altered state of consciousness.

  “Several features of Ms. Lazarus’s conduct suggest that she was experiencing a flashback when she traveled to her estranged husband’s home on the evening he died. Lazarus’s marriage was an extremely unhappy one, marked by nearly constant verbal and physical abuse. Over the course of many years, her husband had beaten, threatened, taunted, and ridiculed her. On one occasion, he held a knife to her throat; on several others, he pushed her down a flight of stairs. He also forced her to have unwanted sex with him. There were many times when Lazarus feared for her life.

  “The painful memories of those years consumed Lazarus. After moving out of the couple’s residence, she lost consciousness several times for no apparent reason, once after observing an act of physical violence on the street. She also suffered from repeated nightmares. Shortly before Mr. Westlake’s death, she reported watching an episode of House Hunters, which reminded her of a favorite childhood book—A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I believe this trigger is both what led her to her husband’s home that night and what occurred thereafter.”

  I stopped there to heighten the suspense.

  Di Marco was incredulous. “What does a book have to do with it?” he demanded.

  “A Tree Grows in Brooklyn contains a famous scene, one that caused it to be banned by the Catholic Church. In it, the young protagonist, Francie, who lives in poverty with her family in Brooklyn, is attacked and almost raped by a child molester. Francie’s mother saves her by shooting the rapist.” I paused and added for effect, “in his genitalia.”

  A murmur of appreciation shot
through the courtroom.

  Di Marco didn’t like this. “And that tells you what?”

  “It tells me that Ms. Lazarus was remembering the scene in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, which further sparked memories of her husband raping her. When she went to his home that night, she was ‘reliving’ those memories, hoping to erase them.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “No. Ms. Lazarus remembers very little about that night. What I just said is an inference based on my training and years of practice. Flashbacks in PTSD sufferers are often triggered by a trivial or chance happening, similar to what occurred here. The fact that Ms. Lazarus’s memory of the events is hazy to nonexistent is also consistent with my opinion that she was reliving prior experiences.”

  “Let me see if I can get this straight,” Di Marco said. “You’re saying something she remembered from that book gave her the idea of chopping off his . . . I mean, emasculating him?”

  “Not the idea, per se. But in her subconscious mind, she was looking for a savior, someone like Francie’s mother, to rescue her from memories that had become unbearable for her.”

  “Sounds more like an act of revenge to me,” Di Marco said.

  It wasn’t a question, but Hallie didn’t object, probably because she thought I was holding my own.

  I shook my head. “While the means Ms. Lazarus used to restore her psychological well-being may seem extreme—even shocking—to some, it’s important to remember that she was not functioning as a conscious person during the incident in question. Individuals in the throes of flashbacks often have diminished self-control, again because they are disassociated from their surroundings. When I interviewed her in prison, Ms. Lazarus reported feeling very strangely that night, as though she were watching herself from a great distance. That’s classic flashback behavior.”

  Di Marco evidently thought the jury had heard enough about flashbacks and switched gears. “You spoke of the defendant having PTSD.”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  “But not Battered Woman Syndrome.”

  “Again, that’s true. BWS has been largely rejected by the psychiatric community as lacking a proven scientific basis.”