Dante's Dilemma Page 14

  “So if I were to tell you that the expert testimony to be offered by the defense relies exclusively on BWS to explain Ms. Lazarus’s actions, you would take issue with that?”

  I was a little surprised that Hallie had left herself open to this line of attack. But it was probably explained by the fact that she’d come into the case at the eleventh hour. She’d told me she was unhappy with the expert selected by the public defender. Perhaps there hadn’t been time to find another one. With a slight nod in her direction, I replied:

  “I would have to. While battering is a serious social problem, at present there is insufficient evidence to show that BWS meets the rigorous criteria for recognition as a bona fide mental disorder. The so-called symptoms of the syndrome are nonspecific—in other words, a wide variety of events can cause them—leaving mental-health professionals without a means of separating fact from fiction. Headaches, for example, are a common complaint of women said to be suffering from BWS, but they can be caused by nearly anything. Further, because it is defined as a syndrome uniquely affecting women, BWS reinforces stereotypes about female passivity and helplessness. For women who have indeed been chronically battered, PTSD offers a more reliable—and gender neutral—means of assessment.”

  “Let’s talk about reliability, then. A large part of your diagnosis rests on the domestic abuse that took place in the Westlake home. How certain are you that it occurred?”

  “As certain as I can be, based on Ms. Lazarus’s self-report, as well as records of police visits to the home that were in the files furnished to me by your office.”

  “Was the murder victim, Professor Westlake, ever arrested for these so-called crimes?”

  “No. My understanding is that Ms. Lazarus declined to press charges.”

  “And you don’t think that undermines her claims of abuse?”

  “It’s common to think that battered wives can put an end to the violence simply by removing themselves from an abusive spouse. But for many women in that situation, it’s not that simple. Often, they’re financially dependent on their batterer and fear losing their homes, custody of their children, or in the worst case, their lives by leaving. The experience of battered women in the courts backs up that fear.”

  “Ms. Lazarus was a well-educated woman, wasn’t she?”

  “She had a college degree, yes.”

  “And the couple was well-off financially.”

  “Also true, but beside the point. It’s a myth that domestic violence occurs only among the poor. In fact, the problem exists at every income level, but a culture of silence in upscale communities has prevented it from being widely recognized. Wealthy women are often disbelieved when they report physical abuse, or their husbands counter with suits for defamation. It becomes all-out legal warfare for the victim, even in the rare case when she can match her spouse’s financial resources. That plus the social stigma make it a tremendously difficult thing to do. We shouldn’t blame Ms. Lazarus for not having the courage to end her marriage sooner.”

  “Can we blame her for anything?” Di Marco snapped, forgetting himself again.

  “Your Honor—” Hallie began.

  “Wait,” I said, holding up my hand. “There’s more.”

  Di Marco tried to cut me off. “There’s no question pending.”

  “That’s because you didn’t let him finish,” Hallie retorted quickly.

  “I agree,” Judge Katsoros said from the bench. “You may continue,” he told me.

  “Rachel Lazarus was physically and emotionally abused not just as an adult, but also throughout her childhood, by a mother I strongly suspect was suffering from borderline personality disorder, or BPD. Mothers with BPD are characteristically violent and have difficulty controlling intense, inappropriate anger, usually brought about by persistent fears of abandonment. Think Mommie Dearest, if you will. The psychological effects on a child growing up in that kind of home can be devastating. Such children tend to blame themselves for their parent’s outbursts and to carry a negative self-image into adulthood. Not surprisingly, many of them end up in abusive relationships, for which they again blame themselves. I believe this also explains why Ms. Lazarus had difficulty extricating herself from her marriage.”

  I shut up then, well pleased with myself. I had scored as many points as I could despite Di Marco’s attempts to derail my testimony. My words had laid the groundwork for acquittal and given the jury something to think about besides the shocking state of Westlake’s corpse and the monstrous impulse that seemed to lie behind it. Whatever fate ultimately awaited her, someone had finally spoken up for Rachel Lazarus.

  SEVENTEEN

  Di Marco’s next thrust came as no surprise.

  “Doctor, earlier in your testimony you said that you were hired to evaluate the defendant in December.”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “So you had only a few weeks to prepare for your testimony.”

  “Yes.”

  “Was that sufficient time for your purposes?”

  “It was because of the work done by my predecessor. All of Dr. Stephens’s files, including tapes of his sessions with Ms. Lazarus, were furnished to me before I began work on the matter.”

  “Would you say that Dr. Stephens did a thorough job?”

  “Very.”

  “Please describe the work that he did.”

  I went through the information Brad had collected, the tests he had run, the archival or third-party information he had relied on, and the psychological literature he had consulted.

  “All told, it represented about a week of reading material.”

  “And you read all of it yourself?” Di Marco asked with a slight sneer.

  “Yes. I downloaded it into my computer and listened to it using a specialized software program known as a screen reader.”

  “I see,” Di Marco said, to underscore that I hadn’t. “How many hours did Dr. Stephens spend interviewing the defendant?”

  “Close to twenty.”

  “Were you also able to interview Ms. Lazarus yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many hours did you spend with her?”

  “I was only allowed two hours by the court.”

  “So only a tenth of the time Dr. Stephens spent.”

  I couldn’t argue with the math. “Correct.”

  “Doctor, before his untimely death, did Dr. Stephens prepare a report of his findings?

  “Yes.”

  “Which you had access to?”

  “It was delivered to me along with the rest of his files.”

  “Presumably, you listened to that too.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Good,” Di Marco said, like this was going to be a piece of cake. “So you’ll be able to tell us what those findings were.”

  The moment for Hallie to act had arrived. “Judge, before this goes any further, may we have a sidebar?”

  That’s my girl, I thought happily.

  Di Marco and Hallie approached the bench, and I leaned over to eavesdrop.

  “What’s her—I mean, counsel’s—problem?” Di Marco demanded in a harsh whisper.

  Hallie wasted no time answering. “I object to any reference to Dr. Stephens’s so-called findings on the ground that they invade the province of the jury.”

  Di Marco was caught completely off guard. “What? How’d she? I didn’t—” he began.

  Hallie cut him off. “Doctor Angelotti forwarded a copy of the report to me last week.”

  “You were in contact with my witness?” Di Marco said shrilly. “Judge, that’s sanctionable.”

  “Pipe down,” the judge commanded. “Or they’ll be able to hear you as far away as State Street. What’s your answer to that, Ms. Sanchez?”

  “We didn’t communicate ex parte, if that’s what counsel means. Dr. Angelotti simply forwarded both written reports—his and Dr. Stephens’s—with a note saying Mr. Di Marco had instructed him to furnish me with copies. In the interest of full disc
losure.”

  In this instance, full disclosure included the fluorescent Post-It flags I had Yelena stick on various pages of Brad’s report to make sure Hallie gave them her full attention. But Hallie had spoken the literal truth: the two of us hadn’t exchanged a word since that day in the jail.

  “You did ask Dr. Angelotti to send it, didn’t you?” Hallie continued in an angelic tone, putting Di Marco on the spot.

  Di Marco hadn’t, nor as I’d suspected, seen fit to provide a copy to the defense himself, clearly hoping to spring it as a surprise at trial. But he couldn’t admit to that without Hallie calling him on a violation of the rules. “Sure,” he mumbled in a tight voice.

  “In that case,” Judge Katsoros said, “let’s hear her objection.”

  “If I may tender a copy of Dr. Stephens’s report to the court?”

  The judge agreed and Hallie went on. “Drawing Your Honor’s attention to pages twenty-eight and twenty-nine, you’ll see that Dr. Stephens’s ‘expert’ opinion is nothing more than a statement of his belief that my client is a liar. The law is clear in this and virtually every other jurisdiction that the defendant’s credibility is not an appropriate subject for expert testimony. It’s not helpful to the jury, which is charged with making its own decision about truthfulness, and is unfairly prejudicial to the accused. For that reason, the admission of such testimony is considered plain error and grounds for automatic reversal.”

  This couldn’t help being of concern to the judge. “I hope you have a good response to that, Mr. Di Marco.”

  Di Marco scrambled to come up with one. “He didn’t say she was a liar. He said she was lying about her mental state. That’s well within his psychiatric expertise.”

  “Same difference,” Hallie said. “Either way, the message it sends is that Ms. Lazarus isn’t telling the truth. That’s for the jury to decide.”

  I was elated that my strategy seemed to be working.

  But even good lawyers can make a mistake.

  “And, if that isn’t enough, the report is hearsay,” Hallie added without needing to.

  “It’s not hearsay if this”—Di Marco bit his tongue—“this witness relied on it.”

  “He clearly didn’t rely on the part we’re discussing. What’s more, Dr. Angelotti is here and can be cross-examined about his findings. Dr. Stephens obviously cannot.”

  “All right. Quiet, both of you, while I think about this,” Judge Katsoros said.

  It gave Di Marco just enough time to regroup.

  The judge was on the verge of ruling when Di Marco spoke up again, “Excuse me, Your Honor. I didn’t mean to interrupt. But counsel’s last few remarks have suggested a compromise.”

  “What’s that?” the judge asked.

  “I’d like permission to treat this witness as hostile.”

  Now it was Hallie’s turn to be caught by surprise. “Hostile? On what basis?”

  Di Marco rejoined, “Dr. Angelotti’s beliefs run contrary to the prosecution’s interest in seeing a cold-blooded murderer put away. How much more hostile can you get? I’ll agree to leave out any reference to Dr. Stephens’s report if I can cross-examine him about weaknesses in his analysis.”

  “That sounds like a good compromise to me,” Judge Katsoros said. “How about it, Ms. Sanchez?”

  I didn’t dare send her a worried look, not with the jury sitting so close by. From their sighs and murmurs, it was plain they were growing impatient with the prolonged interruption in the proceedings. It’s a well-known fact that juries tended to take sidebars out on the attorney requesting them. And really, what did I have to be afraid of? Di Marco had already beaten the blindness horse to death. Carrying the theme any further carried the risk that the jury would come to despise him and side with me.

  Hallie evidently reached the same conclusion. Not that she had much choice.

  “Ms. Sanchez?” Judge Katsoros prodded. “We’re losing time.”

  Hallie said cautiously, “I guess I can go along. If what Dr. Stephens believed stays well out of it.”

  “You have my word as an officer of the court,” Di Marco said solemnly and with what sounded to me like ill-disguised glee.

  “It’s settled then,” the judge declared. “You may proceed,” he told Di Marco.

  I took a sip of water to steady my nerves and assumed an attentive expression.

  Di Marco began, “Doctor, since you’ve acted in this capacity before, I assume you’re familiar with the ethical rules governing expert-witness engagements.”

  That was easy. “I am.”

  “Specifically, with the guidelines put forth by the American Academy of Psychiatry and the Law.”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you agree, then, with the guideline stating that forensic examiners should strive for objectivity in their assessments?”

  “Of course.”

  “And with the commentary for that guideline cautioning forensic examiners to be on the alert for unintended bias.”

  I agreed once more.

  “In fact, according to the commentary, even the most conscientious and experienced examiner may be subject to such bias.”

  “That’s what the commentary says.”

  “And that unrecognized bias can result in flawed reasoning.”

  “I can’t quarrel with that in the abstract.”

  I wondered where he was going with all this.

  “Isn’t it also true that forensic examinations frequently involve aspects of human behavior that are quite disturbing?”

  “I can’t say how frequently it comes up, but when they involve violence against human beings, yes of course.”

  “What about you? Have any of your expert assignments involved conduct you found difficult to stomach?”

  Thinking I understood what was behind this question, I chose my words carefully. “If you’re referring to the manner in which Ms. Lazarus, ah . . . treated her husband’s corpse, I admit that I found it . . . unsettling. As would most people, I imagine.” It was always best to be candid. And to admit the things the jury would find unbelievable if you didn’t.

  “Actually, I wasn’t referring to that,” Di Marco said, surprising me.

  I tilted my head at him quizzically.

  “I was referring to the defendant’s childhood. Didn’t you testify that she was abused by her mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Systematically and over a period of many years?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That kind of childhood must have resulted in a great deal of pent-up rage.”

  All this did was give me another chance to climb aboard my soapbox. “Not necessarily. More often, victims of child abuse direct their anger against themselves. You have to understand that a young child regards her parents as the most powerful beings on earth. When they turn on her, she can’t help but believe that she is to blame. Such children typically view themselves as evil and undeserving of normal human love.”

  “Very nicely put.” Di Marco said. “And you say these feelings characterized the defendant?”

  “As I mentioned, I believe they account for Ms. Lazarus’s decision to stay in her marriage. Believing herself to be unworthy of her husband’s love and respect, she accepted the things he did to her until her psyche finally rebelled and she snapped—to use an unscientific term.”

  “It sounds like you had some sympathy for her.”

  “Again, I think most people would.”

  “But you didn’t let that sympathy affect your judgment.”

  “Not to any significant degree.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I should have seen what was coming.

  “A little earlier, we talked about unintended bias on the part of the examiner. You weren’t subject to any of that yourself?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said truthfully.

  “I was wondering whether your sympathy for the defendant might stem from something personal,” was
Di Marco’s next question.

  Caught again by surprise, I blinked. “Pardon me?”

  “Like your own childhood.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, but I think you do. What I want to know is whether you have any personal experience of child abuse?”

  My face must have blushed the shade of a ripe watermelon. I felt a line of sweat form on my back and telegraphed a silent message to Hallie. Please shut this down. Now.

  But either she wasn’t paying attention or was just as interested in the answer as Di Marco was.

  “Child abuse? No, of course not,” I said. Exactly what I had always told myself.

  “But your father hit you.”

  How the hell did he find that out? I put as much nonchalance into a shrug as I could. “It was a different time. Many adults believed that hitting was an acceptable form of discipline.”

  “But not when the defendant was a girl?”

  “Attitudes had changed. And you can’t compare what happened to the defendant—I mean, Ms. Lazarus—to an occasional swat on the backside.”

  “That’s the only place you were hit—on the backside?”

  I couldn’t perjure myself. “No.”

  “How often?”

  “How often what?” Against my will, I was growing belligerent, the worst thing a witness can do.

  “How often did your father hit you?”

  “You’re asking me to remember things that happened decades ago,” I snapped, trying to clamp a lid on my anger. What right did this bastard have to pry into my past? And why wasn’t Hallie doing something about it?

  “Just give us an estimate, then. Once a week? Twice?”

  The sweat on my back was now a spring torrent. “I . . . I can’t put an estimate on it. But it wasn’t abuse as you’re using that term.”

  “It was your fault, then—that he hit you?”

  “I was a little wild back then. He was just trying to keep me out of trouble.”

  “So you blame yourself. Just as—according to your learned opinion—Ms. Lazarus blamed herself.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” I protested.

  “Isn’t it?” Di Marco said.

  A dam of emotion chose that moment to break. “He was my father. He loved me. And what proof do you have? This is all just insinuation.”