Dante's Dilemma Read online

  “Let me show you something then,” Di Marco said as smoothly as a card sharp. He slapped down something in front of me. “Recognize this? Oh, sorry. I forgot you can’t.”

  Hallie finally woke from her stupor. “Wait just a minute. Before we go on, I want to know what he’s showing the witness.”

  “My apologies. Ms. Rogers,” Di Marco sang out to Michelle, “would you please supply counsel with a copy of the letter I have just put in front of Dr. Angelotti?”

  “What is this?” Hallie repeated.

  “Just this. In the course of investigating Dr. Angelotti’s credentials—you can never be too careful about falsification of résumés these days—I subpoenaed his college records. Naturally, I didn’t expect to find anything amiss. I was just trying to be on the safe side. As you’d expect, Dr. Angelotti’s academic performance was exemplary. But in the file, I ran across this letter from an old acquaintance.”

  What old acquaintance? And why was it in my file after all these years?

  Di Marco turned to me. “The Reverend Patrick Charles. I assume you remember him?”

  Father Chuck.

  I mumbled a yes.

  “Who was Reverend Charles?”

  “He was my high-school guidance counselor.”

  “Did the two of you know each other well?”

  “We talked sometimes.”

  “When you were applying to college, did Reverend Charles write letters of recommendation on your behalf?”

  “I believe so,” I said.

  “The paper I have tendered to you appears to be one of those letters, written to the dean of admissions at the university you ultimately attended. Do you know what it says?”

  “No. I never saw it.”

  “Your Honor, may I have permission to put this up for the jury?” Di Marco asked, referring to the audio-visual screen all courtrooms come equipped with these days. “And of course, I’ll read it to Dr. Angelotti.”

  He proceeded to do just that. I didn’t need to see the jury to know they were hanging on every word.

  Dear Monsignor Doyle:

  I am writing as a fellow Jesuit and because I know you are always looking for that special admissions candidate, the student most in need of our love and prayers to succeed.

  Mark Angelotti is just such a candidate. I have worked closely with him over the last several months and found him to be an exceptionally bright, articulate, and sensitive young man. Regrettably, these attributes have not always been reflected in his scholastic performance at St. Regis Preparatory. Without going into detail, Mark is the only child of a troubled and violent father, a background that has thus far prevented him from achieving his true potential. Only recently, and with my counseling, has Mark begun to sort through the anger and confusion brought about by his unfortunate circumstances.

  I am aware that Mark’s record as it now stands does not meet your high academic standards. But I beg you to give this boy a chance. Mark’s mother died in childbirth, and he has borne the brunt of his father’s rage and sorrow for all of his young life. Mark has aspirations to study medicine, and I am confident that he will be a tremendous asset to that field, as well as your institution, once he is no longer living at home.

  I hope you will understand the need to protect Mark’s privacy and ask that this letter be destroyed after you have considered its contents. If you would be willing to meet with Mark, I will personally provide his transportation to the school so that you can judge him for yourself. I believe you will conclude, as I have, that his is a soul eminently worth saving.

  Thank you for your kind consideration of this unusual appeal.

  Yours in Christ,

  Patrick Charles, S.J.

  So much for my privacy.

  Di Marco paused to let Father Chuck’s words sink in before coming back to me. “A ‘troubled and violent father,’” he repeated. “The good priest wasn’t lying, was he?”

  It was a question that needed no answer. I took a moment to think back fondly on Father Chuck. Before now, I never knew the strings he pulled to get me into a decent school.

  I was calm then in the way during childhood I had always imagined the Catholic martyrs were, facing down their enemies in a hopeless situation.

  Even if I too was about to be slaughtered.

  I squared my shoulders and nodded to Di Marco that I was ready to go on.

  “Shall we talk some more about bias?” he said.

  EIGHTEEN

  Five days later, the jury convicted Rachel Lazarus of murder in the first degree.

  It wasn’t Hallie’s fault. After Di Marco had finished dicing me into a human mirepoix, she had done her best to paste the bits back together again. To wit: I hadn’t volunteered for the Lazarus assignment. I was commandeered into it. And yes, I was fully aware of my prejudices—as Di Marco had taken to calling them—going in. Nonetheless, I had done my best to render a fair and honest opinion. Psychiatrists often confront similarities between themselves and their patients. It was expected and dealt with in their training. I had treated adult survivors of child abuse before. If I’d felt genuinely compromised, I would have resigned.

  Which, in hindsight, is exactly what I should have done.

  One of the behavioral oddities of juries is that they can hold several seemingly contradictory notions at once. So while the Lazarus panel had overwhelmingly rejected my testimony that she was suffering from PTSD, they embraced my criticism of Battered Woman Syndrome with an enthusiasm bordering on faith in CIA conspiracy theories. In the post-verdict interviews permitted by Judge Sandy, the jurors were unsparing of the well-meaning but misguided doctor who had allowed his prejudices to color his judgment. On the other hand, I was plainly in the know in pointing out the absence of a scientific basis for BWS. Forced to rely on the expert hired by the public defender—who distinguished herself by suggesting that the DSM’s treatment of the issue was based on male hostility to the clitoris—Hallie was left with virtually no ammunition. Though her closing was hailed in the press as an “admirable attempt to expose the tragic aftermath of domestic violence,” it didn’t sway the jurors, who were sympathetic to Lazarus but unable to overlook the horrific vengeance taken out on Westlake’s corpse. As the male foreman explained in a television interview that subsequently went viral, “She went too far.”

  The only bright spot in all this was that Jonathan was off on one of his speaking junkets when I slunk back to work the following week. I hadn’t even sat down before Josh and Alison showed up in my office to offer their condolences.

  “Hey, buddy,” Josh said, placing a carton on my desk. “I brought donuts from that new place down the block Chicago Magazine’s been raving about.”

  “And I brought you some tea,” Alison said. “English breakfast. With extra cream and sugar.”

  Josh opened the box, nearly bowling me over with the scent. “Try one. It’s their signature. Apple, blue cheese, and walnut.”

  “Is that a donut or a Waldorf salad?” I said, putting my hand out for the tea, which did sound good.

  “Salads are the antithesis of comfort food,” Josh said. He helped himself to one and went over to sink like a ballast into my couch. “These, however, are loaded with fat and carbs. Exactly what you need right now.”

  “Yes, Mark,” Alison said. “You are looking rather wan. Come over and tell us about it. I’ll bring the food.”

  I took the cup she’d given me and followed her to my sofa, feeling ahead with my toe since I still hadn’t mastered the new furniture arrangement. Even then, I bumped into one of the side chairs. Tea sloshed over the rim of the cup and onto the upholstery.

  “Darn,” I said. “I hope I haven’t soiled the fabric.”

  “Don’t worry,” Alison said. “There’s so much Scotchgard on the cushions, you could use them as flotation devices. Jonathan’s been fielding complaints about the new décor like you wouldn’t believe. Some of our colleagues have suggested changing the name of the practice to the Frain Sensory Depriva
tion Center.”

  “On that topic, what’s the status of the palace uprising?” I settled into my seat.

  “Uh-uh,” Jonathan said. “You’re not changing the subject that easily. We came to offer aid and comfort to a wounded comrade.”

  I blew on my tea to cool it down. “You’re too late. He died on the battlefield.”

  “That’s not what Hallie said. You know she phoned me on Saturday when you wouldn’t answer your cell. She thought you did OK . . . considering. Why haven’t you returned her calls? There’s nothing to prevent you two talking again, now that Lazarus has decided not to appeal.”

  I hadn’t known that. Which wasn’t surprising, since I’d spent the weekend after the verdict throwing myself a gala pity party, wrapped up in a blanket in front of the television, and not stirring to shave, shower, or eat, except when hunger pains drove me to the pantry to open a can of tuna. Wary of being tracked down by reporters, I’d turned off my phone and kept all the lights in the house off. By the time Sunday night rolled around, I had re-memorized the theme song to every sitcom produced after 1960, which had now taken up residence in my head with a whole new set of lyrics. Just sit right down and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful slip, that started in a court of law and sunk a foolish crip . . .

  “So Hallie’s giving up.” I said.

  “She doesn’t want to, but Lazarus is insisting. But you haven’t answered my question,” Josh said through a mouthful of dough.

  I feinted. “Which question?”

  “Why you’ve been avoiding her.”

  “Maybe it has something to do with throwing her client to the wolves.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not your fault you were sucker punched.”

  “It’s embarrassing that I let it happen,” I insisted.

  “What’s embarrassing is that monsignor not keeping that letter out of your file like he was asked to. You oughta sue the school.”

  “Oh sure. Because I haven’t achieved enough notoriety already.”

  “He’s right,” Alison told Josh. “Best to keep the lawyers out of it. But if it were me, I’d contact them and demand that every last copy of that letter be destroyed.”

  “Too late for that, too,” I said. The icing on the cake had been Kay Bergen’s e-mail, late Sunday night, informing me that Annie’s lawyers were already on the scent, seeking written assurance that all of my academic records would be preserved for the duration of the custody battle. “I can’t throw away so much as a tissue now. Not if I still want a prayer of hanging on to Louis.”

  “Oh,” Alison said, like I’d startled her. “I hadn’t considered that. But why is your childhood relevant? It was all so long ago.”

  Why indeed? But I could already hear the testimony of Annie’s psychiatric expert, harping on the statistics showing that child-abuse survivors were significantly more likely to end up becoming abusive parents themselves. In trying to secure justice for Lazarus, I had probably damaged my own case beyond repair.

  “So what’s your game plan now that the trial is over?” Josh asked.

  “Hang on to this job for as long as I can.” I didn’t need to point out that I was probably finished as far as future expert engagements were concerned. “I can’t wait to see what further winning assignments Jonathan will have for me.”

  Josh reached over and clapped me on the knee. “That, my friend, should be the least of your worries. Right, Alison? You may assume that the two of us are exchanging conspiratorial glances.”

  “Like Smiley’s People,” Alison added.

  “But you still won’t read me in?”

  “We can’t, without endangering the mission. For the time being, your role as Secret Agent Man is to maintain a low profile. And get in contact with Hallie. She’s been frantic with worry. And, if I’m allowed to say it, proud as hell of you.”

  I did want to talk to Hallie. I just didn’t know what to say.

  Not chomping to reclaim my patient load, I spent the rest of the day fussing with my desk, trying to decide just how much of a personal touch I could still get away with. A worker had come in and put up my new artwork. The two canvasses felt like someone had thrown a jar of paste against a wall, which may have explained the titles “Unglued I” and “Unglued II.” No doubt the irony of hanging them in a psychiatrist’s office had escaped Jonathan. In the end, I opted to keep only two things handy: a photo of Louis and me at the Bronx Zoo, and a Rubik’s Cube with tactile markings that I’d found in the online Braille Superstore.

  I arrived home that evening to half a foot of snow and an equivalent stack of unopened mail. I deposited the mail inside the door and went back out to shovel the walk. While I worked, fat, wet flakes landed on my cheeks and stuck to my eyelashes and nose. In short order, I was covered from top to bottom, but the exertion felt good, so when I was done with my own front yard, I decided to clear the walk of the anonymous neighbor who had been doing the same favor for me all winter. Not knowing who that might be, I went down the entire row of houses, pushing the snow against the piles already heaped outside the doors.

  I had almost reached the courtyard gate when a tap on the back told me I had company.

  “Yuri Zhivago,” Candace said. “It’s been ages.”

  I hadn’t called or spoken to her in weeks.

  I turned around to face her, feeling thoroughly chagrined.

  “Don’t look so guilty,” Candace said. “It’s not every woman who gets ignored by a celebrity doctor.”

  Her tone told me I wasn’t in serious trouble, which only made me feel worse.

  “You heard about the trial.”

  “Pardon me for saying this, but I would have had to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to.”

  I tried to change the subject. “Are you just getting home from work?”

  “No, I was inside making supper when I happened to glance out and see you looking like Frosty the Snowman.”

  “I thought I could use the exercise.”

  “Then come over to my place, when you’re done. There’s nothing like shoveling snow to build up an appetite.”

  “I don’t know—” I began.

  “C’mon. There’s beef stew and a bottle of Burgundy inside. And I’m standing out here in nothing but my socks and slippers.”

  I figured I owed her an explanation, so after I put the shovel away, I went over to the grocery around the corner to pick up a baguette and some flowers.

  “Forget-me-nots,” Candace said when she looked inside the bag. “I hope I can count on that.”

  The stew was beyond delicious. Candace, I learned, had spent several of her summers off taking culinary courses at country houses in France. Her daube du boeuf was Julia Child perfect, fragrant with garlic, onion, and bacon and served with a nontraditional side of basmati rice. After days of malnourishment, I soaked it up like a sponge, along with huge helpings of bread, salad, and pears poached in vanilla syrup. Candace was polite enough to avoid the subject of my absenteeism until our plates were clean and I had found my way over to her living-room couch. She followed me with a fresh bottle of wine and our glasses.

  “I think I’ve just been ambushed,” I said, sinking comfortably into the cushions. “You didn’t make all that food tonight.”

  “You’re right. I had nothing to do the last few weekends, so I whipped up some meals for the freezer. Cooking has always been my way of taking the edge off loneliness.”

  I winced in discomfort. “I guess I deserved that.”

  “Yes, you did.” She poured more wine for us both. “Though I know you’ve been busy.”

  That and . . . conflicted. I wasn’t exactly back in Hallie’s good graces, but I couldn’t deny that our clandestine alliance had given me renewed hope.

  “I was at the trial, you know,” she said, causing me to sit straight back up.

  “You were?”

  “Mmm-hmm. And I saw you with that lawyer. Well, not with her, but looking at her. Oh, damn, not that either. But she means something to you
, doesn’t she?”

  She was too nice a lady ever to lead on. “Yes. But we’re not together right now. Or I wouldn’t have . . .”

  “It’s all right. That’s why I invited you over here. I thought it was better than us going around avoiding one another every time our paths crossed.”

  “You’re being too gracious. I—”

  “Ssshh,” Candace said. “Or I’ll reconsider my good intentions. I’d rather have us remain friends, as well as neighbors. Just come over and keep me company now and again, like you have tonight.”

  “I will if you’ll let me reciprocate.” I made a wry smile. “Not that I’m much of a cook.”

  “Then let me teach you. Something tells me you neglect your stomach a good deal of the time.”

  “You’re not worried about letting me handle your knives?”

  “So long as you take them by the handle.”

  I slept poorly that night, plagued by vivid dreams. For a change, they weren’t about Jack or my father. Or at least I didn’t think so when my alarm went off. I almost always greet the day with a sense of trepidation that gradually lessens as I go about my morning routines. But today the feeling was worse, a knob of dread that resisted explanation, like someone had installed a pager in my brain that wouldn’t stop beeping. Try as I might, I couldn’t shut it down, not until after I had showered and was pouring milk on my cereal, when suddenly in the way dreams sometimes have of exploding into our consciousness, I remembered the one I was having just before I woke up.

  I was in woods somewhere, deep north woods filled with pines overhung with moss, like the ones I had once camped in as a Boy Scout. Overhead a full moon hung high between the branches, lighting the forest almost as if it were daylight, etching inky shadows in the underbrush. I startled at a branch cracking behind me and turned to find a handsome, dark-haired woman I knew must be Alison. “Hurry,” she said. “There isn’t much time.” I looked at her arms and saw that they were empty. “Where’s Mika?” I asked. “That’s who we have to find,” she replied. “But we have to be careful. There are wolves all around.” She pointed the way and I followed, stepping carefully between the gnarled roots of the path she showed me. Then we reached a clearing of sorts where the moonlight shone so brightly it blinded me. “Hurry!” Alison said from somewhere up ahead where I could no longer see her. “I can’t!” I cried. “I’m stuck.” Alison reappeared and scolded me. “No you’re not. You only think you are!”