Dante's Dilemma Read online

  “Yes, such a sad, awkward thing. In one of my gender-studies classes last spring. Absolutely terrified of speaking in class. When he was killed, I gave her an extension on turning in her final paper until the trial was over. I can’t imagine the ordeal she’s been through.”

  “So you believe he abused her, too?” someone else asked with obvious interest.

  Charles sniffed. “Why does everyone assume the man was a wife beater? Always seemed the perfect gentleman to me. It’s unfair to libel a chap solely because of his honestly offered opinions.”

  “Honestly offered opinions,” Amanda scoffed. “The only thing that interested Gunther was getting himself on Fox News. I doubt he truly believed in anything he said. It was only the notoriety—and the money it brought in—that he cared about. And yes, I think he abused them both.”

  “Didn’t know Westlake all that well, but his speaking engagements were rumored to be bringing in seven figures annually,” Bruce offered, as though bothered by the distasteful direction in which the conversation was headed.

  “If you ask my opinion,” Erik said, drowning him out, “Charles is right. There wasn’t any abuse. It’s just a fiction dreamed up by the attorneys.”

  “Why do you say that?” Amanda demanded.

  “Just that I saw the two of them quite a bit socially because of my position as chair of the department. Rachel always struck me as a highly intelligent woman. You know she was getting her PhD just before they were married? It makes no sense that she would have stayed with Gunther all those years if she was truly being mistreated.”

  Amanda snorted. “That’s the theory they trot out in all these cases—she couldn’t have been abused because otherwise she would have left him. Whereas all the studies show that it’s far more complicated than that. Battered women who don’t leave their abusers often love their spouses and harbor the hope—however unrealistic—that they can become normal husbands and fathers. That’s why they stay.”

  “Careful now, Amanda,” another person laughed. “Someone might begin to think you’re a feminist. Are you sure one of your protégés in the Women’s Alliance didn’t perform the evil deed?”

  “Gunther wouldn’t have been worth the effort. Though I did have to remind the young ladies not to make a show of dancing on his grave. Whatever you thought of him, no one deserves ending up like something out of an Orwellian farce.”

  Charles piped in then with his two cents: “I’m surprised the police didn’t think it was one of his students. I heard he was very hard on his PhD candidates.”

  “Did Westlake even have any? I’d be shocked that someone would voluntarily choose to study under the man,” Amanda said. “Erik, what do you know about that?”

  “Well, there were only two in the last ten years. The first one had a nervous breakdown last winter and transferred to USC. The second is still here, though I believe there was some friction. Fellow’s due to defend his dissertation next quarter. I’m one of the reviewers. Quite a nice piece of work, by the way. Which reminds me, has anyone here heard about the commencement schedule . . .”

  Which unfortunately put an end to the subject.

  Candace leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I need to go off to use the washroom. Is it OK if I leave you alone for a few minutes? I’ll get us fresh drinks on the way back.”

  I told her I’d be fine.

  Moments later, the space she left was taken by someone who sat down clumsily, nearly upsetting the drink I was balancing on my knee. From the way the seat cushions deflated, I gathered the newcomer was large.

  “Peter Crow, mind your manners,” Amanda said from the other side of him. “That seat’s taken and you almost crushed me on the way down.”

  “Who’s sitting here?” he said, slurring his words.

  “Candace McIntyre. She just went off for a moment. Isn’t that right, Mark?”

  Before I could reply, the man said, “Well, I’m staying until she’s back. Need some rest.” He pushed himself even farther into the sofa, practically forcing me onto the armrest with his bulk.

  I thought that was rude but didn’t want to seem impolite myself, so I gave him my name.

  He seemed not to notice, exhaling loudly as though from the exertion of getting himself settled.

  I tried again, saying my name a little louder this time.

  Still nothing but labored breathing.

  “Peter, what’s wrong with you?” Amanda asked. “Mark is trying to introduce himself.”

  “Who?” Peter asked dully.

  His behavior was starting to worry me.

  “Are you feeling all right?” I asked, nodding meaningfully in Amanda’s direction and putting my drink down. I thought to take his pulse and felt for his hand, which I judged to be somewhere to the left of my knee. I was right about him being huge. The thigh I encountered on my first pass felt like a tree trunk. His hand was equally plus-size, and nearly as big as a Ping-Pong paddle. But muscular, not fat, and oddly shaped on the metacarpal side.

  That was as far as I got when Peter exited his stupor. “Wha . . . what are you doing?” he said, tearing the hand away as if in panic.

  I put on my bedside manner. “It’s OK. I’m a doctor. I thought you were acting a little funny so I—”

  “Funny, huh? Yeah, I’m hysterical, all right. But I don’t need any doctors.”

  “Are you sure? Your skin felt a little clammy to me.”

  “Maybe had a few too many,” he admitted.

  “Are you light-headed?” I asked. “Maybe you should have some water.”

  Amanda, meanwhile, had risen to her feet. “I can get him some.”

  “No, s’all right. I can do it myself,” Peter said, his speech growing sloppier by the minute. He made motions to push himself up.

  I shook my head at Amanda. In the shape he was in, I didn’t think our friend could walk two steps.

  “Peter, dear,” Amanda said, “Why don’t you just stay put while I fetch you a glass. It will only take a minute. Stay here and talk to Mark. He’s very nice and won’t bite.”

  “Noooooooo, I don’t like doctors,” Peter said, attempting to rise once more.

  Others around us had now caught on to the drama taking place and ceased talking.

  Peter tried once more to get up. Halfway to his feet, he spun on his heel, groaning.

  And without further ceremony, vomited all over me.

  “Will you ever forgive me?” Candace said as we were pulling into her garage.

  “I might if you don’t invite me to any more parties.”

  I took a sniff of the air, which reeked of my slacks, shirt and sport coat, now residing in a plastic bag on Candace’s backseat. I couldn’t fault our hosts for their manners. After I’d been lifted from the sofa, still dripping bits and pieces of vodka-scented smorgasbord, the dean’s wife had rushed me to an upstairs room, offering everything from a steam bath to free dry-cleaning. Except for a quick scrub at the sink, a dash of her husband’s cologne, and a necessary loan of clothing, I’d declined all her offers, desperate to get out of there as quickly as possible. I was now squeezed into a pair of the dean’s flannel trousers, along with a brand-new University of Chicago tee shirt.

  “I take full blame. You did ask me not to leave you alone.”

  “Being turned into an airsickness bag wasn’t one of the hazards I had in mind. Who was that asshole, anyway?”

  “Peter Crow? He heads up the Student Counseling Center.”

  “I hope he’s not counseling anyone about substance abuse.”

  “That’s what’s so odd. I thought he didn’t drink. Grew up on a reservation somewhere and hates what alcohol has done to his people. If I had to guess, it was a momentary lapse.”

  Which would explain why he’d gotten so sick. “Native American?”

  “Mmm-hmm. And looks the movie part, too. All dark eyes and craggy features. Handsome if you like them big.”

  “Never been my thing,” I said, testing the waters.

&nb
sp; “Nor mine,” Candace replied.

  “I suppose I smell like I just crawled out of a sewer.”

  “Actually, I was just going to compliment you—or rather the dean—on the cologne. Who would have guessed such a gnomish man would have such provocative taste. I wouldn’t mind if a little of it rubbed off on me.”

  “His taste or the cologne?”

  “I love a man who plays hard to get.”

  “There are none ‘so firm that cannot be seduced.’”

  “And one who can quote Shakespeare at will. Though perhaps I should mind being compared to corruption in the Roman Senate.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’m very susceptible to corrupting influences.”

  Candace laughed. “Shall we go upstairs and work on it?”

  “Only if you’ll let me use your shower first.”

  TEN

  The elder Dante Angelotti was furious with me. I’d mouthed off that afternoon to Father Mullaney, my sophomore theology teacher at Regis High, and my father had to leave work early to bail me out of detention. He and I were now engaged in another battle about my dismal grades, and as usual I was scrambling to mount a defense.

  “Ti sei disonorato! E mi hai fatto vergognare! Di nuovo,” he thundered at me as soon as we reached home. You’ve disgraced yourself. And brought shame on me. Again.

  “That’s all you ever think about,” I shot back in English. “How it affects you. Maybe I’d work harder if you weren’t always on my case.”

  “Your mother would weep to hear you speak that way,” he said once more in Italian. He quickly crossed himself and added, “Mother Mary pray for her.”

  I was supposed to feel guilty. “She’d cry even harder if she knew what kind of parent she left me with.”

  His huge hand was on me in a flash, lashing me across the face and then whipping back for a stinging cuff to my ear. I felt tears of humiliation well up in my eyes but quickly blinked them away. I’d be damned if I let him know how much it hurt. I eyed the back door a few feet away, trying to decide just how fast I could get out of there before the beating really got underway.

  “That’s all you know how to do, isn’t it, Dad? Slap your kid around until he’s black and blue.”

  The rebuke slowed him down momentarily, and his raised arm dropped to his side. “Dante, why must you always be against me?” he said, using the name I despised because it was also his. “You know I want nothing but what is best for you.”

  “You don’t give a shit about me. Not like she would if she were alive.”

  “Caro, how can you say such evil things?”

  “Because they’re true.” The pain in his dark, blunt-featured face was almost enough to make me reconsider, but I went on taunting him, relishing the chance to give voice to my seething resentments. “If you loved me, you’d take my side once in a while.”

  “I am only trying to teach you—”

  “Vattene all’inferno.” Go to hell.

  The disrespect had its intended effect. He reared back for another blow, wild with anger now. My father was tall for an Italian, nearly six feet, and being much shorter, I was able to slip under him just as his knuckles were barreling toward my head. I twisted down and away and bolted for the door, barely making my escape as he lunged unsuccessfully for my waistband. “Fuck you!” I shouted as the screen door slapped shut behind me.

  The scene abruptly switched to later that night. I was back in our tiny kitchen, holding something wet and slippery in my hand. I held it up to the flickering florescent bulb to see what it was, puzzling over the slender, triangular shape. Outside the house, a wail of sirens was drawing near. My eyes traveled down to the floor, only then seeing what I had done. With horror I registered my father’s body, the dark stain spreading from his midsection onto the linoleum. “No, papà!” I burbled helplessly. “NO!” I sobbed again as the police broke through the door . . .

  I awoke to a racing heart in a clammy tangle of sheets.

  As nightmares went, it wasn’t as bad as my usual, the never-ending cinematic loop of the night Jack died, his labored breathing coming in the same ragged gasps that I now tried to quell by reaching for the water on my nightstand. My fingers closed clumsily around the glass, slopping water onto my bedclothes. I gulped down what was left of the liquid while the tremors subsided, long enough for me to remember that I hadn’t in fact murdered my father. Only my son.

  Still shaky, I sat up and checked the time on my phone. Three a.m. Too early to get up and face the day, especially if I wanted to be fresh and alert for my first—and only—meeting with Rachel Lazarus.

  Hallie wasn’t kidding when she promised to treat me like any other hostile witness, starting with a motion to keep me from meeting Lazarus at all. As she argued, the prosecution’s former expert had already been granted full access to her client in interviews totaling more than twenty hours. Further interrogation would only serve to harass Lazarus, whose fragile psychological state was readily apparent from the nature of her defense. The State’s new expert—namely me—couldn’t claim a reason to see Lazarus for himself and could easily gather all the information he needed by listening to the tapes of his predecessor’s sessions. If further questions were necessary, they could be posed by written interrogatory and answered under oath, which at this late date was all the prosecution’s “hired gun” could reasonably ask for.

  Di Marco, of course, had fought back, partially on the basis of arguments I’d supplied him: that the prosecution could not be blamed for the tragic death of Brad Stephens that necessitated the change in witnesses, and that it would be wholly irresponsible for me to render an opinion about the mental state of an individual I’d never met. After listening to both sides in a hearing that bore every resemblance to a World Wrestling Entertainment match, the judge had split the baby down the middle, denying Hallie’s bid to shut me out completely, but granting me only two hours with Lazarus.

  Thereafter, it had taken what seemed like another full age to get a date fixed. Hallie had made the process as painful as possible, setting up real or imaginary roadblocks at nearly every turn. In the end, she proposed that I meet Lazarus on Christmas Eve, and after getting my permission, Di Marco was all too happy to go along. Hallie probably thought she was punishing me, but the pitiful reality was I had nowhere else to be that day. My plea for a few hours with Louis in Connecticut, delivered in writing by Kay Bergen, had met with stony silence from Annie’s lawyers. Josh and his family were off on their annual ski trip in Colorado. Even Candace had deserted me, flying home to Calgary for a weeklong visit with her folks.

  I checked my phone again. Three thirty a.m. If I couldn’t get back to sleep, I might as well go over my script for the next day.

  Ever since its emergence in the late nineteenth century, psychiatry has been criticized as a discipline lacking a scientific basis. Indeed, to some critics, the very concept of mental “illness” is suspect, involving implicit moral judgments about what is “normal” and what is not. Someday, neuroscience may be able to identify a biological cause for most psychiatric ailments, but in the meantime clinicians are stuck with practice guidelines that attempt to divide the sick from the well based on not much more than theory and professional consensus.

  By far the most important of these guidelines is the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders published by the American Psychiatric Association. Often called the Bible of the profession, it is used by practitioners, researchers, regulatory agencies, health insurers, pharmaceutical companies, and the legal system practically to the exclusion of everything else. Then in its fifth edition, the DSM had been subject to a barrage of criticism—I’d been known to take shots at it myself—but any psychiatric expert who didn’t want to be laughed out of court had better be familiar with its requirements. In Lazarus’s case, this meant structuring my inquiry around the six PTSD criteria listed in the DSM-V.

  First, I had to find that Lazarus had been exposed—either by experiencing it herself or seei
ng it in person—to a traumatic event, or “stressor,” consisting of death, threatened death, actual or threatened serious injury, or actual or threatened sexual violence. Then I had to find that she was persistently reexperiencing it in one of several ways, such as through recurrent, intrusive memories, nightmares, or “dissociative reactions”—the psychiatric term for flashbacks. Lazarus also had to be exhibiting avoidance behavior, alterations in cognition and mood, and changes in “arousal and reactivity,” a fancy way of saying that her nervous system was on constant red alert. Finally, all of these symptoms had to have lasted for at least a month and not be the result of medication, substance abuse, or other illness.

  The further gloss was that Westlake’s murder was now more than six months old. For purposes of my testimony, it wouldn’t be enough to decide whether Lazarus was suffering from PTSD today. I had to go back and reconstruct what her thinking may have been on the night she killed her husband. And since all of this depended on Lazarus’s self-report, I had to be comfortable that she wasn’t malingering—faking symptoms in order to mislead me.

  It would have been a tall order even if the court had given me more than two hours with her.

  Fortunately, as Hallie had been quick to point out, I was able to listen to all of Brad Stephens’s recorded sessions before our meeting. And just as well—or not, depending on your point of view—what I had heard left me with little doubt about what I would find.

  ELEVEN

  Cook County Jail is the largest correctional facility in the United States. It is also the country’s largest mental-healthcare provider. Fully a third of its prisoners are mentally ill. Their medical treatment consists mainly of triage: ensuring inmates are stabilized and back on their meds before returning them to the streets. Since most of them can’t afford their prescriptions—let alone a roof over their heads—they’re soon back to committing the petty crimes that landed them there in the first place. It’s a cruel system that often has me thinking more charitably about the state-run bedlams it replaced. Whatever you may think of involuntary commitment, it has to be better than sleeping in a cardboard box or foraging in a trash can for your next meal.