False Allegations

would be a way to make a difference. So many divorces. So many children cast adrift. But the practice of matrimonial law requires you to be morally malleable when it comes to those same children. Everyone in the courthouse whines about the 'best interests of the child,' but if you ever put a child's interests ahead of your client's, that would be malpractice. Some people are perfectly willing to destroy their children's lives to gain a financial advantage in a divorce. Or to play out some personal, neurotic script. And when you're their lawyer, it's your job to help them do it. That's no problem for most lawyers. When I was in school, there was a lot of rhetoric about 'ethics.' I remember the stupid ethics exam I took. An idiot could have passed it…but I saw some students cheating on it anyway.'

'There's other kinds of law,' I said, playing the role like I gave a damn about this guy's moral dilemmas. A red stone set in a heavy silver ring sparkled on his right hand—I hadn't noticed it before. I'd never seen a ruby sparkle like that, pulling at my eyes…

'Of course,' he said, interrupting my thoughts. 'Have you ever watched one of those odious talk shows? That steady parade of damaged people: children molested by their fathers, rape victims, psychotic females who think they're in love with serial killers. You know what they have in common? Look closely at those shows—you'll always see their lawyers hovering near the camera. They sell their clients to obtain publicity…for themselves. Because the average dolt who suddenly needs to hire a lawyer only remembers he saw the lawyer on TV, or read his name in a newspaper. It doesn't matter if the lawyer lost every case. Actually, it doesn't matter if the lawyer ever tried the case. There are whore lawyers in this town whose names are household words simply because they 'cooperate' with the press. They do some chest–beating public display like the performing seals they are, then they go into court and plead their clients guilty. And the public laps it up.'

I shrugged my shoulders again. Some wet–brain who wanted a divorce might hire a lawyer he saw on a talk show, but in my part of the world, we knew the kind of operator we needed when they dropped the indictment. Some wars are better fought by mercenaries.

'I switched to entertainment law,' he continued. 'That was about as intellectually stimulating as Saturday morning cartoons. So I invented a software screen for movie contract boilerplate. It picks out certain language, references the user to the case law in the field, alerts them to the mousetraps. I sell it privately. It saves lawyers a ton of hours.'

'Which they still bill for, right?'

'I'm sure,' he said dismissively. 'The law is such a common, low–class profession. You've had some… experience with it yourself. Don't you agree?'

'I haven't had much experience with any high–class professions.'

'Well said,' he smiled thinly. 'And, sometimes, if there is no path to follow, you create your own. That's what I did. My own search for truth. I started out as a debunker.'

'Like the UFO stuff?'

'No. When it comes to alien activity, the real challenge is to prove that it actually exists, not that it doesn't. No, my interest is in a particular phenomenon. It's still in development. Provisionally, I am calling it the Fabrication for Secondary Gain Syndrome.'

'Lying is a syndrome now?'

'Not lying, Mr. Burke. Lying without apparent motive. Oh there is a motive, that's true. But a motive only a specialist could detect. For example: a man who sets fires. Not for the insurance money, not because he's a pyromaniac…but so be can put them out and be a hero. Or a woman who writes threatening letters to herself…so she can stand up to the 'stalker,' understand?'

'Sure. I just don't see where you come in. You can't make a living at it, right?'

'If you mean financially, perhaps not. At least I didn't necessarily believe so at the time. I don't need money —the software brings in more than I could ever spend. And I have new versions in development all the time.' He leaned forward in his chair, eyes behind the glasses right on me, dropping the lofty superior tone for tight–voiced intensity. 'But eventually I found my way down a new path. To a branch of the syndrome with profound implications not just for individuals, but for our entire society.'

He paused, waiting for me to respond. I stayed flat as a dead man's heartbeat. I recognized him now.

'Do you believe that self–righteous bilge that 'kids never lie about child sexual abuse?' Surely you understand that children are no different than anyone else—they can lie quite convincingly if there's something in it for them.'

I played it in my head: kids lying when there was something in it for them. That was true—who knew it better than me? Remembering all the lies I told just to live to see another day of pain. I kept my face on audience–mode, not saying anything.

'Allegations of child sexual abuse,' Kite intoned. 'The nuclear weapon in divorce cases, the staple of talk shows, the darling of the tabloids. Absolutely pandemic. And when those allegations are false, a greater threat to the fabric of our culture than AIDS, cancer, and cocaine combined!'

I hit the button sequence on the cell phone in my pocket, still waiting.

Kite took a breath. 'Do you have any…reaction to what I just said, Mr. Burke?'

'I heard it before,' I said. 'That backlash stuff has been around for years.'

'It's worse than that now,' he said, still leaning forward. In America today, what's going on is nothing less than the Salem witch hunts! Am I right or wrong?'

'You're wrong.'

He snapped back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his knees. 'How so?' he asked, the superior tone back in place, a law professor dealing with a not–too–bright student.

'In Salem,' I said softly, 'there were no witches. And child sexual abuse isn't the nuclear weapon in divorce cases—lying is.'

He went quiet, watching me. I felt the hologram shift form somewhere to my left, but I kept my eyes straight on him. A minute passed. 'Yes,' he said finally, the superior tone vanishing. 'That's right. And that's the problem. That's why I asked you to come here.' He stood up suddenly, turned his back to me, looking out the window. 'Now we can talk. Would you like a cup of coffee or something?'

'A glass of water.'

'Certainly,' he said, still looking out the window. 'Heather!'

I heard the tap of her heels as she walked out of the room.

She was back in a couple of minutes, holding a brass tray in one hand. On the tray, a glass tumbler, a bowl, and a pitcher, all in the same shade of pale blue. The bowl was full of ice cubes, the pitcher held what looked like water. She bent so sharply at the waist that she had to look up at me from under her eyelashes, showing me a flash of orange and some remarkable cleavage. 'Ice?' she asked.

'Please.'

She plucked three cubes from the bowl with her fingers, orange fingernails catching the light from the window. Then she carefully poured from the pitcher until the glass was full.

'Thank you,' I said.

She took the full glass off the tray, held it to her mouth, tilted it back and drained it dry. 'It's very good water,' she said in that husky voice. 'Good for you.' Then she filled the glass again and handed it to me.

I took a sip just as Kite got to his feet, pulling a thin silver tube from his jacket pocket. He nodded at Heather. I heard the clack of a slide projector and a giant color photograph appeared on the flat black wall over the computer display. An infant, maybe a year old? Facing away from the camera, wearing a diaper. On the baby's back, two heavy lines parallel to his spine. And radiating from the spine, heavy dark marks—as though a giant had placed his thumbs on the baby's chest, wrapped his hands around the little body and squeezed.

The silver tube was a laser pointer. The hair–thin red line pointed out the marks, tracing their path down the baby's back. 'What do you see, Mr. Burke?' Kite asked.

I told him.

He made a sound like a contemptuous snort. 'What you are in fact seeing, Mr. Burke, is the result of an Oriental practice known as 'cupping.' It is called cheut sah, or, occasionally, cao gio. The practitioner, usually an elder, takes a coin—often coated with