Silent Partner

father being a major source of intellectual stimulation for this child, hence major material and emotional loss due to paternal death. This father was a criminal, minimally educated…”

“Mr. Moretti,” I said, “is it your position that only educated parents are worth grieving for?”

He ignored me. “… while, in point of fact, the data pertaining to the case in point indicate a socially and emotionally impoverished…”

He went on for a while, picking up volume and speed, fairly glowing with combat lust. Mal, too, was caught up in the joust, poised for the riposte.

More pissing. And the truth be damned. It started to really get to me and I broke in, raising my voice to be heard over the tide of legalese: “Mr. Moretti, you’re a classic case of a little knowledge being dangerous.”

Moretti rose half out of his seat, caught himself, then settled back down and bared his teeth. “Getting defensive, Doctor?”

“This was supposed to be a fact-finding meeting. If you want to hear what I have to say, fine. If you want to play ego games, I won’t waste my time.”

Moretti clucked his tongue. “Mr. Worthy, if this is a portent of his courtroom behavior, you’re in a heap of trouble, Counselor.”

Mal said nothing. But he scrawled on his note pad: Have I created a monster? then covered it with his hand.

Moretti didn’t miss it: “Anything we should have on the record, Counselor?”

“Just doodling,” said Mal and he began to sketch a naked woman.

“We were talking about childhood trauma,” I said to Moretti. “Would you like me to address that issue or am I through?”

Moretti tried to look amused. “You may address it if you have something to add to your report.”

“Since you drew faulty conclusions from my report, I have plenty to add. Darren Burkhalter is suffering a post-traumatic stress reaction that may convert to long-term psychological problems. Brief play therapy and counseling for the mother have brought about some symptom reduction but much more treatment is indicated.” To the other lawyers: “I’m not saying long-term psychological problems are inevitable, but neither will I rule problems out. No reasonable expert would.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Moretti, “this child is two years old.”

“Twenty-six months.”

“Same difference. He was eighteen months at the time of the accident. You’re telling me that you’ll be willing to go into court and testify under oath that when he’s twenty-six years old, he could be psychologically affected by an accident that took place when he was a baby?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. A traumatic scene that vivid and bloody, buried in his subconscious-”

Moretti snorted. “What does a subconscious look like, Doctor? I’ve never seen one.”

“Nevertheless, you have one, Mr. Moretti. As do I and everyone else in this room. In simple terms, the subconscious is a psychic storage bin. The part of our mind where we put experiences and feelings we don’t want to deal with. When our defenses are down, the bin tips over and some of the stored material spills out- dreams, fantasies, seemingly irrational or even self-destructive behaviors that we call symptoms. The subconscious is real, Mr. Moretti. It’s what makes you dream of winning. A big part of what motivated you to become a lawyer.”

That got to him. He took pains to be cool but his eyes twitched, his nostrils opened, and his mouth drew so tight it puckered.

“Thank you for that insight, Doctor. Send me a bill- though judging from what you’re charging Mr. Worthy, I don’t know if I can afford you. In the meantime, let’s stick to the accident-”

“Accident doesn’t begin to describe what Darren Burkhalter experienced. Disaster would be more accurate. The boy was napping in his car up until the moment of impact. The first thing he saw when he woke up was his father’s decapitated head flying over the front seat and landing next to him, the features still twitching.”

Several of the lawyers winced.

“It missed falling right in his lap by inches,” I said. “Darren must have thought it was some kind of doll because he tried to pick it up. When he pulled away his hand and saw it covered with blood- saw what it really was- he went hysterical. And stayed hysterical for five full days, Mr. Moretti, screaming ‘Dada!’ totally out of control.”

I paused to let the image sink in. “He knew what was happening, Mr. Moretti- he’s played it out in my office every time he’s been there. He’s clearly old enough to form a durable memory. I’ll quote you statistics on that, if you’d like. And that memory won’t disappear simply because you want it to.”

“A memory that you’re keeping alive by making him go through it over and over again,” said Moretti.

“So what you’re asserting,” I said, “is that psychotherapy is making him worse. That we should simply forget about it or pretend it didn’t happen.”

“Double touche,” whispered Mal.

Moretti was bug-eyed. “It’s your position that’s under scrutiny, Doctor. I want to see you back up all this early trauma talk with data.”

“I’d be happy to.”

I had my own stack of articles, pulled them out, cited references, tossed out numbers, and gave a somewhat manic lecture on the development of memory in children and their reactions to disaster and trauma. I used the blackboard to summarize my findings.

“Generalizations,” said Moretti. “Clinical impressions.”

“You’d prefer something more objective?”

He smiled. “It would be nice.”

“Terrific.”

A secretary rolled in the video monitor, slipped the tape into the VCR, dimmed the lights, and pushed the PLAY button.

When it was over, dead silence. Finally, Moretti smirked and said, “Planning a second career in the film business, Doctor?”

“I’ve seen and heard enough,” said one of the other attorneys. He closed his briefcase and pushed his chair from the table. Several others did the same.

“Any more questions?” asked Mal.

“Nope,” said Moretti. But he looked buoyant and I experienced a pang of self-doubt. He winked and saluted me. “See you in court, Doctor.”

When they were all gone, Mal slapped his knee and did a little dance.

“Right in the cojones, absolutely beautiful. I should be getting their offers this afternoon.”

“I made a stronger case than I’d intended,” I said. “Bastard got to me.”

“I know, you were beautiful.” He began collecting his papers.

“What about Moretti’s parting shot?” I asked. “He looked happy about going to court.”

“Pure crapola. Saving face in front of his partners. He may be the last to settle, but believe me, he’ll settle. Some asshole, eh? Has a rep as a real black-hearted litigator, but you slammed him good- your little jibe about the subconscious was right on the mark, Alex.”

He shook his head with glee. “God knows how tight he had to hold his sphincter not to shit right then and there. ‘And a big part of what motivated you to become a lawyer.’ I didn’t tell you this, but Moretti’s dad was a big-shot psychiatrist in Milwaukee, did a lot of forensics work. Moretti must