Lost Girls

''Can I have pictures?''

''Can you--what kind of pictures? Because it all depends.''

''You know, I'd actually prefer them to the real thing. To be frank.''

''Well, with pictures it all depends on the subject, Thom, so if you--''

''You know the subject. It's been the same subject for some time--''

''--hey, hey, okay, can we just get back--''

''--unless somebody changed it without letting me know.''

Tripp coughs, sending something hard flying around inside him, and resumes his powerful breathing that sounds down the line as the crashing tide of the sea.

''Thom, just listen for a second. I want to ask you something, all right? About the case.''

The tide draws back up his nose.

''Our story is that the bloodstains in the back of the car came from Krystal's scraped knee,'' I say.

''Our story.''

''So how did the blood get on your shirt, Thom? Isn't that strange?''

''Are you asking me to explain what--''

''Yes, I am. Asking you to explain how the blood got on your shirt if she was sitting in the backseat with a cut on her knee.''

''They come and go on Tuesdays. But pictures. Pictures are different.''

''Thom, please, don't change the subject when I--''

''It all depends on the subject, though, doesn't it?''

''That's right. You're goddamn right about that. And right now the subject is trying to save your fucking ass, Thom. So for Christ's sake could you just--''

''Now, isn't that an odd thing! An English teacher who'd rather have pictures than books!''

Tripp makes a sputtering suppression of laughter, a flapping of lips so close to the mouthpiece that it distorts into an imitation of flatulence. But that's thankfully all. The laughter doesn't escape, and soon the respiratory tide returns, proof that the unstoppable oxygen machine that is my client is alive and well.

''I apologize for my outburst. But I have some questions, Thom, and I would like it--I would be so pleased if you could help me out with some of them.''

Nothing from the other end. But I can sense him listening.

''For example, I was talking to a former colleague of yours the other day. Miss Betts. She told me about the trouble you had with your divorce, being denied custody of your daughter. Now, all of that may be something we might think about using, or worse, it might be something the prosecution might want to use. But I'd like you to tell me what happened there anyway, so that I can answer--''

''A face like her mother's,'' he says so softly I barely hear it.

''Is that who you saw up in the window of Melissa's school the day you tried to visit her and the police kept you away? Was it your wife's face that you saw?''

''No. Melissa was crying. My wife never cried.'' He turns his head away. ''All her teachers standing behind her trying to say teacher things and pull her away but she wouldn't let them. Because she was my little girl and she wanted to see her daddy.''

I have to strain to hear the last of his words, each of them fading after the other as though the phone were being slowly pulled away from his mouth.

''Did you try to take Melissa away, Thom? Is that why they wouldn't let you see her anymore?''

''There's that word again. Take, take, take. But I ask you: how can a father take his own daughter?''

''So you're saying that you did, then. Or tried to. As far as the law is concerned.''

''I thought being a father was supposed to be the most natural thing in the world,'' he laughs now. ''I couldn't tell you as far as the law is concerned. But that's where you come in, isn't it?''

''I suppose it is, Thom, yes.''

I imagine him there in his prison overalls, his boyish skin in need of a shave, a trace of dinner still in evidence somewhere on his fingers or chin. And now that the talking is over he's allowed his face to loosen again, his features returned to their usual setting of gummy distraction. Not that he's mad, exactly. It's that he's decided that wherever he goes in his head is better for him than any of the currently available offerings of the waking world.

''Listen, I'll let you go now, Thom,'' I say. ''I'll visit soon.''

The receiver is halfway to its cradle when the mechanics of Thomas Tripp's body are interrupted by a request from its brain.

''Bring pictures,'' he says.

chapter 34

It is my opinion that Thomas Tripp's profile is consistent with that of a reactive psychotic.'' This is Goodwin's expert shrink, perched high in the witness box, eyes held open in the falsely earnest, disinterested way common to those of his profession. This one, however, is even worse than most: all clipped beard, fleshy lips, designer glasses that look like some kind of ancient navigational device. Whenever he finishes speaking he turns first to the bench, then to Goodwin, and finally to me, giving each of us the same blinking second and a half of gooey innocence, as if to say, You see, I have no personal interest in this. I'm merely offering my professional opinion. But what all of us know--even Goodwin deep down--is that this guy's a prostitute. A $400- an-hour witness-fee hustler who would declare his own mother a reactive psychotic under oath if a lawyer hired him to.

''Could you please explain for the court, in general terms, what a reactive psychotic is?'' Goodwin is asking, turning to the jury with a pained look. He knows as well as I do they're not so good with words greater than two syllables.

''Well, the term describes an individual who, as a consequence of suffering a certain trauma--an emotional trauma--responds in an extreme way. The brain defends itself by shutting down some of its elementary faculties or dissolves previously held behavioral boundaries, such that the result is a psychotic state which may be either short-lived or prolonged.''

He gives us the punctuating look again: one, two, three. Just trying to help, his fussy beard and glasses say. I just happen to know all about this stuff. I'm an expert.

''I think it's important to emphasize that I'm just dealing here with a case profile,'' he's saying now--what the hell's his name? Ganzer? Panzer? ''Mr. Tripp has never been a patient of mine, so I can't speak to any extensive personal knowledge of his history. But I feel, based on the information in the file provided to me by the Crown, that I am able to make some tentative conclusions.''

''That's fine. But just to get all of this straight, are you saying that it is your view--your tentative view--that Thomas Tripp is insane?''

Nice one, Pete. Serve the good doctor a high beachball just to make sure he can smash it back.

''No, not at all. No, no. In fact I'd like to make it very clear that psychotic behavior or the presence of a psychotic condition does not necessarily mean that the subject is insane. Indeed, it is my understanding that being legally insane has nothing to do with being psychotic, neurotic, or otherwise, but concerns the subject's ability to understand the difference between rightful and wrongful actions.''

At this point I rise. Slowly though, pushing back my chair and lifting myself up with hands planted on the desk in front of me.

''I object, Your Honor. The doctor may be an expert able to provide descriptions of certain psychological illnesses for the general education of the jury, but he is surely not an expert for the purposes