Lost Girls

of articulating the legal definition of insanity. And even if he were, this is not an issue in the current proceedings. Nor will it be.''

I slouch back down again, keeping my eye on the doctor. And he returns my stare without change in what I now see as his decidedly pubic face.

''Quite right, Mr. Crane. Doctor, I would ask that you limit your comments to the area of your particular expertise,'' Goldfarb tells him, but her heart's not in it.

''Of course. I apologize, Your Honor,'' Dr. Pubic minces.

Then Goodwin's back up there, guiding his man through the file, the sorry history of Tripp's life. A bright student through university and teacher's college, an early marriage to his high school sweetheart, the slow climb up the departmental seniority ladder, the birth of a daughter. Fully functional domestic support systems is how the doctor puts it. Then it all starts to fall apart. The marriage first, followed by much unsuccessful counseling, the loss of his only child. Isolates himself from whatever friends still bothered with him. The only thing he could apparently still focus on was the Literary Club, with meetings held once a week and a total membership of two.

''But many of us have to go through stresses of this kind in life, Doctor, and not all of us are psychotics,'' Goodwin is saying, looking once more to the jury, whose very faces seem to prove him wrong. ''So what's the difference, in your view, between a reactive psychotic and any other person who's undergone emotional trauma?''

''Actually there's a few differences,'' the doctor chirps. ''Generally speaking, there are three categories of psychological activity: normal, neurotic, and psychotic. Arguably there is also a fourth--insanity--but I guess we'll leave that aside for the moment.'' Another look in my direction at this, his eyes milky circles. ''Now, neurotic behavior involves any number of symptoms, including anxiety states, hysteria, obsessional neuroses, and others. The distinction between these and a true psychotic is that a neurosis embodies what may be called a mental conflict, but the basic character of reality remains, whereas in the psychotic the very structure of reality itself is altered. Put another way, the real and the unreal are so confused that eventually they become one and the same. Now, in Mr. Tripp's particular terms, I think we can draw certain broad characteristics of . . .''

He goes on to make sweeping, objectionable swipes at my boy Tripp, the sort of prejudicial psychobabble that should have me leaping to my feet every five seconds, but I remain seated and silent. The truth is all this talk has me considering my own troubled profile. What would the doctor-- any doctor--make of an admitted seer of visions, subject of phantom visitations well beyond the mere bed-shaking, key-hiding, footstep-on-the-stairs variety? As the doctor's lips smack away at painting my client out as Norman Bates, I wonder whether I myself may have graduated from harmless neurotic to a more advanced stage. The water certainly tastes bad up here but is likely still well below government-recommended levels for mercury and lead, and I haven't eaten anything since my arrival except for factory-made sandwiches enriched with enough preservatives to keep them fresh deep into the twenty-first century, so it can't be poisoning. It also seems I don't qualify as a reactive psychotic, given that I haven't reacted to anything in the past twenty years. So what is it, then?

I make a mental note to eat more fruit.

''Although Mr. Tripp made no detailed statements of any kind to the police following his arrest,'' Goodwin is saying now, eyes cast downward at the prepared questions he's plowing his way through, ''he did, however, at one or two points during initial questioning, state that he had nothing to say, and even if he did, he couldn't remember. My question to you, Doctor, is this: Can memory also be affected in situations of trauma?''

''Absolutely,'' says the hairy mouth. ''Again, I can't speak directly to Mr. Tripp's condition, but there are documented cases where extreme stress has given rise to nothing more or less than clinical amnesia. That is, an entire section of the individual's life is not merely repressed but, in effect, wiped out entirely.''

''Is this lost memory recoverable?''

''Potentially.''

''So if Mr. Tripp were to testify that he can't remember any events of Thursday, May the twelfth, for example, we wouldn't be able to tell if it's a case of amnesia or whether he's just--''

''Objection!''

I'm up. I've let too much slide between the fat man and Dr. Pubic already, but now they're about to go right off the map.

''The doctor is in no position to hypothesize on testimony that hasn't and may never be heard. Your Honor, I really think the Crown has now reached the absolute limit on advancing any probative evidence from this witness.''

''That's fine. I'm done anyway,'' Goodwin grins before dropping into his chair.

''Mr. Crane, perhaps this would be a good time for our afternoon break.'' Goldfarb sighs, rubbing her eye with the heel of her hand. ''Back here in ten, people.''

I'm the first one out. Make my way to the bathroom and lock myself in the stall farthest from the door. Time for some clarity assistance. And here it comes, lumped out over the back of my hand, individual grains tumbling off the pile and onto my pants, the toilet seat, the floor. In my haste to get some of it in I break one of my own fundamental rules of cocaine etiquette: I snort. An industrial nasal suck that echoes off the tiled walls and aluminum partitions. And another. Then, most shameful of all, I allow an involuntary Oh, yeah to croak past my lips before I pull back the bolt and step out to the sinks.

Crank the taps until the water rushes hot and loud. When I think I can actually hear my skin start to pucker I lift my head and peer into the mirror's fog with a startled breath.

Movement behind me within the billowing gray. Something over my right shoulder that definitely wasn't there before. A disembodied head floating closer, its face enlarging to reveal a lick of damp hair across the brow, eyes screwed deep in their sockets.

''McConnell.''

I may say this, I may not. My heart beating in painful hiccups.

Why him? Probably heard me in the stall, too, which explains the crude smirk held stiff on his face. And now I can't stop myself from sniffling. Wiping too. The back of my hands, the palms. Both wrists glazed in clear snot.

''Don't look so good there, hotshot,'' he says.

''I'm fine, thank you.'' The water splashing up, spotting through my shirt in warm bites.

''So. The client's a child murderer and the lawyer's a junkie. Nice.''

''There's a big difference--'' I begin, but the distinction's lost in a fainting flush of adrenaline. I shut off the water with a screech of the tap, my face a lump of dripping dough in the mirror before me. Turn to find that McConnell now stands closer than I thought. That even if I move now I'll have to step around him to get out.

''Don't go just yet, Mr. Crane. We have a few minutes before you have to be back in there to tell your dirty lies.''

''Lies?''

''Like how you had such a nice and friendly interview with me before the trial as if I was your best buddy or something. Made it sound like we were both on the same side, which as you know couldn't be further from the truth.''

''Are you on anybody's side in this besides your own?''

''What are you saying?''

''Brian Flynn told me that you've never spoken to him about his own loss. That you wouldn't even return his calls. I would've thought the two of you had a lot in common. But apparently you didn't see it that way. Must have thought your daughter was better than his, I guess. Then again, you always made it clear that you never liked Ashley. You wouldn't deny any of that, now, would you?''

I have no idea where this comes from. Gulping for air, cocaine tears trickling over my cheeks that I can only hope McConnell mistakes for sweat. All I want is to get the hell out of here and I'm provoking the man who stands between me and the door. Fucking lawyers. They never give up.

''She wasn't the right sort for Krystal,'' McConnell is saying. ''And so what? It wasn't her fault her father's a bum.''

''He's on disability,'' I offer foolishly. ''His lungs.''

''A man has to work.''

He lifts his hands to rest on the leather belt straining at his waist.