Motion to Suppress (13 page)

"What type of feelings did she express toward her husband?"

Dr. Greenspan said, "That’s difficult to explain. I would say ... in the beginning she loved him in a rather immature way, but once they were married she found it necessary to ... wreck the marriage. She was repeatedly unfaithful, you see, and her husband reacted predictably with jealousy. She denied to herself that he suspected something and didn’t link his treatment of her with her own actions."

"Oh, I love this, Dr. Greenspan. You’re saying she asked for it, right?"

"I believe I’m trying to say a great deal more than that. I hope you will not let your feminist sympathies blind you to the truth about your client," Greenspan said calmly.

Nina felt manipulated, as if her own work were being subtly trivialized. In the same way, the doctor was trivializing Anthony’s physical and emotional abuse of Misty. He was grating on her, sitting there with his knobby hands folded together, talking such a good line, a line that would remove all lingering jury sympathy for Misty.

"You seem to have made a rather harsh assessment of your patient," she said. "I’m trying to understand. Are you defending the way her husband treated her?"

"In a way. Marriage is a primal drama. The partners receive something valuable, which they need, or they part quickly."

"And Misty needed ..."

"To be punished—and to punish."

An awful glow to these pronouncements, like atomic bombs going off one by one, blew Misty Patterson sky-high. Greenspan’s interpretation had an evil simplicity. In those six words he would tell a jury that, driven by her unconscious, she had engineered Anthony’s harsh treatment of her and eventually found a reason to kill him, all to get back at dear old Dad.

Another enemy had stepped out from behind a tree, shaking a weapon in her face. Why he would assume such an aggressive stance in this preliminary interview seemed clear: For some reason he did not want to be involved or to testify. He wanted the case settled without a trial.

"He had told her to terminate her therapy with you," Nina said.

"Yes, we talked about that. Although she seemed all right at the time, it doesn’t surprise me that she was quite angry. She had come to depend on our therapy. She would feel cut adrift, ending our professional relationship so abruptly, without conclusion."

"Did she threaten Anthony, then or at any other time?"

"No, but—"

"She didn’t tell you anything on the phone from jail, did she?" Nina asked.

"No, no. I know better than to elicit that type of information," he said. "Tell me, is it true that Misty says she cannot remember the events just after striking her husband, as it says in the paper?"

"What would that tell you, Dr. Greenspan?"

"Such amnesia would indicate a strong connection to the unconscious motivations we discussed."

"You’re saying, the amnesia proves she was carrying out her unconscious agenda of killing her husband."

Dr. Greenspan steepled his fingers, looking regretful. "I’m afraid so.’’

"Do you know something, Doctor?"

"Yes, Ms. Reilly?"

"I think you are full of shit, and if you go into court spouting this pseudopsychological crap, I’m going to fix it so you leave crying for your mommy."

"Ms. Reilly," he said, standing up, smiling. "Should you ever consider help for yourself, I can recommend a good therapist."

On her way out Nina stopped at the front desk for a resume of Dr. Greenspan’s experience. A different receptionist handed it over without comment, and returned to her computer monitor. Nina went down the walkway, reading it over before inserting it into Misty’s file. According to the resume, which recapped the certificates on his wall, Dr. Greenspan was a family-practice physician interested in holistic health. There was no mention of a specialized psychiatric background or training.

She could fire effective mortar at his background on the witness stand.

But what if he was right?

Turning the key in the lock of her car, she had the sensation of being watched. A moment later, Dr. Greenspan’s wife appeared by her door.

Mrs. Greenspan had perfect hair, upswept, curved into a French twist, not a hair fluttering loose. Up close, she looked somewhat older, about fifty. Her makeup foundation, slightly darker than her skin, ended at her neck, and the corners of her dark-lipsticked mouth were beginning to pull down in what the plastic surgeons call marionette lines. Still, in her yellow dress with the black belt she made a handsome, if somewhat overdramatic, appearance. She stopped a couple of feet away and said, "I wonder if I could speak with you for a minute."

"What about?" Nina asked.

"Oh, nothing much. I heard you in there, with my husband. You were quite rude at the end." She sounded a lot like Nina’s Aunt Helen, who talked with the same disappointment when trying to teach Nina to play the piano.

"I thought it was a private conversation." Nina imagined Mrs. Greenspan’s shell-like ear compressed painfully against the doctor’s solidly paneled door.

The older woman brushed the reproof aside. "You misjudge my husband, Mrs. Reilly. He has helped so many people, so many troubled people like Mrs. Patterson. If you had only given him a chance to explain—"

"Does your husband know you’re out here, talking to me?"

"Now you want to cross-examine me. How interesting it must be to be an attorney! Of course, in my day girls still found their fulfillment in marriage. I actually met Frederick in college, and believe it or not I had planned to go to medical school. But I was lucky to find a wonderful—really wonderful—husband. Someone I could help. I have spent many years helping Frederick build up his practice."

"Would you mind telling me what this is all about? Because I have five people waiting for a good excuse to lose their tempers with me back at my office."

"A little patience goes a long way, don’t you agree, Mrs. Reilly? Or is it Miss?"

"Ms.," Nina said.

"Aren’t you the liberated woman! Such a silly thing to call yourself, though, isn’t it? I thought that went out of style quickly, like the Susan B. Anthony dollar." She favored Nina with a severe smile. As she spoke, she moved closer and closer to Nina. Despite herself, Nina took a step back. "You’re married?"

"Yes."

"Your poor husband! Oh, now it’s me being rude! It’s just that I can see your important career keeps you from home so much." Nina was now feeling strangely guilty. She put her luckless marriage firmly out of her mind.

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Greenspan. I have to go now."

"Yes, your clients are waiting, I understand. And I hope you understand that I am very proud of my husband and I wouldn’t want—"

Nina was jingling her keys, and this interruption seemed to upset Mrs. Greenspan.

"Some female shyster with a sicko client to try to—"

Key in lock. Open door, with the words ringing in her ears. Get in, turn key in ignition.

"Smear him. So you watch out, you little—" Mrs. Greenspan’s well-bred voice expressed mild perturbation, but her words had begun to flow like a stream of toxic waste.

"Hold that thought," Nina said, slamming the door, and hightailing it out of there.

That night at eleven-thirty, Nina called San Francisco from the quiet of her bed. "Sorry to call you so late, Professor," Nina said, "but I’d like to make an appointment for Misty and me to come and see you as soon as possible. I’ll fax the file from Dr. Greenspan."

"I’m too old to sleep," griped Bruno, sounding not at all displeased to hear from her. "What is your impression of this hypnotherapist?" he asked. Nina could hear Jay Leno reducing the day’s events to audience laughter in the background.

She summarized her conversation with Dr. Greenspan and the stranger one with his wife. "I think Dr. Greenspan is a dangerous phony. And his wife seems like a certifiable wacko in the grip of a mid-life crisis. But you know me. I don’t trust anyone, especially a man with certificates in frames that cost more than his college education."

"Check his credentials," Bruno said. "Anybody can get a hypnotherapy certificate with a few hours of coursework and practice. Lets the M.D.’s slide in the back door of the psychiatric profession. Then they start thinking they’re Freud, though they don’t know a goddamned thing about psychiatry."

"That’s what I like about you, Bruno, your devotion to maintaining the highest professional standards," Nina said.

Bruno let out what sounded like a bark. "This is serious, Nina. Remember Pope’s warning about a little learning? ’Shallow draughts intoxicate the brain.’ That’s hideously true when it comes to psychotherapy. The dangers? Beware the unanalyzed analyst. He can project onto the patient. He can interpret the patient’s dreams in terms of his own psychic troubles. He can misdiagnose a patient and send him out in worse shape than before. He can countertransfer, creating an unhealthy emotional fixation or relationship with the patient instead of encouraging a healthy transference."

"I get you." She scribbled on a yellow pad. "Any other thoughts?"

"Well," said the old man, "this Dr. Greenspan has to worry about malpractice. He’s been hypnotizing a girl for how long, three months? Now, presumably, she’s killed her husband. Certainly he must worry at some point that his professional acumen will be attacked. Or he’s afraid you’ll sue."

"Funny you should say that. His wife accused me of trying to find a way to involve him in what happened. He didn’t seem to be thinking along those lines. I think he just wants to stay out of a messy case."

"He just hides his thoughts better," Bruno said.

"Now we’re psychoanalyzing him."

"Yes. Isn’t this fun—" said Bruno drily, "playing around in people’s psyches. That has its own dangers. I recall my constant advice, to take it slowly and carefully...."

"I don’t have much time," Nina said. "When can we come to your office? I want you to see her."

"Any day between three and six. Those are my office hours and I can be flexible. We talked earlier about hypnosis. Shall we try?"

"It’s risky. If she says something I don’t want to hear, we couldn’t use you as an expert to testify at trial, but that’s okay. Your name would never have to be brought up. As long as I don’t name you as an expert witness and you stay a nontreating consultant, the prosecution can’t question you. It would be attorney work-product and privileged."

"I see. You’re thinking she may confess to me, and the physician is afraid I’ll have instant success with his balky patient. My concern is different."

"And that is?"

"Well, if she is a borderline personality, I want to be very careful not to press her too hard and possibly bring on a full-fledged psychosis."

"Unlike the doctor, I’m not much worried about you dealing with his patient. I trust you. And if we can keep this session entirely private, and you thereafter do not work with me or act any further as my expert, I don’t have to give your name out, and the consultation can remain forever private."

"Fine," Bruno said. "So my job is to remove the memory your client is repressing in the hope that she will remember this hypothetical person who struck the fatal blow."

"Or establish beyond doubt that my client struck the second blow, which, I admit, is much more likely. At least I can work out a defense strategy at that point."

"You realize that the first and second episodes are linked. She has clearly locked her past up tight. If we cannot see into her childhood, we may fail."

"You can do it."

"All this, in one session?"

"But, Bruno, you’re a genius."

"Depends on what test you’re using, my dear. And this one may be written by the devil in hell insofar as your client is concerned."

"We’re gambling here."

"You find it exciting to take risks."

"Do I give that impression? Because I really only enjoy gambling when I win. God, we have to be careful."

12

THE NEXT DAY, back at Tahoe, Paul ate breakfast at the Heidi’s on Highway 50 where it ran along the foot of Ski Run Boulevard. Outside, wind rustled through the pine boughs. A flock of gulls careened out of the south, flying back to nest on the beaches. Granite crags, distantly visible out the window, defended the lake, brilliant white snow still showing high up on green and speckled gray.... He would take a few days, do some free-climbing on the granite this summer.

"More coffee?" A waitress paused in her flitting. She looked fresh out of junior high school. How mortifying that she should be sexually mature but twenty-five years younger than he was. She poured him a third cup, which he drank while he examined a geographical map and guidebook to the lake. He liked to be oriented, and maps were another way to have information at his command. His attention was drawn first to a name, Desolation Wilderness, then to the vast area extending behind Emerald Bay on the California side. Here was a great glacial valley headed by a roche moutonnee, a huge steep -faced wall of granite rounded in back. He took a red fine-point pen and circled the area on the map. July would be a good month.

Meantime, better get on with today. He reread Nina’s list. Time’s a-runnin’ out, boy, he said to himself, and rose, glimpsing himself in a glass door, a big man, rugged—he liked to think—outfitted for anything in a windbreaker and running shoes.

The El Dorado County sheriff’s office covered the east end of a long building that had at its western end the windowless jail where Misty Patterson was incarcerated. In the middle were the courtrooms, mediators between law and disorder. A deputy took him right through the security door and in back to the evidence locker.

"You got it made, working up here. I worked San Francisco and then the sheriffs department in Monterey. Great guys, don’t get me wrong."

"Not as much action here as the City," the deputy said. "But we get our share."

"How many homicides do you get a year?"

"A few, mostly drug-related. We run a tight ship. The tourists appreciate it."

"I can see that," Paul said. "Is this all that was taken as physical evidence?"

The deputy nodded, looking over Paul’s shoulder at the four Ziploc bags now spread out on a metal table.

The first bag held the contents of Misty Patterson’s purse and other personal articles, a few credit cards, Mervyn’s, the Emporium, a Visa card, and about ten dollars. A small cardboard box held old papers, souvenirs of Misty’s. He unscrewed the lid of a small silver flask and sniffed, wrinkling his nose. He put the bag away. "Can she get this bag back if she fills out the form?"

"If Hallowell calls the jail. Set it up with him."

The second small bag contained the Eskimo statue. Paul reached in for the statue but was stopped by the deputy, whose badge read BELTINE.

"The cold water wiped the fingerprints," noted Paul. "At least that’s what the police report said. I need to take a closer look."

"Use my handkerchief And if you drop it I’ll be looking for a job," Beltine said. Paul nodded and took out the heavy statue.

A ten-inch polar bear, gray and massive, stood erect on its hind legs. The style, detailed and impressionistic at the same time, was Inuit, Paul thought. He recognized soapstone, looking remarkably like granite but softer, on a heavy base. Searching for bloodstains, not finding any, he hefted the statue. The head fit easily into his hand, anchored by the bear’s ears. He swung it experimentally, imagining the thunk as the base connected with Patterson’s skull.

Inside the third bag he found some badly decomposed cigarette butts, a rusty pair of pliers, and paper trash. "From around the outside of the house," Beltine said. In his urge to move on, Paul almost missed a small piece of metal in the bag. He pulled it out of the paper and held it near the light. "What’s this?" he said.

"Let’s see," the deputy said. "Harley wings. Looks like real silver. Pretty nice work."

"It’s barely tarnished. Where was this found?"

Beltine looked over the inventory. "Small silver pin, found in the back of the house, under the window into the bedroom."

"Does anybody know anything about this pin? Whether it belonged to the guy’s wife, or ..."

"Nobody’s checked this stuff out since it was brought in. You’re the first."

"Now the last bag." Upholstery from the living room couch, neatly labeled, bore marks of what looked like bleached bloodstains. Samples of cloth from Rick Eich’s boat galley carried darker brown stains. A small plastic bag, neatly taped, held a few grains of white powder. A small inner bag held belongings found on the bedside table, keys, a leather wallet with a photo of a girl in it that had to be Patterson’s wife.

He stopped to study the picture. In a silky, skin-colored bikini, the girl was lying on a gleam of white sand in front of Lake Tahoe near Emerald Bay somewhere, with the reddened sky turning dark. Her body, a soft swoop of shoulder, breast, and belly, looked challenging, poised and ready to leave this spot soon. Long, curvy legs stretched out, crossing slightly at the knee. A haze of gold over the sand must have been roused by the same wind that tangled her hair into snakes around her head. She looked straight at, and somehow beyond, the photographer, her eyes staring inside rather than out. An arch expression, and full lips with a hint of smile capped the stunning beauty that had so beguiled Anthony Patterson.

So here was the famous Misty, the Misty who probably killed her husband, in spite of what her lawyer wanted to think. The ex-cop in Paul knew that an arrest meant they usually had the guilty party. That picture of her reminded him of something. Something about the attitude, the kind of daring, hussy pose was familiar, but he couldn’t think what it was.

He turned his attention to a hundred-dollar Prize’s chip; credit and I.D. cards, driver’s license, and receipts. Anthony was four years older than he had told his wife. "Six twenties were still in the wallet," Beltine said. "We got that in the money locker."

Paul held up an even smaller plastic bag, containing a still-damp comb, a Chap Stick, and an empty cigarette package showing some water damage.

"All still in the pocket of the guy’s robe."

"Man, life is cold," Paul said.

"It does have that poignant quality," Beltine said.

Paul drove around town for a half hour, timing his walk into Tom Clarke’s office at the elementary school on Bijou Street for five minutes to twelve, and he caught Clarke walking out the main door, surrounded by children. He fell into step beside him, offering his card. "Excuse me, kids," Clarke said. They dropped behind. Clarke said, "I don’t need this."

"You have to talk to me," Paul said. "So let’s go have lunch somewhere."

The Pineacres Elementary School principal looked around and waved to some parents. He pointed east. "Around on the Nevada side. Okay? Let’s go to the Thirsty Duck at Round Hill."

"How about we make it the Chart House on Kingsbury? Farther away. Better food. And I’ll buy," Paul said.

"I’ll meet you there," Clarke said.

"This way, you’re anonymous," said Paul, opening the door to his van. Clarke, casting a final furtive glance toward the school, climbed inside. They rode along the highway around the lake into Nevada while Clarke, a classic bad passenger, issued orders and directions Paul didn’t appear to hear.

They each ordered a pint of Anchor Steam and salmon steak for lunch. From their raised table the two men could see across the lake to the west shore, toward Mt. Tallac and Emerald Bay. They were paying for the view, and Paul couldn’t take his eyes off it, but Clarke ignored it, looking around as though expecting the jig to be up any second.

"What do you want from me?" he said. "I have a wife and kids. If the Mirror gives out my name, the district won’t renew my contract and my wife will leave me. I got Misty a lawyer and that’s all I can do."

"April 26th. Thursday night."

"Home with my wife."

"That’s it, then. Home with the wife. Anything you want me to tell your girlfriend?"

"Have you met her yet? Misty?" Clarke said.

"She’s still in jail." Paul pictured the photograph and this time recognized the image instantly. Misty Patterson was not, by a long shot, the romantic Botticelli Nina described. This woman had too much animal for that rarified company. No, at least in that picture she was a blond ringer for Manet’s "Olympia" model, the shady lady that shook the world.

"Don’t go getting all self-righteous with me until you’ve seen her. I met her one night at Prize’s. She suggested we get together in the parking lot after her shift. It was December, snowing, nobody out there but the snowplows. She gave it to me in the backseat of her car under a sleeping bag, the windshield frosted over. It was like being eighteen again." Clarke sat back, his hands holding the edge of the table. "She wanted to meet again and she set it up. We went on from there."

"How many times?" Paul asked.

"Quite a few. Hey, I didn’t count. I wish, honest to God—I wish it could have gone on forever. I liked her, loved her in a way, and it wasn’t just the sex. Her husband treated her like a hound dog to kick around, and she needed my affection. I’m only human. You have to see her."

"So she talked about him with you." The waiter set down a steaming plate in front of Paul. The smell of garlic and lemon was too much for him. His mouth full of fish, he went on, "Did she talk about killing him?"

"No! She was afraid of him. I had a hard time convincing her ..."

"To leave him?"

"If she had, this wouldn’t have happened," Clarke said. "She almost made it. I had her talked into the appointment to start the divorce, but he went after her once too often, and this time she fought back."

"And then she dragged him next door, bleeding, and loaded him in her neighbor’s boat, and went out on the lake in the middle of the night in a snow flurry with the bear statue and threw him overboard, and swam a long way to shore in freezing water, and she was all tired out so she hit the hay and had forgotten all about it by the next morning."

"It does sound bizarre," Clarke said. "You ever read about the incredible feats of strength people perform in desperate circumstances? That’s the way I see it."

"How about the forgetting part?"

Clarke put his fork down and leaned over. His lips were red and wet under the beard. Paul recoiled a little. "She’s telling the truth about that. She called me the next morning and she was very scared about Patterson being gone. She couldn’t fake that. How she could forget all the rest of it, I don’t know. It was shock or something. She wasn’t thinking straight. She should have called the police the minute she hit him, and showed them her bruises. She never should have tried to cover it up."

"You saw bruises?"

"No. Nothing I could testify to."

"Sure you did. You were going to take some pictures of the bruises for Nina Reilly."

"Never did. I decided I’d done what I could, like I said."

"She says she didn’t hit him a second time." The salmon was gone. Paul ordered a slice of Mississippi mud pie and coffee.

"What? The papers said he got hit twice. So she did. She’s forgotten the boat, and she’s forgotten that too."

"You’ve got it all worked out, don’t you, Mr. Clarke."

"Right."

"And the interesting thing is, the way you worked it out, you don’t have to come into the story at all," Paul said.

"Right," Clarke said again. "I had no involvement." He looked at his watch. "I have a Curriculum Committee meeting at two. We’re reviewing a new social science textbook. You know, lots of pictures of minorities and the handicapped, girls fixing cars and boys cooking dinner. Nobody’s going to have a problem with this baby. But I have to be there."

"I heard your wife and kids moved out the same night Patterson died," Paul said. The school secretary had been indiscreet in a phone call the day before, but Clarke would never know it.

"You heard about that," Clarke said. He stood up.

"So I’m curious about this happy evening at home with your wife you were telling me about." Paul signed the American Express slip, scratching his head as he figured out the tip.