The Soloist (13 page)

The judge reminded us that since we had brought in a verdict of guilty during this first part of the trial, we would now move on to what was known as the “sanity phase.” He explained in his deep but monotonous voice that in the part
we had just completed the burden of proof was on the state. Now, he said, everything was reversed: the defense had the burden of proof.

“From this point on,” he droned, “there is no question of whether or not the defendant committed the act of murder. You are only to consider evidence relating to the question of whether or not he was sane at the time he killed the victim. The defendant claims,” he continued, and from the way the corners of his mouth suddenly drooped you got the impression that he did not put much stock in the claim, “that at the time of the crime he suffered from a mental disorder, and as the result of his disorder did not form an intent to kill. He and his attorney, Ms. Doppelt, are seeking an acquittal by reason of insanity. The burden of proof rests with them now; the defense must clearly demonstrate evidence of this mental disorder, and prove by a preponderance of evidence that Mr. Weber was insane at the time of the crime—that he did not understand what he was doing when he killed Mr. Okakura. The state, represented by Mr. Graham, does not need to prove anything this time around. If, by the end of the trial, there is any doubt in your mind that Mr. Weber was insane, you are compelled by law to bring in a verdict of guilty.”

Ms. Doppelt brushed her hair behind her ear again and sighed angrily; I gathered that she felt the judge’s instructions showed bias against her client. Certainly I got the impression that Judge Davis would have been pleased to finish the trial right there with a conviction and dispense with the sanity phase altogether.

That day I had brought a book with me to court; I planned to read it during our breaks in the hope that it might discourage Gary, the tiresome meter reader, from
cornering me and talking about himself. He seemed genuinely uncomfortable with silence; during the trial he was fine because someone was always talking, and if someone else was talking during the breaks he would happily listen without interrupting. But if a lull in conversation appeared for more than a few seconds, he would fidget, look around and make an irritating sound by sucking air between his teeth, and if anyone looked up and made eye contact with him, he would start talking to that person. But if no one looked up, he would start talking to me.

The book I had brought was a new work about the interpretation of early music, and began with a question: Do you do greater justice to the old composers by striving for an authentic re-creation of the way their music was performed when it was written or by incorporating modern sensibilities and musical tastes in order to give an honest contemporary performance? With all the recent developments in “authentic” or “period” instruments and musical scholarship in the last few decades, the issue has inspired a lively, ongoing debate. On the one hand, you have people who feel that playing early music with modern instruments, phrasing and tone color is like taking Rembrandt’s paintings and painting over them with the bright palette of Matisse, an obscene distortion. On the other hand, you have people who insist that modern instruments, phrasing and tone color represent advances over the earlier versions, and to withhold them would be like practicing dentistry with turn-of-the-century drills, a waste of hard-won knowledge.

During the break just before the second phase of the trial began I saw Gary beginning to fidget and heard him making sucking sounds through his teeth, so I took this as my cue, opened the book and started to read. It worked; Gary hovered
near me for a bit, coughed a few times, then caught Roy, the retired plant manager, on his way out of the men’s room and started asking him about worker’s-compensation lawsuits. Maria-Teresa was out having a cigarette while all the other women were clustered on the far side of the room, looking at pictures of Jesusita’s first grandchild. Just as I started to relax and concentrate on the book, Mrs. Friedman wandered away from the ladies’ group, sat down next to me, tapped me on the shoulder and informed me that ever since the prosecutor mentioned one of my records she’d been looking for it.

“It wasn’t easy to find, you know,” she said. “You ought to talk to your record company about that. I had to go all over town. You know how much it costs now?”

“No, how much?”

“Seventeen dollars to order it!” She looked at me as if she expected a response. “But it was worth it!” she said at last. “You’re terrific, really. My brother is an oboist with the Boston Symphony, so I hear a lot of music.”

I thanked her and asked about her brother, since I know so many of the musicians in that orchestra, but the name didn’t sound familiar. It turned out that her brother had studied with Hans Barreiss, about whom I had heard quite a bit from von Kempen. They had played together many times before the war. When I mentioned the connection, though, Mrs. Friedman visibly stiffened. “Johannes von Kempen was your teacher?” she asked coolly.

“Yes,” I answered, immediately regretting that I’d brought it up. I tried to pretend not to notice her change in attitude, hoping that we could move gracefully on to another subject, but she sighed and shook her head sadly. “Your name … That’s a Jewish name, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You were born here, though? Not in Europe?”

“Right. I was born in Poughkeepsie.”

“But what about your parents? They must be from over there to give you that first name, no?”

“Yes, they’re both from Germany.”

“So how could they let you study with him?”

“They knew that von Kempen had nothing against Jews. The treatment he received after the war was a terrible mistake.”

“Did your parents live in Europe during the war?” she asked me.

“No, they left before that.”

“Then they don’t know and you don’t know what’s a terrible mistake. Let me tell you, Herrigel, von Karajan, your teacher—all of them … Every concert they gave those years was a mistake. Every note they played hurt us. I know, I lived there.”

There wasn’t any point in debating with her. I suggested that since they were all dead now, she and I needn’t spoil our acquaintance by arguing over questions that no one can answer with certainty.

“I’m not arguing with you, I’m just saying, that’s all. It wasn’t right what they did, and it isn’t right to forget. That’s all I’m saying.” I was afraid she might go on, but thankfully she seemed satisfied at having made her point. I worried, however, about having to deal with the tension between us for the duration of the trial.

All that morning I had wanted to ask Maria-Teresa how she liked the Saint-Saëns recording I’d lent her on Friday, but by the time she returned from having her cigarette I didn’t
feel like discussing music anymore. I couldn’t concentrate on my book, either, so I found a window in the hallway and watched some construction workers laying asphalt across the street. Sure enough, Gary found me there and started talking. The Dodgers had lost two more games over the weekend and he was inconsolable. I tried to seem interested, but failed. I was still upset from my exchange with Mrs. Friedman, and cut him off in mid-sentence to excuse myself for a trip to the men’s room. I said I had a headache and needed to take some aspirin. He asked if I had ever tried ibuprofen
;
he had some in his truck, he said, and would have been happy to run down and get it for me except that it was parked in the far lot. “I could probably find a pharmacy outside, though, if you want some? I’m telling you, if you try it, you won’t waste your time with aspirin anymore.” I thanked him but said that aspirin had always worked adequately for me.

At last we were called back in, and the new trial got under way. Sounding irritable, Judge Davis ordered the defense to make its opening statement. Ms. Doppelt practically leaped out of her chair, as if she had been held prisoner for some time and had at last been released.

She began by saying we all must have wondered what kind of defense lawyer she was to have done so little for her client during his trial for murder. She reminded us that the odd bifurcated trial system now used for the insanity defense put her and her client in an impossible bind; for the first part of the trial it had been impossible for her to defend her client because the very reason for his innocence—his insanity—could not be mentioned as evidence at all. “But so be it,” she said, looking hard at each of us, “I’m counting on you to put the first part of the trial behind you and hear the new evidence with open minds.”

She took a sharp breath and walked over to the defense table. She touched her client gently on the shoulder and the pale young man smiled up at her calmly. Several of the Japanese people in the gallery rustled in their seats disapprovingly. The defendant looked utterly content, in spite of having recently been declared guilty of murder. It was an unsettling sight; if he was insane I suppose he should have been pitied, but my reaction to his oblivious demeanor was to feel disgusted. Ms. Doppelt appeared to sense that the human-touch approach was backfiring, and briskly returning to her spot right in front of us, she began telling us about her client’s life before his fateful decision to study Zen Buddhism. Philip Weber’s mother was first hospitalized for what proved to be chronic mental illness when Philip was only three years old. His father’s business required extensive travel, so the boy was raised mostly by nannies and had to change schools every other year because of job relocations. He had lived in San Jose, Riverside, San Diego, Sacramento, Los Angeles and Davis before he finished high school and left home for college.

Philip’s grades and IQ tests from elementary school indicated that he was an exceptionally bright child, and the teachers’ comments on his report cards from this time suggested that, considering his disruptive home life, he was a well-adjusted boy. But he started having trouble in school beginning in the eighth grade; his marks went from being extremely high to near failing by the eleventh grade, and reports from his teachers indicated that he was becoming withdrawn and apathetic.

“This situation,” Ms. Doppelt suggested, “might have been dealt with more properly if he had stayed in one place for any length of time, but since his father withdrew him from
school to move so often, Philip’s problems went ignored. None of his teachers developed enough of a relationship with him to see how quickly he was deteriorating, so none of them recommended that he see a social worker or doctor. Moreover, Philip’s relationship with his father became so tense and distant that the elder Mr. Weber also did not think to send his son to someone for counseling. He thought his son was just going through ‘a rebellious phase.’

“In spite of his poor grades and miserable home life, Philip tested very high on the SAT exams and was accepted at the University of California at Santa Cruz. He went there for only one semester, failed all of his courses and dropped out. He came home, but could not get along with his father at all. In fact, his father was so disgusted by his son’s performance at college that he kicked him out of the house.

“After that Philip lived and worked in the Santa Cruz area for a year. He developed an interest in religion, and joined a Unitarian church in Santa Cruz. He was enthusiastic at first, but became disillusioned quickly. He was searching to find himself, but the church members, as he put it in a letter to his mother, ‘just sit around and and organize bake sales—there’s nothing spiritual about it at all, and they beat around the bush on everything. You might as well be an atheist.’ He took up with the Church of Scientology for a while, and even traveled to Los Angeles to work at the Scientology headquarters building here, but apparently had a falling out with other members of that group and left after only a few weeks. He moved into an apartment and found a job, then began visiting the Los Angeles Zen Foundation. Zen Buddhism appealed to him because of its promise of absolute spiritual enlightenment, so he attended morning and evening meditation sessions there for six months. After that period he moved
into the building as a resident to practice Zen full time, earning his room and board by working in the organization’s kitchen.”

Ms. Doppelt reminded us that the witness from the Zen Foundation had described Philip as being obsessive and self-absorbed, as if he were in his own little world, and that Philip had put all his hopes on the winter retreat, when Mr. Okakura would finally return to Los Angeles and lead the group through an intensive session. She reviewed the harsh schedule of the retreat, the hours of sitting cross-legged without moving a muscle, the corporal discipline with the heavy pole, and the goal of solving riddles that are, as she understood it, designed to be irrational.

“The evidence will show,” she said, “that the witness you heard from last week had mentioned only part of the puzzle. I’d like to read the complete puzzle to you now.”

She picked up a book from her cluttered desk and opened it to a page marked with a torn strip of yellow legal paper. She read:

“The Zen master Lin-chi was once asked by a monk, ‘What would you do if you were going somewhere, and you suddenly met the Buddha in the road?’ Lin-chi answered, ‘If you meet the Buddha in the road and he stands in your way, kill him! If you meet the great Zen teachers of the past, kill them! If you meet your parents, kill them! That is the only way to be free!’ ”

A murmur rose up from the courtroom. The full puzzle sounded horrifying. Ms. Doppelt frowned at us and said, “Philip was repeatedly told by the Zen master, and by the other Zen students, that his one goal, the whole reason for
attending that retreat and enduring its painful schedule, should be to solve this riddle. Only by solving it could he become enlightened. You all know what that led to.”

Ms. Doppelt put her hands in her pockets, and then took them back out again. Even though she was young, thin and probably in good shape, she was not a physically graceful person. The sloppy-looking, overweight prosecutor moved with more ease than she did. Just to see him walk across the room made you feel comfortable, whereas her movements made you feel wary.