Vernon God Little (28 page)

My attorney takes a walk to my cage. He looks thoughtfully at me, grabs one of the bars, and turns back to the jury.

‘What I propose to show you during the course of this trial, ladies and gentlemen, is the breadth of human suggestibility. Media arrive
at the scene of every murder, with a picture of one suspect alone: the defendant. And not just any media. Media under the direct employ of the man who most stands to gain from these proceedings. A man who has built an industry – no, a virtual
empire
– on the relentless persecution of this single, hapless youngster. A man who, before the tragic events of May twentieth, was nobody. A man you will meet, and judge for yourselves, during this trial.'

Brian saunters over to the jury, pulls his sleeve cuffs up a little, and leans intimately over their railing. His voice drops. ‘How did this happen? Simple. Under the glare of camera lights, a confused and grieving public was offered the chance to be part of the biggest prime-time bandwagon since O J Simpson. “Is this the suspect?” they're asked. The face rings a bell. They've certainly seen him somewhere, recently even. Result? Even
black
witnesses to
black
murders in
black
neighborhoods recognize this sixteen-year-old white schoolboy as the suspect.'

He scans the jury, narrows his eyes.

‘Fellow citizens, you will see that this meek, shy young man, with no previous record of wrongdoing, had the misfortune of being a
living victim
of the Martirio tragedy. Events overwhelmed him at a crucial point in the delicate unfolding of his manhood. He was unable to properly articulate his grief, couldn't assimilate the fragmentation around him. I'll show you that the boy's only mistake – and it was a big one – was not crying “
Innocent!
” quickly or loudly enough.'

The prosecutor spreads his legs wide for that one, if it ain't too smutty to mention. But I like what Brian said. I look around the room, and I get to marveling that justice will visit here, just like it's supposed to, just like Santa. This is a special place, reserved for truth. Sure everybody's smug, but that could be on account of the confidence they have that justice is coming. Take the court typist woman – the
stainographer
I heard somebody call her, don't even ask me why they need her – is her head thrown back with confidence that justice is coming, or just because of the stench of the
words, the stains she has to punch into her sawn-off machine? And why is her machine sawn-off, why can't you have the full alphabet in court? You wonder if she likes being close to the slime, or even loves it. Maybe she tells her buddies about it after work, and they all tighten their lips together. Sigh, ‘Oh my God,' or something. And maybe the attorneys wear these kind of half-smiles all the time, even at home. Maybe they
became
attorneys because of this overdeveloped skill of making hooshy little laughs that suggest you're the only person in the world ignorant enough to believe what you just said. Maybe they let a hooshy laugh slip when they were babies, and their folks said, ‘Look, honey, an attorney.'

The wonderment of it all wears off by lunchtime on the first day. After that, I sit like a zombie for days of maps and diagrams, footprints and fibers. Jesus' sports bag comes out, with my finger-prints on it. It keeps all the world's scientists busy for a week. I just sit, impassive, I guess, with all these illogical thoughts in my head, like how the hell does anybody know whether a fiber was found on a shoe or a sock? The jury dozes sometimes, unless it's a new witness from the make-up room.

‘Can you identify the person you saw around the scene of the crime?' the prosecutors ask. One by one, the witnesses, strangers to me, cast their eyes and fingers my way.

‘That's him in the cage,' they say. ‘The one we saw.'

And like in all courtroom dramas, everybody turns up from the first part of the show, one by one, to tell their stories. You wait to see if they're going to help you out, or put you the hell away. By the time a November chill calls blankets to my jail bunk, proceedings have thawed their way down to the bone.

‘The State calls Doctor Oliver Goosens.'

Goosens walks to the witness stand. His cheeks swish like silk bulging with cream. He takes the oath, and exchanges a tight little smile with the prosecutor.

‘Doctor – you're a psychiatrist specializing in personality disorders?'

‘I am.'

‘And you appear today as an impartial expert witness, without reference to any professional contact you may have had with the defendant?'

‘Yes.'

The judge holds out a finger to the prosecutor, which means stop. Then he turns to my attorney. ‘Counsel – has your objection been lost in the mail?'

‘No, your honor,' says Brian. He stands motionless.

‘This is your client's own therapist. Am I to infer you'll ignore the conflict?'

‘If you wish, sir.'

The judge chews the inside of his mouth. Then he nods. ‘Proceed.'

‘Doctor Oliver Goosens,' asks the prosecutor, ‘in your professional opinion, what kind of person committed all these crimes?'

‘
Objection!
' shouts my attorney. ‘The crimes aren't proven to be the work of a single person.'

‘Sustained,' says the judge. ‘The State should know better.'

‘I'll rephrase,' says the prosecutor. ‘Dr Goosens – do these crimes suggest a pattern to you?'

‘Most certainly.'

‘A pattern common to your area of expertise?'

‘Traits associated with antisocial personality disorders.'

The prosecutor strokes his chin between thumb and forefinger. ‘But who's to say these traits belong to one person?'

Goosens chuckles softly. ‘The alternative is a localized epidemic of antisocial disorders, lasting precisely six days.'

The prosecutor smiles. ‘And what makes sufferers of these disorders different from the rest of us?'

‘These personalities thrive on instant gratification – they're unable to tolerate the least frustration of their desires. They are
facile manipulators, and have a unique self-regard which makes them oblivious to the rights and needs of others.'

‘Am I correct in thinking these aren't mental illnesses as such, they don't involve any diminution of responsibility on the sufferer's part?'

‘Quite correct. Personality disorders are maladjustments of character, deviations in the mechanisms of reward attainment.'

The prosecutor drops his head, nods thoughtfully. ‘I hear you mention
antisocial
personality disorder. Is there a more common term describing sufferers of that disorder?'

‘Antisocial personalities are, well – your classic psychopaths.' A muffled gasp shifts through the court. My glasses grow thick and heavy.

‘And known manifestations of the disorder include murder?'

‘Objection,' says Brian. ‘Most murderers are not psychopaths, and not all psychopaths commit murder.'

The judge's eyes fall weary on the prosecutor. ‘Counsel –
please
,' he says. You can tell he wants to say stronger words, but he just says ‘please'. The difference between what he
wants
to say and what he
can
say is what makes his eyes all cowy, I guarantee it. The prosecutor tightens up the bitty sinews that pass for his lips, and turns back to Goosens.

‘So Doctor – sufferers of the disorder you mention, am I right in thinking they're
impassive
to the results of their actions – they feel no remorse?'

‘
Objection!
Lack of remorse is consistent with innocence!'

The prosecutor turns to the jury and smirks. I just stay impassive. ‘Overruled,' says the judge. ‘Your client is not being referred to.' He nods for Goosens's answer.

‘Sufferers have a much higher threshold of arousal than you or I,' says Goosens, swishing his cheeks at the prosecutor. ‘Their appetite for thrills can drive them to ever-greater risk, without regard for the consequences.'

‘Thrills such as murder?'

‘Yes.'

The prosecutor lets that one sit awhile, on the floor of the court. The stench of it wafts jurywards. He turns to look at me for his next question to Goosens. ‘And tell us – does sexuality play a part in such behavior?'

‘Sex is our most powerful drive. Naturally, it's a primary conduit for behaviors directed toward the acquisition and maintenance of power over others. And in the antisocial mind – death and sex are common bedfellows.'

‘And how might these traits arise, in layman's terms?'

‘Well, a fixation can develop in childhood . . .'

‘A fixation for, let's say – a woman?' The prosecutor lowers his face, but swivels his eyes up to the witness stand.

‘Well, yes, the object of male fixation is most often female.'

‘A sociopath might kill a woman for thrills?'

‘Yes, or he might – kill
for
her . . .'

‘No further questions.'

Macaroni cheese for lunch today. And bread. Later, it curdles high in my gut as my attorney steps up to the witness box, smiling.

‘Oliver Goosens, how are you today?'

‘Just fine, thank you.'

‘Tell me, Doc – do these antisocial disorders worsen with age?'

‘Not necessarily – to be classified, the characteristics must have been in place by the age of fifteen.'

‘Is the condition still treatable at fifteen?'

‘Most disorders remain treatable at any age, although with true antisocial personalities the results are questionable.'

‘You mean they can't be successfully treated?'

‘That's the prevailing evidence.'

My attorney takes a little walk around the court, head down, thinking. Calculating Pi, probably. Then he stops. ‘In your report to the Martirio Local Court, you recommended my client attend outpatient treatment with you, rather than be detained?'

Goosens looks up at the judge. The judge nods for him to answer. ‘Yes,' says Goosens.

‘Kind of a light-handed approach for an untreatable psychopath – don't you think?'

Irritation skips over the doctor's face. ‘These cases can be hard to diagnose in one session.'

‘You didn't have a problem implying it for the jury just now.' Brian gives a hooshy little laugh. ‘And, Doctor, in terms of the sexual connotations you mention – would it be equally possible for an antisocial mind to fixate on a man, or – boy?' He starts to pace a narrowing circle around Goosens.

‘Of course. Jeffrey Dahmer is a good example . . .'

‘But what would distinguish regular homosexual desire from pathological fixation?'

‘Well, um – consent. A pathological deviant would trick or force his targets, without reference to their wishes.'

‘So, a person who forced his desires on boys – would be a psychopath?'

‘Certainly could be, yes.'

Goosens doesn't look so smug anymore. My attorney finishes his circling, then nails him with an eye that says, ‘Let's play ball'. ‘Oliver Goosens,' he muses. ‘Ever hear the name “Harlan Perioux”?'

Goosens turns white.

Brian turns to the jury. ‘Ladies and gentlemen – Judge – please excuse my language here.' He moves to the witness stand, and leans into Goosens's face. ‘If not, perhaps you've heard of an internet site called
Bambi-Boy Butt Bazaar
?'

‘Excuse me?'

‘A man named Harlan Perioux was indicted in Oklahoma for procuring and corrupting teenage boys for that website – tell us please, under oath – is there something you know about it?'

‘I don't have to answer that.'

Brian smiles a lazy smile. He lifts some documents off his table, and hoists them into the air. ‘I have exhibits showing that you,
Oliver Goosens, previously went by the name of Harlan Perioux.' A sharp murmur breaks through the court. ‘I put it to you, Doctor, that five years ago you were indicted under that name, on four charges relating to the corruption of boys for your pornographic website.'

‘Charges were never proven.'

‘And I further suggest to you, Doctor, that you own and operate that site still, under the name
Serenade of Sodom
.'

Somebody in the back stifles a snort of laughter. The judge scowls.

‘Am I right, Doctor?' Brian says it slow and clear. ‘Yes – or – no?'

Goosens's eyes jackrabbit to the judge. He nods for him to answer.

‘No. Not entirely, no.'

‘My last question: is it true you also treated Jesus Navarro Rosario, around the time of the school tragedy, in May this year?'

Goosens's eyes fall to the floor.

‘And that you presented him with these ladies' undergarments, a charge for the purchase of which has been traced to your credit-card?'

Brian holds up a plastic bag. Inside are the panties Jesus wore on his last day alive.

I
sit on a jail toilet
feeling a little hopeful, to be frank, just letting my worldly pressures crackle through my lower tract. I know I shouldn't say it, but exercising your tract is one of the greatest hits, boy. It's another thing you're never taught about life. In fact, it not only doesn't get taught, but they teach you the opposite, like it's the Devil's Work or something. It's like my mom invented all the damn rules of the world, when you think about it.

But I don't think about it at all. It's morning, and the air in the shade has that hazy, wet crispness you get in winter. I have some time before they load me into the wagon for the trip back to court, so I hang here in the bathrooms nearest to the prison yard. I even have a Camel to smoke, a brand-spanking-new Camel Filter, from Detiveaux, who's on trial for grand theft. He's feeling generous on account of his girlfriend brought their new baby to visit. I told him the kid looks just like him, which it kind of does, even though it's a girl. Now here's me sucking wads of blue smoke, and trying to ash between my legs without burning my reproductive apparatus. All my troubles jump out of my tract like rats from an airplane, and I just get lighter and clearer every second. Making plans like crazy. Tracts, boy,
damn
.