Lassiter 07 - Flesh and Bones by Levine, Paul (best fiction books to read TXT) 📗

"No. Once, a few years ago, a woman died. A woman I cared about. I thought I could have saved her, should have saved her, so I had some things to work out."

"Did you?"

"No. I still feel guilty, and I have still have nightmares. So I'm batting five hundred with your profession."

"Better than most. What can I do for you, Jake?"

"Charlie says you've done some research on repressed memory."

"Ay! Don't tell me you have a client who wants to sue a parent for sexual abuse twenty years go."

"I wish she'd taken that route," I said, then sipped at the espresso. I told her everything I knew, starting with the night at the club, Chrissy's gunning down her lather, the recitation of her memories, and Dr. Schein's notes and tape recordings, including the gap I couldn't explain. When I was done, I pulled copies of Schein's file out of my briefcase and gave them to her.

"I'll go through everything," she said, "but I can tell you right now that I'm skeptical."

"About what part of the story?" I asked.

"Everything."

Then she told me why.

"Memory isn't neatly stored away in files waiting to be called up like bytes on a computer disk," she said. "Human memory is labile, dynamic, and . . ." She searched for the word. "Malleable."

"By therapists, you mean."

"By anyone in a position of control."

"What about recovering repressed memories?"

"Oh, that!" She waved her hand in the air, seeming to dismiss the notion. "We can thank Freud for the theory that all our experiences are stored away somewhere in the brain, just waiting to be recovered by therapy. Of course, even he changed his mind about that. A huge number of his patients seemed to recall terrible memories of childhood incest. Initially, Freud accepted the stories as true. Later, he concluded they were what he called screen memories, fantasies hiding primitive wishes. Others believe they're just false memories."

"So what's the truth?"

She shrugged. "Who knows? But I can tell you that I despise the emotional strip-mining that therapists use to recover so-called repressed memories."

"Millie, you're losing me. Is it the method you object to or is it the underlying concept of repressed memory?"

"Oh, memories may be repressed and then recovered, but does that make them true? I'm sure you remember many events in your life that are absolutely false."

"I don't get it. If I remember them, they're true."

"Not necessarily. You may try to store memories like a librarian shelving books. But each of us constructs a personal myth about what we think is true. We may exaggerate. Good times in the past become even better, hard times even worse. Individuals who were bad become outright demons. And some of our memories might simply be dreams that never took place at all."

My face must have given it away. Millie asked, "What's wrong?"

"I was just thinking how much Abe Socolow would love to have you on his witness list."

"But he can't."

"No, not after I retained you."

"Look, Jake, I don't want to kill your case, but you should know the truth."

"That's why I came here."

"Good. Then I'll tell you."

She told me how memory resembled a blackboard with lots of chalk and lots of erasers. Whatever was written last tended to stick. A witness to a crime would remember it differently—erroneously—after reading an inaccurate account in the newspaper. She told me there were two kinds of truth. "Historical truth really happened. Narrative truth is what we remember. There are true memories with false details, and false memories with true details."

I followed most of what she said, my mind zooming along on two cups of Cuban coffee. I'm always encountering new disciplines in my practice—DNA testing, blood-splatter evidence, voiceprinting—and I always reach the same conclusion. At first, a new field seems simple enough, but the more you learn, the more complicated it becomes. The more rules, the more exceptions. The more experts, the more debates.

I know my own limitations. "Brilliant" is not an adjective usually associated with my name. "Dogged," perhaps. Same as in football. I was never a fancy high-stepper like Rusty MacLean, who could hip-fake a tackier and wink at a cheerleader at the same time, I was never called "flashy" or "spectacular," not even in high school, where I was a fullback who wrapped two hands around the ball, lowered my head, and ran north and south. In college, I was a bread-and-butter linebacker who liked to take on the tight end, and as a pro, I was second string. I don't miss the glory, because you can't miss what you never had.

So here I was trying to figure out whether Lawrence Schein had handed me a sophisticated scientific defense or a smoke-and-mirrors sham that Abe Socolow would destroy in front of a jury. Another thought, too. What if it was a sham, but Socolow didn't know it? What if I could win with it? Would I?

After a moment, I said, "Dr. Schein told me that psychological trauma is like a karate chop to the brain that interrupts the normal process of memory encoding."

"How colorful," Millie Santiago said, shaking her head.

"He told me Chrissy could have put herself into a trance when the abuse was going on, so that the images of what happened were recorded, but without the whole story, in far-flung parts of the brain. The images never got transferred to the part of the brain where stories dwell. All he had to do was open the gateway to the parts where the images were stored, and they could re-create the memories."

"Re-create or create?" she asked, standing up and walking to the shaded window. Outside, horns honked as rush hour traffic crawled west toward Coral Gables and Westchester. "I'm sure neurologists would be fascinated. We know damn little about thought processes. We know the nerve cells of the brain, the neurons, transmit information by electrical impulses. We know the cells release chemicals called neurotransmitters into synapses, gaps between the neurons. But we don't know where memories are stored and how they're recalled. Your