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

layers of dirt. Can we scrape through that dirt, can we uncover the monster?"

''I don't know.''

Click.

"What was that, Doctor?"

"What?"

"Didn't you just hit the Stop button before asking more questions?"

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "No, I wouldn't do that."

I stopped the tape and gestured toward Margie, the court reporter, huddled over her stenograph. "Because that would be the equivalent of the reporter failing to take down some of these proceedings, correct?"

"I suppose."

"Which would create a false record, isn't that right?"

"I don't know if I'd say false, but at least an incomplete record," Schein said.

"And therefore a misleading record?" I do not give up easily.

Exasperated now. "Yes, it could be."

Sometimes the truth comes hard, but as Charlie would say, magna est veritas.

Again, I hit the Play button, and after a few seconds, we heard Schein's voice.

"Let's talk about your father."

"I always loved my daddy. Always."

"Good Chrissy. That's a good girl."

"And my daddy always loved me."

"Did he?"

"Daddy told me I was his best girl, and now that Mommy's sick, I . . ."

"What, Christina?"

"I remember now. I remember."

"Very good, Christina. Very good. What do you remember?"

"I make Daddy happy. I pretend I'm Mommy."

"Does he come to your bedroom?"

"Yes."

"Do you have sex with your daddy?"

"Of course I do, silly. I'm his wife."

I shot a look at the jury. Appalled. Disgusted. Compassion for little Chrissy. Which I needed to convert into compassion for big Chrissy, and to do that, I had to prove that something worse had happened to Chrissy than being abused by her father. I had to prove she had been tricked into killing the innocent father she loved by a devious shrink who had implanted false memories in her.

"Now, Dr. Schein, what happened when the recorder was turned off?"

"I have no recollection. I don't know. I could have made a phone call. It could have been anything."

"Anything? Including suggesting to Chrissy—your hypnotized, drugged, anxiety-ridden patient—that her father committed unspeakable acts though she could not remember them?"

"No! I didn't do that."

And I couldn't prove it. But I sure as hell could suggest it.

I played three more tapes, each more graphic than the last. From the anguish in Chrissy's voice, there was no doubt she believed her father had abused her. That was the tightrope I had to walk. She might have shot an innocent man, but she sure as hell believed he was guilty. At the defense table, Chrissy sat looking straight ahead. The jury could see that magnificent profile, a single tear tracking down a cheekbone.

I thumbed through my notes and took a deep breath. All I had to do now was take the damning evidence against my client and turn it around. Finally, I announced, "Your Honor, we'd like to play the last tape, number twenty-seven."

I waited for Socolow, and it didn't take long. "Judge, there's no such tape on the exhibit list," he said. "It stops at twenty-six."

I walked toward the prosecution table and handed Abe a transcript of the final tape. "It's newly discovered evidence," I said placidly, "and there's no prejudice to the state."

"No prejudice!" Abe seemed happy to be angry. "There's always prejudice in surprise. Unless there's a good reason for the failure to discover . . ."

Abe stopped. He was reading the transcript. Then he looked up at me and whispered, "Are you crazy, Jake? You'll be disbarred for incompetence."

"If that were an offense, half our brethren would be selling whole life," I whispered back.

"Gentlemen," the judge interrupted, "would you care to include me in your colloquy?"

"The state withdraws its objection," Socolow said, trying to stifle his smile.

The first voice was Chrissy's.

"I've thought more about what we discussed yesterday."

"The need for goals?" Schein.

"No. What we talked about afterward."

"Oh, that."

"I've made a decision that you're not going to like."

''Maybe you shouldn't tell me.''

"But I've told you everything else. I can't imagine not telling you first.''

"All right then. But first, let me . . ."

The familiar sound of papers rustling and a chair squeaking and a click. Not the internal sound of the recorder being turned off, but the tape picking up the sound of a button being pushed on a different recorder. I hit the Stop button.

"What was that sound?" I asked.

"I must have turned off the recorder."

"So you were mistaken a few minutes ago about never turning off the recorder in the middle of a session?"

He threaded his hands together and twisted them at his knuckles. "Yes, but . . . well, there was the auxiliary recorder, so there was really no loss of information. I mean, the tape we're hearing is from the auxiliary recorder."

"But you didn't turn over this tape to the state, did you?"

"No, it must have been . . . overlooked."

"And you didn't give it to me until the eve of trial?"

He reddened. He had never thought I'd use it. Why would I? It proved the state's case of premeditation.

"No, as I say, I had forgotten all about it."

"And you never told Chrissy about it?"

"No."

I hit Play.

"Is it off?" Chrissy.

"It's off." Schein.

"Well, like I said, I was thinking . . ."

"Yes?"

"I've bought a gun."

"I thought you were just going to visualize it."

"No. That's not enough. I've got to kill him."

"Figuratively? As part of therapy?"

"C'mon, Larry. That isn't what you meant. It couldn't be."

"I didn't mean anything. I raised certain hypothetical actions, all intended to be therapeutic.

"I decided last night. I couldn't sleep. I haven't slept through the night in weeks. I'm having nightmares and migraines.''

"It's all part of the process. The pain is coming out. "

"No, it's not. May it will after . . ."

"After?"

"I'm going to kill my father for raping me. I'm going to kill him for ruining my life and for ruining Mom's. "

"What would that solve?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to do it. You've shown me what the bastard did to me. Now I know why everything in my life has been so—''

"You'll be caught."

"I saw on Oprah, the other day, a woman who shot her husband after he'd beaten her. She