A Breather
There was a little diner near my hotel. I went there for a couple of cups of coffee before I'd start my day. I used to do that in college, carve out a half hour of peace before I waded into my day.
I admit I was shaken after meeting with Johnny. I was a bit surprised his mother went to see him at all, but his reaction to it...good god. I shook my head. That was one screwed up kid.
I laid low the week after that meeting. Headed back to Boston for a bit. I told the boys I had business in Boston but it wasn't true. I needed a breather.
Boston was so comforting, familiar. Like a different country from Oklahoma. I basked in the quick, impatient patterns of speech, the suicide drivers who'd just as soon hit you as slow down, the historic buildings that stretched back to before the Revolution, the beer halls with the thick slabs of oak and gleaming chrome. I visited my beloved Oyster Bar and ordered six oysters on the half shell, smothered them in horseradish and marinara and felt them slide down my throat.
But I had to head back for my meeting with the psychologist who met with Johnny. After all, the case hinged on it.
Ms. Johnson's Findings
We met in the lobby of my hotel. There was a dark little bar there, usually empty or sparsely populated with big hatted out of town aunts or some toss pot drinking himself down to his last nickel.
The psychologist, a Ms.Johnson, a tall angular woman whose beauty was marred only by a somewhat crooked nose, looked achingly professional in a gray business skirt suit. Everything was gray, from the clip in her hair to her sensible leather pumps. She was one of those women whose age I couldn't begin to guess. She could be 22. She could be 40. I had no idea.
She slid into her seat at our small table and I offered her a drink. She accepted and ordered a dry white wine. I had a highball. She lit a long slim cigarette while we waited for our drinks.
I had spoken to her on the phone to set everything up but had never met her. Even so she looked a bit frazzled after her meeting with Johnny.
The drinks arrived in their timely manner and I watched her sip her pale yellow wine, light another cigarette and finger the ivory broach at her neck.
"How was your meeting with my client?" I said, sipping my own drink.
"Interesting," she pulled some papers from her attache case and spread them on the table in front of her. Notes.
"He definitely suffers from post traumatic stress disorder related to child abuse. The abuse has been going on for as long as he can remember. From what he says it sounds like his parents are alcoholics. They have a violent, unhappy marriage. Seems the wife is a bit of an enabler, covering up for and covering for her husband in virtually all areas. She lies for him about being too sick to go to work, she corraborates the lies about Johnny's injuries. They say he fell down stairs or got into fights at school or on the streets on the occasions that he has had to go to the hospital. Like a lot of abused children he has been to hospitals in all the surrounding areas, different hospitals, different staff, so no one will detect the pattern,"
I drank slowly, just to dull the razor edge of this meeting. I wanted, if I could win this case, to take Johnny away from that house, take him to Boston with me...how would Clyde think I'm doing with my boundaries now?
"As for the abuse itself, I don't believe it's sexual, he doesn't present that way. It's mostly the father as far as the physical abuse, but both parents are verbally abusive," she sipped her wine, glanced at her notes, and I noticed glints of red in her brown hair.
"His father hits him, sometimes with objects such as leather belts or boards of wood. When Johnny was younger his father would sometimes burn him with cigarettes, this leaves a distinctive scar and there were several on his back, back of his legs, but this stopped some years ago," I drew in a shuddery breath. Christ. It seemed like someone should have intervened somewhere along the way.
"He has healed circular fractures in the bones of each arm. This is a type of fracture associated with abuse, it happens when the bone is twisted and broken," Her voice was smooth and calm, relating the information in a professionally sympathetic manner.
"As far as school goes, he is and has been a C and D student, with an occassional F. He stayed back in 9th grade. He reads at the 4th grade level, performs mathematics at the 6th grade level, has problems concentrating. He is very quiet in school and this has allowed his learning disabilities to be somewhat overlooked. Attendance is poor, as is typical of abused children." I nodded, noting with dismay that I had finished my drink.
"He suffers from major depression and he is suicidal. You are aware that his mother had come to see him and the visit so upset him that he punched the wall of his cell, breaking his hand. This is a classic example of turning his anger inward. When he lashes out, it is at himself, usually. I have advised the guards to put him on suicide watch. He has mentioned suicide on several occasions and has admitted to attempting it twice," I was surprised. It made sense but it surprised me nonetheless.
"When I met with him his affect was flat, speech slow, as is consistent with depression, but he was cooperative and took the tests to the best of his ability and answered all questions truthfully and with as much detail as was requested,"
Promising. I nodded, my mind ticking away at how to present her findings at the trial. I tried to fathom what tricks the prosecution would pull with her on cross examination.
"I interviewed the other one, too," she said, glancing at her notes, "Ponyboy Curtis,"
I raised my eyebrows. She didn't have to do that, but I supposed it couldn't hurt.
"Yeah? What did you find?"
"He is experiencing grief over his parents' unexpected death but it is grief, not depression, and has gone through the expected stages. It seems he has dealt with it surprisingly well, probably due to the continuity of the loving and supportive home provided by his older brothers,"
I contemplated ordering another drink. Sometimes they just go down so well.
"He is extremely bright. He scored at or above the college level in all academic areas. He was moved up a grade in elementary school, so he's in 10th grade, same as Johnny,"
I nodded, not really surprised. He had seemed like a bright kid. The waitress came over. Ms.Johnson declined another drink but I ordered one somewhat guiltily and felt more guilt at the sweet anticipation that arose after I'd ordered it.
There was a little diner near my hotel. I went there for a couple of cups of coffee before I'd start my day. I used to do that in college, carve out a half hour of peace before I waded into my day.
I admit I was shaken after meeting with Johnny. I was a bit surprised his mother went to see him at all, but his reaction to it...good god. I shook my head. That was one screwed up kid.
I laid low the week after that meeting. Headed back to Boston for a bit. I told the boys I had business in Boston but it wasn't true. I needed a breather.
Boston was so comforting, familiar. Like a different country from Oklahoma. I basked in the quick, impatient patterns of speech, the suicide drivers who'd just as soon hit you as slow down, the historic buildings that stretched back to before the Revolution, the beer halls with the thick slabs of oak and gleaming chrome. I visited my beloved Oyster Bar and ordered six oysters on the half shell, smothered them in horseradish and marinara and felt them slide down my throat.
But I had to head back for my meeting with the psychologist who met with Johnny. After all, the case hinged on it.
Ms. Johnson's Findings
We met in the lobby of my hotel. There was a dark little bar there, usually empty or sparsely populated with big hatted out of town aunts or some toss pot drinking himself down to his last nickel.
The psychologist, a Ms.Johnson, a tall angular woman whose beauty was marred only by a somewhat crooked nose, looked achingly professional in a gray business skirt suit. Everything was gray, from the clip in her hair to her sensible leather pumps. She was one of those women whose age I couldn't begin to guess. She could be 22. She could be 40. I had no idea.
She slid into her seat at our small table and I offered her a drink. She accepted and ordered a dry white wine. I had a highball. She lit a long slim cigarette while we waited for our drinks.
I had spoken to her on the phone to set everything up but had never met her. Even so she looked a bit frazzled after her meeting with Johnny.
The drinks arrived in their timely manner and I watched her sip her pale yellow wine, light another cigarette and finger the ivory broach at her neck.
"How was your meeting with my client?" I said, sipping my own drink.
"Interesting," she pulled some papers from her attache case and spread them on the table in front of her. Notes.
"He definitely suffers from post traumatic stress disorder related to child abuse. The abuse has been going on for as long as he can remember. From what he says it sounds like his parents are alcoholics. They have a violent, unhappy marriage. Seems the wife is a bit of an enabler, covering up for and covering for her husband in virtually all areas. She lies for him about being too sick to go to work, she corraborates the lies about Johnny's injuries. They say he fell down stairs or got into fights at school or on the streets on the occasions that he has had to go to the hospital. Like a lot of abused children he has been to hospitals in all the surrounding areas, different hospitals, different staff, so no one will detect the pattern,"
I drank slowly, just to dull the razor edge of this meeting. I wanted, if I could win this case, to take Johnny away from that house, take him to Boston with me...how would Clyde think I'm doing with my boundaries now?
"As for the abuse itself, I don't believe it's sexual, he doesn't present that way. It's mostly the father as far as the physical abuse, but both parents are verbally abusive," she sipped her wine, glanced at her notes, and I noticed glints of red in her brown hair.
"His father hits him, sometimes with objects such as leather belts or boards of wood. When Johnny was younger his father would sometimes burn him with cigarettes, this leaves a distinctive scar and there were several on his back, back of his legs, but this stopped some years ago," I drew in a shuddery breath. Christ. It seemed like someone should have intervened somewhere along the way.
"He has healed circular fractures in the bones of each arm. This is a type of fracture associated with abuse, it happens when the bone is twisted and broken," Her voice was smooth and calm, relating the information in a professionally sympathetic manner.
"As far as school goes, he is and has been a C and D student, with an occassional F. He stayed back in 9th grade. He reads at the 4th grade level, performs mathematics at the 6th grade level, has problems concentrating. He is very quiet in school and this has allowed his learning disabilities to be somewhat overlooked. Attendance is poor, as is typical of abused children." I nodded, noting with dismay that I had finished my drink.
"He suffers from major depression and he is suicidal. You are aware that his mother had come to see him and the visit so upset him that he punched the wall of his cell, breaking his hand. This is a classic example of turning his anger inward. When he lashes out, it is at himself, usually. I have advised the guards to put him on suicide watch. He has mentioned suicide on several occasions and has admitted to attempting it twice," I was surprised. It made sense but it surprised me nonetheless.
"When I met with him his affect was flat, speech slow, as is consistent with depression, but he was cooperative and took the tests to the best of his ability and answered all questions truthfully and with as much detail as was requested,"
Promising. I nodded, my mind ticking away at how to present her findings at the trial. I tried to fathom what tricks the prosecution would pull with her on cross examination.
"I interviewed the other one, too," she said, glancing at her notes, "Ponyboy Curtis,"
I raised my eyebrows. She didn't have to do that, but I supposed it couldn't hurt.
"Yeah? What did you find?"
"He is experiencing grief over his parents' unexpected death but it is grief, not depression, and has gone through the expected stages. It seems he has dealt with it surprisingly well, probably due to the continuity of the loving and supportive home provided by his older brothers,"
I contemplated ordering another drink. Sometimes they just go down so well.
"He is extremely bright. He scored at or above the college level in all academic areas. He was moved up a grade in elementary school, so he's in 10th grade, same as Johnny,"
I nodded, not really surprised. He had seemed like a bright kid. The waitress came over. Ms.Johnson declined another drink but I ordered one somewhat guiltily and felt more guilt at the sweet anticipation that arose after I'd ordered it.
