Last Lie (32 page)

And cared about them.

I allowed seconds to tick away, giving Mattin an extended interlude to ponder the depth of his dilemma. I used the time to choose a second photo for him to consider. The second photograph I displayed for him was the next in the series, an even more appalling indictment than the first. But it wasn't the worst of them.

I was saving that one. Just in case.

The second image I showed Mattin had him in tight exercise pants and a taut, long-sleeved T-shirt. He had pulled a surgeon's cap over his head. The hat was printed in an almost-cute sailboat motif.

His victim's pajama bottoms had been lowered to her knees.

I'm a road cyclist. During phases when I'm serious about my sport, I shave my legs. It's not a fashion statement. Following a, for me, inevitable fall from my bike, the subsequent road rash is less severe on well-shaved skin.

Mattin wasn't a cyclist. But the photograph made clear that he'd shaved most if not all the hair on his hands, feet, and lower legs. And his pubic hair, along with any hair that had sprouted on his testicles.

It was, to be sure, much more detail than I ever really wanted to know about the man's grooming. But my son's photograph revealed those details. The picture showed Mattin standing, his right foot slightly forward of his left, beside the young widow's chair. The waistband of Mattin's pants was pulled back behind his scrotum, displaying not only his partial erection but also his hairless testicles. He was leaning forward over the woman's upper body.

In this photograph, she appeared more than a little sleepy. Her eyes were at half-mast, as though they had already gone into mourning over what was being done to her. If pressed,
stuporous
is the word I would have used to describe her apparent level of consciousness.

The woman's face was about a foot away from Mattin's penis.

Devil's Dick, indeed.

In that photo, again, the kitchen in the background was unoccupied.

The man standing in front of me behind the crime scene tape that surrounded his burned-down house was a despicable, criminal assailant who apparently wanted to have a discussion with me about proof. And consent.

I waited until I was sure that Mattin had digested all the information in that second photograph before I said, "Not this one, either? So . . . it can't be used against you? See, I'm thinking that to do . . . damage, to have . . . influence, it doesn't have to be used against you in any . . . formal way. Not in a court of law. Not in any legal sense. I'm not a lawyer. So maybe I'm missing something about how these things work, lawyer to lawyer. But I would think just the circumstances depicted, and the lurid--is that the right word?--details in the photograph would . . ." I allowed him to finish the thought himself.

He physically turned away. From me. From the photo. From the reality. For those few moments, he faced due west. Toward the sunset, not the sunrise.

Whether he knew it or not, he was looking directly at Devil's Thumb.

"You?" he demanded.

I should have expected the question, but I hadn't. Of course he'd want to know if I'd been there that night. I wasn't there to answer his questions. I chose to be a statue.

He quickly tired of waiting for a reply. "Is this . . . blackmail?" he asked. The question was part accusation, part pure wonder.

"God, no," I said without any hesitation.

He took an additional step away. When he faced me again, a minute or so later, his eyes revealed a new level of fear and some confusion. He said, "What do you want from me? Not to build?" He scoffed audibly at that. His voice turned condescending. "Somebody is going to build here, Alan. Someone is going to build something nice up here, something modern up here, someone is going to soil your private little outdated paradise. And . . . someone is going to make you put your damn dog on a leash."

Wow. The man has a figurative gun to his head, yet he can't resist spitting in my face. Wow. Chutzpah, Adrienne. Chutzpah.

Knowing full well that my paradise had been fouled already, I waited to be sure Mattin was done speaking before I responded to his little tantrum. I was still feeling remarkably even-keeled. I said, "What do I want? Simple. Pretty much what I want from everyone. I would like you to do . . . the right thing."

He scowled. Then he scoffed, "I don't know what that means."

He was showing exasperation, and with the exasperation, some recognition of the extent of his vulnerability. I liked that. There have been times in my life when I would not have allowed myself to feel any pleasure from his vulnerability, but I was past that. I said, "Let me be perfectly clear: Personally? I don't want anything from you. Nothing. I will take nothing from you. Ever. The truth is that although I don't like you, I am not yet sure you have harmed me, or my family. I suspect if I gave you time, you would get around to harming us. But that is premonition, and thus, neither here nor there."

I raised the phone. "I do know for a fact that you have harmed others." Then I shut the phone and returned it to my pocket. "Your friend? In the picture? You want to argue consent with me? Go right ahead. It seems to me that you drugged her, and you raped her. You raped her. Someone you called your friend.

"You thought about it for a long time, too. This little set piece involved a lot of planning. Wardrobe, shaving, grooming. If this picture somehow gets public? Let's make a date--you and I can have the whole consent discussion then, and we'll see who lines up on your side. And who lines up on . . . hers."

He glared at me.

"I worry about other women before her, too. I assume there were others. I fear there were many others. This . . . looks practiced, definitely not a first-time production--you perfected this choreography on earlier victims. That's what I think."

He had become the statue. He didn't move a muscle.

"Your wife? Your stepson? Were they both victims, too? Or accomplices?"

I wanted him to defend himself with me so I could be cruel back to him.

He didn't. I was disappointed. I had a taste for a little blood.

"So what would I like from you, Hake? For all of your victims? For them, I would like you to do the right thing."

"What the hell does that mean?" he asked me.

"You can decide," I said. "I'll be watching."

I could tell that he wanted to insult me or hit me or kill me. Okay, he wanted to kill me. But he couldn't. Not there. Not then. He didn't know if we were being observed. Or whose photos they were, or how many copies existed. He certainly didn't know what the hell I would do with them next. Or had done with them already.

"If I do the right thing? I get those photos? All copies?"

"That would make this blackmail, Hake. I don't do blackmail. You want to make a deal? You got the wrong guy."

"Why should I trust you?"

"I don't recall implying that you should." I stepped away. "Let's go, little girl," I said to Fiji. "Let's go find us a big prairie dog town."

FIJI AND I didn't go in search of prairie dogs. We drove over to the animal hospital on Baseline and we visited Emily.

She was conscious. She opened her eyes and wagged her nub of a tail when she heard my voice and grabbed on to the scent of her little sister. Fiji licked Emily's face quasi-maniacally before she curled up between the big dog's legs, resting her little head on her friend's foreleg. The big Bouvier sighed.

I scratched my dog's neck with one hand, while I placed my other open palm on her belly. I knew Fiji and I had only a few minutes to visit with her.

The vet assistant spent the whole time talking with me about the woods we weren't out of and about the serious risk of infection from the wound. About how close the knife had come to her lung.

I couldn't have found a better way to get the sour taste of Mattin Snow out of my mouth than those few minutes with my dogs.

Fiji and I brought home good dog news and bagels for breakfast.

As I put together a plate of Moe's bagels and opened the tub of cream cheese, I said to Lauren, "One of us needs to take Jonas to get a new phone. He lost his in the . . . confusion in the house yesterday."

Lauren said, "I'm taking the day off to spend with the kids. I'd love to do that with you, Jonas. It's a date? You know what kind you want?"

Lauren wasn't actually taking time off. She'd been placed on administrative leave while the shooting was investigated. That was a discussion we would have with the kids another time, apparently.

Jonas nodded at her. She smiled back.

He looked over at me with a blank face. The kid was so beaten down. I read his expression as the kind of flat gratitude a mistreated animal displays when he or she thinks the latest whipping has ended.

My heart was so heavy for my son that I feared I might need to put it in a sling just to keep it in my chest.

I didn't know what the rest of the day would bring.

But I knew this episode in our lives wasn't over.

45

T
o my continued amazement, the backstory about the rape remained the best-kept secret in town. Casey Sparrow was doing her job. Cozier Maitlin was cooperating with her. So much was at stake, yet so many huge egos were behaving and making nice. I found it remarkable.

Attorney wizardry, indeed. Every time I reflected on the deafening public silence about the rape, I found myself repeating things that Sam had said to me over beers and grilled cheese sandwiches during that Lakers/Mavs game.

HELLA E-MAILED ME MIDMORNING. She said she'd been trying to reach me on my mobile. I phoned her back from a landline.

She mentioned that she'd heard about the fire and the shooting on the news. I didn't know what it meant that she knew the headlines. Although Hella was aware that I lived on the east side of the Boulder Valley, I doubted that she knew precisely where.

Lauren's role in the shooting wasn't yet public. My name wasn't in the first round of news stories at all, but I feared that my involvement would be teased out as soon as reporters got around to searching public property records.

Mattin Snow's name was featured prominently in the initial news reports about the fire. I had no doubt that would set off alarms for Hella's hospitalized patient.

The reality I had to deal with? Hella would soon enough discover that I had become a player in the drama that was her patient's life.

Hella's patient was stable and was in the process of being transferred from Colorado Springs to Denver for continued psychiatric hospitalization. Discharge pressure from her insurer, and Hella's assessment that the acute danger was passing, would soon come together and argue for an early hospital release. In the next day or two--three at the outside--Hella would enter the uncomfortable clinical limbo that psychotherapists live with after a suicidal patient is discharged into outpatient care.

Hella told me she would be back in Boulder after she completed the hospital admission in Denver. We made an appointment for supervision for later in the week.

"We have a lot to talk about," she said.

I didn't disagree, but I knew some of it shouldn't wait. As the media continued to string together facts and rumors about the previous night, Hella would soon figure out what had happened, and more important, my role in what had happened. I didn't want her to learn those facts on the news.

"Before you go," I said. I filled her in. I told her that the man her patient had accused of rape was my new neighbor. That his house had burned down. That more details would likely become public that involved me and my family.

Twice, she said, "I can't believe this." Three or four times, she asked, "You knew?"

She challenged me immediately, demanding to know if, given my relationship with the accused rapist, I should have been supervising her patient's case at all. She asked, "Isn't this the very definition of a clinical conflict of interest?"

I answered her question, despite the fact that she'd asked it rhetorically. I said, "No. It's not."

Was Hella indignant with me? Not quite. She was edging up near that line, but she wasn't crossing it. At her age, in her shoes, I would have been asking the same questions she was asking. With even more attitude than she was mustering.

"It's . . . not? You have to be kidding."

I responded to her challenge. "How long have you been seeing her for therapy?"

"Six months maybe. Since last spring."

"How long have I been supervising your treatment of her?"

"The same."

"I met my new neighbor for the first time the week of that housewarming. We spoke for one or two minutes at that time. My supervision of your treatment of your patient predated any relationship with him, however tangential, by almost a full six months." I paused. "It's not my practice to cease providing clinical services, including supervision, to people because of a secondary relationship I might establish long after the clinical care has been initiated. That . . . would be unethical."

"And since?" Hella demanded. "Your relationship with him since?"

"He and I have exchanged hellos twice, in passing. That's it, until this morning. We did speak briefly earlier this morning."

"About?"

I'd anticipated this question. I'd decided to answer honestly but not fully. "We talked about the fire at his house. What might come next for him. Rebuilding. Moving on. We spoke for less than ten minutes in total."

"You didn't talk about his wife? What she did? His stepson's death?"

"He didn't bring those things up. I was trying to be . . . circumscribed with him because of the supervision. I am cognizant of the boundary issues involved, Hella."

"In your mind, ethically, you haven't crossed any lines here?"

"No," I said. "I haven't."

"Really?"

"If I knew then what I know now? I may not have supervised this case. But hindsight is perfect, and I didn't know six months ago that your patient's friend was going to buy the house next door and then sexually assault her."

Hella started to speak. She stopped before I could identify the swallowed syllable.

"At the time we started talking about your patient, I had no conflicts of interest at all. Even months later, I was confident that I had sufficient degrees of separation to allow me to continue to supervise your work. The man was an acquaintance. I felt I could manage the relationship with him as it existed. Keeping things like this separate is something that psychotherapists, like us, do every day. We work in a small town."

"And that works how? Those degrees of separation?" Hella asked me. She asked it skeptically.

It was a fair question. I offered examples. "I don't provide clinical care to the guy who cuts my hair. Or to his family. I don't provide clinical services to my neighbors, or to their families. But I would provide clinical care to someone who gets his hair cut at the same shop I do. Or to someone who is a friend . . . of my neighbor."

"This was like that?" she asked. "My patient was a friend of your new neighbor?" Still skeptical, I thought, but a little less so.

"Later on? Yes. That's what she was. At the very beginning? I didn't think I knew anyone involved in your patient's life. When it became clear that your patient was a friend of a new neighbor, someone I had just met, I considered the implications. I decided it did not pose an ethical conflict. Not . . . even close."

"She's also a friend of your partner, though. Diane Estevez? You must have learned that fact about the same time. What about that?"

"You're right. I learned that only recently, as well. You had not identified Diane and her husband among your patient's circle of friends until after Burning Man. Regardless, that relationship created no ethical dilemma for me. Diane sometimes refers her friends directly to me for psychotherapy. It's not a conflict; far from it. Boulder is a small town, Hella. The psychotherapy community? A little village. Lives intersect constantly in the work we do. You have to be prepared for that."

I could tell that my arguments weren't being persuasive.

Hella pulled out her best ammunition. "Okay, what about when you learned that my patient considered that new neighbor of yours to be a rapist?"

I chose to be vague. "I learned a long time ago that if I want a career with bright ethical lines, I shouldn't choose clinical psychology. From the moment I surmised that your patient was accusing my neighbor of rape, I intentionally did nothing to advance my relationship with him. I've been successful in that endeavor."

Hella got quiet for a few moments before she said, "I have to be honest. Going forward with this supervision? I am going to wonder whether your insistence that I remain open-minded--even skeptical--about my patient's version of events might have been influenced by the fact that the man in question was your neighbor."

"That is understandable."

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"It's understandable, Hella. Not accurate, but understandable. I'm comfortable with my role. I would have provided you the same professional counsel in this case whether or not he ever moved into my neighborhood."

"I am going to have to think about this. I may end up deciding to seek a new supervisor."

I said, "And that could be a valid response to your concerns about my behavior. When we meet later, we can talk about it."

"I need to get going," she said.

I said, "One thing to throw into the mix? The fact that you are considering changing supervisors right now may also be a way of avoiding the next big issue in your growth as a therapist."

"What's that? What are you saying?"

"The issues you were avoiding when we met at your apartment? At the end? That is what I'm talking about. But I would prefer not to do this on the phone. Can we talk about it when we meet?"

"No," she said. "We can't."

Okay.

Hella knew what she was avoiding. Her retort, when it came, was at once meek and defiant. "I could do that work with my next supervisor," she said.

"Or . . . not. You know as well as I do that you're already licensed. You are not even required to choose a next supervisor. And I should remind you that you didn't exactly choose to explore whatever those influences are with me, in this supervision. Your resistance is . . . not insignificant."

"I really have to go."

I said, "You have a great rationale for leaving supervision. The courageous thing may be to stay." Hella killed the call.

Therapists, and supervisors, point out walls. We can't keep our patients, or our supervisees, from walking into them. Over and over again.

SHE E-MAILED AGAIN TWO HOURS LATER. She asked me to call her mobile number as soon as I was free. I did. She was in Denver, walking to her car. She had just left her patient in the psych unit. Barring any changes, discharge would be in two days. But that's not what she wanted to discuss.

The lawyers had been busy. Casey Sparrow and Cozier Maitlin. That is what she wanted to discuss.

Hella's patient's lawyer had met with his client for half an hour that morning.

Which attorney had offered what first wasn't exactly clear to Hella--who was not consulted about the decision--but there seemed to be agreement among all parties that Hella's patient was in no shape to testify at a hearing, let alone a trial. Without her participation as a witness, of course, proceeding with the criminal complaint against Mattin Snow would be most difficult. No criminal charges were likely to be filed.

I, of course, heard echoes of Cordillera. Sam the sage.

The tall lawyer, Hella said, was preparing a civil suit. The accused's attorney was preparing a confidential settlement offer. The attorneys were planning to meet in Boulder the next day to discuss the details.

Hella said, "She feels vindicated, Alan. Her mood has changed one hundred and eighty degrees. The fact that he is now eager to settle? She feels it validates everything she's said from the start."

"That's great," I said. But I was thinking about Kobe Bryant, and Sam's arguments about the way the criminal justice system gets hijacked by wealthy and prominent defendants, cooperating victims, and their choreographer lawyers.

Hella said, "You don't sound surprised. By the sudden settlement offer. I expected you to be . . . surprised."

"Surprised? Or chastened?"

"Chastened?"

"Remember, I'm the one who kept encouraging you to allow room for doubt about your patient's memories of those events."

"Okay," she said. "Maybe chastened, too. You can be chastened. I'm okay with that."

"You do sound surprised, Hella," I said.

"The DNA test the guy ran himself didn't match, remember? That gave me plenty of doubt, Alan. Why would he settle now? It seemed to me like this whole thing was turning his way. I am surprised."

"Maybe," I said, "he's just decided to do the right thing. Thanks for the news. I truly hope your patient can begin to heal now."

"I'll see you later in the week," Hella said.

DIANE STOPPED INTO MY OFFICE MIDAFTERNOON. She was packed up to head home.

She said, "Hake has taken a leave of absence from the network. Don't know if you heard."

That's the right thing, too,
I thought. I said, "Given the extent of the family . . . tragedy, I'm sure he needs some time."

Diane said, "He announced on his website that half the proceeds from his new book will be donated to the Women & Justice Project at the CU law school. That could be hundreds of thousands of dollars. Maybe millions, if the book takes off. His publisher thinks it will. Take off. All the publicity right now?"

Half?
I thought.
Is half of the right thing to do still the right thing to do?
I would ponder that equation another time. "That's a nice gesture. Sit, please," I said to Diane. "How are you? This has to be hard."

She sat beside me. She said, "I can't believe all this. I thought I knew Mimi."

Diane and I talked about her friend for a while. About all she'd been through. The chronic emotional abuse she'd suffered in her first marriage. Her first husband's multiple affairs. Their ugly divorce. His remarriage to a thirty-two-year-old Pilates instructor from Santa Barbara. Her kids leaving home for school. Her kids and her new husband not getting along at all.

"And now this," Diane said. "Losing her son? Murder, Alan?"

I said something about mothers protecting their own. But Diane, it turned out, wasn't having as much trouble digesting the homicidal part of Mimi's behavior. What she was having trouble with was her suspicion that Mimi had been an accomplice, either before or after the fact, in her son's rape of their mutual friend. That, she said, she couldn't comprehend. She used the word
fathom
.

She didn't say it, but I suspected it was also something Diane feared she couldn't forgive.

I said, "After all these years doing this work? The things that a desperate woman will do to save a diseased marriage can't really surprise you. We see some awful examples in our practices every month. Every week."

Diane's shoulders dropped. "You're right, you're right." She exhaled until her lungs had to be empty. "There are women who allow their children to be abused. To be sexually abused, even. So, why not a friend? And a rape? That's what you're saying?"