Rage (3 page)

“We’re
talking bizarre behavior, here,” said Laskin. “Isn’t that your bailiwick?”

“I’ve
got opinions, but they’re just that— my personal point of view.”

“All
I want to know is were they thinking like kids or like grown-ups.”

“There’s
nothing scientifically definitive I could say about that. If other shrinks tell
you different, they’re lying.”

He
laughed. “Pete Bonnaccio said you could get like this. Which is exactly why I
called you. Everything I do on this one is going to be put under the
microscope. The last thing I need is one of the usual expert whores turning it
into a circus. I didn’t take Pete’s word that you were unbiased, I talked to
some other judges and a few cops. Even people who think you’re a compulsive
pain-in-the-ass admit you’re not doctrinaire. What I need here is an open mind.
But not so open your brain falls out.”

“Are
you open-minded?” I said.

“What
do you mean?”

“You
really haven’t made up your mind?”

I
heard him breathing. Rapidly, then slower, as if forcing himself calm. “No, I
haven’t made up my mind, Doctor. I just had a look at the autopsy photos. Went
by the jail and looked at the defendants, too. In jail duds, with their hair
cut, they look like they got kidnapped themselves. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“I
know, but— ”

“Cut
the crap, Doctor. I’ve got solid citizens clamoring for vengeance and the ACLU
and their buddies wanting to make political hay. Bottom line: I’ll evaluate the
data and make up my own mind. But I need to be sure I’ve got the best
information. If it’s not you evaluating those boys, it’ll be someone else—
probably one of the whores. You want to opt out of your civic duty, fine. Next
time something bad happens, tell yourself you did
your
best.”

“Impressive
guilt trip.”

“Hey,”
he said, laughing. “Whatever works. So how about it? Talk to them, test them,
do whatever the hell you want and report directly to me.”

“Let
me think about it.”

“Don’t
think too long. Okay, decided yet?”

“I
need to be clear,” I said. “I could end up with no recommendation on adult
versus juvey.”

“I’ll
deal with that if and when it happens.”

“I’d
need unlimited access,” I said. “And no time pressure.”

“Yes
to the first, no to the second. I’m due to rule within thirty days. I can
extend it to forty-five, maybe sixty, but if I don’t act in a timely manner it
leaves me open to all sorts of appeal static. You in?”

“Okay,”
I said.

“What’s
your fee?”

I
told him.

“Stiff,”
he said, “but not out of line. Send your bill directly to me. You might even
get paid within a reasonable amount of time.”

“Comforting.”

“That’s
all the comfort you’re going to get on this one.”

S
ocial Services had evaluated the boys’ families before
settling them in the housing project. It took a subpoena but I got the records.

Troy
Turner Jr. lived with his mother, a twenty-eight-year-old alcoholic and cocaine
addict named Jane Hannabee. She’d been in and out of rehab for most of her
adult life and had spent two years, as a teenager, at the state mental hospital
in Camarillo. Her diagnoses ranged from mood disorder, depressed type, to
personality disorder, narcissistic-borderline type, to schizoaffective
disorder. Meaning no one really understood her. During her attempts at
treatment, Troy had been sent to her parents in San Diego. Troy’s grandfather,
a retired army sergeant, found the boy’s wild ways intolerable. He’d been dead
for seven years, his wife for six.

A
habitual felon and addict named Troy Wayne Turner was the boy’s alleged father.
Jane Hannabee claimed that at age fifteen, she’d shared a rock and a one-night
stand with the thirty-nine-year-old in a San Fernando motel. Turner had
recently turned to bank robbery to support his habit, and after his tryst with
Hannabee was caught fleeing from a Bank of America in Covina. Sentenced to ten
years at San Quentin, he succumbed three years later to liver disease, never
meeting, or acknowledging, his son.

Shortly
after her boy’s arrest, Jane Hannabee had left 415 City for parts unknown.

Rand
Duchay’s parents were long-distance truckers who’d perished on the Grapevine in
a thirty-vehicle winter pile-up. Six months old at the time of the crash, Rand
had been riding in the truck, swaddled in a storage compartment behind the
front seat. He had survived without obvious injury, lived all his life with his
grandparents, Elmer and Margaret Sieff, uneducated people who’d failed at
farming and a number of small businesses. Elmer died when Rand was four and
Margaret, afflicted with diabetes and circulatory problems, moved to the
project when her money ran out. The way the social workers saw it, she’d done
her best.

As
far as I could tell, neither boy had spent much time in school and no one had
noticed.

I put
in my request to visit the prisoners and the A.D.A.s assigned to the case
requested a prior meeting. So did the boy’s deputy public defenders. I didn’t
need priming by either side and refused. When all the lawyers protested I had
Judge Laskin run interference. A day later, I was authorized to enter the jail.

* * *

I’d
been to the county jail before, was used to the grayness, the wait, the gates,
the forms. The squinty scrutiny by reflexively suspicious deputy sheriffs as I
stood in the sally port. I knew the High Power ward, too, had visited a patient
there, years ago. Another kid who’d teetered over the edge. As I walked down
the corridor with a deputy escort, moans and giggles sprayed from distant cells
and the air filled with the battling stenches of excreta and disinfectant. The
world might change but this place didn’t.

Psych
evaluations had been ordered alphabetically: Randolph Duchay, first. He was
curled up on a cot in his cell, facing front but sleeping. I motioned to the
deputy to hold back and took a few seconds to observe.

Big
for his age, but in the cold, unadorned, custard yellow space, he looked
insignificant.

The
furnishings were a sink, a chair, a lidless toilet, a shelf for personal items
that was bare. Weeks behind bars had left him sallow, with sooty half-moons
under his eyes and chapped lips and a slack face ravaged by furious acne. His
hair had been clipped short. Even from a distance I could see the scourge of
pimples stretching up into his scalp.

I
motioned that I was ready and the deputy unlocked the cell. As the door clicked
behind me, the boy looked up. Dull brown eyes barely took the time to focus
before closing.

The
deputy said, “I pass through every quarter hour. You need me sooner, holler.”

I
thanked him, put my briefcase down, sat in the chair. When he left, I said,
“Hello, Rand. I’m Dr. Delaware.”

“H’lo.”
Hoarse, phlegmy voice, barely above a whisper. He coughed. Blinked several
times. Remained prone.

“Got
a cold?” I said.

Head
shake.

“How
are they treating you?”

No
response, then he half sat, remaining slumped so low that his trunk nearly
paralleled the cot. Big torso, disproportionately short legs. His ears were
low-set, flaring on top, folded over in an odd way. Stubby fingers. Webbed
neck. A mouth that never fully closed. His front teeth were small and ragged.
The overall picture: “soft signs”— suggestions of abnormality that didn’t
qualify for any formal syndrome.

“I’m
a psychologist, Rand. Know what that is?”

“Kinda
doctor.”

“Right.
Know what kind?”

“Hnnh.”

“Psychologists
don’t give shots or examine your body.”

He
flinched. Like any other inmate he’d been subjected to the full course of
physical scrutiny.

I
said, “I deal with how you’re feeling emotionally.”

His
eyes floated upward. I touched my forehead. “What’s in your mind.”

“Like
a shrink.”

“You
know about shrinks.”

“Crazy
nuts.”

“Shrinks
are for crazy nuts.”

“Hnnh.”

“Who
told you that, Rand?”

“Gram.”

“Your
grandmother.”

“Hnnh.”

“What
else did she say about shrinks?”

“If I
didn’t do right she’d send me.”

“To a
shrink.”

“Hnnh.”

“What
does ‘do right’ mean?”

“Bein’
good.”

“How
long ago did your grandmother tell you that?”

He
thought about that, seemed to be really working at figuring it out. Gave up and
stared at his knees.

“Was
it after you were in jail or before?”

“Before.”

“Was
your grandmother angry at you when she said it?”

“Kinda.”

“What
made her angry?”

His
grainy skin reddened. “Stuff.”

“Stuff,”
I said.

No
answer.

“Has
Gram been to see you, here?”

“I
guess.”

“You
guess?”

“Yeah.”

“How
often does she come?”

“Sometimes.”

“She
have anything else to say?”

Silence.

“Nothing?”
I said.

“She
brang me to eat.”

“What’s
she bring you?”

“Oreos,”
he said. “She’s mad.”

“Why’s
that?”

“Because
I ruined it.”

“Ruined
what?”

“Everything.”

“How’d
you do that?”

His
eyes fluttered. The lids dropped. “My sin.”

“Your
sin.”

“Killing
that baby.” He lay back down, flung an arm over his eyes.

“You
feel bad about that,” I said.

No
answer.

“Killing
the baby,” I prompted.

He
rolled away from me, faced the wall.

“How
do you feel about what happened to the baby, Rand?”

Several
seconds passed.

“Rand?”

“He
laughed.”

“Who
laughed?”

“Troy.”

“Troy
laughed.”

“Hnnh.”

“When?”

“When
he hit her.”

“Troy
laughed when he hit Kristal.”

Silence.

“Did
Troy do anything else to Kristal?”

He
was inert for nearly a minute, then rolled back toward me. His eyelids lifted
halfway. Licked his lips.

“This
is tough to talk about,” I said.

Small
nod.

“What
else did Troy do to the baby?”

Sitting
up with the stiff, labored movements of an old man, he encircled his own neck
with his hands and pantomimed choking. More than mime; his eyes widened, his
face turned scarlet, his tongue thrust forward.

I
said, “Troy choked the baby.”

His
knuckles whitened as he squeezed harder.

“That’s
enough, Rand.”

He
began to rock as his fingers dug into his flesh. I got up, pried his hands
loose. Strong kid; it took some doing. He gasped, made a retching sound,
flopped back down. I stood by his side until his breathing slowed. He drew his
knees up toward his chest. Pressure marks splotched his neck.

I
made a note to request suicide watch. “Don’t do that again, Rand.”

“Sorry.”

“You
feel bad about what happened to the baby.”

No
response.

“You
watched Troy choke and hit the baby and thinking about it makes you feel really
bad.”

Someone’s
radio spat a hip-hop number. Footsteps from afar sounded but no one approached.

I
said, “You feel bad about watching Troy.”

He
mumbled.

“What’s
that, Rand?”

His
lips moved soundlessly.

“What,
Rand?”

The
deputy who’d escorted me strolled by, scanned the cell, and moved on. Fifteen
minutes hadn’t passed. The staff was taking special care.

“Rand?”

He
said, “I hit her, too.”

* * *

For
the next week, I saw him every day for two hourly sessions, once in the
morning, once in the afternoon. Instead of opening up, he regressed, refusing
to divulge anything more about the murder. Much of my time was devoted to
formal testing. The clinical interview was a challenge. Some days he remained
resolutely mute; the most I could hope for were passive, monosyllabic answers
to yes-no questions.