The Seducers Page 12

  “I didn’t. Did you really?”

  “Sure. I even sent her a letter.”

  “A letter? When?”

  “Just before her breakdown.”

  “My God, no. What did you say?”

  When Jonas told him about the contents of the note, Norman thought, momentarily, of resigning from the case before he accepted it. But where would that leave Jonas? In a not very enviable position. And where would that leave him? Without a suitable arena to show off his considerable skills.

  “Bad,” he said, and arose, puffing contemplatively, as he walked toward a sideboard. “Like a drink?” he asked. “I need one.”

  “Sure.” Jonas sank into his chair, his hopes passing like air from a punctured balloon. “Whatever you’re having.”

  He poured two scotches.

  “Why assume,” Jonas mused, as he was handed his drink, “that she saved that note?”

  Norman nodded. Likely as not she’d thrown it out. “But suppose she had?” The situation was reversed and he wondered to what extent Jonas might actively involve himself in The Story.

  “I could say I wrote that as an excuse; a way of breaking off without hard feelings. That I concocted that tale with the help of my wife, who was concerned about the demands this patient was making.”

  “You could say?”

  “I mean, that’s what happened.” He looked imploringly at Norman.

  “And would your wife so testify?”

  “I believe so.”

  “And would your friend, Ned Kauffman, tell a jury of any indiscretions?”

  “No. He wouldn’t.”

  “It won’t,” said Norman, “be easy.” He walked again to the window, finished his drink, and returned to his desk. “But it is conceivable; depending on your corroborative witnesses, the quality of Miss Lewis’ testimony, the skill with which the arguments are made, and ultimately the whims of the jurors. We shall have a lot of work to do.”

  “Then you’ll take the case?” asked Jonas, a spark of hope in his expression.

  “Yes.” Norman stood up, taking Jonas’ hand. “But first,” he paused a beat, “let us settle the matter of my fee.”

  24

  Arlene awoke quite early this morning. Five forty-five, to be exact. The wind was blowing so fiercely that it even managed to curl about the clustered back yards of the city and work its whistling, howling way past her bedroom window. Moving quickly from her bed, fully conscious from the moment she’d opened her eyes, Arlene darted to the bathroom, received a jolt as her buttocks touched the coldness of the seat, and relief as the warm, runny, gassy stools were passed.

  It was chilly, and she returned to the bedroom for a ratty flannel robe and an old pair of fleece-lined pink slippers, winter companions for the past half-dozen years. Then to the kitchen to brew coffee, make toast, and turn on the radio.

  “… temperatures falling throughout the day. Lows tonight in the upper twenties.”

  December eighteenth would be the coldest day of the year. Yet butterflies were dancing in her belly. Like the hours, as a child, before meeting new foster parents. Or that inarticulatable apprehension, excitement and dread she’d felt before reporting to a different school.

  At eight-fifteen there was a knock on her door. Al. Prompt as usual.

  “Hi.” The smile on his face said, “It’s grim, I know, but I understand and it will all work out.” He reached for her hands and squeezed them gently.

  “Want some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  They walked to the kitchen. He removed his mackinaw and sat down.

  “Nervous?”

  “A bit.”

  She was glad to serve him, relieved for the company, diverted by having something to do. Arlene had not felt this tingly since her breakdown.

  The coffee was downed quickly and they were off, each in thought, down the stairs and on to the street. A chill blast caught them as they walked down the stoop, picking up the tails of Arlene’s gray coat. She was glad for the coffee, still warm in her throat, and for the black wool knee socks she wore. Pulling her neck deeply into her collar, the astrachan down about her ears, and thrusting her hands into the pockets of her greatcoat, she followed Al to the corner of Third and Sixth, where he picked up his copy of The New York Times and hailed a cab.

  They rode in silence, northward toward his office. The butterflies were moving again. She looked over at Al. He was scanning the paper. Nothing to do but sit and stare out the window.

  Al’s office opened into a small alcove. To the left an old, cracked leather couch, stitches splitting along the seams. Alongside was a hand-me-down coffee table containing year-old issues of Newsweek. Directly in front there was a glass partition window with a bellhop’s chime on top, behind which sat Rosalie, a dowdy spinster, Al’s secretary for eighteen years. To the right a hallway that led past a library and the offices of the three partners.

  “Hi, Rosie,” said Al, sliding the glass back and peeking inside. “Any messages?”

  “Yes. Gene Lowenstein of The Voice called. He’ll be at home until ten. And Commissioner Reid. Said he’d phone later.”

  “Okay.” He looked at Arlene. “Want some more brew?” She nodded appreciatively. “Let Rosie know how you take it. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Milk, no sugar, please,” she said and walked to the library.

  Undoing her coat, she laid it carefully on the long conference table which nearly filled the room. Each wall contained floor-to-ceiling shelves, filled with red and blue bound journals: New York and United States law; books used so often that they might have come from a secondhand shop.

  Within moments, Rosalie brought her drink.

  “Don’t worry, dear,” she reassured. “Everything will be all right.”

  Two small sips and Al returned to escort her to his office.

  At first glance it seemed unpretentious, like the rest of the suite. Ocher-colored walls that needed repainting, threadbare rugs, and a broad, ancient, cluttered oak desk. Photographs and framed letters were hung about the room. Pictures of Al with a full head of dark hair at his graduation. And another, serving as a clerk to Justice Douglas. Snapshots of his children, small and grown. Photographs and correspondence, from clients whom the firm had represented. Names she didn’t know along with those she recognized of minority rights and civil disobedience fame. Would there be a spot for her, too?

  “How’re you feeling?” he asked again.

  “How am I supposed to feel?”

  “Queasy.”

  “Then I’m doing okay, because that’s what I feel.”

  “Just remember, be honest but succinct. Don’t volunteer anything above what they ask. This is an examination before trial, but you are under oath. Rosenkrantz will be trying to gauge you, to discover just what our case is based upon, and while we don’t want to be caught telling tales that won’t stand up in court, neither do we have to advertise our evidence.

  “If he asks, ‘Were you referred to anyone,’ answer ‘Yes.’ But there’s no need to mention the letter unless he specifically asks about it. And I doubt that he will. For he’s not about to alert us to material we mightn’t have.”

  “All right.”

  The intercom signaled. Al pressed the button. Rosalie’s voice was loud and chipper. “Mr. Rosenkrantz and Dr. Lippman are here.”

  “You can send them in.”

  On hearing him announced, the blood rushed from her face to her abdomen. Clutching the sides of her chair, she felt faint, but Al’s hand steadied her.

  “You’ll be okay. And another thing. It isn’t necessary to mention that you first proposed being intimate with him. It’s something they’ll never be able to prove, it’s irrelevant to the malpractice issue, and it might only lessen the sympathy a juror could feel.”

  “But you said be honest,” she protested as Rosalie entered, steno pad and pencils in hand, followed by Jonas and Norman Rosenkrantz.

  What followed was almost surrealistic. Al and
Norman, exchanging smiles, handshakes and pleasantries, like two old school chums at a reunion. She and Jonas, staring blankly at one another, until she broke it off by looking at her shoes.

  “Why don’t you begin,” said Al, graciously offering Norman the opportunity to take the first deposition.

  “Thank you,” he said in his husky baritone, and with a friendly smile he began asking Arlene questions.

  First her full name, place of birth, and how she came to see Jonas. Was he her first psychiatrist? “Yes.” Had she ever been hospitalized before? “No.” Where had she worked before coming to McNaughton’s? Who were her supervisors? Had she ever lost a job because of personal difficulties? “No.” Where did she go to college? Had she ever dropped out? “No.” Or seen a counselor in student health? “No.”

  What had she thought of Jonas as a psychiatrist before the alleged intimacies? “I thought he was quite helpful.” How? “I felt less self-conscious, less fearful of people in general and men in particular.” And how did the matter of sex come up?

  “I asked him about sex therapy. Would he undertake it with me.” You asked? “Yes. I said I thought it might be helpful.” And did he respond immediately? “He said he’d have to think about it. And on our very next session we were intimate.”

  You also allege that Dr. Lippman lived with you for a week. “Yes.” Why would he do that? “He had an argument with his wife and showed up in the middle of the night at my place.” You’re sure of that? “Quite sure.” And were you seen by anyone together? Did you entertain? Give parties? Drop in on the neighbors? “No. But we went out, had meals together. Moved about the city.”

  The probing was polite and genteel. That surprised her. Norman asked if a cigar would bother her. No, she said. After he lit up, she wished she’d objected.

  In September you were admitted to St. Vincent’s Hospital. “Yes.” Why? “I was despondent over Jonas … Dr. Lippman’s … breaking off our relationship. I felt frantic. Abandoned. I walked the city. Couldn’t sleep. Took too many pills. A friend found me. I was in a coma. The rest is part of the medical record.” Who found you? “Mr. Newfield.”

  Norman’s eyes glowed with surprise and pleasure. “Is that so?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  What sort of relationship did you have with him? “A friend and next-door neighbor.” That’s all? “That’s all.”

  Did Dr. Lippman visit you in the hospital? “Yes.” Often? “Only once.” And did he ever refer you to another doctor? “Yes.” Who? “A Dr. Ned Kauffman.” Did you ever contact him? “No.” Are you seeing a psychiatrist at present? “Yes.” Who? “Dr. Arthur Matthews.” And where is he located? “Bellevue Hospital outpatient clinic.”

  And that was it. Nothing devastating. Nothing uncivil.

  Rosenkrantz asked Jonas if he had any questions he’d like asked, but he shook his head no. It was now Al’s turn to examine Jonas.

  How old was he? Where did he train? What were his present institutional affiliations?

  Was he married? “Yes.” Happily? “As reasonably as anyone else.” How did Miss Lewis come to see him? “She phoned the Analytic Institute and was referred.”

  She felt sorry for Jonas. It was hard—impossible—to hate him. He was on the defensive, like an errant child called into the principal’s office, having to explain some misdeed in the classroom. Why was she involved in this? Perhaps she’d call it off. He’d answer the remaining questions, ask for her forgiveness, it would all be settled. Hadn’t Al assured her that she always had that option? Meanwhile, he’d run the interrogation through.

  What condition was Arlene Lewis in when you first saw her? “Isolated. No friends. Sexually phobic.” And what sort of treatment did you institute? “Twice weekly psychotherapy.” When did the sex sessions begin? “They never did.”

  Disappointment surged through her. Of course they did. Why would he deny it? Speak the truth and the truth shall make you free. Didn’t he know that?

  Al’s eyes narrowed, his voice grew somber. “Remember, Doctor, you’re under oath here. Let me ask you again. Were you ever sexually intimate with Miss Lewis?”

  “Never.”

  Then, more softly, he asked if he’d ever lived with her. “No.” Or seen her outside the office?

  “On one or two occasions in late July.”

  On what basis? “Therapy.” Isn’t that an unusual arrangement? “Not in this case. Miss Lewis’ problems had to do with social isolation, depression, and extreme dependency upon me. She phoned, once, and insisted I meet her at some restaurant. She sounded desperate and I agreed to her request.”

  Liar.

  And what occurred at that meeting? “She talked about wanting to see more of me.” And what did you do? “Tried to talk to her. I told her that patients often get unrealistically attached to their therapists, but apparently I didn’t get the message through to her, for she called the following day. Again, the same thing happened. When I could see that our conversations and meetings would not be fruitful, I decided to refer her to someone else.” Why? “I couldn’t conduct therapy that way. It was becoming too involved. I thought she’d have a better chance with a new therapist.”

  Were you surprised by her hospitalization? “Yes and no.” Elaborate. “I had no idea what caused it, yet knew she was quite tenuously adjusted.” Meaning? “That she was, in fact, a schizophrenic who was making a marginal adjustment.”

  Schizophrenic. The word tore through her like a knife. How dare he? Call her a drag. A nag. A bitch. A cunt. Okay. But a schizophrenic? Was that what he felt? Is that how he’d defend himself? Through that sort of insult?

  Her head spun as she reviewed their relationship through different lenses, distancing herself from this perfidious and insensitive man, unable to concentrate on the questions that followed. Nor could she remember them leaving. Only Al, coming up to her, smoothing her hair, asking once more how she felt.

  “How could he say that?” She was shaking with hurt, rage, disbelief.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through it,” he answered. “At least we know their line of defense. To claim that it’s all in your head and that you were crazy to begin with.”

  She rose on wobbly feet. Al steadied her. “Still thinking of calling it off?”

  Her head shook a determined no.

  “The doctor stands unmasked. The tin god relegated, I hope, to the scrap heap he belongs on.”

  With his words her tears began. Al closed the office door, got on the intercom, and told Rosalie not to disturb him. He turned back to Arlene, offering her a Kleenex.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Oh, Al.”

  She leaned her face against his cheek and he patted her gently, like a father comforting his child. It was good to have him. A pillar of support whenever she’d needed him. As she stood there, drawing from his strength, the choked cries gave way to comforted sighs, his soft caresses to a firmer embrace.

  Who could determine the point of transition? Where the little girl became a woman? Where the father figure changed into a man? But somewhere along the way she appreciated how nice it was to be held, again, by someone who mattered.

  25

  The snow had all but disappeared. If Christmas would not be white this year, it was still very much in evidence. Record shops along Eighth Street were playing carols instead of rock. Lit trees showed through brownstone windows. A skinny Salvation Army Santa, bundled in an oversized suit, rang his bell with vigor on this final night. Hopefully his exertion provided warmth against the marrow-chilling cold, for pedestrians were scarce. As they passed Sheridan Square, Al dropped two dollar bills into his nearly empty coffer.

  “Bless you, kind sir,” said St. Nick with a bow, giving it his Dickensian best. “And a merry, merry Christmas to you and your lady.”

  Your lady. What a nice touch. He crooked his left arm and Arlene slipped hers into it. Feeling ten inches taller and ten years younger, Al increased the pace until they arrived outside a modest wooden d
oor at 142 West Tenth Street. Casey’s. Where the menu was French and a three-dollar bottle of wine cost fourteen dollars. But the food was decent and the atmosphere elegantly understated. He hoped she’d like it.

  “Good evening,” said the hostess. “May I take your coats?”

  “Please.”

  The tan cashmere sweater and rust-colored wool jersey skirt Arlene wore were classically simple, and Al was intoxicated by her uncloaked form.

  “Very pretty,” she smiled as she looked about, and he felt prettier, too. Particularly when he noticed the bartender—a fine-featured black man—staring at Arlene with a look of admiration and envy.

  “Want a drink at the bar before dinner?” Al asked.

  “I’d just as soon get our table and have some wine. Unless you want something first.”

  “No. That’s fine.”

  Al nodded at the maître d’ and they proceeded past the bar through an archway flanked by hanging plants, and into the main dining room. Brick walls and candle-lit, cloth-covered tables were reflected by three large mirrors, lending an illusion of space to the small area. Subdued light and the low hum of conversation emphasized the intimacy Al sought.

  “Would you care for some wine, Monsieur?” The steward stood to his right, half extending a leather-bound book.

  Al glanced at Arlene. “Any preference?”

  “A rosé would be lovely.”

  “Bring us a bottle of your best,” he ordered, waving off the list.

  And now? Now that the formalities were done with, what would they talk about? Casual conversation had always been difficult for him. Issues, causes, cases—all that was easy. In court he could readily construct an extemporaneous half-hour summation. Here, facing a softly smiling woman the same age as his daughter, he felt tongue-tied. Arlene broke the silence.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  “I was thinking of you.”

  “What in particular?”

  His embarrassment was relieved by return of the wine steward, who filled their glasses.

  More silence. A fixed smile. Another rescue from Arlene.