The Seducers Read online

  “I informed him that Employees Mutual refused to consider sexual intimacy as part of your malpractice insurance coverage. And that even if he won his case your assets would make it impossible for his client to collect more than a tenth of the amount she was suing for regardless of what she might—and I stressed the word might—be awarded. Further, that your minimal legal costs in a successful defense were likely to amount to $25,000. So while I believed you to be innocent, I also suggested an out-of-court settlement for a similar amount in return for their dropping charges.

  “My pitch was to his common sense, his client’s pocketbook and his capacity for forgiveness. After all, I asked him, even if you had committed the acts you were accused of, did that warrant completely destroying an otherwise untarnished professional career? Surely a guilty verdict would mean that. And how, without your profession, could you ever satisfy any large financial judgment against you?

  “But,” Norman looked up, apparently abandoning his fruitless search, met Jonas’ eyes, and delivered the tag line, “it was useless. I don’t think he gives a rat’s ass about any of the practical issues. For some reason, he wants your scalp.”

  “So? What now?” Jonas moved forward again on his seat.

  “Delay!” Rosenkrantz advised as he idly puffed his habitual cigar. The effect of Norman’s unflappability was not unlike that of Harry Bane, the analyst Jonas had when he was a student at the Institute. Or of Paul Cook, his first and foremost teacher. Calmness and a quiet optimism were good antidotes for his or anyone else’s anxieties. Still, he could not understand this recommendation.

  “Why delay?”

  “Because,” Norman answered, like a patient schoolteacher talking to a slow pupil, “delay is the partner of deny. Together—even without any clear-cut alibis—delay and deny are an adequate defense in the vast majority of cases.”

  Jonas was a bit incredulous. He straightened in his chair, leaned his elbows on Norman’s desk, and asked, “How can that be?”

  “Denial works because a person is considered innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. And except in rare instances, there are always reasonable doubts that a good attorney can raise—even when defending the greatest scoundrel.

  “But delay, ahhh.…” he leaned back, blew a smoke ring, then looked at Jonas as a nostalgic smile crossed his face. “Delay is effective even when guilt is recognizable by the village idiot.”

  If nothing else came of this meeting, Jonas realized he was in for another lesson in practical law. Norman cleared his throat and continued.

  “I remember a violation of copyright suit that a client of mine brought against General Motors. Even though we had them dead to rights we had to abandon the case. Why? Because they kept asking for continuances. After three years of postponements and appeals—even though they lost each time—my client was run over. He ran out of patience, ran low on funds, lost faith in the judicial process, and decided not to contest their third appeal.

  “So that’s why I recommend delay. Now there’s no reason to stop us from adopting the same tactics.”

  “Oh yes there is,” Jonas contended, reaching for another cigarette and lighting it with the expiring end of his last one.

  “What’s that?”

  “Me. Three months more of waiting will be hard enough. Beyond that, I’ll be a candidate for Bellevue.”

  Norman nodded sympathetically. “Have you ever played the stock market?”

  “No. But I’ve dabbled in commodities; in silver futures.”

  “Make money all the time?”

  “No.”

  “Ever sweat it out?”

  “Sure. A few months ago I bought two contracts at $4.30 an ounce, held them too long, and then saw them drift downward to $3.93. I was out $3,700. Just like that. It was awful. Every day hoping for a rally so that I could pull out even; every day finding I was losing more and more. But what’s your interest in commodities?”

  Norman waved his finger. “Just tell me what happened?”

  “Eventually it did bounce back. I got out, fifty cents ahead, and thanked my lucky stars.”

  “Is this any different?” Norman folded his hands behind his head, pushed his chair back from the desk with his feet, and crossed his legs: a satisfied debater, scoring a point. “You sweated it out, hung in there, and eventually saved the day.

  “Now, Newfield knows the score. He realizes we can procrastinate for a long, long time. As far as I’m concerned he fed that story to Lowenstein and The Voice. Aside from whatever crusade he’s involved in he’s also trying to pressure you, to make you get this thing over with quickly, to turn the thumbscrews until you’ll settle for anything.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you something. He’s succeeded.”

  “Look, Jonas. Lewd publicity, obscene phone calls, harassment by the gentlemen of the fourth estate are only names. Hard to live with while they’re occurring but forgotten weeks later. Nothing is staler than yesterday’s news.

  “I know it’s not easy for you and I’d never pretend to feel what you feel. But procrastination makes the best legal sense.”

  “It’s not just names. There are sticks and stones, too. Here. Take a look at these. They arrived in this morning’s mail.”

  Opening his attaché case, Jonas fished out two letters, one from Mount Sinai Hospital, informing him that “unfortunately, because of adverse publicity, we must suspend you from our attending staff, without prejudice, until your innocence is proved.” The other, from the State Education Department’s Division of Professional Conduct, asked him to phone for an appointment concerning their investigation of the charges brought against him.

  “Bad,” Norman muttered, biting down on the tip of his Havana as he read. “Of course,” he asked when he finished, “you’ll want to fight these?”

  “The Mount Sinai suspension, no. It was six hours a week of volunteer service and the damage has already been done. No one there is likely to refer patients to me any longer and the staff conferences were, frankly, always a bore—each therapist trying to outrank the next with a more complete analysis of every problem presented. Why go in to be pointed at, snickered at, and whispered about when there’s no longer anything I get back in return?

  “The State Education Department, yes. I’ll need your advice with that. How could I earn a living if they didn’t allow me to practice? I’ll not let them take my license away without a struggle.”

  Returning to his original recommendation, Norman tried to sell his suggestion for the third and last time.

  “You’re on the calendar for April nineteenth. If we ask for continuances, for examination before trial of each of their witnesses, if we offer the court excuses because of my busy schedule and your demanding practice, I’m certain we can delay this trial for at least another year to a year and a half. And no one will take away your license before a jury returns a guilty verdict.”

  Jonas sank back and sighed wearily. “Sorry,” he said. “Can’t do it. Four of my patients quit this week. They couldn’t take the cloud of suspicion and I can’t abide the uncertainty that much longer.

  “You told me last Thursday, when the story broke, that you felt we still had a defendable case. Do you still feel that way today?”

  “Yes,” Norman nodded, “I do.”

  “Then let’s defend it on schedule and be done with it. Having it hang over my head is driving me nuts.”

  “Okay.” Norman raised his eyes and held out his palms in a gesture of understanding acquiescence. He ground out his cigar and stood up. Jonas also arose. “Oh,” Rosenkrantz added, absentmindedly, “before you go I wanted to tell you I’ll need an additional five-thousand-dollar retainer fee.”

  “Five thousand more? I thought the twenty thousand I gave you a couple of months ago covered things.”

  “That,” said Norman, sympathetically, “was the initial payment for the malpractice defense. This is for preliminary expenses concerning the state investigation.”

  “Do you
need it right away?” Jonas asked, realizing, abruptly, that their camaraderie was based, ultimately, upon his ability to pay. “I’m somewhat short on cash.”

  “Me too,” Norman winked. “But listen. Don’t let me add to your pressures. If you get it to me within two weeks that will be fine.”

  Two weeks. That would not be easy. But damn it, at least he’d made a decision. Twelve more weeks and the waiting would be over.

  28

  To begin with, it was unlike Phoebe to simply drop by to visit. Especially unannounced. Nor was her story of “just being in the neighborhood” particularly credible. To Anne Kauffman’s knowledge, none of Phoebe Lippman’s other friends lived on the Upper West Side. There were no shops about she would be interested in. And it was certainly no day for a pleasurable stroll.

  Something about the way Phoebe entered their spacious apartment, removed her boots, scarf, gloves, and fur-lined leather coat, conveyed a sense of nameless urgency. Was it the forced amenities? The “What a lovely table—is it new?” comment. The exaggerated “Your view is so beautiful” as she ambled toward the large picture window in the living room, watched the snow fall on Riverside Park and viewed the icy Hudson beyond? Or the frequency with which she puffed her cigarette? Cigarette? Anne suddenly remembered that she’d never seen Phoebe smoke before.

  It was a poor time for a drop-in visit by anyone. There was the weekly shopping to take care of, Ned’s typewriter—which she’d promised to pick up at the repair shop—and a double load of wash. And hadn’t she told Ginger that she’d meet her outside school this afternoon and take her to Capezio’s for a pair of boots? How would she ever fit it all in? Still, something was going on and she was not about to excuse herself.

  “Cold out?”

  “Freezing.” Putting her smoke down, Phoebe patted her still-pink cheeks.

  “Care for a cup of coffee? I’ve got some on the stove.”

  “That would be perfect,” and she followed her into the kitchen.

  Anne was not given to coffee klatches. But here was her friend, arriving unexpectedly on a wintry February morning, obviously wanting to talk. She offered Phoebe a bagel.

  “I’d love one.”

  Lovely … beautiful … perfect … love one. How cheerful could you get in the middle of winter? Particularly with the problems Jonas was facing. Not that Phoebe or Jonas had ever told her about the case. The inside information had come from Ned many months ago.

  “Cream cheese?”

  “What?” Phoebe was obviously preoccupied.

  “Cream cheese on your bagel?”

  “Great.”

  What a peculiar relationship she had with Phoebe. Friend she called her and friend it felt like. Anne always admired Phoebe’s sense of style, elegance, correctness, classical beauty, and an air of sophisticated detachment. Yet they were not actually close. They’d passed many days and evenings in one another’s company but usually in the presence of their husbands. That was actually where the couple-to-couple bond lay. Two young psychiatrists who had gone through training together, competed with one another, enjoyed a common love of boating and the sea, played in the Hamptons and worked in the city.

  But Phoebe and she had never shared woman-talk, acted like schoolgirls with one another, or indicated anything less than mature and contented self-sufficiency. Too bad. She valued such closeness with other women and wondered whether Phoebe had that intimacy with anyone. Or maybe Phoebe was just more composed and competent than she. Not this morning, though.

  The scent of toasting bagels brought Anne out of these considerations. Opening the refrigerator door, she searched about for the cream cheese. Much too cluttered. Another task that needed doing: cleaning the fridge and throwing out the leftovers. Muttering in frustration, she finally found the container, removed it, and spread the cheese liberally on the rolls with the holes.

  Circular bread for a circular interaction. Jonas confessed to Ned. Ned confided in me. I know the truth of Jonas’ relationship with Arlene. Does Phoebe know I know? How come we’ve never talked about it? Here we be, talking about tables and views, bagels and the weather. Is that what actually brought her here? What do I do next? Ask her what good films she’s seen lately?

  She watched Phoebe break a small section from her bagel, chew it mechanically, and sip her coffee. Where was her gusto?

  Screw it. If Phoebe couldn’t get to what was bothering her, she’d try. Anne put her hand out, touched Phoebe’s arm, and asked, “How are you feeling?”

  “Awful.”

  The composed aristocrat was suddenly a tormented child, chin quivering, brow furrowed, eyes reddening as she attempted to hold back the tears.

  “Come on,” Anne urged, reaching to hold her. “Tell me about it.”

  Bits and pieces flowed, along with sobs, for the better part of an hour as Phoebe struggled to regain her composure. There was no logic to the sequence of remarks beyond her desperation. Nor was composure regained until the doubts, self-contempt, and sorrow were spent through expression.

  “It started with Jonas’ sex therapy.”

  “I know,” Anne said. “Ned told me about it.”

  Fresh crying. She could not take the innuendos … the way her neighbors avoided her as she walked down the street … the stilted conversations of friends … a dinner date that two of Jonas’ colleagues canceled.

  Liza … the teasing she was subjected to at school … an incident with a sixteen-year-old who tried to force himself upon her and justified his behavior by saying, “If it’s okay for your father how come it’s not okay for me?”

  Now Jonas wanted her to go to court. To testify falsely for him.… More photographs and more shame.… How could he expect her to do this? And yet, he was so depressed himself, how could she not?… What would Anne advise?

  “I don’t know. It’s hard. He asked Ned to do the same thing. To cover for him.”

  “And will he?” Phoebe looked up, dried her tear-stained cheeks with the back of her hand, hoping that in Ned’s decision she might find her answer.

  Anne sucked in air and blew it out audibly. “When Jonas decided to discontinue seeing Arlene and referred her to Ned, that big-mouth confessed that he’d once slept with a patient, too. Like two boys sharing some forbidden activity. Right now he’s scared to death about getting on the witness stand and telling lies under oath.

  “Ned has no choice. If he tells the truth he not only hurts his friend but runs the risk of Jonas destroying him. So he has to appear and back Jonas up. But you have a choice.”

  Choice. If she could choose she wouldn’t be in this mess.… If she could choose she’d have left Jonas already.

  That came as a shock to Anne. Phoebe wanting to leave Jonas? Why, they’d always appeared as the perfect couple. Always cordial with one another. Never complaining. Appearing to enjoy the fulfillment of the American dream: attractiveness, good health, affluence, a respectable profession, a charming and intelligent child, cultured and important friends.

  “Why? Because of an incident with a patient? You’ll get over that.”

  “Oh, no.” Momentarily startled, realizing she hadn’t made things clear, Phoebe smiled, took another cigarette from her purse and lit it with a long, deliberate puff. “I’ve thought of leaving for years.”

  “So how come you didn’t?”

  “At first because I couldn’t admit failure …” Phoebe put the tepid coffee to her lips, calmer, now, and more spontaneous than Anne had ever imagined her to be, “… that I was a failure. Or he was a failure. Or marriage a failure. It was all so empty and monotonous. Routine: the glue and damnation that kept us together.”

  It was let-down-your-hair time. “Yes … of course … I understand.” Telling Phoebe of similar feelings she’d had during her first marriage; about the fading of excitement, loss of sexual interest, the restlessness to define oneself as a separate entity and seeking outside relationships.

  And the guilt and worry. Can I make it on my own? Will I be too lonel
y? Is there really anything better? How can I support myself? Am I making a mistake?

  Yes. They understood one another. Even now, with Ned, she wondered at times whether she were missing something. She too knew the problems of living with a psychoanalyst. Always having to be rational. Never feeling comfortable about expressing archaic and spontaneous emotion. Hating, at times, their husbands’ professional “understanding” when what they really wanted was a knock-down, drag-out argument to clear the air. There was nothing more infuriating than a condescending “Why do you feel that way?” inquiry when a “Fuck it. I don’t agree with you” was in order.

  Realizing, as Phoebe put it, how awful you feel when you resent the perfect man. And what a lie that posture was. How psychiatrists listened to people’s problems all day long and when they were home wanted no hassles at all; expecting perfect wives and rebuking them with kindnesses when they were not.

  The host of reasons they gave themselves for staying in deadly and suffocating unions: how it was bad for the children and bad to leave at particular times. The all-too-common mañana response. “I’ll leave after I get a degree … when my daughter is older … after our anniversary, or the party next weekend … when I get a job … after the summer vacation … if I meet another man … when my husband is feeling better.” An endless stream of excuses to justify the dissatisfactions of the present day; opiates that made the status quo more bearable.

  Now Phoebe was giving herself a further reason for delay. The trial. Jonas needed her. How could she walk out at this time? Wouldn’t it be a betrayal?

  “There’s never a right time, is there,” said Anne sympathetically.

  “Then I tell myself it would be better to do it now. When the trial begins there will be headlines that make last month’s experiences insignificant by comparison. Why go through that again? Why let Liza go through that again?”

  “I’m sure Jonas’ case won’t succeed or fail on your testimony alone. And feeling as you do it’s hard to believe you can really help him emotionally.”