The Seducers Page 18

  HER LOVE SPREAD TO LAWYER, SEX TRIAL TOLD

  Some fun.

  The street paranoia vanished as he headed back to the apartment, replaced by considerations of what he’d just read. If there was any elation, it was soon buried under an avalanche of chagrin.

  What in God’s name was happening to them all? Did Norman actually believe he’d enjoy this? Was his public disgrace made any easier by disgracing Arlene? Or Al Newfield?

  Newfield could take a horse’s prick up his ass as far as Jonas was concerned. Just a hell-bent stranger, out to pick the very flesh from his bones. A stoker who fed the embers of Arlene’s hurt, blew the fires into a flame of vengeance, and stood ready to die in an inferno that might cremate everyone.

  But Al Newfield was not the only one catching hell. There was Arlene, too. At one point he would have wished nothing more than for her to find a man she might care for. Now, apparently, she had. Regardless of his bitterness, was it supposed to please him when his lawyer made her love seem sordid?

  Nausea seized him as he waited for the elevator. After securing his front door, he made himself tea with lemon to settle his stomach.

  The queasy feeling returned the next morning as he sat in court and watched the clerk swear Arlene in.

  “… the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

  “I do.”

  She was clad in the same basic outfit she had worn all week. A long, formless, gray cotton wraparound skirt that hid those shapely legs, and the second of two ill-fitting, oversized black sweaters. Her “pathos outfits,” according to Norman; clothes undoubtedly chosen for her by Newfield, which said, “My doctor took advantage of me.”

  Nor was her testimony very much different from her costume. Not that there were outright lies. It was the missing pieces that altered truth. The grotesqueness of the scene overwhelmed him. Was this the same woman who had once provided love and comfort? Were the lips that now indicted the same that gave sweet kisses?

  The macabre developments were spellbinding as he watched this specter speak. Pale, without makeup, sitting stiffly, speaking softly, having to be reminded several times by the judge to speak up, she was led, under direct examination, to describe her need for therapy.

  “I was extremely depressed, crying a lot, sleeping whenever I wasn’t at work, had no close friends, and was intimidated by the idea of sexual contact.”

  With Newfield orchestrating, she described her early life, the foster homes, and gave a teary-eyed rendition of the sexual molestation she had suffered as a child. Judging from the expressions on several jurors’ faces, it was very, very moving.

  Next came the specifics of her analysis with Jonas. She went twice a week: Monday and Wednesday mornings at eleven A.M. What did they discuss? Her isolation and inability to relate to men. And at what point did the sexual involvement begin?

  “Six months after I began seeing him. In July of last year. We were discussing my fear of sexual contact and my total lack of experience.”

  “And then?”

  “Then he said that he’d.…” She looked down, the words held in her throat. “… that he’d be willing to provide these experiences for me.”

  There. Another missing piece. No mention that the initiative came from her. Not that it would make any difference, since he was denying the affair anyway. But on principle her deceit bothered him even more than his own, because it seemed so unnecessary.

  “And so,” Newfield asked, “you began sleeping with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In his office.”

  “Where in his office?”

  “On the analyst’s couch.”

  “On the analyst’s couch,” he repeated, addressing the jury. “How many occasions on the analyst’s couch?”

  “Twice.”

  With accuracy, Arlene reported how the sessions ended for the summer, how Jonas reappeared, and the wonderful feelings that followed his return. Realizing that she’d fallen in love with him, she came to believe that he felt that way, too. There were lengthy descriptions of the days and evenings they’d spent together, a recollection of him telling her how special she was, and detailed retellings of their many conversations.

  The story of his return to Phoebe followed. The long, dreary weeks while she waited to see him again; convinced, by her love and his words, that their relationship would somehow continue.

  But it didn’t. Instead she received a note referring her to another doctor. There was shock, confusion, hurt beyond her ability to describe. Then everything went blank. The next thing she knew, she was at Bellevue.

  At that point Newfield introduced into evidence plaintiff’s exhibit “B”—a photograph showing the scar on her neck that resulted from the tracheotomy. As this was being passed among the jurors, Norman nudged Jonas with his elbow, winked, and placed a slip of paper in front of him on which he’d scribbled, “No note.”

  Perhaps Arlene hadn’t saved the referral letter to Ned, since this would have been the most logical place to introduce it. What a relief to avoid the tortured explanation he’d have to give in order to account for that one.

  Whatever comfort he’d taken from this soon evaporated as Newfield turned from the witness stand and approached him. Involuntarily Jonas crossed his legs when, just before ramming the table, Al wheeled about and asked Arlene to verify that she had, in fact, slept with Jonas.

  What did he look like with his clothes off? “Trim, muscular. Nicely proportioned.” Any scars or other disfigurements? “No. None.” Was his chest smooth or hairy? “Hairy.” Were there any special features of his anatomy that she might describe? Could she estimate the size of his penis? “Approximately five inches.” Flaccid or erect? “Erect.”

  A giggle ran through the courtroom. Jonas winced as Margolis pounded his gavel, threatening to clear the spectators at the next sign of any disturbance. Humiliation, shame, a sickness in his bowels, the desire to tear the skin from Newfield’s balls, to jump up and down on Arlene’s belly, and then Norman, the ever-watchful attorney, holding his arm and cooling him off as Newfield asked another question.

  “And were there any identifying marks upon it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you describe that to the court.”

  “There was a large freckle, like a birthmark, at the end of his penis.”

  “By the base?”

  “No, the head.”

  The crowning indignity came in the judge’s chambers during recess, when he was ordered to have his penis photographed by Monday. All angles were to be included so that Arlene’s testimony might be corroborated or disproved.

  33

  Cross-examination began on Thursday afternoon, with Norman reminding Arlene of the time her mother died. “Now that’s a very painful situation for a four-year-old, one that might entitle any child to fantasize or suffer some breakdown. And I wonder, did you fantasize a lot or have any breakdown then?”

  “No. I wished she were still there, imagined what she would say to me if she were alive, but I don’t think there was anything abnormal in it.”

  Recapitulating all the stressful episodes Newfield had elicited—from childhood through her seeking therapy with Jonas—Norman repeated, after each, “Did you fantasize or have any breakdown then?” The answer was always no.

  After forty minutes of emphatic badgering, of continually requesting the jurors, in effect, to “see what a lifelong schiz we have here,” Arlene began answering with just enough irritation to satisfy him. “Goad people long enough and they overstate their case,” an old professor once advised. “Then you can begin to attack their veracity.”

  Completing this review, he turned to Arlene’s relationship with Jonas.

  “You say you fell in love with him and claim he actually lived with you?” His brows were raised; his lips pursed in doubt.

  “Yes.”

  “It must have bothered you when he went back to his wife.”

  “Yes.”

&n
bsp; “And hurt, too?”

  “I’ve already said that.” The reply was tart.

  Still low-keyed, Norman asked if she were jealous.

  “Bothered.”

  “But jealous, too?”

  “I guess so.” Clearly she didn’t appreciate that categorization.

  “But you didn’t do anything about it then.”

  “No.”

  Norman was testing, probing, moving about; one moment approaching the docket and almost touching noses with Arlene, the next pacing back and forth, six feet away, watching his shoe leather bend. Dancing and feinting, like a legal Muhammad Ali, he carefully noted the motions that distracted and annoyed her.

  “You didn’t institute any lawsuit when he first left your home.”

  “No.”

  “Or have any breakdown?”

  “No.”

  “Your suit followed his referral note.”

  “You know that already.”

  Norman paused, signaling his readiness to go in another direction.

  “How is your memory?”

  “Aside from the time I underwent shock therapy, it’s fine.”

  He walked to the counselor’s table and took a photograph from his case.

  “You’ve stated you had sexual relations on the analyst’s couch.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How wide was that couch?”

  “Oh … about four feet.”

  “You’re sure of that fact?”

  Looking determined, she answered, “Yes.”

  “Is this the couch you had sex on?”

  Arlene examined the picture perfunctorily.

  “It is.”

  “Defense exhibit ‘A,’” Norman intoned, handing the photograph to the clerk. “The couch and a yardstick showing its width to be two and a half feet.”

  Picayune? Maybe. But disbelief grows in a soil of such small errors. The photo made its rounds of the jurors.

  “So your memory betrayed you there.”

  “I don’t have that exact a mind for measurements,” she answered, looking flustered and apologetic.

  Stroking his chin, apparently recollecting this morning’s testimony, he said, “Earlier today you stated that in the midst of a discussion concerning your sexual fears, Dr. Lippman offered to help you overcome them; that he volunteered to provide sexual experiences for you. Is that substantially correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Stepping toward the witness box he thrust his jaw forward, seized the rail, and in his first display of impatience and anger asked, “Isn’t it true that the initiative came from you? That you were in love with your doctor, badgered him to enter into a sexual relationship, and that in order to avoid this he referred you to another therapist?”

  “No.” Her eyes blazed with anger. “That’s not true. It was his idea!”

  Shaking his head in a show of sorrow, he shuffled back to his table, picked up a transcript, adjusted his glasses, and read:

  “Question: And how did the matter of sex therapy come up?

  “Answer: I asked him about sex therapy.

  “Question: You asked?

  “Answer: Yes. I said I thought it might be helpful.

  “Question: And did he respond immediately?

  “Answer: He said he’d have to think about it. And on our very next session we were intimate.”

  Norman put the papers back in place. “That excerpt came from a pretrial deposition you gave me on December eighteenth, 1975, in Mr. Newfield’s office.

  “Now which version am I to believe? That he seduced you or you seduced him? Or was the seduction simply a figment of your imagination?”

  “He … I.…” the words were lost amidst soft, choking sobs of frustration.

  “I’m waiting,” he said firmly, “for your answer.”

  “I asked about it that time,” she answered, regaining control. “But,” her tone was defiant, “he had talked about the benefits of sex therapy weeks before that.”

  “Are you telling me, then, that your deposition was misleading?”

  “Not intentionally.”

  Norman ceased strolling and with a weary voice inquired, “You work as an editor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever handled a work of fiction where a patient falls unrealistically in love with her therapist? And when she can’t get what she wants, destroys him?”

  “No, Mr. Rosenkrantz. I never have.”

  Reserving the right to continue cross-examination on Monday, when the photographs of Jonas were in hand, he announced that he had no further questions at this time.

  “It’s now four o’clock,” Margolis noted, “and it’s been a very trying day.”

  He looked first at Norman, then at Al. “Seeing how this is the last witness for plaintiff, I wonder if either of you gentlemen would object to starting Dr. Lippman’s defense tomorrow morning?”

  Accepting their nods, he gaveled the court into recess until nine-thirty on Friday.

  “But what about the freckle?” Jonas asked worriedly as they waited for the parking lot attendant to deliver Norman’s car.

  Norman sighed as he carefully clipped the end from his freshly unwrapped cigar. “I’ve got a freckle on the end of my cock, too.”

  He slapped Jonas’ shoulder, gave him a little squeeze, and reached in his pocket for his lighter.

  “My accountant—a lovely little fageleh—is a regular at the St. Mark’s Baths. They love to take Polaroids. I’ll have him speak to some of his friends. We’ll get some pictures of your shmuck, my shmuck, his freckled friends’ shmucks, show one of them to Arlene, and ask her whose it is. You think she’ll know the difference? Never.”

  He took his first puff and smiled with pleasure.

  “A freckled putz. Big deal!”

  34

  Another dip in the roller coaster.

  Norman told him that he thought Arlene’s case weak. Accordingly, he planned to ask for a dismissal this morning, have it denied, state that the defense rested, adjourn until Monday, let Arlene identify the photographs, give final arguments, and allow the jurors to bring in a fast acquittal.

  Sure, people might think Jonas didn’t testify because he feared Newfield’s interrogation. But, as Norman said, “Why dignify an empty charge by even answering it?”

  So that was the plan. Except that Newfield had his own little surprise in store. A new witness he’d like to introduce “if the defense has no objections. A former patient of Dr. Lippman’s who can corroborate that this mischievous man used sick and helpless women to satisfy his own lust.”

  Norman asked Margolis if he might consult with his client and was allowed to do so.

  “Is there anything else you’re hiding?”

  “No,” Jonas answered. “Nothing at all.”

  “Then we ought to let them play the string out. To argue that we’re unwilling to accept further testimony makes us look like we’re covering up. Why give them that edge?”

  He agreed.

  “No objections,” Norman affirmed.

  “We call Cynthia Adler to the stand.”

  Cynthia Adler? What was she doing here? Then Jonas remembered the peculiar circumstances under which she’d discontinued therapy. How, though, could Cynthia help Arlene’s case? He craned his neck about in time to see her arise from the last bench in the gallery, stride briskly forward, and in a husky voice give her name, address and occupation to the clerk who, in turn, swore her in.

  “Ms. Adler,” Newfield began, making sure to stress the z sound in Ms., “you were a patient of Dr. Lippman’s?”

  “I was.”

  “And you came to see him for what reasons?”

  “For depressions. That was in March of ’75. But I am also,” she proudly announced, looking at her companions in the audience, “a lesbian.”

  “Would you mind telling this court how you happen to be here today.”

  “Sure. I’m a big fan of Gene Lowenstein, the Voice writer. I always appre
ciate his exposés; from crooked politicians, to judges, to health services, to kids’ welfare—God! To just about everything. Always raising muck. No finer work a man can do.

  “Anyway … I hope I’m not getting too far off.…”

  “Continue, if you will,” Al responded, even as he winced a bit.

  “Okay. After New Year’s, I was reading his column about what fakes and connivers psychiatrists were. As an example he went on about that poor girl Arlene Lewis and the exploitation she suffered from Lippman. And how anybody who knew anything about the case should contact him.

  “Well, you can imagine my surprise, because I was a patient of Lippman’s too, before I quit. And since he tried the same thing with me, I figured it was important that I go and tell him about it. Because it seems to me that this is a test case for all women.

  “So I went to The Voice, and I met him, and I told him everything that happened, and he got very excited about it and arranged for me to meet you.”

  “So you came to my office and told me your tale,” Al said, as he attempted to restrain her enthusiasm.

  “Yes, and.…”

  “And could you briefly state the circumstances under which you terminated therapy.”

  “It was just after the summer break. I was telling Lippman how I had lost my guilt over being gay; how I’d let my mother know about my girlfriend. And that I’d even begun to imagine a male lover for the first time. The next thing he asks is ‘Was it me?’

  “Naturally, I panicked a bit but figured I’d check things out. ‘Why’d you ask that?’ I said. I didn’t trust the look in his eye but I figured it could be a legitimate question.

  “He starts to answer, gets a call, finishes, looks at me very, very peculiarly, and asks if I’d think of having sex with him.”

  So that was it. She erroneously believed he was trying to compromise her.

  “And then what happened?”

  “I figured it was time to get going. I got up to leave but he grabbed me. Like this.”

  She demonstrated him reaching across her body, the forearm resting on her breast, the hand on her biceps.

  “I wasn’t having any of it, insisted that he let go, which, thank God, he did.