The Seducers Read online

  “Yes, sir. Poor Justice is being robbed blind. And do you know why? Because lawyers are antithetical to justice. They devote their energies to shrewdness rather than fairness, obscure legalisms rather than common sense.

  “In ancient times a man argued his case against another before the king, or some other royal arbitrator. A decision was made, and that was it. Then along comes some shrewd operator who tells a poor hick that he can plead his cause more effectively. Why? Because he’s got more education. Presto. He’s hired, and the first lawyer is born.

  “The defendant sees this and thinks, ‘Who’s this specialist? I’d better hire one, too.’

  “Soon it becomes like the cold war, each side having its own army of lawyers, defending themselves against one another, feeding their mutual paranoia. God, what a mockery.

  “Ever see how long it takes most cases to come to trial? Or be settled? Years, usually. And who profits from these suits? Only the lawyers. Clients are like crapshooters, but the attorneys represent the casino.

  “One legal beagle is more crafty than the next. You know why this country’s so fucked up? Because Congress is controlled by lawyers. They can’t run their own profession in any ethical way, yet they manage to pass laws that give them control of everybody else’s business.

  “They have a say from A to Z. From legislating morality to figuring tax loopholes. Intuitive decency and honor have been replaced by a system so complex that only they can interpret, argue and defend it. The rule of law. My ass! My dog Rover is a better judge of character than most judges, juries and lawyers. A growl for guilty, a wag of the tail for innocent. And a lot faster and cheaper, too.

  “Anyone who is serious about social problems in America should first try to abolish lawyers. Boot ’em all upstairs. Make them all judges. Let them decide those three-year backlogged cases overnight, without having to listen to a lot of arcane legal gobbledygook from opposing counsel. It’d save the consumer a lot of grief. But it won’t happen. Besides, what would all those unemployed shysters do for a living?”

  By this time they’d nearly emptied the contents of the jug. Rising on weak knees, Paul shuffled toward the logs at the side of the hearth, placed a few on edge in the fire chamber, and lit them with the kindling he took from an old copper washbasin.

  “Anyway,” he went on. “I don’t imagine I’ve got anything new to say to you. You’re so involved with lawyers now you could probably tell me a thing or two.”

  The room was beginning to spin. “I could,” Jonas said, raising a tipsy glass, “but you know it already.”

  “So. Now that we’re finished with the preliminaries, what’d you come up here for today?”

  “For some clarity, maybe. I’m winning my case but losing something else. There’s a stink coming from all the strategies and counterstrategies that’s making me lose my appetite. It never allows for compassion. Friends suddenly treating me like a leper. And all of the questions!”

  “Ahhh! The questions, again.”

  “Sure. Like, was I only on an ego trip? Did I use someone for my own purposes, or did I simply make an error in judgment? How should a therapist behave? What are the rules of the game? What do I want to do with the rest of my life? What will give me satisfaction?”

  “And you could not answer them, could you?”

  “No. Yesterday’s answers were different from today’s.…”

  “And today’s,” Paul added, “will be different from tomorrow’s. I’m afraid, my friend, that there are no answers to those particular questions. You’re in a chaotic place right now, and you’ll just have to find your own way out.”

  “But how?”

  “It’s all a question of values. Forget the advice of other people, including assholes like me. Abandon the roles you’ve been programmed to play. Just set yourself a standard you can respect and live with.

  “Everyone’s waiting for a leader; some savior who will point the way. But if I had one request to make of the Lord it would be to save me from these saviors of my soul.

  “No man of woman born will do it for any one of us. Not Freud, nor Kennedy, nor Mao, nor Einstein, nor the Pope, nor Ronald Reagan. Better to wait for the slave in Godot, with his ‘qua qua qua’ advice, than listen to the subtle semantics of those other messiahs.

  “I tell you, it is a blasphemy against God and man if we have to get instruction in values from the likes of people who fart and pee and sin like all the rest of us.” He let out a loud belch, as if on cue, and continued. “And I don’t care if they wear yarmulkes, priestly collars, guru’s cotton robes, or judge’s black ones. All they do is add to the confusion.”

  “And you,” Jonas inquired, his mind racing along on the flow of wine and conversation, “have you found a way out of your chaos?”

  “I’m still searching,” Paul answered, his face severe, his posture straightening. “If it were perfectly clear,” he pointed to his drink, “I don’t believe I’d be dipping into this so much. But I can tell you what’s helped me a lot.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Honesty. Integrity. Speaking raw truth as I see it.” Then, sensing Jonas hanging on his words too seriously, “Ahhh … forget it. The next thing you know, I’ll be telling you ‘Life is like a teacup.’ Let’s get outside before we keel over. The day’s too nice to spend it indoors and the sappers need plucking from the grapevines. You can give me a hand or watch me do it. All talk and no work makes Paul a dull boy.”

  36

  Monday. The twenty-sixth of April, 1976. Jonas looked about the room. All the participants were there: judge, jury, attorneys, Arlene, reporters, and those refugees from neighborhood beauty parlors, lunch bags on their laps, occupying the back rows. The bailiff called the court into session. George Margolis mounted his platform and seated himself ceremoniously behind his desk.

  How different from the mood this past weekend. At the Cooks’ home there were no judgments. Here that was all that mattered. In Pawling there was candor. On Centre Street, pretense abounded.

  Arlene took the stand and misidentified the freckled penis. Newfield objected to the use of substitute photographs, the judge sustained him, but the jury’d heard it all.

  A cheap but effective tactic, Jonas thought, as Margolis asked, “Is the defense ready?”

  Norman arose.

  This was the time he’d planned to stand up for sincerity; to perform his eleventh hour act of redemption. Jonas had decided to do it on Saturday, while listening to Paul, and recalled the speech he was going to make.

  He’d say that his fearfulness made him betray certain fundamentals like truthfulness and honor, because he’d confused his career with his life. But it was essential, now, that subjective rightness take precedence over conventional success. If therapists helped by leading patients to a place of inner integrity and self-respect, could he, lacking such standards for himself, continue his career in good conscience? No! And so he acknowledged his intimacy. He regretted the pain he’d caused Arlene but it was not done with evil intent. It was an error in judgment; a mark of human frailty. He hoped the jury would understand.

  “The defense rests,” Norman answered, puncturing his daydream. “We will not call any witnesses.”

  Someone did arise at that moment but it was not Jonas. It was Al Newfield, quite agitated, making a highly unusual request, reaching in his briefcase, at the far end of the table. Jonas saw him remove the crumpled letter he’d written Arlene. Al explained to the court that he’d hoped to cross-examine Jonas and introduce additional evidence. Since Dr. Lippman did not plan to testify in his own defense, might he be permitted to call him as plaintiff’s witness now?

  “Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Rosenkrantz?” the judge asked.

  “Of course not.” Norman appeared outraged. “Mr. Newfield had ample opportunity to present his case before he rested. I won’t be a party to any reopening or other last-minute theatrics.”

  “Is your evidence new, sir?” Margolis asked. “Something you didn
’t have in your possession prior to last Friday?”

  “No, your honor, but.…”

  “Then I’m sorry,” he ruled. “Your request is out of order and is denied.”

  Norman had scored again. Al Newfield’s attempt to trap Jonas before springing the letter had resulted in his own entrapment.

  The summations were patented after the opening statements, with Newfield adding that “Dr. Lippman’s unwillingness to testify in his own defense is further evidence of a guilty conscience and a fearfulness that his denial would not stand the test of cross-examination.”

  In rebuttal, Norman Rosenkrantz dismissed this assertion as “nonsense. Dr. Jonas Lippman has been victimized sufficiently by these reckless and unfounded accusations and I could not let him take the stand to be further abused by plaintiff’s counsel or suffer any additional calumnies.

  “The testimony in this case has been marked with inconsistencies. No direct evidence of the charges has appeared. No corroborative witnesses have come forward. Reasonable doubt is sufficient cause to dismiss any suit. I say that the doubts, here, are more than reasonable.

  “Unless you want to open the floodgates for any dissatisfied patient to charge any doctor with any unverifiable crime, it is imperative that you bring back a vote of not guilty.”

  The arguments completed, Judge Margolis gave the jury instructions and told them that if they found in plaintiff’s behalf, they would further have to determine both compensatory and punitive damages.

  Deliberation took less than two hours. At one fifty-three the officer again called the court to order, the jurors filed in, and the chairman, the retired colonel, announced that the vote was five to one in Jonas’ favor. Asking for a poll, so that his vote might be recorded, the ex-marine was the one person who sustained Arlene.

  “Charges dismissed,” Margolis said, gaveling the case closed.

  People rushed from everywhere. Carlo, from his seat in the gallery, to give Jonas a congratulatory embrace. Other well-wishers among the spectators did likewise. And then there were the reporters. For the first time, Jonas could face them.

  “This verdict,” said Norman, his arm draped about Jonas as they were photographed, interviewed, and videotaped in the hallways, “affirms my belief in the fairness of American justice.”

  “And you, Doctor?” asked CBS News. “How do you feel?”

  “Completely vindicated.” Jonas managed a weak smile. “But sorry for the turmoil of that poor girl.”

  He was truly sorry for Arlene. Not just for the way he initially hurt her, but because he could easily identify with the frustration she must be feeling. Having it appear that truthful charges are the product of a diseased mind is not easy. But whose fault was that? His? Hers? Or Newfield’s, for encouraging this painful and vindictive suit?

  Still, she’d found a man. One news account he’d read this morning claimed that Al and Arlene planned to announce a wedding date after the case was concluded. So who is to say that it was all a catastrophe? In fact, she might have even benefited from the entire experience. Now wouldn’t that be something? What a way to ultimately help your patient.

  And what of his resolve to make a clean breast of it? Tempting, but in the end, too Hollywood. In real life people don’t change all that much. By the time he returned to his apartment Sunday evening, he’d reversed that decision.

  Sure Paul Cook had a good rap. But who was he, anyway? Even Marge called him an eccentric. A self-deluded alcoholic who just copped out so he could drink at his leisure. A man who kids himself into thinking that one can live in total honesty and spurn the material gifts of this world. But he had been right about one thing. It was a question of values.

  In the end, Jonas chose practicality. He needed an acquittal in order to work. He needed his work to pay his debts, his rent, to make the down payment on another Mercedes.

  No one could benefit from his coming clean; not Arlene whom he couldn’t pay, not his ex-wife or Liza whom he couldn’t support, nor his patients who each, in their own special ways, needed him.

  He’d been tested and he’d survived. The judgment was in. His trial was over.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1976 by Martin Shepard

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-2844-8

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