Corrupted (17 page)

“Okay, I'm going in. I want to check on Richie. By the way, I picked out a new place for dinner. They can take us at eight.”

Us,
again. Bennie liked the way it sounded. “Perfect.”

*   *   *

An hour later, Bennie found her way into an upscale development in Mountain Top where Scott and Gloria McNamara maintained a joint office in the back of their modern contemporary home. Gloria was a petite woman, but she came off as wiry in a black fleece top, which she had on with jeans and loafers. Her blue eyes were sharply intelligent, her nose was fine, and her smile pretty. She wore her lemony-blonde hair in a layered brush cut and gestured Bennie into a leafy-patterned chair.

“Please, have a seat.”

“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” Bennie took the seat, looking quickly around. Psychiatric textbooks and journals filled white bookshelves, and framed botanical prints, a natural sisal rug, and a pickled-white coffee table gave it a cheery garden vibe. Indirect light flowed through windows on the back of the room, which overlooked woods.

Gloria took the matching chair opposite Bennie, crossing her legs. “So, what's going on with your client?”

“I represent a seventh grader at Crestwood Middle School who was sent to River Street for fighting in school, but the truth is, he gets bullied. Actually, by a former patient of your husband, a boy in his grade named Richie Grusini.”

Gloria kept her pleasant smile in place. “My husband and I are respectful of our patients' confidentiality, so I don't know or discuss his patients.”

“Understood. Jason's hair and eyebrows are falling out. I've heard of alopecia and I'm wondering if that's what it is.”

Gloria made a note. “He should be seen by a medical doctor. Blood tests should be performed and his thyroid needs to be checked, before we pathologize it. Moreover, the differential isn't necessarily alopecia areata. His hair could be falling out for many reasons. It could be a side effect, a reaction to a drug.”

“He's not on any medication. It looked like a round white circle.”

“That does sound like alopecia areata, an autoimmune disorder caused by stress, but I wouldn't make a diagnosis without examining him.” Gloria paused. “I've had a few patients with alopecia areata, and the hair falls out in patches, until baldness. The loss of eyebrows is disfiguring, and it can't be hidden with the wig, a cap, or sunglasses.” Gloria frowned. “Jason will become more of a target. I've seen it happen.”

Bennie cringed. “What's the treatment?”

“If it is alopecia areata, I would send him to a dermatologist who specializes in hair loss. They perform steroid injections in the scalp.” Gloria rested her pen on her pad. “Sadly, there are lifelong psychological repercussions to childhood incarceration.”

“How so?” Bennie shuddered.

“As a child grows up, there are certain developmental windows, or, things that need to happen at certain times. Children need to socialize to develop peer relationships. They need to replace parental relationships, and they need to develop a sense of identity and self-esteem.” Gloria shook her head. “Juvenile detention interferes with every one of these developmental stages, causing untold harm.”

“Really.” Bennie felt the words like a weight in the pit of her stomach. “Have you worked with kids in River Street?”

“No, but I trained in Pittsburgh and I worked with children in juvenile detention there. Children who get bullied, you can almost smell it on them. The victims get identified quickly, and unchecked, bullying becomes a
Lord of the Flies
situation. When I see children in that situation, my diagnosis is usually post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“PTSD, like from war?” Bennie asked, horrified.

“The analogy isn't unwarranted.” Gloria pursed her lips. “It's traumatic to be in a situation in which you feel endangered, victimized, or there's volatility. A child or adolescent will typically experience a loss of control, a distrust of surroundings and others. Eventually that gets projected onto the world as a whole.”

“What are the symptoms of PTSD in kids?”

“Nightmares, difficulty sleeping, difficulty concentrating, mood swings, loss of self-esteem. A child or adolescent will shut down, internalize his feelings, self-harm, or self-medicate. Or he can turn that anger out, striking out and becoming aggressive.”

“Jason is the former type of kid. He's not aggressive.” Bennie didn't add that the latter sounded like Richie.

“Don't be so sure. You told me on the phone, he pushed his bully, didn't he? He could develop PTSD in River Street, and his aggression will be triggered by certain things. His temper could flare up at certain times. He could develop intermittent explosive disorder.”

Bennie fast-forwarded to a grown-up Jason, praying he didn't develop those issues.

“I have seen striking out occur more often in children who come from abusive homes. Kids who are aggressive have often been aggressed upon or witnessed it in the home, like a husband who abuses a wife.”

Bennie found herself wondering if Doreen had been abused by her husband, before he left. “How do you treat PTSD in children? Let's say, if Jason develops it?”

“Talk therapy.” Gloria cocked her head. “The more they tell their story, the more they attach their negative emotions to the story, and they realize the emotions belong to the story, not to them. You have to create a safe environment in which to do that.”

“How do you create a safe environment, within a juvenile prison?”

“The safety is created in the therapeutic environment. It's not easy, but it's possible. I've done it, I know.” Gloria's aspect brightened. “It's gratifying.”

“So you think you could help Jason?”

“Yes. It would be $100 an hour, and the evaluation would take two hours. I might have to make a return visit, so that's $300 all told.”

Bennie had to come clean with her. “His father isn't completely on board with therapy yet.”

Gloria frowned. “I would need parental consent.”

“I assumed that, and I'll work on it. That is, if I can't get Jason out of there.”

Gloria nodded, gravely. “The sooner he's out, the better off he is. The longer he's incarcerated, who knows?”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Bennie checked her phone as she walked from Gloria's house to the car. The screen showed a message from the office, so she called back on the fly. “Hi, Marshall, what's up?”

“We got a fax from the Superior Court on your juvenile case.”

“It's probably the reply brief by the Commonwealth. Can you fax it to the hotel?”

“I already did that. What I got is an order from Judge Kittredge. He granted your application for oral argument. Congrats!”

“That's great!” Bennie climbed in the car, putting two and two together. The Commonwealth had filed its reply brief, and Judge Kittredge had granted oral argument. That could only mean that the judge felt there was merit to her case, and the Commonwealth hadn't put his qualms to rest. Bennie started the ignition, jazzed. She was finally on the road to freeing Jason.

“Argument is scheduled for ten o'clock, tomorrow morning in Harrisburg.”

“I hope he goes our way. I can't have that kid in prison another minute.” Bennie steered out of the development, with its Sample Open flags flapping in the wind.

“If it's in Harrisburg, it probably makes sense for you to stay over again. I feel bad that you're stuck up there another night. You must be so sick of the boonies.”

“No, it's growing on me.” Bennie felt funny not telling Marshall the real reason she was staying over.

“Good. You got no calls. The world is shutting down for the holidays. I'll let you know if anything else comes in.”

“Thanks. Tell Lou I said hi.” Bennie wended her way through the streets of Mountain Top's nicer neighborhood.

“I will. Good-bye, and good luck tomorrow.”

“Thanks, good-bye.” Bennie hung up, her mood soaring. She pressed Matthew's number into her cell phone, modulating her tone to keep the excitement from her voice. She didn't want to get his hopes up again, only to have them dashed. The phone rang twice, and Matthew picked up.

“Matthew, I wanted to let you know that our petition for oral argument was granted by the judge. Oral argument is scheduled for tomorrow morning at ten in Harrisburg.”

“Good! That's good, right?”

“Yes. It's good, but not a home run—”

“What's oral argument?” Matthew asked, excited. “What does that mean? Why do they call it that?”

“Oral argument is something held in open court, to clarify the written arguments that came before. It means that the judge wants to ask me a few questions before he makes his decision. It doesn't necessarily mean that he's going to go our way. I'm letting you know now, in case you want to be there. We can drive together.” Bennie always made it a point to invite clients because it helped them understand what was going on. She also thought it influenced the judge by personifying the parties, though an appellate court was less likely to be influenced than a jury.

“Do I have to go? I can't get off, not this week.”

“That's fine. I'll call you as soon as it's over to let you know how it went. Now, I just met with a child psychologist and she's concerned about Jason's hair falling out. She agreed to go and evaluate him at the prison and—”

“I said, I'll think about it. I have to get back to work. Thanks. I'll be praying for you, tomorrow morning.”

“Thanks, Matthew. Good-bye.” Bennie hung up and hit the gas, turning onto the main road. She would have to work late tonight and didn't have time for the dinner with Declan. She expected he would understand. If she won for Jason, it would help Richie, too. And the proverb went, the law was a jealous mister.

*   *   *

A frigid night had fallen, and Bennie sat working at her laptop at a card table in her bedroom, which had been temporarily transformed into an office. The inn's manager had rustled her up a printer, a surge protector, and an extension cord, so she was fully electrified, and copies of the cases she needed lay around her, having been Xeroxed by a bellman, because there was no business center. There was no room service, either, but she'd bribed somebody in the kitchen to keep her supplied with fresh coffee, in a metallic carafe that scented the room with caffeine. Declan had been a great sport about her canceling dinner, yet another test he passed, which he didn't know he was taking.

Bennie typed THE LOWER COURT'S WAIVER FORM IS UNCONSTITUTIONAL in oversized font, so she could read it from the lectern tomorrow. She knew what she wanted to say, but she had to shorten it, since oral arguments in the Superior Court were timed. She usually prepared by pretending her oral argument was a TV commercial, distilling its essence, then memorizing it, so that it sounded natural.

“One plain pizza, coming up!” Declan entered the room with Bear, who bounded in ahead, jumping on the bed.

“Thanks.” Bennie kept working, preoccupied.

“Keep working. I get it.” Declan set the pizza box and a large brown bag on the dresser.”

“Thanks.” Bennie glanced at him, as she typed. His gorgeous face was flushed from the cold and his thick hair in slight disarray from the wind, which made him look even more handsome. Whoever said looks didn't matter never dated anybody superhot. Still, she returned her attention to her argument.

“I'm going back to my room to find my sister a new lawyer. I have two more referrals. By the way, Richie swore he'd back off of Jason.”

“Thanks,” Bennie said, grateful, but she kept working. “Was he hurt in the fight?”

“He got a split lip. We can talk about it another time. Good luck tonight. We have to leave at six in the morning.”

“You're coming with me, tomorrow?” Bennie had been so preoccupied she hadn't even thought to ask him.

“Of course. I'll wear a sweater with a B on the front. Not for you. For Bear.” Declan patted the dog on the head. “By the way, I fed him. Dry food, Purina. It was what they had at the grocery.”

“Thank you, I completely forgot.” Bennie kept writing.

“I'll keep him tonight. You won't have time to walk him.” Declan picked up Bear's leash, and the dog jumped off the bed, behind him. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Bennie said, finding a new gear.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Bennie sat at counsel table, waiting for Judge Kittredge. She felt both nervous and calm, a paradox familiar to any trial attorney. The paneled courtroom was lined with oil portraits of distinguished Pennsylvania jurists and filled with pews worn by time and use. The dais was of carved mahogany, and the lights were low, owing to ancient overhead fixtures with frosted glass. The air smelled musty because an appellate courtroom wasn't used on a daily basis, and most of the appeals in Pennsylvania were decided without oral argument.

Bennie glanced at the Commonwealth attorney, John Natal, whose name had been on their reply brief. He looked young, short, and preppy, with tortoiseshell glasses and a generic-prosecutor haircut. His reply brief to her application had been a rehash of his arguments below, in the same way that hers had, so it was anybody's guess what would happen today.

Bennie glanced at the wall clock, it was 10:05, which meant the judge was late, one of the prerogatives of the bench. The court stenographer had set up her stand, and the bailiff was busying himself at a desk beside the dais. The gallery was empty except for Declan, in a pew toward the back. His presence had already been noticed by the judge's attractive female law clerk, who sat at the side of the courtroom with a legal pad on her lap, stealing glances at him.

“All rise!” said the courtroom deputy, coming through the pocket door, and everybody stood up as Judge Kittredge swept into the room in a heavy black robe. He was tall, thin, and in his forties, with a blonde mustache and a thatch of blonde hair, gray on the sideburns.