Rage (6 page)

He
was.

Full-scale
I.Q. score of 117, which put him in the top twenty-five percent. Given an
abstract reasoning subtest in the ninetieth percentile and spotty school
attendance that weakened his knowledge base, I figured it for an underestimate.

Worlds
apart, intellectually, from Rand Duchay.

I
shoulda stopped it.

Maybe
Sydney Weider’s coaching had fallen short. Or she’d told him the facts and he’d
blocked them out.

Or
he’d simply chosen to lie, figuring me for a gullible jerk.

I’d read
the coroner’s report.

Traces
of Kristal Malley’s skin had been found under Troy’s fingernails, not Rand’s.

* * *

For
the rest of our sessions he cooperated fully, blithely lying every step of the
way.

When
I asked about his mother he told me she was trying to be an actress and that
she visited him all the time. The logbooks said she’d been there once. Deputy
Sherrill told me Jane Hannabee had been obviously stoned, the visit had lasted
ten minutes, and she’d left looking angry.

“Once
you see her, Doc, maybe you understand something about the kid. But not all of
it, right? Other punks have crackhead skanks for mothers and they do bad stuff,
but not this bad.”

According
to Troy, his father had died “in the army. Shooting terrorists.”

When
I asked him what a terrorist was, he said, “It’s like a criminal but usually
they’re niggers and they blow stuff up.”

I
revisited the murder several times and his position remained the same: Kristal
had gone with him and Rand voluntarily; Rand had committed all the violence.
Troy felt bad about not intervening.

On
the sixth session, he substituted “guilty” for bad.

“You
feel guilty.”

“Real
guilty, sir.”

“About
what?”

“Not
stopping it, sir. It’s gonna delay my life.”

“Delay
it, how?”

“I
was gonna be rich soon, now it’s gonna be later.”

“Why?”

“
’Cause they’re gonna lock me up somewhere.”

“In
jail.”

Shrug.

“How
long do you think they’ll lock you up?”

“You
could tell them the truth, sir, and maybe it wouldn’t have to be so long.” He
cocked his head, almost girlishly. His smile had a feminine cast to it, too. He
had a dozen smiles; first time I’d seen this variant.

“You
think that if I tell them the truth, your sentence could be shorter.”

“The
judge likes you.”

“Someone
tell you that?”

“Nope.”

When
most people lie they give off a “tell”— a shift in posture, subtle changes in
eye movement, tone of voice. This kid could fabricate so coolly I was willing
to bet he’d fool the polygraph.

“Troy,
do you ever get scared?”

“Of
what?”

“Anything?”

He
thought. “I get scared of doing bad things.”

“Why’s
that?”

“I
don’t want to be bad.”

“Are
you ever bad?”

“Sometimes.
Like everyone.”

“Everyone’s
bad sometimes.”

“No
one’s perfect,” he said. “Except God.”

“Are
you religious?”

“Drew
and Cherish say I am, sir.”

“Who’re
Drew and Cherish?”

“Ministers.”

“They
visit you?”

“Yup.
Sir.”

“Do
you find that helpful?”

“Yessir.
Very helpful.”

“How
do Drew and Cherish help you?”

“Tell
me I’m gonna be okay. Tell me everyone makes mistakes.”

“So,”
I said, “you think sometimes you’re bad. Like how?”

“Not
going to school. Not reading books.” He stood, took a volume from the bottom
shelf. Black cardboard covers.
Holy Bible
in green script.

“Drew
and Cherish give you that?”

“Yessir.
And I read it.”

“What
are you reading about.”

A
second’s pause. “Day Two.”

“Of
creation?”

“Yessir.
God made heaven.”

“What
does heaven mean to you?”

“A
good place.”

“What’s
good about it?”

“You’re
rich and you get cool stuff.”

“What
kind of cool stuff?”

“Whatever
you want.”

“Who
goes to heaven?”

“Good
people.”

“People
who don’t do really bad things.”

“No
one’s perfect,” he said and his voice tightened.

“That’s
for sure,” I said.

“I’m
going to heaven,” he said.

“After
you’re delayed.”

“Yessir.”

“You
talked before about getting rich. How’re you planning to do that?” I said.

Rebirth
of the smirk. This time it endured, and his eyes drilled into mine and his
delicate little hands became bony little fists.

“
’Cause I’m smart,” he said. “Can I go to sleep, now? ’Cause I’m tired.
Sir.
”

* * *

The
rest of the sessions were unproductive, as he wavered between claims of fatigue
and feeling “sick.” My attempts to elicit specific symptoms were fruitless. A
physical by a jail doctor had produced nothing. The last time I saw him, he was
reading the Bible and ignored me as I sat down.

“Interesting?”
I said.

“Yup.”

“What
are you up to?”

He
put the book facedown on the cot and stared past me.

“Troy?”

“I’m
feeling sick.”

“Where?”

“All
over.”

“Dr.
Bronsky checked you out and said you’re fine.”

“I’m
sick.”

“This
may be the last time I come to see you,” I said. “Anything you want to tell
me?”

“What
are you gonna tell the judge?”

“I’ll
just report what we talked about.”

He
smiled.

“You’re
happy about that.”

“You’re
a good person, sir. You like to help people.”

I got
up and picked up the Bible. Small gray smudges marked his place. Genesis,
chapter four. Cain and Abel.

“Quite
a story,” I said.

“Yessir.”

“What
do you think of it?”

“Of
what?”

“Cain
killing his brother, getting cursed.”

“He
deserved it.”

“Cain
did?”

“Yessir.”

“Why’s
that?”

“He
did sin.”

“The
sin of murder.”

“Exactly,”
he said, taking the Bible from me and closing it softly. “Like Rand. He’s going
to hell.”

I
met with both public defenders in a conference room at
the jail.

Lauritz
Montez was there when I arrived, a slightly built man, thirty or so, with dark
hair pulled back into a ponytail. An extravagant waxed mustache overpowered a
fuzzy chin-beard. He wore a vintage gray tweed three-piece suit and a skinny
blue bow tie that was more like a shoelace.

Sydney
Weider breezed in a few seconds later. She was older— early forties— thin and
tall, with efficient blond hair and wide pale eyes. Her tailored black suit and
crocodile bag and big pearl earrings were beyond a P.D.’s salary. Maybe the
rock on her finger explained that. Maybe that was a sexist assumption and she’d
cleaned up in the stock market.

She
sat down and twisted the ring so the diamond faced inward. Put on a pair of
tiny little gold-plated reading glasses and said, “Well, here we are.” Her
words came out crowded together. Big hurry to express herself.

Both
of them had wanted individual meetings. I told them we’d start out together and
see how it went.

It
didn’t need to go further. They worked on me individually but their goals were
identical: emphasizing the youth and criminal inexperience of their clients,
pointing out the wretchedness of each boy’s upbringing, letting me know that
anything other than a juvenile trial would be cruel and inhuman.

By
the end of the hour, they were working as a team. From talking to Troy I sensed
Weider would be laying everything on Rand, but it wasn’t my place to bring that
up.

As
she warmed up, she talked even faster, seemed to dominate Montez. Ending up
with a long dissertation on the evils of video games and public housing, she
snapped her Filofax shut, removed her glasses, and cross-examined me with her
eyes.

“What’s
your report going to say?” Machine-gun burst.

“I
haven’t written it yet.”

“You
must have come to some conclusions.”

“I’ll
be reporting to Judge Laskin. He’ll send you copies.”

“So it’s
going to be like that,” she said.

“Per
Judge Laskin, that’s the way it has to be.”

She
collected her papers and fiddled with her ring. “Think about this, Dr.
Delaware: Psychology’s a mushy soft science and psychologists can be made to
look pretty vulnerable on the stand.”

“I’m
sure they can.”

“More
than vulnerable,” she said. “Downright ludicrous.”

“I’m
sure some of them deserve it.”

She
sat up straighter, tried to stare me down, looked disgusted when she failed.
“Doctor, you can’t seriously be considering these kids for an adult trial.”

“It
won’t be up to me— ”

“Judge
Laskin is relying on your expertise, so for all practical purposes it
will
be up to you, Doctor.”

“From
what I’ve seen, Judge Laskin is a pretty independent guy.”

Montez
said, “All we’re aiming for is basic justice, Doctor. Let’s give these kids a
chance at rehabilitation.”

Weider
said, “Doctor, we’ll be bringing in our own experts.”

I
said, “Mr. Montez has already hired Professor Davidson from Stanford.”

Weider
turned and eyed her colleague. He twirled a mustache and nodded. “It took
awhile to get his fees authorized, but he’s on board.”

Weider
shot him a cold smile. “How funny, Lauritz. I called Davidson last week. His
secretary told me he had a prior commitment.”

“If
you want him for your kid, maybe we can work something out,” said Montez.

“No
need,” said Weider, breezily. “I’ve got LaMaria from Cal.”

I
said, “Do either of you have a theory as to why your clients murdered Kristal
Malley?”

They
swiveled toward me.

Weider
said, “Doctor, exactly what are you asking?”

“What
you think your clients’ motive was.”

“Isn’t
motivation
your
thing, Doctor?”

“I’d
imagine it would be yours, too.”

She
stood, shook her head, stared down at me. “You really think I’m going to lay my
strategy out right here?”

“I’m
not interested in strategy,” I said. “Just insight.”

“Doctor,
I don’t have any insight. Which is precisely my point vis-à-vis your report: A
fresh perspective is required. I hope you’re prepared to deliver that.”

Montez’s
eyes followed Weider as she walked to the door. “See you in court, Doctor.”

Montez
left a second later; he avoided looking at me.

I sat
there for a while. Wondering what I was going to do.

* * *

As I
entered the jail parking lot, Sydney Weider called out my name. She was
standing next to an ice-blue BMW convertible, tapping the croc bag against a
long, lean thigh. To her left stood two women and a man.

Weider
waved as if we were old buddies. I walked over. When I reached her, she smiled
as if we’d just shared a pleasant afternoon. She drew one of the women close.
“Doctor, this is Troy’s mom, Jane.”

Jane
Hannabee was several inches shorter than the attorney and she seemed to shrink
further under Weider’s grasp. My files put her at twenty-eight. Her sallow face
was scored with paper-cut wrinkles. Her long-sleeved knit top was bisected by a
wide red stripe and looked brand new. So did her baggy jeans and her white
sneakers. A snake tattoo coiled up past the sweater’s crewneck. Its triangular
head terminated just behind her left ear. Fangs bared, some sort of adder.

She
had a thin body, thin lips, thin nose, lank brown hair that hung past her
shoulders. Three holes punched in each ear but no earrings. A tiny black dot on
her right nostril said that region had once been pierced. A caved-in mouth
foretold missing teeth. Her eyes were blue and red-rimmed.