Rage (8 page)

“Why
would I mess up their clients’ heads?”

“Don’t
take it personally,” he said. “It’s lawyer crap. Their basic premise is that
you’re biased for the prosecution.”

“I
haven’t spoken a word to the D.A.”

“It’s
gamesmanship. They’re setting the stage so if you do say something they don’t
like, they’ve precharacterized it as impeachable.”

“Okay,”
I said.

“Don’t
worry, I’ll protect you when you get up on the stand. So when can I expect your
compiled psychological wisdom on my desk?”

“Soon.”

“Soon
is better than the alternative.”

* * *

I sat
down to write my report, starting with the easy part— the crime scene, the
background information, the test results. But even that was a struggle, and I
hadn’t gotten far when Lauritz Montez called me.

“How’s
it going, Doctor?”

I
said, “Have you changed your mind about my talking to Rand?”

“Maybe,”
he said. “My client cooperated fully the first time, didn’t he? You’ll make a
point of stressing that, right?”

“I’ll
do my best to be unbiased.”

“Look,”
said Montez, “the motion was Weider’s idea. You know what she’s like.”

“Actually,
I don’t.”

“Whatever,”
he said. “You do remember Rand cooperating fully.”

“I
do.”

“Good.”
His voice was tight. “He’s pretty depressed.”

“That
doesn’t surprise me.”

“Poor
kid,” he said.

I
didn’t answer.

“The
reason I’m calling, Dr. Delaware, is that Weider just put in for a bifurcated
hearing. Do you understand what that means?”

“She
wants to split Troy’s defense from Rand’s.”

“She
wants to
screw
me— screw Rand. I thought we were all on the same page
but she’s pulling a fast one, shifting to blaming it all on my client so her
little sociopath can get easy treatment. I thought you should be alerted.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m
serious,” he said. “The truth is obvious.”

“What
truth is that?”

“A
basically good, really stupid kid got caught up with a cold, cruel murderer. I
know you’ve been back to 415 City, I know everyone told you that.”

I
said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Lauritz?”

“I
respect your expertise and want to maintain open communication. No offense
about the motion to deny you access, okay? If you really want to talk to Rand,
fine. He’s remorseful.
Consumed
with remorse.”

I
didn’t answer.

“So,”
he said. “Are you going to be seeing him again?”

“I’ll
give you a call.”

I
didn’t.

He
never followed up.

* * *

Three
days into writing the report, I phoned Tom Laskin. “This isn’t working very
well.”

“What
isn’t?”

“I
told you at the outset that I might not be able to come up with meaningful
recommendations, and that’s what’s happened. If you want to reduce my fee,
fine.”

“What’s
the problem?”

“I
can’t produce clear data to help you with your choice. My personal preference
would be juvey certification because they’re kids and lacked adult capacity.
But I’m not sure I’d sleep well if I was responsible for that decision.”

“Why
not?”

“The
act was horrendous and I doubt making them C.Y.A. wards for a few years will
rehab them.”

“Are
they still dangerous?” he said.

“Would
they do something that bad again? On his own, Rand Duchay probably wouldn’t.
But if he hooked up with someone dominant and violent, it’s possible.”

“Any
remorse on his part?”

“He
seems to have some,” I said. “Was he thinking like an adult at the time of the
murder? No. Would that change in five years, or even ten? Probably not, given
his intellectual level.”

“Which
is?”

I
quoted the test results.

Laskin
whistled. “What about Turner?”

“Smarter—
a lot smarter. He’s got the ability to calculate and plan. Sydney Weider’s
going to claim Rand Duchay initiated the crime and her client was an innocent
bystander. The forensics say that’s not true, but Rand did admit striking
Kristal, and his size could work against him if you didn’t know better.”

“I’m
still on the remorse issue,” said Laskin. “Turner have any?”

“He
talks about sin, claims to be reading the Bible, has a couple of theology
students offering moral support. But I doubt there’s any serious insight there.
He denies he ever touched Kristal despite the fact that Kristal’s skin was
found under his fingernails.”

“Weider
sent me an impassioned request for bifurcation. Looks like just another TODDI
defense.”

The
Other Dude Did It.

“Going
to grant the split?” I said.

“Not
unless I have to. How smart is Turner?”

“Considerably
above average.” I gave him those numbers, too.

He
said, “No diminished capacity, there. Adult comprehension?”

“Intellectually,
he can reason things out. But he’s thirteen, which is an interesting age.
There’s some evidence that adolescent brains undergo changes at fourteen to
fifteen that lead to fuller reasoning capacity. Even with that, you know what
teens are like. Rationality takes years to settle in.”

“Sometimes
it never sets in,” he said. “So you’re leaning toward juvey but you don’t want
to put it in writing because of the enormity of the crime.”

“I
don’t think it’s a psychological issue,” I said.

“What
is it, then?”

“A
judicial question. What placement would approximate justice to the greatest
extent.”

“Meaning
it’s my problem.”

I
didn’t answer.

He
said, “I know teens are stupid. The problem is if we gave teen criminals
special treatment, a lot of really vicious thugs would be getting off easy. And
nothing in my experience matches the viciousness of this crime. They worked
that poor baby over really bad.”

“I
know. But you’ve seen Turner. He looks twelve. I’m trying to picture him at
Quentin or a place like that and it’s not a pretty thought.”

“Small
and smart, but he murdered a two-year-old, Alex. Why the hell would a smart kid
do something like that?”

“That’s
another question I can’t answer,” I said. “I.Q. and moral development are
separate issues. Like Walker Percy said, ‘You can get straight A’s but still
flunk life.’ ”

“Who’s
he?”

“A
novelist and a psychiatrist.”

“Interesting
combo,” he said. “So you’re telling me I’ve got a dumb kid and a bright little
sociopath and they just happened to murder a two-year-old. Any other antisocial
history for either of them?”

“Not
for Rand. Everyone who knows Troy describes him as cunning, and some people at
the project called him cruel. He’s got a history of threatening younger kids.
He’s also suspected of killing stray dogs and cats, but I couldn’t find any
facts to back that up, so maybe the rumor mill’s working overtime because of
the murder. One woman implied he’d molested her daughter but refused to talk to
me about it. Given his upbringing, I wouldn’t be shocked if he’s been abused,
himself.”

I
gave him a capsule of both boys’ histories, including Rand Duchay’s head injury
during infancy. “If you’re looking for mitigating factors, you’ve got plenty.”

“Prisoners
of biology?”

“And
sociology and just plain bad luck. Neither of these two had much in the way of
nurturing, Tom.”

“Which
doesn’t excuse what they did to that poor little girl.”

“Not
in the least.”

“Have
you picked up any possible motive?” he said. “Because no one’s put anything
forward— including the cops.”

“From
what I can tell, the abduction was impulsive. The two of them were headed to
the park to smoke and drink when they saw Kristal wandering around. They
thought it would be fun to watch Kristal smoke and drink. She got sick, started
to fuss, threw up, and things got out of control. There’s no indication they
were stalking her.”

“Bad
luck for that little girl,” he said. “Okay, so it’s your basic senseless crime.
I was hoping for something a little more . . . psychologically
illuminating. But no beef, you were up-front about no promises. Forget the b.s.
about cutting your fee. When the government wants to give you money, take
it . . . there’s nothing at all you can give me about
disposition?”

“What
will happen if you certify them as adults?”

“Initially,
they’ll get long sentences and go off to Quentin or a place like it. If I juvey
them, they’re off to the California Youth Authority, which, nowadays, isn’t all
that different from grown-up prison except the inmates are shorter. The longest
they could be C.Y.A. wards would be till age twenty-five.”

“Meaning
they’d be released at the peak of criminal drive.”

“You
bet,” he said. “In big-boy lockup, they’d be vulnerable to the Black Guerrilla
Army and Nuestra Familia, probably run for cover to the Aryan Brotherhood. So
we’d be creating a couple of little Nazis. But most of the C.Y.A. facilities
are gang-ridden, too.”

“Why’d
you say they’d have long sentences ‘initially’?”

“Because
if I adult-certify, there’s a good chance some higher court will lower their
sentences and have them switched to lower-security facilities. Meaning they
could end up with
less
time than a C.Y.A. placement. I’ve got the
victim’s family to think about. Like you said, the best we can hope for is
approximating justice, and Lord knows we’ll never get closure— whatever the
hell that means. But there’s got to be something that does the least harm.”

“I
haven’t seen the family in the media.”

“They’ve
kept a low profile, but the father’s called the D.A. a few times, demanding
justice. No one can give him what he really wants— his kid back. And two other
kids have ruined their own lives. It’s a rotten situation for all concerned.”

“Beyond
rotten.”

“Alex,
they’re so damned
young.
What the hell turned them so bad?”

“Wish
I could tell you,” I said. “The precursors are all there— bad environment,
maybe bad biology. But most kids exposed to the same things don’t murder
toddlers.”

“No,
they don’t,” he said. “Okay, send me whatever you feel comfortable putting down
on paper. I’ll start your reimbursement voucher churning through the system.”

I
n the end, resolution came the way it usually does
once cases fade from public scrutiny: the product of backroom negotiation and
the search for the least of all evils.

Five
months after their arrests, in what the papers termed “a surprise move,” both
boys pled guilty and were sentenced to the California Youth Authority until
they were twenty-five or until it could be proven they’d been successfully
rehabilitated.

No
trial, no media hoopla. No need for me to appear as an expert witness and my
check from the court arrived in a timely fashion.

I talked
to no one but Milo about it, pretended I was sleeping well.

* * *

Troy
Turner was sent to the N.A. Chaderjian camp in Stockton and Rand Duchay ended
up at the Herman G. Stark Youth Correctional Facility in Chino. The C.Y.A.
promised to provide counseling for both boys and special education for Rand.

The
day the deal was announced, Kristal Malley’s parents were caught by a TV crew
exiting the courtroom and asked for their opinion of the deal.

Lara
Malley, a small, wan brunette, was sobbing. Her husband, Barnett, a tall,
raw-boned man around thirty, glared and said, “No comment.”

The
camera closed in on his face because anger’s more fun for the camera than
despair. He had thin, sandy hair, long sideburns, sharp features, and prominent
bones. Dry-eyed; the unmoving eyes of a sniper.

“In
your opinion, sir,” the reporter pressed, “do the ages of the defendants make
this an appropriate solution for closure?”

Barnett
Malley’s jaw flexed and he jerked his hand upward and the soundman picked up
scuffling noises. The reporter retreated; Malley didn’t move. The camera zoomed
on his fist, frozen midair.

Lara
Malley whimpered. Barnett stared into the camera for another second, grasped
his wife by the arm, propelled her out of range.

* * *

Tom
Laskin called me six weeks later. It was just after noon and I’d finished a
session with an eight-year-old boy who’d burned his face playing with swimming
pool chemicals. His parents had sued and a quack “environmental medicine”
specialist had testified that the child would get cancer when he grew up. The
boy had overheard and become traumatized and it was my job to deprogram him.