"Yes, I examined her."
"Have you reviewed any records in connection with the examination?"
"I read Dr. Schein's entire file, including notes detailing the therapy sessions, his tests and diagnoses, and I listened to the tapes. Additionally, I reviewed as many of the patient's childhood medical records and current records as I could locate."
"Based on your examination and the records you reviewed, are you able to state to a reasonable degree of medical certainty whether Chrissy Bernhardt was sexually abused by her father?"
"No."
The jurors responded with puzzled looks. I had disappointed them. They expected a revelation, and I had none. Yet.
"What could you determine?"
"Christina suffered severe trauma when she was approximately eleven years old, and she repressed the memories of the incidents," Dr. Santiago said. "There are certain indicia of sexual abuse which coincide with the time frame. She had several urinary tract infections at ages eleven through thirteen and also suffered eating disorders, including bulimia. Her schoolwork suffered and she became rebellious at about the same time. These can demonstrate a history of sexual abuse, though they are not conclusive."
"What about the fact that, while under hypnosis, Chrissy revealed alleged instances of sexual abuse by her father?"
"Those statements are as reliable as a witness to a crime who picks the alleged criminal out of a lineup while being coaxed by a policeman. Christina's revelations are tainted by Dr. Schein's overly suggestive questioning and are completely unreliable. In fact, at the present time, they have been recanted, at least to the extent that Christina now states she no longer knows what happened to her."
"Then how can we determine what really happened?"
"There's no certain way, but with appropriate, neutral questioning under hypnosis, without the use of drugs, there's a possibility."
I turned toward the judge. "Your Honor, at this time, we call Christina Bernhardt to undergo questioning under hypnosis by Dr. Santiago."
"What!" Abe Socolow leaped to his feet. He leaned toward the bench, resembling the bowsprit of a sailboat. "The state objects. You can't put two witnesses up there together and have a tea party."
"Is that a sexist remark?" I asked, aiming for the female jurors.
"There's no precedent for this," Socolow complained.
"It's an evidentiary demonstration, no different than any other," I responded.
Socolow's Adam's apple bobbed above his shirt collar. "It's cheap theatrics!"
The judge motioned us up to the bench. "Let's have a brief sidebar." When we got there, he looked at me. "What are you pulling here, Jake?"
"Nothing," I whispered. "I don't know what my client's going to say. No one does."
"Then you're incompetent," Socolow said. "First you impeach your own expert. Now this! The court should protect your client from you."
"I appreciate the state's concern for my client's welfare," I said, "but I've fully discussed this with my client, and she wants to do it. She wants to know the truth and wants the jury to know, too."
"How do I cross-examine a defendant under hypnosis?" Socolow whined.
"You don't," I said. "I don't examine her while she's under, and neither do you. When she comes out of it, she'll remember everything. Then, if you want, ask her questions 'til everybody falls asleep. You usually do."
"That's enough, boys," the judge said, shooting a look at the jury. "This is a murder trial, and I'm not going to unduly limit the defense. But, Jake, if you start getting into past lives or some kind of witch doctor voodoo, I'll cut it off quicker than Lorena Bobbitt with a pair of shears."
"Judge, I don't know what's going to happen, so I can't make any promises."
"You really didn't rehearse it?" the Honorable Myron Stanger whispered.
"Nope. Dr. Santiago said it wouldn't be proper."
The judge whistled under his breath. "Jesus H. Christ, if they weren't paying me to sit here, I'd buy a ticket."
"That's what I mean. Judge," Socolow said. "Jake's turning your courtroom into a circus."
"Well, if the elephants shit on the floor, we'll just pile on the sawdust," the judge said.
I nodded in appreciation of this gem of judicial sagacity and resumed my position in front of the jury box. Turning to my client with a slight bow, I said, "Chrissy Bernhardt, would you please step forward?"
32
The lights were dimmed. New Age music played from Millie's tape recorder. It sounded like tinkling wind chimes, a flute, and waves pounding a rocky shore. Chrissy leaned back in a recliner in front of the jury box, Millie telling her to relax, to let her mind run free, to approach a brilliant white light. Her body was growing heavy, Millie said; it was sinking deeper and deeper into the chair. Then she had Chrissy count backward from fifty, her voice logy.
I didn't know about Chrissy, but I was getting sleepy. I was also watching her cream-colored Emanuel Ungaro skirt creep up her thighs and hoped it neither distracted the men nor pissed off the women sitting in the jury box.
It only took a few moments before Chrissy was in that never-never land between somnolence and wakefulness. "What is your name?" Millie Santiago asked.
"Christina Bernhardt," she said, eyes still closed, "but on my card, it just says Chrissy."
"What card, Chrissy?"
"My composite. I'm a model."
"Are you a good model, Chrissy?"
"When Chrissy's good, she's very good." She chuckled to herself. "And when Chrissy's bad…"
"What do you do, Chrissy?"
"I make scads of money for pouting or cocking a hip or hitting a volleyball on the beach."
"Do you enjoy your work?"
"It's all right." Sounding bored.
"Are you happy?"
No answer.
"Chrissy…"
"Sometimes."
"When?"
"When I dream about being married and being a mother."
I liked that. This wasn't just a spoiled, high-paid party girl. Chrissy Bernhardt had dreams of a ranch house with a white picket fence, just like everybody else. At the prosecution table, Abe Socolow was scowling, or was that his version of a smile?
"What do you want from life?"
"I want to eat hot fudge sundaes and get fat."
The jurors smiled. The answers had the ring of normalcy, of truth.
"You mentioned getting married, becoming a mother. Are those goals, too?"
"Sure. But no one's ever asked me. Ever."
"Maybe you haven't met the right man."
"I've met Mr. Wrong a thousand times." The pain in her voice filled the courtroom. "I'm damaged goods. That's what he said."
"Who?"
No answer.
"Chrissy."
"He said I'd always be his, even if I was grown up, even if I was married and a mommy myself, 'cause he was the first. He told me I belonged to him and every other man would know it."
"Is that true?"
"Yes. Everybody knows."
"What does everybody know, Chrissy?"
She sniffled back a tear but didn't answer. I thought of the song that had been playing just before Chrissy shot her father.
Everybody knows that the dice are loaded. Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed.
"I've fucked a lot of men," she said, and one of the women jurors gasped. "But I've only made love to a few. I fucked men because they bought me dinner. I fucked men because I was bored. I fucked men for no reason at all."
Now Socolow leaned back in chair and truly smiled, if that's what a shark does just before swallowing a grouper. Judge Stanger was glaring at me as if I were the circus elephant with loose bowels. I was afraid his gavel would end our little experiment before it had a chance.
"I had dreams," Chrissy said. "For years, the same dreams, snakes curling up my legs, underneath my skirt, getting inside my panties, and then inside me."