Dr. Kornblum sat down, unbuttoned his suit coat and let his paunch hang out. He patted his silvery hair and raised his hand to take the oath. I ran through his qualifications as a pediatric psychiatrist, letting him dawdle a bit too long over his internship, his multiple residencies, his fellowships here and there, his long-since outdated papers on bed-wetting and masturbation, and finally, we got down to business.
“ Dr. Kornblum, have you had an opportunity to examine the defendant, Sylvester Houston Conklin?”
The witness looked confused until I pointed toward the defense table.
“ Ah yes. Kip. I have examined him at some length.”
Technically, that was true, the length being twenty-five minutes. “Can you tell the court what your examination revealed?”
Dr. Kornblum opened a thick file that must have contained his autobiography because it couldn’t have been the notes of his meeting this morning. He hadn’t taken any. The doctor put on a pair of rimless eyeglasses, stared at his file, removed the glasses, and began speaking in deep, magisterial tones. “Kip, er, Sylvester, is a handsome and well-nourished, though thin, lad of eleven years. He has no physical abnormalities and is above average in intelligence, far above average, I must say. Psychologically, I would term him emotionally isolated. He does not know his father. He has, de facto, been abandoned by his mother, and is being raised by a woman he calls Granny, though she is not his grandmother.”
Dr. Kornblum paused to look at the judge and let the weight of his testimony sink in. Then he continued. “The child spends much time alone, watching television, especially movies. He is not a happy child. Indeed, his reality is one of pain, isolation, and abandonment. For this reason, he seeks escape. His reality becomes the fantasy of movies.”
“ How important are these movies to the boy?” I asked.
“ Very important, indeed. This child doesn’t just watch movies. He becomes a character. The movie is real.”
“ And is there a difference between seeing these movies on television and in a theater?”
“ Quite so. For him, seeing a movie on the big screen enhances that reality. In the theater, he can lose himself, can be enveloped in the sheer size of the picture, the depth of the stereophonic sound.”
Now we were rolling. “And what happens, Doctor, if someone takes away that opportunity?”
“ Clearly, they have stolen his reality. His reaction is far out of proportion to the harm done, at least it would seem that way to those of us for whom movies have not taken on such importance. You see, the boy has his depression under control, in a steel box if you will. He escapes this depression in the movies. Take that away, the depression becomes anger and rage, and the consequence, as we have seen, is an antisocial act in protest of cancellation of his favorite film.”
“ Would you expect him to repeat this conduct?”
“ Most likely not. The conduct was aberrational. It resulted from the highly unusual combination of his high expectations at seeing Casablanca in the theater and the unannounced cancellation of the film after he took a bus to Miami.”
“ Do you see that incarceration would serve any purpose here?”
“ No. What the boy needs is a strong male figure, someone he can trust, someone he can look up to. He doesn’t need jailers.”
“ Thank you,” I said, nodding to Dr. Kornblum for a job well done.
The state had no questions, and my witness stepped down and took a seat in the front row of the gallery. I could have called Kip to testify, but after his earlier outburst, I didn’t think I could trust him. Besides, Kornblum had done the job. I wouldn’t have to pay him for his services, but I would defend him gratis on his pending DUI charge.
I told the judge the defense rested, and that set T. Bone to mashing his knuckles into his forehead. “Counselor, Ah just don’t follow all that psychological mumbo jumbo. You’re saying the movies made him do it.”
“ Not exactly, Your Honor. The deprivation of the movie unleashed his anger at earlier abandonments.”
“ Well, we can’t have him painting up the town every time they change the double feature at the mall, can we?”
It is difficult to respond to a complete non sequitur, so I didn’t try.
“ Jake,” the judge said, his face lighting up with an idea, “do you mind if Ah ask the lad a question?”
I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t the question that worried me, but the answer. Besides, I wanted to give my closing argument, telling the judge how graffiti has been around since ancient Rome. But all I said was, “Go ahead, Your Honor.”
“ Son,” the judge asked, looking at Kip, “do you remember having done this terrible act?”
“ I remember every detail,” Kip said. “The Germans wore gray. You wore blue…”
“ Your Honor, that’s from Casablanca! ” I bellowed.
“…and orange,” Kip continued, looking at the judge’s two-tone robes.
“ Judge Coleridge,” I said, intending to filibuster, just to keep the kid quiet, “it’s apparent Dr. Kornblum is correct. The child is bewildered by life and confused by the movies. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s-”
“ Clam up, Jake! Now, son, look me in the eye. Help me out here, ‘cause Ah don’t know what to do with you. Ah could put you on home detention or in community control. Ah could put you in the Crossroads program or in intensive control. Ah could enroll you in the marine institute or maybe the alternative assistance program. Lord knows, we got more programs than a dog’s got fleas.”
Kip just stood there, a faint smile on his face.
“ Son, do you have anything to say to the court?”
Oh no.
“ Yeah, Judge. Are you eating a tomato or is that your nose?
The few spectators, mostly distraught parents, laughed. My eyes pleaded with Kip for a credit line.
“ Charlie McCarthy to W. C. Fields in You Can’t Cheat an Honest Man,” he said.
“ You see, Your Honor!” I shouted, stepping in front of Kip, as if to shield him from harm. “He can’t help it. These words just keep popping out.”
Judge T. Bone Coleridge rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, then spun around in his high-backed chair. When he spoke, it was to the wall behind him. “The question for the court is, should this boy be in Youth Hall, where he can learn some discipline and maybe get therapy from left-wing, pot-smoking county-payrolled, thumb-sucking shrinks, or should he be on the streets?”
“ Someday,” Kip piped up from behind me, “a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.”
“ What’d you say?” the judge demanded, spinning his chair back toward his supplicants.
“ All the animals come out at night,” Kip said, a faraway look in his eyes. “Whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies.”
“ Your Honor,” I leapt in. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.” I looked at Kip, who rewarded me with a maniacal grin.
“ DeNiro in Taxi Driver,” he said.
“ Of course it is!” I shouted triumphantly to the judge, as if Kip had just revealed a major discovery in theoretical physics.
“ Skunk pussies?” the judge said, shaking his head.
Thankfully, Kip didn’t elaborate. The judge asked if I had anything more to present before he announced his ruling. I declined, and Kip started to say something. I tried to clamp my hand over his mouth, but he wriggled away from me. “Just one thing, Judge. My lawyer’s my uncle. He’s my uncle Jake.”
“ What movie’s that from?” T. Bone Coleridge asked, wearily.
“ None,” I admitted. “It’s true. Sylvester Houston Conklin is my nephew, my half sister’s son.”
“ Why’nt you say so, first thing, Jake?” the judge demanded. “Hell’s bells, where’s that low-rent shrink of yours?”