Vernon God Little

'Antisocial personalities are, well – your classic psychopaths.' A muffled gasp shifts through the court. My glasses grow thick and heavy.

'And known manifestations of the disorder include murder?'

'Objection,' says Brian. 'Most murderers are not psychopaths, and not all psychopaths commit murder.'

The judge's eyes fall weary on the prosecutor. 'Counsel -please,' he says. You can tell he wants to say stronger words, but he just says 'please'. The difference between what he wants to say and what he can say is what makes his eyes all cowy, I guarantee it. The prosecutor tightens up the bitty sinews that pass for his lips, and turns back to Goosens.

'So Doctor – sufferers of the disorder you mention, am I right in thinking they're impassive to the results of their actions – they feel no remorse?'

'Objection! Lack of remorse is consistent with innocence!'

The prosecutor turns to the jury and smirks. I just stay impassive. 'Overruled,' says the judge. 'Your client is not being referred to.' He nods for Goosens's answer.

'Sufferers have a much higher threshold of arousal than you or I,' says Goosens, swishing his cheeks at the prosecutor. 'Their appetite for thrills can drive them to ever-greater risk, without regard for the consequences.'

'Thrills such as murder?'

'Yes.'

The prosecutor lets that one sit awhile, on the floor of the court. The stench of it wafts jurywards. He turns to look at me for his next question to Goosens. 'And tell us – does sexuality play a part in such behavior?'

'Sex is our most powerful drive. Naturally, it's a primary conduit for behaviors directed toward the acquisition and maintenance of power over others. And in the antisocial mind – death and sex are common bedfellows.'

'And how might these traits arise, in layman's terms?'

'Well, a fixation can develop in childhood…'

'A fixation for, let's say – a woman?' The prosecutor lowers his face, but swivels his eyes up to the witness stand.

'Well, yes, the object of male fixation is most often female.'

'A sociopath might kill a woman for thrills?'

'Yes, or he might – kill for her…'

'No further questions.'

Macaroni cheese for lunch today. And bread. Later, it curdles high in my gut as my attorney steps up to the witness box, smiling.

'Oliver Goosens, how are you today?'

'Just fine, thank you.'

'Tell me, Doc – do these antisocial disorders worsen with age?'

'Not necessarily – to be classified, the characteristics must have been in place by the age of fifteen.'

'Is the condition still treatable at fifteen?'

'Most disorders remain treatable at any age, although with true antisocial personalities the results are questionable.'

'You mean they can't be successfully treated?'

'That's the prevailing evidence.'

My attorney takes a little walk around the court, head down, thinking. Calculating Pi, probably. Then he stops. 'In your report to the Martirio Local Court, you recommended my client attend outpatient treatment with you, rather than be detained?'

Goosens looks up at the judge. The judge nods for him to answer. 'Yes,' says Goosens.

'Kind of a light-handed approach for an untreatable psychopath – don't you think?'

Irritation skips over the doctor's face. 'These cases can be hard to diagnose in one session.'

'You didn't have a problem implying it for the jury just now.' Brian gives a hooshy little laugh. 'And, Doctor, in terms of the sexual connotations you mention – would it be equally possible for an antisocial mind to fixate on a man, or – boy?' He starts to pace a narrowing circle around Goosens.

'Of course. Jeffrey Dahmer is a good example…'

'But what would distinguish regular homosexual desire from pathological fixation?'

'Well, um – consent. A pathological deviant would trick or force his targets, without reference to their wishes.'

'So, a person who forced his desires on boys – would be a psychopath?'

'Certainly could be, yes.'

Goosens doesn't look so smug anymore. My attorney finishes his circling, then nails him with an eye that says, 'Let's play ball'. 'Oliver Goosens,' he muses. 'Ever hear the name "Harlan Perioux"?'

Goosens turns white.

Brian turns to the jury. 'Ladies and gentlemen – Judge – please excuse my language here.' He moves to the witness stand, and leans into Goosens's face. 'If not, perhaps you've heard of an internet site called Bambi-Boy Butt Bazaar?'

'Excuse me?'

'A man named Harlan Perioux was indicted in Oklahoma for procuring and corrupting teenage boys for that website – tell us please, under oath – is there something you know about it?'

'I don't have to answer that.'

Brian smiles a lazy smile. He lifts some documents off his table, and hoists them into the air. 'I have exhibits showing that you, Oliver Goosens, previously went by the name of Harlan Perioux.' A sharp murmur breaks through the court. 'I put it to you, Doctor, that five years ago you were indicted under that name, on four charges relating to the corruption of boys for your pornographic website.'

'Charges were never proven.'

'And I further suggest to you, Doctor, that you own and operate that site still, under the name Serenade of Sodom.'

Somebody in the back stifles a snort of laughter. The judge scowls.

'Am I right, Doctor?' Brian says it slow and clear. 'Yes – or – no?'

Goosens's eyes jackrabbit to the judge. He nods for him to answer.

'No. Not entirely, no.'

'My last question: is it true you also treated Jesus Navarro Rosario, around the time of the school tragedy, in May this year?'

Goosens's eyes fall to the floor.

'And that you presented him with these ladies' undergarments, a charge for the purchase of which has been traced to your credit-card?'

Brian holds up a plastic bag. Inside are the panties Jesus wore on his last day alive.

twenty

I sit on a jail toilet feeling a little hopeful, to be frank, just letting my worldly pressures crackle through my lower tract. I know I shouldn't say it, but exercising your tract is one of the greatest hits, boy. It's another thing you're never taught about life. In fact, it not only doesn't get taught, but they teach you the opposite, like it's the Devil's Work or something. It's like my mom invented all the damn rules of the world, when you think about it.

But I don't think about it at all. It's morning, and the air in the shade has that hazy, wet crispness you get in winter. I have some time before they load me into the wagon for the trip back to court, so I hang here in the bathrooms nearest to the prison yard. I even have a Camel to smoke, a brand-spanking-new Camel Filter, from Detiveaux, who's on trial for grand theft. He's feeling generous on account of his girlfriend brought their new baby to visit. I told him the kid looks just like him, which it kind of does, even though it's a girl. Now here's me sucking wads of blue smoke, and trying to ash between my legs without burning my reproductive apparatus. All my troubles jump out of my tract like rats from an airplane, and I just get lighter and clearer every second. Making plans like crazy. Tracts, boy, damn.

The journey into court is gray and regular. From the make-up room, I hear helicopters thumping over the courthouse, in case I escape, or something. Ha. Like: yeah, right. They wish I'd escape, just so's they can avoid the hard core of regret they have coming when my innocence struts out. They're going to have to eat that ole dish cold. I sit stiff with this kind of righteous optimism during make-up today, eating fries. They must whiff that ole truth around the corner, to suddenly feed me fries. Only problem is they cuff me extra-tight for the walk to my cage, and I have to hunch my shoulder up to my cheek, where I smeared ketchup. As I try to clean the ketchup, I watch a shaft of sunlight swivel slowly over the courtroom floor, until the witness stand is lit up like Mount Sinai. The sound of tattered leather scuffles up the stairs towards the back. Without even looking, you know it's Mom, leaving. She gets her picture took arriving each morning, but she can't handle the guts of the day. Pam'll be outside in the Mercury, both feet on the pedals.