indicative of my own pathology—a difficulty coping with separation and loss. (Having your personality critiqued was an expectable part of being a doctoral student in clinical psychology, so it wasn’t a particularly surprising rejoinder.) “What about the fact that long-term cases are valuable to your training?” Dr. Aronoff had asked, with feeling, in the last session we had before internship began—logistics would make it impossiblefor us to meet during the coming year. In her voice I heard the chagrin that might have been my own had I not leaped so quickly to feeling shamed. I tended to take all criticism to heart. It seemed the one true thing.
George’s training director had allowed him to transfer one of
his
grad school patients to the outpatient clinic at the Pres (as he and his fellow male interns were calling it, in tones of jaunty Ivy rowers). He had been seeing this old patient since week one of internship, Tuesdays and Thursdays. This was another point in favor of his fancy private hospital—the opportunity to do twice-weekly outpatient treatment. I sighed at my own predictability. Was I bound to spend the whole of the year comparing my experience with George’s and always to find my own wanting?
One of my graduate school supervisors once made the offhand remark that a lot of people walk around a little psychotic a lot of the time. I was in my fourth year, and in my inexperience this took me by surprise, though I had by then read enough that it might not have. On forensics what I saw was that, also, a lot of people walk around a lot psychotic a lot of the time. With Dr. Wolfe’s lecture on the ambiguity inherent in the fitness standards in mind, I’d looked forward to animated debates about whether this one could make rational choices about his options, or that one could maintain emotional stability throughout a trial. But each of the men and women who sat down across from us in the basement holding cell was simply batshit. It didn’t leave much to discuss.
Dedon Willis wore several dirty T-shirts and baggy jeans. At first he was very upset, too agitated to listen to the doctors’ questions or take in the charges presented him by his lawyer,Jim Danziger. “I want this case to be dropped,” he insisted over and over, raising his arms and popping off the bench a couple inches, then finally settling down. “I don’t know what they said I did.”
“Disturbing the peace. Screaming at people on the subway. Spitting on a police car. Cursing out a cop.” Jim ran down the list.
“It’s not true! This case is garbage. I want to get out of here,” he said. He had a black eye after three fights at Rikers. He was homeless with a long history of psych hospitalizations. He was twenty-seven and had been arrested eighteen times.
“The first case you had was serious,” said Jim.
“We don’t need to go there,” said Mr. Willis.
“Attempted murder,” Jim told us. “He did four years upstate.”
“Why did you scream at those people?” asked Dr. Ruben, one of the two psychiatrists on the forensic staff.
“I woke up on the subway, and I didn’t know where I was at,” he told us angrily.
“Why did you spit on the police car?”
“The cop was bothering me. He was telling people my business. I told him not to talk about me in public.”
Jim cut in. “Better than his last arrest. Last time he tried to punch an officer who bumped into him.”
“They’re always trying to get under my skin!”
Dr. Pine asked what medication he was on. “Haldol. But I don’t take it every day. I don’t use drugs. That’s why I don’t take my medication. It’s a drug.”
“How do you want to resolve these charges?”
“I want to get out,” he said.
“You can either go to trial or take a plea,” explained Dr. Ruben.
“Is it a felony or a misdemeanor?” he asked. The latter. “I’m not stupid. Why should I go to trial on a misdemeanor?” Then in the same breath, “I want to go to trial.
George’s training director had allowed him to transfer one of
his
grad school patients to the outpatient clinic at the Pres (as he and his fellow male interns were calling it, in tones of jaunty Ivy rowers). He had been seeing this old patient since week one of internship, Tuesdays and Thursdays. This was another point in favor of his fancy private hospital—the opportunity to do twice-weekly outpatient treatment. I sighed at my own predictability. Was I bound to spend the whole of the year comparing my experience with George’s and always to find my own wanting?
One of my graduate school supervisors once made the offhand remark that a lot of people walk around a little psychotic a lot of the time. I was in my fourth year, and in my inexperience this took me by surprise, though I had by then read enough that it might not have. On forensics what I saw was that, also, a lot of people walk around a lot psychotic a lot of the time. With Dr. Wolfe’s lecture on the ambiguity inherent in the fitness standards in mind, I’d looked forward to animated debates about whether this one could make rational choices about his options, or that one could maintain emotional stability throughout a trial. But each of the men and women who sat down across from us in the basement holding cell was simply batshit. It didn’t leave much to discuss.
Dedon Willis wore several dirty T-shirts and baggy jeans. At first he was very upset, too agitated to listen to the doctors’ questions or take in the charges presented him by his lawyer,Jim Danziger. “I want this case to be dropped,” he insisted over and over, raising his arms and popping off the bench a couple inches, then finally settling down. “I don’t know what they said I did.”
“Disturbing the peace. Screaming at people on the subway. Spitting on a police car. Cursing out a cop.” Jim ran down the list.
“It’s not true! This case is garbage. I want to get out of here,” he said. He had a black eye after three fights at Rikers. He was homeless with a long history of psych hospitalizations. He was twenty-seven and had been arrested eighteen times.
“The first case you had was serious,” said Jim.
“We don’t need to go there,” said Mr. Willis.
“Attempted murder,” Jim told us. “He did four years upstate.”
“Why did you scream at those people?” asked Dr. Ruben, one of the two psychiatrists on the forensic staff.
“I woke up on the subway, and I didn’t know where I was at,” he told us angrily.
“Why did you spit on the police car?”
“The cop was bothering me. He was telling people my business. I told him not to talk about me in public.”
Jim cut in. “Better than his last arrest. Last time he tried to punch an officer who bumped into him.”
“They’re always trying to get under my skin!”
Dr. Pine asked what medication he was on. “Haldol. But I don’t take it every day. I don’t use drugs. That’s why I don’t take my medication. It’s a drug.”
“How do you want to resolve these charges?”
“I want to get out,” he said.
“You can either go to trial or take a plea,” explained Dr. Ruben.
“Is it a felony or a misdemeanor?” he asked. The latter. “I’m not stupid. Why should I go to trial on a misdemeanor?” Then in the same breath, “I want to go to trial.
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