proportions, a greedy manipulator so hungry to accumulate wealth that he destroyed the lives of thousands of people and didn’t lose a moment’s sleep.
“He had education, money, opportunity, a magnificent IQ and absolutely no vestige of conscience. Never blinking, never fearing exposure, he engineered the largest Ponzi scheme in history, convinced that he was above the law and that his victims were stupid, unworthy and contemptible.
“Madoff isn’t a one-off. There are many like him out there. They choose business, politics, law, science, banking and international relations; pursuing their chosen career with a ruthless, single-minded efficiency, unencumbered by moral uncertainty or guilt, without regard for anyone else.
“They stab colleagues in the back, undermine rivals, ruin enemies, fabricate evidence, shred the truth, lie, cheat, steal and ride roughshod over everyone who stands in their way. Sometimes they marry for money. Divorce for money. Embezzle funds. Bankrupt charities. Start wars. Invade countries. Crush the powerless. Corrupt the innocent. And always with the exquisite freedom of knowing they will sleep peacefully at night.
“These are not the psychopaths who you and I treat in our consulting rooms. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s not an issue of treating them. They’re not broken—they just
are
. It’s a personality trait, not a personality disorder.”
A hand is raised; a young man, perhaps a postgraduate student. “Aren’t we obliged to treat them?”
“Why?”
“They need our help.”
“What if all we’re doing is giving them the skills to fake sincerity and become better psychopaths?”
My inquisitor isn’t satisfied. “Surely you’re exaggerating the problem?”
I stop my left arm from trembling. “I read a newspaper story this morning that anorexia has reached epidemic proportions in this country. There are four times as many psychopaths in this country as people with eating disorders. Does that make it an epidemic or an exaggeration?”
I take a handful of further questions, most of them focused on the empirical data. I warn them not to get too caught up in the statistics. They’re important to scientists and students, but less so for clinicians. Human behavior can’t be broken down into bell curves and graphs.
“On July 24, 2000, the Concorde was the safest aircraft in the world. A day later—according to the statistics—it was the least safe airline in the world. Beware the data.”
The lecture is over. Seats slowly empty. Nobody approaches me. Dr. Naparstek hasn’t renewed our acquaintance, which creates a pang of regret. She’s a good-looking woman, attractive without trying. Late-thirties. Slim. Stylish. Out of my league.
Am I even playing in a league?
Julianne put me on a free transfer list three years ago and nobody has made me a serious offer—not even a guest appearance in a friendly.
Outside in the foyer everyone is talking about the weather. A voice makes me stop.
“Augie Shaw didn’t kill those people.”
Victoria Naparstek is standing beside the doors. She’s wearing a gray woolen sweater dress, black nylons and knee-length leather boots.
“I thought you’d be honest. Fearless. You let Stephen railroad you.”
“Stephen?”
“DCI Drury.”
They’re on first name terms.
“You told him what he wanted to hear.”
“I gave him my opinion.”
She steps forward, studying me. Her eyes seem to change color as she moves. “They’re applying to keep Augie Shaw in custody for another forty-eight hours.”
“Which has nothing to do with me.”
“He didn’t kill those people.”
“He was there.”
“He has no history of violence. He doesn’t cope well with confined spaces. The last time they locked him up—”
“The last time?”
“It was a mistake. He was exonerated.”
Her hair is cut shorter than I remember. Instead of long rope-thick tresses, she has a chin-skimming bob that sweeps over her cheekbones and ends
“He had education, money, opportunity, a magnificent IQ and absolutely no vestige of conscience. Never blinking, never fearing exposure, he engineered the largest Ponzi scheme in history, convinced that he was above the law and that his victims were stupid, unworthy and contemptible.
“Madoff isn’t a one-off. There are many like him out there. They choose business, politics, law, science, banking and international relations; pursuing their chosen career with a ruthless, single-minded efficiency, unencumbered by moral uncertainty or guilt, without regard for anyone else.
“They stab colleagues in the back, undermine rivals, ruin enemies, fabricate evidence, shred the truth, lie, cheat, steal and ride roughshod over everyone who stands in their way. Sometimes they marry for money. Divorce for money. Embezzle funds. Bankrupt charities. Start wars. Invade countries. Crush the powerless. Corrupt the innocent. And always with the exquisite freedom of knowing they will sleep peacefully at night.
“These are not the psychopaths who you and I treat in our consulting rooms. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe it’s not an issue of treating them. They’re not broken—they just
are
. It’s a personality trait, not a personality disorder.”
A hand is raised; a young man, perhaps a postgraduate student. “Aren’t we obliged to treat them?”
“Why?”
“They need our help.”
“What if all we’re doing is giving them the skills to fake sincerity and become better psychopaths?”
My inquisitor isn’t satisfied. “Surely you’re exaggerating the problem?”
I stop my left arm from trembling. “I read a newspaper story this morning that anorexia has reached epidemic proportions in this country. There are four times as many psychopaths in this country as people with eating disorders. Does that make it an epidemic or an exaggeration?”
I take a handful of further questions, most of them focused on the empirical data. I warn them not to get too caught up in the statistics. They’re important to scientists and students, but less so for clinicians. Human behavior can’t be broken down into bell curves and graphs.
“On July 24, 2000, the Concorde was the safest aircraft in the world. A day later—according to the statistics—it was the least safe airline in the world. Beware the data.”
The lecture is over. Seats slowly empty. Nobody approaches me. Dr. Naparstek hasn’t renewed our acquaintance, which creates a pang of regret. She’s a good-looking woman, attractive without trying. Late-thirties. Slim. Stylish. Out of my league.
Am I even playing in a league?
Julianne put me on a free transfer list three years ago and nobody has made me a serious offer—not even a guest appearance in a friendly.
Outside in the foyer everyone is talking about the weather. A voice makes me stop.
“Augie Shaw didn’t kill those people.”
Victoria Naparstek is standing beside the doors. She’s wearing a gray woolen sweater dress, black nylons and knee-length leather boots.
“I thought you’d be honest. Fearless. You let Stephen railroad you.”
“Stephen?”
“DCI Drury.”
They’re on first name terms.
“You told him what he wanted to hear.”
“I gave him my opinion.”
She steps forward, studying me. Her eyes seem to change color as she moves. “They’re applying to keep Augie Shaw in custody for another forty-eight hours.”
“Which has nothing to do with me.”
“He didn’t kill those people.”
“He was there.”
“He has no history of violence. He doesn’t cope well with confined spaces. The last time they locked him up—”
“The last time?”
“It was a mistake. He was exonerated.”
Her hair is cut shorter than I remember. Instead of long rope-thick tresses, she has a chin-skimming bob that sweeps over her cheekbones and ends
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