that served him the drinks makes six. Add to that a county attorney because we're claiming inadequate lighting and insufficient cones around the ditch, and you've got seven in toto. Intimidated?"
"Should I be?"
"Nope. It's quality that counts, not quantity, right? We'll do it at my office, get a little home-base advantage. I'll start by reading off your qualifications, and as usual, one of them will cut it off before it gets too hoo-ha and stipulate to your expertise. You've done this before; you know the whole thing's supposed to be fact-finding, polite, but I'll be there to cover your ass if it starts to get nasty. The insurance guys will probably put up the biggest kick—their liability is clearest and they've got the most to lose. My hunch is that, rather than attack your information per se, they'll question the validity of early childhood trauma as a concept—is it scientific fact or just shrinky bullshit. And even if it is, how durable is the damage? Can you prove that a traumatic experience at eighteen months will warp poor little Darren for life."
"Never said I could."
"I know that and you know that, but please be more subtle on Wednesday. The important thing is they can't prove he'll be fine. And if it goes to trial, believe me, I'll make damn sure the burden Page 34
of proof will be on them. A jury is going to feel mighty sorry for a cute little tyke who wakes up from a car nap only to see his father's head sailing over the back seat and landing right next to him.
Videotaping your sessions was a beautiful touch, Alex. The kid comes across wonderfully vulnerable. In a trial situation, I'd get to show every second of footage—all that hyper stuff—along with the Polaroids from the accident. Nothing like a bloody head to get the old sympathy juices flowing, huh?"
"Nothing like it."
"A jury will fucking believe the concept, Alex. They'll see no way this kid could ever be normal again—and let's face it, can any of us guarantee something like that could ever heal? The other side knows that. They've already thrown out hints of settlement offers—penny-ante bullshit. So it's just a question of how much, how soon. Your job will be to tell it like it is, but don't get too academic. Just stick to the old 'to the best of my psychological knowledge' line and we'll be fine.
I've got my actuary working overtime, want to hook these bastards so tight they'll be paying Darren's rent at the old-age home."
He paused, added, "It's only fair, Alex. Denise's life is shattered. It's the only way for someone like her to beat the system."
"You're a white knight, Mal."
"Something eating at you?" He sounded genuinely hurt.
"No, everything's fine. Just a little tired."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
He said nothing for a moment. "All right, just as long as we're communicating."
"We're communicating perfectly, Mal. Quality, not quantity."
He was silent for a moment, then said, "Rest up and take care of yourself, doc. I want you in peak shape when you're dealing with the seven dwarfs."
I called Sharon just after noon. A machine answered—my year for them. ("Hello, this is Dr.
Ransom. I'm not in right now, but I'm very interested in receiving your message Even on tape the sound of her voice brought back memories... the feel of her fingers on my cheek.
All at once I had to be rid of her, decided to do it now. I waited for the emergency beeper number that therapists typically include at the end of their tapes. But she didn't mention one.
Beep.
I said, "Sharon, this is Alex. Can't make Monday. Good luck."
Page 35
Short and sweet.
Dr. Heartbreaker.
An hour later her face was still in my mind, a pale, lovely mask drifting in and out of my consciousness.
I tried to chase the image away, succeeded only in making it more vivid. I surrendered to reminiscence, told myself I was being a horny jerk, allowing my little head to think for my big one. Nevertheless, I sank deeper into time-buffered memories and began wondering if
"Should I be?"
"Nope. It's quality that counts, not quantity, right? We'll do it at my office, get a little home-base advantage. I'll start by reading off your qualifications, and as usual, one of them will cut it off before it gets too hoo-ha and stipulate to your expertise. You've done this before; you know the whole thing's supposed to be fact-finding, polite, but I'll be there to cover your ass if it starts to get nasty. The insurance guys will probably put up the biggest kick—their liability is clearest and they've got the most to lose. My hunch is that, rather than attack your information per se, they'll question the validity of early childhood trauma as a concept—is it scientific fact or just shrinky bullshit. And even if it is, how durable is the damage? Can you prove that a traumatic experience at eighteen months will warp poor little Darren for life."
"Never said I could."
"I know that and you know that, but please be more subtle on Wednesday. The important thing is they can't prove he'll be fine. And if it goes to trial, believe me, I'll make damn sure the burden Page 34
of proof will be on them. A jury is going to feel mighty sorry for a cute little tyke who wakes up from a car nap only to see his father's head sailing over the back seat and landing right next to him.
Videotaping your sessions was a beautiful touch, Alex. The kid comes across wonderfully vulnerable. In a trial situation, I'd get to show every second of footage—all that hyper stuff—along with the Polaroids from the accident. Nothing like a bloody head to get the old sympathy juices flowing, huh?"
"Nothing like it."
"A jury will fucking believe the concept, Alex. They'll see no way this kid could ever be normal again—and let's face it, can any of us guarantee something like that could ever heal? The other side knows that. They've already thrown out hints of settlement offers—penny-ante bullshit. So it's just a question of how much, how soon. Your job will be to tell it like it is, but don't get too academic. Just stick to the old 'to the best of my psychological knowledge' line and we'll be fine.
I've got my actuary working overtime, want to hook these bastards so tight they'll be paying Darren's rent at the old-age home."
He paused, added, "It's only fair, Alex. Denise's life is shattered. It's the only way for someone like her to beat the system."
"You're a white knight, Mal."
"Something eating at you?" He sounded genuinely hurt.
"No, everything's fine. Just a little tired."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
He said nothing for a moment. "All right, just as long as we're communicating."
"We're communicating perfectly, Mal. Quality, not quantity."
He was silent for a moment, then said, "Rest up and take care of yourself, doc. I want you in peak shape when you're dealing with the seven dwarfs."
I called Sharon just after noon. A machine answered—my year for them. ("Hello, this is Dr.
Ransom. I'm not in right now, but I'm very interested in receiving your message Even on tape the sound of her voice brought back memories... the feel of her fingers on my cheek.
All at once I had to be rid of her, decided to do it now. I waited for the emergency beeper number that therapists typically include at the end of their tapes. But she didn't mention one.
Beep.
I said, "Sharon, this is Alex. Can't make Monday. Good luck."
Page 35
Short and sweet.
Dr. Heartbreaker.
An hour later her face was still in my mind, a pale, lovely mask drifting in and out of my consciousness.
I tried to chase the image away, succeeded only in making it more vivid. I surrendered to reminiscence, told myself I was being a horny jerk, allowing my little head to think for my big one. Nevertheless, I sank deeper into time-buffered memories and began wondering if
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