Best Intentions

by Joseph T. Klempner

  “Hello, Cathy.”

  “Hello, Judge. I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “It’s the Barrow child, the one you-”

  “Yes, I know the case. The one whose father takes nude pictures of her.”

  “Right. Well, I’m pretty sure he’s been doing more than that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know for sure yet, but she’s showing all the symptoms of sexual abuse.”

  “Hmmmm,” said the judge. “I’m not at all surprised.”

  “I just wanted to let you know right-”

  “Yes, yes, you did the right thing.”

  “I’ll get you my preliminary report right away,” said Silverman. “And I think perhaps I ought to keep seeing her, at least until-”

  “Oh, yes, you keep seeing her. And meanwhile, I’ll decide what I’m going to do about it.”

  In the end, Priscilla McGee decided to do two things about it. First, she placed a call to Jane Sparrow, the lawyer for Penny Barrow’s mother. This itself was an act of dubious judicial ethics, insofar as it amounted to an ex parte communication with counsel on a matter before the court. Judge McGee knew this, but she felt she had something of an emergency on her hands. She’d inform the other side later, and make a record of her actions explaining the reasons for them.

  In judicial circles, a practice commonly referred to as covering your butt.

  “Jane,” she said. “Priscilla McGee.”

  “Hello, Judge.”

  “I just got an emergency call from Cathy Silverman, the therapist I appointed on the Barrow case.”

  “Yes?”

  “She’s found what she considers to be strong evidence of sexual abuse in the child’s behavior. I want you to find a doctor, I guess it should be a pediatric gynecologist, to do an examination on the child, as soon as possible. It’s been a week since the father’s had contact, and these things can heal. The court will pay for it, so try to keep the cost down, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Jane Sparrow, doing her best to cover her exhilaration.

  The second thing Judge McGee did was to call her colleague Everett Wainwright. It took a while for him to get her message and get back to her, but when he did, she confided in him what she’d done.

  “You did the right thing,” he told her. “And as soon as you get the results, you notify me, hear? If I find out this guy’s been diddlin’ his daughter, he’ll wish he still had a $50,000 bail.”

  “Diddlin’ his daughter, huh? You always did have a way with words, Ev.”

  They both chuckled.

  Lleander Singh between patients at the Albany Medical Center when his phone rang. A lot of the doctors refused to answer, figuring it was the receptionist’s job, and if she didn’t pick up, eventually one of the nurses would. But Dr. Singh didn’t mind: In the hospital he’d trained at, in Pakistan, they didn’t have telephones.

  “Dr. Singh speaking,” he said.

  “Ah, Dr. Singh,” said a woman whose voice he didn’t recognize. “Just the person I’m looking for. My name is Jane Sparrow, and I’m calling on behalf of Judge McGee in Hudson.”

  “And how may I be of service?”

  “We have a little girl, six years old. Her father’s been sexually abusing her. The judge would like her examined as soon as possible.”

  “What would the purpose of the examination be?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” said Dr. Singh, “is she in great distress? Is she bleeding, torn, badly bruised, for example? The sort of thing that’s going to require an emergency-room setting?”

  “Oh, no,” said the woman, “nothing like that. It’s just that we’re interested in, you know, confirming the diagnosis.”

  “If it’s not an emergency, might you not be better off with a female physician?” Dr. Singh asked. “An examination of this sort can be upsetting enough as it is.”

  “Well, the thing is, it is an emergency. The judge needs it done right away.”

  “Have you tried Edna Scherl, down at Vassar and Brothers, in Poughkeepsie, or Allison Guttmacher, over at the Berkshire Medical Center, in Pittsfield?”

  “Yes,” said the woman, “but neither of them can do it. It’s a holiday weekend.”

  “How about Claire Jarvis, at Northern Dutchess?”

  “She can’t, either.”

  Which was interesting, because there was no Claire Jarvis at Northern Dutchess, and never had been. Lleander Singh had just made up the name in order to see if he was being told the truth or not. Nevertheless, he didn’t like turning away patients, particularly young children. “I suppose I could manage to squeeze her in,” he said. “Do you think you can arrange to have her here a little before five?”

  Flynt Adams got the bad news from Manny the bondsman Saturday afternoon. “Case like this, I need at least 50 percent collateral to write the paper,” Manny told him. “Otherwise the surety company’ll kick my ass. Your guy’s got less than fourteen thou clear in his house. He’s barely halfway there. Who you infronta, McGee or Wainwright?”

  “Wainwright.” The two judges took turns. One of them would sit on criminal cases for a three-month stretch, while the other handled civil matters. Then, just when lawyers and litigants were beginning to drive them totally crazy, they’d swap assignments.

  “Whyntcha go inna cawt Monday morning, make an application,” Manny suggested. “See if he’ll drop it down to twenty-five. He ain’t such a bad guy.”

  “He might not be a bad guy,” said Adams, “but he doesn’t particularly like sex cases-”

  “Hey, who does?”

  “-and as it is, he cut the DA’s original request in half. But what the hell, we’ve got nothing to lose. I’ll give it a shot.”

  Which meant he’d have to notify Jim Hall. But there was no use giving his adversary too much advance warning and a lot of extra time to come up with arguments against the bail being lowered. Better to wait until tomorrow night to call him, or even first thing Monday morning.

  A few minutes after five, Ada Barrow and her lawyer, Jane Sparrow, arrived at the pediatric floor of the Albany Medical Center with Penny. Penny was carrying her Baba, but was otherwise behaving like a normal, if somewhat depressed, six-year-old. Of course, neither adult had bothered to inform her of the nature of the examination she was about to undergo, instead letting her believe that a second doctor simply wanted to talk to her, much the way Cathy Silverman had that morning. They’d decided to let Dr. Singh handle breaking the news to her.

  He was the doctor, after all.

  Technically, Dr. Singh was a pediatrician with a subspecialty in urology. Because his work required him to perform examinations on his patients that they invariably found unpleasant, if not downright traumatic, he’d developed a protocol over time to minimize the unpleasantness. Both hospital rules and medical ethics required that another adult be present during the examination. That adult could be a parent or guardian, or a nurse. It was Dr. Singh’s experience that “the more the merrier” had no place in this equation, and if a parent wanted to be present (or if the child expressed a preference that the parent be present), that would suffice. On the other hand, recent studies had shown that an inanimate parent substitute - a favorite toy, a blanket, or a familiar pillow - served just as well as a parent, and sometimes better. The object could be held throughout the examination and, if need be, cuddled, squeezed, or even talked to. And the best thing was, the object itself never got nervous or squeamish or hysterical, and never imparted its own discomfort to the child.

  “I see you’ve brought Penny’s blanket along,” Dr. Singh noted.

  “It was her idea,” said the mother, apparently eager to distance herself from it.

  “Well, Penny, it was an excellent idea.”

  “Thank you,” said Penny.

  “Does it have a special name, by any chance?”

  “Baba.”

  “Baba,” Dr. Singh repeated
. “I used to call mine ‘Nookie.’ Would you do me a big favor, Penny?”

  “What?”

  “You and Baba and I are going to walk down that hallway right there and look for Elizabeth. Elizabeth is my nurse, but I keep losing track of her. We’ll know her when we see her, because she has red hair - I mean very red hair. She’s very nice, and I understand she has a drawer full of lollipops, but since I’m not a kid, I’m not sure about that. Once we find Elizabeth - if we can find her, that is - I’m going to let you and Baba hang out with her for a few minutes while I come back and talk with your mom. Sound okay to you?”

  Penny shrugged, and her mother opened her mouth to say something, but before she could get the words out, Dr. Singh had Penny’s small hand in his and the three of them were walking down the hall - doctor, child, and blanket.

  “She’s just fine,” he announced, when he returned to the room five minutes later. “She and Elizabeth are reading. Now, tell me what’s been going on?”

  Jane Sparrow took that as her cue. “According to the therapist she’s been seeing, her father’s been sexually abusing her.”

  “In what way?”

  “We’re not sure.”

  He turned to Ada. “What physical symptoms, if any, have you noticed?”

  “Like what?”

  Dr. Singh was leery of making it a multiple-choice or true-false test. “Like anything at all,” he said.

  “She won’t undress in front of me,” said Ada, “and she doesn’t want me around when she bathes. I see her touching herself every once in a while, you know, down there. And I did notice a bruise on the inside of her thigh. Is that the kind of thing you mean?”

  “Sure. Anything else?”

  Ada looked at her lawyer. “You said she cries a lot,” said Sparrow, “and refuses to eat.”

  “Okay,” said Dr. Singh. “But I’m most interested in her physical complaints right now. Anything else you can think of?”

  “She has a burn mark on the back of her hand,” said Ada.

  “Does she say how it got there?”

  “I didn’t ask her,” said Ada. “She’s very protective of her father, you understand, and she’s afraid to say the least thing against him.”

  “I see,” said Dr. Singh. “Has she ever had a gynecological exam before?”

  It was Ada’s turn to shrug.

  “Does she use any particular word to describe her genitals?”

  Another shrug.

  “Or the act of urinating?”

  Silence.

  “Okay,” said Dr. Singh. “I won’t be long.” And he was out of the room and walking down the hall before they could object.

  Stephen Barrow spent the remainder of the weekend convinced it would be his last as a free man. He paid his bills, threw out some stuff that had begun to gather blue mold in the back of the refrigerator, and pretty much completed the process of putting things that had been moved around during the search back where they belonged. By Sunday evening, he had a strong urge to write, to commit to paper his thoughts on going to jail for having taken a photograph of his daughter. He felt strongly that there was a story in there somewhere, even if he didn’t know quite what it was yet.

  But writing, of course, had been made difficult for Stephen by the loss of his computer. He tried to remember how he’d managed to do it B.C. - before computers. There’d been a typewriter once, complete with messy ribbons, little bottles of Wite-Out, and perpetually stained fingers. But he’d thrown it out, or given it away, long ago. Then there’d been a tape recorder, a tiny thing he used to speak into and send the tapes off to a service, who’d type up whatever was on them and send it back to him. But that hadn’t worked out too well. For one thing, it became expensive; for another, its microphone must have been too sensitive because it used to pick up everything in the room. He’d get manuscripts back with notations on them like “music in background,” “telephone ringing,” and “toilet flushing.” He’d ended up giving the thing to Penny a year or two ago. Within ten minutes, she’d figured out what each of the buttons did and turned it into a perpetual Barney machine. Not long after, she’d lost or misplaced it, which suggested to Stephen that there might just be a God after all.

  So in the end, he did it the old-fashioned way: He found a pad of paper and a pen. But by that time, he’d lost the urge to write. The notion of going to jail no longer seemed interesting and ironic to him, or even all that frightening. It was depressing, that was all.

  He went to bed around ten, determined to get a good night’s sleep. He figured it might be his last one for a while, what with all the crack dealers he’d soon have for cellmates.

  When Priscilla Mcgee arrived at her chambers Tuesday morning, she found a fax waiting for her.

  OFFICIAL AND CONFIDENTIALTO: The Honorable Priscilla McGee

  Justice of the Supreme Court Columbia County

  FROM: Lleander Singh, M.D.

  Albany County Medical Center

  RE: Penny Barrow

  Background

  On February 19, 2000, in the presence of Elizabeth McDowell, R. N., I performed an examination of the above child at the Albany County Medical Center. The child was referred to me by the court, and brought to the medical center by her mother, Ada Barrow, and Mrs. Barrow’s attorney, Jane Sparrow, Esq.

  Mrs. Barrow and Ms. Sparrow advised me that the child is suspected of having been sexually abused.

  Clinical Findings

  The child presents as a normally developed girl, consistent with her reported age of six years. During the examination she was somewhat nervous and withdrawn, but her behavior could be easily explained by the nature of the occasion.

  External examination is essentially unremarkable. There is a burn mark, most likely two to six weeks old, on the superior portion of the right hand. The child attributes it to having accidentally touched the surface of a wood-burning stove in the middle of the kitchen of her father’s home. (It might be a good idea to determine if there is such a stove; if there is not, this might provide a fertile avenue for follow-up questions.) There is a 1” circular bruise of indeterminate age on the child’s left inner thigh, 8” above the knee. The child claims to be unable to recall how or when she got it. There is an old scar, .5” in length, running through the child’s left eyebrow. She reports that she fell “about a year ago” while playing a game of “hide-and-seek” with her father.

  Upon gynecological examination, the vagina appears somewhat sensitive to the touch, but not remarkably so. The hymen is intact. The vaginal os shows evidence of an old tear, less than .25” in length and almost fully healed. In addition, there is a slight amount of hyperpigmentation. (Note that these findings are not uncommon, even in children of this age who are not suspected of having been abused.) The anus appears unremarkable. There is no discharge visible from either orifice. When asked, the child reports that she occasionally experiences a slight itchiness or burning sensation when urinating, particularly “when I have to hold it in for a long time.”

  Vaginal and anal smears were taken for microscopic examination and submitted to the laboratory for analysis.

  Impressions

  Pending laboratory analysis of the smears for possible gonorrhea, chlamydia, etc., I am unable to determine to a degree of medical certainty whether or not the child has been sexually abused.

  Rape and anal penetration may be safely ruled out.

  With respect to the old tear to the vagina and its hyperpigmentation and tenderness, the bruise to the thigh, the burn mark, and the facial scar, while all of these findings are consistent with sexual abuse, none of them, alone or in combination with the others, is significant enough to justify an actual clinical diagnosis of sexual abuse.

  Conclusion

  While some of the findings are consistent with sexual abuse, and while sexual abuse therefore cannot be ruled out, no positive clinical diagnosis can be made at this time.

  Lleander Singh, M.D.

  Judge McGee read the report in its en
tirety, twice. The second time through, she took a yellow marker and highlighted the following portions: “. . . nervous and withdrawn . . . burn mark . . . bruise . . . left inner thigh . . . old scar . . . the vagina appears sensitive to the touch . . . vaginal os shows evidence of an old tear . . . hyperpigmentation . . . itchiness or burning sensation when urinating.”

  The following portions she not only highlighted, but circled: “. . . all of these findings are consistent with sexual abuse . . . sexual abuse therefore cannot be ruled out.”

  Then she picked up the phone and dialed Judge Wainwright’s number. “Ev,” she said, “you asked me to notify you if there were positive findings of abuse on that Barrow girl.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, listen to this.”

  And she proceeded to read him every single word. The ones she’d highlighted, that is.

  “Thanks,” said Judge Wainwright, before adding, “it’s a hell of a world we live in, Priscilla.”

  “You said it.”

  “Well, I’ve already got word from Flynt Adams - that’s the father’s lawyer - that he and Jim Hall want to see me on a bail application this morning. I’m afraid Mr. Adams is going to wish he’d stayed in bed.”

  Tom Grady stayed in bed until a little after nine that morning. The first thing he did was to light a cigarette and go through his morning coughing ritual. The second thing he did was to check the calendar on his bedside table. Tuesday, it said, February 22. Which made it ten full days now that he hadn’t had a drop.

  The phone rang. He let it ring twice before picking up and saying “Grady” in a gravelly voice.

  “Tom, Neil Witt.”

  “Don’t worry, Neil, I’m fine. Be there in an hour.”

  “No, don’t come here. Go straight over to the courthouse, Tom. Judge Wainwright’s going to be hearing a bail application on the Barrow case this morning. I understand it could get interesting.”

  “How so?”

  “Barrow’s lawyer wants to knock the bail in half. Turns out he could be walking into a hornets’ nest. Word is, there’s evidence his client has not only been posing his kid for porn photos, he’s been sexually abusing her all along, too.”