Evidence of Love

by John Bloom

  “I didn’t know that, either, Candy. I agree with you.”

  “At least Don could’ve told me he was going to do this. If anybody was going to tell Pat, it should have been me.”

  “I’m sorry, Candy.”

  The change of venue hearing wasn’t held until late August. It should have been wholly routine. Rob conducted the questioning of seven witnesses—four attorneys, the managing editor of the McKinney newspaper, an architect in Lucas, and a McKinney social worker—and then submitted nine sworn affidavits. Without exception, they all testified that every living, breathing person with access to a radio, TV, or newspaper, thought Candy Montgomery was guilty of murder. On cross-examination, they all said that they as individuals were capable of being fair and impartial jurors, because they didn’t believe everything they read and heard in the media. Like most venue hearings, this one was predictable. The defense elicited the fact that people already had preconceived opinions. The prosecution responded by getting them to say that they would be able to ignore those preconceived opinions. (Tom O’Connell also called four witnesses of his own, all of them past or present county employees, including one constable named Jerry Kunkle who vouchsafed the opinion that most people thought Candy was innocent.) That left the decision up to the judge.

  The difference in this case was Ryan. He sat through most of the hearing puffing on a cigarette, but after each witness had been examined, he exercised his privilege to question them himself. Most of his questions were intended to show friendships or professional relationships between the witness and Candy’s attorneys, but in a few cases he was simply catty. To Howard Shapiro, a former Collin County prosecutor who had gone into private practice, Ryan asked, “When you were prosecutor, did you ever prosecute a murder case?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I don’t think you ever got out of misdemeanor court, did you?”

  Of Jim Bray, a Plano attorney, Ryan asked, “What is your relationship to defense attorneys?”

  Bray didn’t answer right away, so Ryan continued. “Is there one? Did you all go to law school together?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You don’t know how they happened to pick you out?”

  “No. I have no idea.”

  When another attorney, George Parker, took the stand, Ryan started in again.

  “For the record,” he said, “you are an employee of Mr. Bob Hendricks who was the bondsman in this case?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “In fact, you were his runner from the office to get her out of jail the first time she got out of jail?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Mr. Hendricks is a member of the Legislature, is he not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Running for office in November?”

  “Correct.”

  And when Gary Patton, an ex-prosecutor in neighboring Denton County, took the stand, Ryan was even more explicit.

  “Did you participate in that murder trial when the Texas Ranger was killed over there [in Denton County] on a narcotics bust?”

  “No, Your Honor,” said Patton. “Not directly.”

  “Were you in the office at that time?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “And that received as much if not more publicity than this case has received, has it not?”

  “Yes, I would believe so.”

  “And he got a fair trial in Denton County.”

  Patton mumbled something inaudible.

  “Well,” said Ryan testily, “he was tried in Denton County.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And he got a jury in Denton County?”

  “Our office did, yes.”

  “Well, you were in the office. Didn’t you take a little pride in selecting a jury in a murder case of that significance?”

  “No, Your Honor, in fact, I did not take direct part in that case, directly out of my own decision. It was not a capital murder case.”

  “That’s probably why you’re not over there prosecuting.”

  “No, that’s not true.”

  Don Crowder, silent until then, stood up and spoke rapidly. “Your Honor, we’re going to object at this time to the adversary role the court is now attempting to play in this process. Also, the sidebar remarks you’re making to the witnesses put on by the defense.”

  “Sidebar remarks, sir, I will sustain,” said Ryan. “The law gives me province to interrogate witnesses.”

  “We understand, Your Honor, but we think you’re going out of that province at this point. We want it on the record that we object.”

  “All right. Let’s proceed.”

  Ryan turned and looked at the witness. “You may stand down and go back to Denton County.”

  The sarcasm was not lost on the newspaper and television reporters in the audience. At the end of the hearing, Ryan announced he would make a ruling on the requested change of venue within a week.

  “I’ll give you one guess what that’ll be,” said Don under his breath.

  On Friday night, the first of August, a neighbor of Allan Gore’s noticed a strange car parked on the street in front of the Gore home. It had been there since about 6:30 in the evening, and when the neighbor went to bed, it was still there. The following Thursday, the same neighbor noticed the same car—a 1971 black-over-blue Chevrolet Monte Carlo. Again it arrived around 6:30 and remained after the neighborhood’s customary bedtimes.

  Acting on information from a confidential source, investigator James Cochran of the Texas Department of Public Safety went to the office of Elaine Williams on August 19 and asked her if she owned a 1971 black-over-blue Chevrolet Monte Carlo, license plate number PFN 16. She said she did. Cochran asked her if she had parked it in front of Allan Gore’s residence on the nights of August 1 and August 7. She said she had. She added that she had left Allan’s house around 1 A.M. on both evenings.

  Only the week before Elaine had gone to lunch with her friend, JoAnn Garlington. She had gotten to know JoAnn at Lucas church, and later through Marriage Encounter, when she was about to marry David for the second time.

  “I do wish you would use more discretion,” JoAnn said.

  “What?”

  “You and Allan. Everybody in the world knows about it.”

  Betty Gore had been dead exactly two months.

  Dr. Fred Fason was a good-humored, fatherly charmer with a huge nose, bushy eyebrows, and a sweet, intelligent mouth that didn’t seem to fit the rest of him. He invariably described himself as “a River Oaks shrink.” River Oaks was the Beverly Hills of Houston, a place full of shaded drives and iron gates and mansions built by people with too damn much money. A lot of it eventually made its way to Dr. Fason, who dealt with a lot of Valium-addled socialites and impotent millionaires in the course of his career. Dr. Fason didn’t mind if people knew that, either; it was the only advertising he had.

  That’s why, when a lawyer from Dallas named Crowder called Fason sometime in early August, he was quick to tell him that he didn’t care much for courtroom work. It was bad PR. But when the attorney outlined the case, Fason was sufficiently intrigued to say that perhaps he would agree to serve as a consultant, and he would see the client once for diagnosis.

  Candy and Don flew to Houston, where Fason administered a battery of tests. Afterward, he pronounced himself hooked on the case.

  “If she’d turned out to be a sociopath,” he told Don, “I would’ve dropped this case like a hot potato. But I think she’s being completely honest. I guess I’m your man.”

  The real test didn’t come until two weeks later, though, when Candy returned to Houston, accompanied by Elaine Carpenter. Elaine noticed that Candy seemed more detached than usual, almost numb, on the plane ride down, and when they were forced to wait on Fason in his dark, antiseptic reception area, Candy grew even more vacant.

  When Fason arrived, he offered a cheery greeting and then ushered Candy into his spacious office. Elaine started to follow.

  “No, no,” said
Candy. “I’ll be all right.”

  Candy felt very comfortable around Dr. Fason; she found him businesslike and yet playful at the same time.

  After Candy disappeared, Elaine settled back in a chair and perused a few old issues of Texas Monthly. An hour passed, with no one coming or going, so she moved on to Reader’s Digest. Another hour passed. Elaine got up from her chair and started pacing about, bored to tears and wondering what could be going on inside.

  Suddenly she heard a shriek. It was loud and eerie, and it came from Fason’s office. Then she heard several more in quick succession; they were low-pitched, like moans, or like the noises people make when they’re having nightmares. They sounded asexual; she couldn’t tell whether they came from Candy or someone else. And they wouldn’t stop.

  Frazzled and panicky, Elaine didn’t know what to do. So she ran over to the desk of Fason’s secretary, picked up the phone, and hurriedly dialed the Dallas office. She managed to get Rob on the line.

  “Rob, she’s been in there for two hours and I’ve been hearing some screams. Should I go in and interrupt?”

  “No,” said Rob. “I guess we should have told you more about this. Just stick with it. Fason might be getting exactly what we need.”

  It was Fason’s voice that got to Candy—soft, deep, resonant, the source of his power and his art. He was a psychiatrist, but he was also a first-rate clinical hypnotist. On this day he began with a speech about the need to “be completely open and level,” because if Candy wasn’t, or if she didn’t think she could be, the interview was over.

  “No, there’s no question about that,” she assured him.

  “All right,” he said. “I want you to start and tell me about what happened that day.”

  “That’s what I don’t want to talk about.”

  “I know that’s what you don’t want to talk about.”

  “I try very hard not to think about it any more.”

  “I know.”

  But Candy reluctantly agreed to relive the morning of Friday, June 13, for Fason’s benefit. She began with Vacation Bible School, and ended up telling Fason everything—more than she had told Don, more than Pat knew. Then they talked a long time about “control” and “anger” and Candy’s deep-seated unconscious fears.

  After a couple of hours, when Fason was certain that he had established a trust with his patient, he decided to try hypnosis. Candy was remarkably susceptible; she went under quickly, and her hypnotic trance was deep. Fason’s smooth, soft voice carried her as far under as it was possible to go, until her body was totally relaxed; then he took her back in time to June 13 and Betty Gore’s utility room.

  “When I snap my fingers,” he said at length, “you will begin reexperiencing and relating that time to me as you go through it. One. Two. Three.…”

  He snapped his fingers loudly.

  “Begin. What’s happening, Candy?”

  She said nothing; her face wore a worried expression.

  “What’s happening, Candy? You can tell me.”

  He waited for a response that didn’t come.

  “What thoughts are going through your mind?… I’m going to count to three. When I reach the count of three, your thoughts and feelings will get stronger and stronger … stronger and stronger and stronger … so strong you will have to express them and verbalize them.… One. Two.… Stronger and stronger … so strong you will have to get them out. Three. Let them out. What’s that you’re feeling, Candy?”

  “Hate.”

  “Okay. You hate her. Express your feelings … stronger and stronger.”

  Candy started to whimper.

  “You hate her,” repeated Fason.

  “I hate her,” she whispered.

  “You hate her. You hate her. Say it out loud.”

  “I hate her.”

  “Louder.”

  “I hate her. She’s messed up my whole life. Look at this. I hate her. I hate her.”

  “When I count to three I want you to back up in time again, Candy. I want you to go back in time to where she’s shoving you. You’re in the utility room and she shoves you. Just relax. One. Two. Three.”

  Candy whimpered and moaned softly.

  “What is happening? Go through it. The feeling is very strong. One. Two. Three. She’s pushing you.”

  Candy moaned again.

  “What’s she going to do? What’s happening? Tell me. What is it?”

  Candy tried to say something.

  “What? Louder.”

  “I won’t let her hit me again. I don’t want him. She can’t do this to me.”

  “The feelings are getting stronger,” said Fason. “Stronger.”

  Candy squirmed on the couch but didn’t respond.

  Fason time-regressed her yet again, this time asking her to go back to “the first time you ever got that mad.”

  “Do you recall ever being that mad before?” he asked. “Do you recall it?”

  No response.

  “When you were little. Let’s go back, back in time. Let’s get in the time machine and go way, way back in time. Back when you were little. One. Back, back in time. Two. Three. The time machine stops. How old are you, Candy?”

  “Four.”

  “Four. Tell me about it. What made you so mad?”

  “I lost it.”

  “What did you lose?”

  “Race.”

  “You lost the race.”

  “To Johnny.”

  “Do you like Johnny?”

  “He beat me.”

  “What did he say when he beat you?”

  No answer.

  “How did you feel?”

  “Mad. Furious.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll break it.”

  “Break what?”

  “The jar.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I broke it.”

  “How did you break it? What happened?”

  “I threw it against the pump.”

  “Are you scared?”

  Candy nodded. “My mother took me to the hospital.”

  “What did your mother say.”

  “Shhhhhh.”

  “Did what?”

  “Shhhhhh.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Shhhhhh.”

  “When I count to three, your feelings will be stronger and stronger. One. Two. Three. What are you seeing?”

  “I’m afraid.”

  “What are you afraid of?”

  “Hurts. I’m afraid.”

  “What are you afraid of? Are you afraid of being punished for your anger? Is that what you’re afraid of?”

  “It hurts.” She rubbed her hand across her head.

  “Your head hurts? Where does it hurt?”

  “I’m scared. I want to scream.”

  “When I count to three, you can scream all you want to. One. Two. Three.”

  Candy shivered but made no sound.

  “Just kick and scream all you want to,” said Fason. “It’s okay. It’s okay to do it.”

  Candy shrieked, an eerie, wailing sound that could be heard through two walls of Fason’s office.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Just kick and scream all you want to.”

  Candy was breathing hard.

  “How did you feel when she said, shh?”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to kick and scream.”

  “When I count to three, you’re going to kick and scream all you want to. One.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes you can. Two. Three. Kick and scream all you want to.”

  She screamed even louder. “It hurts,” she yelled, and then screamed again.

  As soon as she stopped, Fason thought it wise to start bringing her out of the trance. It would take more interviews to sort out the details, but in his mind he had done what Don Crowder asked him to do. He had found the source of Candy Montgomery’s rage.

  It was four hours before Candy and Fason em
erged from the office. Candy looked thoroughly drained, and yet somehow serene. She was exhausted, but Elaine thought she looked better than she had in weeks. On the way back to the airport, and then on the plane to Dallas, Candy began to talk about the experience. Under hypnosis, she said, she had been very animated and yet remained quite calm. Whatever else had happened in that room, Candy had found peace there.

  Candy and Elaine made two more trips to Fason’s office in Houston, and each time Candy returned feeling better than when she had left. All of her sessions were tape-recorded and sent to Don in Dallas. Don was ecstatic about what he found on them. But one, in particular, he played twice to make sure he was hearing right. It seemed that Fason had put his arms around Candy in the middle of the session, to comfort her.

  Don called Candy immediately. “What the fuck is this stuff?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” said Candy. “The sessions are pretty rough, and I cry a lot. But I don’t know. I didn’t have any idea.”

  Don had grown so curious about hypnosis, and intrigued with the idea of using it at the trial, that after Fason had finished with Candy, he asked him to come to Dallas so that the defense team could observe Candy under hypnosis. Fason agreed, and flew to Dallas for a full day of work with her. The attorneys watched Fason put her under, then apply the usual tests that proved she was truly hypnotized and not faking it. He said, “You will feel no pain,” and then pricked her finger with a pin. She didn’t move or change expression. He said, “It’s getting very cold in here—below zero,” and goose bumps appeared on her arms. Then he asked her many of the same questions he had asked during the Houston sessions, allowing her to go on at length as Don and Rob, amazed, stood by listening.

  “Doc, I have an idea,” said Don after the demonstration. “One of the problems we have is that Candy doesn’t show enough emotion when she’s in public. She looks cold as ice. I’m afraid it’s gonna hurt her when she takes the stand. For a while I was gonna have her take acting lessons, but I decided not to, because the press might find out. So what I’m wondering is—is there a way to program her into showing emotion when she testifies?”

  “You want emotion?” said Fason. “I can get you emotion. The emotion is in there. We just need to release it.”

  So Fason put Candy under again and planted a so-called “trigger phrase” in her subconscious. He told her that, when she heard that phrase, she would break into tears. She nodded.