Dante's Wood

by Lynne Raimondo

  We then switched to my preparation for the hearing and I began to relax a little. Under Hallie’s questioning I described all the material I had gathered and reviewed about Charlie, starting in his infancy, the reports of various therapists and teachers, his IQ tests and other assessments, and ending up with his most recent evaluation by personnel at the center.

  “And did you also meet personally with the defendant, Mr. Dickerson?” Hallie asked.

  “I did, on several occasions.”

  “And will you describe your overall findings?”

  “Charlie Dickerson is an eighteen-year-old male with a weighed IQ of forty-five on the Wechsler Scale, which translates into the mental age of a six- to nine-year-old child. His cognitive deficits are readily apparent from his speech, which is halting and childlike. He has difficulty understanding questions and often needs to have them repeated several times. His answers reflect his poor memory skills. He has significant trouble with sequencing—putting things in proper chronological order—and often confuses events that happened in the past with those in the present, and vice versa.”

  I hated to have to say such things with Charlie sitting only a few feet away and hoped he didn’t understand my elevated speech. He had been very quiet throughout the hearing, and I could sense his presence only from the stertorous breathing coming from the seat beside Hallie’s.

  “Was he cooperative on the occasions you met with him?”

  “Yes, very. Like many such individuals, Mr. Dickerson tends to defer to persons of normal intelligence, particularly those in positions of authority, and has a strong desire to please.”

  “What about his psychological profile?”

  “I administered the Psychopathology Inventory for Mentally Retarded Adults, the Diagnostic Assessment of the Severely Handicapped, and the Reiss Scale for Maladaptive Behavior. While none of these tests is conclusive, the results consistently indicated a person who is free of the factors associated with psychopathology as defined by the leading texts in the field. In laymen’s terms, Mr. Dickerson is very well-adjusted for someone with his level of impairment and displays no signs of depression, anxiety disorder, or other mental illness.”

  “So, in your opinion, Mr. Dickerson does not exhibit any traits that are associated with violent psychosis?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Now Dr. Angelotti, you are aware that Mr. Dickerson was interrogated by police officers after his arrest?’

  “I am.”

  “And that he purportedly waived his right to have an attorney present during that interrogation.”

  “Yes. I listened to the so-called waiver on the tape.”

  “Have you formed any opinion about Mr. Dickerson’s capacity to give such a waiver? Please tell us first what you understand a proper waiver to consist of.”

  Di Marco sprang to his feet like a jack-in-the box. “Objection. Calls for a legal conclusion.”

  Judge La Font sighed. “The witness’s understanding of the prevailing legal standard is relevant to the weight to be afforded to his testimony. Objection overruled. You may answer,” she said to me.

  “It has been explained to me that waiver of Miranda rights must be both knowing and voluntary. In simple terms, the individual must understand what he is giving up and yet still desire to do so.”

  “That’s a better answer than nine-tenths of the bar would have given,” Judge La Font remarked kindly.

  “Thank you,” I said, feeling myself flush slightly.

  “But don’t let it go to your head,” Judge La Font said. There were laughs from the spectator section, and for the first time since taking the stand I think I smiled.

  Hallie then took me through my analysis of the “waiver,” emphasizing Charlie’s inability to explain any of its key terms, much less his rights as a criminal defendant, or even exactly what he was accused of. We sailed through the rest of my direct easily, with Di Marco objecting infrequently, ending up with my professional opinion that the confession had been the result of subtle, and not-so-subtle, psychological persuasion.

  It was then time for my cross-examination.

  I’ve since testified more than a few times and never failed to be impressed by the uneven talents lawyers bring to a courtroom. I guess it’s no different from medicine. A diploma from an Ivy League school and a six-figure billing rate are no substitute for instinct. It’s a sad truth that certain skills can’t be taught. I’ve been on the receiving end of cross-examinations that were as dry and plodding as a mule expedition through Death Valley, and ultimately as deadly: no goal on the horizon, inadequate provisions, and a growing sense of desperation until the whole thing just fizzles out like the dying plumes of a rescue flare. It’s no wonder jurors doze and judges strain not to fidget in their seats.

  Di Marco, however, was a whole different story.

  “You have an impressive set of credentials, Doctor,” he began pleasantly enough.

  I agreed modestly.

  “Two residencies, a fellowship at George Washington, and a tenured position on the faculty at your former hospital, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  We went over some of my accomplishments there. “Your employer must have been very happy with you,” Di Marco said.

  “No one ever expressed any reservations about my being on staff.”

  “And you were there for ten years.”

  “Just under, but that’s right.”

  Di Marco then made his first thrust.

  “I’m curious then—why did you leave?”

  This wasn’t something Hallie and I had prepared for. I turned toward her, seeking guidance. She picked up my hesitation right away, and said, “Objection. Relevance.”

  “Sustained,” the judge answered.

  Di Marco pressed ahead anyway. “Was it because you were fired?”

  Hallie was up in an instant, “Your Honor—”

  Judge La Font said crisply, “I’ll let the witness answer that one.”

  I took a deep breath. “I resigned voluntarily,” I said, pausing and adding as evenly as I could, “for personal reasons having nothing to do with my job.”

  I waited to see what Judge La Font would do. Thankfully, she cut it off there. “That’s all you’re entitled to,” she said to Di Marco. “Move on.”

  Di Marco couldn’t possibly have known. But all the same I felt like I had been warned.

  Di Marco proceeded to let the tension lapse, taking me over a few uncontested points in my testimony. I answered them easily enough, but my threat level was still on orange alert.

  “So your testimony is that the defendant couldn’t have competently waived his Miranda rights under any circumstances?”

  “I can’t say what he may have been able to do with proper assistance, only that none was offered or given.”

  “And you say the police should have recognized his ‘cognitive deficits,’ as you called them, immediately?”

  “As I testified, Mr. Dickerson’s impairment should have been obvious to even a casual observer. And he was known by the police to be a student at the New Horizons Center.”

  “So that should have signaled to them at once that he was an unreliable witness?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the blood on his hands, that was unreliable too?”

  “I’ll object to that one,” Hallie said.

  Judge La Font said, “Save the grandstanding for the jury, Mr. Di Marco. It’s not going to impress me.”

  “So what should the protocol be, in your opinion?” Di Marco asked, switching gears.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The protocol whenever a suspect pretends to be too dumb to understand. Do the police have to administer an IQ test to prove he’s lying?”

  I wasn’t going to be baited. “That’s a question for policymakers to decide. I can only tell you that based upon my observation of the recorded interview and the questions I put to him afterward, Mr. Dickerson did not understand the nature of the right
s he was giving up. And his IQ isn’t in dispute.”

  “Let’s talk about that. Have you ever taken an IQ test?”

  “I’m sure I have. It was standard practice in the sixties to administer them to grade-school students, but the scores were never made known to me.”

  “Let’s say, hypothetically speaking, that you had been told your score and it was lower than normal. Would that have affected your opinion of yourself?”

  “Certainly.”

  “And your teachers’ opinion of you as well?”

  “Of course. That’s why the practice is no longer looked on with favor. There’s a danger that a low score can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. And some argue that there is a high degree of cultural bias in IQ testing.”

  “Leading to unreliability of results?”

  “According to some researchers, yes.”

  “In fact, isn’t it true that, according to some studies, IQ testing of the same individual can produce scores fifteen to twenty points apart?”

  “Yes.”

  “If those studies are correct, then the defendant’s purported IQ of forty-five could be as much as twenty points higher.”

  “Or lower,” I said. “Look, if you’re trying to make the point that IQ testing isn’t always accurate, I agree with you. That is why current psychiatric practice looks at intelligence more in terms of deviation from a norm based upon large population studies. The results don’t necessarily predict an individual’s potential, but within a certain range can be useful in assessing his strengths and weaknesses relative to his peer group. In this case, though, give or take a few points, there’s no question that Mr. Dickerson falls well below the threshold that would allow him to live as an adult in our society without substantial support and assistance.”

  Di Marco paused, rifling through his notes at the lectern as though he wasn’t sure where to go next. I felt my watch for the time, certain we were nearing the end.

  But Di Marco was far from through with me.

  “Dr. Angelotti, may I ask how you first came to know Mr. Dickerson?”

  Hallie was on him in a split second. “Objection. Calls for information protected by the physician–patient privilege.”

  Di Marco said, “Ms. Sanchez opened the door to privileged testimony when she elicited testimony about Mr. Dickerson’s psychological profile. I have the right to follow up.”

  “You have a response to that, Ms. Sanchez?” Judge La Font asked.

  “I . . . uh . . . no, Your Honor,” Hallie sputtered.

  Shit, I thought. Why hadn’t I told Hallie about the Dickersons’ visit? I had meant to, but evidently forgotten during all the hurried preparation for the hearing. And I’d been taught the privilege was ironclad, disregarded only in the rare circumstance when a psychiatrist knows his patient intends violence toward a particular victim. Nothing remotely like that had come out in my interview of Charlie, so I’d assumed our session would be off-limits.

  Apparently I was wrong.

  “I’ll allow it then,” Judge La Font said. “Read back the question.”

  The court reporter did as I fought to keep my cool. I was still comfortable with the advice I had given the Dickersons, but it was all too easy to see how Di Marco could twist it into something dicey-sounding. And then there was the matter of Judith’s suspicions about Shannon . . . would I have to repeat them? I remembered what Hallie had told me to do if I were caught unawares like this: stay calm and try to keep my answers as succinct as possible.

  I said, “Mr. Dickerson’s parents asked me to talk to him.”

  “I see. And was this before the arrest?”

  “Yes.”

  “When precisely?”

  “Around September of last year.”

  “And why did they ask you to do that?”

  Hallie was up again. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”

  “I’ll rephrase,” Di Marco said.

  “Did Mr. and Mrs. Dickerson say why they wanted you to see their son?”

  Hallie jumped back in, “Your Honor, I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.” She made it sound confident but I knew she was getting rattled.

  Di Marco said, “It’s only irrelevant if the defense has nothing to hide.”

  This was good enough for Judge La Font, and she instructed me to answer.

  “They said Mr. Dickerson had been waking during the night.”

  “Anything else?”

  “And that they had observed him crying afterward.”

  “Go on. Did they say how often this was happening?”

  “An average of two to three times a week.”

  “And did they offer any reason why this might be occurring?”

  “Mrs. Dickerson—Charlie’s mother—was concerned . . . that something at the New Horizons Center was upsetting him.”

  “What kind of something? A relationship, perhaps?”

  Hallie broke in again, “Your Honor, how long is this going to go on? He’s obviously fishing. And why isn’t this hearsay?”

  “You have a response to the hearsay objection?” Judge La Font asked Di Marco.

  “Information gathered by an expert witness at any stage of his investigation is exempt from the hearsay rules,” Di Marco answered primly.

  “All right,” the judge said, “but I want to see where this is going soon.”

  “I’ll cut to the chase then,” Di Marco said. “Dr. Angelotti, during that first meeting with the Dickersons, did either of them tell you of their suspicion that the defendant was engaged in a sexual relationship with a caregiver at the center?”

  I had no choice then. “Yes,” I said.

  “And that they wanted you to examine their son to confirm or deny that suspicion?”

  “That’s what they asked me to do.”

  “And what conclusions did you draw about the defendant’s sexual conduct at his school?”

  “I . . . I’m not able to answer the question that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I determined that Charlie’s nighttime waking had a different cause.”

  “Which was what, exactly?”

  The room was utterly silent except for the sound of a foot tapping under a table. Hallie’s foot, I remember thinking. I cleared my throat, which was beginning to feel like a stopover on the Bataan death march.

  “It appeared that the defendant—I mean, Mr. Dickerson—was having erections that he lacked the knowledge to . . . bring to a conclusion.”

  There were a few coughs from the spectator section but no one laughed.

  “Are we talking about wet dreams?”

  “No, merely unintended arousal.”

  “And is there a solution for this problem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Care to tell us about it?”

  “There are ways to . . . counteract such episodes, but . . .”

  “But?”

  “Mr. Dickerson had been taught never to . . . touch himself in that way.”

  “I see. So what did you tell the Dickersons?”

  “I advised Mr. Dickerson—Mr. Dickerson senior, that is—to show his son how to relieve himself.”

  “What do you mean by ‘relieve himself?’”

  “Bring about ejaculation.”

  “In other words, you prescribed jerking off.”

  “Your Honor—” Hallie began.

  “I’ll withdraw it,” Di Marco said. “But just so I’m clear on this, Doctor, your advice to the Dickersons was that the defendant be encouraged to masturbate?”

  “Encouraged is putting it too strongly.”

  “And you didn’t think there was anything remarkable about that prescription?”

  “I . . . under the circumstances, no.”

  “Had you ever suggested such a remedy to a patient before?”

  “No, but most boys Charlie’s age . . . already know what to do.”

  “But not Mr. Dickerson?”

  “No, as I said, he was ignorant of what
was happening to him.”

  “I see.”

  Di Marco stepped away from the lectern and engaged in a whispered consultation with his colleagues. I took a sip of water from the glass next to me, mentally reviewing the answers I had just given. I thought I had done as well as I could. I had kept Shannon’s name out of it, the only real minefield I knew of, and apart from further snide references to hand jobs, Di Marco seemed unsure where to go next. I began to breathe again.

  When Di Marco returned, he said, “Your Honor, at this time I would like to tender to the Court and defense counsel People’s Exhibit Number 10 for identification.”

  “What’s he up to now?” Hallie muttered to one of her assistants as Di Marco passed some papers around.

  “Yes, Counsel, what is this?” Judge La Font said.

  Di Marco said with studied casualness, “Results of paternity tests, Judge.”

  “Paternity tests?” Hallie repeated edgily. “On whom?”

  “On a fourteen-week-old fetus—”

  The courtroom began to vibrate like a subway track.

  “—discovered by the medical examiner during autopsy—”

  With a nauseated sensation I realized what he was saying.

  “—a fetus whom DNA analysis has confirmed to be the unborn child of the murder victim, Shannon Sparrow—”

  Here Di Marco paused like a politician delivering a stump speech.

  “—and the defendant, CHARLES DICKERSON!”

  Pandemonium ensued.

  Even now, my memory of what followed has a surreal quality, as though I were experiencing the events through the mouthpiece of a bullhorn. Time slowed to a full stop, proof that Zeno was on to something. The tiniest sounds—the ticking of a clock somewhere above my head, the rustle of Judge La Font’s robes—had the painstaking clarity of a dry point etching, while the larger commotion seemed to be taking place at a great distance. Dimly I registered a deep voice—Nate’s?—bellowing like an elephant. “They were sleeping together? Jesus Christ! That idiot!” Hallie, too, was shouting. “She was pregnant? Is this for real? Why am I only finding out now?” Di Marco was yelling back, also straining to be heard above the din. “Your Honor, I can explain.” Judge La Font was cracking her gavel. “Order. I will have order. Everyone back to their seats. If you are not seated I will ask the bailiff to remove you.” For a while, no one paid her any attention. “Order!” Judge La Font commanded once more. “This minute!”