Frankfurt’s group counseling sessions were scheduled twice a week. Almost all of them hated being here. Except for Preacher Jim, of course. The gaunt-faced old-timer with the stringy gray hair sat across from him, rocking back and forth in his chair, looking up at the ceiling periodically, like he was waiting for Jesus or something. Whenever anybody spoke, Preacher would mumble to himself, then say “Amen!” when they were done.
The others, though, were here for the same reasons he was. They volunteered for Group only to get good-behavior credits and knock some time off their prison terms. Occasionally, if you impressed The Hairball with your “progress,” he’d put in a good word and you’d get some perks, too. More free time in the music room or library, better jobs. And you made him feel important, like he was accomplishing something. A win-win situation. Sure, they all hated sucking up to him, but you did what you had to do.
His eyes followed The Hairball, who strolled in the center of the ring, like a lion tamer. He didn’t know who had come up with Frankfurt’s nickname, but it stuck. The shrink’s frizzy, unkempt hair and beard did kind of remind you of something a cat coughed up.
Wulfe was one of the few in the joint who had some college, so they all came to him when they needed something to be written, or for help in what to say in situations like this. He traded on his education and literacy for favors, cash, and contraband. For Group, he coached them to think of it like an acting class. You’re putting on a show, a performance. You have to seem credible. And if you can impress The Hairball, you could probably snow parole and probation people later, too.
They listened to him, not only because he was smart, but because he’d actually taken two semesters of drama in college. Mainly to get near the theater girls, because he’d been told that artsy bitches would do pretty much anything, in bed or out. So he took acting classes and learned some Stanislavsky bullshit, before the college tossed him out on his ass near the end of his sophomore year. But he could still cry on cue, if he wanted to. Not here, of course, or they’d think you were a pussy, which could be fatal. But outside, it came in handy, sometimes. Like if you wanted to get in some broad’s pants, and maybe there were people nearby, so you couldn’t just force her, and you had to do the Mr. Sensitivity act. Sure, it was better when you just forced them, but sometimes you had to make do.
Bo Weller, the Aryan Brotherhood enforcer, was into his routine, now. It was all Wulfe could do to keep from laughing. Here’s this three-hundred-pound dude with a broken nose and all those gang tats bullshitting Hairball about how his parents’ divorce when he was thirteen left a “hole in his emotions.” Wulfe had given Weller that line yesterday, in exchange for a couple of cigarettes. Weller was a moron, and Wulfe wasn’t sure if Hairball would see right through a line that lame; but he could tell that the shrink was eating it up. People believe what they want to believe. So, you feed them what they want to hear, and you own them.
But he could tell that Hairball was sulking today. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what the guys were saying. He had a grim expression on his face and a faraway look in his eyes while he paced in the middle of the circle.
Wulfe knew it was the article in yesterday’s paper by that smart-mouthed prick Hunter. He was pissed off when he read it, so he could only imagine how pissed The Hairball was. It was bringing all sorts of unwanted attention to the shrink’s programs, including this one.
That could screw his own chances to get out early. He had to try and move the ball down the field now, if he could.
“Excuse me, Bo,” he said, “I’m sorry for interrupting. But I wanted to ask Dr. Frankfurt something.”
The dude blinked. “Ah...okay.”
The shrink frowned at him. “Mr. Wulfe?”
“I hope I’m not being out of line, doctor—and please tell me to mind my own business if I am. But you seem—I don’t know, a bit distracted today. I just wonder if there’s a problem?”
Frankfurt blinked in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed and his mouth began to work before he finally spoke. “Yes. As a matter of fact, there is a problem.”
It was as if Wulfe had lanced a boil. The shrink started to pace more rapidly around the middle of the circle, his words pouring out in a torrent.
“Perhaps some of you saw the Inquirer yesterday. That horrible article about the MacLean Foundation and its inmate rehabilitation programs?” The guys looked at each other and some nodded. “Well, as you may know, I head the Psychological Services Program for the foundation. And this outrageous attack cuts at the heart of everything we’re trying to do. Including this counseling program.”
Everybody made the appropriate faces and angry noises.
“The author, some hack writer named Dylan Hunter, who must think of himself as the Lone Ranger, has been riding his ‘crime-fighter’ hobby horse for months. He’s doing tremendous damage to years of work serving clients like you, undermining our public and political support. I just spoke to Kenneth MacLean himself about an hour ago, and he’s extremely worried that some key backing we’ve had for the sentencing reform bill in Congress might now be in jeopardy. In fact, immediately after this session, I have to drive to Washington for a press conference with him. We’re going to set the record straight.”
Wulfe nodded sympathetically at the jerk. “I’m truly sorry, doctor. Your work has been such a big help to all of us, and I’m sure to many others.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wulfe. I appreciate that more than you could know.”
Oh, I’m sure of that, Hairball.
“It’s really an either-or choice for society,” the pompous ass continued. “We can dwell in the bitter past, looking behind us down the path of retribution and recrimination. Or we can look forward and take a new path to personal rehabilitation and restoration.”
“What he’s writing, if you ask me, it’s downright un-Christian,” Wulfe interjected. “It’s contrary to the virtues of forgiveness and trust as rewards for sincere repentance.”
“Amen, brother!” Preacher Jim chimed in.
“Precisely!” The Hairball said, nodding enthusiastically.
Encouraged, Wulfe stood and kept going, taking care to keep his voice restrained. “I think it all comes down to this: How do the American people want to see themselves when they look in the mirror? As cold-blooded, Old-Testament, eye-for-an-eye savages? As an angry lynch mob looking for revenge for every slight against them? Or do they want to look into that mirror and see a reflection of the New Testament virtues of mercy and compassion and human salvation?”
He nodded as he said it, looking around the room at the others. They caught on and nodded in agreement, and Preacher “amened” him twice more.
“What I’ve learned here from you, Dr. Frankfurt,” he concluded, “is that the lessons of psychology are really the same lessons that we can find in the Sermon on the Mount. And I’m grateful to you for teaching me that.”
The Hairball stared at him, blinking rapidly. For a minute, he thought crazily that the idiot was going to rush across the room and hug him; it seemed all he could do to contain himself.
“Thank you, Mr. Wulfe!” he said at last. “As I mentioned, I have to go to Washington now, so I’m going to cut this session short today. I hope we’ve all learned something from Mr. Wulfe’s heartfelt words. I want us to ponder them until we meet again on Thursday. That will be all for now.”
The men looked at each other and got up to leave.
“Adrian, if I could have a word with you for a moment.”
So it’s Adrian now. Wulfe sat back down as the room cleared.
“Let me tell you how much I was moved by your eloquent statement just now. I want to thank you for that, and also share with you how impressed I am by your progress.”
“I certainly couldn’t have gotten this far without your help, doctor.”
“You’ve already demonstrated your maturity in so many ways over these many months. I’ve shared with my colleagues the story of your enormous restraint, compassion,
and dignity during your meeting with Mrs. Copeland two months ago. You’ve also taken a leadership role here in Group, and your behavioral record in Claibourne has been spotless. Adrian, I want to say that I consider you to be an exemplary client.”
“Dr. Frankfurt...I just don’t know what to say to that.”
“I know that it’s highly unusual, given the crime for which you were convicted, but there’s no question in my mind, none at all, that you’ve earned placement in the Accelerated Community Reintegration Track.”
Yes. Wulfe’s heart was pounding. He did his best to push his face into a humble expression of speechless gratitude.
“Given the current circumstances,” The Hairball went on, “with all this media sensationalism and vigilante rubbish, I’m not sure how much longer we’ll even have enlightened programs such as this one. So I want to make sure that I initiate your transition right away. And as a first step in your reintegration, Adrian, I’m recommending you for your initial community furlough this coming Christmas.”
Nobody else was in the room, so it was time for Stanislavsky. The first tears began to flow as he reached out and clutched the shrink’s hand.
“Dr. Frankfurt, you can’t begin to imagine how important this opportunity is to me. And let me assure you, I know how to take full advantage of it.”
TWENTY-FOUR
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Monday, November 17, 2:02 p.m.
Kenneth MacLean checked his watch as a straggler entered the room at the back, found a chair, and sat down. He turned and smiled reassuringly at Dr. Frankfurt, who was seated beside him, sweating and tapping his foot. Then he rose from his chair and took position behind the podium.
Before him, nearly three dozen seats in the Murrow Room on the thirteenth floor of the National Press Club were filled with reporters, and no less than five television cameras faced him from the back and sides of the room. It was exactly the kind of media circus he’d done his best to prevent, all along. But the “D.C. vigilantes” story had gone national weeks before, and now the Inquirer had tried to link those lurid stories directly to his foundation.
To him.
He fought down his anger while he shuffled his notes. It would be counterproductive to lose his temper here, in spite of how unfair the smear campaign was. He had to remain calm and focus on the facts. For the facts were on his side. He raised his eyes. Many of the reporters were reading the materials in the press packets they had distributed. Good. He knew that much of that information would find its way into the stories they filed this evening.
He spotted George and Wendy, Congressman Horowitz’s aides, sitting near the back. They would be reporting back to their boss on how it went. He took a deep breath, knowing that his life’s work was on the line. He let it out slowly, smiled, and began.
“Good afternoon. Thank you for coming. My name is Ken MacLean, and I’m president of the MacLean Family Foundation. Seated to my right is Dr. Carl Frankfurt, chief of the Psychological Services Unit in our Justice Program. We’re here to set the record straight concerning a host of misrepresentations in the media about us. So, we’ll begin by having Dr. Frankfurt give you a PowerPoint presentation to clarify who we are, what we do, and why.”
Frankfurt took his place at the podium and flipped a switch to shut off the lights in the room. For the next ten minutes, he clicked through the slides, explaining the foundation’s history, objectives, and projects in the criminal justice area. At one point, the door in the back of the room briefly opened and closed. MacLean turned to look, but the brightness from outside the darkened room prevented him from seeing who had entered.
“As you see, then, the MacLean Family Foundation has developed safe, cost-effective, ground-breaking alternatives to incarceration for minor and nonviolent offenders,” Frankfurt concluded, pausing on a final slide. It showed a group of smiling young men, mostly African-American and Hispanic, posing with him on the sidewalk outside the main entrance to the foundation. “We’ve pioneered inmate therapeutic programs that have reduced their recidivism. We’ve championed the cause of diversionary sentencing, to ease the burden of prison and jail overcrowding. We’ve persuaded many governors and state legislatures to repeal the mindless get-tough crime laws and mandatory-minimum sentencing statutes that they passed in recent years. Besides being the humane thing to do, it’s simply good economics. States are going bankrupt due to an orgy of expensive prison construction.”
He clicked the lights back on.
MacLean rose from his seat to stand beside him. “Thank you, Carl. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve shown that we can manage tens of thousands of convicted offenders safely, and far more economically, outside of prison walls. But what primarily motivates us at the MacLean Family Foundation is the moral dimension of our work.”
He smiled again, his eyes scanning the faces before him. “Our overriding concern is improving conditions for people who are badly served by the established institutions of society. We must turn away from the excessive use of prisons. Our cherished humanitarian values are being corroded by our excessive focus on vindictiveness. And now we’ll be happy to entertain your questions.”
A forest of hands shot up.
“Yes, you first.”
“Andrea O’Donnell, A.P. Dr. Frankfurt, you make a convincing case about the high cure rates of your therapy programs. But how do you answer those critics who point to horror stories like those in the recent Inquirer series: offenders who participated in your programs, were released early, then committed horrible new crimes?”
MacLean saw Frankfurt’s lips press into a hard line as the psychologist leaned toward the microphone.
“You’re referring to inflammatory lies and misrepresentations spread by a sleazy, tabloid journalist. Well, all he has managed to accomplish is to encourage a wave of vigilante violence. But let me answer your question directly. Of course, no rehabilitation program, no matter how good, can be one hundred percent effective. You’ll always have tragic exceptions. But wise policy-makers have to weigh their many social benefits against some unfortunate individual costs. And here, I think the conclusion is clear: The good of society, as a whole, must take precedence over these isolated exceptions, because—”
“—because individual crime victims are expendable.”
MacLean wheeled around, his eyes searching for whoever had made the loud comment. The reporters swiveled in their seats, looking toward the back of the room.
He stood leaning casually against the wall between two TV cameras, arms folded across his chest.
“Excuse me,” MacLean said. “You know the rules here, sir. And Dr. Frankfurt wasn’t addressing you.”
“Oh, but he was.”
The dark-haired man stepped forward as all the TV cameras swung his way. “I’m the sleazy tabloid journalist to whom he was referring.”
MacLean felt something fall in the pit of his stomach.
Don’t let this spin out of control.
“So, you are Mr. Hunter, then,” he said, noticing that his voice sounded tight.
“That’s right. And since this news conference is supposed to be about setting the record straight about your foundation, I knew that I’d better be here.”
MacLean gripped the podium. “You have your own media platform, sir,” he said, trying to keep his voice even. “This is ours. You are permitted here as a member of the press. However, if you won’t follow basic journalistic etiquette, I’ll have you escorted out.”
“And be perfectly within your rights to do so,” Hunter said, smiling. Hands in his trouser pockets, he began to stroll slowly down the outside aisle, moving toward him. “But then, all these fine reporters would have every right to believe that you’re ducking the tough questions. The kind of questions that only I can ask.”
“Get out of here!” Frankfurt yelled, his face red. “You’ve caused enough trouble!”
“Easy, Carl,” MacLean interrupted, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder. “We have nothing to hide or be ash
amed of. Remember: We have the facts on our side.”
“Do you, now?” Hunter said. “I wasn’t taking notes, but I recall a number of—well, let’s call them ‘errors’ in your presentation.”
“Such as?”
“Such as your claims about your success in rehabilitating criminals, Mr. MacLean. Your re-offense statistics—they’re garbage.”
Frankfurt shouted, “Only four percent of the clients participating in our reintegration programs are convicted of a serious new offense. That’s a fact!”
Hunter stopped about ten feet from where they stood. A slightly crooked smile formed on his lips. “Doctor, please. I read the study where you make that statistical claim. And it’s phony.”
“What do you mean, ‘phony’?” MacLean demanded, hearing the edge in his voice.
“First of all, that four-percent failure rate is based on only one year of tracking your ‘clients,’ after they’re freed—and not three years, as in most recidivism studies.
“Second, you only track new convictions in a court of law. You don’t bother to count the much higher number of new arrests.
“Third, you didn’t mention that most of those caught re-offending aren’t even arrested or sent into a courtroom: They’re just returned behind bars for parole and probation violations.”
“But you—”
“Fourth and finally, you define ‘serious offense’ so that it excludes all new property crimes, gang participation, illegal possession of weapons and drugs, most domestic abuse reports, and a host of other criminal activity that you people call ‘nonviolent.’ So you don’t bother to count any of those, either.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve recalculated the numbers, gentlemen. And here’s the bottom line. If you include everything I just mentioned, the actual re-offense rate from your program graduates isn’t four percent; it’s over seventy percent.”
HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller) Page 18