Now, towering over his informant, Scrafield led Hunter into District Attorney Hoyt Lewis's impressive office in the marble-floored city hall. Scrafield felt comfortable about this meeting. For one thing, the district attorney was a smart and perceptive man in his late thirties, as smart and perceptive as Scrafield himself. Despite his scraggly sandy-colored mustache and his tendency toward obesity, emphasized by his habit of locking his hands across his spreading paunch, Lewis was a man above the crowd and a man who was going places. In fact, he was self-assured enough to wear a black string tie. Lewis came from one of the better families in Hillsdale (they were said to have second and third homes in Malibu and Palm Springs), and he possessed a real comprehension of the needs and wants of the masses. Not unlike Scrafield, the district attorney could communicate with the peasants and was popular with them.
Hoyt Lewis had come to his feet, to shake hands with Scrafield and Hunter after they had entered his vast office, and was gesturing them to a button-backed leather sofa near his desk. After they had been seated, Lewis had drawn up a leather chair on casters and lowered himself into it, filling it to overflowing.
"Good to see you, gentlemen," Lewis was saying. His mustache rose to reveal his even white teeth, and he was as cordial as a host at a dinner party. "Well, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?"
While Hunter seemed to cringe inwardly, Scrafield was pleased with the thoughtful formality.
Scrafield glanced at Hunter, then at Lewis. "Let me kick this off, Hoyt. It's an important matter that, I perceive, requires your immediate attention." He jerked a thumb at his companion. "Chet Hunter here, he's an expert researcher, you know. I've seen his work firsthand. He came to me originally, out of civic duty, with the most appalling information about programs the liberals were instigating to infect our school system. This information proved to be accurate and has been something I've been able to employ effectively on my weekly television shows."
Hoyt Lewis bobbed his head. "My wife and I are regular watchers of your shows. They have done much to assist our office in keeping the community clean."
"Thank you, Hoyt. But now our enterprising Mr. Hunter has come up with something far more insidious and dangerous to our fair community. My fight against indecent sex education in the schools absolutely pales beside the foul pollution that Chet Hunter has uncovered."
Hoyt Lewis's curiosity was evident. "I'm eager to hear what you're talking about, Reverend Scrafield. Please go ahead and tell me about it."
The Reverend Scrafield nodded. "I think I would rather have Chet here tell it to you exactly as he told it to me. Go ahead, Chet. You have the floor. Don't hold anything back."
Hunter appeared to gird himself, determined to do it right with so much at stake. "What this is about is the recently opened Freeberg Clinic, about a half mile from here. Do you know about it?"
"I'm aware that it exists," said Lewis. "The latest medical building."
"But different," Hunter said emphatically, "different from any other medical building in our community. You see, Dr. Arnold Freeberg is a sex therapist. There's nothing inherently wrong about that . . . except Dr. Freeberg employs female sex surrogates as his assistants."
Hunter knew that he had the district attorney's full attention now, and he related what he knew, omitting no detail. Hunter had learned that Dr. Freeberg had been forced to leave Arizona for breaking the law and had seen free-wheeling California as a fertile field for his questionable practices. Freeberg had hired five women and one man, according to a reliable informant inside his clinic, to try to rehabilitate persons with sex problems through use of their bodies, ultimately offering sexual intercourse.
Somewhat breathless, Hunter concluded his lurid account while Hoyt Lewis listened with obvious surprise and fascination.
The moment Hunter had concluded his report, the Reverend Scrafield jumped into the breach as if to underline it. "Hoyt, what has come to Hillsdale is out-and-out pandering and prostitution, under the disguise of therapy, and what Freeberg is practicing every day with his brothel ladies is totally in defiance of our state laws. If you promise to prosecute this outrage, once you have the goods—"
"How do I get the goods?" Lewis interrupted.
"Through me," said Hunter hastily. "I can get it for you. I could enlist in Dr. Freeberg's surrogate program as a patient—"
"Would you qualify?" asked Lewis.
"No question," said Hunter. "Trust me. I could get in and observe and participate, and keep a running record of it, which I'd turn over to you. I could be your star witness."
"My star witness?" Lewis wrinkled his nose. "I don't know. Normally, this would require an undercover police investigation. We'd wire someone and put him in with one of those women, and then—"
"Mr. Lewis, I'm a bona fide member of the Hillsdale Police Force—I'm a reservist."
"He joined and trained to fulfill a civic duty," Scrafield said pontifically.
"And to help with my research," added Hunter openly.
"Police reserve," said Lewis, pushing himself out of his chair. "Let me see." He walked to his desk, shuffled through a few folders, found the one he wanted, and opened it. "When you and the Reverend Scrafield here made this appointment to see me, I didn't know anything about you. I decided to see if we had any kind of file on you. We did. I skimmed it, but I must have missed the police reserve aspect. Yes, I see it now—right here. You are, indeed, a de facto member of our law enforcement apparatus. Yes, as a reserve officer, with three years training, you could qualify to support us on any charges we made. You could be the key prosecution witness."
He tossed the folder back on his desk and returned to his chair. He sat lost in thought a few moments. "Before any criminal complaint and arrest warrant, I'd have to do a little research of my own through this office. This kind of matter is not new in California. I've read of sex surrogates being used throughout the state." He paused. "I wonder why they've never been challenged before?"
Scrafield snorted. "Because they mask themselves as legitimate aides to legitimate therapists. No one wants to get caught in that quagmire. Everyone's been afraid to tackle them. But there's no question in my mind that they should be arrested, booked, arraigned on misdemeanor and felony counts, and put on trial for defying the California Penal Code."
"Still, it's a little tricky," said the district attorney cautiously. "We wouldn't be dealing with a straight open-and-shut criminal case. We would have to redefine, reinterpret legally, both 'pandering' and 'prostitution,' maybe set a precedent in establishing a new point of law. Yet, it seems possible to do so. Even then, if I were convinced that this is a criminal offense, I'd want to put Dr. Freeberg on notice before acting further, give him an opportunity to cease and desist in his practice, once I had the necessary evidence."
Hunter refused to have his enthusiasm dampened by the district attorney's compromise statement. "In either instance," said Hunter, "if Freeberg gives up, it would be a victory for your office. If he refused to quit, you'd have a legitimate reason to take him to trial. All I can say is that if you do decide to proceed with criminal charges, I can get you all the evidence you need and stand up as key witness for the prosecution."
"Very generous of you," said Lewis. "Let me consider this a little longer before we proceed."
The Reverend Scrafield turned to Hunter. "Thanks, Chet. Do you mind stepping out into the corridor a moment? I want to talk to Mr. Lewis a few minutes alone. A private matter. I'll join you right away."
Hunter cast Scrafield a covert, hopeful glance, nodded agreeably, and hastened to leave the room.
After waiting for the door to shut, assured that the two of them were alone, Scrafield came to his feet and took the chair beside the district attorney.
"Hoyt," he began, "this is something I wanted to discuss with you in confidence. I hope you have a moment or two to spare."
"I'm at your service, Reverend Scrafield," Lewis said, leaning forward attentively.
"Hoyt, I wanted to speak to you about you
r future. I've always felt—and others of some importance in this community agree with me—that you are simply too big a man for this job you hold. I'm not denigrating your office, but you are overqualified for it. There are more important political jobs that could be yours for the asking."
"I appreciate that," said the district attorney with quiet modesty, "but I assure you that I've never given a moment's thought to another job—or more important job, as you put it."
"Then you should, you should, Hoyt," said Scrafield urgently. "Hillsdale is a fine place to succeed. But the state of California is a finer one, and inevitably a larger role in California might give you a real role in the nation. Let me repeat, something bigger and better in the state could be yours for the asking."
"Suppose I were to be interested in something bigger and better. I hardly think it could be mine for the asking. I'm a local figure, almost unknown outside this relatively small community."
Scrafield tilted forward in his chair. "Exactly my point, Hoyt. Exactly. You're in a position to make yourself known, overnight, the length and breadth of this state. You could have the electorate at your feet."
Hoyt Lewis was genuinely puzzled. "How?"
"By getting behind Chet Hunter, getting behind what he's offered you and I've offered you," said Scrafield earnestly. "He's handed you a dynamite issue . . . no, even more—a public bombshell. The sex surrogate matter. Prostitutes disguising themselves as healers to invade insidiously and to undermine our society, young and old."
The district attorney had been listening intently. "You really think the public would give it that much attention?"
"Hoyt, take my word, trust my knowledge of the public out there. I know the raw nerve issues. I know what counts. I have an instinct for public concerns. That's why my audience grows larger every week, and my viewer ratings go up every month. Believe me."
"Oh, I do believe you, Reverend Scrafield," Lewis said quickly.
"Once Hunter gets the green light to go for the evidence, and gets it to you and the press, once I air the scandal on television, you can prosecute and you can't lose. We'll arouse the public in this community. Your name will be on everyone's lips. You'll have unanimous public support and widespread attention. This is not some murky, incomprehensible matter like tax deficits or budgets or some minor corporate crime. This is sex surrogates—sex sluts—threatening every wife, mother, and girlfriend for as far as the eye can see. This is the stuff of headlines and the six o'clock news, Hoyt. This is the road to the big time."
"You're sure of that?"
"If I know what it can do for me, I'm twice as positive I know what it can do for you. I've always seen you as a future state attorney, and after that, governor, once you have the springboard to catapult your presence to the capitol, and the surrogate issue would do it. A vigorous prosecution of those whores, and their medical pimp, has star quality written all over it. Think of it, Hoyt. You'd have me on the air supporting you. You'd have Ferguson at the Chronicle with his front pages backing you. And you'd have Chet Hunter as your Trojan horse inside the enemy's bordello, getting you the facts firsthand. And, Hoyt, I'll be at your side all the way. Do you understand me?"
The district attorney sat silently a moment, absently staring down at the carpet with an air of gravity. He raised his head, directing his gaze at the clergyman. "You can be very persuasive, Reverend."
Scrafield's lips curled. "It's my business, Mr. D.A." He added softly, "I know my business. I can't ever afford to be wrong."
"Neither can I," said Hoyt Lewis, half to himself. Abruptly, he rose to his feet. "Okay, Reverend Scrafield, I stand convinced. I do believe, given all-out support and with public sentiment on my side, we could prosecute and win this one. I agree, it could be a big one." He stuck out his hand, and Scrafield, also on his feet, grabbed it. "It's a deal," said the district attorney. "You go out into the hall there and tell Chet Hunter to get the evidence, firsthand, and as soon as possible. Once I know I have it, you can leave the rest to me."
Chapter IV
For Paul Brandon it was an afternoon of firsts.
First patient interview, first therapy session, and first day in his just-rented three-room apartment.
Brandon had suspected from the moment he had met Nan Whitcomb and listened to her case history with Dr. Freeberg in the therapist's office that it might be a struggle all the way. Brandon's immediate concern before meeting his patient was that she might be too fat. All fat women turned him off.
To his relief, Brandon had found Nan Whitcomb, despite her plainness, not unattractive. She had long chestnut hair held in place with a barrette, and hazel eyes. Rather than given to fat, she had appeared somewhat thin, with a skeletal figure, except for prominent helicoid breasts and broad hips. But Brandon's relief had once more turned to concern as he had heard her shyly recount her sex history, her relationship with Tony Zecca, and her vaginal problem. She had barely given Brandon so much as a glance as she had addressed herself to Freeberg in a voice a little above a whisper.
Trying to hear her, Brandon's initial concern about being able to perform sexually with her ultimately had evaporated. The difficulty here, he had seen, was one of trust. She had been so badly misused by one male that she might be resistant to responding to any male, especially a stranger, and unable to allow any rapport or closeness between them.
Definitely, Brandon had told himself, it would be an uphill struggle.
On the other hand, Dr. Freeberg had shown no lack of confidence and had been totally reassuring. "I've seen Dr. Lopez's medical report," Freeberg had told her, "and there is nothing organically wrong with you. This is certainly an episode of vaginismus, which I've already explained to you. This is something, given time, that we can treat successfully."
"Doctor, as I tried to tell you, I don't have that much time. If I come here too often, Tony will get suspicious."
"So you still feel it would be better to put you on an intensive treatment program?"
"Yes, two to three weeks at the most."
"Well, that can be done, I'm sure." He had swiveled toward Brandon. "Don't you agree, Paul?"
Brandon had tried to be reassuring before her. "Absolutely."
But he had still continued to worry that it might not be as easy as it sounded.
"All right, settled," Freeberg had said. "Let's begin treatment tomorrow. Let's say tomorrow evening after dinner at Paul's place, around eight—"
Nan had interrupted. "No, I can't."
Freeberg's brow had knitted.
"Evenings are impossible," Nan had gone on. "Tony wouldn't let me get away. Besides, how would I explain seeing an ordinary doctor at night?"
Freeberg had nodded understandingly. "You're right." Once more he had turned to Brandon. "Can you make it at three tomorrow afternoon, Paul?"
"Perfect."
But it had not been perfect from the instant of Nan Whitcomb's tentative entrance into Brandon's living room.
He had held out his hands to take her coat, and she had shed it slowly, then stood there in her white blouse and beige skirt, furtively taking in the room.
Brandon had seated her on his couch and made it a point to sit several feet from her.
He had tried to make small talk, put her at her ease, but essentially she had been non-communicative.
"What are we going to do?" she asked suddenly.
"Hand caress and facial caress."
He had described the two exercises and the reasons why they could be helpful.
"Is that all there is to it?" she had asked.
"That's all, Nan. Really, very simple."
"Whatever you say. Okay, let's do them."
Sitting closer to her, Brandon had gently caressed both her hands, although they were rigid. Then, in turn, he had encouraged her to caress his hands. After that, he had stroked her face with his fingertips and glided his palms across her chin and cheeks and forehead. Her face had been tight, as if she'd had it fashioned into a mask. Once he had finished, he had c
losed his eyes and requested her to do the same to him.
Upon beginning, her fingers had pressed rather hard in and around his features, but gradually her hands had relaxed and massaged his countenance lightly.
He had opened his eyes. "Good, very good."
"That's all there is to it?"
"That's all, Nan."
"I guess there was nothing to be afraid of."
"Of course not."
"Will we do anything else?"
He had noted the time. They had used up only an hour and fifteen minutes of the two-hour treatment session. There had still been three quarters of an hour left to them. He had wondered how to make the best use of it. Once again he might try to talk to her. Often, with women, conversation was the most relaxing and effective approach.
Now, on the sofa, he said, "Why don't we talk a little?"
He made no effort to move away from her. "I'd like to know more about you, if you don't mind."
She seemed relieved, even met his eyes. "I don't mind."
"I'm curious about how you're going to handle your boyfriend."
"You mean Tony?"
"Yes, Tony Zecca. What are you going to tell him you're up to? I mean, if he asks?"
"He'll ask, all right. While we're having dinner."
"What are you going to tell him?"
"Not that I saw you or Dr. Freeberg. You can be sure of that. Dr. Freeberg already advised me how to handle it."
"How, Nan?"
"I'm going to tell him I'm seeing my gynecologist for a series of shots; to overcome a hormone deficiency."
"What if Tony wants to know the name of your gynecologist?"
"I'm to tell him it is Dr. Lopez, the one who examined me for Dr. Freeberg."
"What if Tony tries to check your story with Dr. Lopez?" Nan gave the ghost of a smile. "Already taken care of. Dr. Freeberg alerted Dr. Lopez."
"Nice and neat," said Brandon, smiling back at her, sensing a few inches gained, the slightest start of establishing rapport. He became serious again. "Only one thing troubles me."
"What's that, Paul?"
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