by Neal Baer
She could almost feel the heat from their brains churning for an answer. Claire didn’t watch a lot of television but her late fiancé, Ian, had been a Sopranos fan.
“Well, his father and his uncle were both mobsters, weren’t they?” asked Justine.
“And his mother was a raving bitch,” argued Miguel.
Claire’s hand pointed Miguel’s way. “Tell us more about that,” she encouraged him.
“Like, she was cold. She’d say something and then say she never said it. She put Tony down. She’d be calling him a good son one minute and screaming that he’s a puto the next, for not being as tough as his father. She even tried to get him whacked.”
He said it without his signature bravado, evenly, as if it were fact. For Claire it was a glimpse of how perhaps Miguel might overcome what his parents’ epigenetics passed down to him.
“Miguel’s right on the money,” said Claire. “What happens when a pregnant mother uses cocaine or heroin?”
“The baby’s born a junkie,” said Wesley, who’d kept mostly silent until now.
“Okay, so let’s say you had a mother like Tony’s,” Claire continued, reading the students’ faces, seeing in their eyes real interest and focus. “What do you think could happen?”
“I’d spend the rest of my life on a shrink’s couch when I wasn’t popping Prozac,” Wesley responded. “Just like him.”
“Or his son,” offered Cory. “Who turned into a real whacko.”
Claire nodded. “Exactly, and there’s science to back that up. A study published four years ago linked abuse in childhood—sexual, physical, or even verbal like the kind Tony Soprano’s mother subjected him to—with stunting the activity of a gene that regulates the hormones we release when we’re under intense stress.”
“So if your parents yell at you all the time, you don’t have a chance,” said Kara.
“They don’t even have to do that. Another study, from three years ago, found that the children of parents who were under severe stress during the first three years of parenthood had epigenetic markers on certain genes that were still there when the kids were fifteen.”
“By then the kid’s probably already gotten into trouble and it’s too late,” offered Wesley as Professor McClure subtly gestured to his watch that time was up.
“Exactly,” said Claire. “And that’s where we’ll stop for today.”
The students closed their laptops and gathered their belongings, thanking Claire as they headed off to their next classes. “Great work, Claire,” McClure said, quiet excitement in his voice. “You really had them.”
“Kara kind of saved my ass,” Claire responded. “I wish I’d thought of the Sopranos thing myself.”
“Can I give you some advice?” asked McClure in a way that reminded Claire of her father.
“I’ll take whatever you’ve got,” she answered.
“Don’t stress yourself out about this,” McClure suggested gently, donning an ancient plaid sport coat with lapels of a width that had long ago gone out of style. “The first thing you think when you start teaching is that you have to know everything. But when you really become a teacher is when you discover the secret—that there’s more you can learn from your students than any book can ever teach you. Or them.”
She couldn’t help but grin as she pushed a wisp of hair away from her face. Her former mentor had said something similar to her on his deathbed—that he’d learned so much from her—and she hadn’t thought about it until just now. It made her feel closer to McClure and, as she left the room, proud of herself.
Manhattan State University’s medical complex spanned a long city block between First and Second avenues in Kips Bay, a sprawling mix of old and new buildings encompassing the hospital and house staff offices, medical school, research buildings, and student residences. Normally it was just a five-minute walk from the college campus, but Claire could barely move down the crowded sidewalk as a police-escorted motorcade sped up First Avenue, no doubt headed for the United Nations. She silently cursed herself for forgetting the president was in town speaking to the General Assembly today; how dare he bring the city to a standstill when she had a patient waiting? It took her an extra five minutes just to cross the street, guaranteeing she’d be late.
Finally reaching MSU Hospital, Claire rushed out of the elevator, hoping she’d make it to her office before Fairborn noticed she wasn’t there. But she’d gone just a few steps when the voice she dreaded came from behind her.
“Good morning, dear.”
Its sincerity made Claire feel even guiltier. Doctor Lois Fairborn had run MSU’s Department of Psychiatry for more than a decade and was now doing double duty after inheriting the reins of the Forensic Psychiatry Fellowship in which Claire was about to begin her second year. Fairborn was trim, in her early sixties, with silver hair she had recently stopped dying auburn. Today she wore a charcoal Armani suit and several strands of pearls. She showed not a care in the world on her face.
“Sorry I’m late,” Claire answered, catching her breath.
“No worries,” Fairborn said. “I just assumed you’d be in class this morning. How’s it going?”
“Better than I thought,” Claire replied. “The students seem to like me. But you already know that.”
“Busted,” Fairborn said with a smile. “How are you holding up?”
“Good. I’m good,” Claire replied.
“Think I saw Rosa Sanchez waiting by your door,” Fairborn said.
Claire smiled and checked her watch. “My model patient,” she said. “Early as usual.” But she hadn’t even rounded on her other, hospitalized, patients yet.
Fairborn seemed to read her mind. “I’ll take care of your inpatients.”
“Thanks,” said Claire, grateful not to have to keep Rosa waiting.
“You’re welcome, dear,” Fairborn replied, making no move to walk away. Her expression signaled to Claire their conversation wasn’t over.
“Doctor Fairborn, is there something else?”
“You seem preoccupied lately. Is everything okay?”
Claire took another breath and decided to tell her the truth. “I’ve been having nightmares.”
“What’s your day like?” Fairborn asked, concerned.
“Packed,” Claire replied.
“Come see me when you’re free,” Fairborn suggested.
“Thanks,” Claire said, again grateful. “I will.”
He maneuvered the car through the bumper-to-bumper traffic that was morning rush hour in Manhattan. He’d looked all over for just the right car, for just the purpose to which he was dedicated this day. Owning a car was prohibitively expensive in Manhattan, and a pain in the ass to park. And though he was glad he’d be getting rid of it soon, he couldn’t help but feel the irony. Driving soothed him, especially here, for it too was a way of constructing order from chaos. So many vehicles, jockeying for position, honking, wheels screeching, then each arriving at its proper destination. His was just a few blocks away now. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard and smiled. He’d be on time after all.
Rosa Sanchez stood at the door to Claire’s office. As Claire approached, she saw that her pretty, petite, twenty-four-year-old patient with dark brown hair and bangs almost covering her walnut-shaped eyes had the weight of the world on her shoulders.
“What is it, Rosa?” Claire asked, concerned, as she unlocked and opened her office door. She noticed Rosa shaking as they entered together.
“The ACS says I still can’t see my babies,” Rosa replied, plopping down on the soft, comfortable, dark green, velour sofa. That and the brown leather chair in which Claire sat across from her were the only items of color in the otherwise institutionally furnished office. Nothing hung on the wall, not even Claire’s diplomas. She’d changed offices after returning from her leave, and told herself she’d get around to warming the place up. And then she’d gotten busy. Or couldn’t bring herself to do it. She couldn’t decide which.
“
Tell me everything that happened, from the beginning,” Claire urged Rosa.
Claire already knew most of it. Six months earlier, Rosa had been on top of her world. Working nights cleaning office buildings, she did such an excellent job that she caught the attention of the company’s owner, Larry Merchant, who promoted her to shift supervisor at one of his most important clients’ office towers. The extra pay that came with the promotion allowed Rosa, her husband, Franco (a New York City sanitation worker), and their two children, Pablo, four, and Adelina, six, to move from their cramped one-bedroom apartment in the South Bronx to a clean, three-bedroom place on the Grand Concourse in the borough’s Fordham Manor section.
Life was good until one night, shortly after starting her supervisory job, when Rosa saw Larry Merchant heading toward her, smiling. Pleased that the place was immaculate, he pulled Rosa into the CEO’s office and, without ceremony, put his hands all over her. When Rosa refused to satisfy him and pushed him away, Larry threatened not only to fire her, but also to report her to Immigration. Rosa, no shrinking violet, replied that she was born at Lincoln Hospital in the Bronx, which made her just as American as he was, and that if giving him a blow job was what it took to keep her job, then he could take it and shove it. Then she walked out the door.
At the nearest police precinct, she filed a complaint against Larry Merchant for sexually assaulting her.
When the cops arrested Larry the next morning, he had a different story to tell. He claimed Rosa put the moves on him, and when he refused her advances, she threatened to tell his wife that they’d been having an affair and that was the reason he promoted her in the first place.
In the police world, this was the classic “he said, she said” sexual assault complaint. It was Rosa’s word against Larry’s. There were no witnesses. Rosa didn’t have a mark on her.
The Special Victims Unit detective who heard Rosa’s story presented the case to an assistant district attorney assigned to Sex Crimes, who decided it was a loser from the get-go. She ordered the SVU detective to void Larry Merchant’s arrest and cut him loose.
Larry walked. Rosa was disgusted, bolstered only by the knowledge that at least the bastard couldn’t fire her because she had already quit. She was sure she and Franco could make ends meet—at least for a while—on his salary.
What she didn’t know was that her troubles were only beginning.
A week later, Franco came home from work one night and announced to Rosa that their marriage was over. He was leaving her for a woman with whom he’d been having an affair for nearly a year. When Rosa asked him for child support, Franco told her she should have slept with her boss to keep her job, and that if she wanted a cent out of him she’d have to take him to court.
Rosa went to a neighborhood check-cashing place she used many times and cashed two checks, each for five thousand dollars. The owners were reluctant to hand over so much to her, but they knew and liked Rosa and felt bad when she explained her situation to them. They had never liked Franco. So they gave her the money, which she used to pay three months’ rent on her apartment.
Unfortunately, Franco had already emptied out their checking and savings accounts.
When Rosa’s checks bounced, the owners of the check-cashing place called the police.
Rosa tearfully explained to the detective who arrested her that she had no idea her bank account was empty, and that she was sorry.
The detective took pity on her and recommended to an ADA in the Bronx district attorney’s office that there was no intent and therefore no crime. But the ADA saw the case as an easy win and arraigned Rosa on two counts of grand larceny in the third degree.
Suddenly, Rosa, never in an ounce of trouble in her life, faced seven years in jail. She was tried and found guilty and transported to the Singer Center, the lone women’s facility among the ten houses of detention making up Rikers Island, New York City’s notorious jail, to serve out her sentence. Her mother, Maria, promised to bring her two children to visit as often as possible. She’d kept her word as long as she could, but eventually Maria had to go back to working six days a week to support herself and the kids.
Then things went from really bad to a whole lot worse.
Rosa was assigned to mess hall duty, where she helped prepare, cook, and serve meals to her fellow inmates. Though all the corrections officers who dealt with females in the living quarters were women themselves, the CO who supervised the mess hall and its workers was a man—Jack Storm—aptly named considering his raging temper.
Storm took a liking to petite, pretty, twenty-four-year-old Rosa.
One night, not long after Rosa was assigned to the mess hall, she was on after-dinner cleanup duty, exiting a supply closet with a broom, when Storm pushed her back inside, shut the door, and groped her.
Rosa told him to stop. Storm replied with a blow to Rosa’s head.
Then he pulled down her pants, bent her over, and forced himself inside her.
When he was done, Storm told Rosa that should she consider telling anyone about their encounter, the next blow to her head would be fatal.
The women on mess-hall duty who found Rosa bleeding in the closet warned her not to report what happened. She wasn’t Storm’s first victim, and the rest of them knew that the best way to get along with this man was to give him what he wanted. They assured Rosa her time would pass more smoothly. Rosa nodded and said she understood.
The next day she called her legal aid attorney, who in turn called the Queens Special Victims Unit of the NYPD.
It was only a few hours before the attorney showed up with a teddy bear of a detective named Vito and a warrant, signed by a judge, ordering Rosa’s release into protective custody.
Rosa was taken to Elmhurst Hospital, where a sexual assault nurse examiner performed a “rape kit,” gathering forensic evidence from Rosa’s body. Rosa was then brought to the Queens SVU office at the 112th Precinct in Forest Hills, where she gave Detective Vito a statement.
Vito told her he had an informant in Rikers who corroborated Rosa’s story. He was going to put Rosa in a hotel under twenty-four-hour guard while the lab at the city’s medical examiner’s office rushed the DNA from her rape kit through the process. He’d been trying to get Jack Storm for years, but not one of the CO’s victims had ever been willing to testify. Detective Vito asked Rosa whether she would step up and testify against this monster in court, to put him away so he could never victimize another woman.
Rosa said yes. And what came next all but made her head spin.
Storm was arrested and a sample of his DNA was taken for comparison with the DNA of the semen found in Rosa’s body. It was a match.
When word spread among the female inmates, more than a dozen women came forward claiming they were victimized in much the same way as Rosa. Like Rosa, all of them were first-time offenders convicted of nonviolent crimes, serving short sentences.
Storm was charged with forty-two counts of rape and sexual assault. The evidence against him was bulletproof.
The city contacted Doctor Fairborn, asking if her psychiatric fellows would be available to evaluate Storm’s victims to see if they were suited for early release, and counsel them as sexual assault victims who no doubt suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder.
Fairborn agreed and assigned Rosa Sanchez to Claire, knowing that Claire had the skill to help Rosa find her way back through the trauma she had suffered.
Claire determined not only that Rosa was a candidate for early release, but that she had never belonged in jail in the first place. She and her colleagues in the fellowship program returned similar conclusions for every one of the seventeen other victims of Jack Storm, recommending their immediate release from Rikers and probation if deemed necessary.
Rosa and her fellow victims were all sprung from jail and on probation within a week. None of them ever had to testify, however, against the corrections officer who’d attacked them, for on the eve of his trial Jack Storm took a nine-millimeter Glock, sat
in a reclining chair in his den, and blew his brains all over the seventies-style wood paneling.
Now Claire was helping Rosa cope with having been raped and putting her shattered life back together. Every conversation began and ended with the two things most important to her in life: her children.
“The ACS lady said I had to be off probation before I could see them,” Rosa told Claire.
“That’s absurd,” Claire replied, meaning it. “You’ve never done anything to those kids but love them. I’ll talk to her and see if I can work something out.”
Rosa relaxed a bit. “I thought it would be great to get out of jail,” she said, “but now I’m scared.”
“What are you afraid of?” Claire asked her.
“That I won’t be able to be a good mother to my kids. That I’ll always be their mother who went to jail.”
Claire hated to see this young woman, who had already been through so much that wasn’t her fault, lapse into such self-doubt. “Rosa,” Claire said, “you’re a survivor.” It’s as far as Claire got before tears started to fall from Rosa’s eyes. She handed Rosa a tissue as she continued. “All your kids know or need to know is that you’re their mother. You love them. And believe me, your kids know that now because everything you did, you did for them.”
Rosa wiped her eyes, nodding, but wasn’t convinced. “It’s just that, you think your life is going the way you want it to and then suddenly something bad happens. And then you’re not free anymore because you’re always waiting for the next bad thing to happen, you know?”
Yes, Claire thought. I know more than you ever could imagine.
Aloud she said, “I know exactly what you mean. But life is a journey. I’m here to help you. If you continue to be the model patient you’ve been, there’s no reason you can’t get your life back.”
“All of it?” Rosa asked.
Claire smiled. “And then some,” she said encouragingly. “Now, are you still having nightmares?”