by Bruce Perry
I explained what I wanted to do instead, that I wanted her to live with Mama P. She, too, assented right away, saying she would do anything to help Laura.
My pediatric colleagues, however, were still extremely concerned about Laura’s nutritional needs. She was so underweight that they were afraid that she would not take in enough calories without medical support. After all, she was currently being fed through a tube. I told the other doctors that we would strictly monitor her diet to be sure she was getting enough calories, and it turned out to be a good thing that we did. We could then document her remarkable progress. For the first month with Mama P., Laura consumed the exact same number of calories she had in the prior month in the hospital, during which her weight had barely been maintained at twenty-six pounds. In Mama P’s nurturing environment, however, Laura gained ten pounds in one month, growing from twenty-six to thirty-six pounds! Her weight increased by 35 percent on the same number of calories that had previously not been enough to prevent weight loss, because she was now receiving the physical nurturing her brain needed to release the appropriate hormones required for growth.
By observing Mama P. and by receiving the physical affection Mama showered on everyone around her, Virginia began to learn what Laura needed and how to provide it for her. Before Mama P., meals had been robotic or filled with conflict: the constantly changing dietary instructions and advice given by various doctors and hospitals who were trying to help just added to the confused hollow experience of eating for Laura. Also, because of Virginia’s lack of understanding of her child’s needs, she’d swing from being affectionate to being tough and punitive to simply ignoring her daughter. Without the rewards that nurturing normally provides both mother and child, Virginia had been especially prone to frustration. Parenting is difficult. Without the neurobiological capacity to feel the joys of parenting, irritations and annoyances loom especially large.
Mama P.’s sense of humor, her warmth and her hugs allowed Virginia to get some of the mothering she’d missed. And by watching how Mama P. responded to her other children and to Laura, Virginia began to pick up on Laura’s cues. Now she could better read when Laura was hungry, when she wanted to play, when she needed a nap. The four-year-old had seemed stuck in the defiant stage of the “terrible twos,” but now she began to mature, both emotionally and physically. As Laura grew, the tension between mother and daughter during mealtimes ended. Virginia relaxed and was able to discipline with more patience and consistency.
Virginia and Laura lived with Mama P. for about a year. Afterwards, the two women remained tight friends, and Virginia moved into Mama’s neighborhood so that she could remain in close touch. Laura became a bright little girl, similar to her mother in that she tended to be emotionally distant, but with a powerful moral compass; they both had strong positive values. When Virginia had a second child, she knew how to care for him appropriately, right from the start, and he suffered no growth problems. Virginia went on to college and both of her children are doing well in school. They have friends, an invested church community and, of course, Mama P. just down the street.
Both Laura and Virginia still bear scars from their early childhoods, however. If you were to secretly observe either mother or daughter, you might find her facial expression vacant, or even sad. Once she became aware of your presence, she would put on her social persona and respond appropriately to you, but if you paid close attention to your “gut” you would sense something awkward or unnatural in your interactions. Both can mimic many of the normal social interactive cues, but neither feels naturally pulled to be social, to spontaneously smile or to express warm nurturing physical behaviors such as a hug.
Though we all “perform” for others to some extent, the mask slips easily for those who have suffered early neglect. On a “higher” more cognitive level both mother and daughter are very good people. They have learned to use moral rules and a strong belief system to tame their fears and desires. But in the relational and social communication systems of their brain, the source of emotional connections to others, there are shadows of the disrupted nurturing of their early childhoods. The nature and timing of our developmental experiences shape us. Like people who learn a foreign language late in life, Virginia and Laura will never speak the language of love without an accent.
chapter 5
The Coldest Heart
ENTERING A MAXIMUM-SECURITY prison is always daunting: after the extensive identity check at the gate, you have to hand over your keys, wallet, phone and anything else that could possibly be stolen or used as a weapon. Everything that identifies you, except your clothing, is confiscated. One of the first locked doors you pass through is marked by a sign saying, in effect, that if you are taken hostage past this point, you’re on your own. The policy is ostensibly to prevent visitors from pretending to be held captive by prisoners and enabling their escape, but it also immediately instills an unsettling feeling. There are at least three or four double sets of thick metal doors, with many layers of human and electronic security between them, which slam solidly behind you before you can meet with the kind of prisoner I had been brought in to examine. Leon, at age sixteen, had sadistically murdered two teenage girls, and then raped their dead bodies.
Virginia and Laura demonstrated one way that neglect in early childhood can disrupt the development of the areas in the brain that control empathy and the ability to engage in healthy relationships—a loss that often leaves people awkward, lonely and socially inept. Emotional deprivation in the first years of life, however, can also predispose people to malice or misanthropy. In the mother’s and the daughter’s cases, fortunately, despite their underdeveloped capacity for empathy, both became highly moral people; their early childhood experiences had left them emotionally crippled and often oblivious to social cues, but not filled with rage and hatred. Leon’s story illustrates a much more dangerous—and fortunately, less common—potential outcome. Leon would teach me more about how much damage parental neglect—even unintentional neglect—can inflict, and how modern Western culture can erode the extended family networks that have traditionally protected many children from it.
Leon had been convicted of a capital offense and faced the death penalty. His defense had hired me to testify during the sentencing phase of his trial. This hearing determines whether there are “mitigating” factors, such as a history of mental health problems or abuse, that should be weighed when sentencing decisions are made. My testimony would help the court decide between life without parole and the ultimate punishment.
I VISITED THE PRISON on a perfect Spring day, the kind of clear day that makes most people happy to be alive. The cheery sound of chirping birds and the warmth of the sun seemed almost inappropriate as I stood in front of the massive gray building. It was five stories tall and made of cement block. It had too-few barred windows and a tiny green one-room guardhouse with a red door attached to one wall, which looked incongruously small compared to the imposing bulk of the prison. The grounds were surrounded by a twenty-foot wire fence with three coils of barbwire at the top. I was the only person outside. A few old cars were parked in the lot.
I approached the red door, my heart beating fast, my palms sweating. I had to tell myself to calm down. The whole place seemed fenced by tension. I walked in through a double door, passed through a metal detector, was summarily frisked and then taken into the compound by a guard who seemed as caged and resentful as a prisoner.
“You a psychologist?” she asked, looking me over disapprovingly.
“No. I’m a psychiatrist.”
“OK, whatever. You could spend a lifetime here.” She laughed disdainfully. I forced a smile. “Here’s the rules. You must read this.” She handed me a one-page document and continued, “No contraband. No weapons. You may not bring gifts or take anything out of the prison.” Her tone and attitude told me she had no use for me. Maybe she was angry that she had to spend this perfect day in prison. Maybe she was resentful because she thought that mental health prof
essionals working with the justice system mainly help criminals escape responsibility for their actions.
“OK,” I said, trying to be respectful. But I could tell she had already made up her mind about me. It’s no wonder that she was hostile, though. Our brains adapt to our environments, and this place wasn’t likely to elicit kindness or trust.
THE INTERVIEW ROOM was small with a single metal table and two chairs. The floor was a tiled institutional gray with green speckles and the walls were painted cinderblock. Leon was brought in by two male guards. He looked small and childlike as he faced me, wearing an orange jumpsuit, his arms and legs shackled and chained to each other. He was thin and short for his age. He didn’t look lethal. Sure, his stance was aggressive, and I could see that he already had jailhouse tattoos, his forearm branded with a crooked “X.” But the toughness came across as phony and artificial, like an undersized tomcat with his hair on end, trying to appear larger than he actually was. It was almost impossible to believe that this now eighteen-year-old boy/man had brutally murdered two people.
He’d seen his two young victims in an elevator in the high-rise building where he lived. Although it was only three or four in the afternoon, he’d already been drinking beer. He had crudely propositioned the teenagers. When the girls—not surprisingly—rejected him, he’d followed them into an apartment and, apparently after a physical confrontation, stabbed both of them to death with a table knife. Cherise was twelve and her friend Lucy was thirteen. Both were barely pubescent. The attack had happened so fast and Leon was so much larger than his victims that neither girl had been able to defend herself. He’d managed to quickly restrain Cherise with a belt. After that, while Lucy tried to fight him off, he killed her and then, either to avoid leaving a witness, or still in a rage, slaughtered the bound girl as well. He then raped both bodies. His anger still not sated, he’d kicked and stomped them.
Though he had often been in trouble with the law, Leon’s records didn’t indicate that he was capable of anything like this level of violence. His parents were hard-working, married legal immigrants, solid citizens without criminal histories. His family had never been involved with child protective services; there was no history of abuse, nor foster care placements, nor any other obvious red flags for attachment problems. Yet all of his records suggested that he was a master at manipulating people around him and, more ominously, that he was completely devoid of emotional connection to others. He was often described as having little to no empathy: remorseless, callous, indifferent to most of the “consequences” set up in school or in juvenile justice programs.
Seeing him now, looking so small in his shackles in this terrible prison, I almost felt sorry for him. But then we began to talk.
“You the doctor?” he asked, looking me over, clearly disappointed.
“Yep.”>
“I told her I wanted a lady shrink,” he sneered. He pushed his chair away from the table and kicked it. I asked him whether he’d discussed my visit with his lawyer and understood its purpose.
He nodded, trying to act tough and indifferent, but I knew he had to be scared. He probably would never admit it or even understand it, but inside he was always on guard, always vigilant and always studying the people around him. Trying to work out who could help him and who could hurt him. What is this person’s weak point, what does he want, what does he fear?
From the moment I came in I could see that he was studying me, too. Probing for weakness, seeking ways to manipulate me. He was smart enough to know the stereotype of the liberal, bleeding-heart shrink. He had successfully read his lead attorney. She felt sorry for him now; he had convinced her he was the one who’d been wronged. Those girls had invited him into the apartment. They promised to have sex with him. Things got rough and it was an accident. He tripped over their bodies; that’s how he got blood on his boots. He never intended to hurt them. And now he set out to persuade me, too, that he was a misunderstood victim of two teen vixens who had teased and tempted him.
“Tell me about yourself.” I started with open questions, trying to see where he would go.
“What do you mean? Is that some kind of shrink trick?” he asked, suspicious.
“No. I just figured you are the best person to tell me about you. I’ve read a whole lot of other people’s opinions. Teachers, therapists, probation officers, the press. They all have opinions. So I want to know yours.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What do you want to tell me?” The dance continued. We circled around each other. It was a game I knew well. He was pretty good. But I was used to this.
“Well. Let’s start with right now. What it is like living in prison?”
“It’s boring. It’s not so bad. Not too much to do.”
“Tell me your schedule.” And so it started. He slowly began to loosen up as he described the routines of the prison and his earlier experiences in the juvenile justice system. I let him talk and then after a few hours, we took a break so he could smoke a cigarette. When I came back, it was time to get to the point. “Tell me what happened with those girls.”
“It was no big deal really. I was just hanging out and these two girls came by. We started talking and they invited me up to their apartment to fool around. Then when they got me up there, they changed their minds. It pissed me off.” This was different from his original statement and from other accounts he’d given. It seemed that the more time that passed since the crime, the less violent he made the story. Each time he told it, he was less and less responsible for what had happened; he, rather than the girls, increasingly became the victim.
“It was an accident. I just wanted to scare them. Stupid bitches wouldn’t shut up,” he went on. My stomach churned. Don’t react. Be still. If he senses how horrified and disgusted you feel, he won’t be honest. He will edit. Stay calm. I nodded.
“They were loud?” I asked as neutrally as I could manage.
“Yes. I told them I wouldn’t hurt them if they would just shut up.” He was giving me a short, sanitized version of the murders. He left out the rape. He left out how he’d brutally kicked the girls.
I asked whether their screams had enraged him, if that was why he’d kicked the bodies. The autopsy report showed that the thirteen-year-old had been kicked in the face and stomped on the neck and chest.
“Well, I didn’t really kick them. I just tripped. I had been drinking some. So, you know,” he said, hoping I would fill in the blanks. He looked up to see if I had bought his lies. There was little emotion on his face or in his voice. He described the murders as if he were giving a geography report in school. The only trace of emotion was the disdain he expressed that his victims had “made him” kill them, furious with them for fighting back, for resisting.
His coldness was breathtaking. This was a predator, someone whose only concern for other people was what he could get from them, what he could make them do, and how they could serve his selfish ends. He could not even put on a compassionate performance for a shrink hired by his defense, someone looking for the smallest glimmer of goodness or promise in him.
It wasn’t that he didn’t know that he should try to appear remorseful. He simply wasn’t capable of taking into account the feelings of others in any way other than to take advantage of them. He could not feel compassion for others, so he couldn’t fake it very well, either. Leon was not unintelligent. In fact, his IQ was significantly above average in some ways. However, it was uneven. While his verbal IQ was in the low to normal range, his performance score, which measures things like the ability to properly sequence a series of pictures and manipulate objects in space, was quite high. He scored especially well in his ability to read social situations and understand other people’s intentions. This split between verbal and performance scores is often seen in abused or traumatized children and can indicate that the developmental needs of certain brain regions, particularly those cortical areas involved in modulating the lower, more reactive regions have been not been met
. In the general population about 5 percent of people show this pattern, but in prisons and juvenile treatment centers that proportion rises to over 35 percent. It reflects the use-dependent development of the brain: with more developmental chaos and threat the brain’s stress response systems and those areas of the brain responsible for reading threat-related social cues will grow, while less affection and nurturing will result in underdevelopment of the systems that code for compassion and self-control. These test results were the first clues that something had probably gone wrong in his early childhood.
I tried to figure out what might have happened from our interview, but didn’t get very far. Most people don’t remember much from the developmentally critical years of birth through kindergarten, anyway. There was evidence indicating he had been troubled from very early on, however. His records showed reports of aggressive behavior dating back to his preschool years. From our conversation I could also tell that he’d had few friends or lasting relationships with anyone outside his family. His charts showed a history of bullying and of petty crimes like shoplifting and other thefts, but he had never been to an adult prison before now. His run-ins with the law as an adolescent had mainly resulted in probation; he hadn’t even spent much time in juvenile detention, despite having committed some serious assaults.
I did discover, however, that he’d committed, or been suspected of committing, several major offenses for which he had not been charged or convicted because there was not enough evidence to make the charges stick. For example, he’d once been found in possession of a stolen bicycle. The bike’s teenage owner had been beaten so severely that he’d wound up in the hospital with life-threatening injuries. But there were no witnesses to the assault—or none that would come forward—so Leon was only charged with possession of stolen property. Over the course of several evaluation visits he eventually bragged about previous sexual assaults to me, with the same cold disdain with which he’d discussed the murders.