The telephone rang again and Craig sighed. “Your turn,” he said.
“Let the machine get it.”
But Craig had never been one to let a ringing phone go unanswered. After a few rings, he stood up and grabbed it. This time it was his brother Paul’s wife. “We’re hanging in, Martha,” he said, looking over at Diana and raising his eyebrows. “It’s nice of you to call.” Martha was not the person they would have expected to come through for them in a crisis.
Diana shrugged and mouthed the words, “Maybe she’s not as selfish as we think.”
“I took the afternoon off to be with Diana,” Craig explained. “We’re just having lunch.” As he listened to Martha, his eyes hardened and his chin jutted forward. “No,” he said, “I don’t think that at all. My last name isn’t Marcus, and neither is Paul’s—I doubt either one of us has anything to be concerned about. Now I’ve got to go. Tell Paul I’ll talk to him later.” He hung up the phone without saying good-bye and sat back down at the table.
“She’s worried about the effect of this on Paul’s reputation?” Diana asked, surprised, but not surprised, at her sister-in-law’s self-centeredness.
Craig nodded as he twisted a huge wad of linguine around his fork.
“See?” Diana said. “I have to call the Globe. I have to try to clear myself—for all of our sakes.”
“You don’t have to do anything because of that idiot Martha,” Craig snapped.
“But if I don’t explain about the journal, if I just let it stand the way it is in the Inquirer, it’s as if I’m admitting that what I wrote really happened.” Diana stood and dropped her full plate in the sink. Then she walked over to the window and looked out at the shadowed alley. The gathering clouds of the morning had fulfilled their promise. It was raining. When the phone rang for the third time, Diana didn’t turn around. “I’m not here.”
“Oh, hi Lionel,” Craig said with false joviality in his voice. “We’re doing pretty well, thanks. Just having a little lunch.”
Diana closed her eyes as Craig listened to his boss, her stomach squeezing. How could she have been so stupid? What had she done to them all?
“That’s really thoughtful of you—but it’s not necessary. Diana’s got a great lawyer and we’re sure this whole thing’ll blow over in a day or two.” Craig paused. “No, no, really I’m sure. I’ll be in in the morning.” He paused again. “Okay, right, I’ll call. But expect me at the usual time.”
Diana turned as Craig dropped into his chair. This time he didn’t bother to feign interest in his linguine. “He offered me the rest of the week off. ‘Take a few personal days,’ he said. ‘We’ll cover it out of overhead.’” Craig shook his head. “That’d be four days counting today. Lionel Lunt’s never covered four personal hours out of overhead without someone holding a gun to his head.” Craig looked up at Diana and smiled ruefully. “Sorry,” he said. “Bad choice of words.”
She shrugged. “I guess that clinches it. I’m calling Risa Getty.”
“Face the facts here, Diana,” Craig said, pulling at his ear and staring over her shoulder. “It’s going to be tough to refute that journal. You have to admit that you wrote those things, and once you do …”
Diana didn’t say anything. She watched Craig, hoping that she was imagining the anger she heard building under his words.
“Damn it!” he yelled, pounding his fist on the table.
Diana jumped at the sound. “Craig, don’t—”
“Damn that Hutchins!” he exploded. Then, in a single forceful motion, he stood, picked up his plate, and threw it hard against the wall. To Diana’s surprise, it didn’t break. It clattered to the floor, turned a few revolutions, and then came to rest facedown in a puddle of red sauce and linguine noodles. “Damn him!”
“Stop it, Craig,” Diana cried, rushing to him and trying to wrap her arms around him. “Stop it.”
He pushed her away and began to pace the room. “The guy’s dead! The fucking guy’s dead and he’s ruining our lives!” He grabbed Diana by the shoulders. “When will it end? When we’re broke and divorced and the stress has made you lose this baby too?”
Diana shook her head. “Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t even say those things.”
Craig dropped his arms and glared at her. “I’m suffocating,” he said. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Craig,” she began, reaching out toward him.
He held up his hands. “I’m not mad at you—I’ve just got to get some fresh air.” He turned before she could say any more and slammed out the door.
Diana stared past the place where Craig had been, through the window, into the murky grayness of the alley. Sheets of rain cut diagonally into the brick wall and bounced off the railings of the fire escape. She closed the blinds.
15
ON WEDNESDAY DIANA OBEDIENTLY FOLLOWED VALERIE and Craig’s advice. From the time she awoke at five A.M., to the time she fell into a dead sleep at eleven P.M., she ignored the media, marshaled her colleagues, started compiling her “Harvard tenure” resume, and searched the psychological literature for research supporting Valerie’s contention that borderlines were untreatable. She even had a telephone appointment with the one patient who hadn’t canceled that week: a man so agoraphobic that not only was he unable to leave his apartment, but he couldn’t read newspapers or watch television either.
But on Thursday morning, when Gail’s voice, furious and righteous, boomed over the phone lines ordering Diana to sue the bastards at the Inquirer for defamation of character, Diana knew that one day of obedience was all there was going to be. Pulling the brim of her hat low on her forehead, she slipped into the 7-Eleven, dropped her money on the counter, and hurried from the store with both the Inquirer and the Globe under her arm.
When she got home, there was a message on her machine from her friend Alan Martinson, the psychologist to whom she had referred James after she had terminated with him. “I’m on my way out for the day,” Alan’s message said, “but after seeing the Inquirer, I had to call and apologize to you. The damn reporter twisted everything I told her. She left things out and she purposely used my words out of context—I’m writing a letter of complaint first thing tomorrow.” There was a long pause on the tape, and Diana opened the Inquirer with trembling fingers. TWO SHRINKS CONFIRM SEX DOC’S ABUSE, the headline asserted. She closed her eyes against the pain of the words, but the thick letters blazed red against her eyelids. Would this never end?
“She bamboozled me, Diana,” Alan’s voice continued. “I’m sorry. She got me to tell her—I’m still not exactly sure how—that Hutchins said he was having sex with you. But as soon as I realized what I said, I explained how I didn’t believe him—that borderlines make up things like that all the time. I also told her that when I asked Hutchins if he’d give me permission to file a sexual abuse complaint against you, he refused.” Alan’s sigh was audible on the tape. “Unfortunately the bitch chose not to print that part. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Di. Hang in there, kid. I’ll call you this evening.”
Diana quickly flipped through her Rolodex and dialed Alan’s number; when his answering machine clicked on, she hung up the phone and began reading the paper. “Who the hell is this Pumphrey?” she called into the empty room as her eyes scanned the story. Then she remembered: John Pumphrey was the young resident on call at Mass General in July when James was admitted for his Seconal overdose. Diana vaguely recalled serious dark eyes surrounded by smooth, sallow skin. “He’s just a kid!” she yelled as she read. “He doesn’t know anything!” But kid or no kid, Pumphrey had informed the Inquirer that James had told him he wanted to die because his therapist was breaking off their affair; the Inquirer had printed Pumphrey’s words as if they were fact, and Alan Martinson was quoted as the second “confirming shrink.”
When she finished reading the article in the Inquirer, Diana snapped the paper closed and turned to the Globe; the only mention of her was a small piece in the Metro/Region section
noting Judge Hershey’s decision not to allow the journal into evidence at the trial. She threw the Inquirer into the trash. Trash. It was irresponsible, unsubstantiated trash. Anyone reading it would know that.
She began pacing the small office. Then she stopped, staring at the newspaper sticking out of the wastebasket. How would they know it was trash? If anything, this corroborated the journal entries that had been printed on Tuesday. The only thing people reading the Inquirer would think was that she had had sex with James Hutchins. She reached for the telephone and dialed Craig’s office.
“I know we decided I should stay away from the press,” she said as soon as he answered, “but now I can’t.” After describing the contents of the article, Diana told him that talking with Risa Getty was the only way she could see to prove her innocence. “Not responding is tantamount to a declaration of guilt.”
Craig was silent for a moment. “I thought Valerie said you should concentrate on getting the trial materials together.”
“This won’t take that long,” Diana said.
His silence lasted even longer this time.
“I can’t just sit here and let my name be dragged through the mud,” she finally said.
“If you start fighting the Inquirer you’re going to see a whole lot more mud.” Craig’s voice was flat, as if he was too deflated to care.
“But what do you think?” Diana persisted. “Should I contact her?”
“It’s your call, Diana. Frankly, I don’t know what to tell you,” Craig said, then he sighed.
There was something in his wording, maybe in his sigh—Craig never sighed—that made Diana’s blood turn to ice. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No,” he answered quickly, then sighed again.
“What?” Diana demanded.
“Lionel took me off the Central Artery project.”
For a moment Diana forgot her own concerns. “But that’s been your project from day one,” she protested. “You made all the contacts. The whole concept was your idea.”
“Lionel said he was sorry, but it was an ‘upper management call.’” Craig’s voice was bitter. “Told me the competition is so tight that he didn’t want the slightest hint of wrongdoing.”
“Wrongdoing?” Diana repeated.
“He’s giving me the Nashville project.”
Diana closed her eyes for a moment, the pain gouging deep through her gut. “Out of town.”
“You might say Tennessee’s out of town.”
Diana ran her fingers through her hair. “Jesus, we don’t even have the same last name.”
Craig didn’t say anything.
“What about Keith or Will?” Diana demanded, her pain turning to fury. “Can’t you get them to talk to Lionel? You’ve worked with them forever—they’re your friends.”
“Can’t even get them to talk to me. Whenever I walk into a room the conversation stops.”
“Oh,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m sorry too, hon. I know you don’t need this.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Now that I think about it, you might as well call that woman at the Globe. At this point, what’ve we got to lose?”
“It’s a pack of lies and I need you to help me prove it,” Diana told Risa Getty when she reached her at the paper. “My husband and I can’t live like this—and I won’t.”
Not having seen the Inquirer, Risa asked Diana to slow down and explain. “It seems odd this Dr. Pumphrey would disclose that kind of information,” she said after Diana had described the article. “Doesn’t doctor-patient privilege still hold after death?”
Diana hesitated, surprised that she hadn’t thought of Risa’s point. “I think my lawyer said all of James’s hospital records were subpoenaed—would that make it okay for Pumphrey to talk?”
“Maybe,” Risa said. “But I would still think he’d need permission from the family.”
“Jill,” Diana muttered. Jill was behind the whole thing; Diana was sure of it. She saw Jill sitting comfortably in her living room, her voice chatting and friendly. Oh no, you don’t understand, do you? Jill had said with an amused smile on her face. You see, you are responsible for James’s death.
“Even so,” Risa was saying, “I thought there was more of a brotherhood between doctors. You know, that you folks protected each other.”
“There was some comment in the article about how he had once had a patient ‘ruined by psychologists like her,’“ Diana said, her voice coated with disgust. “He’s a psychiatrist.”
“And psychologists and psychiatrists aren’t in the same brotherhood?”
“Alan Martinson called to apologize,” Diana said, leaving Risa’s question unanswered. “He said the Inquirer reporter twisted everything he told her. That what she wrote was misleading and that she had quoted him out of context.”
“And you want me to talk to him?” Risa asked slowly.
“To him. To me. To a whole bunch of other people who’ll tell it from my side.” Diana paused, her anger boiling as she thought of the things the Inquirer had printed—and not printed. Of what this was doing to Craig. And to her. “According to Alan, the reporter bamboozled him into admitting James said he was having sex with me.”
Risa whistled. “Pretty slick.”
“‘Bitch’ is the word Alan used. He’s going to complain. He said she omitted his clarifying remarks.”
“Like what?”
“Like how he tested James by asking him if he’d give his permission for a sexual abuse complaint to be filed—and James refused. How borderlines—”
“I don’t understand,” Risa interrupted. “What do you mean ‘tested’ him? Does a patient have to give permission before a complaint can be filed against a doctor?”
“If the complaint comes from him, he does,” Diana said. “And I wouldn’t doubt, if we checked with Pumphrey, we’d find Pumphrey asked James the same question—and that James refused to let him file too.” Diana wanted to slam her fist into the desk and scream. Instead she swallowed her fury. “I need your help.”
“I’d be one hell of an idiot if I didn’t jump at this interview,” Risa said, still speaking slowly. “But I’ve got to let you know up front, I can’t just play it from your side. I’ll be more than happy to give you an opportunity to tell your story. But my job’s to be objective—not to vindicate you.”
“Objectivity is all I ask.”
Risa was good to her word, and the next few days were a whirlwind of dueling experts in the media. Diana and Craig rode the peaks and the troughs of the resultant elation and disappointment as well as they could. He went to work and pretended that everything was fine while she maintained the facade of in-control righteousness: giving interviews; coaching allies; working with Valerie.
Diana had trouble sleeping and was exhausted all the time. Craig was irritable. He complained that there were no English muffins in the freezer. He stared at a spot behind her shoulder when he spoke to her. And he turned from her in bed, claiming that he “just wasn’t feeling affectionate.”
Although Diana was worried about Craig, she had to focus her energy on John Pumphrey and the Inquirer and some idiot the reporters kept quoting—someone calling himself Benjamin J. Talcott, M.D., borderline personality disorder expert—although neither Diana nor any of her colleagues had ever heard of the man. Valerie said that, although she had initially advised against it, the media fight was actually helping her prepare for court. She claimed the reporters were doing half of her job for her: highlighting the strong and weak witnesses; finding holes in each side of the case.
But whether they were helping Valerie or not, it was clear the journalists were having a field day—and that a lot of papers were being sold. Risa quoted Brad Harris in the Globe as explaining that borderline patients were more likely than those with other mental illnesses to falsely accuse their therapists of abuse. Then she added that Benjamin J. Talcott, M.D., borderline personality disorder expert, had countered by claiming false accusation
s of sexual abuse were actually quite rare.
Marc Silverman, one of the members of Diana’s peer group, stated that a therapist who was having an affair with a patient was unlikely to present that patient’s case at supervision, as Diana had done. And he declared it even more unlikely that an abusive doctor would solicit advice from a Harvard expert on a sticky countertransference issue with said patient, as Diana had also done. But then Benjamin J. Talcott, M.D., borderline personality disorder expert, suggested that Diana discussed James’s case with her colleagues just to cover herself in the event that James made their affair public.
Risa did determine that John Pumphrey had indeed received permission from Jill to make James’s medical records public. The man was interviewed ad nauseam—and his remarks were invariably in opposition to Diana’s. He said he had found James exceedingly normal, even likable, noting that James had a strong self-image, had denied ever using drugs, and had a long history of goal-oriented behavior. He stated that James’s clinical picture clearly indicated that he was suffering from a “reactive depression, perhaps complicated by a mild affective instability”—not the severe personality disorder Diana had diagnosed.
Never did Pumphrey mention that he had spent a total of three days with James—versus Diana’s three years.
Although Diana was unable to get Adrian Arnold to speak to the press, she was able to get more than half a dozen other experts to refute Pumphrey. Gail was a particularly effective spokeswoman, asking why the last three cases of sexual abuse against therapists filed in Middlesex District Court had been almost completely ignored by the Boston media. Could it be because the therapists in those cases had been male and their patients female? she demanded.
The battle raged, filling the front pages of both Boston newspapers, as well as receiving national attention and debate. But no matter how hard Diana worked, no matter how many authorities she found or studies she cited, someone always came forward to refute her experts or data—and to erase her advantage. At the end of every day, after all the words had been read and written and spoken, it was invariably a stalemate.
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