Love Gone Mad

by Rubinstein, Mark

“Yes. You need to know the reality before you conclude something’s false.”

  “And, Dr. Grayson, at my request, did these four people sign affidavits—sworn statements—saying that Dr. Douglas and Ms. Haggarty met only recently?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your Honor, I ask that these affidavits be admitted into evidence for the jury to read if they so choose.”

  “Granted.”

  Adrian’s heart pumps like a Porsche unwinding down a racetrack. Wilson thinks I’m Marlee’s father? How the hell did he come to that conclusion?

  “Tell us more about this part of the delusion,” Kovac says. “Tell us about Conrad’s belief that Dr. Douglas is Marlee’s father.”

  “Conrad’s delusion is multigenerational,” Grayson says. “He believes that Marlee is evil, since, in his delusional belief, she’s Adrian Douglas’s child, conceived six years ago—before Dr. Douglas and Ms. Haggarty even met. For Mr. Wilson, they’re all linked—biologically—and he believes they must all die. That’s the essence of his delusion.”

  “You say these beliefs are the essence of his delusion?”

  “Yes. And he acted on that delusional belief when he attacked Ms. Haggarty and Dr. Douglas. In other words, he acted on an insane belief.”

  “Did he recognize right from wrong?”

  “Yes. But he couldn’t obey the law because of his insane beliefs.”

  “In other words, Dr. Grayson, he couldn’t conform his behavior to the requirements of the law because of his mental disorder?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Doctor, we know that over the years Conrad’s worked, paid rent, had friends, and seemed completely normal. How do you explain that?”

  “Conrad’s psychosis—his insanity—is limited to this specific area of his life—to his relationship with his ex-wife, to Dr. Douglas and Marlee Wilson. Otherwise, he’s normal.”

  A kinetic throbbing beats its way through Adrian, reaches his neck, and pulses into his head.

  “And, Dr. Grayson, is your testimony given with a reasonable degree of medical certainty by virtue of your training, education, and experience as a forensic psychiatrist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I have no further questions.”

  “Dr. Grayson,” Farley says, “you said the defendant is angry and bitter, correct?”

  “I said that … and much more.”

  “Especially since he lost his job, yes?”

  “Yes, that kicked him over the edge.”

  “So, Doctor,” says Farley, “the defendant lost his job and felt enraged?”

  “Yes.”

  “So he can go out and murder two people?”

  “That’s not what I said.”

  “He lost his job and he’s angry. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “He loathes his ex-wife and her boyfriend. Yes?”

  “Yes …”

  “So we just let him get away with attempted murder?”

  “That’s a simplification of what I said.”

  “Well, let’s look at what you’ve said, Doctor. You’ve told this jury that this man knows right from wrong. You’ve said that he’s extraordinarily intelligent, maybe the smartest man you’ve ever evaluated. He has many skills—carpentry, plumbing, masonry, auto mechanics, architectural drafting, even electrical work—and after losing his job, he feels enraged, put upon by the world. So, he comes back to Connecticut and stalks his ex-wife, then tries to stab her to death. He locates her boyfriend, firebombs his house, tracks him through the woods, and tries to blow him away with a shotgun.

  “And we should just say he’s upset, bitter, he’s delusional about all this … or at least he claims it? So, Dr. Grayson, this man’s just sick and shouldn’t go to prison?”

  “No. That’s a caricature of what I said.”

  Adrian sees two jurors smile. The others look stone-faced. Adrian now thinks Farley’s betting on the wrong horse; he’s pushing all the wrong buttons.

  “But aren’t you saying, Doctor, we should just call this man disturbed or troubled or maybe even delusional, that we shouldn’t hold him criminally accountable for what he did, even though he was abusive and threatening to Dr. Douglas—a complete stranger who hadn’t even met Megan Haggarty—that night in the bar?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “But didn’t he threaten Dr. Douglas before he even met Megan Haggarty?”

  “Yes.”

  “So his violence isn’t just limited to his ex-wife and her lover, is it?”

  “He didn’t try to kill Dr. Douglas that night at the bar.”

  “That shotgun blast could have been directed at Dr. Douglas, right?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” calls Kovac. “There’s no evidence my client fired anything at anyone.”

  “Sustained.”

  “And he attacked a police officer, didn’t he?” Farley asks, raising his voice. “He beat him brutally, tied and gagged him, and locked him in a car, yes?”

  “Yes. To get to Dr. Douglas, he did.”

  “Was that part of his delusion?”

  “It was in the service of his delusion.”

  Farley pauses and rests an elbow on the lectern. “Doctor,” he says, squinting, “do you have proof that Conrad Wilson is delusional?”

  “Proof?”

  “Yes, Doctor. We rely on proof in court. Can you prove your assertion?”

  “If you listen to this man, if you have him tested by a psychologist and you evaluate him psychiatrically, that’s your proof.”

  “So you’re saying we should take Conrad Wilson’s word that he believes these things, and that makes him delusional. It renders him mad. It makes him insane. That’s the proof you’re offering?”

  “No, I’m using my training, education, and experience and conferring with other mental health professionals and interviewing other people to arrive at my conclusion.”

  “I have no more questions for this witness, Your Honor,” Farley says, returning to the prosecution table.

  Thirty

  The male jurors’ eyes track Nicole DuPont as she strides to the witness stand. Adrian watches them carefully.

  Jesus, the men on the panel are already transfixed by her.

  Her chestnut hair frames her pixyish face. As she’s sworn in, her eyes appear even larger than they did at the competency hearing. She wears a figure-revealing taupe skirt, stiletto heels, a light-blue blouse fitted snugly over her breasts, and a tan jacket. Adrian detects in her an aura of not-so-subdued sensuality beneath a crust of academic austerity.

  Kovac elicits DuPont’s impressive credentials. Her testimony is virtually a carbon copy of Grayson’s as she describes her three examinations of Conrad and details his considerable intellect, skills, and his delusion about Adrian, Megan, and Marlee.

  She too concludes that Conrad is psychotic and within the context of his distorted beliefs was unable to act according to the dictates of the law.

  “In other words,” she says, “his delusional thinking forced him to break the law.”

  Adrian feels his insides shivering. He knows the case for an insanity acquittal is growing—exponentially, it seems. And Sheffield—who Kovac made out to be a paid hack—wasn’t the most impressive witness in the world. Yes, he was smooth, but the bullshit needle jumped when Kovac went gunning for him on cross. And Adrian decides—despite rooting for Farley—that if he ever got into legal trouble, he’d definitely want Kovac on his side.

  “Doctor,” says Kovac, “did you learn anything else about Conrad?”

  “Yes, I did,” Nicole says.

  Adrian realizes Nicole projects plenty of smarts and hits a scale-tipping ten on the confidence meter. The jurors—men and women—are riveted by her.

  “What else did you learn about Conrad?”

  “He was abandoned as an infant and then adopted. His adoptive father abused him.”

  “Abused him? How?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,
” calls Farley. “This is irrelevant.”

  “Your Honor,” says Kovac. “Conrad Wilson’s mental health is at issue, and it’s only fair that the jury evaluate him in the context of his background. After all, Your Honor, we’re all products of our early environments.”

  Nicole DuPont gazes up at the judge. Adrian detects—through her body language—that she’s imploring the judge to rule Kovac’s way.

  “I’ll allow it,” Burke says.

  Adrian is convinced Kovac’s dancing circles around Farley. He glances at Conrad, who sits impassively as his mental life is being dissected beneath the legal microscope—splayed open in a public forum.

  “Doctor,” Kovac resumes, “how was Conrad abused by his adoptive father?”

  Nicole makes sequential eye contact with each juror. She’s connecting with them like a laser beam, Adrian thinks. He’s worried that Farley’s case is going down the tubes.

  “Conrad’s adoptive father was a deacon in the church, but he led something of a double life,” Nicole says. “He would lead Conrad down to the basement and abuse him. He would rape him. And while doing it, he would chant passages from the Bible. It was a perverted religious ritual: rape and prayer. It began when Conrad was five or six and lasted for five years.”

  The jurors’ eyes dart back and forth. One man shifts in his seat. The female panelists look aghast. One woman’s face blanches to an alabaster white.

  “One thing, Dr. DuPont … Are you betraying Conrad’s confidentiality by telling the jury about this violation?”

  “No. Conrad’s put his mental state at issue. So he’s forgone any confidentiality.”

  “I see,” Kovac says. “So Conrad was raped by his adoptive father?”

  “Yes. He was raped repeatedly. And beaten and threatened every day of his early life.”

  “How often did these rapes occur?”

  “So often that his adoptive mother bought a special cushion for Conrad to sit on.”

  “Did she know about this sexual abuse?”

  “She seems to not’ve let herself know. She used denial and in a real sense betrayed Conrad.”

  Adrian sees three women on the jury nodding.

  “And what effect did this have on Conrad?”

  “He grew up with a devalued self-image. He hated and feared his adoptive father and felt betrayed by his adoptive mother. His adoptive father deserted them when Conrad was in elementary school, and his mother died of lung cancer when Conrad finished high school. He now believes fervidly that any woman will betray him. And he’s obsessed with manliness, with proving that he’s a virile, capable man … that he’s not effeminate.

  “So,” DuPont says, “he became a wrestler, which involved close contact with other men, often one on top of the other. He symbolically repeated these early sexual experiences, but in an adaptive way.”

  “Objection. Speculative!” Farley calls.

  “I’ll allow it,” Burke says.

  Dr. DuPont continues, “Those early experiences—the threats, the beatings, the rapes, the prayers, his mother’s silence—set the stage for the onset of Conrad’s delusional disorder.”

  “Tell me, Dr. DuPont, how come this never came up with the other doctors?”

  “I think he felt very comfortable with me. He opened up to me. It was as though we began psychotherapy right away. In a strange way, Conrad became that pathetic little boy all over again.”

  Grayson knows Nicole’s dug deeply into Conrad’s inner turmoil. It’s her way, especially with male patients. She’s able to dip into their roiling cauldrons of sickness. And they open up to her, more so than with anyone else. It’s a gift, and she uses it effectively to get to the core of these men—NGRI acquittees at Whitehall, deluded men with mangled minds. She unearths psychological detritus—rapes, incest, cringe-worthy fetishes of every kind—the most deeply held secrets in these men’s emotional caches.

  Jim Morgan, the psychologist sitting next to Grayson, whispers, “She really dug down, got into this case.”

  “That’s Nicole,” Grayson whispers. “Always looking for the how and why.”

  “She thinks she’s still with the ACLU,” Morgan whispers.

  “She feels for the patients. It’s part of who she is.”

  “Yeah, every session’s gotta be a therapeutic milestone,” Morgan mutters. “I’ve told her a hundred times, these sessions with defendants and NGRI acquittees aren’t Rent-a-Friend psychotherapy.”

  “Dr. DuPont …” Farley begins his cross-examination. “What percentage of children are sexually abused?”

  “For girls,” DuPont says, “it’s about fifteen to twenty-five percent. For young boys, it’s between five and fifteen percent.”

  “Okay, so it’s reasonable to assume about ten percent of boys are abused?”

  “I suppose so. Sexual abuse is quite prevalent in our society … far more than people think.”

  “I’m sure it is, Doctor. Now, assuming that ten percent of boys—maybe more—are sexually abused, do we have ten percent of the adult male population—maybe fifteen million men—attempting to murder their ex-wives and their boyfriends?”

  “No. Of course not,” Nicole says, closing her eyes. Grayson is certain Nicole is indulging Farley, tolerating this self-serving line of questioning. She’s too cagey a witness to get snared into a pissing match with a cross-examining attorney.

  “Do millions of men attempt murder because they were sexually abused as children?”

  “No. But they’re damaged people.”

  “Damaged? So damaged that they lie in wait and try to kill other people?”

  “No. They’re damaged and they develop distorted and stunted emotional lives.”

  “Damaged in a way that they stalk a woman for weeks, ambush her with a knife, firebomb her boyfriend’s house, assault a police officer—all preplanned—and try to slaughter the boyfriend?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “And, Doctor, who told you that Conrad Wilson was sexually abused as a child?”

  “He did.”

  “And you took him at his word?”

  “Yes. When a man divulges that kind of thing, it’s a core issue in his life.”

  “Would you consider his word to be scientific evidence?”

  “No, it’s not scientific.” Her eyes look like they’re laughing.

  Yes, Nicole is suffocating the urge to verbally decimate the prosecutor, thinks Grayson. She’s restraining herself. She’s a damned good psychiatrist and a fabulous witness, even though she sometimes advocates too strongly for a defendant.

  “Is it objective medical evidence?”

  “It’s the patient’s history. All patients give history.”

  “But isn’t medicine supposed to be based on science?”

  “Mr. Farley, let me assure you that the practice of medicine—every specialty from surgery to psychiatry—is as much art as it is science.”

  “And Conrad Wilson’s history, as you called it, is what he told you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, speaking of art, could he have been artfully lying?”

  “That’s possible.”

  “Do patients ever lie to doctors?”

  “On occasion they do.”

  “Has a patient ever lied to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And, Doctor, in a legal proceeding such as this one, is there an incentive for the defendant to lie—especially to a psychiatrist evaluating him for trial purposes?”

  “There can be.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I have no more questions,” Farley says, sitting down.

  “Mr. Kovac, any redirect?” asks Judge Burke.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” says Kovac, going to the lectern.

  “Dr. DuPont, is Conrad Wilson lying when he talks about an affair between his ex-wife and Dr. Douglas and about Marlee being their daughter?”

  “No. He’s telling the truth.”

  “Truth? How on earth is that true?”

>   “He’s telling his truth. It’s his sick, psychotic, inner truth. It’s a delusion. He believes it to be completely true, even though it’s ridiculous. And he acted on this jealous delusion and sought revenge.”

  Thirty-one

  To Adrian, Conrad looks like a hulking bear sitting in the witness chair. Conrad stares straight ahead with that menacing look Adrian recalls from King’s Corner. Those eyes smolder as though something dark and unknowable lurks within him. Adrian shudders as Conrad’s eyes scan the gallery and finally fix on him. He feels malevolence pouring from Conrad like hot lava.

  Conrad is cleanly shaved, and his hair is no longer shorn in a military buzz cut. Obviously, Kovac has advised him to change his look to something softer and less threatening. Conrad’s sloping shoulders, massive arms, and chest bulge through a gray sports jacket. His blue work shirt, open at the collar, reveals his thick, corded neck.

  Conrad doesn’t wear handcuffs during the trial. It could prejudice the jury to see a defendant manacled. Adrian notices five court officers lining the oak-paneled wall near the witness stand.

  As if that doesn’t send a clear message to the jury.

  The jurors glance furtively at Conrad and then avert their eyes. On the gauge of menace and intimidation, Conrad throws the needle way past the meter’s maximum number, Adrian thinks. That metallic taste forms on Adrian’s tongue as images of the cemetery wash over him.

  “Now, Conrad,” Kovac says, “You don’t deny attacking Megan Haggarty and Adrian Douglas, do you?”

  “I did what I did,” Conrad says in a monotone.

  “So you tried to kill these people?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why in your mind did they have to die?”

  “They’re evil.” Conrad virtually quivers in the witness chair. “They betrayed me.” A purple vein on his forehead bulges and seems to twitch. Redness creeps into his face, and the pipelike veins on his neck bulge. A court officer edges closer. Judge Burke leans back in his high, padded chair.

  “Conrad, how were you betrayed?”

  “They were lovers for years.”

  “But, Conrad, how do you know that?”

  “I know. I visited the hospital at Yale where they worked.”

  “But that was years ago. They didn’t even know each other then.”