In the 1980s, she'd been among the first defense, attorneys to use the "battered wife syndrome" as a defense in murder cases. She'd won dozens of acquittals for women who'd killed their abusive husbands by claiming they'd killed in self-defense. Sometimes, she figured, it actually was self-defense; other times, it was a nice excuse to get rid of the bum.
These days it was all about postpartum depression for mothers who killed their infants, and/or bipolar mood swings in which the defendant lashed out either during an extremely low point or during a manic stage. One of these days I'm going to find a great menopause defense case, she thought with a wry smile. "Your honor, my client was experiencing a hot flash, and when it was over, her unsympathetic bastard of a husband was lying on the kitchen floor with a steak knife in his heart."
Of course, Lewis had hoped that the Bellevue psychiatrists would deem Jessica incompetent to stand trial—or, if they wouldn't, bring in Nickles to see if she could persuade the judge. If that happened, Jessica would be sent to a mental institution where she would be examined regularly until judged competent to stand trial; and if Jessica did as she was told, that could take a long time. Lewis's scheme was to delay the criminal trial for as long as possible—buying plenty of time to stack up medical witnesses who were willing to testify about the seriousness of Jessica's mental condition and say what a gentle and caring person Jessica truly was. Also, with enough time, perhaps a more sympathetic DA would be elected, someone who would not want to prosecute a mom who was obviously insane at the time she "innocently" spared her children life's torment.
As a defense attorney, Lewis had helped cold-blooded murderers exchange a few years of acting crazy in a mental hospital—drawing disturbing pictures and acting out—for what would have otherwise been a very long stretch in prison. She had no qualms about teaching them how to play this game; her conscience did not trouble her even when former clients got out and committed other murders. That's how the system was set up, she reasoned, and all she was doing was using it to represent her clients to the best of her ability.
One of her favorite ploys was known in legal circles as the Ganser Syndrome. Essentially, it described the behavior of a defendant who became "psychotic" only when he realized that the evidence against him was so overwhelming that conviction was likely. She once had a client who liked to strangle the prostitutes he pimped but got away with it by perfecting the syndrome. Every time he was judged competent to stand trial, he'd start crowing like a rooster as soon as he entered the courtroom and attempt to hop up onto the defense table to flap his wings. Then they'd haul him back to the mental hospital where the process of finding him competent to stand trial would start all over again. He'd keep it up until the DA would plead his case down to a mere pittance of the time he deserved—turnstile justice at its worst. But Lewis had not lost any more sleep over thwarting justice in his case than she had when she heard that one of his prostitutes had sliced off his penis with a straight razor. He'd bled to death on the way to the hospital.
Of course, it was quite possible that none of these games were going to work for Jessica Campbell. She wasn't crafty enough to work the Ganser Syndrome, the DAO wasn't offering any plea deals, and Butch Karp, a man she detested, had just won an uncontested election and didn't appear to be going anywhere for awhile. Of course, Karp had designated Jessica Campbell's case file NLP.
There was still hope, and that was where Dr. Nickles came in. She was not just to assess Jessica's mental state, but to help teach her how to play the game. Still, it looked like they were going to have to win at trial by convincing the jury that Jessica Campbell, as a result of mental disease or defect, did not know or appreciate the nature and consequences of her acts or understand that they were wrong at the time she murdered her children.
Right now, they weren't going to win at the competency hearing. Dr. Nickles was going to testify that Jessica wasn't competent, but that was more to set the grounds for an appeal if she was found guilty at trial. The doctor was an expensive addition to the defense team, which consisted of Lewis and her investigators—she preferred to try cases alone—but that was all right; Jessica's parents were wealthy and had essentially given her carte blanche. "Whatever it takes to keep our daughter out of prison," Liza Gupperstein had insisted, handing over the first $250,000 retainer check.
"Eventually, we'll have to go to trial," Lewis told Jessica. "So we need to start preparing now by answering the doctor's questionnaire."
Jessica looked over at Nickles, who took a pen out of her pink briefcase, clicked it, and handed it to her. "Let's begin. There are ... um ... thirteen questions in the first part, and then a ... single question in parts two ... and um ... three. Please answer yes ... or no. For instance, Question One: Has there ever been a period of time ... um ... when you were not your usual self, while not on drugs or alcohol and ... ah, yes ... you were so irritable that you shouted at people or started fights or arguments?"
Jessica recognized irony when she heard it. "I'm a political science professor, of course I shout and argue."
Nickles and Lewis exchanged a meaningful glance; they would have to tone down that assertive personality in the courtroom. "Uh-huh ... I see ... so then you would mark ... 'Yes,'" the psychiatrist said, pointing at the clipboard.
Jessica had never wanted children in the first place. Her career came first, and the way she saw it, that would leave little room for anyone but herself and her husband.
But Charlie had decided in 1997 that it would be good for his political ambitions to be perceived as a "family man." He was thinking of the photo ops that playing ball with a son would produce. But to convince Jessica, he'd recast the idea as an opportunity for them to demonstrate to the rest of the world how a modem couple raised a morally conscientious child.
"You could write a book about it," he said. "After all, what kind of a country will this be if the only ones having children are the Christian Right?"
It was the perfect button to push. He saw her shiver as she contemplated the thought of a nation full of little Pat Robertsons and Jerry Falwells.
Having made the decision, she concentrated on getting pregnant. She'd always been "reserved" in her lovemaking, though she'd kept her ambivalence mostly hidden until after they were married. But now she was almost enthusiastic, so long as the deed was done while she was ovulating.
Once the pregnancy was confirmed, she shifted gears. Sex was no longer part of her equation, and she spent her free time reading everything she could find on child-rearing with liberal sensibilities. And she read important works to the fetus: The Autobiography of Malcolm X and Gloria Steinem's Feminist Family Values.
Soon, Jessica pictured herself as the perfect modem mother—a career woman who would balance a meaningful life with the needs of a child, at least for the first few weeks or so until an au pair could take over. And as the day approached, she interviewed several dozen nannies before settling on a large black woman from Jamaica named Rebecca. Perfect.
Thus it was an embarrassment when something went haywire with her brain chemistry following the birth of her first daughter in March 1998. Instead of joy and pride, she just felt blue. When the nurse brought the infant in to nurse for the first time, Jessica burst into tears, rolled over onto her stomach, and went to sleep.
After her discharge, she went home determined to do her best to be "Super Mom." But the ups and downs of her moods continued and even grew worse after a few weeks. Euphoric reactions to something like her baby's smile, or a kind word from Charlie, would be followed by thirty-minute crying jags that she alleviated by downing a quart of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream.
As her blues grew bluer, she spent entire days in her "dark place," refusing to attend to her child despite the pleadings of the nanny, indifferent to Charlie's endeavors to settle on a name—he'd eventually chosen Hillary, after the president's wife—and unable to get out of bed any longer than it took her to use the bathroom.
Charlie saw that something needed to be done whe
n he came home on the nanny's day off and found Jessica cutting off her stringy hair "because it's ugly," while Hillary, who had obviously not been changed all day, wailed in her crib. Mindful of keeping "family business" out of the media, he quietly took her to their family physician, who diagnosed Jessica's behavior as postpartum depression. The doctor explained that what she was experiencing was due to a chemical imbalance in Jessica's brain brought on by all the hormonal changes and stresses that came with pregnancy. He prescribed Prozac and assured Charlie that Jessica would soon be back to normal.
The anti-depressant had the desired effect. Jessica came out of her blues and became the devoted mother she'd envisioned. Still, she was glad to get back to the university and resume indoctrinating her students on the evils of old, white males and their negative impact on the United States. It was a good balance. She saw Hillary briefly in the morning before leaving for work, and then again for a couple of hours in the evening before the nanny put the infant to bed. On weekends, she happily pushed the baby carriage to art museums and political rallies as part of Hillary's education.
The September 11, 2001, attack on the World Trade Center, and Jessica's subsequent protest at Trinity Church with Hillary in her arms, gave even more meaning to Jessica's life. At least until Charlie started talking about having another child.
Jessica thought that having one child was more than sufficient—and more socially responsible. But Charlie still wanted a son, which resulted in shouting matches. He called her "frigid" and "self-centered." She sneered at him "needing an heir with a dick to pass on the family sperm. How typically male."
However, he eventually wore her down. Before Hillary, she would never have let him get his way. But she was aware that despite his increasing paunch and receding hairline, Charlie was attractive to other women— especially the "whore-bitch" Diane Castrano, who'd started working in his borough president's office in 2001.
Barely out of Brown University, Diane's main attribute—at least from Jessica's viewpoint—was that she had big, creamy white breasts that she flaunted with low-cut blouses. Charlie described her as "intelligent and in- valuable" and told Jessica to quit being jealous. "Jesus," he'd exclaim, shaking his head as if she were crazy, "she's just an enthusiastic kid."
At first Jessica ignored the younger woman's "enthusiastic" fawning over her husband and the exchanging of meaningful glances whenever the two were in the same room. Then, when it was impossible to ignore any longer, she decided that she would be "open-minded" about the relationship. After all, if the President of the United States could accept blowjobs from interns in the Oval Office, who was she to deny Charlie his "fling"? In truth, she found sex to be a messy, unwanted chore. So if Diane could relieve her— pun intended—of that responsibility, then it was okay by her, so long as Charlie came home to roost.
However, after the birth of Hillary, she became increasingly conscious of the fact that she'd never regained her figure, which had been nothing to shout about to begin with. Now, ever since the pregnancy, the Anjou pear had more closely resembled a gourd. But her insecurity went further than the broadening of her ass.
She'd once believed that Charlie would never risk losing her family's money and influence, or risk the damage a messy divorce might do to his political career. But now that he was more established, she began to worry that he might leave her for the younger woman. Especially if the whore is willing to give him the son he wants, she'd think to herself as she lay alone in bed at night.
So in the end, Jessica acquiesced to his desire to impregnate her again. She was convinced that with another addition to the family he would be even less likely to abandon her.
When Chelsea was born in the spring of 2003, not only was the disappointment of another daughter written all over Charlie's face, but within a week the postpartum depression returned with a vengeance. Jessica could hardly stand to look at the infant, or Hillary, and she recoiled from any effort her husband made to encourage her toward motherhood as if he were a serpent who'd poisoned her with another child.
She began hearing the voice in her head. At first it was no more than a whisper, as though from down a long hallway. But as the days passed, the voice grew stronger, more like someone talking to her through a closed door.
It explained that her aversion to her children was to be expected and was quite normal. After all, they were the product of her fornicating with an evil man. But she dismissed the assertion. She didn't consider her husband "evil"—a lying, sneaking adulterer whose political convictions changed with expediency, yes, but "evil" was an ignorant and inappropriate term tossed about by the Christian Right to vilify anyone who didn't agree with their agenda. Philosophically, she didn't believe in a metaphysical concept of good and evil existing as forces within the universe any more than she believed in the existence of God, Satan, heaven, or hell.
Jessica did not mention the voice to her husband. He'd already warned her not to talk to anyone, especially someone who might leak it to the press, about the fact that she was taking "brain medicine" for depression. He pointed out that revelations about mental illness had ruined the political career of Senator Thomas Eagleton and could well spoil any aspirations she had of being the wife of a congressman in Washington, D.C., or getting a position at Georgetown University. It had to be their secret.
Jessica hated Charlie for making her feel ashamed. She was clinically depressed, which the doctor had explained wasn't her fault. It was like having the flu, or cancer—a person didn't ask for it. Nor could she just "snap out of it." But Charlie didn't buy the "mumbo-jumbo."
Meanwhile, the voice was nothing if not persistent. It was now more like listening to someone in the same room with her, though she could not see him. Eventually, the voice convinced her that evil did exist, and it was personified by her husband, the lying, cheating son of a bitch who was going to hell. Unfortunately, the voice said, that also meant her children were damned, too.
Thus, she found herself one night standing in the nursery clutching a pillow as she stared blankly down at sleeping Chelsea. The voice urged her to place the pillow over the child's face and then repeat the effort with Hillary. Your children's souls are at risk, said the voice. They are the spawn of Satan. If you want to save them, send them to God.
Crying out from the effort, she flung the pillow aside and fled the room. She crawled into bed next to her snoring husband and spent the rest of the night shivering and telling the voice to leave her alone.
Charlie had not wakened to comfort her. Nor did he seem to notice the bags beneath her eyes or the haunted look on her face the next morning. In fact, he hardly acknowledged that she was alive until he received a panicked call from the nanny telling him that his wife had swallowed her entire bottle of Prozac and was being rushed to Mount Sinai Hospital uptown on Fifth Avenue.
At the hospital, Jessica had her stomach pumped full of a charcoal solution to absorb the drug and induce vomiting. However, retching until she thought that her internal organs would fly out of her mouth wasn't the worst part of the experience—the worst part was the angry look on Charlie's face and the icy hardness in his voice after the doctor left the room.
"What the hell are you trying to do, ruin me?" he snarled. "That's all I need for headlines: Candidate's depressed wife tries to kill herself." Even when Jessica started crying he didn't let up. "Diane is doing everything she can to keep this quiet," he warned. "Right now, your name is Betty Jones, and you're here for an appendectomy. If word of this gets out, I'll ..." He stopped before he said anything else, but she got the idea.
Charlie did keep his promise to take her to a psychiatrist, though this one was in Newark, where Diane thought they would be less likely to be spotted. But he wasn't happy when the psychiatrist, Harry Winkler, asked to speak to Jessica alone first.
"First of all," Winkler said when he was alone with Jessica, "you have nothing to be ashamed of. This is not your fault, no matter what your husband, or any others, may imply."
Winkl
er's kind and understanding tone gave Jessica hope. She told him everything. Well, almost everything. Tearfully choking over the words, she recalled how she'd stood above her daughter's crib prior to her suicide attempt and contemplated murdering her children. But she didn't tell him about the voice in her head. That was her secret.
The doctor had listened to the entire story as if he were being told about a trip to the zoo—mildly interesting but nothing to write home about. "Chemicals," he said when she finished talking. "It's just chemicals. First adolescence, and then pregnancy and giving birth, simply threw off the chemical balance in your brain." He said he was going to prescribe lithium as a mood stabilizer and to combat the depression.
The psychiatrist had then called Charlie into the office and explained what was going on in his wife's life and why. Then he dropped the bombshell. "It is my professional opinion that it would not be advisable for Jessica to have any more children."
Charlie blinked several times like he'd just been told that he was going to die. "So what are you saying?" he demanded.
"Well, on rare occasions," Winkler pontificated, "postpartum depression can be dangerous, not just to the mother—as you've recently experienced—but also to the children. And I'm afraid, there is some history, an incident during which your wife considered doing harm to your children."
"What!?" Charlie scoffed. "I don't believe it. Jessica let her mood get her down and she acted out... what you shrinks call a 'cry for help.' That doesn't mean she would have hurt the kids. That's nuts!" He turned toward Jessica. "This isn't true?"
Jessica nodded but kept her eyes on her hands folded on her lap. As if trying to wake from a dream, he shook his head rapidly and turned back to the doctor, clearly angry. "So again, what are you telling me ... us?"
"I'm saying that the chemical imbalances brought on by pregnancy and ... childbirth exacerbate what I'm diagnosing as clinical depression," Winkler said. "And, it could get worse with each childbirth. So as I said, I strongly advise against having any more children, unless you want to adopt." Charlie took the final warning in silence, and he remained quiet for the remainder of the consultation. However, once back in the car, he let loose. "I think he's full of bullshit. Psychology isn't a real science; it's a bunch of guesswork and theories."
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