LONDON
Nestled between a row of red oaks, one lone pine stands amid downtown New Castle’s courthouse district. I sit on the courthouse steps, watching the pine’s thin branches flutter in the light breeze.
It doesn’t belong. Not sure how the tree got here, how it sprouted up in the middle of so much civilization, and it will most likely be cut down soon. Replaced with another red oak or birch to perfectly line the street.
But it’s here.
I used to stare out the bay window of my house at the pines. We had tall, tightly packed skinny ones that would creek and bow in storms. And I would stare, just stare into the dense blankness of it all—the way the pines would sway back and forth, rocking themselves to some melody. As if they were self-soothing in the midst of all the violence.
That sight should’ve been a comfort. It shouldn’t have frightened me.
But because there is comfort, there is turbulence. You fear it more acutely when the threat of it is pending, when it’s near—the anticipation of our worst fears is more paralyzing than the impact.
There is no shelter from the storm.
I pick up my coffee cup and briefcase, and head into the courthouse, where I wait to be called. My suit feels warm on my skin from the sun, the air-conditioned room causing me to shiver. I drain and toss my cup as the bailiff calls my name.
I sense his eyes on me the moment I enter the courtroom. I aim my gaze ahead as I follow the bailiff to the front. He holds the gate open for me, and I give a curt nod before I’m standing next to the judge.
“Raise your right hand.”
I’m sworn in and take my seat at the stand. I’ve done this same action so many times it’s habit. Formulaic. Yet everything about it this time is different. I can sense the judgment from the prosecution in a way I’ve never felt before. I’m tethered to the defendant, tied to him with a connection that screams to be severed.
The lights are amplified. The sounds too loud. The air too thick.
“Hello, Dr. Noble.”
The defense attorney blocks my line of sight to Grayson before I’m tempted to look.
“How are you today?” he asks.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Good. Glad to hear.” After a brief rundown of my credentials, he asks, “Can you tell us how long you evaluated Mr. Sullivan?”
The lawyer is youthful and attractive. I notice the way the jury leans forward, attentive to him. His fresh face and amusing mannerisms are a welcome distraction to the heaviness of this trial.
“Nearly three months,” I respond.
“And is this a sufficient amount of time to diagnose a patient?”
“Yes. Generally, I’m able to provide a full diagnosis and treatment plan for patients within a two-week period.”
“Then why did Mr. Sullivan require a longer evaluation period?”
I straighten my back. “Midway through my initial evaluation, I noticed signs of severe delusion that I felt needed a closer assessment.”
I’m going off script. Mr. Young stares at me curiously, then walks to the defense table and grabs the folder that contains Grayson’s evaluation.
“What is Mr. Sullivan’s official diagnosis?” he asks.
“Mr. Sullivan exhibits antisocial personality disorder. He scored on the extreme high end of the spectrum for this personality disorder, which classifies him as a dangerous personality. He suffers from sadistic symphorophilia, which means he derives sexual gratification from staging and watching brutal disasters. As a sadist, Mr. Sullivan gleans pleasure from the suffering of others, and his particular psychopathy allows him to be a highly skilled manipulator.”
The attorney blinks, looks at the prosecution, as if he’s awaiting an objection. There will be no objection from that side of the courtroom during my testimony.
Mr. Young starts again, trying to find a thread of our original correspondence. “Dr. Noble, did you not verbally state that Mr. Sullivan is a model inmate. That despite his disorder, he was not a threat to anyone in prison, as it lacked the chaos to feed his particular psychopathy?”
I smile. He has a good memory, recalling what I relayed to him of my conversation with the Attorney General. “Yes, that’s correct. I did say those words to the prosecution. But that was in the middle of my final evaluation. As I’ve stated, Mr. Sullivan is an expert manipulator, and thus more time is needed to effectively diagnose him and determine the level of danger he presents.”
The lawyer flips through the evaluation I retyped only the night before. He was so confident in my verbal assessment that he never asked to receive the report prior to the trial.
“The treatment plan you originally thought best tailored for Mr. Sullivan was to be medicated under your care, to receive continued therapy sessions, and to slowly integrate him into general population where he can be a productive member of the correctional society.” He glares at me, a threat in his eyes. “Do you still feel that Mr. Sullivan can benefit from this treatment?”
“Let me put it as simply as possible,” I say, bolstering myself. “Mr. Sullivan’s victims were, as he believed, guilty of crimes. Crimes he felt were deserving of extreme and disturbing vigilante justice. Does assimilating him into a population full of criminals sound like a good idea to you, Mr. Young?”
The shock on the lawyer’s face is only topped by the collective wave of agreement that rolls through the room.
“Order,” the judge demands.
I make eye contact with Grayson then. There’s no malice on his face, only the hint of a smirk. Those knowing eyes drill into me.
I roll my shoulders. “Furthermore, I discovered that Mr. Sullivan suffers an uncharacterized delusional disorder in connection to his psychopathy. He believes he has grandiose connections with his victims, which develops into a fixation on them where his delusion creates an alternate reality. In other words, the manipulation tactics he deploys on his victims serves to influence his own delusions, resulting in his belief of his own lies. This gives him the conviction to punish, maim, and kill without guilt or remorse.” I take a breath before I push through. I have to push through. “Anyone Grayson Sullivan comes into contact with is at risk for becoming a part of his delusions and thereby suffering either physical or mental harm. He is one of the most dangerous individuals I’ve come into contact with and feel I’m unable to continue his treatment. I do not feel rehabilitation is a prospect for Mr. Sullivan.”
Silence falls over the court, and Mr. Young clears his throat. “Thank you, Dr. Noble. Nothing more, Your Honor.”
After a charged moment, the judge looks to the Attorney General. “Would you like to cross examine, Mr. Shafer?”
The lawyer stands briefly. “No, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.”
“Please escort Dr. Noble off the stand,” the judge instructs the bailiff. “Court is adjourned for an hour recess, then we’ll hear closing arguments.”
I flinch at the commotion rising around the room as people stand. The finality of it rocks through me, and I grab the edge of the stand to help me rise. I pass Grayson on unsteady legs, the need to look into his eyes an unbearable, painful demand. The string tethering me to him snaps taut.
When I give in to the desire and our eyes meet, no words are needed. I see it there on his face, the understanding of what I’ve done. I’ve secured my lie by misdiagnosing a patient in open court. No one will hear or believe his claims about me.
I have sabotaged not only my career to do so, but any chance he had.
I’ve just sentenced Grayson to death.
My secret will die with him.
