The next day, Friday, Charlotte came for her session. Tom would come in later that day. I have already told you some of it, how she spoke about her talk with Jenny and how I did her the disservice of feeding her conclusions. Now you understand why I was so incompetent.
After seeing Charlotte at eight thirty that Friday, I had been a bundle of nerves. Two patients came and went, and I faked interest in their problems. It was a morning of frivolity. Mrs. C was having a dispute with her neighbor over a fence. She was chronically depressed, but this was what she wanted to discuss. The neighbor. The fence. Mr. P had insomnia again. He didn’t want to take Ambien. I spent the hour addressing his moronic concerns. Do you or don’t you want to sleep? That’s what I wanted to say to him. But I did not. I exercised miraculous self-control, waiting for my wife to call.
She called at eleven fifteen. I took the call even though Mr. P was in my office. I told him it was a patient emergency. Lies, lies, lies.
I told the lawyer the sweatshirt was dark purple and that it had red letters, not a red bird. I did what you said. I told him I was so relieved.
“Did he believe you?”
I think so. He seemed to. He said they were interviewing three more kids today and that Jason wasn’t on the list yet. He spoke directly to Detective Parsons.
“Did he say how much time we have?”
He said it would be at least a week. But I think if we tell them he has a swim meet next Saturday and final exams that maybe we can push it back even more.
“Okay, sweetheart. That’s good.”
She paused. I could hear her sighing. She was tired from worrying all night. You’ll talk to him tonight?
“Yes. As soon as I get home. Make sure he doesn’t go out, okay?”
I will. And the clothes?
“What clothes?”
The clothes … the … oh. Okay.
“You see?”
Yes. I’ll go through the photos on the computer. You’ll get his phone?
“Yes. Tonight when we speak. And the social media. I’ll have him check everything.”
Okay. I love you.
“And I love you. Good-bye.”
This was all I had at the moment. Get rid of the clothes, that damn blue sweatshirt. Get rid of all pictures of Jason in the sweatshirt. He would have to be informed and then, based on what had happened that night, he would have to have a story. The world is not a just place. I have already said this many times. I am reminded of it every week when I go to Somers. I am reminded of it when I think about my patient, Glenn Shelby. I believe I’ve also mentioned that Shelby would eventually commit suicide.
That is not to say there is never justice, or fairness, or righteousness. It is to say, rather, that you cannot count on such things and so you must protect yourself any way you can. I knew I would have to sit with my son and open his eyes. I would have to explain to him that he does not remember what he wore to that party and that he was not near the woods and that he did not see the blue car or Cruz Demarco. I would have to explain to him that he doesn’t remember what happened to his blue sweatshirt, or if he ever had one. He has dozens of sweatshirts. I would have to explain that these small transgressions against the law and his own integrity were necessary for his survival in this unjust world. I told myself this was a good thing. It was giving me a chance to educate my son before something bad happened. I had started to calm down. Jason did not commit this crime, and now he would not be falsely accused by some low-life drug dealer.
My next call was to Detective Parsons. It was not prudent. I was not in the best state of mind. But I had access to the detective, to information, with an ongoing cover story, and I could not stop myself. Knowing about the inner workings of the mind, even one’s own, does not imbue the power to control it.
This call is what sent me over the edge.
Hey, Alan. Good to hear from you. Anything else on your end? Does she remember the blue hoodie?
“I haven’t seen her since the last session. That was Wednesday. She’s coming in this afternoon. I imagine Tom has told you about the last session?”
She had some kind of a flashback. She smelled bleach.
“It wasn’t a flashback. It was a memory. An actual memory of the actual event.”
Okay. Whatever you want to call it. It’s helpful. Too bad she didn’t see a face. She didn’t, right? So I was thinking we should be looking at the swim team again. A lot of swimmers were at the party that night. I got one of my men reading through the interviews from last year. I’m still waiting on a roster from the school—