Our eyes met. She shot me a quick smile tinged with anxiety. Not unlike the look she’d given me when I served on her doctoral committee and she was about to take her orals.
Just behind her was Michael Heck. Five-ten, thickset and powerfully built, with a deep tan not suggested by his DMV photo. He wore an unstructured tweed sport coat over a nutmeg-colored T-shirt, black skinny jeans, brown Nikes. His eyes avoided us as he followed Wendy and the leader of the pack.
Bettina Bel Geddes’s strut was fashioned to let the world know she was in charge. Ditto for her jewelry: diamond earrings, gold bangles, a serious diamond ring on her left hand. Five-foot-five or so in bright-yellow sandals with four-inch heels, she was a green-eyed redhead and had pushed that fact with a cardinal-red skirt suit. The skirt ended six inches above her knees. A lot of women have stopped wearing stockings but Bel Geddes had opted for black hose nubbed by tiny red roses.
Her face was smooth with the calculated beauty of an anchorwoman. The eyes were sea-green, nothing like Milo’s traffic lights. Perfectly mascaraed, with a penchant for flashing that she employed as she studied me. Raising her eyebrows, she shook her head and sat down at the head of the table.
“If you’re Delaware, there’s no need for introductions.”
I smiled.
Bettina Bel Geddes said, “Okay, then let’s get going,” and drew a tiny tape recorder out of her purse. “I’ll be recording these proceedings.”
Milo produced a nearly identical recorder from his attaché case. “Great.”
Bel Geddes said, “Hmm. I suppose I can’t stop you. Though you could always just request a copy.”
“Easier this way, Counselor.”
“Hmm. All right, we proceed.”
Click click of both recorders. Smooth duet, as if choreographed.
Bel Geddes said, “MisterSturgis.” Meaningful stare. “Before I allow you to question Michael I’m informing you of the ground rules. You will be respectful of Michael and nothing you broach will imply any sort of wrongdoing on Michael’s part. We all know wherethatled. Abject failure to find the real killer and severe psychosocial ramifications for Michael.”
She looked at Heck, frowned when he remained impassive, and turned to Wendy.
“A brief summary, please, Dr. Allemande.”
Wendy glanced at me and licked her lips. “I’m still evaluating but the gist is that Michael has experienced some of the common sequelae of incarceration—”
“Needless incarceration,” said Bettina Bel Geddes. “A brutal process based on incorrect assumptions.”
She frowned again as Wendy said, “Basically, there have been problems with sleep and mood.”
I nodded.
Heck began drumming his fingers on the table. Not comfortable with being described as a patient.
Bel Geddes said, “Howareyou sleeping, Michael?”
“Getting better.”
“But not back to normal.”
“It can get a little sketchy,” said Heck.
Bel Geddes said, “In any event, we’ve documented post-traumatic symptoms.”
“Not PTSD,” said Heck. “When I was in the service I saw plenty of guys with that but I wasn’t one of them. This is more like…”
Bel Geddes said, “The sequelae of injustice. Which is a form of PTSD, albeit different from what was observed while offering service.”
Taking a moment to let that sinkin.
No one reacted. Including Heck.
“All right then. It took an unwarranted incarceration based on utterly faulty assumptions to bring you to a place where you hadn’t been before.”
