"Dr. O'Brien," Fisher asks, "when did Mrs. Frost first come to your office?" "On December twelfth." At ease on the stand-as he should be, for
all the testimony he's given in his career-the psychiatrist relaxes in the witness chair. With the silver hair at his temples and his casual pose, he looks like he could be Fisher's brother.
"What materials had you received before you met with her?"
"An introductory letter from you, a copy of the police report, the videotape taken by WCSH-TV, and the psychiatric report prepared by Dr. Storrow, the state's psychiatrist, who had examined her two weeks earlier."
"How long did you meet with Mrs. Frost that first day?"
"An hour."
"What was her state of mind when you met?"
"The focus of the conversation was on her son. She was very concerned about his safety," O'Brien says.
"Her child had been rendered mute; she was frantic with worry; she was feeling guilt as a working mother who hadn't been around enough to see what had been going on. Moreover, her specialized knowledge of the court system made her aware of the effects of molestation on children . . . and more anxious about her son's ability to survive the legal process without significant trauma. After considering the circumstances that led Mrs. Frost to my office, as well as meeting with her in person, I concluded that she was a classic example of someone suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder."
"How might that have affected her mental stability on the morning of October thirtieth?"
O'Brien leans forward to address the jury. "Mrs. Frost knew she was heading to court to face her son's abuser. She believed wholeheartedly that her son was permanently scarred by the event. She believed that testifying-as a witness, or even at a competency hearing-would be devastating to the child. Finally, she believed that the abuser would eventually be acquitted. All this was going through her mind, and as she drove to the courthouse, she became more and more agitated-and less and less herself-until she finally snapped. By the moment she put the gun to Father Szyszynski's head, she could not consciously stop herself from shooting him-it was an involuntary reflex."
The jury was listening, at least; some of them were brave enough to sneak glances at me. I tried for an expression that fell somewhere between Contrite and Shattered.
"Doctor, when was the last time you saw Mrs. Frost?"
"A week ago." O'Brien smiles kindly at me. "She feels more capable of protecting her son now, and she understands that her means of doing it was not right. In fact, she is filled with remorse for her previous actions."
"Does Mrs. Frost still suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder?"
"PTSD isn't like chicken pox, which can be cured forever. In my opinion, however, Mrs. Frost is at a point where she understands her own feelings and thoughts and can keep herself from letting them overwhelm her. With subsequent outpatient therapy, I believe she will function quite normally." This lie cost Fisher, and therefore me, two thousand dollars. But it is worth it: Several members of the jury are nodding. Maybe honesty is overvalued. What's truly priceless is picking out from a stream of falsehoods the ones you most need to hear.
Nathaniel's feet hurt, and his toes are frozen in his boots. His mittens are in the playroom, so the tips of his fingers have turned pink, even buried in the pockets of his jacket. When he counts out loud, just to have something to do, the numbers hang in front of him, curled in the cold.
Because he knows better, he climbs over the guardrail and runs into the middle of the highway. A bus zooms by, its horn flaring as it swerves into the distance.
Nathaniel spreads his arms for balance, and begins to walk the tightrope of the dotted line.
"Dr. O'Brien," Quentin Brown says. "You believe Mrs. Frost feels capable of protecting her son now?"
"Yes, I do."
"So who's she going to pull a gun on next?"
The psychiatrist shifts in the chair. "I don't believe she'll go to that extreme."
The prosecutor purses his lips, considering. "Maybe not now. But what about in two months . . . two years? Some kid on the playground threatens her son. Or a teacher looks at him the wrong way. Is she going to spend the rest of her life playing Dirty Harry?"
O'Brien raises a brow. "Mr. Brown, this wasn't a situation where someone looked at her son the wrong way. He had been sexually molested. She believed that she knew beyond a reasonable doubt who'd done it. I also understand that the individual who was eventually identified as the real perpetrator has since died of natural causes, so she certainly no longer has an alleged vendetta to fulfill."
"Doctor, you reviewed the state psychiatrist's report. Isn't it true that you reached the exact opposite conclusion that he did, regarding Mrs. Frost's mental state? That he not only deemed her competent to stand trial but also believed she was sane at the time of the offense?"
"Yes, Dr. Storrow did indicate that. But this is the first evaluation he's done for a court. On the other hand, I've been a forensic psychiatrist for over forty years."
"And you don't come cheap, do you?" Brown says. "Isn't the defense paying you for your testimony today?"
"My fee is two thousand dollars per day, plus expenses," O'Brien answers, shrugging.
There is a stir in the back of the courtroom. "Doctor, I believe you used the words 'she finally snapped.'
