They talk about the upcoming Bruins season, and the way it feels like snow already. They debate the merits of the Midwest, where the businessman lives, versus New England. Caleb doesn't know why he is not telling the businessman the truth-but prevarication comes so easily, and the knowledge that this man will buy anything he says right now is oddly liberating. So Caleb pretends he's from Rochester, New Hampshire, a place he has never actually been. He fabricates a company name, a product line of construction equipment, and a history of distinguished achievement. He lets the lies tumble from his lips, gathers them like marker chips at a casino, almost giddy to see how many he can stack before they come crashing down.
The man glances at his watch and swears. "Gotta call home. If I'm late, my wife assumes I've wrapped my rental car around a tree. You know?"
"Never been married," Caleb shrugs, and drinks the Talisker through the sieve of his teeth, like baleen.
"Smart move." The businessman hops off the stool, headed toward the rear of the bar, a pay phone from which Nina has called Caleb once or twice when her own cell phone's battery died. As he passes, he holds out his hand. "Name's Mike Johanssen, by the way."
Caleb shakes. "Glen," he answers. "Glen Szyszynski."
He remembers too late that he is supposed to be Irish, not Polish. That Stuyvesant, who lives here, will surely pick up on the name. But neither of these things matters. By the time the businessman returns and Stuyvesant thinks twice, Caleb has left the bar, more comfortable wearing another man's unlikely identity than he feels these days in his own.
The state psychiatrist is so young that I have a profound urge to reach across the desk separating us and smooth his cowlick. But if I did that, Dr. Storrow would probably die of fright, certain I mean to strangle him with the strap of my purse. It is why he chose to meet me at the court in Alfred, and I can't say I blame him. All of this man's clients are either insane or homicidal, and the safest place to conduct his interview-in lieu of jail-is a public venue with plenty of bailiffs milling around.
I have dressed with great deliberation, not in my usual conservative suit, but in khaki pants and a cotton turtleneck and loafers. When Dr. Storrow looks at me, I don't want him to be thinking lawyer. I want him to remember his own mother, standing on the sidelines of his soccer game, cheering him to victory.
The first time he speaks, I expect his voice to crack. "You were a prosecutor in York County, weren't you, Ms. Frost?"
I have to think before I answer. How crazy is crazy? Should I seem to have trouble understanding him, should I start gnawing the collar of my shirt? It will be easy to deceive a shrink as inexperienced as Storrow . . . but that is no longer the issue. Now, I need to make sure that the insanity is temporary.
That I get, as we call it, acquitted without being committed. So I smile at him. "Call me Nina," I offer.
"And yes."
"Okay," Dr. Storrow says. "I have this questionnaire, um, to fill out, and give to the court." He takes out a piece of paper I have seen a thousand times, fill-in-the-blanks, and begins to read. "Did you take any medication before you came here today?"
"No."
"Have you ever been charged with a crime before?"
"No."
"Have you ever been to court before?"
"Every day," I say. "For the past ten years."
"Oh ..." Dr. Storrow blinks at me, as if he's just remembered who he is talking to. "Oh, that's right.
Well, I still need to ask you these questions, if that's okay." He clears his throat. "Do you understand what the role of the judge is in a trial?"
I raise one eyebrow.
"I'm going to take that as a yes," Dr. Storrow scribbles on his form. "Do you know what the role of the prosecutor is?"
"Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea."
Do you know what the defense attorney does? Do you understand that the state is trying to prove you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt? The questions come, silly as cream pies thrown at the face of a clown. Fisher and I will use this ridiculous rubber stamp interview to our advantage. On paper, without the inflection of my voice, my answers will not look absurd- they will only seem a little evasive, a little strange. And Dr. Storrow is too inexperienced to communicate on the stand that all along I knew exactly what he was talking about.
"What should you do if something happens in court that you don't understand?"
I shrug. "I'd have my attorney ask what legal precedent they were following, so that I could look it up."
"Do you understand that anything you say to your lawyer, he can't repeat?"
"Really?"
Dr. Storrow puts down the form. With a perfectly straight face, he says, "I think we can move on." He looks at my purse, from which I once pulled a gun. "Have you ever been diagnosed with a psychiatric illness?"
"No."
