In fact, her whole Byzantine project with Ernest was turning into a quagmire. Sooner or later, Jess would have to bring her up in his therapy, and then Ernest would learn the truth. And her goal of discrediting Ernest, of putting him out of business, and rupturing his relationship to Justin no longer made much sense. Justin had faded into irrelevance, and Ralph Cooke and Zweizung had receded again into the past. Any injury to Ernest would result in nothing but pain for Jess and, ultimately, for her. Rage and revenge had driven Carol for so long that now, without them, she felt lost. Whenever she contemplated her motives—and she did so more and more—she felt confused about what she was doing and why she was doing it.
Nonetheless, she continued, as though on automatic pilot, to be
3 2.4 ' ^ Lying on the Couch
sexually seductive with Ernest. A couple of sessions ago, during their parting hug, she pulled him tightly against her. He immediately froze up and said sharply, "Carolyn, it's clear you still want me to be your lover, just the way that Ralph was. But it's time now for you to drop it. Hell will freeze over before I get involved sexually with you. Or with any of my patients!"
Ernest had immediately regretted his testy response and, the following session, returned to it.
"I'm sorry about my sharpness last session, Carolyn. I don't often lose it like that, but there's something so strange, so driven, about your persistence. And so self-destructive, it seems to me. I think we can do good work together, I'm sure I have much to offer you— but what I don't get is why you continue to try to sabotage our work."
Carol's response, her entreaties about needing more of him, her references to Ralph Cooke, sounded hollow even to her, and Ernest responded hastily: "I know this must feel repetitious but, as long as you keep pushing against my boundaries, we've got to keep going over it, time and time again. First, I'm convinced that becoming your lover will ultimately be harmful to you—I know you believe otherwise and I've tried every way I know to persuade you. You cannot believe that I might have genuine concern for you. So today I'm going to try something else. I'm going to talk about our relationship from my own selfish point of view, from the perspective of what's good for me,
"The bottom line is that I'm going to avoid acting in a way that will cause me pain later on. I know what the ultimate result of any sexual involvement will be for me: I will feel bad about myself for years to come, probably forever. And I'm not going to treat myself in that manner. And this doesn't even touch upon the legal risks. I could lose my license. I've worked too hard to get where I am, I love what I'm doing, and I'm not willing to jeopardize my entire career. And it's time for you to start to examine why you're asking this of me."
"You're mistaken. There is no legal risk," Carol countered, "because no legal action can exist without a claim being filed, and I will never, never do that. I want you to be my lover. I could never harm you."
"I know you feel that way. Now. But there are hundreds of claims filed every year and in every case—without exception—the patient
Lying on the Couch ^ 3 2.5
once felt exactly as you do at this moment. So let me put it very frankly and very selfishly: I am behaving in my own self-interests!"
No response from Carol.
"Well, that's about it, Carolyn, I've laid it on the line. I can't be clearer. You have a decision ahead of you. Go home. Think deeply about what I've said. Believe me when I tell you I will never be physically intimate with you—I am dead serious about it—and then decide whether you still want to continue to see me."
They parted on a somber note. No hug. And this time, no regrets on Ernest's part.
Carol sat down in Ernest's waiting room to change into her running shoes. She opened her purse and read over some of her session notes:
urges me to call him "Ernest," to phone him at home, says that I am attractive in every way, sits next to me on sofa, invites me to question him about his personal life, caresses my hair, says that if we met elsewhere he'd want to be my lover . . .
She thought about Jess, who would be waiting for her in front of Green's Restaurant. Goddammit. She tore up the notes and took off running.
TWENTY-FIVE
arshal's visit to Bat Thomas, the private investigator Carol recommended, started off promisingly. He looked the part: craggy-faced, wrinkled clothes, crooked teeth, sneakers, slightly overweight and out of shape— probably the result of too much alcohol and too many sedentary stakeouts. His manner was brusque and tough, his mind powerful and disciplined. In his office, a rugged fourth-floor walkup off Fillmore, sandwiched between a produce market and a bakery, the necessary accoutrements were all in place: a sagging, battered green leather couch, bare wood floors, and a scratched-up wooden desk with a book of matches wadded under one leg to prevent tottering. Marshal enjoyed running up the stairs—he had been too agitated to play basketball or to jog the past few days and missed his exercise. And, at first, he liked talking to the straight-shooting investigator.
Bat Thomas was entirely in agreement with Carol. After hearing
Lying on the Couch ^ 32-7
Marshal describe the entire incident—including his anguish about his stupidity, the magnitude of the loss, and his terror about public exposure, he commented, "Your attorney's right—she rarely misses and I've worked with her for years. The guy's a pro. I'll tell you what part I like: that bit about the Boston surgeon and asking you to help him work on his guilt. . . hey, hey, dynamite technique! Also buying your silence with that thirty-five-hundred-dollar Rolex—cute stuff, very cute! An amateur would have given you a fake watch. And taking you to the Pacific Union Club—great! He got an angle on you. Quick. You gave something away. Sharp guy. You're lucky he didn't take more. But let's see what we can get on him. You got any other names he's mentioned? How'd he get to you in the first place?"
"Said that a friend of Adriana's had recommended me," Marshal repHed. "No names given."
"You've got phone numbers for him and his fiancee? I'll start with those. And his phone number in Zurich, too. He had to provide some identification to have gotten the phone service, so let me track that down today. But don't get your hopes up—probably bogus. How'd he travel? You see a car?"
"Don't know how he arrived at my office. Rented car? Taxi? When we left the RU. Club he walked to his hotel—just a couple of blocks. How about tracking the University of Mexico fax?"
"Faxes lead nowhere, but give it to me and I'll take a look— undoubtedly he made up a logo on his computer and faxed it to himself or had his girlfriend fax it. I'll track down their names and see if they light up anything in the NCIC computer—that's the National Crime Information Center. I got someone who, for a small payoff, can get into the computer to look him up. Worth a try, but don't get your hopes up—your man's using an alias. He probably does this three or four times a year—maybe only with shrinks. I've never heard of that M.O. before but I'll check around. Or he might go after bigger money—surgeons, maybe—but even with small fry like you, he nets four or five hundred K a year. Not bad when you consider it's tax-free! This guy's good; he'll go far! I'll need a retainer of five hundred just to start."
Marshal wrote out a check and asked for a receipt.
"Okay, Doc, we're in business. I'm gonna get right to it. Come back this afternoon around five or six and we'll see what we have."
3 2 8 ^ Lying on the Couch
That afternoon Marshal returned only to learn that nothing had panned out. Adriana had obtained a phone service by using a stolen Arkansas driver's license and credit card. Peter had paid cash for everything at the Fairmont Hotel and used a phony American Express card as collateral. The faxes all originated locally. The Zurich phone was set up with the same AMHX card.
"No leads," said Bat. "Zip! The guy's smooth, very smooth—you gotta respect him."
"I get the picture. You like this guy's work. I'm glad the two of you are getting along so well," said Marshal. "But remember /'m your client, and I want to nail him."
"You w
ant him.^ There's only one thing to do—I've got friends in the fraud squad. Let me go to them, have lunch with my friend Lou Lombardi—he owes me. We can check out similar cons, other shrinks or docs who have been done to the same way—the wealthy, grateful, cured client, the insistence on rewarding the miracle-working surgeon, the Rolex, the memorial lectureship, the overseas investment, and the guilt about past unsuccessful tips to docs. That line is too good not to have been used before."
"Go after the bastard any way you can."
"There's a hitch: you got to go with me to file a complaint—it's the San Francisco fraud squad territory; you made the transaction in this city. But you've got to use your name, and there's no way it can be kept from the press—can't be done—you gotta be prepared—you know that newspaper shit —some newspaper heading like
psychiatrist's wallet shrunk by EX-PATIENTr
Marshal, holding his head in his hands, groaned. "That's worse than the swindle—it'd ruin me! Newspaper accounts of my accepting a Rolex from a patient? How could I be so stupid? How could I?"
"It's your money and your call. But I can't help you if you tie my hands."
"That fucking Rolex cost me ninety thousand dollars! Stupid, stupid, stupid!"
"Let up on yourself. Doc. No assurance the fraud squad could track him . . . chances are he's out of the country. Here, sit back, let me tell you a story." Bat lit up a cigarette, tossing the match on the floor.
"Couple of years ago I fly into New York on business and to see my daughter, who just gave birth to my first grandchild. Nice fall
day, crisp weather, Tm walking down Broadway around Thirty-ninth or Fortieth thinking maybe I should've brought a gift—kids always thought I was stingy. Then I see myself in a TV monitor on the street—some lowlife hawking a brand-new mini Sony camcorder for a hundred and fifty bucks. I use these all the time in my work— they run around six hundred. I knock him down to seventy-five, he sends a little kid running off, and five minutes later an old Buick drives up to the curb with about a dozen camcorders in original Sony packing boxes on the backseat. They're looking furtively around all the time, telling me that typical shit about them falling out of a truck. Stolen, obviously. But greedy asshole that 1 am, 1 buy it anyway. I give 'em the seventy-five bucks, they take off, and I take the box back to the hotel. Then I begin to get paranoid. I was a key investigator in a megabucks bank fraud case and had to stay clean. Felt I was being tailed. Once back in the hotel I get even more convinced I'm being set up. I'm afraid to leave the stolen camcorder in my room. I lock it in a suitcase and check it downstairs in the hotel. Next day I pick up the suitcase, take it to my daughter's home, cut open the brand new Sony camcorder box, and there it is: a big brick!
"So, Doc, lighten up on yourself. It happens to pros—to the best of us. You can't live a life always looking over your shoulder, always thinking your friends are going to screw you. Sometimes you're just going to be unlucky enough to be in the way of a drunk driver. Sorry, Doc. But seven o'clock—I got a job tonight. Send you a bill later, but your five hundred will just about cover it."
Marshal looked up. For the first time he truly understood that he had been robbed of ninety thousand dollars. "So? That's it? That's what I get for my five hundred bucks? Your quaint little tale about the brick and the camcorder?"
"Look, you been picked cleaner than a rat's ass, you come in here without a clue, without a lead, with nothing . . . you ask my help— I give you five hundred bucks of my time and my staff's time. It's not like I didn't warn you. But you can't tie my hands—not let me do my job—and then bitch you're not getting your money's worth. I know you're pissed. Who wouldn't be? But let me go after him with everything I got or you gotta drop it."
Marshal remained silent.
"You want my advice? The meter's turned off—no further charge for this: kiss that money off. Consider it one of life's hard lessons."
"Well, Bat," Marshal said over his shoulder as he walked out of
3 3° ^-^ Lying on the Couch
the office. "I don't give up that easy. That fucker's picked the wrong
guy."
"Doc," Bat called down the stairs as Marshal descended, "if you're thinking of playing Lone Ranger—don't! That's guy's smarter than you are! A whole lot smarter!"
"Fuck you," Marshal muttered as he walked out of the doorway onto Fillmore.
Marshal took a long walk home, carefully considering his options. Later that evening he acted decisively. First he called Pac Bell and arranged for the installation of another home phone Hne with an unlisted number and voice mail. Next he faxed an ad to be placed in the next issue of the American Psychiatric Association's Psychiatric News, sent weekly to every psychiatrist in the country:
WARNING: Are you treating a brief therapy patient (WM, wealthy, attractive, forty, slender) for problems with children and fiancee, involving estate dispersal and prenuptial arrangement, who offers great investment opportunity, gifts, endowed lectureship? You may be in great danger. Call 415-555-1751. Absolutely confidential.
TWENTY-SIX
ights were especially hard for Marshal. He could sleep now only with the help of heavy sedatives. During the day nothing could halt the continual reliving of every minute he had spent with Peter Macondo. Sometimes he sifted through the debris of his memory for new clues, sometimes he played out revenge fantasies in which he ambushed Peter in the woods and beat him senseless, sometimes he just lay awake excoriating himself for his stupidity and imagining Peter and Adriana gaily waving as they whizzed by in a new ninety-thousand-dollar Porsche. Nor were the days easy. The sedative hangover, despite double espressos, lasted till noon, and it was only with the greatest effort that Marshal could get through his hours with patients. Again and again he imagined breaking his role and intruding into the analytic hour. "Stop whining," he wanted to say. Or, "You couldn't get to sleep for an hour—you call that insomnia? I was awake half the fucking night!" Or "So, after ten years, you saw Mildred in the gro-
3 3 2- ' ^ Lying on the Couch
eery store and once again you had that magical feeHng, that little pang of desire, that little flash of fear! Big deal! Let me tell you what pain is."
Nonetheless, Marshal carried on, drawing what pride he could from the knowledge that most therapists suffering his level of distress would have long since thrown in the towel and called in sick. When the going gets tough, he reminded himself, the tough get going. And so, hour after hour, day after day, he sucked in the pain and gutted it out.
Only two things kept Marshal going. First, the lust for revenge; he checked his voice mail several times a day hoping for a response to his ad in the Psychiatric Netcs, hoping for some trail that would lead him to Peter. Second, his soothing visits with his attorney. An hour or two before each appointment with Carol, Marshal could think of little else; he rehearsed what he would say, he imagined their conversations. Sometimes, when he thought of Carol, his eyes filled with tears of gratitude. Each time he left her office, his burden seemed lighter. He didn't analyze the meaning of his deep feelings for her—he didn't much care. Soon, weekly meetings were not enough, he wanted to meet two, three times a week, even daily.
Marshal's demands taxed Carol. She soon exhausted all she had to offer as an attorney and was at a loss as to how to deal with Marshal's distress. Finally she decided that she could best fulfill her Good Samaritan vow by urging him to see a therapist. But Marshal would have none of it.
"I can't see a therapist for the same reasons that I can't have any publicity about this whole business. I've got too many enemies."
"You think a therapist couldn't maintain confidentiality?"
"No, it's not so much a question of confidentiality—more a question of visibility," Marshal replied. "You have to consider that anyone who's going to be of use to me will have to be analytically trained."
"You mean," Carol interrupted, "no other type of therapist but an analyst could help you?"
"Mrs. ... I wonder if you mind if we go on a f
irst-name basis? Mrs. Astrid and Dr. Streider sounds so stiff and formal, considering the intimate nature of our discussion."
Carol nodded her approval, not failing to remember Jess's comment that the only thing he disliked about his therapist was his for-
Lying on the Couch ^" 3 3 3
mality: he had snorted at Jess's suggestion of using first names and insisted on being addressed as Doctor. . . .
"Carol . . . yes, that's better . . . tell me the truth—can you see me consulting some flake therapist? Some past-lives specialist, or someone who's drawing diagrams of parent, child, and adult on a portable blackboard, or some young cognitive therapy jerk trying to correct my faulty thinking habits?"
"Okay, for the moment assume it is true that only an analyst could help. Now continue your argument: Why does that present such a problem to you?"
"Well, I know every analyst in the community, and I don't think there's one who could assume the necessary neutral attitude toward me. I'm too successful, too ambitious. Everyone knows I'm on course to become president of the Golden Gate Psychoanalytic Institute and that I've got my sights on national leadership."
"So, then, it's a question of envy and competition?"
"Of course. How could any analyst maintain therapeutic neutrality toward me? Any analyst I saw would secretly gloat about my misfortune. I probably would if I were in their place. Everyone likes to see the collapse of the mighty. And word would get around I was in therapy—in a month everyone in town would know about it."
"How?"
"No way to conceal it. Analytic offices are clustered together. Someone would spot me in the waiting room."
"So? Is it a disgrace to be in therapy? I've heard of people speak with admiration of therapists still willing to work on themselves."