London
Nestled between a row of red oaks, one lone pine stands amid downtown New Castle’s courthouse district. I sit on the courthouse steps, watching the pine’s thin branches flutter in the light breeze.
It doesn’t belong. Not sure how the tree got here, how it sprouted up in the middle of so much civilization, and it will most likely be cut down soon. Replaced with another red oak or birch to perfectly line the street.
But it’s here.
I used to stare out the bay window of my house at the pines. We had tall, tightly packed skinny ones that would creek and bow in storms. And I would stare, just stare into the dense blankness of it all—the way the pines would sway back and forth, rocking themselves to some melody. As if they were self-soothing in the midst of all the violence.
That sight should’ve been a comfort. It shouldn’t have frightened me.
But because there is comfort, there is turbulence. You fear it more acutely when the threat of it is pending, when it’s near—the anticipation of our worst fears is more paralyzing than the impact.
There is no shelter from the storm.
I pick up my coffee cup and briefcase, and head into the courthouse, where I wait to be called. My suit feels warm on my skin from the sun, the air-conditioned room causing me to shiver. I drain and toss my cup as the bailiff calls my name.
I sense his eyes on me the moment I enter the courtroom. I aim my gaze ahead as I follow the bailiff to the front. He holds the gate open for me, and I give a curt nod before I’m standing next to the judge.
“Raise your right hand.”
I’m sworn in and take my seat at the stand. I’ve done this same action so many times it’s habit. Formulaic. Yet everything about it this time is different. I can sense the judgment from the prosecution in a way I’ve never felt before. I’m tethered to the defendant, tied to him with a connection that screams to be severed.
The lights are amplified. The sounds too loud. The air too thick.
“Hello, Dr. Noble.”
The defense attorney blocks my line of sight to Grayson before I’m tempted to look.
“How are you today?” he asks.
“I’m fine, thank you.”
“Good. Glad to hear.” After a brief rundown of my credentials, he asks, “Can you tell us how long you evaluated Mr. Sullivan?”
The lawyer is youthful and attractive. I notice the way the jury leans forward, attentive to him. His fresh face and amusing mannerisms are a welcome distraction to the heaviness of this trial.
“Nearly three months,” I respond.
“And is this a sufficient amount of time to diagnose a patient?”
“Yes. Generally, I’m able to provide a full diagnosis and treatment plan for patients within a two-week period.”
“Then why did Mr. Sullivan require a longer evaluation period?”
I straighten my back. “Midway through my initial evaluation, I noticed signs of severe delusion that I felt needed a closer assessment.”
I’m going off script. Mr. Young stares at me curiously, then walks to the defense table and grabs the folder that contains Grayson’s evaluation.
“What is Mr. Sullivan’s official diagnosis?” he asks.
“Mr. Sullivan exhibits antisocial personality disorder. He scored on the extreme high end of the spectrum for this personality disorder, which classifies him as a dangerous personality. He suffers from sadistic symphorophilia, which means he derives sexual gratification from staging and watching brutal disasters. As a sadist, Mr. Sullivan gleans pleasure from the suffering of others, and his particular psychopathy allows him to be a highly skilled manipulator.”
The attorney blinks, looks at the prosecution, as if he’s awaiting an objection. There will be no objection from that side of the courtroom during my testimony.
Mr. Young starts again, trying to find a thread of our original correspondence. “Dr. Noble, did you not verbally state that Mr. Sullivan is a model inmate. That despite his disorder, he was not a threat to anyone in prison, as it lacked the chaos to feed his particular psychopathy?”
I smile. He has a good memory, recalling what I relayed to him of my conversation with the Attorney General. “Yes, that’s correct. I did say those words to the prosecution. But that was in the middle of my final evaluation. As I’ve stated, Mr. Sullivan is an expert manipulator, and thus more time is needed to effectively diagnose him and determine the level of danger he presents.”