Please direct all comments and inquiries to JRBurton5@hotmail.com
CHAPTER THIRTY
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I planned to drive for a few hours then stop for the night— continuing on to Breck the next day. But I just kept driving, and I got home that very night. On the way I called Cathy on my cell-phone. She was very relieved for me. Then I phoned Bret, who felt very much the same.
Back in Breck I went over to see Chad. No doubt he was wondering what had caused my sudden absence. But he was not at home. I left word with his housemate that I had an amazing story to tell him. Then I went back to my little room. Later that night Chad came over. He said that our Supervisor Kris had asked him about me— but Chad said he didn’t know anything, of course, which was exactly the truth. Then I told him everything.
He was stunned, too— as everyone before him had been. It’s a real bombshell, learning about such a thing. Well after listening to my tale, Chad said another of those things that are so right to the point and right to the heart that I recognized it as something I’d needed someone to say to me— but without knowing I’d needed anyone to say it. It was “I’ll bet you learned a lot about yourself through all of this”. Oh great and wise one, at the ripe old age of twenty-three. For that was exactly right— and so poignant, and so apt. Wow! I had indeed learned scads about myself, in fact: that I’m okay, no matter people like those Utah bastards tell me— and that I can face anything. That I’m strong, where I feared I was merely stubborn. That I have courage. And that I can fight like a wounded animal.
I thought I might then be able to tell my story to everyone— but Chad cautioned me against it. And on that he was probably right. It was better to keep biding my time— and to put it all in a book, perhaps. I told you he was a very good friend.
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Do you remember what I decided when I was still in Mammoth?: that even if Breck had a huge winter, while Breckenridge’s was small, that if I met the right people it would not matter at all. Well guess what happened? Yep: Mammoth and the entire Sierra Nevada had an epic winter. It was a relentless snowfall. During one three-day period Mammoth benefited nineteen feet of snow. NINETEEN FEET OF SNOW!
And what of Breck? Well, it was just okay. But by the grace of God— I did meet some memorable people— and for it, I am very happy. I feel very blessed!
Then Chad told me about some old troubles of his own. His story explained why he had so much insight… about learning so much stuff about ourselves through adversity, I mean— and about surviving pits of hell. I’m not at liberty to tell you about his tribulations, but I can report that what I learned about someone else by confessing my own troubles and what I learned as a result opened up a whole new portal of vision!
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In the days that followed I contacted other old friends too. Matt Plenge, for one— still back at Lake Tahoe. And Rick Taft, thus far, only mentioned in passing here. Matt knew my story already, of course, because I had told him when I’d been in Tahoe. I suspect he had told Rick Taft too, in the interim. Actually it was Rick who contacted me— so because of his timing there, I assumed he already knew. We didn’t talk about it though— not specifically. I just told him I’d been through something ugly. Honestly, as with several other people in this account, I could dispense with Rick entirely, in this re-telling— but he deserves a nod too— and I wanted to give it to him.
I heard from Osha too. She was pregnant, and taking a lot of trips to Las Vegas, where her soon to be baby’s father lived.
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Of course I had to deal with my employers. I told both of them the same lies: that a friend of mine had landed in some legal trouble, in Utah, and that I had to go there, to give him some support. I explained that there had not been much notice about it, because he’d been through several previous delays— and that he had expected still one more delay. To those who asked still more I said he’d finally taken a plea. Fortunately, no one asked me any more than that.
Neither of my employers particularly cared for my sudden departure, but an emergency is an emergency, I suppose they decided. I had already garnered some respect at Salt Creek because of the incident with Tim— so I think that helped me too. But I also like to think that Don had admired my loyalty: that I would risk it all to rush to the aide of a friend, I mean. And I would. But I didn’t. So there was some guilt for me there.
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Wally said he knew a woman Attorney in Denver who’d worked on the Kobe Bryant case, who could tell us which psycho-sexual evaluator in Colorado might give the most favorable recommendation.
A few days later he sent me a couple stapled compilations of something called “Adult Providers”, specific to the State of Colorado. Those are “Sex-offender counselors, or whatever they might otherwise be called. But properly euphemized.
His associate told him that for the situation I’d been involved with, that counsel-ing would be assured: that it was “automatic”— and I should probably count on a year.
He also opined that the terms of the plea agreement were rather loose, so that I could— theoretically— see one Provider, and if I didn’t like his recommendation, see another one! I could shop, in other words. And that was good and well.
But not at 1000 bucks a pop.
Actually it was $1250. I know because I phoned several of the Providers listed there. For that price I’d get the plethysmograph, the evaluation, and a lie-detector test. But since I had not been ordered to get a lie-detector test anyway, I thought I might get the necessary components more cheaply, if I shopped around.
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I have mentioned Kobe Bryant again. That means that this is as good a place as
any to update you on that case— and on all those other celebrity cases, I mentioned:
Kobe Bryant’s rape case was finally dropped. Rumors, however of a cash settlement with the “victim” abounded.
Martha Stewart did five months in the federal penitentiary for her insider trading conviction. And after she got out, what do you suppose she wore? Electronic fucking bracelets! Amazing! Like, where exactly was she gonna’ run?
Robert Blake was acquitted of the murder of his wife. The last I saw of him— on TV, I mean— he was pleading for a job.
Scot Peterson? He got the death penalty. You should never kill someone who has such a lovely smile!
Michael Jackson? Well he was acquitted on all counts. That was a few months later than all this. Few, I suspect, believe he was innocent of the types of things for which he was accused, but that should not be the point. His Prosecutor was a total prick too—like mine— and he wiped poor Michael out. But he has immunity for that, I’m sure!
Finally there was Phil Spector, the famous Record Producer, accused of murder, with big unruly hair. (No, big unruly hair was not an aggravating factor, there, but nonetheless, perhaps his “do” should be illegal.) But I don’t know anything about his case. It attracted far less attention, than those other five. (I have just learned however, that his case still has not gone to trial, as I write these very words— in Sept. of 2005!)
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Wally sent me a bill for $360 for his airfare. HIS GODDAM AIRFARE! Our initial agreement was that he would drive down for the trial. Obviously he’d decided to fly instead— so he could make his Supreme Court argument— after cutting short my trial. Then he billed me for the flight. Shit!
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On March the 10th I went riding with my friend Michael Lui. He was the guy I’d partnered with in ski school, who’d broken his nose in that bad fall. And as we rode up the ski life together, on this day, that subject of course came up again. From there the discussion turned toward insurance. I told you that while we’d trained he’d been fully insured— as was I. Any time an Instructor gets injured, he is also fully insured— as long as he is on the clock. But if we’re on our own time— if we’re just out free-riding, as they call it— then we are on our own. Anyway, I commented that my lack of insurance concerned me, but that the deductibles are $2500 on any premium I might afford. And I said that if I were to break an arm or a leg, that it would probably not even cost me that much. Michael Lui agreed for the most part, but added that there’s always the extreme situation like what happened to him.
Then we went free riding, in the terrain park. I really didn’t much care for the terrain park, because so many of the attractions there— the rails and the boxes— seem too artificial. They aren’t things you’d naturally find on a snowy hill. So I tended to avoid them. But doing most of my riding with a younger crowd I’d started to get sucked in.
We’d been working on our board slides, and I on my “180”s. Board slides are those cool tricks you see snowboarders do on metal boxes, that are set up on the snow. And 180s are turns made in the air: you jump facing one direction and land facing another. Good snowboarders can also do 360s, and every other multiple of 180, up to at least… I don’t know where— at least 1080. Anyway, I was just starting to get the 180s down, but my 170 cm. board was perhaps a bit too long.
In any event, it was on the board slide that I had my first problem. I fell on my own un-padded tailbone. Man, that hurts— and it was very sore. So I took of my thick shirt, and shoved it down my pants. Then I went back to attempting 180s, on a six-foot or so jump. I succeeded several times, too, I’m pleased to report. But on my last turn, something went awry. I think I did get around, and even landed the damned thing— but as I tried to turn back to forward, I came crashing down, like a mousetrap having sprung. I landed hard on my right shoulder. As soon as I made contact with the ground I knew something was wrong: that it was not just jarred, I mean, but probably dislocated.
I did not know it then, but Dave Miner had seen me crash. He came right to me and asked if I was all right. I told him I was not, and I asked him if he could relocate my shoulder. So he said yes, and hurriedly came close. “How do I do it?” he asked. Even then that struck me as funny because I was thinking dislocations were common and that people like him knew how to deal with them. And he was thinking I’d dislocated it before and could talk somebody through the relocation. So it was your basic communication snafu. Then he asked me if I’d like him to call Ski Patrol and I nodded my head yes.
They came for me, and took me by sled to the clinic.
It’s an interesting experience to be taken down the ski hill on a sled. Everyone you pass just has to look, though at the same time each of them is terrified of what they might see. So perceiving that all-too-human affinity, I made a point of waving to everyone I saw, to assure them I was not too badly hurt.
Anyway, it was a “third degree AC” that I had sustained. That means I broke my Acromioclavicular ligament clean through. And that meant surgery would be required, if it were to ever be the same. (Didn’t I wish I had that $2500 deductible insurance then? And don’t I wish I’d read our talking about that very topic in the morning as a sure and present omen? But noooo…!)
In a reversal of my previous experience at the clinic, this time it was Michael who came in to visit me! Dave Miner came in too— and so did another of my Supervisor’s, named Amy Sperlin (sigh). Lastly, Chad heard about it and came to visit too. So I felt well loved. But I was out of action— and perhaps for a long time! It would mean no Salt Creek, no Ski School, and no income, for a while. How much more fucked than that I could get I didn’t even want to ask.
The doctor gave me a sling, and a Tylenol, and asked if I wanted some kind of shot. I declined it though. I figured the Tylenol alone would cost me fifteen bucks— so I’d rather tough it out. But it didn’t even hurt, really— unless I moved. In any event, I didn’t have to take another pain killer, during my whole recovery. Don’t be too impressed by that, though: all it meant was that I hadn’t actually damaged any nerves.
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Back at the Gold Pan Saloon I encountered Laurie Haugen, who worked in the landlord’s office, on my floor. She was horrified by the sight of me— at that time, I mean— because my right shoulder was about six inches higher than my left. She urged me to look in the mirror, which I did— and I was horrified as well: I looked like Quasimodo— and I feared that I’d never look normal again. Not only that, but to add to all that anguish there came another thought: that it was that God himself had visited that injury upon me too— for having taken the devil’s deal!
That night I went to bed still wearing the same T-shirt I’d had on all day. So by the next morning— after all of that— I was intolerable, even to myself. I had to remove the t-shirt, and shower, if I could. But I figured I’d just shower with the sling still on. If I removed it, I’d be in agony in the shower, and wouldn’t be able to put it back on anyway.
I went into the bathroom across the hall. Well that bathroom has a light switch that also turns on the heater: and it’s a very hot and obnoxious heater at that, which blasts you when you’re standing at the sink. You cannot turn it off, either, without plunging yourself into darkness. So I knelt in front of that sink and tried to remove my shirt— but without taking off the sling. I tried coaxing and threatening it, really, until I could weave it off my head. So there I was, kneeling on the floor in front of that monstrosity, peeling my shirt through and around my sling, when I started to feel quite nauseous. I wanted to throw up. So I stood up to get away from it as fast as I could.
The next thing I remember I was waking up in a sitting position, on the shower stoop, which was a couple feet away from where I’d stood. And I had a gigantic welt on the side of my head. It was sore too, and remained sore for several days. Yes, I had passed out- but I don’t know for how long. And it occurred to me— as I retreated to my room— that that’s all the time it takes to be dead!
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I was in two minds about that arm injury. One of optimism: that after what I’d already gone through with the legal situation— and facing the rest of my life in prison— that it was not all that big of a problem. The other was a case of the doldrums, because my life would surely spiral down after that. I saw myself unable to work as a waiter anymore, or most anything else either. So I saw welfare roles for myself— and another squalid little room. But it would be in a seedy part of some big city— and forever.
The swelling went down rapidly, though, and soon I was able to use my arm again. Then I wanted to go back to work. But both my employers told me I’d need a Doctor’s note before I could return. That was no surprise, really. So I got that, and I was teaching Ski School again just twelve days after sustaining the injury.
Coincidentally, that day marked the one year anniversary of the preliminary hearing!
Salt Creek was not nearly so amenable to such a facile return, however. Maggie was reluctant to let me return. Perhaps she was afraid for me, carrying those heavy trays of food— and if that was her reason then I’m not sure she was wrong.
I finally went back to work there, but it was not until April—which means I missed most of the biggest month of the season. March, you see, is the biggest of the winter months. That’s because of Spring Break, and all that stuff!
I closed out that month by not winning the Lottery. Nor a snowboard race!
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Back at the Salt Creek only a couple days, I learned that the restaurant would close for two months in the middle of April. TWO MONTHS: AARRGH! They planned to remodel it, so they had no choice. But for me it meant that having just come back from unemployment, I would be cast into that role again. So what was I supposed to do? I guessed I would do what I always end up doing: I’d leave town. Either that or I’d eke out some marginal existence there, waiting for the restaurant to reopen. But no thanks to that.
I’d also been invited to that OARS whitewater rafting school, that I thought I could participate in now, and for it I had to be in the Sierra foothills in early May.
Besides, I had to be back in Oakland by the middle of June, for family activities, with so the idea of waiting two months for the restaurant to reopen, only to excuse myself again so soon was just to much to contemplate.
So the news of the restaurant closure pretty well decided my course.
One of those family activities was that Leslie and Jeff were planning to have their garage torn down, to have a better one built. (Maybe the next time I need to kill myself it will be more suitable for that purpose.) Therefore I would have to take my stuff out from its storage space, under the garage. I’d had stuff there for fifteen years. I told you they’ve always been good to me.
The other thing was that Chelsea was graduating from junior high, and her parents were planning a big gala. But it amused me that her Junior High graduation should meet with such hoopla, because I got far less recognition for graduating from High School. But my point is not to gripe about an old hurt— because it wasn’t a hurt at the time: it hadn’t even occurred to me that I might have a celebration. It was just a different era, I suppose.
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Liz told me that she and her boyfriend were going rafting in the Grand Canyon while the restaurant was closed. Their trip would last for three weeks! I was excited for her, but I was also so envious I could not stand it. That resurrected a hardly healed hurt…
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Pope John Paul II died, as I prepared to say goodbye to Breck. I don’t think that that was what killed him, though— but I like to include a little historical perspective, too.
I left Breck on the seventeenth of April. Seventeen is my lucky number— so that’s why I remember that. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon, I also remember, when I packed my car and left. I left the microwave in my room and gave my TV away. Then I drove to the middle of town to take some pictures. I hadn’t done that, the whole time I was there. I said a few quick goodbyes too— but I couched them in the idea that I might soon return.
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At that time there was a campaign by the credit card companies to change the bankruptcy laws: to make it more difficult for people to file bankruptcy. It was an issue that was very near to me, because that option was looming large in my life. My debts were out of control. I was about $40,000 in the hole. But seventeen-and-a-half of that was to my sister, on whom I would not default. As to the other twenty, though, well— I had to consider the advantages of bankruptcy. And the whole thing pissed me off. I’d spent years building up good credit. My three cards allowed me almost $30,000 worth. But the prospect of arm surgery, and another round of unemployment, meant that I was getting in way too deep. “Getting”, hell— I was already far too deep. So a new bankruptcy law could affect me very much.
Soon after that the new law did pass, just as one might expect: for a great deal of influence stood behind it. And the changes were set to take place exactly six months after the passage. That meant October 17th. The seventeenth again: my lucky number. Riiiight.
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On the way back to Oakland I ventured into Coloma, but I didn’t visit Sara there. I wanted to drop by— to see Eddie— and also because I had some things to say to her: that I’m sorry things turned out the way they had; that I had sincerely wanted to teach her that new CAD program; and that she really needed detox— and that goddam it, Sara— you just can’t treat people that way. Maybe all that would have been better said in a letter, though— and I should have sent one a long time before then. But having failed to do that, I figured that if I visited her— and asked how to find Paul Brookstein— that she’d think I was using her— again. I guess I was afraid of being shouted at again too.
So I tried to find Paul through other means. I went to a Fire Station, for one thing. And I asked for someone who’d been around awhile. I thought an old timer there might know who he was. But that avenue produced no fruit. Then I called the Highway Department. I figured that if what he’d said was true— that he had single-handedly compelled that turnout lane— that someone there would remember him. (As a thorn in their side, I suppose, but they’d remember regardless.) But that “avenue”— no pun intended— produced no fruit either. I did get a good suggestion, however: it was to contact a man who was on the County Council, who might for some reason have that information. So I copied down his address, and filed it away.
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After that I stopped at OARS, to ask about the whitewater class. I had phoned to ask about it a couple weeks before that— but I’d gotten no response. So I went to their riverside complex, and sought out the brass there. By chance, I found my old supervisor Andy, and reminded him about the invitation I’d received. But he said that it was already too late: their plans had changed, because of the enormous winter. Due to the enormous snowmelt, some of the rivers would actually be closed. Like the Tuolumne, for example, that I really wanted to guide on— once I got up to speed.
He said they’d only held a small white water class that year— and that a lot of the full-timers were returning too. So I didn’t figure in their plans. I suppose I should have taken that disclosure at face value too. But I suspected Ladd had gotten there before me. Ladd— Sara’s jealous mechanic— had bad-mouthed me, to them!
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Back in Oakland, I called Dave McKay, at the CRT warehouse, in Fredonia. I reminded him again of who I was— and I tried to sell myself to him anew. I told him that I do well with people; that the river feels like home, to me; that I am good employee; and that several places I’d worked for in the past had taken me back. I went on and on. But in response, he told me the same old thing: that he would put me on his list; that my phone number was still hanging in the warehouse. Yada yada yada. It felt like the same old shit.
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On the computer in Leslie’s basement, I continued with my legal research. During one of those sessions I researched the Civil rights Legislation. I wanted to know whether anyone had violated any of them. As far as Eric Lind was concerned, unfortunately, it would be unlikely to be a fruitful inquiry: he’d no doubt have immunity even for that. But what about Cora Singer? And what about Mark Fuhrman— er, um, Fisher, I mean?
I found US Code Title 42, sub-chapter 21. From the legal maze of torts enumerated there, I’ll cull the relevant passage:
“…or if two or more persons conspire for the purpose of impeding, hindering, obstructing, or defeating, in any manner, the due course of justice in any State or Territory, with intent to deny to any citizen the equal protection of the laws…”
Did that mean that I could sue someone who’d tried to intimidate me out of going to trial. Anyone?
Then I found Title 18, of the United States code, Section 241. There, in a section called “Conspiracy Against Rights”, I read:
“This statute makes it unlawful for two or more persons to conspire to injure, oppress, threaten, or intimidate any person of any state, territory or district in the free exercise or enjoyment of any right or privilege secured to him/her by the Constitution or the laws of the United States, (or because of his/her having exercised the same).
“This statute”? But what bizarre wording was that! Continuing anyway, I read:
Or, if two or more persons go in disguise on the highway, or on the premises of another….”
HEY: Wait a minute…Yep: something was amiss. Well it turned out that that archaic law was from the Civil Rights Act of 1871! That one’s known today as “USC 1983”— so don’t get confused and think that refers to the year it was written.
I include this not just for humorous relief, but also because I had not even known there was a Civil Rights Act passed in 1871— and I wonder if you did either. There were Civil Rights Acts passed in 1886, 1870, and 1885 too! All those, obviously, preceded the now famous one, passed in 1965!
It is also, unfortunately, wholly irrelevant here. I say “unfortunately” simply because it would make good camp, if we had something like that going on in this case: people going out on the highway in disguise, I mean! Or perhaps in sackcloth and ashes.
In any event, further civil rights research did suggest that not just a tort, but a federal crime had indeed been committed against me, by the rabid Prosecution. After that I was no longer certain that the prosecutor himself was immune, for attempting to intimi-date me out of going to trial. So my fight was far from over, and I was affirmed anew.
But that hope was not promising at all, on second look. Because the issue has been “visited” several times, by the United States Supreme Court. And there—believe it or not— in utter and complete abnegation of all ideals of fair play— and of all cautions against putting too much unaccountable power in the hands of a single person— that Court has ruled that the civil rights torts do not apply to Prosecutors. Not, that is, not when they are acting within the scope of their “core-duties as a Prosecutor”. You see, the Court held that the Congress did not intend for the Civil Rights Act to apply to them, or to their behavior— because “their immunity has been so long established in US custom that had the Congress meant to exempt them there it would have clearly said so.”
Unbe-fuckin’-livable!
Ah, but perhaps that is a worthy exemption, you might think. For without such an exemption, then every prosecutor could get sued for everything…and then they would be crippled by the fear of being sued— such that they could not perform their rightful duties. And to that argument even I would give a qualified agreement. And you might too. Until, that is, we look at the scope of activities that have been judged to be under that immunity mantle, for these assholes. It includes presentation of false evidence, sup-pression of exculpatory evidence, and using false witness to get their coveted convictions. See for yourself, if you must: I am not making this up! In fact, I would be delighted to learn that I am wrong about this stuff. So please look it up— and let me know I’m wrong.
All that being said and done, this exploration of these appalling allowances still says nothing about the type of person who would do these things— even if he is “allowed” to. I say it takes a psychopath. A lot of prosecutors are probably psychopaths, therefore.
Can you imagine what happens to a Defense Attorney caught doing those things?
The litmus test for this sort of thing— the case most often cited in its defense, that is— is called “Imbler v. Pachtman”, and dates from 1976. There:
“The Supreme court affirmed the decision of the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals dismissing a complaint against a state prosecutor alleged to have knowingly used false testimony and suppressed evidence favorable to the defendant. The Supreme Court held that a state prosecutor acting within the scope of his prosecutorial duties was absolutely immune to civil suit for damages EVEN IF THE ALLEGATIONS WERE TRUE!
(Italics and exclamation mine.)
At least Justice Byron White, while concurring with that travesty, expressed his concern about the wisdom of extending such immunity to unscrupulous prosecutors (my words). But then—anybody can register their “concerns”, while coming down on the wrong side of an issue, can’t they?
Hey Supreme Court: When are you gonna cut the bullshit and get this issue right?
I thought I’d found a contradiction— both troubling and affirming— in a case called Brady v Maryland. That case had been decided by the Supreme Court a dozen years before. In that case the high Court found that the State’s withholding of exculpatory evidence had denied a convict the “due process of law”. And hooray for that.
Whoops: there’s no hooray for that, on second thought, for all ruling did was invalidate the poor convict’s sentence— but not the conviction itself. Can you believe it? Fortunately the issue has returned to the high Court since then. And as of this writing, the immunity extended to the prosecutor has been pared down, a bit. For now the situation is that the prosecutor’s level of immunity differs depending upon the function he is engaged in for any particular act.
Those “functions” are divided into three parts: advocacy; administration; and investigation— aka evidence. And looking into all of that, I learned that prosecutorial immunity is a myth. (A myth promulgated, no doubt, by prosecutor’s themselves.) For as I read and understand the laws, prosecutor’s retain absolute immunity for “advocacy”, but only a qualified immunity for “evidence”. I’ll explain those in a moment. But let me stay with this digression until I’ve dispensed with a third function, called “administration”. That pertains to contacts with the press, and so on and so forth, so it does not concern us here. Nor can I speak to the configurations of immunity allowed those bastards there.
As to what “qualified immunity” means, here is what more than one internet site said: Government officials performing discretionary functions generally are shielded from liability for civil damages insofar as their conduct does not violate clearly estab-lished statutory or constitutional rights of which a reasonable person would have known. Harlow v. Fitzgerald… The Supreme Court in Anderson v. Creighton (1987), held that immunity from civil liability exists so long as the official’s “actions could reasonably have been thought consistent with the rights they are alleged to have violated.” Id. at 638.
Huh? In that regard, the Court explained this:
The contours of the right must be sufficiently clear that a reasonable official would understand that what he is doing violates that right. This is not to say that an official action is protected by qualified immunity unless the very action in question has previously been held unlawful… but it is to say that in the light of pre-existing law the
unlawfulness must be apparent.
I sort of understand that. But feel free to explain it to me anyway.
Oh, but there’s more:
Thus, the doctrine of qualified immunity extends to law enforcement officers a margin of error “when they navigate uncharted areas at the margins of constitutional criminal law”…
In other words, as long as those “margins” remain strategically murky they get to be psychopaths, right?
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Perhaps I’ve given that morass a bigger treatment than it deserves. Be that as it may, that (merely) “qualified” immunity regarding matters of evidence should be a good thing for me, right? I mean, the manufacturing of evidence and the subornation of perjury are hardly acts of advocacy, right? I mean, no surer examples of evidentiary matters could be imagined than those, correct? Wrong again. For after the prosecutor has filed a charge, even fabricated evidence falls under the mantle of “advocacy”. Such heinous behavior would only fall under the heading of “evidence” if the prosecutor manufactured it as a prelude to filing a charge.
In other words, if the DA plants evidence, then brings charge against you, he has no immunity for that behavior. But if he files the charge first— and then plants evidence to convict you of that charge— then he is fully immunized, for that. Believe it or not! I trust I don’t have to tell you the abuses that invites! Welcome to America, folks: where psychopaths gets free reign— and immunity— to break laws and shatter lives!
A final consideration is to ask what all this means in my particular case? Well it must surely be an overkill to say this again. But I want to say it anyway— for a specific reason. So I’ll introduce it like this:
It means that for presiding over the manufacture of the scratch(es), as he did, and for presiding over the subornation of perjury, as he did, that insofar as his goal in doing those was to intimidate and falsely convict me of the charges he had leveled, he has absolute immunity. And as far as I can tell, even withholding the fact that Corissa asked to come with me qualifies there as well.
And I want to hereby formally aver that the pond-scum piece of shit did exactly those things. And I invite him to sue me, if he wants to say it isn’t true. After all, the burden of proof is on him, then, for that!
All that being said and done you should know—as I learned, at last—that there is a big difference between civil rights and civil liberties. So it seems—by this new understanding—that I had been using the terms incorrectly. Here’s how an on-line lawyer explained the difference to me:
Be aware that civil RIGHTS law refers to cases relating in some way to some kind of illegal discrimination based on race, religion, sex, age or disabilities, either by private parties or by the government. Civil LIBERTIES refers to cases where some government or government-related body has overstepped its powers and violated some-one’s rights under the Constitution. If your concern does not fit into the basic description provided, it likely isn’t a civil rights issue and fits within another legal topic.
So it is my position that it was my civil liberties that were violated— although that distinction does not seem so clear in reading the statutes I have cited…
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I also wrote a letter to Cathy Johnson. She was the former Utah Attorney, you remember, now in Page Arizona— who’d brought the ACLU to bear, upon Kanab.
I started the letter intending to solicit names and numbers of people she knew of who’d been mistreated there. My purpose was to conduct a long distance investigation.
Perhaps my mistake was that I went on and on with my letter to her: the damned thing came in up at fifteen double-spaced…and beyond mere solicitation, I attacked every aspect of the Prosecution. I wrote eight lengthy bundles of questions too. And I rambled, you could say. Needless to say, she never wrote me back. But perhaps she wouldn’t have responded anyway. Indeed, this whole Cathy Johnson thing was yet another dead-end. But even though I got no response, just writing it helped me crystallize some thoughts. Some of it addressed new issues, you see— that I had not prior to that penning adequately considered. They were new ideas, that is— and new avenues— I had only thought of since the trial.
I will not bludgeon you with it in its entirety here. I’ll just admit that I revealed my private agenda there: my private agenda that would entail six things:
1) That this law be overturned by the courts (and not by the Legislature).
2) That I get a trial in the city of Kanab- for the Unlawful Detention with which I was originally charged— or have the charges completely dismissed.
3) That I gain compensation for the costs of this malicious, enabled Prosecution.
4) That the tactics and transgressions of these people get exposed.
5) That pertinent terms get defined and rules codified, to remove the arbitrariness from the process: so that Prosecutors and Judges cannot invent them as they go.
6) That people like Eric Lind become procedurally disempowered from ever doing this again, (and criminally and/or civilly prosecuted if it proves warranted.)”
Procedurally disempowered hell: I wanted Eric Lind to be disciplined, disbarred, disgraced, and whatever other d-words I could find that might apply*. But I’ll bet you know that much by now!
*Except “divorced”, I hasten to add, realizing that it starts with d. I still thought of marriage as sacred. But if Emily chose to leave the son-of-a-bitch I wouldn’t be too sad.
I also told Cathy I would like to receive an apology— and an admission— that I was persecuted out of all proportion to reason. But I will not be holding my breath for that, I said. (A coerced and dubiously well-intended apology? Well yes. Okay— I suppose I would accept one of those, just as Kanab mandated one from me. But I wouldn’t seek one from Eric Lind: an apology from him wouldn’t mean a thing.)
Then I asked Cathy oodles of questions, before finishing like this:
“I thought of you for two reasons, to which I later added a third. First is that you have had direct experience with the apparent corruption that goes on in the ranks of Ka-nab, and might be willing and able to help me with the exposure of these people’s “evil” ways. Secondly, I am guessing that as a result of some embittering experiences there, that you might actually relish the opportunity to participate in this process- perhaps even to address some old wrongs. Finally (and this is the one I thought of only recently): if I were to take this matter out of the state of Utah- as I think I must— either for civil purposes or for an appeals process— I think Arizona would be a very good choice of venue. (I don’t think that traveling to Flagstaff would impose an undue hardship on any of the characters involved— at least not compared to the prospect of traveling to other states— and certainly not compared to my half dozen forays to there.) I believe that finding a valid reason for questioning the four main players of the prosecution side would shake the truth out— and likely provide some heretofore unrevealed exculpatory evidence that I can use in a re-visitation of my case. It might also point to some transgressions regarding procedure…
But it is first of all as a resource for learning about other improprieties that I call upon you, Ms. Johnson. I am asking for your help. If you can provide names and phone numbers of defendants who got raw deals, for examples, or case numbers or files, or facts about ACLU interventions— or anything of that nature— I would thank you very much.
Additionally, or alternatively, if you could be of any help with any of those other ambitions— or can suggest or refer me to anybody who might be—I would be very grateful.
I suspect that most Lawyers would tell me to forget about it. Perhaps you would even do the same. But I cannot forget about it!”
I also called the Utah state bar. I inquired as to whether Eric Lind had ever had a complaint made against him. The woman who answered the telephone there told me that he had not. I did not leave my name.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
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It was the middle of May already, and I was running out of time to get my PS Evaluation done. That meant I was already running afoul of one of my plea-in-abeyance conditions. I couldn’t readily find a PS Evaluator in the Bay Area, however. None, that is, who administered a plethysmograph. Apparently when it came to that stuff, surprisingly to me, California wasn’t on the cutting edge.
So I called on Ron Rohlfes again— the man with whom I had previously done so much therapy, and who had been the Leader of my Men’s group. And he provided me with the name and number of a certain Psychologist whose name I have forgotten. But when I called the number it was a wrong one. So I contacted Ron again, and then got the number again. It was a right number that time, but the practitioner there didn’t do that test after all. And by that time another week had gone by. I hadn’t been proactive enough.
It occurred to me, however, that inasmuch as my Abeyance agreement had not been very specific— as Wally had pointed out— that I could split the damned thing in half: to have one person do the plethysmograph, that is, and have another finish up the duration of the testing. That way I could have some input in the matter: some control. That way, I mean, I needn’t feel all run over.
I finally located a couple mental health professionals who claimed they did PS testing. I called both of them— but neither of them used a plethysmograph, I learned. One of them told me that he had never even heard of it. I thought that very odd.
His name was Dr. David Pingitore and he had his own practice not far from where Leslie lived. But his location did not unduly influence my decision. It helped, of course, but it was a lesser factor. No, once again it was the quality of his voice, in part— on which I based my decision. It was also his overall presentation of himself that attracted me: I had the impression that he was someone I could work with: someone who was not in that “true believer” mold. So I decided to employ him for the “second half’. The post- plethysmograph half, I mean.
His rates were $130 an hour, though— to my great consternation. And he said that I could expect to spend four or five hours talking with him. Sheesh! Nothing is cheap.
He did not use a lie-detector test, though. Nor had I been instructed to get one, as you know. But that was not great news, because I wanted to take that test regardless. If those tests were really as useful as the Colorado people said they were— then I wanted to take one and get my responses on a record. I wanted to be able to silence my critics, in other words.
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For the PPG aspect of my testing, I found the name of Stuart Nixon. Apparently he was one of the doyens of California Psycho-Sexual testing: an old timer, who’d presided over it the whole era of PS ascension, I suppose. Something like that…or the whole scientificized witch-hunt, other people might say. In any event, he had one of those names that was spoken only in hushed tones of awe and reverence, it seemed.
That fact did not comfort me, though, for I was afraid he’d turn out to be one of those “true believers” types that I’d been warned about. But I contacted him anyway, since I was running out of time. Then we talked for a while on the phone, before we set up an appointment. And yes, he was a “true believer”, I could tell: he asserted that anyone even accused of inappropriate sexual behavior needed his style of counseling.
I clarified, however, that I only wanted him to conduct the plethysmograph part of the testing. I told him I had someone else in mind to do the rest. He agreed. Later I called again, about that— to make sure we were on the same page.
On the morning of the appointed date I tried to reach him yet again, to clarify what I was hiring him to do— but he didn’t return my call. So I drove down to his office anyway, in San Jose, for our appointment. His office was in a very nice tree-lined part of town: a part of town I hadn’t seen since I’d left school there, in 1982.
In any event, Stuart Nixon came in and summoned me to his office. We sat down and right away I tried to clarify the situation again, that is. But he’d have none of that. He was intending to give me the whole test himself. And he wanted to give me not just the plethysmograph, but also something called ABEL, which was a newer and better version of the plethysmograph test. He insisted that both of them were really necessary to get an accurate picture. And he said he refused to do the plethysmograph alone.
“So let me see if I understand this”, I asked him. “My mandate to take the plethysmograph has now become a mandate to get the ABEL test as well”.
Yes, it is, he insisted. Then he asked me to tell him some things about myself. But I demurred. I said I’d only contacted him about the one specific test, and that I’d bent over backward to try to emphasize that specific need as well— but that he had not re-turned my call. I said that if I started telling him things about myself, that that would be to acknowledge that I was engaging in some sort of psychotherapy with him, and that he might therefore rightly start the “clock”: but that— since he had no intention of complying with what I reasonably thought was our agreement— that I had no intention of starting that clock and paying him for his time. Maybe I was a little bit of an asshole, but I was in the right again. And I was still feeling adamant about my rights.
He asked me how he could assess what I was saying unless I told him something about myself. But that didn’t make any sense at all— so again, I demurred. It seemed like a waste of time. Finally he asserted that we’d had a misunderstanding; and that therefore I should only pay half. But I didn’t think we’d had a misunderstanding at all. In my mind, he was trying to railroad me. And besides, I was the one who’d had to drive so far.
Then he asked me what sorts of improprieties I was accused of. But as he asked that, a light bulb went on inside my head. So I asked “What difference does it make? If the test is valid then you don’t even need to know that”. I meant that if the test was a true measure of my sexual personae than he didn’t to be clued to it anything about the accusations in advance. It seemed to me that if he knew in advance what I was accused of, that such information would only act to prejudice his findings.
Well he insisted that he needed that information in order to know for what to test. And he didn’t just need to hear it from me, but to see police report too. I hadn’t thought of that factor either: that the test administrators would require the “criminal” information before they would conduct the test. So that reinforced my sneaking new perception too: that if they already have a notion of what someone’s accused of, that they’ll be sure to find that fault. That result would be more or less exactly what I’d been warned of— originally by Clayton: that “they always find something”.
“If I found out you were accused of being attracted to teenaged girls”, Nixon went on, “that really wouldn’t surprise me: Ninety-five percent of men are attracted to teen-aged girls”. Well that disclosure was very, very interesting. It meant to me that even if I evinced that attraction, that I would hardly be a deviant. But I was aware of the typicality of that attraction anyway, as you know if you have read this far. Nevertheless, it was good to hear someone in his position admit it.
(Uh, huh: until how recently were people like him insisting it was deviant?)
Then he tried to dazzle me with slowly enunciated proscriptions about personality tests. I couldn’t imagine any other reason he would have done that, I mean— than to impress me: like to convince me that he had the latest and most vital information, I suppose. Or maybe it was by way of analogy to the ABEL/PPG marriage, too. He said that the MMPI was worthless without some other corroborating test. I don’t even know what test he cited then, as the ying to the MMPIs yang— nor did it matter anymore. The point was that something in his delivery was as if he were portraying himself as being alone on the cutting edge: that legions of Psychologists out there were just charlatans compared with him. It was phony, though, and it seemed deceitful— and I was not the least bit dazzled. I did not buy his bill of goods.
I felt like he was trying to intimidate me too. But I can’t tell you how anymore. I just have the impressionistic memory of that manipulation being attempted on me— and of me parrying to his time-tested attempts. And his maneuvers left me cold. He even became angry at one point— or pretended to be angry, and indignantly asserted that “no one in twenty five years has”… done whatever I was doing— questioning him, I suppose. I guess no one in twenty five years before me had told him he’s so full of shit.
Finally I said to him “You just don’t seem like someone who can be argued with”. And to that he said” Fine— so you want someone you can argue with”. Then, before I left, he said to me” Don’t do this with your PS Evaluator. You will piss him off”.
Yeah, fuck you, you pompous blowhard was what I really thought.
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I got on the internet and looked again for plethysmograph administrators. I had better luck that time. I found about twenty of them, in fact— throughout the State of California. And the list provided me with their e-mails too.
I sent e-mails to most of them (less the one or two who were—inexplicably— still not on line.) I explained my situation, and I asked for a reply. I also made it clear that I needed the test done soon: it was late May, already— and I was getting nervous.
I only got two replies. The first one I don’t remember anything about. But the other was from a Wesley Maram, way down in Orange County— in Anaheim, specifically: home of Disneyland and the California Angels.
I called him right away. I reiterated my situation, and stressed my lack of time. “Aah— so you’re in trouble”, he mused. I liked his attitude immediately. Then I told him, in answer to his query— that the testing was mandated by a Utah case result. “Utah?” he asked, with faux incredulity. “Down there they lock you up in a box and throw away the key”. Yep: I liked the man. And I was doubly lucky: for he said he could do the PPG part only— and during the coming week. So I jumped at that, and set up an appointment. He suggested a hotel and admonished me to get a good night’s sleep before the test— and to refrain from using caffeine on the morning of the test.
Then he told me it would cost $1000! Shit! That meant that what I could have done in Colorado for $1250, was now looking to cost a couple grand. Maybe Clayton’s words had been prophetic after all: maybe I had truly been “too smart— by half”!
But I’d get it all back, I figured. I’d get it from the State of Utah… when I sue the pants off of them.
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So I was off to Anaheim. I took the coastal route, even though it was slower. I wanted to see some sights along the way.
I stopped in San Luis Obispo, where I hadn’t been for years. Back in the days when I’d wanted to be an Architect, I’d thought of going to school there. And what a pleasant town that was! The historic Mission alone was worth the trip. And the Coffee house I idled in was excellent too— with its crafted metal flowers in the courtyard. (Don’t worry about the coffee: it was not yet the night before the test). The used bookstores were pretty cool too.
I stopped in Santa Barbara too. Likewise, I had not been there for years. And likewise, I was charmed anew. But I digress— again.
Then I was in Anaheim. Yikes— greater Los Angeles: urban fucking sprawl!
I found a construction site beside the freeway, and slept in my car there. Nobody disturbed me. Don’t forget about my deaf ear either: I merely rolled over on the good one, as I’ve done countless times before. Doing that, I can sleep through almost anything.
In the morning I refrained from having any coffee— as instructed— so even though I had gotten a good night’s sleep, I was groggy when I got to his office.
Dr. Maram greeted me. He was about 50 years-old— tall, trim, and bespectacled. And his demeanor confirmed my impressions that he was a pleasant man.
I was required to pay him up front, of course.
He told me I could expect to be there for about four hours. I would spend that time sitting in a room all by myself— while he administered the test from an adjoining room. I expressed my concern that I’d have to look at violent pictures as part of the test- but he disabused me of that notion right away: he said it’s all conducted with auditory stimuli. I’d be listening to tape-recordings, in other words
Then, despite my private objections, I’d told him what I was accused of. The fact was that despite my recalcitrance with the Immortal Dr. Nixon, I was in a spot. So I figured that cooperation would be to my advantage- even if it meant being barraged with tape recordings of sexual situations favoring young girls. That was exactly what it was, too, by the way— for the most part.
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The plethysmograph— also known as the PPG— is effected by putting a little ring around the penis. Yes, my penis. The little ring is wired to some sort of recording device. that contraption purports to measure tumescence: the degree of penile arousal, that is. And do not think I like to talk about this stuff.
Dr. Maram left the room, fortunately, so that I could install the gadget on myself.
Then from his room he gave me some instructions about how to proceed: I was expected to push a buttons, for one thing, when I thought the situation being depicted was a violent one; and I was expected to estimating my own degree of arousal— as the tapes played, I mean. The scale of arousal ran from zero to one hundred: with zero representing the least arousal, and one hundred the maximum score. That expectation did not concern me, though, for I figured that the purpose of that was simply to see how attuned I was to my own arousal. Obviously, I reasoned, later he would compare my own estimates with the PPG generated ones – and interpret them appropriately.
So with all that wiring and instructing being accomplished, the plethysmographic testing commenced.
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I must have listened to more than a dozen tapes. Most of them described sexual scenarios with teenaged girls. Several of them involved pre-teens, too. In addition, several of the scenarios involved violence— almost all of which were narrated by some guy who sounded like a white-trash thug: he’d snarl things like “You little bitch”, and “I’ll teach you a lesson” at the girls as the scenarios unfolded. So those were appallingly violent, really, in every case— and inhumanly violent in one: for on one tape the perverted white trash son-of-a-bitch actually killed the girl. Yikes!
Fortunately— but unsurprisingly— there was nothing stimulating about those scenarios— or not to me, at least. It’s difficult to imagine that they could be stimulating to anyone. But I know better than that— and I do not want to understand it anyway: the price of understanding that would surely be too high!
Anyway, I wasn’t being the least bit stimulated, by any of those awful tapes. But he played some teen-aged sexual scenarios too. They were less overtly violent, thank God, but they were somewhat coercive nevertheless. Those didn’t excite me either.
A funny thing happens to a man in there, though: in that room, hooked up like that. Or perhaps I’m being too general. Perhaps I should just say that a funny thing happened to me in there” because the whole environment is hypnotic. How it hypnotizes, I really can’t be sure. Oh, I’ve considered that Dr. Maram pumped some kind of gas in there, but I really think that’s nuts. But something strange was going on anyway: you see, the instructions he had given me were absolutely simple— he’d told me to push a button when a violent scenario was going on. Yet under the influence of that environment, I couldn’t get it right. And it confused my mind.
So after listening to a few of those tapes. I started second guessing: I decided that he must have been playing the same kind of scene over and over for a reason— and that it was not because he thought I was aroused. On to contrary, I suspected, it must have been for the opposite reason: that it was for lack of arousal that he kept barraging me with the same damned thing. (he wasn’t finding, perhaps, what he was supposed to find.)
I also remembered that Stuart Nixon told me that almost every man responds to nubile teenaged girls. So I reasoned that I was being less than honest. After that I made effort to participate in the scenarios— and I gave myself some scores.
I retain a little confusion here about specifics. But I remember that the first score I gave myself was despite having felt no arousal to it— nor to any previous tape. In other word, at that point I’d had nothing to compare that score to. I’d just said to myself: well there must be some arousal…Looking back, I surmise that that tape had featured a teen-aged girl in a sexual situation. Again, I don’t remember exactly, anymore. But I know he played several other such tapes after that— and that I deliberately allowed myself to enjoy the fantasy, in one of those. That one did feature coercion— but only after the coercion part was done did I endeavor to enjoy it. Then I gave myself another score. What score? I don’t know. But to one of those scenarios I gave myself a thirty.
He continued playing coercive and violent scenarios, involving pre-pubescent girls and teens, until I asked him to stop playing them. I figured it isn’t healthy for anyone to listen to such things.
He played a couple tapes that involved adult women too. I scored by far the highest on those— I’m pleased to report. That was both by my own estimate, and by his device! It was interesting, though, that no coercion was used in those. But why not? If I liked forcing people into sex, then wouldn’t I enjoy coercing adults too? So the whole process was already exposing itself to me as conspicuous— for what it did not do. It seemed like a test with an agenda.
The last two tapes involved a boy and a girl. Or they arguably involved a boy and a girl, that is: for in both those scenarios the narrator introduced the fantasy sexual partners as being “just the age you like them”. And as he said that, he sounded like he was licking his chops. The problem with that, though, was that the age I like my “girls” could be anywhere from eighteen to forty-eight. So what the hell was I supposed to do? It was crazy. So I imagined her as twenty one— “just the age I like her”— but I could as easily have made her forty-one. Then I enjoyed the sexual scenario, and scored myself for it. I figured I’d be able to explain my thinking to Dr. Maram later, and that he would factor that information in.
Then, for the tape featured the boy, who was also “just the age (I) like him”, the problem was even more imposing— for I don’t go for boys— or men— of any age. But could I still try to enjoy it? Maybe. I didn’t know. I mean, what if I focused on the sensation and ignored the rest? And besides, what the hell anyway? The salient thing to keep in mind here is that I was trying to get an accurate test result. So if I could enjoy that scenario then so be it— I was open to finding out. So I imagined him as a young twenty— something too. It turned out to be just a masturbation scenario anyway, so I “lied back” and enjoyed it.
By the way, there was nothing coercive in either of those scenes either. But I don’t know how I scored myself on either of them: by then it was too late then to care. I was tired, and I’d lost my last morsel of faith in it all with those “just the age you like him” things.
Then the test was done. Dr. Maram said he could see that I was drowsy. Or he could “tell”, I mean— since from his adjacent room he presumably couldn’t see me.
As we reconnoitered in the front room, I made those necessary comments about the tapes. For starters, I expressed that while listening to a number of the tapes, I had found myself arguing with the white-trash perpetrator: saying “you sick bastard”, and “that’s totally wrong”, and things like that. My message was that not only was I not enjoying them but that I was actually opposing them as well. Maybe that would be useful, somehow— as if, for example, my readings on those had been abnormally low.
To that he said “Yeah-but in some cases your arousal readings climbed after the tape had stopped.”
Even in my groggy state I recognized that result as a problem— but the problem was not with me. Not directly, I mean. It was a problem for the procedure itself: for if the reading continued climbing after the completion of the tape, then he could not know the specific reason it was climbing— he could only assume that it was a direct correlation to the stimuli on the tape that had been played. That was how I saw it, anyway. Couldn’t a man have shifted his attention, by then— to some other scenario, I mean? That was just a general speculation— but I also had a more specific concern pertaining to me: That was that even if Dr. Maram assumed that my rising reading was a direct response to the most recent tape, he couldn’t conclude that it was to the tape as a whole— as indeed it was not- instead of to just some specific part? Remember that I had endeavored to enjoy that scenario with the coerced teen— but only after that coercion part was over. What I mean, then, is that by that late rising reading he could not conclude anything about the pure coercion part! That was how I saw it.
But on the other hand, perhaps the fact that it was a late reading it would reinforce that claim: that my arousal had not been to the coercion part at all, which had precluded the sex— that my response was to the stuff that came after that coercion, as I said!
It also seemed so pseudo-scientific, then— and ridiculous as well. And in its muddled methodology I thought I understood why that test alone could not prove anything— heh heh— just as Dr. Nixon had asserted!
Yes, I know Dr. Maram is a so-called “expert”. And perhaps his expertise already enfolded all those concerns… maybe all that stuff had been thought of already — and somehow factored in. I would see about that, perhaps. But I doubted it.
(I imagined they would gloss over some of those concerns by relying on a raft of convenient “assumptions”. I knew enough about science to have a certain sense for such things: I smell rats, in any so-called science, when too-glib assumptions come into play.)
I also expressed my misgivings about those last two tapes. I said that I had made those “just the age I like them”-s twenty-one, and twenty-three. But to that he said curtly “Yeah— but it says that it’s a boy and a girl”. So that sealed it— I was right: he’d already swept my objection away.
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Then we sat down, while he summarized some of the implications of the test. He said that I had shown some arousals of concern— in a couple situations. He said that while my scores were highest— by far— for adult women, that there were some responses to coercion scenarios involving underage girls. But I was suspicious— so I asked which scores he had used on those evaluations “Oh, these were your own estimates”, he said. MY OWN ESTIMATES!
So that pseudo-scientific evaluation utilized my own scores! Um Hmm! And that was after Dr. Nixon told me that virtually every man responds to teenaged girls!… Well what do you want to bet that he used my scores because my scores were higher than those registered by him: that had his scores been higher he would have used those instead. Yep: they use the scores that are most incriminating. (And how much do you want to bet that they couch all their pseudo-scientific consequences into a mantra called “we’re just making sure”?)
So the crimino-psychologico apparatus was rolling— down the middle of my life!
Then he asked me a couple questions about Corissa herself. Well I told him I still didn’t believe she was mentally incompetent— but I did tell him that what she’d said had left me quite disturbed. “Where would she have even gotten that language?” I asked him, rhetorically. I meant about “making a baby”— and about “doing it two or three more times”.
“Yeah, well mentally retarded people are parroting, and concrete”, he spat. And he waved his hands around as he said that, as though his circles illustrated the point.
I was preparing to say something as he spoke but it was his words that stuck in my mouth instead— and slowly eclipsed my own thoughts. No one had said anything like that to me before that moment. No one, that is, who knew anything about the mentally-retarded had filled me in about that fact. So the hollow ring of truth reverberated through my head again. My eyes dropped to meet his, and only slowly focused there. Then I stared at him for a minute, before I finally said “I know what parroting means…” My sentence trailed off, as an invitation to explain “concrete”. He didn’t, though, but even lacking that explanation I’d already gleaned this much: that some of Corissa’s behavior had been utterly typical. In outline, I mean.
And she’d parroted some things so well that I hadn’t even noticed it…
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He asked me why a 45 year-old man would even want to have sex with an 18 year-old girl. But at that I just looked at him again. I wondered why ha was even asking me that? Such a liaison would be legal—and had she been that age I wouldn’t have even landed in his office on this day. So I wondered why a legally mandated PPG Evaluation would even include such a question?
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Later I pondered why he hadn’t tested me for a slew of other things: homosexual attractions, for example. The glib answer is because homosexuality is legal activity. But that is hardly the point… Sex with grown women is legal too— but he played some tapes about that. And while homosexual activities are indeed legal, forcible ones are not. Neither are forcible heterosexual ones, for that matter—with grown women…but he’d played none of those scenarios either! And why didn’t he test me for pederasty— instead of just pedophilia. Or vice versa…whatever the fuck it is. I mean why didn’t he test me for attraction to boys, I mean— in coercive scenarios? So for lack of those, how accurate a PS Evaluation can it really be?
My point—that I fear I am beating to death— is that a real PS evaluation— an unbiased, untutored, comprehensive one—would be looking for all of that stuff— wouldn’t it? So for lack of those answers, can they really confidently conclude very much?
Instead all he’d really done— to any real extent— was test me for that which I’d been accused of. Then—consistent with the behavioral model of which I had been warned— he concluded that I evinced evidence of that.
So what agenda did they really serve? But I think I’ve already answered that.
