Born Bad (30 page)

The judge leaned down from the bench. With his thick mane of white hair and rimless glasses, he looked like Central Casting for the part.

"Doctor, so what you're saying is that motivation is the key?"

"Yes I am, your honor. And Mr. Wilson has displayed a high level of such motivation. In fact, he consulted our program before he was ever arrested, much less convicted."

The prosecutor slapped the table in front of him. "Sure! But he knew he was about to be indicted, didn't he, doctor?"

"I have no way of knowing what was in his mind," I replied mildly. "And the source of the motivation is far less significant that its presence."

"So what's this 'cure,' doctor? What's this wonderful 'treatment' of yours?"

"The treatment is multimodality. Not all pedophiles respond to the same inputs. We use groupwork, confrontation, aversive therapy, insight–orientation, conditioning, even libido–reducing drugs when indicated."

"How much were you paid for your testimony today, doctor?"

The defense attorney leaped to his feet. "Objection! That isn't relevant."

"Oh, I think I'll allow it," the judge said. "You may answer the question, doctor."

"I was paid nothing for my testimony today, sir. I evaluated Mr. Wilson, provided a report to his attorney, a copy of which has been furnished to you. I charge my time at seventy–five dollars an hour. I haven't sent in a bill yet, but I imagine the total will come to around fifteen hundred dollars."

"No further questions," the prosecutor snarled.

I nodded, waiting patiently

"It's just amazing…the way you predicted everything the prosecution would do. Hell, I thought we were dead in the water on this one. Told Wilson he could expect to do about five years in the pen. And here the judge hands him probation on a platter."

"Psychiatric probation," I reminded him.

"Yeah, I know. He has to stay in treatment with you for the full term or he goes inside. But so what? It's a better deal than he would have gotten in the joint."

"I kept my word?" watching him carefully.

"You surely did, my friend. And don't think I've forgotten about our arrangement, either. Here you are, just like I promised."

The check was drawn on his escrow account. Fifteen hundred dollars. I put it in my attaché case along with the ten thousand in cash lying next to it on his teakwood desk. As agreed.

"This won't be easy," I told him. "We have to remake you, start from the beginning. And we begin with honesty, all right?"

"Yes, that's what I want. Honesty. I didn't see much of it during my trial."

"Tell me about that."

"Well, the boys lied. I don't mean about…what we did. But about how they felt about it. You know what I'm saying? I didn't force them…
any
of them. It was love. A special love. All I wanted to do was be something special to them. A loving, special friend. That D.A., he turned it into something ugly. The jury never heard my side of it."

"How did it start?"

"With that boy Wesley…the first one to testify. When I first met him, he was eight years old. And you never met a more seductive little boy, always wanting to be cuddled. He doesn't have a father, you know. I mean, it's natural for a boy to seek love."

"I know."

"And I loved him. Why should that be a crime? I never used force, never hurt him even once."

"How do you feel…about being prosecuted?"

"I feel like
I'm
the victim. I did nothing wrong—it's the laws that are wrong. And, someday, you'll see, the laws will change. I mean, kids have rights too, don't they? What good is the right to say 'no' if they don't have the right to say 'yes'?"

"The law says they're too young to consent to sex."

"That's a lot of crap. Kids know what they want. You know how willful they can get, how demanding. I've been around kids all my life. That's the way they are."

"Okay, look. Your problem is a simple one, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You got caught."

"But…"

"That's your problem, Mr. Wilson. You got caught. And our treatment here, it's to guarantee it doesn't happen again."

Suspicion glazed his eyes. "How could you do that?"

"First of all, we set the stage. You'll get therapy for a while, learn how to talk the talk. Then, eventually, you'll be relocated. You'll never be able to live around here after what happened. Never get a job working around kids. But, after a while, you'll be able to move to a new town. And start over."

"Is this a trick?"

"No trick. I know my business. And I'm smart enough to know it's all a matter of packaging. This is America. Whatever we
call
things, that's what they become. And what they're going to call you is 'cured,' understand?"

He nodded, dry–washing his hands, still apprehensive. "You said something in court…about drugs…"

"Don't worry about it. Sometimes a court insists on DepoProvera…so–called 'chemical castration.' But that's not a problem here. And even if it were, we could give you one of the androgen group, reverse it almost instantly."

"My lawyer said it would be real expensive."

"Oh yes. We're the only clinic in the country that provides this range of services, but look what you're getting for your money…no victim confrontation, no shock treatments, no encounter groups, no drugs. Just preparation for how you're going to…successfully…live the rest of your life. And you don't spend a day in jail. Pretty good, isn't it?"

"How did you…?"

"Get into this? It's easy enough to understand. While I was still in medical school, I realized that pedophile treatment is the growth industry of the nineties. The money's great, the malpractice premiums are low, and there are other benefits too."

"Like being paid in cash," he said, smiling the sociopath's smile.

"Like that," I said, holding out my hand for the money.

"I sure have. In fact, I've been corresponding with a few boys in an orphanage in Florida. You know, counseling them about their problems. I've been offered a job down there, and I'll be leaving as soon as my lawyer gets me released from probation."

"Good. There's just one more thing. You've never really apologized to the boys, and most therapists think that's a key element in treatment."

"I don't want to…"

"No, of course you won't have to see them. What would really help persuade the court is a letter from you to the boys…just telling them you understand what you did, how you take full responsibility. Like we taught you, remembers Urge them to go on with their lives, and promise they'll never see you again, okay''

"You think it'll work?"

"I'm sure it will work. I know these people. Write me out a couple of drafts, and I'll stop by tonight when I'm done with the last group and look them over. Then we'll pick the best one."

"Thanks, doc. You saved my life again."

I took the steps to the twenty–sixth floor, not even breathing hard. I don't get to work out at the dojo anymore, but I like to stay in shape.

Wilson had a half–dozen samples ready for me, all in his educated handwriting on personalized light blue stationery. He stepped out onto the balcony to smoke a cigarette while I read them through. Finally, I found one that was suitable.

His signature was strong, self–assured. I left the letter I selected on his desk. Then I went outside to join him on the balcony.

The night was warm, velvety dark. City lights winked below, quiet and peaceful.

"Was that what you wanted, doc?" he asked.

"Perfect," I said, patting him gently on the back. "Look out there, Mr. Wilson…see your future."

He leaned over the balcony. I knife–edged my right–hand, swept it into a perfect power–arc to the back of his neck, followed through with the blow, spinning on my right foot and sweeping him over the side with my left hand.

He didn't scream on the way down.

I stepped back inside, dialed 911, told them he had jumped. While I waited, I tore the other letters into small bits and flushed them down the toilet.

Treatment works.

We were coming from the Arcade, where we play. Game Boys play video games. Every crew plays something. You are what you do. The Scooter Boys all ride. The Magic Girls do potions. I even heard about a crew out in Brooklyn, the Cricket Boys. West Indians, I think they are.

Anyway, this bum was staggering down the platform. We were waiting on the Uptown Conveyor—we saw him coming. Just a bum. In a long, floppy coat. Burns have no style. We spread out in a fan, the way we do with outsiders. The bum had to walk real close to the tracks to get past us. Rajah was the closest. The bum turned kind of sideways to get past. His hands were shaking. He had a bottle in a paper bag. Some of the wine bubbled out. Red wine. It splattered on Rajah's jacket, right on the white sleeve with the four Tron–marks branded in blue.

Everybody went quiet then. Nobody can touch our jackets, Rajah just looked at the bum with his mouth open. Like it couldn't be happening.

I took out my blaster. It's really just a pistol, a little .25 caliber automatic. Chrome, with a pearl handle. From the old days. We all have them. You have to have one to be a Game Boy. We call them blasters, like in the video games.

I never shot it before. The Conveyor was coming. I pointed it at the bum and pulled the trigger. It didn't make much noise, like a little pop, but the bum grabbed his chest like he'd been stabbed. I kept pulling the trigger, thinking
"Zap!"
in my head, like I was wasting a whole army of Trons. I felt the rush you get from wasting, running right through me. A perfect score means a free game.

The bum fell down. Rajah kicked him until he went over the side, onto the tracks.

We walked away, smooth. Game Boys don't run.

The next day, it was on the Info–Board in every station. The bum who got done. The sensors light up in the Sanitation Tunnel, and the Squad goes out, finds the dead ones. They had the bum's number on the Info–Board. A low number—he must have been a real old one.

Merlin gave me the idea for the mark. Like we do for Trons. Rajah had four. On his sleeve, where you wear them. You get a Tron–mark for a perfect game. Rajah had four—it was the most of any of us, so he was the leader. Anyway, Merlin said I should have a mark…for blasting the bum.

Rajah said that was bogus. Only Trons counted. Merlin said a bum was like a Tron, only harder, maybe. Some of the Game Boys went with Rajah, some went with me. It was a true dispute.

We went to the Arcade to settle it. Game Boys don't fight each other, it's the rules. None of the crews fight each other. I heard they used to, years ago, before the Terror. Before everybody lived underground.

The thing about burns, they don't have crews.

If they catch you fighting now, they put you on the Hydro–Farm for a year. A whole year, and you don't get any tokens for it.

If you kill someone in a crew, they put you Outside. The crews never fight each other anymore.

In the Arcade, Rajah always wins. He's sharper than me. Faster, with better eyes. But that night I was better. I beat him right at the end, when I fired a laser–combo into the Tron breeding center.

So I got to wear the mark.

For a couple of weeks, I was the only one.

Then Turbo came to the Arcade and said he got one too. A bum. Turbo said he shot him in the back near a Feeding Station.

It was on the Info–Board, but the Dead Score never says
how
they die—they just put the number up. So we didn't know, not for sure. Some of the Game Boys didn't believe him, but Turbo wanted a mark anyway.

He had to play me for the mark, and I beat him, so he didn't get one.

Merlin said we had to have new Rules. My mark was okay, because all the Game Boys saw me earn it. We have to have Rules, like the game, so everyone has the same chance.

When we went out on the stalk, everybody knew what Turbo would do. He blasted a bum right in front of us. He got his mark.