Quantum Night Read Free

could have played chess for a man’s soul. “Who are you?” he asked, a slight drawl protracting his words.
    “Jim Marchuk. I’m a psychologist at the University of Manitoba, in Winnipeg.”
    Becker curled his upper lip. “I don’t wanna be part of any damn experiment.”
    I thought about saying, “You already have been.” I thought about saying, “The experiment has been done time and again, and this is justanother pointless replication.” I even thought about saying, “If only this were an experiment, we could pull the plug on it, just like Zimbardo finally did at Stanford.” But what I actually said was, “I’m not here to conduct an experiment. I’m going to be an expert witness at your trial.”
    “For the defense or the prosecution?”
    “The defense.”
    Becker relaxed somewhat, but his tone was suspicious. “I can’t afford fancy experts.”
    “Your father is paying, I’m told.”
    “My father.” He sneered the words.
    “What?”
    “If he really cared, it’d be him, not you, sitting there.”
    “He hasn’t come to see you?”
    Becker shook his head.
    “Has any of your family?”
    “My sis. Once.”
    “Ah,” I said.
    “They’re ashamed.”
    Those words hung in the air for a moment. The
New York Times
front-page article about the Savannah Prison guards had been headlined “America’s Shame.”
    “Well,” I said gently, “perhaps we can convince them not to be.”
    “With psychological bullshit?” He made a
“pffft!”
sound through thin lips.
    “With the truth.”
    “The truth is my own lawyer says I’m a psychopath. Norman Fucking Bates.” He shook his head. “What the hell kind of defense is that, anyway? Y’all must be out of your minds.”
    I didn’t have much sympathy for this guy; what he’d done was horrific. But I
am
a teacher: ask me a question, and I’m compelled to answer—that’s
my
nature. “You killed someone in cold blood, and the court would normally call that first-degree murder, right? But suppose an MRI showed you had a brain tumor that affected your behavior. The jury might be inclined to say you couldn’t help yourself and let youoff. You
don’t
have a tumor, but my research shows that psychopathy is just as much a clear-cut physical condition and should likewise mitigate responsibility.”
    “Huh,” he said. “And do
you
think I’m a psycho?”
    “I honestly don’t know,” I replied, placing my briefcase on the wooden table and snapping the clasps open. “So let’s find out.”
    —
    “Professor Marchuk, were you present when my learned opponent, the District Attorney, introduced one of her expert witnesses, psychiatrist Samantha Goldsmith?”
    I tried to sound calm but,
man,
this was nerve-wracking. Oh, sure, I was used to the Socratic method in academic settings, but here, in this sweltering courtroom, a person’s life was on the line. I leaned forward. “Yes, I was.”
    Juan Garcia’s chin jutted like the cattle catcher on a locomotive. “Sitting there, in the third row, weren’t you?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Do you recall Dr. Goldsmith giving a clinical opinion of the defendant, Devin Becker?”
    “I do.”
    “And what was her diagnosis?”
    “She contended that Mr. Becker is not a psychopath.”
    “And did Dr. Goldsmith explain the technique by which she arrived at that conclusion?”
    I nodded. “Yes, she did.”
    “Are you familiar with the technique she used?”
    “Intimately. I’m certified in administering it myself.”
    Juan had a way of moving his head that reminded me of a hawk, pivoting instantly from looking this way to that way; he was now regarding the jury. “Perhaps you can refresh the memories of these good men and women, then. What technique did Dr. Goldsmith employ?”
    “The Hare Psychopathy Checklist, Revised,” I said.
    “Commonly called ‘the Hare Checklist,’ or ‘the PCL-R,’ correct?”
    “That’s right.”
    A quick pivot back toward me. “And, before we go further, again,