Chapter 16
PERJURY
LONDON
Nestled between a row of red oaks, a lone pine stands in the heart of downtown New Castle’s courthouse district. I sit on the courthouse steps, watching as its slender branches sway gently in the breeze.
The tree doesn’t belong. I’m not sure how it got here, how it sprouted up in the middle of so much concrete and uniform landscaping, 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.
When I was little, I used to sit by the bay window of my house and stare out at the pines.
Tall and slender and tightly packed, they would creak and bend in the storms. I’d watch, hypnotized, as they swayed back and forth, rocking themselves to an unheard melody.
As if they were self-soothing amidst all the violence.
That sight should’ve been a comfort. It shouldn’t have frightened me.
But because there is comfort, there is fear. And fear is more acute when the threat of the storm is looming, when it’s near. The anticipation of our worst fears coming true is more paralyzing than the impact of the storm itself.
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 is still warm from the sun, the blast of the air-conditioning sends a shiver across my skin. I drain my cup, tossing it as the bailiff calls my name.
The moment I enter the courtroom, I sense his eyes on me. Keeping my gaze aimed ahead, I follow the bailiff toward the front. He holds the gate open, and I give a curt nod as I push through and step toward the witness stand.
“Raise your right hand,” the bailiff instructs.
After I’m sworn in, I take my seat in the witness box. I’ve done this so many times it’s become habit—and yet, everything about this time feels different.
I feel the weight of the prosecution’s judgment in a way I never have before. I’m tethered to the defendant by an invisible thread—one that pulls too tightly, begging to be severed.
The lights are amplified, intense. 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 it.” 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.
“Just under three months,” I reply.
“Is that a sufficient amount of time to accurately diagnose a patient?”
“Yes,” I say. “Typically, I’m able to provide a comprehensive diagnosis and treatment plan 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 observed signs of severe delusion that required closer assessment.”
I’m going off script. Mr. Young stares at me curiously, then walks to the defense table and finds the folder that contains Grayson’s evaluation.
“What is Mr. Sullivan’s official diagnosis?” he asks.
“Mr. Sullivan exhibits antisocial personality disorder,” I say.
“He scored at the extreme high end of the spectrum, classifying him as a dangerous personality. He suffers from sadistic symphorophilia, which means he derives sexual gratification from staging and observing brutal disasters. As a sadist, Mr. Sullivan gleans pleasure from the suffering of others. Combined with his psychopathy, this makes him extremely skilled in manipulation.”
The attorney blinks, glances at the prosecution, as if he’s expecting an objection. But 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 state that Mr. Sullivan has been a model inmate? That despite his disorder, he poses no threat within a prison environment because it lacks the chaos necessary to feed his particular psychopathy?”
I let an easy smile frame my lips. Young has a good memory, recalling the details of my conversation with the Attorney General that I relayed to him.
“Yes, that’s correct,” I answer honestly. “I did say this to the prosecution, but that was in the middle of my final evaluation. As I’ve stated, Mr. Sullivan is an expert manipulator, therefore additional time was required to accurately diagnose him and determine the level of danger he presents.”
The lawyer flips through the evaluation I revised just last night. He was so confident in my verbal assessment that he never requested the report prior to the trial.
“The treatment plan you originally felt was best tailored for Mr. Sullivan involved medication under your supervision, continued therapy sessions, and gradual integration into the general population, where he could become a productive member of the correctional community.” His gaze hardens into a glare, a threat banked in his eyes.
“Do you still feel that Mr. Sullivan can benefit from this treatment?”
“Let me put it as plainly as possible,” I say, bolstering myself. “Mr. Sullivan targeted victims he believed were guilty of crimes—crimes he felt deserved extreme and disturbing vigilante justice. Does integrating him into a population full of criminals sound like a good idea to you, Mr. Young?”
The shock on the lawyer’s face is only upstaged by the collective ripple of agreement that rolls through the courtroom.
“Order,” the judge demands.
Finally, I dare a glance at Grayson, and our eyes collide. There’s no malice there, no resentment, only the hint of a smirk as those beautiful, knowing eyes sear into me.
I roll my shoulders as my lower back locks up.
“Furthermore, I’ve identified that Mr. Sullivan suffers from a unique delusional disorder linked to his psychopathy.
He harbors grandiose delusions regarding his connections with his victims, fixating on them to the extent where he constructs elaborate alternate realities.
The manipulation tactics he employs on his victims reinforces his own delusions, further distorting his beliefs.
This cycle enables him to punish, maim, and kill without guilt or remorse.
” I pause, taking a breath before I push through.
I have to push through. “Anyone who comes into contact with Grayson Sullivan is at risk to become a part of his delusional construct, suffering severe mental or physical harm. He is among the most dangerous individuals I’ve encountered, and I no longer feel capable of continuing his treatment.
In my professional opinion, rehabilitation is not a viable prospect for Mr. Sullivan. ”
A heavy silence falls over the courtroom. Mr. Young clears his throat. “Thank you, Dr. Noble. Nothing further, Your Honor.”
After a charged moment, the judge looks to the Attorney General. “Would you like to cross-examine the witness, Mr. Shafer?”
The lawyer stands briefly. “No, Your Honor. The prosecution rests.”
“Please escort Dr. Noble from the stand,” the judge instructs the bailiff. “Court is adjourned for a one-hour recess, after which we’ll hear closing arguments.”
I flinch as commotion rises around the courtroom, everyone standing to escape.
It’s over.
The finality of the moment crashes through me, and I grip the edge of the stand to steady myself as I rise. I pass Grayson on trembling legs, my chest tight with the demanding need to look into his eyes.
The thread tethering me to him pulls taut, and I surrender, meeting his gaze. No words are necessary. It’s there on his face, the certainty of what I’ve done. By misdiagnosing a patient in open court, I’ve protected myself. No one will believe any of his outrageous claims against me.
But to do so, I not only risked destroying my career, I destroyed any chance he had.
I’ve just sentenced Grayson to death.
My secret will die with him.