17. Guest v. Finbow Day Two
GUEST V. FINBOW: DAY TWO
In cross-examination, Ms. Carr uses Mary’s history of poor mental health against her. It’s proof, she argues, that Mary is susceptible and can be easily exploited.
“Like many of those who are victimized by charismatic cult leaders, aren’t you desperate for a solution to the chaos inside your head?”
Mary places a protective hand on her stomach, and I feel a shiver of envy. Her response is coldly emphatic. “Not at all. We don’t impose solutions. We embrace the chaos. That’s how Jean’s coaching has rescued me.”
“I just want to check, Ms. Finbow, that you do mean rescued and not recruited ?”
“Ms. Carr, that is commentary,” Justice Larkin warns. The lawyer raises an apologetic hand, then points her pen in Mary’s direction. “How often do you meet each other, Ms. Finbow? How many times a week are you and Ms. Guest embracing the chaos ?”
Mary cowers. She glances toward Jean. “It depends: three or four times. On the weekends, we do reading.”
Ms. Carr cocks her head to one side. “And on average, how long are these sessions?”
“It depends.”
“Try to guess?” There is a pause. “At a minimum?”
“Two.”
“Two hours?” Ms. Carr gives a theatrical sigh, as if fatigued by the very idea of it.
“Are you aware that the traditional analytic hour typically runs no longer than fifty minutes? And that, much like cross-examination, it is broadly understood that excessive lengths of time under questioning can be destructive?”
“I’m aware,” Mary says coolly. “But, in the past, traditional methods have not served me.”
“What else is untraditional in your sessions? Would you describe regression therapy and memory retrieval therapy as untraditional?”
“Yes.”
“Would you describe them as unconventional?”
“Yes.”
“Dangerous?”
“No.”
My palms dampen. For a moment, I close my eyes, and I am wandering dizzily around Jean’s flat: The stench of lilies is heavy in the air, the kettle whistles, and the pink tiles in the bathroom where I rest after our conversations are cool beneath my feet.
“So, I’m a total novice.” Ms. Carr’s voice echoes below. “What is ‘memory retrieval therapy’? Is it as simple as remembering someone’s name? Or recalling what you scribbled on a shopping list at home?”
Mary straightens. “It’s simple. We conjure scenes from my past, then replay them. Jean monitors my bodily reactions. After that we discuss them.”
“What comes up in those discussions? Typically?”
She glances over at Jean and they exchange smiles. My stomach curls. “How I might have felt at the time. How I feel today about whatever has happened. It helps me to release things.”
“Release what?”
“The anger,” Mary answers, without hesitation.
Ms. Carr pauses, allowing us to reflect on the bitterness of Mary’s response. “Could you expand on what you mean when you say ‘conjure scenes from my past’?”
Mary pauses, then gives a blissed-out smile, like a religious believer.
“There are so many episodes or memories we repress. All the difficult things we have shut down in order to function. First, we must access them. Then excise them. And it’s vital now that I have another life growing inside me. I can’t let her inherit them.”
Ms. Carr frowns. “So, we go around, having absolutely no recollection of these nasty episodes until when?”
“Until we remember the buried trauma.”
“And we keep these memories in some kind of lumber room of the psyche, like bulky, ugly furniture that we don’t want to look at?”
Mary’s chest lifts. “That’s it,” she says.
“It’s got to be a pretty big basement, don’t you think?
” Ms. Carr snaps. “Because we’re not just talking minor injuries, are we?
A dropped ice cream or not making the first fifteen?
And we’re not really talking about the usual bread and butter of therapy, which explores inconvenient or painful bits of our lives, the facets of our relationships that we chose to ignore.
No, regression therapy requires its participants to recover memories of major personal trauma, many of which have far-reaching, even criminal, consequences for those involved. ”
The judge cautions Ms. Carr again for commentary. Chastised, Ms. Carr lowers her voice. “What I want to know, Ms. Finbow, is whether you ever felt pressured in these sessions to fabricate things that didn’t happen?”
Mary fixes her gaze downward, almost as though she is trying to suppress a laugh. It gives her an eerie aspect. She looks bitter and unhinged, eaten up with it. “Nothing is fabricated. My family has given me enough material, thank you.”
Ms. Carr’s cheeks turn pink with frustration.
She carelessly flips the page of her notebook.
“Then let’s turn elsewhere.” She reads aloud.
“?‘No alcohol, no drugs, no reading outside of the set reading list. No music. And no contraception.’ Are any of these rather restrictive ground rules familiar to you, Ms. Finbow? Because they have been relayed to us by some of Ms. Guest’s ex-clients. ”
“Some of them are,” Mary says, blinking. There’s a tugging in my chest as I stare at her stomach again and think of the pills she might have flushed. “Like I said, I feel better for it.”
Ms. Carr looks gravely at her. “When did it become ‘no friends. No family’?” She leaves a heavy pause. “How soon after your sessions commenced did the claimant begin advocating for a permanent severance from those you once loved?”
“We don’t think of it as severance,” says Mary, an expression of grace spreading across her face. She’s unaware that she is conceding the point that Jean encourages the isolation. “It’s a healing separation.”
Ms. Carr shakes her head disbelievingly.
“My lord, the ostracization of susceptible individuals from their social milieu is a common characteristic of cultic organizations.” She turns back to Mary.
“So, no books, no music, and no pill. When did it become ‘no home’?” Ms. Carr pauses theatrically, and Mary’s face clouds over.
“We have a report which states you have recently moved to an outdoor camp a short way off the M1. Do you confirm this?”
For a moment, there is quiet. An awful, exposing silence. Mary looks stricken.
“It’s a unique community,” she stammers.
“Do you pay to camp there?” Ms. Carr inquires.
“We have evolved beyond monetary transactions.”
“Are you sleeping rough , Ms. Finbow?”
The knowledge comes suddenly—borne in a second.
Jean has made her homeless. Because of their restraining order, Anna and Bonamy are not allowed within a certain radius of the properties Mary owns.
But it is understood she still moves between them.
I start to feel sick as I consider it—I always believed Mary had autonomy there, places she could escape to.
“I refuse to comment on some spy report my parents have commissioned.” Mary’s voice trembles.
“How about a neighbor from the camp?” Ms. Carr presses. “She has stated that your temporary home is unsanitary and”—she reads from a slip of paper on her desk—“full of slugs. We’ve had reports that you, now in your second trimester, sleep on a dirty mattress on the floor.”
“I like living there,” Mary says, avoiding Anna’s sad gaze. “It’s simpler.”
Ms. Carr nods facetiously. “These are unconventional choices, Your Honor, and it’s perhaps not uncommon for those afforded privileged backgrounds to favor alternative existences.
The issue here is that Ms. Guest is now a direct beneficiary of these life choices.
” She lists the different components of Mary’s wealth portfolio.
There had been quarterly trust payments made to Mary, but Anna managed to get them stopped last year.
Ms. Carr explains how Mary existed instead on the income from the properties she owns: a mews house in Notting Hill, a block of flats in Hampstead, other developments overseas in France and Corfu.
“You became increasingly reliant on this income, so what was the reason behind signing these properties over to Ms. Guest last month? It’s an illogical thing to do. Were you being manipulated, Ms. Finbow?”
Mary swallows, aware that she’s been backed into a corner. “I needed help. I couldn’t manage it all. It was distracting me from my real work.”
Ms. Carr throws her a sympathetic look. “Has Ms. Guest told you that your financial assets obstructed your healing journey?”
I bite my lip when I see tears fill Mary’s eyes. Vehemently, she shakes her head, but she has fallen into Ms. Carr’s well-laid trap. Mary’s severance from her friends and family members was sad, but excusable. But no well-meaning person would isolate Mary from her money.
“I wanted Jean to have the income,” she croaks. “It’s only fair if she’s managing them. And the legal fees. Since I am responsible—”
“I’ll take your word for it, Mary. To me, it sounds as if you are being defrauded. Though that may be a matter for the court to decide.”
A ripple of scandal rises above the rows of spectators. Ms. Carr pauses to allow Mary time to blow her nose, then proceeds softly. “We learned earlier today that your baby is due in three months’ time, is that correct?”
“Yes.” Mary’s voice is cracked now. So small and sad that my own eyes fill with tears.
“Are you aware that if you remain at the camp when the baby is born, then you will most likely be reported to child protection services?”
Mary’s face twitches as she looks about. “I’ll move back then, I think.”
“To one of your properties that Jean Guest now manages? That would make her your landlord, wouldn’t it?”
“It will be safer for my daughter that way,” Mary says, choking. “I can’t do it without Jean.”
“Why not?” Ms. Carr asks gently.
“I’m too weak. ”
“Our view, Mary, is that you are not weak, but that you have been targeted, and consciously weakened, by a calculating individual who seeks not only your financial assets but now your offspring. Do you agree?”
“No!” Mary bursts out, rattled now.
“Let me put this differently. Do you affirm, as you did in your previous cross-examination, that the claimant was treating you for issues relating to sexual promiscuity?”
Mary flinches. “Partly.”
“And when did the claimant advise you to stop taking contraception?”
Mary falters. “I don’t remember.”
“But it was her wish?”
“It was my decision, too. I was gaining so much weight. And it was sending me crazy. You don’t understand how unhinged I was. It made me completely blocked. And angry. I was going completely off my head.”
In the front row of the gallery, Bonamy covers his eyes with his hands. I picture his grief over his multiple losses. If she succeeds, Jean will not only have stolen their child, but also their only grandchild.
This is what makes my legs shake as the cross-examination closes and the judge announces an adjournment for the rest of the afternoon.
This is what frightens me even more than the harrowing thought of Mary defrauded and sleeping rough: Mary referred to her daughter .
In three months’ time she will be having a little girl.
Jean has always longed for a daughter of her own.