prison except the inmates are shorter. The longest
they could be C.Y.A. wards would be till age twenty-five.”
“Meaning
they’d be released at the peak of criminal drive.”
“You
bet,” he said. “In big-boy lockup, they’d be vulnerable to the Black Guerrilla
Army and Nuestra Familia, probably run for cover to the Aryan Brotherhood. So
we’d be creating a couple of little Nazis. But most of the C.Y.A. facilities
are gang-ridden, too.”
“Why’d
you say they’d have long sentences ‘initially’?”
“Because
if I adult-certify, there’s a good chance some higher court will lower their
sentences and have them switched to lower-security facilities. Meaning they
could end up with less time than a C.Y.A. placement. I’ve got the
victim’s family to think about. Like you said, the best we can hope for is
approximating justice, and Lord knows we’ll never get closure— whatever the
hell that means. But there’s got to be something that does the least harm.”
“I
haven’t seen the family in the media.”
“They’ve
kept a low profile, but the father’s called the D.A. a few times, demanding
justice. No one can give him what he really wants— his kid back. And two other
kids have ruined their own lives. It’s a rotten situation for all concerned.”
“Beyond
rotten.”
“Alex,
they’re so damned young. What the hell turned them so bad?”
“Wish
I could tell you,” I said. “The precursors are all there— bad environment,
maybe bad biology. But most kids exposed to the same things don’t murder
toddlers.”
“No,
they don’t,” he said. “Okay, send me whatever you feel comfortable putting down
on paper. I’ll start your reimbursement voucher churning through the system.”
CHAPTER 10
I n the end, resolution came the way it usually does
once cases fade from public scrutiny: the product of backroom negotiation and
the search for the least of all evils.
Five
months after their arrests, in what the papers termed “a surprise move,” both
boys pled guilty and were sentenced to the California Youth Authority until
they were twenty-five or until it could be proven they’d been successfully
rehabilitated.
No
trial, no media hoopla. No need for me to appear as an expert witness and my
check from the court arrived in a timely fashion.
I talked
to no one but Milo about it, pretended I was sleeping well.
* * *
Troy
Turner was sent to the N.A. Chaderjian camp in Stockton and Rand Duchay ended
up at the Herman G. Stark Youth Correctional Facility in Chino. The C.Y.A.
promised to provide counseling for both boys and special education for Rand.
The
day the deal was announced, Kristal Malley’s parents were caught by a TV crew
exiting the courtroom and asked for their opinion of the deal.
Lara
Malley, a small, wan brunette, was sobbing. Her husband, Barnett, a tall,
raw-boned man around thirty, glared and said, “No comment.”
The
camera closed in on his face because anger’s more fun for the camera than
despair. He had thin, sandy hair, long sideburns, sharp features, and prominent
bones. Dry-eyed; the unmoving eyes of a sniper.
“In
your opinion, sir,” the reporter pressed, “do the ages of the defendants make
this an appropriate solution for closure?”
Barnett
Malley’s jaw flexed and he jerked his hand upward and the soundman picked up
scuffling noises. The reporter retreated; Malley didn’t move. The camera zoomed
on his fist, frozen midair.
Lara
Malley whimpered. Barnett stared into the camera for another second, grasped
his wife by the arm, propelled her out of range.
* * *
Tom
Laskin called me six weeks later. It was just after noon and I’d finished a
session with an eight-year-old boy who’d burned his face playing with swimming
pool chemicals. His parents had sued and a quack “environmental medicine”
specialist had testified that the child would get cancer when he grew up. The
boy had overheard and become traumatized and it was my job to deprogram
they could be C.Y.A. wards would be till age twenty-five.”
“Meaning
they’d be released at the peak of criminal drive.”
“You
bet,” he said. “In big-boy lockup, they’d be vulnerable to the Black Guerrilla
Army and Nuestra Familia, probably run for cover to the Aryan Brotherhood. So
we’d be creating a couple of little Nazis. But most of the C.Y.A. facilities
are gang-ridden, too.”
“Why’d
you say they’d have long sentences ‘initially’?”
“Because
if I adult-certify, there’s a good chance some higher court will lower their
sentences and have them switched to lower-security facilities. Meaning they
could end up with less time than a C.Y.A. placement. I’ve got the
victim’s family to think about. Like you said, the best we can hope for is
approximating justice, and Lord knows we’ll never get closure— whatever the
hell that means. But there’s got to be something that does the least harm.”
“I
haven’t seen the family in the media.”
“They’ve
kept a low profile, but the father’s called the D.A. a few times, demanding
justice. No one can give him what he really wants— his kid back. And two other
kids have ruined their own lives. It’s a rotten situation for all concerned.”
“Beyond
rotten.”
“Alex,
they’re so damned young. What the hell turned them so bad?”
“Wish
I could tell you,” I said. “The precursors are all there— bad environment,
maybe bad biology. But most kids exposed to the same things don’t murder
toddlers.”
“No,
they don’t,” he said. “Okay, send me whatever you feel comfortable putting down
on paper. I’ll start your reimbursement voucher churning through the system.”
CHAPTER 10
I n the end, resolution came the way it usually does
once cases fade from public scrutiny: the product of backroom negotiation and
the search for the least of all evils.
Five
months after their arrests, in what the papers termed “a surprise move,” both
boys pled guilty and were sentenced to the California Youth Authority until
they were twenty-five or until it could be proven they’d been successfully
rehabilitated.
No
trial, no media hoopla. No need for me to appear as an expert witness and my
check from the court arrived in a timely fashion.
I talked
to no one but Milo about it, pretended I was sleeping well.
* * *
Troy
Turner was sent to the N.A. Chaderjian camp in Stockton and Rand Duchay ended
up at the Herman G. Stark Youth Correctional Facility in Chino. The C.Y.A.
promised to provide counseling for both boys and special education for Rand.
The
day the deal was announced, Kristal Malley’s parents were caught by a TV crew
exiting the courtroom and asked for their opinion of the deal.
Lara
Malley, a small, wan brunette, was sobbing. Her husband, Barnett, a tall,
raw-boned man around thirty, glared and said, “No comment.”
The
camera closed in on his face because anger’s more fun for the camera than
despair. He had thin, sandy hair, long sideburns, sharp features, and prominent
bones. Dry-eyed; the unmoving eyes of a sniper.
“In
your opinion, sir,” the reporter pressed, “do the ages of the defendants make
this an appropriate solution for closure?”
Barnett
Malley’s jaw flexed and he jerked his hand upward and the soundman picked up
scuffling noises. The reporter retreated; Malley didn’t move. The camera zoomed
on his fist, frozen midair.
Lara
Malley whimpered. Barnett stared into the camera for another second, grasped
his wife by the arm, propelled her out of range.
* * *
Tom
Laskin called me six weeks later. It was just after noon and I’d finished a
session with an eight-year-old boy who’d burned his face playing with swimming
pool chemicals. His parents had sued and a quack “environmental medicine”
specialist had testified that the child would get cancer when he grew up. The
boy had overheard and become traumatized and it was my job to deprogram
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