Read Online Silent Partner by Jonathan Kellerman - Free Book Online
Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
Tags: Fiction
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blue, and carpeted in grubby gold shag. In one corner was a pair of foam-padded bats—the kind provided by marriage counselors for good clean fighting. In another were piled the remains of a disassembled polygraph.
I arrived five minutes late, "some paperwork" having turned out to be a mountain of forms.
Seven or eight students were already in place. They'd removed their shoes and positioned themselves against the sloping walls, reading, chatting, smoking, catnapping. Ignoring me. The room smelled of dirty socks, tobacco, and mildew.
For the most part they were an older, seasoned-looking bunch—refugees from the sixties in serapes, faded jeans, sweat shirts, Indian jewelery. A few wore business clothes. Every one of them looked serious and burdened— straight-A students wondering if the grind was worth it.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Delaware." I let the title roll off my tongue with delight and some guilt, feeling like an imposter. The students looked me over, less than impressed. "Alex," I added. "Dr. Kruse can't make it, so I'm taking over tonight."
"Where's Paul?" asked a woman in her late twenties. She was short with prematurely gray hair, granny glasses, a tight, disapproving mouth.
"Out of town."
"Hollywood's not out of town," said a big, bearded man in plaid shirt and overalls, smoking a free-form Danish pipe.
"Are you one of his assistants?" asked the gray-haired woman. She was attractive but pinched-looking, with angry, nervous eyes; a Puritan in blue denim, she appraised me baldly, looked eager to condemn.
"No, I've never met him. I'm—"
"A new faculty member!" proclaimed the bearded man, as if uncovering a conspiracy.
Page 40
I shook my head. "Recent grad. Ph.D. last June."
"Congratulations." The bearded man clapped his hands silently. A few of the others imitated him. I smiled, squatted, assumed a lotus position near the door. "What's your usual procedure?"
"Case presentation," said a black woman. "Unless someone's got a crisis to bounce around."
"Does anyone?"
Silence. Yawns.
"All right. Whose turn is it to present?"
"Mine," said the black woman. She was stocky, with a hennaed Afro haloing a round, chocolate face. She wore a black poncho, blue jeans, and red vinyl boots. An oversized carpetbag lay across her lap. "Aurora Bogardus, second year. Last week I presented the case of a nine-year-old boy with multiple tics. Paul made suggestions. I've got some follow-up."
"Go ahead."
"For starters, nothing's worked. The kid's getting worse." She removed a chart from the carpetbag, flipped through it and gave a brief case history for my benefit, then described her initial treatment plan, which seemed well thought-out, though unsuccessful.
"That brings us up to date," she said. "Any questions, gang?"
Twenty minutes of discussion followed. The students' suggestions emphasized social factors—the family's poverty and frequent moves, the anxiety the child was probably experiencing due to lack of friends. Someone commented that the boy's being black in a racist society was a major stressor.
Aurora Bogardus looked disgusted. "I believe I'm well aware of that. Meanwhile, I've still got to deal with the damned tics on a behavioral level. The more he twitches, the angrier everyone gets at him."
"Then everyone needs to learn to deal with that anger," said the bearded man.
"'Fine and dandy, Julian," said Aurora. "In the meantime, the kid's being ostracized, I need action."
"The operant conditioning system—"
"If you were paying attention, Julian, you would have just heard that your operant conditioning system didn't work. Neither did the role manipulation Paul suggested last week."
"What kind of role manipulation?" I asked.
"Change the programming. It's part of his approach toward therapy—Communication Dynamics. Shake up the family structure, get them to change their power positions so that they'll be open to new behaviors."
Page 41
"Get them to change in what way?"
She gave me a weary look. "Paul had me
I arrived five minutes late, "some paperwork" having turned out to be a mountain of forms.
Seven or eight students were already in place. They'd removed their shoes and positioned themselves against the sloping walls, reading, chatting, smoking, catnapping. Ignoring me. The room smelled of dirty socks, tobacco, and mildew.
For the most part they were an older, seasoned-looking bunch—refugees from the sixties in serapes, faded jeans, sweat shirts, Indian jewelery. A few wore business clothes. Every one of them looked serious and burdened— straight-A students wondering if the grind was worth it.
"Hi, I'm Dr. Delaware." I let the title roll off my tongue with delight and some guilt, feeling like an imposter. The students looked me over, less than impressed. "Alex," I added. "Dr. Kruse can't make it, so I'm taking over tonight."
"Where's Paul?" asked a woman in her late twenties. She was short with prematurely gray hair, granny glasses, a tight, disapproving mouth.
"Out of town."
"Hollywood's not out of town," said a big, bearded man in plaid shirt and overalls, smoking a free-form Danish pipe.
"Are you one of his assistants?" asked the gray-haired woman. She was attractive but pinched-looking, with angry, nervous eyes; a Puritan in blue denim, she appraised me baldly, looked eager to condemn.
"No, I've never met him. I'm—"
"A new faculty member!" proclaimed the bearded man, as if uncovering a conspiracy.
Page 40
I shook my head. "Recent grad. Ph.D. last June."
"Congratulations." The bearded man clapped his hands silently. A few of the others imitated him. I smiled, squatted, assumed a lotus position near the door. "What's your usual procedure?"
"Case presentation," said a black woman. "Unless someone's got a crisis to bounce around."
"Does anyone?"
Silence. Yawns.
"All right. Whose turn is it to present?"
"Mine," said the black woman. She was stocky, with a hennaed Afro haloing a round, chocolate face. She wore a black poncho, blue jeans, and red vinyl boots. An oversized carpetbag lay across her lap. "Aurora Bogardus, second year. Last week I presented the case of a nine-year-old boy with multiple tics. Paul made suggestions. I've got some follow-up."
"Go ahead."
"For starters, nothing's worked. The kid's getting worse." She removed a chart from the carpetbag, flipped through it and gave a brief case history for my benefit, then described her initial treatment plan, which seemed well thought-out, though unsuccessful.
"That brings us up to date," she said. "Any questions, gang?"
Twenty minutes of discussion followed. The students' suggestions emphasized social factors—the family's poverty and frequent moves, the anxiety the child was probably experiencing due to lack of friends. Someone commented that the boy's being black in a racist society was a major stressor.
Aurora Bogardus looked disgusted. "I believe I'm well aware of that. Meanwhile, I've still got to deal with the damned tics on a behavioral level. The more he twitches, the angrier everyone gets at him."
"Then everyone needs to learn to deal with that anger," said the bearded man.
"'Fine and dandy, Julian," said Aurora. "In the meantime, the kid's being ostracized, I need action."
"The operant conditioning system—"
"If you were paying attention, Julian, you would have just heard that your operant conditioning system didn't work. Neither did the role manipulation Paul suggested last week."
"What kind of role manipulation?" I asked.
"Change the programming. It's part of his approach toward therapy—Communication Dynamics. Shake up the family structure, get them to change their power positions so that they'll be open to new behaviors."
Page 41
"Get them to change in what way?"
She gave me a weary look. "Paul had me
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