thought about my word choice, then stated in language that would be more understandable to Lydia, “That the prisoner was sexually aroused and that this treatment induced his sudden willingness to talk.”
“Oh . . . yes, sir. Danny, he tole ’em all ’bout that.” She nodded at Katherine. “ ‘They was real thankful’n all.”
“They thanked you? In person?”
“Well . . . not . . . I mean, they tole Danny, then Danny let us know how ’preciative they all wuz.” After a brief pause she added as though it were an afterthought, “ ‘Fore you could say boo, we wuz handlin’ all the real hard cases.”
“Why the pictures?”
“Danny said them intel people wanted ’em. They gave him one of them fancy cameras that load into a computer . . . y’know, so’s he could start recordin’ ever’thing. Danny said then they knew who got the treatment, how bad, and how good it worked.”
“And you regarded these instructions as orders?”
Her lips stiffened. “They wuz orders, sir.”
“From the intelligence people?”
“Well, yeah.”
“How did that work?”
Long stare. No answer.
“Did they give you these instructions individually?”
The stare turned blanker.
“Did they brief your group collectively? In writing? E-mail?”
“Not like that . . . no, sir.”
“Then like what ?” I snapped
Lydia instantly recoiled back into her chair with a hurt expression. Katherine quickly intervened, bent forward, and in a soothing tone, informed her client, “Colonel Drummond’s not angry with you.” She paused to look at me. “He sometimes experiences impulse control issues.”
Lydia was looking at her, apparently unsure of the definition of impulse control yet sensing it must be bad. Katherine said to me, “You should apologize.”
In case I wasn’t getting the message, somebody kicked my shin under the table.
Me? Apologize? I had just transcended the urge to strangle our client, but I stated with as little enthusiasm as possible, “I’m sorry.”
Lydia stared at me.
Katherine placed a hand on her arm. “Don’t let him bother you, Lydia. Please continue.”
There is a time and place for good cop/bad cop; I often use it myself, even on my own clients. This, though, was something else; the relationship between Katherine and Lydia seemed to verge on big sister/little sister, or a more fitting expression might be doctor-client.
Anyway, Lydia swallowed a few times, then looked at me. “What wuz yer question agin?”
Well . . . what was my question?
After a moment, I smiled at Lydia and inquired, “Exactly how did you receive your instructions on how to handle the prisoners?”
“Well . . . let me think a minute.” She thought a minute—I mean, an interminably full sixty seconds passed before she said, “Them intel people, they would meet with Danny. It wuz during the day, I guess. They’d name who we wuz supposed to . . . you know . . . who we wuz supposed to soften up. Then Danny and Mike, they’d put their heads together and figure it all out . . . exactly how it’d go down. Then, after Andrea and June and me got there, Danny, he would tell us what we wuz supposed to do.”
“Like a script?”
“Guess you could put it like that,” she said, looking impressed by that description. “Like, Danny would say, you do this, you do that.”
I took a moment and described the photo of Lydia tugging the poor Iraqi around by a string tied to his Mr. Johnson, then asked, “Did Danny order you to perform that exact treatment?”
“Not ’xactly like that, no, sir.” “Then how?”
“He would jus’ say sorta somethin’ like, prisoner two needs a little ST today.”
“ST?”
“Yep. Special treatment—ST, that’s how we started callin’ it, for short. Lotsa times he left it to me or June or Andrea to figure a way to do that.” She smiled. “Danny’s a good leader that way. Real respectful of his subordinates.”
This seemed like a good lead-in to
“Oh . . . yes, sir. Danny, he tole ’em all ’bout that.” She nodded at Katherine. “ ‘They was real thankful’n all.”
“They thanked you? In person?”
“Well . . . not . . . I mean, they tole Danny, then Danny let us know how ’preciative they all wuz.” After a brief pause she added as though it were an afterthought, “ ‘Fore you could say boo, we wuz handlin’ all the real hard cases.”
“Why the pictures?”
“Danny said them intel people wanted ’em. They gave him one of them fancy cameras that load into a computer . . . y’know, so’s he could start recordin’ ever’thing. Danny said then they knew who got the treatment, how bad, and how good it worked.”
“And you regarded these instructions as orders?”
Her lips stiffened. “They wuz orders, sir.”
“From the intelligence people?”
“Well, yeah.”
“How did that work?”
Long stare. No answer.
“Did they give you these instructions individually?”
The stare turned blanker.
“Did they brief your group collectively? In writing? E-mail?”
“Not like that . . . no, sir.”
“Then like what ?” I snapped
Lydia instantly recoiled back into her chair with a hurt expression. Katherine quickly intervened, bent forward, and in a soothing tone, informed her client, “Colonel Drummond’s not angry with you.” She paused to look at me. “He sometimes experiences impulse control issues.”
Lydia was looking at her, apparently unsure of the definition of impulse control yet sensing it must be bad. Katherine said to me, “You should apologize.”
In case I wasn’t getting the message, somebody kicked my shin under the table.
Me? Apologize? I had just transcended the urge to strangle our client, but I stated with as little enthusiasm as possible, “I’m sorry.”
Lydia stared at me.
Katherine placed a hand on her arm. “Don’t let him bother you, Lydia. Please continue.”
There is a time and place for good cop/bad cop; I often use it myself, even on my own clients. This, though, was something else; the relationship between Katherine and Lydia seemed to verge on big sister/little sister, or a more fitting expression might be doctor-client.
Anyway, Lydia swallowed a few times, then looked at me. “What wuz yer question agin?”
Well . . . what was my question?
After a moment, I smiled at Lydia and inquired, “Exactly how did you receive your instructions on how to handle the prisoners?”
“Well . . . let me think a minute.” She thought a minute—I mean, an interminably full sixty seconds passed before she said, “Them intel people, they would meet with Danny. It wuz during the day, I guess. They’d name who we wuz supposed to . . . you know . . . who we wuz supposed to soften up. Then Danny and Mike, they’d put their heads together and figure it all out . . . exactly how it’d go down. Then, after Andrea and June and me got there, Danny, he would tell us what we wuz supposed to do.”
“Like a script?”
“Guess you could put it like that,” she said, looking impressed by that description. “Like, Danny would say, you do this, you do that.”
I took a moment and described the photo of Lydia tugging the poor Iraqi around by a string tied to his Mr. Johnson, then asked, “Did Danny order you to perform that exact treatment?”
“Not ’xactly like that, no, sir.” “Then how?”
“He would jus’ say sorta somethin’ like, prisoner two needs a little ST today.”
“ST?”
“Yep. Special treatment—ST, that’s how we started callin’ it, for short. Lotsa times he left it to me or June or Andrea to figure a way to do that.” She smiled. “Danny’s a good leader that way. Real respectful of his subordinates.”
This seemed like a good lead-in to
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