schizophrenic or bipolar.
Then guiding them through therapy, with information couched, coded, conveyed largely by emphasis, and absorbed by that instant, razor-keen intuition. The rules would be made immediately clear: act out once and you were in jeopardy; twice, and you went back to Atascadero or Vacaville, places that made Clevinger look like a Ramada Inn, to remain for years and maybe life. But stay in control, do twenty-plus months of soft time, and walk out free and clear. Therapy confidential. Negative feedback easily doctored and no central agency to correlate it. Especially if the men moved to other areas of the country, perhaps even changing identities.
“Sorry, dear,” Mrs. R said, hanging up. “They know how to complicate things.”
“Dr. Jephson asked to see me.”
“Yes?” Mrs. R drew the syllable out into a question. Vermillion lips compressed, she picked up the phone again. She said, “Dr. Chapley’s here,” then looked up and nodded.
Jephson’s private office possessed the flavor of a Cambridge don’s, with its supplied grandeur overcoming the cheap, textured drywall and aluminum windows. The desk was his own, a massive structure of antique oak with blotting pad, inkstand, and a silver tray of stationery. A small TV/VCR unit for educational videos sat on a rollered stand in a corner. Several diplomas and awards hung on the wall behind him, flanked by thick volumes on neurology, psychoanalytic theory, and behavior modification, sitting shoulder to shoulder on shelves like haughty authorities.
“Alison,” he said. “Please sit down.”
He swiveled to the side and leaned back in the chair, slender hands clasping each other with a relaxation that seemed imposed.
“From time to time something comes along that makes me realize my shortcomings. Such as the poor follow-up on those NGIs that you brought to my attention. My focus has always been on results. I’ve let other aspects suffer, bureaucratic details and such. Our system is imperfect, our resources limited. One does the best one can.”
He paused.
“It’s a very impressive best, Dr. Jephson,” she said. “No one would argue with that.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much good at delegating responsibility, either.”
This time she waited. Jephson’s fingers steepled.
“I’ve been thinking for some time that JCOG would benefit from an administrative director,” he said. “Someone to take over the day-to-day business, the hands-on operation.”
Her eyebrows arched with comprehension. So: become a team player—and acquire the position of administrative director of JCOG. Stay another year or two, blind to what was going on, then carry the weight ofthat credential to wherever she wanted to go next.
From threat to bribe.
She said, “I think that’s a wonderful idea. It would free you up for more important things.”
He waved a hand modestly. “Just putting other talent to good use.”
“Did you have anyone in particular in mind?”
Jephson swiveled back to her and smiled, a gift he bestowed rarely. “I shouldn’t think I’d need to look too far from home.”
“When would you be implementing this?”
“Oh, it will take a few months. We need a formal job description, funding, all that.”
Or else it was a stall. Nothing definitepromised—but a way to keep her quiet until he could come up with something damaging to her.
She said, “I wouldn’t call that poor follow-up a detail, Dr. Jephson. Those are dangerous men. No one knows where they are.”
His smile remained, but his pale eyes went glacial. “I
am
looking into it, Alison.”
She bit off the words,
So am I
, and stood.
“Keep me posted,” she said.
Mrs. R was busy over a stack of papers. She waved beringed fingers as Alison walked by.
Alison paused at the outer door. “Paula, is John Garlick’s release still on schedule?”
Mrs. R looked up, surprised. “As far as I know. Why?”
“I just wondered if any hitches had developed.”
“You’d
Then guiding them through therapy, with information couched, coded, conveyed largely by emphasis, and absorbed by that instant, razor-keen intuition. The rules would be made immediately clear: act out once and you were in jeopardy; twice, and you went back to Atascadero or Vacaville, places that made Clevinger look like a Ramada Inn, to remain for years and maybe life. But stay in control, do twenty-plus months of soft time, and walk out free and clear. Therapy confidential. Negative feedback easily doctored and no central agency to correlate it. Especially if the men moved to other areas of the country, perhaps even changing identities.
“Sorry, dear,” Mrs. R said, hanging up. “They know how to complicate things.”
“Dr. Jephson asked to see me.”
“Yes?” Mrs. R drew the syllable out into a question. Vermillion lips compressed, she picked up the phone again. She said, “Dr. Chapley’s here,” then looked up and nodded.
Jephson’s private office possessed the flavor of a Cambridge don’s, with its supplied grandeur overcoming the cheap, textured drywall and aluminum windows. The desk was his own, a massive structure of antique oak with blotting pad, inkstand, and a silver tray of stationery. A small TV/VCR unit for educational videos sat on a rollered stand in a corner. Several diplomas and awards hung on the wall behind him, flanked by thick volumes on neurology, psychoanalytic theory, and behavior modification, sitting shoulder to shoulder on shelves like haughty authorities.
“Alison,” he said. “Please sit down.”
He swiveled to the side and leaned back in the chair, slender hands clasping each other with a relaxation that seemed imposed.
“From time to time something comes along that makes me realize my shortcomings. Such as the poor follow-up on those NGIs that you brought to my attention. My focus has always been on results. I’ve let other aspects suffer, bureaucratic details and such. Our system is imperfect, our resources limited. One does the best one can.”
He paused.
“It’s a very impressive best, Dr. Jephson,” she said. “No one would argue with that.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much good at delegating responsibility, either.”
This time she waited. Jephson’s fingers steepled.
“I’ve been thinking for some time that JCOG would benefit from an administrative director,” he said. “Someone to take over the day-to-day business, the hands-on operation.”
Her eyebrows arched with comprehension. So: become a team player—and acquire the position of administrative director of JCOG. Stay another year or two, blind to what was going on, then carry the weight ofthat credential to wherever she wanted to go next.
From threat to bribe.
She said, “I think that’s a wonderful idea. It would free you up for more important things.”
He waved a hand modestly. “Just putting other talent to good use.”
“Did you have anyone in particular in mind?”
Jephson swiveled back to her and smiled, a gift he bestowed rarely. “I shouldn’t think I’d need to look too far from home.”
“When would you be implementing this?”
“Oh, it will take a few months. We need a formal job description, funding, all that.”
Or else it was a stall. Nothing definitepromised—but a way to keep her quiet until he could come up with something damaging to her.
She said, “I wouldn’t call that poor follow-up a detail, Dr. Jephson. Those are dangerous men. No one knows where they are.”
His smile remained, but his pale eyes went glacial. “I
am
looking into it, Alison.”
She bit off the words,
So am I
, and stood.
“Keep me posted,” she said.
Mrs. R was busy over a stack of papers. She waved beringed fingers as Alison walked by.
Alison paused at the outer door. “Paula, is John Garlick’s release still on schedule?”
Mrs. R looked up, surprised. “As far as I know. Why?”
“I just wondered if any hitches had developed.”
“You’d
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