An armed matron leads Sonia Baker into the small cubicle facing mine. The guard cups Sonia’s elbow with one hand and rests the other on her weapon, as if she fears her prisoner might make a break for it. It’s pretty clear to me that the matron has nothing to worry about; Sonia looks like she’s sleepwalking. Her orange jumpsuit is twisted and wrinkled. It looks damp. She presses her cast against her stomach as she sits.
The matron waits until Sonia’s settled, then hands her the telephone, nods at me through the glass, and leaves us without a word.
Sonia rubs one hand across her eyes. “I took a nap,” she says into the receiver.
It must have been a long one. She looks drugged. Her lips are better, though, not so swollen. Her right eye has gone down some too, and it’s beginning to open.
“This won’t take long, Sonia. I just want you to be prepared for tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning?”
“Dr. Nelson will be here first thing.”
“Who’s he?”
“She. Prudence Nelson. She’s a forensic psychiatrist, a specialist in domestic violence.”
“A lady shrink?”
“That’s right.” Prudence Nelson has been called worse.
Sonia shakes her head and frowns. “You think I’m nuts.”
“No. I don’t.”
“Then you think I killed Howard.”
“I don’t think that either. You say you didn’t. And I believe you.” Sonia doesn’t believe me, though. She stares at the cinder-block wall behind me and shakes her head again. “Then why the shrink?”
Time for my “this is war” speech. Sonia Baker isn’t going to like what I have to say. And she might not like me after I say it. Too bad.
“Because you’re charged with first-degree murder, that’s why. Because a person charged with first-degree murder doesn’t have the luxury of tossing a viable defense out the window-even if she doesn’t like the sound of it, even if it wounds her pride.”
Sonia avoids looking at me. Her eyes roam around the room, then settle on the small, empty counter in front of her. She sets her jaw.
“Because the Commonwealth of Massachusetts intends to convict you of first-degree murder. And sometimes the Commonwealth convicts innocent people. Not on purpose. But it happens. Trust me. I know.”
Sonia’s lips part, but she says nothing. Her eyes stay fixed on the counter.
“Because in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, women convicted of first-degree murder-guilty or not-go to MCI Framing ham, a place that makes this joint look like a spa. And they don’t leave. Ever.”
Now Sonia lowers her eyes to her lap. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. I get it.”
I wait until she raises her head, but she still doesn’t look at me. She stares at the wall again.
“I hope you do. You need to cooperate with Dr. Nelson tomorrow morning. Tell her everything.”
“Everything about Howard?”
“About Howard. About you. And about anything else she brings up. She can’t help us if you don’t.”
Sonia nods, but says nothing.
“Howard’s life is over, Sonia. There’s nothing you can do about that. But if you don’t come clean about him, yours may as well be over too.”
She runs a hand through her bleached hair, then tilts her head back and studies the ceiling.
“Maggie needs you. She needs you more than Howard Davis ever did.”
She closes her eyes, head still tilted, and takes a deep breath. “How is she? Maggie. Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. But she won’t be, down the road, if you don’t beat this charge. And tomorrow’s assessment is step one. Take it seriously. It matters.”
Finally, Sonia tears her eyes from the ceiling and looks at me. “What is it? The battered woman thing-what’s it all about?”
The million-dollar question.
“It’s a syndrome-described by the experts as a subclass of post-traumatic stress disorder. It’s not classified as an illness; it’s not even a diagnosis. It’s a pattern of emotions and behaviors common among women who’ve been battered by their partners.”
“Like what?”
“Depression. Shame. Self-reproach. Repeatedly leaving-and then going back to-the abuse. The medical community sums it all up as ‘learned helplessness.’”
Sonia’s gaze returns to the ceiling. “So what? Why does any of that matter?”
“It goes to intent. A woman in the throes of the syndrome lives in constant dread of imminent aggression.”
Sonia looks at me, raises her eyebrows. “Translation?”
“She knows she might get hurt-badly-any minute of the day, every day.”
Sonia nods.
“The battered woman has a heightened perception of threat. She’s on constant alert. Expert testimony on that issue can bolster a self-defense claim.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
“There have been cases where the women didn’t remember.”
“Didn’t remember what?”
“Killing their abusers.”
Sonia stares at me, mouth open.
“I’m not kidding. The psychiatrists call it ‘dissociative amnesia.’ The woman does in her batterer-in one case, she bludgeoned him with a baseball bat-then doesn’t remember anything about it.”
Sonia knits her eyebrows and shakes her head, slowly. She doesn’t buy it. “I’ve never hurt anyone,” she says. “Not on purpose.” Her voice is little more than a whisper. “If I killed somebody-anybody-it wouldn’t slip my mind.”
She falls silent, still staring at me. Her expression says I’m the one who needs a shrink. Our dissociative amnesia discussion is over.
“Okay, Sonia. But I want you to understand the syndrome. So you’ll know the kind of information you need to share with Dr. Nelson.”
She shrugs.
“The experts all agree it’s cyclical. The cycle has three stages. The initial stage is mostly verbal, a lot of yelling. There’s some physical abuse too, but it’s minor.”
“People fight,” she says. “What’s the big deal?”
“In stage two, the verbal abuse escalates. The yelling gets louder, more threatening. Then there’s a single explosion. The woman gets physically beaten up-once.”
Sonia nods, says nothing.
“That’s followed by a respite, a break. No abuse at all. Until stage three.”
She lowers her eyes to her lap again.
“Stage three is essentially a repetition of the first two stages-on fast-forward. The time between beatings gets shorter and shorter.”
For a full minute, the telephone line between us is quiet. Sonia takes a deep breath and looks up at me. “Okay,” she says. “I get it.”
“You should know,” I tell her, “that the law doesn’t recognize a woman as battered unless she’s gone through the complete cycle-all three stages, and with the same man-at least twice.”
Sonia lets out a soft laugh and stares at her lap again, hugging her cast. “Twice?” Her eyes are brimming when she looks back at me. “No problem.”
She’s had it.
“Are we done?”
“Yes.”
She hangs up her phone, stands, and turns away.
I hang up too, and press the buzzer. The matron opens the door behind Sonia in a millisecond. She must have been leaning on it.
It occurs to me, as I pack up my briefcase, that I’m two for two. First in Buck Hammond’s case, and now in this one, I’m arguing that the dead guy deserved it. I’ve barely begun my career with the defense bar, but I seem to be developing a niche.