Pop Goes the Weasel

psychiatrist has to be a medical doctor. You know that, I’m sure.”
    “And you are not a medical doctor?”
    She shook her head. “I am not. I have a doctorate in sociology. You know that, too.”
    “Are you a psychologist? ” Weston asked.
    “A psychologist usually has a graduate degree in psychology, sometimes a Ph.D.”
    “Do you have a graduate degree in psychology?”
    “No. I’m a psychotherapist.”
    “I see. Where did you train to be a psychotherapist?”
    “American University. I graduated with a Ph.D. in Social Work.”
    Daniel Weston kept coming at Cassady. There was hardly a beat between answer and question. “This ‘psychotherapy office’ of yours at the Farragut, what sort of furnishings does it have?”
    “A couch, desk, lamp. It’s basically very spare. Lots of plants, though. My patients find the atmosphere functional but also relaxing.”
    “No box of tissues by the couch? I thought that was a must,” Weston said with a wry smile.
    The witness was clearly annoyed now, and maybe even shaken. “I take my work very seriously, Mr. Weston. So do my patients.”
    “Was Geoffrey Shafer referred to you by someone?”
    “Actually, we met at the National Gallery ? at the Picasso erotic-drawings exhibit. That’s been covered in depth by the press.”
    Weston nodded, and a thin smile crossed his lips. “Ah, I see. Are your sessions with Geoffrey Shafer erotic? Do you ever discuss sex?”
    Jules Halpern rose quickly — a regular Jules-in-the-box. “Objection! Doctor-patient privilege. It’s confidential.”
    The young prosecutor shrugged and flipped back his blond curls with his hand. “I’ll withdraw the question. No problem. Are you a sexual surrogate?”
    “No, I am not. As I stated earlier, I am a psychotherapist.”
    “On the evening of the murder of Detective Hampton, did you and Geoffrey Shafer discuss —”
    Jules Halpern quickly rose again. “Objection. If the prosecution is inquiring into the patient’s privileged disclosures — ”
    Weston raised both arms in frustration. He smiled at the jurors, hoping they felt the same way. “All right, all right. Let me see. I’ll take this out of the so-called doctor-patient realm and ask you, quite simply, if you, Ms. Cassady, a woman, have had sexual relations with Geoffrey Shafer, a man?”
    Elizabeth “Boo” Cassady hung her head and stared down at her lap.
    Daniel Weston smiled, even as Jules Halpern objected to the question and was upheld by Judge Fescoe. Weston felt that he had made his point.

Chapter 96
    “CALL DETECTIVE ALEX CROSS.”
    I took a deep breath, composed my mind, body, and soul, then walked up the wide center aisle of the courtroom to testify. Everyone in the room was watching me, but the only person I really saw was Geoffrey Shafer. The Weasel. He was still playing the part of the wronged innocent man, and I wanted to bring him down. I wanted to cross-examine him myself, to ask the real questions that needed to be asked, to tell the jury about all the suppressed evidence, to bring justice down on him with all its crushing force.
    It was a hard thing to have worked honestly for so many years and now to be accused of being a rogue cop, someone who had tampered with evidence and perhaps worse. It was ironic, but now maybe I would have the opportunity to set the record straight, to clear my name.
    Jules Halpern smiled cordially at me as I sat down in the witness stand. He established eye contact, quickly looked over at the jury, then turned back to me. His dark eyes radiated intelligence, and it seemed an incredible waste that he was working for Shafer.
    “I want to start by saying that it is an honor to meet you, Detective Cross. For years I, like most of the jurors, I’m sure, have read in the Washington papers about the murder cases you have helped solve. We admire your past record.”
    I nodded and even managed a grudging smile of my own. “Thank you. I hope you’ll admire my present and future record as well,” I said.
    “Let’s hope so, Detective,” Halpern said. He moved on. We parried for half an hour or so before he asked, “You suffered a terrible personal tragedy a short time before the arrest of Colonel Shafer — could you tell us about it?”
    I fought the urge to reach out and grab the polite-sounding, insidious little man by the neck. I leaned closer to the mike, struggled for control.
    “Someone dear to me was kidnapped while we were in Bermuda on vacation. She’s still