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That time had come. Comparison had taken five minutes. Even without prep, we’d agreed on the basics. No big surprise, the injuries to body and soul were obvious and profound.
The rest of the time was spent talking about travel and hobbies—my guitar playing, his viola playing in a Baroque ensemble—and then, of course, Shel’s grandkids.
When he finished extolling, he put a half-eaten dolma back on his plate and said, “Can I ask you about something else, Alex? Fair warning, I may start getting pissed off and don’t want to ruin the atmosphere.”
“Never seen you pissed off.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“No prob, go for it.”
He pinged the edge of his bread plate with a well-trimmed fingernail. “No offense, but I always thought psychologists had laws as strict as us about misrepresentation.”
“We do.”
“Well, it didn’t stop some charlatan—is there a feminine version, we’re talking a woman, a charlataness? Whatever, the regs didn’t stop her from palming herself off as a psychologist and poaching a patient. The poaching part didn’t bother me. You know how busy I am. But this particular patient—an adolescent, technically an adult, actually, she’s eighteen. But not an adult, if you know what I mean.”
I nodded.
He fooled with the stuffed grape leaf. Finished it. “The girl has an atypical seizure disorder plus multiple soft signs and requires a cocktail of meds that will likely change over time. Instead, she dropped out and started getting interpersonal therapy—whatever that is.Isit something?”
“Garbage-can term,” I said.
“I figured. I tried talking to the mother and she seemed to agree with me but she wouldn’t do anything about it, said the kid was adamant, thought I was out to O.D. her on drugs. It bothered me, not the part about me, my ego’s just fine. The kid’s not getting what she needs.So I did something I wouldn’t normally do and called the psychologist. Gave her a few days to call back and when she didn’t, I looked her up. Your board doesn’t list her. Is there somewhere else I should look?”
“She could have a marriage and family therapist license.”
He shook his head. “Your board directed me there and they had no knowledge of her. Same for the social work board. I even tried the nursing board. Nothing. And she explicitly lists herself as a psychologist on the Web. Adults, teens, and kids. What do you think?”
“Sounds like she’s a fake.”
“The information age and people still do that?” said Shel.
“If they can get away with it.”
“Guess so—to be honest, it happens to M.D.’s, too. Last year there was a guy in East L.A. practicing internal medicine. His training? Meatcutter in a bodega. Wonderful world, huh? So now I’ve got a stupid kid messing herself up because of a quack.”
I said, “What’s this person’s name?”
“Cordelia Gannett. Ever hear of her?”
I shook my head.
He said, “Only thing on the Web is her site and it’s not much, just her name, address, and some patient endorsements that I think look pretty tacky. Only other person by that name in cyberspace is a tropical tanning butter bikini model, obviously someone different.”
“Unless Gannett leads an interesting life.”
“Huh,” he said. “You think?”
“I’d be curious.”
“Huh,” he repeated. “Now I am, too.”
—
A week later, he called. “Guess what, Alex? You were right, we’re talking the same bimbo. Bikini model claims she has a Ph.D. but doesn’t have any kind of license. I told the stupid kid’s mother. She wasn’t happy but she still didn’t commit to bringing the kid back—age of majority andall that. Which is fine with me, I’ve got enough cooperative patients, we both do, why waste time?”
Months later, I passed him in a courtroom corridor and told him about Gannett’sin camerastunt.
