Valencia zat in de getuigenbank. Ze sprak kalm, haar dictie duidelijk, en ze gebruikte psychologische termen die zeer professioneel en indrukwekkend klonken.
‘Ja, Edelheer,’ begon Valencia te getuigen, als antwoord op Cromwells vraag. ‘Ik heb de afgelopen drie maanden het natuurlijke gedrag van mevrouw Nala en haar dochter Zarya geobserveerd.’
‘En wat waren uw bevindingen, dokter?’ vroeg Cromwell.
Valencia opende haar aantekeningen.
“Mijn bevindingen waren zeer verontrustend. Ik ontdekte een gedragspatroon bij mevrouw Nala dat de neiging heeft inconsistent en emotioneel instabiel te zijn. Er zijn tekenen van aanzienlijke emotionele nood.”
Valencia begon de leugens één voor één te onthullen en veranderde feiten in dodelijke wapens.
“Eerste observatie: in een winkelcentrum trok mevrouw Nala Zarya hardhandig mee en sprak luid tegen haar, waardoor Zarya angstig begon te huilen in het bijzijn van anderen. Dit duidt op een beperkt vermogen tot emotionele zelfbeheersing.”
Nala sloot haar ogen. Ze herinnerde zich die dag. Zarya was bijna op de verkeerde roltrap afgesprongen, en Nala had geschreeuwd en Zarya in paniek teruggetrokken.
“Zarya, wees voorzichtig!”
Ze was niet boos. Ze was doodsbang dat Zarya gewond zou raken. Maar Valencia had het omgezet in verbaal geweld.
“Tweede observatie: in een park,” vervolgde Valencia, “leek mevrouw Nala meer in haar telefoon verdiept te zijn en negeerde ze Zarya, die alleen aan het spelen was. Toen Zarya viel, merkte mevrouw Nala het niet meteen. Toen ze het wel merkte, was haar reactie overdreven en neigde ze naar hysterie, wat Zarya nog meer traumatiseerde door de val.”
Alweer een leugen.
Nala herinnerde zich dat ze aan het appen was over het boodschappenlijstje waar hij om had gevraagd. Zarya struikelde en Nala schrok zich een hoedje. Ze rende er meteen heen, omhelsde Zarya en troostte haar. Haar reactie was die van een bezorgde moeder, niet van een hysterische.
« Mijn conclusie, » zei Valencia, terwijl ze de rechter met een vaste stem aankeek, « is dat mevrouw Nala niet over de stabiele emotionele capaciteit beschikt om een zevenjarig meisje op te voeden. Er zijn sterke aanwijzingen voor het parentificatiesyndroom, waarbij mevrouw Nala onbewust haar eigen ongeluk en emotionele problemen op het kind projecteert. Met het oog op Zarya’s geestelijke gezondheid beveel ik ten zeerste de volledige voogdij aan voor de vader, meneer Tummaine, die de meest stabiele figuur is. »
De zaal werd stil. Valencia’s getuigenis was zeer krachtig, zeer wetenschappelijk en zeer vernietigend.
Nala huilde in stilte.
‘Het is een leugen,’ fluisterde ze tegen Abernathy. ‘Het is allemaal een leugen. Zij is zijn minnares. Zij is het.’
‘Rustig maar, Nala,’ antwoordde Abernathy gespannen. ‘Reageer niet. Dat is precies wat ze willen.’
Hij stond op voor het kruisverhoor. Hij deed zijn best.
« Dokter Valencia, bent u er zeker van dat u zo’n ernstige diagnose kunt stellen op basis van louter observaties op afstand? »
Valencia glimlachte lichtjes.
“Integendeel, therapeut, natuurlijke observaties zonder dat de betrokkene zich daarvan bewust is, zijn het meest nauwkeurig. Er is geen sprake van manipulatie. Het is puur, authentiek gedrag.”
« U bent door meneer Tummaine betaald voor deze getuigenis, klopt dat? »
‘Ik werd betaald voor mijn professionele diensten als therapeut, niet voor mijn conclusies. Mijn conclusies zijn objectief en gebaseerd op gegevens uit de praktijk,’ antwoordde ze gevat.
Abernathy zat in een doodlopende straat. Valencia had zich te goed ontweken. Ze had alle gaten gedicht.
De rechtszitting werd voor vandaag geschorst.
Nala verliet de kamer met trillende benen. Ze voelde zich gebroken. Ze zag hem lichtjes glimlachen en tevreden naar Valencia knikken.
In de lobby leunde Nala tegen de muur en barstte in tranen uit.
“We hebben verloren, advocaat. We hebben verloren. Ze hebben alles.”
Abernathy zweeg even. Daarna staarde hij naar hem en Valencia, die in de verte samen liepen, discreet van elkaar gescheiden, maar niet helemaal ver uit elkaar.
‘Nog niet, Nala,’ zei hij zachtjes, met samengeknepen ogen. ‘Ik weet dat er iets niet klopt. De manier waarop ze hem aankijkt als ze denkt dat niemand haar ziet, is niet de manier waarop een professionele psycholoog naar een cliënt kijkt.’
Hij draaide zich naar Nala om.
“We moeten erachter komen wie ze werkelijk is.”
A few days before the next hearing, Abernathy called Nala to his office. His face looked tired. The stack of papers on the desk looked thicker than before.
“Nala, I tried to trace the woman’s background,” Abernathy said bluntly. “The result is different from what we expected.”
Nala’s heart raced.
“What do you mean, attorney?”
“Her credentials are clean. Too clean,” Abernathy said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “She is registered with the psychological association. She has a registered practice clinic. All the documentation is perfect. Either she is a real psychologist that your husband hired to lie for money, or he forged this entire identity very cleanly. The truth is, we cannot attack her by accusing her of being a fake psychologist. The court would dismiss our claim immediately.”
The brief hope Nala had held vanished instantly.
“So we can’t prove she’s lying?”
“No. We simply can’t prove she isn’t a psychologist. The only way is to refute her testimony. And that means you have to testify, Nala.”
He looked at her seriously.
“You have to tell your whole side of the story—about the photos, about the credit cards, about his behavior. And most importantly, you must not get emotionally upset. Cromwell will definitely try to provoke you. He will want you to look hysterical in front of the judge exactly as Valencia described you.”
Nala nodded silently.
“I will do it, attorney. I will try.”
The day arrived. It was Nala’s turn to sit on the witness stand.
After being sworn in, Abernathy began with gentle questions, guiding Nala to tell of her life as a housewife. Nala explained in a voice attempting to remain as calm as possible. She spoke of how she left her job to focus on caring for Zarya, explained her routine from dawn until late at night.
“About the photos of the messy house, Nala, can you explain the context?” asked Abernathy.
“Yes, attorney. Those photos were taken by my husband about two months ago. I was severely ill with a high fever for three days. At that time, I could barely get out of bed. I asked him to take care of the household, but he said he was too busy with work, so the house got very messy. I didn’t have the energy to clean,” Nala explained.
“And about the credit card statements?”
“It was an additional card in my name, but he had it more frequently. He said his main card often reached the limit with business matters. I believed him. I never bought those luxury bags nor that jewelry. I didn’t know about those charges until I saw them in the lawsuit documents,” Nala said.
She spoke with honesty. She saw some in the gallery begin to whisper. Some looked at her with sympathy. But the judge remained silent, his face unreadable.
Then came Cromwell’s turn.
The cunning lawyer stood up, smoothed his tie, and walked toward the witness stand with a sneer.
“Nala,” he began in a sickly sweet tone, “so you mean to say that your husband, Mr. Tummaine, who works hard and brings money home, set you up on purpose. Is that it?”
Nala stammered.
“I didn’t say that. I just said what happened.”
“But that’s how it sounds. The husband takes photos of the dirty house. The husband uses the credit card. Everything is the husband’s fault. It seems that you are not to blame for anything. Are you perfect?”
“Of course not. I’m not perfect. But I’m not a failure.”
“Not a failure?” Cromwell scoffed with disdain.
“Nala, you said you were sick when those photos were taken. Do you have any medical report proving you were gravely ill for three days?”
Nala remained silent.
“I didn’t go to the hospital. I just took medicine from the pharmacy. I thought I would recover.”
“So there is no proof,” Cromwell attacked quickly. “It’s just your word against real photographic evidence. Interesting.”
He moved to another topic.
“About the credit cards. You say your husband used them, but the card is in your name. Did you ever inform the bank that the card was being misused?”
“No.”
“Did you ever reprimand your husband?”
“No.”
“You said nothing. Doesn’t this prove you are negligent and financially irresponsible? Or does it mean you approved all the purchases?”
“I trusted him. He was my husband,” Nala’s voice rose.
“Blind trust,” snapped Cromwell. “A trust that ruined the family finances. And now you blame your husband.”
“I am not blaming—”
“Enough,” Cromwell raised his hand, returned to his table, and picked up a large printed photo. He held it up for the judge and everyone to see.
“Your Honor, I request permission to present Exhibit P12.”
Nala’s eyes widened with horror. It was a photo of her. Her in her bedroom a few weeks before the divorce papers arrived, hair disheveled, crying and screaming.
“Mrs. Nala, can you explain this photo?” asked Cromwell with a triumphant tone.
Nala trembled violently. Tears began to well up again.
“Isn’t this real proof of what Dr. Valencia said? Volatile emotions? Hysteria? Is this the face of a competent mother?”
“You don’t understand,” Nala wailed. Her tears were now pouring down. “That night… that night, my husband had just come home. He called me a useless wife. He said I was a burden. He insulted me. He said I didn’t deserve to be Zarya’s mother. He provoked me.”
“So, you admit it?” Cromwell attacked without giving her a breath. “You admit you screamed hysterically. You admit you lost control. You are emotionally volatile. Exactly as Dr. Valencia described, right?”
“No!” shouted Nala. She stood up from her chair. “He set me up! He took the photo of me in secret after hurting me. He is a devil. He is—”
“Enough!” The judge’s gavel struck hard.
“Witness, calm down. Sit down.”
Nala sobbed. Her shoulders shook. She slumped back into her chair.
Destroyed. Everything destroyed.
She had behaved exactly as they wanted. She looked hysterical. She looked unstable. She looked the image of the failed mother they had fabricated.
She looked toward his side. The man had his head bowed, making a fake grimace of sadness, as if he were hurt by his wife’s instability.
Cromwell smiled smugly. The judge shook his head slowly. His expression was clear. He had already taken a side.
That day’s trial ended with total destruction for Nala’s side. Abernathy tried to console her as they left, but Nala felt numb.
“It’s over, attorney,” she whispered weakly.
That night was the longest of her life.
The sentencing hearing was going to be the next day. Nala knew she was going to lose. She was going to lose Zarya.
She went into Zarya’s room. Her daughter was already asleep. He was not home, probably celebrating his victory with Valencia in advance.
Nala sat at the foot of the bed, stroking her daughter’s hair. Her tears fell silently onto Zarya’s cheek, and the girl stirred a little.
“Mommy,” Zarya opened her eyes half-asleep.
“Shh, go back to sleep, princess,” whispered Nala, her voice hoarse from crying. She hugged her daughter tight. “Maybe the last hug as a full mother. I want you to know, whatever happens tomorrow, Mommy loves you very much. Always.”
Sensing her mother’s sadness, Zarya hugged her back tightly.
