Cajun Justice(18)

“I find it interesting that your nightmare is not a monster per se, but rather a scenario.”

“Why is that interesting, doc?”

“Well, we choose our careers. And your history shows a pattern.”

Cain found himself being drawn into her line of questioning. Mike was right. I better be careful. She’s good, and I don’t know where she is leading me.

“You are attracted to dangerous jobs.”

“I guess you could say to dangerous hobbies, too. Like flying and riding a motorcycle. Or maybe I just took too many punches to the head when I boxed in high school.”

Cain saw that his official personnel file sat open on her lap. She riffled through the pages. “Or perhaps your boxing experience has helped your on-the-job ratings. I see you have excellent marks in physical fitness.”

“I don’t hit the bag as much as I’d like to anymore, but I still remember the techniques—jab, cross, hook, uppercut. I was a freshman in high school when an old Cajun hired me to help him build a boxing gym. As part of my labor, he gave me a key to the gym and I practiced every day after school. When he saw that I was committed to the sport, he started training me.”

She continued thumbing through his paperwork. “You also have excellent ratings in shooting.”

“Been shooting a gun since I was three. Comes with the territory of being born in South Louisiana, the Sportsman’s Paradise.”

“Oh, my,” she said. “That doesn’t sound safe.”

“I think it’s safer when you have a respect for it, rather than a fear.”

“One of your supervisors described you as ‘fiercely loyal and married to the job.’”

Cain liked the compliment but was embarrassed by all the praise. “This ain’t just a job. It’s a vocation. This profession called me. I know this probably sounds cliché, but I wanted to serve my country at the highest level. Protecting the president allows me to do that.”

“Your Secret Service file is thicker than most I see,” she observed.

“That’s probably because it contains my military records as well,” Cain said.

“It shows assignments all over the world—many that would give a normal person a case of adrenal fatigue or PTSD. Do you feel like you’ve experienced any symptoms of the illness?”

“Is that what the experts call PTSD nowadays? An illness? Like catching the flu?”

“PTSD affects everyone differently. Some become more aggressive, while others become more withdrawn. Many of my clients are veterans returning from Iraq or Afghanistan.”

“I appreciate your trying to help them,” Cain said. “We are quick to send people to war, yet slow to treat them when they come back. It’s a real shame.”

She nodded in agreement.

An awkward silence followed. “You asked earlier about my brother,” Cain finally said. “He’s not the younger brother I remember growing up. Operation Iraqi Freedom changed him. He’s a different person now. He can barely hold down a steady job. He lives with our parents. Farmwork seems to be helping him with his anxiety.”

As he spoke, Cain had been studying Dr. Spencer’s Stanford University degree, hanging on the wall behind her desk. Why would such an educated woman choose the bureaucracy of government employment instead of private practice? Fear of failing at private practice?

“Mind if I ask a question, doc?”

“That’s not normally how my sessions go, but sure. I’m flexible.”

“Why did you spend hundreds of thousands of dollars to graduate from the number one college in psychology, only to end up becoming a government functionary like myself?”

“I’m actually in private practice. I contract with the Secret Service on a limited basis. They find it cheaper to hire me case by case instead of full-time.”

Cain chuckled. “I’m a patriot. I love my country. But the government trying to save money is something I rarely see—if ever.”

“Economics is tied to behavior. Some risky, some conservative. But a decision is always required. You made an assumption—a snap judgment—based on a degree hanging on my wall. Am I correct?”

“Yeah,” Cain replied. “I’ll give you that. In my line of work, I have to make judgments, or people get killed. When I see a crowd clapping for their favorite politician but one man is not, it catches my attention. When I see people out wearing T-shirts and shorts yet one is in a heavy jacket, it catches my eye. So, yes, I make judgments based on my observations. It comes with the job.”

She continued probing. “Do you think you have good judgment?”

“In some things. In others, probably not. If you ask my supervisor, I have poor judgment in clothes, because my style is more subdued.” Cain chuckled. “The Service is peculiar in that regard: they’ll judge your value to the team based on the quality of your tie or cuff links.”

“What about judgment in your friendships?”

“I’m loyal to a fault.”

She looked up from scribbling notes on her yellow legal pad. “Please explain.”

“I try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. I don’t always succeed, but I try to see the good in people.”

“Loyalty is usually an admirable trait. But many people don’t realize there is a dangerous subcategory of loyalty. We refer to it as toxic loyalty. For example, those who were loyal to the Nazi regime.”