Dr. Ian West

Let’s talk about change for a moment. More specifically, the ability to change.

I see you checking the time…looking for an escape route. Any time the topic of change is brought up (and it is quite often in therapy; hence why people dislike therapy), our immediate reaction is to throw up defenses.

I can’t change. I am who I am.

This is one of the most painful subjects to tackle. Because it usually revolves around pain itself.

As a species, we are defined by our pain. It’s not the good and fun and easy moments that form our personality. If that was the case, we’d all be a bunch of lazy slugs lounging on the beach, drinking Mai Tais and toasting the good life. Blissfully unaware of tragedy and hardship.

We’d also be boring as fuck.

Every adversity we conquer teaches us more about ourselves. Our strength, preservation, our intelligence and capacity to learn and grow, so that we can face the next challenge. So forth and so forth.

Along the way, stumbling down life’s road of razor and fire, we’re sharpened, we’re forged. We’re given depth, and compassion. We recognize this intrinsic pain in others and we commiserate. We bond together in order to not do it alone.

Life is pain.

Probably one of the oldest sayings. Does anyone even know who first stated this? I think it needs an update: Life is shared pain.

No one—no one is an island. But if you’re unable to connect through your pain, you can become a conditioned island of bitter misery.

I’m getting off topic. The point is, whether pain is mental or physical, we are molded by our experiences. Most profound moments happen during our most trying experiences. And pain teaches us to adapt.

Change is not only possible, it is inevitable.

And, of course! There’s a term for this: Neuroplasticity. Or brain plasticity, is our brain’s ability to change throughout our life.

It’s sort of an umbrella term, as there are many stages and definitions depending on your specialty. But to make it easier for this lesson, I’m only going to focus on me. I’m a bit egotistical that way—but it is my story.

I’m seated at a table in a restaurant. Surrounded by friends and colleagues.

We’re celebrating the end of voir dire, and the fact that we managed to gain six jurors in our favor. No small feat, considering the pool. The truth is, people are becoming more sensitive, understanding, forgiving (thanks, millennials). Cultural Neuroplasticity at work—if there was such a thing—would be a perfect example. Not so good for our case.

Mia and Charlie came through to deliver two more jurors with their epic teamwork dynamic. A fusion of behavioral science and investigative skills that make the top dogs in law enforcement green with envy. I pride myself that I hired them both first. Yes, I’ll take the credit.

M and C are already hard at work building a mock jury. Twelve people that have similar values and beliefs, where we can simulate the trial and discover what will sway the remaining six jurors. It’s not as unethical as it sounds. People want to have their beliefs challenged. They want to be shocked and awed amid a trial. Reality TV at its finest minus the TV. And what’s more, they ultimately want to do the right thing.

Shocking, I know. But people, for the most part, are inherently good. It takes a lot of vileness to want to inflict pain and unnecessary punishment on another human being. Shared pain, remember? To commiserate is in our nature.

Our part is to help the jury do what they are already designed to do: have mercy.

But not for the defendant.

For the victim.

Mercy and justice for Devin Tillman, the woman who was stalked, abducted, and tortured in a motel room for hours, while friends and family assumed she was just off on another drug binge.

Eddie, having already taken a crack at trying Shaver during the first (partial) trial, knows what he’s up against. Shaver is a master manipulator. Everyone thinks they’re unswayable. That they’re smarter than average, and incorruptible. That if they were in the jury hot seat, they would punish the bastard.

It’s the same logic that comes into play when you’re at a grocery store and witness an exhausted mother trying to console a whiny, intolerant child.

I would punish my child. I would never allow my child to behave like that in public, so you say.

Everything is always so easy and clear from the grass on the other side of the fence. Why, yes, I do like mixing (butchering) metaphors. Stop judging. You’re only proving my point.

Back on topic: When it’s you in the hot seat, and a person’s freedom or even their very life is in your hands… The clarity of the situation becomes muddled. We are innately wired to commiserate with other human beings (that shared pain thing again), and therefore, when placed on a jury to judge, we in turn pull inward, placing ourselves in the accused’s place.

Because, hey, it could just as easily happen to us. And what about doubt? Years later DNA and yada yada proved someone served a life sentence that was really innocent. How can you be 100% sure he’s guilty? How could you live with yourself if you put an innocent man away for life?

If you’re human, and have a smidgen of empathy, you couldn’t live with yourself.

So the easier, less distressing verdict is always not guilty.

It’s why you’re so shocked a jury let someone free who you just knew was guilty.

This is the psychology of the justice system.

Like Porter voiced, nearly every person serving in the field of law battles this exact conundrum—to try to figure out their place; which side of the coin they’re on.

Long ago (maybe not that long; like back in the 1700s or something; I didn’t pay attention that day in class), a guy named Blackstone touted it for the masses, to simplify the challenge of guilt verses innocence. And the masses took to it, grateful, for they didn’t have to struggle any more with the moral dilemma.

The Blackstone ratio states: It is better that ten guilty persons escape than that one innocent suffer. In other words, if there’s even an ounce of doubt, set the bastard free. Blackstone didn’t invent the ratio, he might’ve borrowed it from the Bible, but the logic is clear, simple, and it’s been a staple in law for centuries. Our very justice system is built around it.

Without the full vote of twelve jurors to judge Shaver as guilty of murder, he will get his reasonable doubt. He will be proven not guilty by reason of insanity.

Unless…there’s a twist.

Juries love a good twist in the narrative of a trial.

“I still don’t understand how the defense is calling you as an expert witness,” Eddie remarks, breaking into my thoughts. To be continued.

That is the question, isn’t it? The enigma. Is Shaver so certain in his ability to fool a jury that he’s willing to chance putting me on the stand, or does his confidence lie somewhere else—like fate—like the Tarot card I carry in my pocket. Its meaning, and threat, still a mystery.

“Is Shaver deceptive or delusional?” I question out loud.

Eddie’s strikingly blond, slicked-backed hair is extra gelled tonight, I notice. He wipes his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Are you asking me?”

I glance around the booth at the team.

Mia raises her hand. “Both,” she says. “In order to make others believe his lies, he has to believe them, which makes him delusional to an extent.”

I tap my nose. “He’s been trying to get inside my head. The Tarot card, talking about Melanie—” this gets a sympathetic frown from Eddie—“so next he’ll target all of you. Anyone close to me, he’ll allude to threats. That’s why I’m being called,” I explain. “Deceptively, and delusionally, he thinks I can be controlled on the stand.”

“Should we be worried?” Charlie asks.

As a cop’s son, his first instinct is to report a threat. But Shaver’s already behind bars. The authorities can’t protect any of us from this type of intimidation, which is only psychological at this point. Not to say Shaver’s reach can’t extend outside his bars; I believe that’s the point he was trying to make by having the card placed on Mel’s gravesite. Just saying that you can’t work in law and buckle at every psychopath’s threat.

Besides, as far as Shaver’s associates will know, my team is off the ADA’s case. “From here on out, you’re all fired.”

Shock is my colleagues. Mia’s blood-red lips twist in confusion. Then Charlie reacts. “Dr. West, this is highly unfair.”

I hold up a hand. “Simmer down. You’re only fired for show. As far as Shaver’s attorney knows, I’ve removed my team from consulting with Eddie. You’ll still work it behind the scenes.”

Mia’s observant eyes catch my hard swallow. “You are worried.”

“I’m not worried, Mia dear. I’m being cautious, as you said. Since Shaver is already focused on me, there’s no reason to have that focus shift.” I take a sip of water. “Just lay low until after my testimony, then we’ll resume as usual.”

Mia and Charlie seem uncertain, but they’re not privilege to the interview or the tests. Shaver’s scans came back and, even though there is some interesting activity going on in his ventromedial prefrontal cortex (that would be the part of the brain where we see general psychopath activity), his brain is otherwise trauma free.

There’s no source to hang his temporary insanity hat on.

Of course, once I state this on the stand, declaring Shaver in control of his actions, his attorney will have a rebuttal witness to try to discredit me. That’s fine. Eddie has the drug angle if we need to go there, but I know juries. This one will want to convict Shaver, they just need a narrative, and a believable, intelligent witness (that’s me) to give them the okay.

Fear assuaged, conversation resumes around the booth. The restaurant buzzes with a low hum, a sort of mellow current. The atmosphere feels tranquil. Somewhere in my subconscious, a voice whispers, the quiet before the storm.

Then the storm herself walks in.

My chest catches fire at the sight of Porter.

A slim, black velvet dress hugs her curves, capping off just above the knee. Black stilettos lengthen her sexy legs. Her hair is loose and tumbles in waves over her bare shoulders.

She’s sin incarnate.

As she spots our booth, a sly smile curves her pink lips. She heads our way, and I’m suddenly sweating. Heart palpitating. This feels like a test. Do I compliment her in front of the team, or wait until we’re alone?

Then the thought of being alone with Porter stirs a visceral, carnal reaction in my groin. Damn, it’s been too long.

I tamp down all these inappropriate thoughts as she slides in beside Mia. “Okay gang. Officially, I am not on this case with you.”

“Technically, neither are we,” Mia says.

Porter quirks an eyebrow, then directs her next words at me. “Ethically, I can’t give you anything that the defense may use. But I can give you new information, and what you choose to do with that…” She slides a folder across the table.

I snag it and place the folder at my side. “Detective Renner came through?” I inquire.

Porter nods. “You already have everything on the crime scene, I assume, but Renner’s investigation went beyond. She pulled phone records from as many of Shaver’s associates as she could, and cross referenced those with Tillman’s phone. Then she investigated Tillman’s social media for the past year. Not easy to do amid a homicide investigation.”

“What are you getting at?”

Porter leans over the table and lowers her voice. “You believed that stalking victims was a part of Shaver’s MO, but had no way to prove it. Just a theory, right?”

I glance down at the file. “Porter, you’re a goddess.”

She smiles. “I know. Anyway, Renner is ready to take the stand to divulge what she’s uncovered.”

“Shaver has other victims,” I say, thinking. But there are no bodies. His method changes with each kill, making it virtually impossible to link him to other murders. And yet, stalking… “We can look for the same stalking patterns.”

Porter winks at me. “That’s where Detective Renner was already heading. Just in case Shaver was acquitted.”

It’s just a flash, but I catch the down turn of her lips. Regret. Shame. She was on the wrong side, but she has nothing to feel bad about. Like she said, she was doing her job. I do understand that.

I begin to reach across the table, to take her hand, then remember we’re not alone.

“Charlie, I need you to start cross referencing Shaver’s interests with missing persons’ cases.” Interests being the women he was actively pursuing. Stalking in today’s time doesn’t mean you have to physically follow someone.

He nods assuredly. “First thing, Dr. West.”

Mia and Porter are engaged in their own conversation, and I use the brief moment to really look at her. Suddenly, I can’t look away. How have I gone three years without needing her input, her smile. Her comfort.

I remove the napkin from my lap. “Goodnight, all. I’ve taken care of the bill, so don’t get carried away at the bar.”

After a round of goodbyes, I make it to the door, where I pause and pretend to check my phone. Waiting for Porter, hoping she’ll be right behind me. I spot her in my peripheral and push through to the outside.

She finds me around the corner. “That was abrupt.”

“Because I couldn’t wait to do this.” I have her in my arms and kissing her, seeking her sweet lips like a parched man seeks water.

I am parched. I’ve been a shriveled shell of a man far too long. And I may be making the worst mistake with Porter, risking too much…but there’s plenty of time for regret later. I know this all too well. Right now, I just want the feel of her pressed against me.

She breaks the kiss and finds my eyes. “My place?”

I can’t talk, but I can nod like a bobble head, simultaneously shoving away every warning. Every fear. I latch on to the fiery ache in my chest, the heavy thud of my heart, the cues that signal to go with her. She takes my hand in hers and leads me across the street.

And here we are. We’ve come full circle.

Neuroplasticity.

My own brain’s ability to grow and change.

I’m changing to be with Porter. My desire for her overrides the faulty wiring from the pain. Neurons are welded and new pathways formed. There’s the fear—there’s always the fear—that my pain will infect her, and I want to protect her from all the heartache and grief. But if I’m willing to betray a murderer, a madman, to protect her, then I can be strong enough to shield her from my shit, also.

I have to be.

The dark anguish within me won’t reach her.

Believe the lie, my subconscious whispers. I hate that bastard.

Change starts small, then it grows. Rapidly. How all change happens. Three years ago I believed I could never love another woman again. Now, my brain (because the heart can’t really feel emotions), is changing to allow the hope of what if.

What if I can move on? What if Porter is the one to mend all the broken and torn parts? What if I can let go of the pain?

My feelings for her won’t be the same as my love for Mel, but we’re built to not want to do this alone. Being alone is a choice. Just as taking a chance is. We are given an infinite way to love. I’m open to that.

The brain’s ability to adapt to correct the damage is remarkable.

I’m ready.