are all that are needed, and I have every one of them. After the tedium of the written exam and road test, I’m Daniel Fletcher. No criminal history, no psychiatric record, nothing. Sounds good, but the downside is no credit history, which needs to be built (I have to put large cash deposits on new apartments), which means a separate drill for the Social Security Administration to procure a number, which has its own pitfalls.
No job history, so one has to be fabricated for a new employer. Most driving and courier jobs are less concerned with job history than with insurance, which makes them easier to obtain. All told, the process involves more than most people outside of the FBI ever know.
College kids propagate the folklore that gets them and other amateurs busted: You comb through a cemetery, find someone who died within a year of being born. One who’s your own age plus a few years. Counties didn’t used to cross-index birth and death records, so it was easy to fool the DMV. You write the state a request for a birth certificate, bring it to the DMV with a utility bill or picture ID, and you’ve got a driver’s license that says you’re twenty-one.
That might work, and I mean might, if all you want to do is buy kegs for some jack-off Monday Night Football party from a liquor store that’s never had its license suspended. That might work if, in a given year, two dozen people don’t all apply for driver’s licenses that all happen to share the same first, middle and last name. If they do, it might work if the DMV doesn’t notice the astronomical coincidence.
Keara, the sound of her showering in the morning, radio on—a half-second of being with her jumps into my brain, and all at once I miss her. I want out of here.
“It’s okay to be nervous,” the Evaluator says. “This is probably a little unusual for you. Now, what I need to do here is very straightforward. I’m going to ask you some questions in order to gather some background information from you. From there, I’ll assess your psychological health, and the opinion that I draft regarding that is the only disclosure of our discussion that I will make. Anything else you tell me, barring the divulgence of a crime or risk to yourself, is strictly confidential.
“This interview is mainly for insurance purposes, so that the hospital doesn’t release a person who’s a potential suicide risk. Is there any part of what I’ve just said that you do not understand?”
“I understand everything.”
Yes, I understand that he deliberately avoids the word routine because he knows that I know this is anything but routine, and he needs my trust. I understand that this is mandatory and therefore not an interview but an interrogation. If I forget that, I’ll never leave here.
“Now,” the Evaluator continues, “I’m not here to trick you into revealing some hidden secrets or get you to commit yourself. If I find something worth looking into further, we can arrange a visit at your convenience to discuss that issue. Is all of that clear?”
“It’s clear.”
“So,” the Evaluator smiles, eyes crinkling behind his glasses, “Do you know why you’re here?”
This is a variant of What can I do for you today? What brings you here? or How can I help you today? Read: Do you remember what you did to get here? Do you acknowledge and assume responsibility for your actions? A straight answer is best, then he’s going to want to come back to that later.
“The doctor thinks I tried to kill myself.” True. Eye contact, now.
“Did you?”
“No.” True. Keep the eye contact, but don’t stare. Even the most honest person doesn’t maintain eye contact for more than half of a conversation. Exceed that fifty-percent threshold and you trash your believability.
“Do you mind if I ask your opinion, then, of someone who actually does try to kill himself?”
“He needs help quickly,” I say it without a pause. “Something’s very wrong.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. I mean, people go through bad shit and they just get through it. That’s the way it is. Suicide … I mean, something’s wrong with his brain. I mean there’s gotta be physical brain damage.” I’m emphatic, and I refer to him. No vague pronouns, because I’m talking about someone else, not myself, and that’s what he’s listening for.
“It says here that you took quite a few painkillers.”
“I know. My head hurt. I couldn’t get it to stop.” True. No pause, mild emphasis and I look him in the eye.
“Do you know how much you took?”
“I don’t have any idea.”
“Okay. Let’s come back to that later.” The Evaluator leans back, crosses his legs.
Convince this guy I’m not a head case. Whether or not I’m locked up is decided by a person who couldn’t pass the same evaluation under the same circumstances in a hundred lifetimes. He’s tagged me with at least one unfounded headache claim and at least one overdose, so I’ve got to think quickly.
The Evaluator is mixing his cue cards with instinct, like knowing when to kiss someone for the first time or push a bluffer into folding. People that survive shark attacks were never attacked. Sharks can tell with a single bite—a short fin mako’s jaws can exert four tons of pressure per square inch—whether they’ll burn more calories digesting the kill than they’ll gain from it. Millions of years of evolution tell them whether to eat you or not. This Evaluator is going to swim in wide, concentric circles of safe subjects until he thinks I’m relaxed enough to spill my guts. Older evaluators like this one spend less time interpreting. They read you quickly, so signs are easier to convey. That works in my favor.
First, he’ll assess my current mental state. This is called a Mental Status Evaluation. He’s laying the groundwork for the detailed questions, the personal details that could get me sent away indefinitely, or at least until a hearing. Anything goes wrong here and the rest of his questions are null and void. He’ll profile my most basic condition, such as how I’m dressed, how I’m acting and if what I say coincides with my behavior. If I say I’m fine but I’m bawling my eyes out, or I think I’m going to die while I’m smiling cheerfully, there’s a problem.
He’ll try to establish that I know who I am, where I am and what day it is. That I’ve got my memory—immediate, short- and long-term. Hygiene is important. Someone in the depths of depression (for which I’m a candidate) throws grooming to the dogs. No shave, white scalp flakes salting their shoulders, untucked shirts and swollen guts pushing belly hair through missing buttons, an Evaluator will mark it down. I’d splashed water on my hands in the bathroom, finger-combed my hair and chewed a handful of mints from the urology desk on the way here.
“How are you feeling now?” he asks.
“I’m all right. A little groggy. My throat hurts.”
“It’s swollen. Give it a day, maybe take a couple of aspirin. It should be fine,” he says, and writes Patient complaining of throat pain on the canary legal pad.
“Mr. Fletcher—may I call you Daniel?” Turn the dial to Informal, lighten the mood and tighten the circles. The distorted fish do their back-and-forth soothing trick.
“Yeah, sure.”
“You
