Brown, Sandra-Friction

That got Crawford’s attention. Heat crawled all over him. “That’s privileged.”
“I could appeal to the court.”
“No judge would force her to hand over her record of our sessions because it’s irrelevant.”
“If it’s irrelevant, why not tell me what’s in it?”
“I haven’t seen it.”
“Take a crack at what it contains.”
It was difficult to be reminded of the darkest days of his life, to have past transgressions publicly
aired. It had happened twice today. It was especially hard to sit and take this shit from Neal Lester.
But he forced himself to assume a nonchalance. “I think the therapist would tell you that I had
learned to control my anger over losing Beth, that I had gotten a grip on the alcohol abuse, the
depression, etcetera.”
“I wouldn’t be asking,” Neal said smoothly, “except that it’s germane to this investigation.”
His abuse of authority angered Crawford as nothing else could have. “Germane my ass, Neal.
You’re trying to humiliate me, that’s all. What I think, you’re still pissed off because I felt up your
sister.”
Nugent gulped with astonishment.
Neal said nothing, but his eyes shot daggers.
Instantly regretful, Crawford sighed as he pushed his fingers through his hair. “That was a cheap
shot. You’re a prick, Neal, and you deserved it. But your sister didn’t.”
To his surprise, Neal actually smiled, but nastily. “I would expect no less from you. Besides,
you’re sitting there, and I’m sitting here. I’ve been placed in charge of investigating this fatal shooting
incident, and it’s up to you to convince me.”
His tone set Crawford’s teeth on edge. “Convince you of what?”
“That you were in a sound and stable state of mind when you confronted Jorge Rodriguez on the
roof of the courthouse, and that your actions in no way contributed to his getting killed.”