This paper describes the psychoanalytic treatment of a man involved in an unusual, but prolific form of white-collar crime. Unlike the majority of narcissistic and overtly antisocial individuals who comprise the heterogeneous group of white-collar offenders, this man's personality structure most closely resembled that of the vulnerable narcissist. Entitled expectations as well as moral motives were dissociated, immuring him in a cycle of resentment, shame, and inauthenticity. Dissociation curiously promoted attachment security by eliciting mirroring responses from significant others. The implications of these clinical findings are framed in terms of a broadened psychoanalytic view of integrity. Specifically, it is argued that integrity is complex and dynamic, involving processes that are both consciously self-directed and volitional as well as those that are unconscious, nonvolitional, and intrinsically linked to character. In addition, although the roles played by rational assessment and deliberation must not be underestimated, the study of moral behavior establishes the equal importance of unconscious processes that effectively short-circuit deliberation and culminate in the refusal to discount core beliefs in the face of uncomfortable realities. The paradox of integrity is that it involves both openness to and willful foreclosure of alternatives and new possibilities. Never completely the product of reflection or of dispositions fixed in early life, integrity betokens a creative reworking of unconscious identifications and motives as well as norms and new learning into choices that accord with one's sense of self as an ethical actor.

Rob was a sixth year associate at an insurance defense law firm when he entered treatment. Close to achieving the brass ring of partnership and, with it, the money and prestige he so strongly desired, he was experiencing an array of stress-related symptoms, including fatigue, mental slowing, insomnia, and difficulty concentrating. He was working on a major account and generating significant revenue for the firm. Defense firms flourish or fail on the basis of the hours billed for their services and Rob's work was starting to be noticed.
Rob's ascent was especially interesting for someone so essentially insecure. Strongly desirous of approval, chronically concerned about his status, and quick to react to the slightest criticism with shame, he seemed ill-suited to litigation. He dreaded arguing and used his personable, down-to-earth style to avoid confrontation. A devoted husband and father of two, the treatment focused on his struggle to balance family commitments and the demands of a stressful career. Specifically, it addressed the core fantasy that the achievement of partnership status would magically remove lifelong insecurities and the stress of having to function at a consistently high level.
When my phone rang late one Thursday morning, I was surprised by Rob's request to see me as soon as possible. I knew that something was very wrong and was saddened to learn that he might lose his job. It was the winter of 2008 and many people were finding themselves suddenly unemployed. But, I was shocked when Rob told me why. After an audit, the client informed the firm that it was pulling all of its cases. Among other criticisms, it cited an egregious lack of documentation in the file, the implication being that the insurer believed it had been billed fraudulently. Though neither singled out in the complaint nor accused explicitly of any wrongdoing, Rob was deeply concerned. As an attorney, he understood the seriousness of the matter and the potential consequences of a complaint involving several of his colleagues and hundreds of thousands of dollars. After listening carefully for most of the hour without saying much, I asked Rob whether there was any truth to these allegations. Sheepishly and with a deeply pained expression, he acknowledged that they were substantially true. He took a moment to wipe away his tears and left my office contemplating the prospect of telling his wife what had happened.
The following paper describes the psychoanalytic psychotherapy of a 35-year-old man seen twice weekly for more than 3 years. It focuses particularly on material that emerged during the second year in an attempt to understand why a bright, conscientious, person of promise engages in unethical behavior. How does he violate standards that he appears to respect in other areas of his life? Why does he rely on deception in circumstances where honesty is equally possible? To respond adequately to these questions requires that Rob's ethical failures be contextualized psychologically. He generally honored his commitments, especially those involving his family and the advancement of his career. He possessed moral motives and generally comported himself in accordance with them.

Unlike the majority offenders who are overtly antisocial, Rob's personality structure most closely resembled that of the vulnerable narcissist (Wink, 1991). Entitled expectations as well as moral motives were dissociated, immuring him in a cycle of resentment, shame, and inauthenticity. Without question, his proclivity for dissociating under circumstances of relational adversity constituted a key aspect of his character, one that curiously promoted attachment security by eliciting what he perceived as mirroring responses from significant others. The implications of these clinical findings are framed in terms of a broadened psychoanalytic view of integrity. Specifically, it is argued that integrity is complex and dynamic, involving processes that are both consciously self-directed and volitional as well as those that are unconscious, nonvolitional, and intrinsically linked to character. In addition, although the roles played by rational assessment and deliberation must not be underestimated, the study of moral behavior establishes the equal importance of unconscious processes that, in effect, short-circuit deliberation and culminate in the refusal to discount core beliefs in the face of uncomfortable realities. The paradox of integrity is that it involves both openness to and willful foreclosure of alternatives and new possibilities. Never completely the product of reflection or of dispositions fixed in early life, integrity betokens a creative reworking of unconscious identifications and motives as well as norms and new learning into choices that accord with one's sense of self as an ethical actor.

An Unlikely Criminal
By all accounts, white-collar criminals are singularly adept at exploiting opportunities for organizational advancement as well as identifying those with whom it is advantageous to associate and those who can be safely ignored (Benson & Simpson, 2009). Rarely satisfied by their achievements, they are excessively self- centered, grandiose, and attention-seeking, willingly placing their personal goals ahead of moral standards. They are quintessentially narcissistic: actively self-enhancing, grandiose, vindictive, aggressive, exhibitionistic, and exploitive. They seek power, success, wealth, and admiration, largely indifferent to whether they are liked so long as they get what they want.
In contrast with the overt criminality and aggression of antisocial personality disorder, white-collar offenses are typically thefts by deception (Green, 2006), most likely to occur when financial security or lifestyle is threatened (Lodi-Smith & Roberts, 2007). Faced with the prospect of professional failure (Wheeler, 1992), offenders take immediate, bold, and deceptive action. Brottman (2009) describes the psychoanalytic treatment of a middle-aged man convicted of and incarcerated for securities fraud. His job imperiled by the firm's insolvency, he crossed the line into illegality to avoid financial failure—a crushing blow to his narcissism. Brottman was impressed by what she describes as “latent narcissism” (p. 127)—his sense that he was above the rules and could transgress with impunity. This perception was decisive for the antisocial turn, fortified by an identification with corrupt role models and a corporate culture that encouraged employees to do “whatever it took to meet the numbers” (p. 126). Jointly, grandiosity and corrupt identifications brought about a striking reversal in which fealty to company values rather than to prevailing norms became the basis for integrity. His enmeshment in an organizational selfobject transference galvanized the perception that he had permission to do whatever was necessary, without guilt or concern.
In white-collar offenders, ethical principles are recognized, but not honored under pressure or in circumstances where detection is unlikely (Benson & Kerley, 2000; Weisburd & Waring, 2001). Hence, it is more accurate to characterize their value systems as flawed rather than nonexistent. They possess moral motives to varying degrees but ultimately value expediency over integrity, leading them to act in morally insensitive (Ross, 1977) or flexible (Gross, 1978) ways.

19 августа
As someone who was shy, self-effacing and humble, who struggled with indecisiveness and sustained effort, Rob did not fit the profile of the typical white-collar criminal. In most respects he appeared conscientious and conforming. He despised the constant bickering of litigation and found the practice of law to be more stressful than interesting. Most important to him was to be liked by colleagues. Winning their approval was a key regulator of his self-esteem. He seemed intuitively to appreciate the risk that greater recognition posed and avoided exposure of his shortcomings by trying to cruise under the firm's managerial radar.
For someone whose vulnerability to shame and sense of inferiority were so palpable, it was surprising to learn that Rob secretly regarded himself as special. Although sharing this unformulated fantasy only gradually over time, it had sustained him since childhood. It was not that he consciously believed he was superior to others; in fact, he suffered greatly when the approval he so desperately sought was not immediately forthcoming. However, small successes called forth a deep sense of specialness, one that provided periods of inner comfort, even joy. As foolish as he felt about this fantasy when it came to mind, he found its disconfirmation even more painful. He lived within the strictures of a double bind that permitted him to neither avow his grandiosity nor tolerate its annihilation. In a paradigm instance of unconscious compromise, he adopted a veneer of humility and constraint, locking away this core fantasy where it sustained him independently of real accomplishment. Over time, he experienced this false, shame- vulnerable self as real.

From a psychodynamic perspective, Rob's presentation is reminiscent of individuals variously described as shy (Cooper, 1998), covert (Akhtar, 1989, 2000), diffident (Hunt, 1995), oblivious (Gabbard, 1989), or vulnerable (Wink, 1991) narcissists. In place of the arrogance and disproportionate self-absorption of narcissistic personality disorder (NPD) proper, the vulnerable narcissist is exquisitely sensitive to criticism and avoids circumstances likely to elicit it. This sensitivity does not diminish his need for approval. On the contrary, profoundly insecure, he is in almost continuous need. Unlike the grandiose (DSM-IV) narcissist who utilizes overt strategies to meet his needs, his sensitivity drives any trace of grandiosity, as well as those parts of the self associated with it, underground, forcing him to pursue fulfillments covertly. Rather than bragging about accomplishments, he is more likely to compliment others, in some instances minimizing real contributions to elicit recognition. He is far more comfortable embarrassedly accepting others' praise than seeming to pursue or even believe it.

The vulnerable narcissist is a master of deception, revealing some imperfections to keep others hidden. Exposure of disavowed aspects of self produces depression and shame rather than rage. While theorists like Akhtar imply that his grandiosity is conscious, but hidden—hence, the term “covert” (Akhtar, 1989, p. 114) narcissist—most emphasize that it is disavowed, dissociated, and/or unconscious. Once recognized, anger and resentment collapse into shame and guilt. These emotions are typically productive of prosocial behavior, but do not necessarily reflect values fully integrated within personal identity as a whole. So completely driven by external affirmation, the vulnerable narcissist often behaves morally when and because it is the least costly way to be perceived as moral. In the end, what matters most is being noticed and (undeservedly) receiving his due; he is otherwise unconcerned with moral requirements. Shame rather than guilt regulates his behavior. He prefers the privacy of fantasy to real world accomplishment; in the former, the inevitable evidence of his imperfections can be facilely discounted.

Rationalization and Moral Disengagement
To betray another's trust, to deceive or steal from someone or from an institution, demonstrates a woeful lack of integrity. However, Rob presents us with a complex value system that accommodates selective violations of moral standards. For Freud (1964), the ability to hold two disparate attitudes toward the same perception—in this case, to regard the act of fraudulent billing as at once morally wrong and permissible— reflects splitting of the ego. Disavowal and dissociation bring about circumstances in which one ignores, misinterprets, or is indifferent to moral implications. Others have noticed how anxiety sometimes subverts superego functioning (Arlow, 1971), undermines convictions (Grossman, 1993; Renik, 1992), and compromises integrity (Rangell, 1980). Rangell has framed the problem explicitly in terms of the superego giving in. Thus, rather than brazenly disregarding moral standards in his pursuit of power, the vulnerable narcissist deceives others and himself to maintain self-continuity and cohesion. He dissociates uncomfortable truths, experiencing them as if they are not really real. Dissociation strips values, standards, and norms of their moral force, instantiating states of mind described by Grossman as the “perverse attitude toward reality” (p. 422). Perversity diminishes the agent's experience of salience and, therefore, of obligation. The patient takes refuge in fantasies whose truth remains untested.

Rangell regards compromises of integrity as unconscious compromises among identifications, ideals, obligations, and desires, building upon Hartmann's (1960) understanding of integrity as an emergent property of intrapsychic compromises continuously reworked and renegotiated in the process of adaptation. Because adaptation implicates responsiveness to ever-changing circumstances—including, but not limited to, interpersonal influences, norms, and traditions—Hartmann's concept endeavors to stabilize the ineradicable tension between the claims that personality at once unconsciously determines one's choices and remains open to influence throughout the life span. It appears that one cannot have it both ways: If character not only influences and constrains, but determines one's choices, it is not truly open to new experience. Alternatively, if moral choices reflect post-Oedipal influences of various kinds, the relationship of these influences to character is both substantial and complex. Hartmann and Rangell's formulations retain these tensions within a dynamic concept of integrity that encompasses ever-present possibilities and limitations for choice. Rather than regrettable, these tensions make learning, personal growth, and therapeutic change possible.

These ideas reveal an inherent conflict within prevailing conceptions of moral choice. Philosophers from Socrates to Kant have aligned the virtues of knowledge and duty. To know the good, to possess the ability to identify obligations by virtue of reason alone, it has been assumed, inspire moral behavior. Moreover, because they further knowledge of the good, reflection, deliberation, and moral reasoning ability ought to be correlated strongly with ethical action. In reality, however, the relationship between moral judgment and moral choice is at best a modest one (Blasi, 1980; Kohlberg & Candee, 1984). Equally important is the willingness to bring one's behavior in line with the product of one's deliberations. Let us explore how this linkage is undermined by disavowal.

Case Material
As a beginning associate, Rob worked long hours to keep his billing in line with the firm's requirements. He tried to do the right thing, but lived in constant fear that his hours would fall below expectations. He dreaded quarterly reviews because they left him feeling incompetent and ashamed. Early on, he suspected others of cheating; these suspicions were confirmed when he accidentally received time sheets that detailed others' entries on files that were in his exclusive possession. Revealingly, Rob was more troubled by the fact that he was working harder than his colleagues than by their unethical practices. He felt foolish rather than angry or offended.

Rob's attitude changed decisively after a conversation with the firm's managing partner. He was told that he would likely be nominated for partnership the following year if he increased his hours. He was both thrilled and extremely anxious—thrilled because this news was like a dream come true; anxious because he was already billing 2,100 hours annually. He remembered thinking that it was impossible to do more. He left the meeting haunted by his mentor's advice: “You need to think about how you can better find your time.” Rob understood exactly what this meant. Emboldened by these words, he slowly began to “find” his time, initially adding small increments to his entries. “After all,” he thought, “I can't be sure that I spent exactly .6 hours on a phone call—maybe it was .5 or even .4.” He never considered that what he was doing to be unethical, let alone illegal. Over the next year and half, this practice became routine. Memos to the file were automatically billed a fixed amount, regardless of the time actually spent preparing them; court appearances were handled in the same way. Eventually, he no longer kept careful track of his time or entered it contemporaneously with task completion. He based his entries entirely on memory, with accuracy clearly suffering as a result.

Thus, a textured and complex picture of fraudulence emerged. Did he bill for time in excess of the time actually spent on tasks? Yes. Did he misrepresent this to his clients and colleagues? Yes as well. His focus narrowed onto the clerical aspects of recordkeeping; his entries needed to reach a specific numerical amount—he gave little thought to the implications of this practice. In our meetings, Rob insisted that he never went as far as many of his colleagues did. He recounted numerous instances of overt criminality on the part of his partners and the code of silence that surrounded them. Secrecy facilitated malfeasance and rationalization. However much he exaggerated his time, he always had something to document his billing. To do otherwise would be wrong. Furthermore, while claiming to be more ethical than his colleagues, Rob concealed his actions completely. No one knew how little or how much he actually did. He felt anxiety and shame when he reflected on his actions, but he rarely engaged in self-examination.

Rob initially spoke of his actions as if they were in the distant past, disowned and no longer part of his life. He would say “I can't believe how stupid I was ... I would never do anything like that again” or “I don't know what I was thinking.” He wanted to preserve his view of himself as a good, moral person. I said to Rob that, however much his actions made no sense to him, “no one puts oneself in such jeopardy without powerful reasons for doing so.” I added: “sometimes these reasons are hard to think about because they reveal aspects of ourselves that we don't want to know. I think one part of you believes it is best to forget or to keep these feelings and ideas hidden.” A stance of relative neutrality permitted Rob gradually to speak more openly of his rationalizations, especially that he would have felt “played for a fool” if he refrained from doing what everyone else was doing. Cheating leveled the playing field and diminished his resentment over an impossible work situation. Through it, he thumbed his nose at authority and its unrelenting demands. If the firm dehumanized him by its exclusive concern with billable hours, he felt he owed them little loyalty in return. Witnessing the actions of his dishonest colleagues only emboldened him. He was careful to keep his actions secret, committed to maintaining his image of being a hard worker. What was the harm in adding small increments of time to each of his files to give himself some breathing room, allowing him to leave the office early enough to see his children? “The firm knows this is bullshit, but everyone does it anyway. I knew it wasn't right, but what was I supposed to do?”

Rob was talented and could have been quite accomplished had he put in the effort. However, he rarely did. His parents had little formal education and had always treated him as if he could do no wrong. He was the light of his their lives, told from an early age that he was destined for great accomplishment. As Rob put it, “in my parents' eyes, my possibilities were limitless. They were convinced I was special. As good as this felt, it was also something I had to hide so people wouldn't hate me. I felt that it was wrong to regard myself as better than anyone else.” He experienced his parents' idolization of him with great ambivalence: on the one hand, enjoying and feeling sustained by it; on the other hand, fearful of the envy it elicited. Were he convinced that he was exceptional, the latter threat would have been inconsequential. However, he experienced it in the same way as the self he presented to others: as fundamentally false. When others responded unfavorably, he felt a shattering sense of invalidation; or, perhaps the same thing, painful confirmation of his worthlessness. Such moments left him feeling humiliated, like he was nothing. He lived his life always in a quiet state of vigilance, yearning for affection and praise, settling for the safety of seclusion.

The hidden fantasy of being special sustained Rob and made real accomplishment unnecessary. Contrary to much of what has been written about the vulnerable narcissist, Rob never fully believed this fantasy. As much as he wanted to believe it, he seemed intuitively to appreciate the danger of testing this fantasy. To make his specialness really real required a level of commitment he could not sustain. Lacking true self- confidence and resiliency, he settled for being liked and perceived as a “good guy.” He took solace in occasional flashes of brilliance that kept the fantasy quietly alive, but excused him from further effort. He learned over time to manage disparities between achievement and effort by creating the appearance of conscientiousness, cultivating the persona of doing more and being better than he was. When activated, he worked at a frenzied pace, terrified of being outed, and nearly collapsing under the stress of it all. Through deception, Rob met or exceeded others' expectations. Life was a sprint rather than a marathon, and he needed long rests between races.

It was far easier to identify Rob's avoidance and dissimulation than the enactment in which we rather quickly became embroiled. That he experienced me alternately as an admiring, benevolent, forgiving presence dedicated to helping him and a disappointed parent who would likely condemn and abandon him was relatively easily to discern. More difficult for me was recognizing the kernel of truth in these perceptions. I disapproved of his actions and his facile rationalization of them. As I tried to scale their impact, seeking a way to clarify and confront the perception that his actions perpetrated no serious harm, I struggled with powerful, but discordant feelings of empathy for Rob as the victim of parental idolization and a dehumanizing, corrupt work environment; recognition of his cleverness; frustration and anger with his indifference to moral implications; and an unexpected identification his victims. These feelings provided important clues to his disavowed resentment, anger, and pervasive sense of entitlement. Bringing this multiplicity of motives into the therapeutic dialogue nonjudgmentally was essential to helping him. Without awareness of his roles as victim and victimizer, he was unlikely to summon the will to maintain integrity when threatened by anxiety.

Initially, I focused on the immediate costs of what Rob euphemistically described as “finding” or “capturing” his time. I worried that, to do otherwise, would communicate tacit approval of his behavior or, at the very least, provide fertile ground for the development of a fully formed psychopathic transference (Kernberg, 2007). In one particularly memorable exchange, I responded to Rob's insistence that he had caused no harm by tactfully suggesting that he had ignored the real costs of what he had done. Using numbers he had provided over the preceding months, I said: “adding a ‘mere’ .1 (six minutes) per file for each of your 50 cases weekly amounts to an additional 300 hours or $100,000 annually. How is that not significant and serious harm?”

I did not dispute his view that the firm wanted more hours from him and would not question how they were generated. Instead, I questioned his conclusion that he had no choice. I interpreted the expression “no choice” to mean that he could envision no alternatives that did not involve facing disavowed aspects of self. Billing honestly created unbearable tension, a feeling facilely avoided or deleted completely by deception. The experience of crumbling internally blinded him to his aggression; from his perspective, he was only doing what he must to rid himself of anxiety. In this way, aggressive wishes and harmful consequences remained unformulated. He was as blind to them as he was to his manipulation of his clients and betrayal of their trust.

Gradually, Rob acknowledged that he never had been encouraged to cheat explicitly; he had interpreted his work situation in a way that gave him permission to act on forbidden wishes. He acted expediently rather than on the basis of what he knew was right. He rationalized his actions and disavowed his sense of entitlement. Only when his disavowal was identified, his perverse attitude toward reality laid bare, did he notice this defensive strategy and experience the affects against which it so effectively protected him.

Rob hoped that his contrition would elicit my forgiveness and concern, even love. In his less guarded moments, however, I sensed a certain pride of accomplishment as he described how effectively he had duped everyone. He seemed to desire approval of his antisociality, of his unabashed greed and disowned hostility. He wanted an accomplice, a selfobject who loved him despite his flaws. The alternative was to feel utterly despicable and worthless. Not only had he deceived me for an entire year, withholding any information about his fraudulent billing, but fantasized that I might privately admire him. Given how facilely Rob discounted implications, I shared my concern that this behavior might be continuing. While aware of moral and legal implications, I believed that it was therapeutically vital to approach these issues in an inquiring rather than moralizing way. To do otherwise would likely evoke immediate conformity to what he perceived as my expectations, foreclosing opportunities to explore and, ultimately, confront the linkages between deception, irresponsibility, and self-cohesion.

What ensued was a significant deconstruction of the entire therapeutic narrative, a retelling of Rob's life on the basis of a different perspective on the past. He had previously described his childhood as a happy one: He was popular, had many friends, and seemed to bask in the glow of others' admiration, imagining that he would be a rock star and, later, a professional athlete. He had no hesitation about performing in front of audiences; he never felt anything other than successful. Now, he added one crucial fact. In late elementary school, his class devised what he called a “chatter” book. At the top of each page within this black and white marbleized notebook, a question like “who is the best looking boy in the class?” or “who is the smartest?” was inscribed. The book was circulated surreptitiously around the classroom, each child responding under a pseudonym. When the book finally reached Rob, he turned to the page that asked “who is the most conceited?” and discovered that almost every entry contained his name. He was horrified. He remembered the intense heat of his face flushing bright red, his heart pounding so loudly that he could hear nothing else. He fought back tears as he sat in his seat completely paralyzed with shame. What had he done to deserve this? Why did people think he was conceited? It suddenly occurred to him that there was something deeply wrong with him. The confidence and contentment he felt was shattered; they were no longer permissible to feel. He was not confused about his feelings, but convinced that he would be ridiculed and despised because of them. At that moment he made up his mind never to do anything that would be perceived as conceited again. He would never again expose this feeling and suffer the humiliation of being judged so harshly. The bubble of childhood grandiosity burst, there was no going back. He entered adolescence without the swagger of his childhood years. Whereas he had once felt that no aspiration was too lofty, he now felt vulnerable and diminished. He devoted all his efforts to covering up any and all aspirations for fear he would be ridiculed. After a time, they were no longer experienced as psychologically real.

“Covering up” became a rich metaphor in the therapeutic narrative, connecting his current behavior with a family legacy of deception born of shame avoidance. Whereas Rob had described his parents' lack of formal education with a certain pride, certainly as a source of motivation, these feelings could not have been further from the truth. After struggling for years, his father defaulted into a job as a nurse's aide at a local nursing home. It provided steady work and union benefits, something few of his friends could boast about. It made him feel “special.” However, because of what Rob described as his “Bensonhurst mentality,” George's triumph was intrinsically tainted. Nursing was a woman's profession, something viewed with contempt by “real men.” This concern grew increasingly acute. Only later did Rob discover that George was no stranger to shame: he was the illegitimate child of a married neighborhood man with an extensive criminal history. Particularly humiliating for George was the fact that his mother openly continued the affair, despite the scorn it evoked in this staunchly Catholic community.

As if it had happened only yesterday, Rob recounted occasions when he overheard other parents asking George what he did for a living. He cringed when his father fabricated answers, describing himself alternately as a salesman or stock broker. Emblazoned in Rob's mind was an incident also witnessed by his fiancée, which led him for the first and only time to confront his father. Asked why he had lied, George stated matter-of-factly “I don't want people to think I'm gay.” Seeing the shocked expression in his son's eyes, he added: “You can lie to others, just not to your family.” Apparently, lying was preferable to struggling with uncomfortable truths. Stunned, Rob did not question the wisdom of this view. He was more disappointed than enraged, immobilized by his father's shame as well as his own.

The metaphor of “covering up” yielded still more clinical data about Rob's relationship with his mother, bringing forth linkages to attachment insecurity and self-defeating, deceptive behavior. Musically gifted, Elaine had been encouraged by her teachers to pursue a career as a violinist. Her parents were less enthusiastic, eventually pressuring her to relinquish her scholarship to a prestigious school to help support the family. After a brief attempt to restart her career, she gave up her plans to live and study in New York when she discovered that her parents had stolen all of her savings. Without apology or apparent guilt, they explained that they had “no choice”: they needed the money. Her plans dashed, she took a local retail job. She grew increasingly phobic, suffering frequent panic attacks that prevented her from venturing from home or, for that matter, trying anything new.

Rob was born within a year of his parents' marriage and immediately became the center of his mother's life. He had no doubt that his father loved him, but, as a child, experienced his reticence and discomfort as a role model as confirmation of his mother's disparaging view. Only later did Rob notice this mother's neediness and frailty, how complete a world she had fashioned for herself within their one bedroom apartment, rarely dealing with matters outside their home. He grew increasingly resentful with her constant surveillance, guilty about his anger, and ambivalent about her ministrations. He was aware that he filled a void that existed in the marital relationship, but did not want this responsibility. His life had been a balancing act dedicated to bringing equilibrium to the family at the expense of being the person he wanted to be. He learned that it was safest to gratify his desires secretly, so they did not activate separation anxiety or jeopardize attachment bonds. Guilt about his misdemeanors and shame at their discovery were acceptable costs to break free of the impossible strictures of his life. Maybe it was acceptable to lie to one's family afterall, so long as it did no serious harm.

Discussion
Although he steadfastly denied any further transgressions, I cannot be sure about what Rob did and did not do—an anxiety for which I found no comfortable solution. Living with such uncertainty is perhaps the most challenging aspect of working with offenders, especially with those whose special expertise provides them with ample opportunities to work without oversight. In my view, little is achieved by remaining silent about the shadow this casts over the treatment relationship. Its meanings and implications must be tactfully explored and clarified with particular attention paid to dishonesty in the transference. This issue must take precedence over all other analytic work. This stance is consistent with Grossman's insight about how completely disavowal deletes salience and any appreciation of moral implications. It undergirds states of mind that have been variously described as dissociative, hypnoid (Janet, 1889), somnambulistic (Sullivan, 1972), and psychosomnic (Stein, 2007). In essence, it brings about circumstances in which reality testing is maintained, but value testing is not; moral reckoning is seriously undermined when reality assumes an as-if quality.

Exploration of Rob's dissociative defenses revealed important connections among entitled expectations, attachment insecurity, separation guilt, and transgression. Especially significant were the linkages between his father's shame, his mother's anxious hovering, and his conviction (in both its conscious and unconscious dimensions) that it was therefore permissible to break the rules. The latter point requires clarification. Rob's belief that transgressions were permissible was not unconscious in the strict sense of the term. Rather, it is more accurately characterized as preconscious, as something he was not typically aware of, but that could be called to mind and consciously entertained. What remained unconscious was the connection between this belief and his identification with his father. Cheating trumped shame for Rob as lying had done for his father: it was acceptable behavior so long as it did not threaten attachment bonds and family solidarity. It also allowed Rob unconsciously to remain faithful to his mother. Ironically, there was a family legacy of utilizing deception to avoid shame and to elicit mirroring from significant others; for Rob, an experience vital to self-continuity and comfort. Mirroring quieted separation anxiety and guilt. Ultimately, these strategies were self-undermining, as much the product of unconscious compromise as an expression of narcissism.

I have been careful throughout this paper to differentiate Rob's presentation from that of NPD proper. He was not arrogant, parasitic, or sensation-seeking; neither was he sexually promiscuous, drug and alcohol dependent, or, for most of his life, overtly antisocial. Rather, Rob's narcissistic needs were a source of inner conflict and shame. Specifically, his needs for mirroring and external affirmation coexisted alongside an authentic concern for others. Indeed, admiration made him uncomfortable and caused him to shy away from the spotlight. In experience-near terms, what he wanted most was to be liked; he desired a continuous flow of positive regard in which he imagined he was perceived as a “good guy.” All things being equal, he readily would have exchanged this feeling for partnership at the firm and the unbearable pressure it created.

In Rob's mind, his undoing was the firm's expectation for a greater commitment from him. He didn't want to work the additional hours—in fact, he deeply resented this demand—but could not bring himself to negotiate or simply decline. He could not take a stand contrary to others' expectations, risking any rupture in felt-security thereby. It was in this context that “whacking” his files became a viable option. Fraudulence provided a means of meeting the firm's expectations without the stress of actually having to work harder; it made it possible to enjoy the prestige of partnership without having to make the sacrifices it entailed.

The antisocial turn presented a remarkable compromise among a number of competing interests that Rob refused to struggle with. Throughout his life, he relied on deception whenever he encountered a conflict between external demands and inner desire. For example, he cheated without hesitation or apparent remorse in two particularly challenging college courses, copying others' work without their knowledge and plagiarizing scholarly work. During preadolescence, he periodically stole items like candy and baseball cards from a local variety store, on one occasion shoplifting a hat from a department store. Even more dramatically, because his mother insisted that he remain dependent and responsive to her needs, he concealed differences of opinion as well as any thrust toward autonomy. As an adult, he avoided taking stands that did not comport with majority or with those in authority, unconsciously convinced that he could do what he wanted only if no one knew about it. He lived an impossible dilemma: to live or be loved. He could not envision living a life that afforded both possibilities.

These dynamics emerged in full force only by virtue of unforeseen circumstances—an external audit that exposed Rob's unethical behavior and scared him into reality as it were. Because the firm ultimately took no action against him, instead pretending that nothing had happened, Rob's decision to remain there was problematic. Although he seemed to have removed his mask and experienced the anxiety of being known without the reassurance that he was loved unconditionally, he would struggle to avoid returning to the safety of his illusions and the comfort of transgression. For perhaps the first time, he entertained the possibility that his parents had disapproved of his misdemeanors, that their unconditional admiration was more fantasized than real. He glimpsed the abyss—the disavowed image of his limitations, deficiencies, and responsibility— but would have to work hard to hold its implications in mind.

Conclusion
White-collar crime is a highly complex, context-sensitive response to work and financial stressors that relies on deception. Although it occurs disproportionately in overtly narcissistic or antisocial individuals, most ethical violations are committed by individuals far less brazen, reckless, and character disordered. Because their violations are less spectacular, often occurring in practice areas that require specialized education and knowledge, these individuals rarely come to the attention of the criminal justice system. That they are products of limited imagination in no way diminishes their significance.

The material from Rob's treatment provides data about one type of white-collar offender whose psychopathology differs from the malignant narcissist or psychopath who present with borderline personality organization. Kernberg rightly describes such individuals as incapable of maintaining social honesty or moral commitments, forming loving attachments, and appreciating the devastating impact of their actions. Many white-collar offenders fall within these diagnostic categories; as a group, they are more narcissistic than nonoffenders. The impulsivity, hedonism, and recklessness of malignant narcissists problematize their ascent into leadership positions. However, in those less overtly antisocial individuals, the evidence suggests that lying, cheating, and stealing is selective, and frequently triggered by threats to financial security. They otherwise appear to live normal lives and inspire trust rather than suspicion in both colleagues and loved ones.

In vulnerable narcissists, the dynamics of offending are complex, the achievement and pursuit of recognition sources of profound conflict. Attachment insecurity makes the prospect of disappointment unbearable. These are individuals who have frequently been placed in a parental role as children and experienced anxiety and guilt in response to separation from one or both of their parents. As adults, they struggle with other expectations, unwilling to suffer the relational consequences of not being the person they imagine others want them to be. However, unlike the childhood situation, this anxiety is not bidirectional. That is to say, the patient mistakenly approaches all relationships as if the other's security is as precarious as his own. For Rob, this scenario inspired deception. Through it, he gratified forbidden wishes without activating separation fears.

Rob's life was guided by values to a significant degree, but also by a vulnerability to dissociation that precluded their full integration within his personality. This vulnerability was intensified by a culture of fraudulence within the firm—in my judgment, one that was not merely a defensively motivated distortion of the truth. Jointly, these influences produced a unique combination of sincerity and a capacity for deception. Rob preferred truthfulness, but, when his security was threatened, he no longer felt obligated to behave ethically. His inner morality was compromised by anxiety. In a mode of cognition dominated by reverie, key perceptions, events, and meanings were facilely discounted.

To be sure, integrity rests solidly on character as well as on those identifications, beliefs, and influences that form the core of who one is. However, following Hartman, adult morality is understood incompletely as the carrying forward these influences and meanings in their original form. Rather, integrity emerges from the reworking of these experiences in one's continuing efforts to negotiate present demands. It simultaneously reflects continuity and change, resistance and openness to influence, and what we understand as character and self-directed agency. It is as much a quest as an achievement, deeply informed by the ambiguity and irrationality of psychic life. It is for this reason that dissociation is the enemy of integrity. However, it does not follow from this conclusion that the capacities for reflection and deliberation are sufficient conditions of integrity. Contrary to Socratic wisdom, integrity requires more than the commitment to fair, just, and rational standards. It sometimes means doing the right thing, creatively fashioning choices on the basis of compassion, concern, and justice that need not necessarily be consciously consulted.

This perspective has much in common with a post-Aristotelian ethics of virtue, one that enjoys new relevance as we witness the emergence of a corporate ethos in which the accumulation of wealth trumps all other values. In individuals for whom achievement is divorced from the possibility of “I-Thou” relationships, disavowal diminishes the experience of moral salience and the activation of inner conflict. Disavowal undermines the capacities for reflection and moral deliberation because, in a sense, they leave the individual with nothing to deliberate about. As a 16-year-old fledgling narcissist reported to me recently, “business isn't just about beating the other guy: it's about fucking him, destroying him if you can.” The son of a successful investment banker, his words are a chilling reminder of the impact of dissociative mechanisms operating at a social-cultural level.

Psychodynamic understanding underscores the importance of examining the domains, situations, and structures of inner life as well as the totality of influences that encourage dissociation of moral standards. Not only is it sensitive to the dynamics that create vulnerability to ethical violations, but also provides real world examples of reconciliation among the forces of self-interest and conscience. Surely, the capacities for reason and reflection play a key role; but psychoanalysis reminds us of the importance of early attachment figures and the cultivation of increasingly complex habits of mind that allows seemingly irreconcilable forces to be held simultaneously in mind, creating opportunities for synergy between old and new.