by Reed Arvin
“Ms. Gaudet, if that’s her name, is a material witness in this case, your honor. Her background is by definition germane.”
Brackman sneaked a glance at Hesston; the lawyer was giving the judge a dangerous look. “I’ll give you about two minutes to wrap this into something I care about, Counselor,” Brackman said. “Otherwise let’s get on to something relevant.”
Henry nodded and repeated his question. “You haven’t answered my question, Ms. Gaudet. Tell the court why you changed your name.”
Henry looked into her eyes and there was another silent interchange between them; Ellen, cold and inaccessible, wanting to know how far he would push and what he knew, and Henry, his own eyes resolute, telling her that he knew everything, that he would stop at nothing. “I wanted a new life,” she said carefully, quietly.
“What was wrong with the old one?”
She paused. “It was . . .”
Hesston was on his feet again, this time definitely agitated. “Your honor,” he said, “I beg the court to keep Mr. Mathews’ questions pertinent to the topic at hand. Yesterday the witness did a splendid job of telling us that the deceased and Mr. Boyd hadn’t spoken to each other in the past twenty-five years. Now let’s allow this woman to get back to her place of business and get on with her life.”
Henry responded instantly, not giving Brackman the chance to rule one way or the other. “I was given the opportunity to pursue this line of questioning, your honor. Of course, if Mr. Hesston is going to be allowed to interrupt me every ten seconds he will only prolong the time it takes me to do so.”
Brackman, unused to actual dissent in his courtroom, looked surly and displeased. “Your leash is getting shorter, son,” he said. “I suggest you cut to the chase.”
Henry picked up his notebook and strolled toward the witness box. “How did you pick the name Gaudet?” he asked.
“Out of a magazine. It was the name of a French actress.”
“What kind of actress?”
Hesston leapt to his feet. “For God’s sake, your honor, are you going to allow this ridiculous waste of time?”
Brackman waved his gavel at Hesston. “Hold on a second, Frank. We’ll never get anywhere if you keep jumping up and down like a jackrabbit.”
Henry nodded, keeping his focus on Ellen. “What kind of actress, Ms. Gaudet?”
“I don’t know. She made romantic movies, I guess. Love stories.”
“Of a sort,” Henry said. “This particular actress ended up going to jail, isn’t that correct?”
“I don’t know.”
“She went to jail for killing her lover, a film director who was married to someone else at the time. The murder was particularly brutal. She’s still in jail, I believe. I find it very interesting you picked this particular name, Ms. Gaudet. I keep wondering what you might feel in common with someone like that.”
“I didn’t feel anything in common with her. I just liked the name.”
You can stop this anytime you want, Henry said with his eyes, and he knew she understood him. Right now. One more second and it will be too late. For a moment, they locked on to each other, and he had hope; but then she looked down, staring at her hands. So be it. God help her, God help Raymond, and God help me.
“This particular actress took off her clothes on film, isn’t that right, Ms. Gaudet?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“She was paid to act out fantasies for men, and like most women in that profession, she ended up hating them. She ended up killing the man she was closest to, in fact. Which brings me back to you. Of all the names in the world, you pick hers. You want to be named after a woman who makes sex movies and kills her lover.”
Ellen’s voice turned brittle. “It’s just a name. I didn’t think about it that way.”
Henry took a breath. He had set the trap. With Brackman so ready to pounce, waiting any longer was impossible. “Then let me ask you a question you can answer. It’s very simple.” He paused a moment. “For what crime were you arrested in March 1973?” There was a rustle through the gallery, finally settling into a nervous stillness. “Ms. Gaudet?” Henry asked. “Should I repeat the question?”
Ellen became as stiff as wood. “It was a long time ago.”
Henry held up a paper. He knew he should make her say the word; it would humiliate her, drive her closer to breaking down. There was no point now in going halfway; it was everything or nothing. “You didn’t tell the court what the arrest was for, Ms. Gaudet. Please answer the question.”
She looked at him, concrete hate, a thousand miles of resistance. “Solicitation,” she said in a still, quiet voice. Instantly, harsh whispering broke out in earnest throughout the courtroom. Brackman, startled himself, gaveled hard, demanding silence.
Henry paused, letting the quiet settle back over the room. “Prostitution is the common word for it, isn’t that right, Ms. Gaudet?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Ellen said at length. “Like I told you, it was a long time ago.”
“Prostitution,” Henry repeated quietly. “A crime where men use women for sex.”
“A crime where women use men for money,” Ellen interrupted.
Henry stopped. “And learn to hate them, isn’t that right, Ms. Gaudet?”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“I see.” Henry turned and walked back to his table. “Now, I’d like to get the timing of this right,” he asked. “This was March 1973, correct?”
“If you say so.”
“I’m asking you, Ms. Gaudet.”
“I guess so. Yes, March.”
“And you came to Council Grove later that same year?”
“Yes.”
“Where did that arrest take place?” Ellen looked at him silently. “The place, Ms. Gaudet. Where you were . . .”
“Junction City.”
“Junction City, Kansas.”
“That’s right.”
“There’s an Army base near Junction City, isn’t that right, Ms. Gaudet?” For the past several seconds Henry could feel the tension increasing across the aisle from him; with the words “Army base,” however, Hesston rose in thunder and lightning. “Your honor,” he shouted, “this is an outrageous . . .”
Henry broke in instantly, cutting him off. “If this court has any interest in the truth about my client and this will,” he demanded, “then I insist on being allowed to complete this examination without any more interruptions.”
Brackman slammed his gavel down hard several times, his frustration apparent. “Right now I want you both to be quiet!” he said. He turned to Hesston. “Frank, I’m telling you for the last time to sit down for a damn minute and let me get this over with.” He looked over at Henry, giving him a deeply irritated expression. “And your leash is up,” he said bluntly. “You got our attention with this little soap opera, Counselor. Now make sure you do something with it. If it turns out you’ve embarrassed this witness with nothing to show for it, I’m going to haul you into my chambers for an experience you will truly dislike.”
Henry nodded and walked directly in front of Ellen, facing her down. He stared at her, merciless, unyielding. “Ms. Gaudet,” he said, “the name of that base is Fort Riley. It’s the largest military installation in the world.”
“I know about the base.”
“I’m sure you do, Ms. Gaudet. I’m sure you did know about the sixteen thousand men stationed less than five miles from where you were living. But I’m only interested in one of those men. I’m interested in a man just back from Vietnam. Now, you testified, Ms. Gaudet, that you met Tyler Crandall here in Council Grove. You told this court that you saw him for the first time at the bank, just back from the war. But I want you to think back. I want you to think back to Junction City and Fort Riley.” Henry walked to the center of the courtroom. “What I want is very simple, Ms. Gaudet. I want you to tell this court the truth about where you really met Tyler Crandall.”
A wave of whispe
ring swept through the room, and Brackman gave his bench a reverberating smack with his gavel. “I’m going to have silence in this courtroom,” he said, glaring at the gallery. Hesston was on his feet again, but Brackman sat him down with an angry look. He turned to Ellen. “Answer the question, Ms. Gaudet.”
Ellen seemed to diminish. “I didn’t meet him there,” she said quietly.
“Then perhaps you can explain how it is that less than one month after your arrest both you and Ty Crandall find yourselves in Council Grove, a place where neither of you had any family, no connections of any kind. You suddenly appear here, dropped out of the sky. Isn’t it true that you met in Junction City and decided to move here together?” He held up the papers. “Ms. Gaudet, I have a copy of your arrest report in my hand. It says you were arrested at a place called Lucky’s. Not very original, but then GIs didn’t need much persuading, did they, Ms. Gaudet? You were younger then, in your early twenties? So there you were at Lucky’s, and . . .”
“That wasn’t with Tyler,” Ellen protested. “That report doesn’t say anything about Tyler.” She looked down, an amateur’s move, the move of a guilty person, and Henry almost pitied her. Then she lied terribly, unconvincingly, utterly ineffectually. “No,” she said. “I never knew him then. I never went near the base.”
“Tyler mustered back from Vietnam to Fort Riley,” Henry said, pressing on. “I can produce that paperwork if necessary. He got back on . . .” He flipped through the papers for dramatic effect, even though he knew the date. “On February 26, 1973. You were arrested less than two weeks later.”
“Not with Tyler,” she said bitterly.
“I didn’t say you were arrested with Tyler,” Henry snapped, not allowing her to appear a victim. “I’m saying you were at Fort Riley at exactly the same time, working the base. Then, suddenly, you both show up in Council Grove—a place people don’t exactly flock to—and your name isn’t Ellen Cox anymore, it’s Gaudet. How did that happen?”
“It just happened. I just moved here.”
“Let me paint you a different picture. Tyler Crandall was a clever man. He was a good deal smarter than your average streetwalker, a streetwalker who suddenly gets it in her head to have her name changed. I mean, if you had been arrested for a felony, you couldn’t have done that. But misdemeanor solicitation—that’s a different matter. You tell the judge you want a new start, you were young, you cry a little. You snow him. It’s child’s play for a woman like you. You walk out of the courtroom with a new identity. Then you move away, come to Council Grove. You go straight. But what kind of a job do you take, Ms. Gaudet?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You take a job at a bank, Ms. Gaudet. Naturally, banks ask about arrest records, even for nothing-little jobs like opening accounts. But Ellen Cox is dead, and Ellen Gaudet has no record.” Ellen was starting to cry very slightly, her breaths coming in little gasps.
“Now it could be that Tyler Crandall had a reason to want somebody he knew to work at that bank. It could be that he needed somebody there, somebody not entirely principled. The great Tyler Crandall came here with nothing and by the time he died he owned most of this town. But what he desperately needed was someone to loan him a great deal of money to buy certain tracts of land, land that ultimately was remarkably, almost incredibly, productive.” Henry paused, catching his breath, letting what had happened so far settle on the courtroom. He walked directly in front of the witness stand, staring straight at Ellen. He locked on her, holding her head up with his eyes. “So there you all are. You, Tyler Crandall, and my client. My client, who Mr. Hesston is trying to prove had no real relationship with the deceased. But you know better than that, don’t you? Why don’t you tell this court what really happened, Ms. Gaudet?” he asked. “Why don’t you give this town its real history? Why don’t you give my client back his life?”
She very nearly collapsed. For a moment, she sobbed freely, tears flowing down her face. She’s going to tell, he let himself think for a miraculous instant. It’s all right. But slowly, with horrifying, meticulous care, she pulled herself back together. It took some time—she regrouped in stages, first her breathing steadying, then the trembling slowly diminishing, and when she finally looked up at him she was unnaturally still, as though dead. Her appearance was shocking, with ruined mascara, reddened eyes, and sunken cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was frigid, anesthetized. “I already told you where I met Tyler Crandall. I met him when he walked into the Cottonwood Valley Bank. I never laid eyes on him before that second. And you don’t know anything about whores. You’ve got no idea how we think.”
Henry watched her, stock-still. She owned it. She looked me in the eyes and owned every bit of it. She didn’t give Crandall up. Henry didn’t get the chance to calculate his loss; Hesston, sensing the shift, leapt to his feet.
“So, now we see where this has gone,” he said, pointing his finger menacingly at Henry. “This man has humiliated a woman here, and for what? She didn’t know Tyler Crandall. She said that from the beginning. This is nothing but conjecture and innuendo. Your honor, I move that every word of this disgrace be stricken from the record. I don’t know what this woman did in 1973, but I do know that it took courage and intelligence to start her life over, and she deserves nothing but credit for doing that. This court should commend her, your honor. She’s an example of a person getting a new start in life and making something of herself. I applaud her, your honor. I think we should all applaud her.”
Henry, when he saw Brackman staring at him, knew it was over. He had risked it all, and come up with . . . not with nothing, but, with Brackman so eager to keep Hesston’s butter on his bread, with far less than he needed to justify what had just happened in that courtroom. “I’m going to do that,” Brackman said, as always, sensing the power, feeling the flow. “I’m going to have that testimony expunged from the record. Ms. Gaudet, you may step down. The court apologizes to you for any embarrassment you have been caused.”
Henry watched her stand to go, the moment surreal, slowed down. She was composed now, although she looked like she’d been through a war. But her small steps, little girl steps, were back to normal, and she was pushing her peroxide hair back in place. She didn’t look at him when she passed. She opened the little gate into the gallery, and slowed a moment, feeling for the first time who she now was in Council Grove. Then she pushed on, back erect, and walked directly out the door of the courtroom.
“I’m gonna recess until two o’clock this afternoon. And, Counselor . . .” He looked at Henry, his face pure animosity. “I want you in my chambers. But I’m going to say right now that if you ever put this court through a circus like that again, I’m going to bar you from this courtroom.”
The one positive thing that came from Brackman’s dressing-down was an afternoon’s continuance. That had come at Hesston’s request; Brackman wouldn’t have given Henry the time of day. But Henry didn’t feel the judge’s tongue-lashing; there was nothing Brackman could say that could take Henry lower than he had taken himself. You have to be able to live with it if you come up with nothing, Baxter had said. And what had he come up with? Not nothing—it was obvious Ellen had been lying, and that was something, however small—but not with the crack in her story that gave any real hope. And her life was over. Sacrificed on a legal altar. But he stopped himself there; no, on the altar of truth. Truth. But was truth the highest good, always best in every case? What if a lie was the only thing that makes life supportable? But it was too late now. Henry left Brackman’s chambers with a thought running through his head: Not all endings are happy. Amanda’s hurricane landed somewhere else, and not every prayer gets answered.
There was still a crowd in the courthouse when Henry appeared out of chambers, and he pushed through them without speaking to anyone. He looked for Ellen, but she was already gone. Gone to pack, thanks to me. Her life is over here.
He was at the steps, taking them two at a time, when the television
reporter suddenly appeared in front of him. She shoved the microphone into his face and said, “Beth Harriman with Channel Five, Mr. Mathews. I’m wondering if you have a comment on what went on in that courtroom. You had some dramatic testimony about a former prostitute having a relationship with Tyler Crandall.”
Henry stopped and looked at the reporter. She was so eager, so detached from any human repercussions. There was nothing he could say to her that wouldn’t disappoint her, so he just told her the truth. “If you have a shred of human decency you’ll leave that woman alone.”
Henry found Amanda at the parking lot; she looked somber, almost gray. “I know,” he said. “There wasn’t any other way.”
She looked at him, and silently got in the car. At least she’s loyal, Henry thought. They sat in the car a moment, Henry glad to be entombed in its silence. “There’s nothing I can say,” he ventured. “It went terribly. All I can do is think that the story isn’t over.”
“It would take a miracle to redeem the last few minutes in that courtroom,” Amanda said quietly.
He looked at her, searching for condemnation. But there wasn’t judgment in her face. She was simply being honest. “I want to believe in miracles,” he said, “but I don’t think I do.”
“Why haven’t you brought up the wells? You can’t just let that go.”
“I don’t intend to. But Roger didn’t have anything to do with that, obviously. He was just a kid when those pipes were laid down. So who has something to lose? Only Raymond. And bringing it up without knowing what’s behind them is dangerous as hell. Dr. Harris is convinced that there’s something ugly behind it, and I agree. So give me some room. I’ve already sacrificed one person today. I’m not ready to sacrifice Raymond as well. Not yet.”
She nodded. “All right. We need to find him. If the press gets hold of him . . .”