The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

  “Yes, I do. I’ve always felt guilty about it. And I’ve lived with that guilt, day in, day out, for the last fifteen years.”

  “But do you think you deserve that guilt?”

  “Whether or not I deserve it, it is there.”

  “I think that’s called having a conscience. Thank you, Ms. Goodchild, for so clearly stating the real facts of this case. No more questions.”

  I stepped down from the bench. I walked down the aisle. I sat down next to Nigel Clapp. He touched my shoulder and said, “Well done.”

  High praise from Mr. Clapp. But I still thought that Fforde had scored serious points against me—and had pointed up, for Traynor, the fact that I had validated all the accusations against me.

  There was one more witness before lunch. Diane Dexter’s former housekeeper—the Hispanic woman I had met on that day I had rushed to Dexter’s house. Her name was Isabella Paz. A Mexican, resident in the United Kingdom for ten years. In Ms. Dexter’s employ until four months ago. And she confirmed that Mr. Hobbs had been a regular guest to her residence since 1998 . . . and no, they did not sleep in separate rooms during these occasional visits that occurred when he was back in London from assorted overseas postings. She confirmed that Ms. Dexter had gone on holiday with him in 1999 and 2000, and that she had spent a month with him in Cairo in 2001. And yes, he had been regularly visiting Ms. Dexter since then—and, in fact, all but moved into her house for around eight weeks this past year . . . which, as Maeve Doherty helpfully added, was the eight weeks when Jack and I were resident in the psychiatric unit of St. Martin’s.

  “In other words, Mr. Hobbs and Ms. Dexter had been carrying on an occasional romance since 1999, and a rather steady romance since his return to London in 2002?”

  “That was how I saw it, yes,” she said.

  During her cross-examination, Lucinda Fforde said, “Weren’t you fired by Ms. Dexter for theft?”

  “Yes—but then she took back what she said and paid me money.”

  “And before Ms. Dexter, didn’t you work for a Mr. and Mrs. Robert Reynolds of London SW5?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And weren’t you fired from that job as well? For theft again?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No further questions.”

  “Reexamination?”

  “A very fast question, Ms. Paz,” Maeve said. “Were you ever charged with theft by Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds? Officially charged, that is?”

  “No.”

  “So you don’t have a criminal record?”

  “No.”

  “And if the court wanted proof of the dates of, say, the holidays Ms. Dexter took with Mr. Hobbs, how could they obtain proof?”

  “She keeps a diary by the phone, writes everything in it. Where she’s going, who with. Once the year is finished, she puts the diary in a cabinet under the phone. She must have ten years of diaries down there.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Paz.”

  When we broke for lunch, I leaned forward and asked Maeve, “Did she really get fired for stealing in her first job?”

  “Oh, yes,” she whispered. “A diamond necklace, which was fortunately recovered from the pawnbrokers where she sold it. And I think it was her mad plea for mercy that made her employers decide not to involve the police. And I’m pretty certain she did steal from Dexter—but, knowing that she was involved in this case, Paz decided to scream false accusation and raise the roof. Which is why Dexter paid up. So, if you’re looking for a housekeeper, don’t hire her. She’s completely larcenous . . . but she certainly served our purpose.”

  Then she gave me a little shrug of the shoulders, as if to say: I know it’s not pleasant, but if you want to win, you have to engage in a little suspect play, just like the other side.

  “You did well in the witness box,” Maeve said.

  Rose and Nigel shot off to retrieve our two last-minute witnesses. Maeve excused herself to prepare for her final two examinations in full. So Sandy and I took a walk by the Thames. We didn’t say much—the pressure of the hearing and yesterday’s revelations stifling any serious conversation. But my sister did suggest that the morning went well for me.

  “But how well?”

  “Tony and his rich bitch were caught out lying about the newness of their relationship, and about only being just friends until after he snatched Jack. And I thought you were impressive.”

  “I hear a but coming on.”

  “But . . . I did think that Tony’s barrister nailed you in her cross-examination. Not that you did anything wrong. Just that all the question marks hanging over you were confirmed by you. But maybe I’m just being overly pessimistic.”

  “No, you’re completely spot-on. Maeve thought so too. I’m worried. Because I can’t read the judge, and I don’t know what line he’s taking on the case . . . except wanting to get it over with as fast as possible.”

  When we returned to the court after the two-hour recess, Maeve was sitting alone on our side of the court and told me that—in order to ensure that Tony and company didn’t run into our surprise witnesses—Nigel and Rose were dawdling with them in two separate coffee bars nearby. And as soon as the other side was in place . . .

  In they walked, Tony and I pretending that there was a Berlin Wall between us. Immediately, Maeve was dashing up the aisle, her cell phone in her hand. She was back within a minute, breathless, just as the clerk was calling the court to order. Traynor came in, just as Nigel came rushing down the aisle to slide in next to me. Traynor didn’t like this at all.

  “A little late, are we, sir?” he asked.

  Poor Nigel looked mortified. “I’m . . . uhm . . . terribly sorry, My Lord.”

  “So, Ms. Doherty,” Traynor said. “We are going to finish up this afternoon, I hope?”

  “Without question, My Lord. But I must inform the court that, like the applicant, we also have last-minute witnesses.”

  Traynor’s lips tightened. He didn’t like this news at all.

  “You said ‘witnesses,’ Ms. Doherty,” Traynor said. “By which you mean how many?”

  “Just two, My Lord.”

  “And why are they so last-minute?” Traynor asked.

  “We were only able to obtain their statements in the past day—and these were still being proofed this morning.”

  “Are the witnesses here now?”

  “They are, My Lord.”

  “May we know their names, please?”

  Maeve turned herself slightly to aim her statement in the direction of Tony.

  “Of course, My Lord. Their names are Elaine Kendall and Brenda Griffiths.”

  Tony immediately started whispering into the ear of Lucinda Fforde. His instantaneous panic was evident.

  “And do you have the statements from Ms. Kendall and Ms. Griffiths?” the judge asked.

  Nigel opened his briefcase and handed a thick file to Maeve.

  “We do, My Lord.”

  “Well, let us take a look at them.”

  She handed out copies of the two statements to the judge, to Lucinda Fforde, and to her accompanying solicitor. I watched as Tony immediately relieved the solicitor of his copies, and scanned them, becoming increasingly perturbed with each paragraph, then loudly saying, “This is outrageous.”

  Traynor peered at him over his half-moon specs and asked, “Please refrain from disturbing this courtroom, Mr. Hobbs.”

  Lucinda Fforde put a steadying hand on his shoulder and said, “My client apologizes for that small outburst, My Lord. Might I have a minute to consult with him?”

  “A minute is fine,” he said.

  There was a very fast, agitated huddle in Tony’s corner. Maeve stood throughout the minute, looking on, impassive, resisting the temptation to smile or look smug.

  “Well then,” Traynor said when the minute was up. “May we please proceed now, Ms. Fforde?”

  “My Lord, we do have a serious problem with these statements.”

  “And what may that problem be, Ms. Ffo
rde?”

  “Well, whereas Mr. Ogilvy’s statement only arrived here yesterday from the States, along with himself, we sense that the opposing counsel might have been sitting on these statements—from two UK residents—for a considerable amount of time.”

  “Ms. Doherty, how do you respond to this?”

  “My Lord, I’ve already explained why they are so last-minute.”

  “So, Ms. Fforde,” Traynor said, “do you object to these two last-minute witnesses?”

  “I do, My Lord.”

  “Well,” he said, “given that the respondent’s counsel accepted your last-minute witness yesterday—and given that none of us wants to have this case postponed—I am going to allow these witnesses to be examined.”

  “My Lord, I wish to speak with my client for a moment about whether he wishes me to lodge an objection, and also ask for a suspension of this hearing until such time as . . .”

  “Yes, yes, we all know how that sentence finishes, Ms. Fforde,” Traynor said. “And the ball is, as they say, firmly in your court. Either you accept counsel’s last-minute witnesses—as she accepted yours yesterday—or we all say good-bye until four months from now, as I am going on circuit after the summer recess. So, if you want proper time to study the statements of the respondent’s new witnesses, then the case will be postponed, and we’ll all be called back here in the autumn time to agree what could have been agreed here and now. But the choice, of course, is entirely between yourself and your client. Perhaps you would like a moment to speak with him?”

  “Thank you, My Lord.”

  There was another frantic huddle on Tony’s side of the court. Only this time, the Dexter woman was very much involved in this whispered debate—and from the vehement way she was gesturing, it was clear that she had a very forceful point of view on this subject. As they continued their hushed discussion, Maeve leaned over to me and whispered, “Australia.”

  Suddenly, I saw the brilliant stratagem behind Maeve’s gamble. Knowing full well that Diane Dexter needed to be in Sydney as soon as possible to get her new office up and running, she wagered that Dexter would raise major objections when our side threatened a suspension of the hearing. Because that would mean Tony and Jack wouldn’t be able to join her for at least four months—if, that is, Traynor ruled in their favor at that future time. Watching her now take charge of the discussion with Tony and their legal team, I guessed what she was telling them in her low but insistent voice: How damaging can these witnesses be? We can’t afford the delay . . . let’s finish this now.

  Or, at least, that’s what I hoped she was telling them.

  Their debate continued for another minute, during which time Tony tried to raise an objection, but was hissed down by Dexter. He looked rather defeated.

  “So, Ms. Fforde,” Traynor said, interrupting this conclave. “Have you and your client reached a decision?”

  Fforde looked directly at Dexter—who nodded affirmatively at her. Then she turned to Traynor and said, “With reluctance—but not wishing to delay the conclusion of these proceedings any further—we will accept the respondent’s two new witnesses.”

  Traynor looked most relieved. So too did Maeve Doherty, who afforded herself the most momentary of smiles. Traynor said, “Please call your first witness, Ms. Doherty. Who will it be?”

  “Elaine Kendall, My Lord.”

  Nigel went scurrying up the aisle and out the back door. A moment later, he returned, followed by Elaine Kendall. She was a small, rather tired-looking woman in her late forties, with a smoker’s face and fatigued eyes. She entered the witness box and stared straight at Tony with a look of joyless disdain. She took the oath, she steadied herself, Maeve began.

  “Ms. Kendall, would you please tell the court how you know Mr. Tony Hobbs?”

  She started telling her story in a slow, hesitant voice. She had grown up in Amersham and at Christmas 1982, she was working at a local pub when in came “that gentleman sitting over there.” They got chatting over the course of the evening (“I was serving him, you see”), and he explained he was back in Amersham visiting his parents, and that he was some big-deal foreign correspondent for the Chronicle.

  “Anyway, he was very charming, very sophisticated, and once I was finished work, he asked me out for a drink. We went to a club. We drank far too much. One thing led to another, and we woke up next to each other the following morning.

  “After that, he vanished—and a couple of weeks later, I discovered I was pregnant. Now I tried to contact him through the newspaper—but got nowhere. And my dad and mum being real Irish Catholic and all . . . well, there was no way I was not keeping the baby. But . . . that man . . . he was in Egypt or somewhere at the time, and though we kept trying to get in touch with him, there was just silence from his side.

  “Eventually, we had to hire a solicitor, make a fuss with his paper. Way I heard it, his bosses told him he had to settle this somehow, so he agreed to finally pay me some sort of child support.”

  “What was that amount?”

  “Fifty quid a month back in ’83. We managed to get another solicitor on the job around ’91. He got him up to one hundred and twenty-five pounds a month.”

  “And Mr. Hobbs never showed the slightest bit of interest in you or your son . . . ?”

  “Jonathan. He was called Jonathan. And no, that man didn’t want to know. Every year, I’d send him a picture of his boy, care of the Chronicle. Never a reply.”

  “And—although I know the answer to this question already, and must apologize to you for raising such a painful subject—where is your son now?”

  “He died in 1995. Leukemia.”

  “That must have been terrible.”

  “It was,” she said—but her voice was hard, and her gaze remained on Tony.

  “Did you write to Mr. Hobbs, informing him of his son’s death?”

  “I did. And I called the paper too, asking them to contact him. Never a word. I thought, at the very least, he could have called me then. It would have been such a small, decent gesture.”

  Maeve Doherty said nothing for a moment, holding the silence. Then, “No more questions.”

  Lucinda Fforde had a frantic huddle with Tony. I looked over at Dexter. She was sitting there, cold, impassive.

  “Ms. Fforde?” Traynor asked. “Do you wish to cross-examine?”

  “Yes, My Lord,” she said, but I could see that she was desperately trying to find an impromptu strategy, a damage control reaction. And God, was she fast on her feet. Because she said, “Ms. Kendall, as much as I appreciate the tragedy of your story . . . I must ask you this: do you really think a one-night fling constitutes a lifetime commitment?”

  “When the result is a son, yes, I do.”

  “But didn’t Mr. Hobbs make an ongoing financial commitment to you and your son?”

  “A measly commitment, which my solicitor had to fight for.”

  “But hang on . . . I presume you were a sexually active woman at the time. After all, you did sleep with Mr. Hobbs after just one night. Surely he could have demanded a paternity test.”

  “I wasn’t the local mattress. It was his baby. I’d slept with nobody before him for about a year.”

  “But did he demand a paternity test?”

  “No . . . he didn’t.”

  “You received a sum of money from the man who fathered your child. And surely fifty pounds meant something in 1983. Just as one hundred twenty-five pounds meant something in the early nineties. So he did meet his responsibilities to you. And in the matter of the death of your son . . . surely, you must recognize the fact that, as tragic as that death may have been for you, he had absolutely no connection with the boy. So . . .”

  Suddenly, Elaine Kendall began to sob. She struggled to control it but couldn’t. It took her nearly a minute to bring herself under control, during which time everyone in the court could do nothing but watch helplessly. And I felt appalling guilt. I’d talked her into this. Sat with her in her Crawley living room
, she telling me how she moved to that godawful town after Jonathan died to get away from the place she so associated with him, how he was her only child, how she’d never married, worked bad jobs to keep them both afloat, but difficult as it was, Jonathan was the center of her life. And then . . . out of nowhere . . . leukemia. And . . .

  The story was so painful to hear. Agony, in fact. Especially as I knew that this woman had lost the one thing in her life that mattered. Like any parent who had lost a child, she would never get over it. And yet—and this was a terrible admission—I also saw her story as a big opportunity for my case, a way of exposing Tony for the heartless shit that he was. I was direct with her about this. I told her—in very clear language—how her testimony might help me get my child back. I pleaded with her to help. And she agreed. And now . . . now she had been put through the most needless torment. And yes, I had gotten what I wanted from her. But watching her sob in the witness box, I felt nothing but shame.

  When she finally stopped crying, she turned to the judge and said, “I must apologize, My Lord. Jonathan was my only child. And even now, it’s hard to talk about it. So I am sorry . . .”

  “Ms. Kendall, you owe this court no apology. On the contrary, it is we who owe you an apology.”

  Then, sending a daggerlike look in the direction of Ms. Fforde, he asked, “Have you any further cross-examination, Ms. Fforde?”

  “No, My Lord.”

  He gave Maeve a similar withering look and asked, “Reexamination, Ms. Doherty?”

  “No, My Lord.”

  “Ms. Kendall, you are free to leave.”

  It took her a little effort to leave the witness stand. As she passed me by, I whispered, “I’m so sorry . . .” But she moved on without saying a word.

  Traynor said nothing for a few moments. It was clear that he had been affected by the sight of that poor woman sobbing in the witness box. And he too needed a moment to collect himself before returning to business.

  “And now to your final witness, Ms. Doherty.”

  “Yes, My Lord. Ms. Brenda Griffiths.”

  Unlike Elaine Kendall, the woman who walked down the aisle of the court exuded assurance . . . indeed, the same sort of self-confidence as Diane Dexter. Though her clothes weren’t designer—she wore a simple green suit—she carried herself with great elegance, a forty-year-old woman who wasn’t bothered about being a forty-year-old woman. And when she got into the witness box, she favored Tony with a little wry nod.