“Because you felt responsible for the death of your child?”
“Yes,” she almost shouted.
“And Mr. Delauney, where was he during this time?”
“I don't know. I didn't see him for several years.”
“Was he as distraught as you?”
Tom Armour objected again, but even he couldn't save her. “You're asking the witness to guess my client's state of mind. Why not save it for later?”
“Sustained. Counsel, be warned please.” Morrison was starting to look annoyed and Palmer apologized again, but you could see he wasn't sorry.
“Was Mr. Delauney with you when the child drowned?”
“No. I was alone with him.' Charles was skiing.
“And did he blame you for the child's death?”
“Objection!” Tom shouted. “You're guessing at my client's state of mind again.”
“Overruled, Mr. Armour,” the judge intoned, “this could be important. Objection overruled.”
“I repeat, Mrs. Patterson,” he got her name right this time, “did the defendant blame you for the death of his child?”
“I believed so at the time … we were both terribly upset.”
“Was he very angry?”
“Yes.”
“How angry? Did he hit you?” She hesitated in answer to the question. “Did he beat you?”
“I …”
“Mrs. Patterson, you're under oath. Please answer the question. Did he beat you?”
“I believe he slapped me.”
“Your Honor.” William Palmer held out a telegram to the judge, and then handed it to Tom Armour for inspection. “This telegram is from the administrator of the Sainte Vierge Hospital in Geneva, which states that according to their records, Mrs. Marielle Delauney was 'beaten,' they use the word battue, which translates to 'beaten,' by her husband on the premises of the hospital at the tim§ of her child's death. She suffered extensive injuries, and a miscarriage later that night.' There was a gasp from the courtroom, and then Palmer turned to her again as she grew paler by the moment. “Would you say this account is correct, Mrs. Patterson?”
“Yes.” She couldn't say more. She could hardly speak now.
“Did Mr. Delauney beat you on any other occasion?”
“No, he did not.”
“And had you ever suffered mental illness before the incident of your son's death?”
“No, I hadn't.”
“Would you say you have recovered fully now?”
“Yes, I would.”
There was a brief pause as Palmer consulted some notes and then went on, “Mrs. Patterson, do you suffer from severe headaches?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And when did they start?”
“At …after …during my stay in Switzerland.”
“But you've had them since then?”
“Yes.”
“Recently?”
“Yes.”
“How recently?”
She almost smiled but she couldn't. “This weekend.”
“How many would you say you've had in the past month?”
“Maybe four or five a week.”
“As many as that?” He looked sympathetic. “And before your son's kidnapping? Just as many?”
“Maybe two or three a week.”
“Do you have other recurring problems from the past, Mrs. Patterson? Are you unusually shy or withdrawn, are you afraid of people sometimes? Are you afraid of responsibility … of being blamed for things?”
Tom Armour stood up again in an attempt to stop what was becoming a slaughter. “My colleague is not a psychiatrist. If he feels he needs one, he should call an expert witness.”
“Your Honor.” Bill Palmer approached the bench again, and then waved another piece of paper at Tom Armour. “This telegram is from Mrs. Patterson's doctor at the Clinique Verbeuf in Villars, confirming that she was indeed incarcerated there.”
“Objection!” Tom looked furious now, and she wasn't even his client. “Mrs. Patterson wasn't in prison!”
“Sustained. Mr. Palmer, please watch your language.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. She was hospitalized there for two years and two months for a nervous breakdown and severe depression. She apparently attempted suicide repeatedly and suffered from severe migraines. That was the official diagnosis. Dr. Verbeuf goes on to add that he is aware that her migraines have persisted and that at times of great stress like the present one, her mental health could be considered extremely fragile.” Without meaning to, the good doctor had killed her. And no matter what she said now, they would think her disturbed, and an unreliable witness. But Palmer wasn't through yet.
After the telegram from Dr. Verbeuf was admitted as Exhibit B, he went on with his questions. “Have you had an affair with the defendant since your divorce?”
“No, I have not.”
“Have you seen him in the past several months, or rather before your son was kidnapped?”
“Yes, I ran into him in church on the anniversary of our son's death. And the following day in the park.”
“Was your son with you on either occasion?”
“Yes, the second one.”
“And what was Mr. Delauney's reaction? Was he pleased to meet him?”
“No.” She lowered her eyes so she didn't have to look at him. “He was upset.”
“Would you say he was angry?”
She hesitated and then nodded. “Yes.”
“Did he threaten you in any way?”
“Yes, but I don't know if he really meant it.”
“And when was your son kidnapped, Mrs. Patterson?” If nothing else, he was making her out to be extremely stupid.
“The next day.”
“Do you believe that there's a connection between Mr. Delauney's threats, and your son's disappearance?”
“I don't know.”
And then he switched tacks again. “Have you kissed Mr. Delauney since your divorce from him, Mrs. Patterson?” She hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “Please answer my question.”
“Yes.”
“And when was that?”
“When I saw him in church. I hadn't seen him in almost seven years and he kissed me.”
“Was it just a peck on the cheek, or a kiss on the lips, like in the movies?” The audience tittered but Marielle didn't even smile. And John Taylor knew that Palmer had been talking to their driver, with his asinine tales about her “boyfriend.”
“It was a kiss on the lips.”
“And have you visited him in jail?”
“Yes. Once.”
“Mrs. Patterson, are you still in love with Mr. Delauney?” From then on, anything she said about him would be useless.
She hesitated again, and then she shook her head. “I don't believe so.”
“Do you believe he kidnapped your child?”
“I don't know. Perhaps. I'm not sure.”
“And do you feel responsible for that kidnapping in any way?”
“I'm not sure …” Her voice cracked as she said the words, and everyone in the courtroom was reminded of what the Swiss doctor had said, that under stress her mental health could be extremely fragile. Palmer had done exactly what he wanted to do with her. He had discredited her completely. She sounded mixed up and confused, unsure about Delauney's guilt, or her own, a woman who had tried to commit suicide several times, suffered from migraines and was probably responsible for her first child drowning. And if the defense wanted to use her now, she wouldn't do them any good, and Palmer knew it. It was exactly what he had set out to do, but he had wiped the floor with her in the process and John Taylor knew exactly who had helped him. It was Malcolm. And Taylor himself felt guilty for every call he'd made. But his had all been harmless.
“Thank you, Mrs. Patterson,” Bill Palmer said coolly, and then turned to Tom Armour. “Your witness.”
“The defense would like to call Mrs. Patterson at a later time, Your Honor.” He wanted to give everyone time
to cool down, especially Marielle, who looked as though she'd died as she walked off the stand, and the judge called a recess until after lunch at two o'clock that afternoon. But as she tried to leave the courtroom with Malcolm and the FBI surrounding her, she was mobbed by the press at the door to the courtroom. Charles had tried to catch her eye as she left but she was too sick to even look at him, and the press physically tried to pull at her clothes and shout questions at her as she fled the courthouse.
“Tell us about the hospital …the suicides …your little boy…. Tell us everything …come on, Marielle, give us a break!” Their voices were still ringing in her ears as they drove uptown, and John Taylor looked stonily out the window. Only Malcolm dared speak to her in a whisper, and she was startled by what he said.
“That was disgusting.” She looked at him, not sure what he meant, certain he meant the way Palmer had treated her, but she could see from the look on his face that he meant what he'd heard about her. He said not another word, and tears filled her eyes as they rode home. Once in the library, alone with him, she asked him what he meant, but he could only look at her with disdain now.
“Marielle, how could you?”
“How could I what? Tell him the truth? What choice did I have? He knew it all anyway. You heard the letters from the two doctors.”
“My God …the suicides …the migraines …two years in a mental hospital …”
“I told you all that in December.” And she had, right after Teddy was kidnapped. In fact, the next morning.
“It didn't sound quite like that then.” He looked genuinely aghast, and suddenly she was deeply embarrassed. She stared at the man she thought she knew, and ran upstairs to her own room, and locked the door. But a few moments later, she saw a slip of paper slide under the door. All it said was “Call your doctor.” She thought it was someone being wicked at first, and then she recognized John Taylor's handwriting, and she wondered why he wanted her to call her doctor. And then she knew. Somewhere deep inside of her, she knew. She ran to her address book, picked up the phone, and asked the operator to call the number. It was nine o'clock in Villars, but she knew that he was there round the clock because he lived there. And he was in, of course, and startled to hear from her.
“What is going on there?”
She told him about the kidnapping, but assumed he knew, and he told her he had already answered many questions. She didn't tell him he'd ruined her with his telegram, she knew how upset he'd be to have his words misused. At one time in her life, the man had saved her.
“Are you all right?” he asked, with deep concern for her.
“I think so.”
“Les migraines?”
“Better sometimes. Not right now. It's difficult with Teddy gone …and Malcolm …my husband … I had to tell him about Charles, and Andre …and the clinique. He never wanted me to tell him anything before we were married.”
“But he knew.” Docteur Verbeuf sounded surprised that she didn't know that. “He called me before you were married in …oh …when was it? …1932? Yes, that was it. It was the same year you left here. You left in February, and he must have called in October.” They were married three months after that, in January, on New Year's Day.
“He called you?” She was confused. “But why?”
“He wanted to know if there was anything he could do for you … for the migraines … to make your life a little happier … I told him you should have lots of children.” But he was sad for her now that tragedy had found her again. She was such a nice girl, and she hadn't been very lucky. “Is there any news of the child?”
“Not yet.”
“Let me know.”
“I will.” She wondered if he even knew what purpose his telegram had served, and as she hung up, she wondered at Malcolm's motive. He had known for all these years, and yet, when she'd told him he'd been shocked, and he had even let Bill Palmer use the information.
But there was no time to ask him anything as they sped back to the courthouse before two. And she said nothing to John all that afternoon. She was lost deep in her own thoughts and she had too many questions.
The U.S. Attorney put Patrick Reilly on the stand that afternoon, and he described what he'd seen at Saint Patrick's, and the look on Delauney's face in the park the following afternoon. He said he'd been furious and Patrick said he'd seen Charles grab her and try to shake her.
And it seemed hours to her until she could confront Malcolm. They rode home in silence again that afternoon, and at last they were alone, and she found him in his dressing room. He was dressing for a quiet dinner at his club. He said he needed to get out and clear his head for an evening.
“You lied to me.”
“About what?” He turned to her with obvious disinterest.
“You let me tell you the whole story after Teddy disappeared. And you knew. You knew everything …about Andre …about Charles …about the clinic. Why didn't you tell me?”
“Did you really think I would marry you without knowing where you came from?” He looked at her with derision. She had made a fool of herself on the stand that day, as far as he was concerned, and a fool of him …kissing Charles Delauney in church. It was disgusting.
“You lied to me.”
“And you endangered my son. You brought that bastard into our life, and because of you, he took him.” It looked as if he didn't care what they said about her fragile state of mind, as far as he was concerned, she had cost him everything he cared for. “And it's none of your business what I knew about you. That's my affair.”
“How could you tell Bill Palmer?”
“Because if he didn't discredit you, you might support that fool that you were married to …that son of a bitch …that killer …but you, with your bleeding heart, you're still not sure he's guilty.”
“So you did that to me? So I couldn't help him?” She didn't understand him anymore, and wondered if she had ever really known him.
“If he goes to the chair for Teddy's death, it'll be too good for him.”
“Is that what all this is? A game of revenge between the two of you? He takes Teddy and you kill him? What's wrong with all of you?” She suddenly felt sick looking at him.
“Get out of my room, Marielle. I have nothing to say to you tonight.”
She stared at him in disbelief. He had calculatingly ruined her, in order to destroy Charles. “I don't know who you are anymore.”
“It's no longer important.”
“What are you saying to me?” She was shrieking at him, but it had been a hideous day and she could no longer stand it.
“I think you understand me.”
“It's over, isn't it?” If it ever had existed in the first place. What had they ever had in common, except Teddy?
“It ended the day Delauney took my son out of here. Now you can go back to him when it's over, and you can both cry over what you've done. I'll tell you one thing. I'll never forgive you.” And she knew he meant it.
“Do you want me to leave now, Malcolm?” She was ready to. She would have gone to a hotel that night if he had wanted.
“Are you so anxious for more scandal? You could at least have the decency to wait until the spotlight is off us after the trial.”
She nodded, and a moment later, she went back to her own room. There was nothing left that could surprise her now. She was married to a stranger, a man who hated her for losing their son. Another one. Life had been cruel to her. And whatever happened next, whether they found Teddy or not, she knew the marriage was over.
The next morning, Marielle took breakfast in her room, and all she had was a cup of tea and piece of toast, as she glanced at the paper. It was all there, the horror of yesterday. The humiliation and the destruction she had suffered at the hands of William Palmer. The first article she read said that she had been a mental patient for years and she had had to be carried off the stand, screaming. It was so unfair what they were doing to her, and she still couldn't bring herself to believe that Malcolm had
helped them do it. And then she turned to the last page, and saw the article written by Bea Ritter. She wasn't going to read it at first, but as her eyes glanced down the page, she stopped and began again, and tears filled her eyes as she read it.
“Aristocratic, elegant, dignified, Marielle Patterson took the stand yesterday, and never lost her dignity or her composure as the prosecution ravaged her for several hours and attempted to discredit her completely. Attempted but did not succeed, to the admiration of all who saw her. She endured the pain of recounting the circumstances of the deaths of two previous children in a tragic accident nearly ten years ago, which left everyone in the courtroom breathless. And she went on to explain her subsequent divorce from Charles Delauney. Her experience in a sanatorium in Switzerland was heard not with compassion or sympathy but instead with ridicule, and used to discredit her as a witness….” The article went on for half a page, and concluded with the words, 'One thing is certain after seeing the victim's mother on the stand, Marielle Patterson is through and through a lady. She left the courtroom with her head held high, and as every mother knew, her heart must have been breaking.” It was followed then by Bea Ritter's byline.
Marielle wiped her eyes with her napkin then, and stood up to put her hat on. Bea Ritter's words had been kind, but it didn't change the fact that her own husband and the U.S. Attorney had set out to damage her so she could not help Charles Delauney. She'd had no intention of helping him anyway. But her uncertainty about his guilt clearly had them worried.
John Taylor and the other men were already waiting for her in the car when she got downstairs. She was wearing yet another black hat and black dress and a dark beaver coat as she climbed into the Pierce-Arrow. Nothing was said in the car on the way downtown. She spoke not a word to Malcolm or John, and Malcolm spent the entire trip staring out the window. Even John wasn't able to say much to her. He touched her hand briefly once as they sat down, but he didn't dare let his feelings show here. All he wanted was to offer her support, but it was difficult to do it in the courtroom.
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