“Hellohowareyou,” replied Maureen, walking on without stopping. “Who was that woman who just spoke to me? She looked familiar.”
“That was the first Colleen, years ago. Remember her? Ma could never get her to serve the right way. She’d pass from the right, instead of the left. She couldn’t get it straight no matter how many times Ma went over it with her,” said Mary Pat.
“What’s she doing here? Sightseeing?” asked Maureen.
“Jerry said she’s an unfriendly witness. Jerry said she claims she heard Constant and Harrison talking outside her window that night. After all Ma did for her,” said Mary Pat.
“I always say, don’t get too friendly with the help. It has a way of backfiring. Haven’t you noticed that? Be polite to them. That’s what I tell my children. Always be polite, but don’t go any further,” said Maureen. “They take advantage every time.”
On the first day of the trial, Judge Edda Consalvi disallowed, without comment, the testimony of Louise Somerset Belmont and Maud Firth. There were gasps in the courtroom. In the newsroom, where the press was assembled, there were moans. Reporters used to covering trials understood what that meant. If the prosecution could not establish a pattern of behavior on the defendant’s part, it remained only for the defense to establish a reasonable doubt to guarantee an acquittal.
Valerie Sabbath was happy with the ruling. She preened at the defense table and patted Constant’s hand affectionately. During the morning recess, she took Senator Sandro Bradley up to the bench to introduce him to Judge Consalvi. The judge, normally taciturn, rose in her seat and leaned forward to shake hands with the handsome senator. “What a great pleasure, Senator,” she said.
“Please state your name,” said the bailiff.
“Bridey Gafferty.”
“Raise your right hand.”
“It’s raised. It’s as far up as it goes. I’ve got a little rheumatism.”
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
“I do.”
“Is it Miss or Mrs. Gafferty?” asked Bert Lupino.
“Miss.”
“Would you mind stating your age?”
“I would, yes,” said Bridey.
There was laughter in the courtroom.
“All right. Will you tell us how you are employed, Miss Gafferty.”
“I am the cook for Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Bradley.”
“At which of the Bradley residences do you work?”
“I travel with the Bradleys. I work at the house in Scarborough Hill, the house in Southampton, the house in Beverly Hills, and sometimes, not always, at the apartment in New York.”
“Will you tell us how long you have been employed in the Bradley home, Miss Gafferty?”
“Oh, bless me, let me see. How long has it been now? I came to the house right after Mr. Constant over there was born. He was still a wee one in his diapers.”
“In years, Miss Gafferty,” said Bert Lupino.
“Oh, thirty-five, thirty-six, something like that. It’s not a thing I go addin’ up every day, sir.”
“You were employed at the Bradley mansion, then, on the night of April thirtieth, 1973?”
“I suppose I was, yes, sir. I don’t remember the dates like that, but I suppose I was.”
“On this floor plan of the Bradley mansion, will you point out to us where your room is?”
“Yes, sir. There’s the kitchen, here. To the left of the kitchen, there’s the maids’ dinin’ room, with the TV and the comfortable chairs for sittin’ in the afternoons after the luncheon dishes are done and before it’s time to start settin’ up for the evening meal. Through the door there is the cook’s room, sir, my room, as it’s been for thirty years or more.”
“When you are in your room, are you able to hear conversations in the maids’ dining room?”
“Oh, yes. If the girls get too loud, I’m out there in a jiffy to shut them up. You never know if Missus is sleeping upstairs or somethin’. We don’t want to disturb Missus, you know.”
“When you are in your room, are you able to hear conversations in the kitchen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“On the night of April thirtieth, 1973, or, to be more specific, in the early morning of May first, 1973, did you hear a conversation between two men in the kitchen?”
“I recall no such thing, no.”
“A conversation between Mr. Constant, as you call Constant Bradley, and Mr. Harrison Burns, who was a guest of Constant Bradley at the time?”
“No, I don’t remember nothin’ like that. Nothin’ particular. The kids in the house sometimes came down to the kitchen in the wee hours to raid the fridge, after their parties, and leave a terrible mess for me to clean up in the morning. Eggs out, half bottles of milk out—like that.”
“Did you not call out to ask who was there?”
“I don’t recall, sir. I don’t think so.”
“At two in the morning? The boys were undressing. The boys were putting their bloody clothes and shoes in a garbage bag from under the sink.”
“Objection,” called out Valerie Sabbath. “Conjecture. Leading the witness.”
“Sustained.”
“You did not call out to the boys to ask who was there?”
“No, I don’t recall no such thing. Harrison was such a lovely boy in those days. What a nice friendship those two boys had. He was a scholarship boy, and they was all so good to him in the family.”
“You did not say, ‘Who’s out there?’ ”
“I doubt it. I fall asleep once my head hits the pillow, and I don’t wake until six, when I get up to take Missus to early-morning Mass at Saint Martin of Tours.”
“No further questions,” said Bert Lupino.
“I have no questions, Your Honor,” said Valerie Sabbath.
“You may step down, Miss Gafferty,” said Judge Consalvi.
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
On that day Honour and Thelma and Count Stamirsky, Grace’s friends from Southampton, appeared in the courtroom.
“Wasn’t Bridey sweet?” said Honour.
“Adorable,” said Thelma. “And such a dream of a cook. I’ll never forget her fig mousse.”
Smartly dressed, they looked on their day in court as an adventure, something they would pass on to their friends at a dinner party in New York later that evening. They waved at family members from their spectator seats on the side, gave seemingly rapt attention to the witnesses of the day, and entertained the sisters with gossip during the breaks. “She’s such a hooker,” said Thelma, talking about an unnamed person known to them all. “All that he has to do is dangle another diamond bracelet in front of her and she looks the other way about the little boys.” Shrieks of laughter could be heard coming from the room where the family sat. When the television news reporters descended on these new faces, they were happy to state their opinions on the case.
“The whole trial is simply too ridiculous,” said Honour.
“It’s a travesty of justice,” said Thelma. When asked to identify themselves, Thelma quickly said, “Just say we’re old family friends who’ve come here for the day to buck up the spirits of the Bradleys.”
“Mr. Wadsworth, you were dancing with Winifred Utley at the junior club dance that night?”
“Yes.”
“What was the age group of the dance?”
“Fourteen to sixteen.”
“Was Mr. Constant Bradley at the dance?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know why, but he was past the age of those at the dance.”
“Yet he came in to the dance, although he was not at the dance?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mr. Bradley dance with Winifred Utley?”
“Yes.”
“Did Mr. Bradley say anything to Miss Utley that you remember from that evening?”
“Yes.”
“Will you tell the court what Mr. Bradley said?”
>
“Objection,” said Valerie Sabbath. “Hearsay.”
“It is not hearsay, Your Honor. It was said in the presence of the witness,” retorted Bert Lupino.
“Objection overruled,” said Judge Consalvi.
“Will you tell the court what Mr. Bradley said?” Lupino repeated.
“He said, ‘Do you mind dancing with a man with an erection?’ ”
“I have no further questions. Thank you, Mr. Wadsworth.”
I passed Bridey in the garage under the courthouse. She was driving out in her old Pontiac, the one she used for grocery shopping. She lowered the window and looked both ways before speaking to me.
“I’m sorry, Harrison. You had to understand. I did what I had to do. God spare me.”
“Of course, I understand, Bridey.”
“I can’t talk to you, you know.”
“I know.”
“I mean, ever.”
“I know. It’s okay, Bridey.”
“I’ll never forget that tip you gave me.”
“I wish you hadn’t given it back.”
“Good-bye, now.”
“Your car’s getting old, Bridey. They ought to buy you a new one.”
“It’s good enough for the likes of me.”
Being a witness, I was not allowed in the courtroom except when I was testifying, but I was in the courthouse each day, available for consultation, hidden away in the prosecutor’s office, a floor below the courtroom, where a television monitor had been set up for me to watch the proceedings. Each morning I drove my car to an indoor parking lot two blocks from the courthouse. There I was met by an assistant from the prosecutor’s office, who drove me to the underground garage beneath the courthouse in order to escape the phalanx of photographers, reporters, and media personalities who congregated around the public entrances to the building, always ready to pounce on anyone connected with the proceedings.
There are tedious days in every trial, even one that had caught the imagination of the country the way this one had. The testimony of expert witnesses, for instance, can be deadly dull, time-consuming, and confusing to the jury. The Bradley defense team had hired a dozen or more. One afternoon, during the testimony of an expert who had analyzed the dirt and wood particles on the back of Winifred Utley’s pink party dress, I decided to leave early and go to visit Claire and my sons. At the end of the corridor, I pushed the Down button for the elevator. When the door opened, I walked inside. The door closed behind me before I noticed there was another person standing in the corner of the elevator. It was Kitt Bradley. For an instant we looked at each other. The elevator started down. Neither of us spoke. She went immediately to the buttons to stop the elevator so that she could get off. She pushed buttons wildly, one after the other. The elevator came to an abrupt stop, lurching a little, but the door did not open. Looking out the little window, I saw that we were between floors. I pushed on the buttons, but nothing happened. For what seemed a minute, we stood there without speaking or looking at each other.
“It’s stuck,” I said.
“Great,” she replied.
Again we were silent.
“There must be an emergency button, isn’t there?” she asked. “This cannot be an insoluble problem.”
“I pushed it,” I replied.
Again we stood in silence without speaking.
“Do you remember me? We used to sleep together,” she said finally.
“Yes, I remember,” I replied.
She opened a bag that hung from her shoulder on a gold chain and took out a package of cigarettes and a lighter. She put the cigarette in her mouth with one hand and lit the lighter with the other, but she had difficulty connecting the flame with the cigarette.
“Cheap lighter,” she said.
“Or shaking hand,” I replied, taking the lighter from her hand and holding it for her.
“Don’t you start on me,” she said, inhaling deeply.
“No, I won’t. I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Something new,” she said.
I pointed to a sign. “It says, ‘No smoking in the elevator.’ ”
“What are you going to do? Turn me in? Like you turned—” She stopped. “That is a sentence I am not going to complete.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, what have you done, Harrison,” she cried out. “How could you do such a thing? How could you bring such a charge against a member of my family? Against your friend?”
“In my place, would you have done it differently?”
She didn’t reply to my question. “I couldn’t stand it in that courtroom another minute,” she said. She pushed the elevator button again. Nothing happened. She opened her bag and took out a pair of glasses and put them on to scrutinize the buttons. I noticed that one of the lenses was cracked.
“Isn’t it confusing for you to see life out of a shattered lens?” I asked.
“I’m used to it.”
“I remember the day you stepped on it. It was almost a year ago.”
“So what?” she replied.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I’m a mess. Doesn’t it show? My sisters say it does. My sisters have become my keepers. Haven’t you noticed them? One is always on each side of me, trying to keep me from doing what I have just done, escaping from them.” She took another deep drag on her cigarette.
“Where were you headed?” I asked.
“I was going out for a drink, if you want to know the truth. I’ve found an Irish bar called O’Malley’s on the corner. Maureen thinks I’m in the ladies’ room now.”
“Wait until they find out where you are and who you’ve been stuck with,” I said.
“I’ve been thinking that.” She laughed. “I miss you,” she said in a voice so low I could hardly hear it.
“I heard you hated me,” I said.
“I do hate you, but I miss you, too. It wasn’t long enough with us. It hadn’t worn out yet.”
“No, it hadn’t.”
“Do you think about it?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I hope you suffer a little.”
“I do.”
“Good,” she said. “You have become, uh …”
“What?”
“More attractive, I suppose. Almost good-looking. I never thought of you as good-looking. You were too intense.”
“What you see is relief. I’ve let go of a burden I’ve been carrying for almost twenty years. I’m not like your brother. I couldn’t forget it. At least I couldn’t forget it once I saw him again.”
“What if he’s acquitted?”
“I will still know that I have done the right thing. That’s all that matters to me.”
There was silence again. “Have you read the letters in the Times?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Ninety percent of them are pro-Constant. Well, eighty percent. They believe him. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Yes, it does. It means he fooled them, that’s all. But you know the truth. And so does your whole family. He killed Winifred.”
“No, don’t start. Please.” She waved her hands in front of her face, not wanting to hear any more. “I can’t. I can’t hear it.”
“No, I won’t.”
“I don’t want to be in the courtroom on the day you take the stand and tell what happened,” she said. “I couldn’t even read through your deposition.”
“Look, we’re stuck in this elevator. It might be for a long time. We should talk about something else. How’s your mother?”
“She’s tuned out of the whole thing. She just talks about priests and nuns and dresses all the time. Mary Pat talks in French, like she’s forgotten English. I stay loaded. Only Maureen seems to be thriving.”
“There must be other things going on in the world than this trial,” I said.
“Yes, yes, there must be. Esme Bland died. Did you know that?”
I was surprised. “No, I hadn’t heard.”
; “Cancer.”
“I knew she had cancer.”
“Poor Agnes. She is bereft, inconsolable.”
“Agnes is bereft over Esme?”
“Oh, yes. She says Esme was the best friend she ever had. They needed each other, you see. She left Agnes her wigs, those beautiful wigs Kenneth made her. Agnes wears them all the time now. She’s stopped being Mother Vincent.”
“Oh, Kitt,” I said.
“Sometimes I think Agnes has it made,” said Kitt. “Being ten, staying ten forever. It sounds like bliss to me.”
She looked so unbearably sad. Forgetting my resolve, I started to move toward her, but the elevator jerked. We went back up. The door opened. Maureen and Mary Pat stood there along with several maintenance men, a security guard, and a crowd of people waiting for the elevator.
“Are you all right?” asked Maureen. She looked at me with fury in her eyes.
“The elevator got stuck,” Kitt replied.
“You didn’t speak to him, did you?” asked Maureen.
“No, I didn’t,” said Kitt, in a deep, weary voice. “Not a word.”
Despite a passionate plea by Valerie Sabbath that Grace Bradley be allowed to attend the trial each day, her request was turned down by Judge Edda Consalvi. Like me, Grace was a witness, and therefore not allowed to sit in the courtroom until her time came to be on the stand. Valerie made no secret of her displeasure with the judge’s ruling. Grace’s good works for the poor of the city were well known, and Valerie felt that her daily dignified presence would offset the seamier aspects of the case in the eyes of the jury and the public. “More than any person I know, Grace Bradley understands the responsibilities of the rich for those less fortunate than themselves,” she said on television in an irate voice after the judge’s ruling. “It is ridiculous that this woman cannot be there with her son.”
Grace, according to Fatty Malloy, who got all his information from Sis, could not bear Valerie Sabbath, despite that woman’s kind depiction of her. “She’s the most vulgar woman I’ve ever met,” said Grace, shuddering. “I’ve never heard anyone use language like that. I had to cover my ears.” The judge’s ruling was a great relief to Grace. Unlike her daughters and sons, she did not want to attend the trial. She rarely watched it on television. She didn’t read the newspaper accounts. She absented herself from the nightly strategy sessions held in the dining room after dinner. On evenings when lawyers were present, she took to having dinner on a tray in her room, often with Kitt. She was never without her rosary.
A Season in Purgatory Page 37