The Graves

by Pamela Wechsler

  “Is he also a pathological liar?” I say.

  “Yes.”

  I’ve hit the high notes. I won’t be allowed to get into detail about anything else, so I take a seat.

  Chip rises. “Dr. Alvarez, are you familiar with a condition known as delusional disorder?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a form of psychosis?”

  “True.”

  “A person suffering from this type of disorder has certain fixed beliefs, despite evidence to the contrary.”

  “Generally speaking.”

  “They actually believe that something is true, even though everyone else knows it’s false.” Chip is brilliantly morphing into his next career: forensic psychiatrist. “Delusional disorder is a very serious mental illness,” he says.

  Chip has cleverly turned my FBI psychologist into his own witness and, in doing so, has laid the foundation for an insanity defense. He snuck it in through the back door, without subjecting himself to a mental evaluation or examination. He’s trying to plant the seed that he lacks the ability to form the mens rea, or specific intent, required for a premeditated murder conviction. He may have managed to fire the fatal blow to my case.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  When Charlie and Missy announced their engagement two years ago, they bought a townhouse on the top of Mount Vernon Street, around the corner from my parents. It’s five stories, with five bedrooms and seven baths, a little smaller than the house we grew up in.

  When I arrive for the family dinner, Charlie comes down to greet me. I step inside, he looks behind me.

  “Where’s Ty?” he says.

  “He’s not coming.” I consider lying, but there’s no point. “I think he broke up with me.”

  “Sorry to hear it.”

  “You are?”

  “I was starting to like him.” Charlie sounds like he’s actually disappointed.

  I follow him up the sweeping spiral staircase, to the second floor. Missy is in the bar, unwrapping a block of Manchego. She gives me a hug, hands me a glass of wine. She forgoes alcohol and instead puts ice cubes in a tumbler and pours herself a Pellegrino.

  “Are you pregnant?” I say.

  “We’re trying,” she says.

  Unlike me, Missy is a cautious and patient planner. She’s probably already interviewed nannies and sought advice from prenatal nutritionists and preschool educators. I have no doubt that if she wants a child, one way or another, she’ll have a baby by this time next year.

  We join the others in the library, where they’re watching the election returns. My mother looks stunning in a quiet cashmere cardigan and gray dress. You’d never know she’d been in a major car accident.

  My father gives me a kiss. “They declared Max the winner,” he says.

  “All that talk about corruption didn’t amount to a hill of beans.” My mother takes a sip of her martini.

  Charlie puts a cheese platter on the glass coffee table. “The scandal probably helped raise his profile.”

  I shave a slice of Carmody and put it on a cracker. “Did they announce his successor?” I say.

  “I thought you were going to get his job, dear.” My mother sounds like she’s had a few. She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Oh, well, it’s probably for the best.”

  “They couldn’t pay me enough to do that job,” Charlie says.

  My father mutes the TV. “Speaking of paychecks. Muffin, you’re overdrawn at the bank.”

  That’s not really breaking news. Last year, this is something my father would have handled with a phone call. Not anymore.

  “Prescott called,” he says. “Your condo fees and car insurance are past due. Your credit cards are maxed out. You owe back taxes. Did you know that there’s a lien on your apartment?”

  My mother pipes in. “Sounds like it’s reached the point of no return.”

  She has the smile of victory. She’s not taking pleasure in my misfortune; my mother isn’t evil. She wants me out of the DA’s office, and she assumes that financial collapse is the only way to force my hand.

  My father won’t let it drop. “Your options are finite. Sell the condo or find a new source of income.”

  I sip my wine and pretend to concentrate on the election results until Missy’s housekeeper calls to the dining room. We take seats around the antique rosewood table, set with my grandmother’s leafy green Flora Danica china.

  My father raises his glass. “Here’s to Charlie and Missy, happy anniversary. May you have a future of wedded bliss.”

  “Just like us, right, dear?” My mother sounds more sarcastic than celebratory.

  We ignore the comment and toast the couple. My mother empties her glass and asks for another.

  “Mom, haven’t you had enough?” I say.

  Everyone looks at me as though I have three heads.

  “Abigail, that’s not your concern,” my mother says.

  “It’s my concern when you almost kill someone and derail my chances of becoming DA.”

  “Darling, if you don’t get that job, it’ll be because of your ex-convict boyfriend, not because of me.”

  “Mom, Abs is right,” Charlie says. “You’ve had enough.”

  “Fuck that,” she says.

  I’m stunned. I’ve never heard my mother swear.

  My father stands. “I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic,” my mother says.

  “Dad, sit down,” Charlie says.

  “I love you all,” he says, “but I’ve had it.”

  “Good night, dear,” my mother says.

  My father leaves the room, and we listen to his footsteps echo on the marble floor in the foyer. The front door slams, and my mother takes a bite of her food.

  “This veal is delicious,” she says. “The Mableys are coming to dinner next week. I’ll ask Claude to get the recipe.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The next morning, everyone in the office is talking about Max’s mayoral victory and speculating about who will be the next DA. What they’re really thinking about, however, is how the change will impact their jobs. Depending on who takes over, some lawyers will be promoted, others will be fired, and the rest will remain unaffected. I avoid the chatter. It’s a foregone conclusion: I’m not going to get the appointment. The best I can hope for is that Cassandra doesn’t get it and I keep my position.

  I walk across the Plaza to the courthouse and take the elevator up to the courtroom, where Kevin is waiting. He hands me a white paper bag; inside is freshly baked Irish soda bread.

  “I stopped by Bread & Chocolate, on the way to Nadine’s apartment,” he says.

  I take a bite. It’s crusty on the outside, sweet and tender on the inside, kind of like Kevin.

  “How is Nadine doing?” I say.

  “I can’t get a read on her. Something about her feels hinky.”

  I finish the soda bread, reach into the bag, and feel around for another, but it’s just crumbs. I could have eaten three more.

  “You think she’s holding back?” I say.

  “Something like that,” Kevin says. “She’ll come through.”

  “She’d better. She’s all we got.”

  Kevin goes to the waiting room to get Nadine, and I grab a bottle of water for her and a Zyrtec for myself. The last time I met with her, I sneezed and coughed until I could barely breathe. When she comes in the room, she’s accompanied by Cinder, a beloved member of the DA’s staff. Cinder is a facility dog, part Lab, part golden retriever, trained to provide comfort to victims and to relieve their anxiety.

  The dog plants himself at Nadine’s feet. She rubs the scruff of his neck and pats his silky hair as we talk.

  “You seem really stressed out,” I say.

  “I’m okay.” Nadine keeps her eyes trained on Cinder.

  The prisoner’s elevator dings, and Chip gets off, shackled and surrounded by guards. Nadine jumps out of her seat, and Cinder stays close to her. Chip glares at Nadine.

  “E
yes straight ahead,” Kevin says.

  Chip ignores the command and keeps staring. Nadine opens her mouth as though she might scream, then covers her face with her hands. Chip takes a step toward her, gets tangled in the shackles, stumbles, and loses his balance. The guards grab his arms to prevent him from falling.

  After he steadies himself, he looks at Nadine. “I’m counsel of record, and I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. I want to conduct a witness interview.”

  “You don’t have to talk to him,” I say.

  Chip smiles. “No, but I’m allowed to talk to her.”

  He’s right. As a defense attorney, he can interview witnesses in preparation for trial. The guards pull him around the corner, and Nadine starts to tremble. We’re so close to the end of the trial, I can’t afford to lose another witness.

  “I need you to tell the jury that you saw Chip and Caitlyn together, on the night she went missing,” I say.

  “What if I refuse?” Nadine says.

  No one can force the words out of her mouth, but she could be held in contempt.

  “It’s up to the judge. She could send you to jail.”

  “For how long?”

  “Until you change your mind and testify, or until the trial is over.”

  I don’t tell her if she refuses to cooperate, the trial will be over tomorrow and she’ll be out of lockup in time for lunch.

  The court officer calls out. “All persons having anything to do with the matter of Commonwealth v. Aldridge, draw near, give your attendance, and you shall be heard.”

  Nadine isn’t in the right mind frame to take the stand; she needs time to calm down. She stays with Kevin and Cinder while I go into the courtroom and call the medical examiner as my next witness. He testifies to the autopsy results, which are gruesome and compelling, but they don’t help me prove that Chip was the killer.

  When we break for the morning and the courtroom empties, I remain at the table and check my phone for any sign of Valerie. There’s an e-mail, marked urgent, and an attachment from an unfamiliar name. It could be spam or a virus, but could also be about Valerie. I open it.

  To: Abigail Endicott

  From: Dr. Jeffrey Messner

  Re: Nadine Franklin

  My patient, Nadine Franklin, contacted me this morning regarding her condition. Please be advised that Ms. Franklin is suffering from depression and acute anxiety, including panic attacks. Her condition will be exacerbated if she is called to testify at trial. She has been prescribed Wellbutrin and Xanax and is undergoing intensive psychotherapy. It is my opinion that participating at trial will cause significant medical and emotional damage. I request that she be excused from the proceedings and allowed to continue with her treatment regimen.

  I feel myself tearing up. I have to call Nadine to the stand. Eight months ago, she was a college student at Wellesley, looking forward to graduation and veterinary school. Chip Aldridge changed all that. He’s done irreparable damage to her life. And now, here I am, about to make it all worse.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Nadine makes her way to the witness stand; her steps are slow and tentative. She pulls out the chair and inspects it carefully, as though it might be rigged with dynamite. I take my place at the podium. Before I have a chance to start my questions, she looks up at the judge and speaks.

  “Judge, I want to be excused,” she says. “I have a note from my doctor.”

  As she hands the letter to the clerk, the jurors strain forward to try to get a glimpse of what’s on the page. The clerk passes the paper to the judge.

  “Have you shown this letter to Ms. Endicott?” Judge Swanson says.

  “Yes, but she said I have to testify anyhow.”

  “Is that true, Ms. Endicott?”

  I clear my throat. “Yes.”

  The clerk shows the note to Chip, who examines it and acts as though he has Nadine’s best interest at heart.

  “The doctor says it’s detrimental to her health,” Chip says.

  The jurors look over at me with disgust. Why are you torturing this poor woman?

  “The Commonwealth has an obligation to prove all of the elements of the crime,” I say.

  “What about me?” Nadine says. “Don’t you have an obligation to me?”

  Chip’s self-representation continues to pay off for him. She’s afraid to testify, because she knows he’s going to question her, but I look like the bad guy. When I ask Nadine to introduce herself, she tears up. She gives her name, blows her nose, gives her address, blows her nose. This goes on for my next six questions.

  “Do you recognize the defendant?” I say.

  She looks at him, then looks away quickly. “Yes.”

  “Did you see him with Caitlyn the night before she disappeared?”

  “Yes.”

  “What was the nature of their relationship?”

  Nadine looks into the front row of the gallery, at Caitlyn’s mother.

  “Answer the question,” Judge Swanson says.

  “He paid her to go out with him,” Nadine says. “Caitlyn was an escort.”

  I’m closer to guilty, but still have a ways to go. I sit, and Chip stands. Instead of planting himself at the podium, he moves closer to the witness-box.

  I jump up. “Your Honor, could the defendant be ordered to move away from the witness.”

  “Step back.” Finally, Judge Swanson acts like a judge, but it’s too little, too late.

  Nadine breathes heavily. I’m worried she might hyperventilate.

  “You didn’t see who killed Caitlyn, did you?” Chip says.

  She hesitates and forces out the words. “I wasn’t there when it happened.”

  “She provided her services to other men as well.”

  “Yes.”

  “One of them could have killed her.”

  I try to distract him. “Objection.”

  Judge Swanson doesn’t know what to say. “Ask a question, Mr. Aldridge.”

  “You saw me at your house with Caitlyn?” Chip says.

  “Once with her, and once…” Nadine stops midsentence.

  I don’t know what she was about to say, but something is happening between them. Chip’s mouth twists slightly. He’s angry and in a hurry to get her off the stand.

  “Nothing further,” he says.

  “Ms. Endicott, any redirect?”

  I can’t tell if Judge Swanson picked up on the exchange. The jury doesn’t seem fazed by it. Maybe I’m so desperate for a conviction I’m seeing things that aren’t there. I turn to Kevin, who tips his head slightly. He saw it, too. I move to the podium.

  “The defendant has been to your house on more than one occasion?” I say.

  “Excuse me?” Nadine says.

  “Did you and the defendant have some kind of relationship?”

  Chip stands, anxious to cut this off. “Objection. Beyond the scope of cross-examination.”

  “It’s a follow-up question.”

  “Overruled,” Judge Swanson says.

  “I met him before,” Nadine says.

  Most of the jurors are leaning in, staring at Nadine. A couple of them are looking at Chip, trying to gauge his reaction.

  “When was the first time you met the defendant?” I say.

  Nadine looks down and shakes her head back and forth. She’s afraid, but I think it’s more than that. Nadine is ashamed. A camera clicks, her head sinks a little lower, and her face reddens.

  I fill the silence. “Were you an escort as well?”

  She looks at me and starts to speak but can’t get the words out.

  “Did you have an encounter with the defendant?” I say.

  She nods. “Yes.”

  Chip is on his feet. “Your Honor, this testimony would be tantamount to a prior bad act, and inadmissible under the law.”

  Judge Swanson, aware of the cameras and the scrutiny that will follow her ruling, puts it on me.

  “What’s your response?” she says.

  I have n
o idea what Nadine is going to say, so I wing it.

  “This witness is also a victim, a part of Mr. Aldridge’s crime spree.”

  Before the judge rules, Nadine steels herself and turns to the jury.

  “I had a date with him, a year before all this happened,” Nadine says.

  “Did he hurt you?” I say.

  She pauses, takes a breath. “He tried to choke me. He said he was just playing, that’s how he gets turned on, but it felt like more than that.”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m so sorry.” She looks at the families in the audience. “I had no idea he would kill anyone.”

  I sit, and Chip stands. “If I was such a bad man, why didn’t you warn Caitlyn?”

  Nadine tears up. “I didn’t know you were coming. When I saw you out the window, I tried to tell her you were weird and she should be careful, but I didn’t know you would—”

  Chip interrupts, turns to the judge. “I’d ask that the witness’s testimony be stricken from the record.”

  “Denied.”

  When Nadine is done, she gets off the stand and brushes past me. I look at her and smile in sympathy, but she doesn’t meet my eyes. I hope it was worth it.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  On the way home from work, I stop by Macy’s. I’ve walked past the store a million times, but have never been inside. I’m desperate; since I had to let go of my housekeeper, I haven’t had time to do laundry, and I’m out of clean underwear. The last time I bought lingerie, I called my shopper at Saks, and she sent over an assortment of everything I needed, and more.

  I stand in the middle of the intimates department among racks, tables, and walls of unfamiliar brands, searching for a name I recognize. I settle on CK by Calvin Klein; I select a couple of pairs and hand a twenty to the salesclerk.

  “Would you like to open a Macy’s credit card?” she says.

  There’s no way I’d qualify. “No, thanks, I’m all set.”

  I leave the Downtown Crossing area and walk around the edge of the Common. It’s dark, and I want to stay on well-lit streets. Last week, a group of teenagers thought it would be fun to play knockout, a game where someone punches random passersby in the face and tries to knock them unconscious. A Japanese tourist wound up in Tufts Medical Center, where’s he’s still on life support.