Ms. Billingsley got up, crossed the room, and handed Christine a tissue. “Ms. Johnson, was this abduction the first time that your involvement with Mr. Cross brought violence into your life?”
"Objection' Ben was on his feet right away “I'll rephrase, Your Honor.” Billingsley turned her solicitous smile back to Christine.
"Were there any other violent incidents, prior to or after your sons birth, related to Mr.
Cross's line of work that directly affected you?"
“There were several,” Christine said without hesitation.
"The first time was just after we met. My husband at the time was shot and killed by someone Alex was looking for in another terrible homicide case. And then later, after our son was born, and when he was living in Washington with his father, I know that at least once Alex Junior was taken out of the house in the middle of the night, for safety's sake.
Actually, all of the Cross children were taken out of the house. A serial killer was coming after Alex."
Billingsley stood at the petitioner's table, waiting. Finally, she pulled a stack of photographs from a manila folder.
“Your Honor, I would like to submit these as evidence. They clearly show Mister Cross's home on the night of one such emergency evacuation. You will see my client's son here being carried out by a non-family member in the midst of the confusion that was apparently taking place.”
I wanted to yell out my own objection to this so-called evidence. I knew for a fact that it was John Sampson and not some nameless police officer who carried Little Alex out that night, the night Christine had a photographer - a private investigator! Outside my house.
No one had been in danger because we had acted judiciously and quickly but the photos were allowed to speak for themselves, at least for the time being. It got worse from there.
Anne Billingsley walked Christine through a series of misleading events related to my job, virtually putting words in her mouth. The charade concluded with the trip to Disneyland, which the lawyer dressed up as some horrible minefield of dangers for Little Alex, whom I “abandoned” to go searching through Southern California for a psychopath who could terrorize my family again.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 35
THEN IT WAS MY TURN.
The time Ben spent interviewing me on the witness stand was the hardest and trickiest ordeal I'd ever faced, with the most at stake. He had coached me not to address the judge directly, but it was hard not to. My little boy's future was in her hands, wasn't it?
Judge June Mayfield. She looked to be about sixty, with a stiff beauty-shop kind of hairdo that was more middle- America 1950s than new-millennium Seattle. Even her name sounded old fashioned to me. As I sat in the witness chair, 1 wondered if Judge Mayfield had children. Was she divorced? Had she been through anything like this herself?
“I'm not here to say negative things about anyone,” I said slowly Ben had just asked me if I had any concerns about Christine as a parent. “I just want to talk about what's best for Alex. Nothing else matters.” His nod and the pursing of his lips told me that was the right answer - or was the look merely for the judge's benefit?
“Yes, absolutely,” he said. “So could you just please explain to the court how Alex Junior came to live with you for the first year and a half of his life?”
Sitting there on the stand, I had a direct sight line with Christine. That was good, I thought. I didn't want to say anything here that I wasn't willing to say to her face.
I explained as straightforwardly as I could that Christine hadn't felt prepared to be with me or raise a child after what had happened in Jamaica. I didn't need to dress it up. She had chosen not to stick around, period. She'd told me that she was “unfit” to bring up Alex. Christine had used that word, and I would never forget it. How could I?
“And how long would you say it was between Ms. Johnson's abandonment -”
“Objection, Your Honor. He's putting words into his client's mouth.”
“Overruled,” said Judge Mayfield.
I tried not to invest too much in her response, but it felt good to hear the overrule anyway Ben went on with his questions. “How long would you say it was between that abandonment and the next time Ms. Johnson actually laid eyes on her son?”
I didn't have to think about it. “Seven months,” I said. “It was seven months.”
“Yes, seven months without seeing her son. How did you feel about that?” “I guess I was surprised to hear from Christine more than anything else. I had begun to think that she wasn't coming back. So had Little Alex.” That was the truth, but it was hard to say out loud in the courtroom. “Our whole family was surprised, by both her absence and then her sudden return.”
“And when was the next time you heard from her?”
“When she said she wanted Little Alex to come live in Seattle. By that time, she had already hired a lawyer in D.C.”
“How much time had passed this time?” Ben asked.
“Another six months had gone by.”
“That's it? She abandons her son, sees him seven months later, goes away again, and comes back wanting to be a mother? Is that how it happened?”
I sighed. “Something like that.”
“Dr. Cross, can you tell us now, from the heart, why you are asking for custody of your son?”
The words just poured out.
“I love him tremendously; I adore Little Alex. I want him to grow up with his brother and sister, and his grandmother, who raised me from the time I was nine. I think Jannie and Damon are my track record. I've shown that whatever faults I have, I'm more than capable of raising happy and, if I may say so, pretty amazing kids.”
I looked over at Jannie, Damon, and Nana. They smiled my way, but then Jannie started to cry I had to look back at Ben, or I thought I might lose it, too.
I noticed that even Judge Mayfield had looked over at the kids, and that she seemed concerned. “I love my children more than anything in the world,” I said. “But our family isn't complete without Little Alex, or Ali, as he likes to be called. He's part of us. We all love him dearly We couldn't leave him for six months, or six minutes.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Nana nodding, and she looked infinitely wiser than Judge Mayfield in her high chair and black robes, especially when it came to raising kids.
“Please go on, Alex,” Ben said quietly “You're doing very well. Go on.”
“If I had my wish, Christine never would have left Washington. Ali deserves to have us both around. But if he can't have that, then he should be with as much of his family as possible. I don't think he's bad off here in Seattle, but this is supposed to be about what's best for him. And as I said, I don't know what this is worth, but I love him so much. He's my buddy He has my heart.” And then I did tear up, and definitely not for effect or the benefit of the judge.
Testimony continued through the afternoon and for much of the next morning, and it was brutal at times. After closing arguments from the lawyers, we waited out in the courthouse hallway while Judge Mayfield considered her next move.
“You were great, Daddy” Jannie held my forearm and nuzzled my shoulder with her head. “You are great. We're going to get Alex back. I can feel it.”
I put my free arm around her shoulder. “I'm sorry for this. But I'm glad you guys are here.”
Just then, a court clerk came out to call us back inside. His blank face showed nothing, of course. Ben spoke quietly to me on the way in. “This will just be a formality She's probably going to take it under consideration, and we'll hear back anywhere from two to six weeks. I'll motion for a revised temporary visitation agreement in the meantime. I'm sure that won't be a problem. You were great on the stand, Alex. No worries there. You can just relax for now”
Mary, Mary
Chapter 36
AS SOON AS WE WERE gathered back in the courtroom, Judge Mayfield came in and sat at the bench. She fiddled with her skirt, and then didn't waste any time.
&
nbsp; “I've considered all the testimony and the evidence put before me, and I've reached my decision. Based on everything I've heard, it all seems very clear.”
Ben looked reflexively at me, but I wasn't sure what the look meant. “Ben?” I whispered.
“Court rules for the petitioner. Residential parentage will remain with Ms. Johnson, upon whose counsel I will lay the burden of facilitating a mutually agreed-upon visitation schedule. I'm going to require mediation for any disputes regarding this agreement before I'll consent to seeing you back here in this courtroom.”
The judge took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes, as if ruining a life was a tiresome part of her day she then continued, “Given the geographic disparity, I am, however, encouraging creative solutions, and I am ruling that Dr. Cross will be entitled to the equivalent of at least forty-five days visitation per year. That's all.”
And just like that, she rose and left the room.
Ben put a hand on my shoulder. “Alex, I don't know what to say I'm stunned. I haven't seen a ruling from the bench in five years. I'm so sorry”
I barely heard him, and I was hardly conscious of my family swarming around me. I looked up to see Christine and Anne Billingsley squeezing past to leave.
“What happened to you?” I asked, the words just coming. It was as if every muscle of control I had been exercising for the past couple of days gave out at once. “Is this what you wanted? To punish me? To punish my family? Why, Christine?”
Then Nana Mama spoke. “You're cruel, and you're selfish, Christine. I feel sorry for you.”
Christine turned from us and started to walk away very quickly, without saying a word.
When she reached the courtroom doors, her shoulders hunched forward. Suddenly, she put a hand to her mouth. I couldn't tell for sure, but I thought that she began to sob. Ms.
Billingsley took her by the arm and ushered her out into the hallway I didn't understand. Christine had just won, but she was weeping as if she had lost. Had she? Was that it? What had just happened inside her head?
A moment later I entered the hallway in a daze. Nana was holding one of my hands, Jannie the other. Christine was already gone, but someone else I didn't want to see was waiting there. James Truscott had somehow gotten inside the courthouse. And his photographer, too. What the hell was with him? Coming here. Now. What kind of story was he writing?
“Tough day in court, Dr. Cross,” he called up the corridor. “Care to comment on the ruling?”
I pushed past him with my family, but the photographer snapped off several invasive pictures, including single shots of Damon and Jannie.
“Don't print a single picture of my family” I turned to Truscott.
“Or what?” he asked, standing defiantly with his hands on his hips.
“Do not put my family's pictures in your magazine. Do not.”
Then I yanked away the photographer's camera and took it with me.
Chapter_37 LATE THAT SAME DAY, the Storyteller was driving north on the 405, the San Diego Freeway, which was moving okay at about forty or so, and he was working over his “hate list” in his mind. Who did he want to do next, or if not next, before this thing wound down and he had to stop killing or be caught?
Stop! Just as suddenly as it had begun. The end. Finished. Story over He made a scribbly note in a small pad he always carried in the front-door pocket. It was difficult to write as he drove, and his car edged a little out of its lane.
Suddenly some moke to the right sat on his horn, and Stayed on it for several seconds.
He glanced over at a black Lexus convertible, and there Was this total moron screaming at him - “Fuck you, asshole, hick you, fuck you” - and giving him the finger. The Storyteller couldn't help himself - he just laughed at the red-faced idiot in the other car.
The jerk was so out of it. If he only knew who he was going postal at. This was hilarious] He even leaned over toward the window on the passenger side. And his laughter apparently made the nutcase even angrier. “You think it's funny, asshole? You think it's funny?” the guy screamed.
So the Storyteller just kept laughing, ignoring the irate bastard as if he didn't exist and wasn't worth coyote piss if he did. But this guy did exist, and actually, he'd gotten under the Storyteller's skin, which really wasn't advisable, was it?
Eventually, he drifted behind the Lexus, as if chastened and remorseful, and then he followed. The moke's black convertible got off two exits later. So did he.
And this wasn't in the story. He was improvising now He continued to trail the convertible's taillights up into the Hollywood Hills, onto a side road, and then up another steep hill.
He wondered if the driver of the Lexus had spotted him by now Just to be sure he did, he started honking and didn't stop for the next half mile or so. Figured the other guy might be getting a little spooked by now He sure would if it were him, especially if he knew who he had hassled down on the freeway Then he pulled out and started to pass the convertible. This was the coolest goddamn scene yet - he had all the windows open in his car, wind whipping through. The driver of the Lexus stared over at him, and he wasn't cursing or flipping him the bird anymore. Now who was showing a little remorse? A little r-e-s-p-e-c-t. The Storyteller's right hand came up, aimed, and he fired four times into the other driver's face, and then he watched the convertible veer into the rocky wall on the side of the road, carom off, swerve back onto the road, then hit the rocks again.
Then nothing - the annoying bastard was dead, wasn't he? Deserved it, too, the asshole.
The shame of it, the pity, was that sooner or later this killing had to stop. At least that was the grand plan, that was the story.
Mary, Mary
Chapter 38
DETECTIVE JEANNE GALLETTA floored her two-year-old Thunderbird. She had driven faster than this before but never on L.A. city streets. The storefronts on Van Nuys blurred past while her siren droned a steady rhythm overhead.
Two black-and-whites were parked in front of the café when she got there. An unruly crowd had already begun to clot the sidewalk across the street. She was sure that TV cameras wouldn't be far behind, and news helicopters, too.
“What's the situation?” she barked at the first officer she sa who was halfheartedly doing crowd control.
“All contained,” he said. “We did a silent approach, front and back. There's a few of our guys up on tile roof, too, You've got about two-dozen customers and staff inside. If she was here when we pulled up, then she's still in there.”
That was a big if, but it was something to go on, Galletta thoU&" to herself. Mary Smith might still be inside. This thing could end right here. Please, dear God.
“All right, two more units inside as soon as you can get them here, two more on crowd control, and keep that guard front, back, and top.”
“Ma'am, this isn't my crew “I don't care whose crew it is. Just get it stopped and stared into the officer's eyes. ”Am you follow?”
“Perfectly, ma'am.”
Galletta headed inside. The café was one big rectangle, with a coffee bar in front and rows of computer carrels in the back. Each electronic terminal was its own little booth, with shoulder-high privacy walls.
Everyone in the place had been corralled at the mismatched tables, chairs, and couches.
Galletta quickly surveyed their faces.
Students, Yuppies, senior citizens, and a few Venice Beach hippie-freak types. An officer reported to her that they had all been searched and no weapons were found. Not that it meant anything. For now, they were all suspects by default.
The manager was a very nervous young guy in horn-rims who didn't look old enough to drink, and who had the worst case of acne Galletta had seen since her high school days in the Valley A mini CD-ROM pinned to his chest said BRETT in red Magic Marker. He showed Galletta to one of the computer carrels near the back.
“This is where we found it,” he said.
“Is there an exit that way?” Galletta asked, pointing down a
narrow hallway to her left.
done.“ She I clear? Do The manager nodded. ”The police are already back there. They sealed it off."
“And do you keep some record of who uses the machines? ”
He pointed to a credit-card swiping device. “They had to use that. I don't really know how to get the info out, but I can find out for you.”
“We'll take care of it,” Galletta told him. “Here's what I want you to do, though. Keep everyone in here as comfortable as you can. To be honest, it's going to be a while. And if anyone wants anything, make it a decaf.”
She gave him a wink and a grin that she didn't feel, but it seemed to calm the poor guy down some.
“And ask Officer Hatfield over there to come see me.” She had met Officer Bobby Hatfield briefly once before, and she always remembered his name because it was the same as one of the Righteous Brothers.
She sat at the computer and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “What do you know so far?”
she asked when Hatfield came over.
“Same kind of message, written to the same guy at the Times. Arnold Griner. It's possible someone got hold of those other e-mails, but this feels like her to me. You've heard of Carmen D'Abruzzi, right?”
“The chef? Of course. She's got her own show. I watch it occasionally; I just don't cook.”
Trattoria D'Abruzzi was a flavor-of-the-month restaurant in Hollywood, an A-list dinner and after-hours place. More important, Galletta knew, Carmen D'Abruzzi had a very popular syndicated show in which she cooked for her beautiful husband and her two perfect children. Everything was a little too perfect for Galletta's taste, but she did watch the show sometimes.
Galletta shook her head. “Goddammit. D'Abruzzi's just this killer's type. Have you found her yet?”
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