by D. J. Palmer
“Well, I’m not going to consider that one,” Grace said forcefully, trying to block out the image of her son plunging a knife into the belly of an innocent woman—his sister’s birth mother, at that.
“What about what Chloe told us?” Annie asked, delivering a needed change in subject. “‘Burned it all up, but she didn’t get away.’”
“Burned it up like the house on Duke Street,” said Jack.
The discovery had left Grace wondering if those burn scars on Penny’s forearms, which the doctors had noted way back when, weren’t in fact from a curling iron but from the fire that had consumed her home.
“That is a bit of a sideways turn,” Annie admitted. She blew on the tip of a second slice of cheese pizza before giving it a bite. “I thought the fire in that drawing had something to do with Maria,” she said while chewing.
Grace still had her doubts about Maria’s innocence, but didn’t have time to voice them. Mitch arrived with apologizes for running late. To Grace, he looked breathless and out of sorts; nervous, too. He took a seat and got caught up on the earlier discussion.
“It could be Penny’s subconscious is at work here, and the fire in the picture Chloe drew is symbolically connected to Maria, not a specific reference to Duke Street. The subconscious mind works in symbols because it’s the most efficient form of communication. So it’s possible, but I don’t think that’s the case. I think the drawing and fire are strongly linked.”
Grace nodded her head. “I do too, Mitch.”
“But here’s where it gets tricky,” Mitch said. “Penny, Ruby, Chloe, Eve—they’ve all experienced a dissociative state in Edgewater that’s characteristically been the same. I’d call it dreamlike, trancelike, either way—different from the prior personality state, correct?”
Grace nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “So when she’s in that trancelike state, is that the fourth alter, the one we’ve been thinking is hiding from us?”
“I don’t think so,” Mitch said, and something in his eyes, his voice hinted at trouble.
Grace studied him with curious intent. “What is it then?”
“We thought it was Chloe who told us she burned it up, but she didn’t go away. We also thought it was a memory from the night of the murder, but now we know it was from her distant past. What if it wasn’t Chloe’s memory we were accessing, and what if all the recollections we heard—‘she’ll go to prison’ … ‘I wasn’t alone’ … the ammonia, even—what if it all came from Penny’s distant past, same as the toaster on fire?”
Grace sat back in her chair, stunned. “Are you suggesting everything we’ve learned, everything Eve, Ruby, Chloe, and Penny herself have told us, is all from the same time period?”
“What I may have done here—unwittingly, I’ll give you that,” Mitch said, “is help Penny tap into her subconscious mind to access memories she’s blocked out, maybe even memories of the traumatic experience or experiences that caused her personality to splinter in the first place.”
Grace’s mouth hung open. She’d never considered that possibility, and the implications felt shattering.
“If it’s all from the past, then what Penny told us about her not being alone is from the past, too. That means she was most likely alone that night and she killed Rachel.”
“Maybe,” Mitch said. “We still don’t have a good explanation for the rope restraints.”
“She tied herself up to stop herself from committing murder,” Jack suggested. “She was at war with her own self.”
“Possible,” Mitch said. “Or Rachel tied her and somehow she escaped. But that’s not what I called you all together to discuss. Penny, and each of Penny’s alters, needed to be in a dissociative state to access these memories. Why? That’s the question I’ve been asking myself, and the answer I think was there all along. They weren’t Penny’s memories.”
“So it is a new alter?”
“But these are memories from the past,” Mitch clarified. “Think about the park. You found Penny. She couldn’t tell you anything about what happened to her … who dropped her off … why … she wouldn’t even answer to her name. And, she didn’t cry for Rachel. Why is that?”
“She was traumatized,” said Jack. “That’s what the psychologists and social workers said. She wouldn’t tell us anything because the abandonment was traumatic for her and Rachel probably abused her.”
Annie’s expression turned unsettled. “Oh God,” she said, putting her hands to her mouth.
“Are you suggesting…?” Grace fumbled for the words, her color blanching.
“I’m suggesting that Penny couldn’t answer your questions that day, or the day after, or the day after that—couldn’t tell you what happened to her, didn’t know who put her in the park, didn’t respond to her name, didn’t miss Rachel—because she had no memories to share. Because Penny herself … is an alter.”
Everyone went silent. The air seemed to still. No one moved. No one spoke. Grace sat a moment, her mind a blank. Soon, thoughts collected and she found her will to engage. She’d lost a husband already, and now, in a way, a daughter as well. She was a woman hardened from experience, so perhaps that’s why Mitch’s revelation, startling as it was, would not get her down and keep her there.
“So what now?” Grace asked.
“From a therapeutic standpoint, nothing changes,” Mitch said. “The goal is still integration. And it doesn’t change our strategy at her trial, though I imagine Navarro would have to confirm that.”
“But we don’t know who she is, really … who is the real girl? Who is my daughter?”
Grace sighed as she looked around the table for answers.
“I think she’s Isabella Boyd,” said Mitch. “Has to be. Penny’s kept her under wraps for years … she picked a shy, uncertain, and modest persona to adopt because it gave her primary self a buffer zone from which she could keep people at a distance.
“Then adolescence brought on a volcanic change of hormones that may have triggered the emergence of her other alters. The work I did with Penny helped open up a pathway to the primary self. That’s what I think we’ve been seeing. Honestly, it’s a very positive step toward integration.”
“What about all the things she told us?” Grace asked. “The bucket of ammonia—she wasn’t alone—gone and gone for good—what about all that?”
Mitch shook his head glumly. “I don’t have all the answers … can’t say how it fits together to be honest,” he confessed. “But I am sure of one thing: that mysterious fourth alter we’ve been searching for has been with us all along.”
CHAPTER 49
THAT WAS A SHOCK, Penny.
I should keep calling you that, right? You’re still my sister, even if you are an alter. I surprised myself with how quickly I adjusted to the idea that you aren’t really you. I know it was painful for Mom to think the child she’d raised, loved, and nurtured from age four was a mask of sorts for your true self. When I came up with the name Penny, it must have felt good enough for you to embrace as part of this new identity you’d assumed.
And it was Penny who was on trial for murder.
The first day of your trial happened on the first day of August. We were in the old brick courthouse, not the new glass-and-steel addition that had working air-conditioning.
Your trial took place in Salem, Massachusetts, a city notorious for its witch trials. I wonder if you felt a deep kinship to those poor souls. If you’d been born back then, if people knew of the others occupying your body, no doubt you’d have been found guilty of witchcraft and executed by hanging or left to rot in some rat-infested cell.
But on this day, you were in a carpeted courtroom that smelled like a new car. Under the fluorescent lights, the wood benches in the spectator section gleamed with heavy applications of varnish. The air tasted sweetly scented, a mix of colognes and perfumes. You’d been told it was best to be as understated as possible in court, don’t stand out in any way—a tall order for someone who was the feature
d attraction. Even so, you looked appropriately subdued in clothes Mom brought from home. I’d seen you wear that outfit to church before, but now, with all the weight you’d lost, the pants no longer fit like they once did. I know you didn’t like the white top, but the line pattern was done in neutral grays.
“Black gives the impression of power, not humility,” Navarro had advised.
You were being tried as an adult, but cameras were not permitted in the courtroom. Ironically, video was allowed, but the gaggle of reporters occupying a large section in the back had to share a single feed from the lone video camera. I’m sure everyone in our hometown, former friends and neighbors, were streaming the trial online, gawking at you like a freak in a circus sideshow.
I could feel leering eyes boring into the back of your skull. A soft murmur filled the room with white noise, which made me think of an audience talking before a show begins.
To settle your nerves, Attorney Navarro gave you clear instructions.
Keep your emotions to yourself.
Don’t smile.
Don’t frown.
Don’t look away in disgust.
Don’t nod your head.
Don’t shake your head.
“The jury will make assumptions about everything you do,” Navarro warned. “‘She’s too remorseful, she’s not remorseful enough, she’s too sincere, she’s not sincere enough’—everything gets judged in here, so sit as perfectly still and calm as you possibly can, don’t react to anything you hear, do exactly as I say, and you’ll do just fine.”
These directions, given quite clearly, kept Eve away and Penny in the courtroom. Quite a wily defense system you’ve constructed in that marvelous head of yours. When you needed ferocity, you had Eve, and when you needed quiet and stillness, you could be Penny.
So who were you when Rachel died?
I guess that’s the question everyone wants answered.
On the opposite side of the aisle, seated at the table across from you, was the assistant district attorney, Jessica Johnson. She had dark hair, expressive eyes to match, and mocha-colored skin. I know little about Jessica other than she graduated from Suffolk Law School, has a seven-year-old daughter, and at one time was a competitive tennis player.
The sounds of the courtroom filled my ears: the groan of a wood bench as a spectator shifted in her seat, the snap of a purse closing shut, the chirp of a phone powering down.
I watched the judge enter the courtroom with purposeful strides and take her seat at the bench. The nameplate in front of her read: JUDGE CLAIRE A. LOCKHART.
Judge Lockhart was about Mom’s age. Her face was bronzed in what couldn’t be a natural shade, and her eyes were ringed darkly with mascara so they stood out on her face. Dark roots were visible on her stylish shoulder-length hair, which she proceeded to tuck behind her ears. The attention she called to her ears, to her eyes—it’s like this judge wanted to make sure everyone knew she would see and hear everything that happened in her courtroom. Her dark robe was more like a cloak, and she radiated authority like a regal presence.
“Please be seated.”
All retook their seats. I felt like I’d drunk rocket fuel that morning instead of coffee.
“All right, good morning, everyone,” Judge Lockhart said in an officious voice.
Attorney Johnson spoke from a standing position at her table, papers and binders strewn in front of her. “Good morning, Your Honor. This is the State of Massachusetts versus Penny Isabella Francone, 2277 CR 1011, first-degree murder. The state is ready to proceed, Your Honor. We do have some pretrial motions from both sides. We will take those in whatever order the court pleases.”
The motions were settled quickly. No issues there.
The prosecutor’s opening statement was blistering and brutal.
“When this trial is over, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you will have no doubt that Penny Isabella Francone, this defendant”—and Attorney Johnson pointed to you—“intentionally and savagely slaughtered her birth mother, Rachel Boyd, murdering her in her home.” She gave the jury Rachel’s address in Lynn. “The defendant had the opportunity to be alone with Rachel that night, and used a knife taken from Rachel’s kitchen to stab the victim twenty-three times in her arms, chest, and abdomen before brutally slashing her throat.”
Attorney Johnson didn’t move around a lot, but occasionally she’d glance at her notebooks.
“The evidence will show that the defendant was completely aware of her actions, had fantasized about killing before, had made threats to kill before—even made written threats to kill the victim—and was completely sane at the time of the murder. You will hear from an expert witness on dissociative identity disorder, who will testify that Penny believes she possesses multiple personalities. Let me repeat the key part of that: Penny believes.
“But these beliefs, as the evidence will show, do not—let me repeat—do not meet the legal definition of insanity. Through the defendant’s own words and actions, you will learn, and the evidence will show, that the defendant was completely aware of her actions and knew exactly why she did it. Rachel Boyd, the victim here, was a symbol for this defendant’s anger and resentment at the world. The defendant acted in retribution for being abandoned by her birth mother years ago in a park, and that fermenting anger, combined with her dark desire to kill, led to this atrocious crime for which the defendant now stands accused.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we may never know exactly what was going through the defendant’s mind at the time of the killing, but not knowing why the defendant slaughtered Rachel Boyd does not mean the defendant is not responsible for the murder. It merely means that there is no good answer.
“As you know, the defendant has entered a plea of not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect. Judge Lockhart will instruct you on the elements of the law pertinent to this case. If you find the defendant not guilty, you will have to believe that the defendant was unable to understand or control what she was doing at the time of the killing, and lacked awareness that what she was doing was wrong.
“But, ladies and gentlemen, what the evidence will show is that the defendant acted cruelly and deliberately when she murdered Rachel Boyd in cold blood, that she understood what she was doing, and that she knew what she was doing was terribly wrong.”
She paused to take a breath.
“I expect you’ll hear testimony from a doctor who has only recently begun treating the defendant, that she has no memory of the murder, and that she’s inhabited by other personalities, including the one who has expressed dark and violent fantasies, written about them extensively, and that these personas—or alters, as they’re referred to in the evidence—will make her not guilty of any crime. But the evidence will show that this diagnosis is in reality nothing more than an elaborate fantasy world created out of convenience and used as an excuse for this defendant to live out her deepest, darkest, and most depraved desires.”
And we were off.
CHAPTER 50
TRIAL DAY 11
STATE OF MASSACHUSETTS VERSUS PENNY FRANCONE
SHE’S SITTING IN HER seat at the counsel table designated for the defense team. Her attorney, Greg Navarro, occupies a chair to her right. She’s waiting for the big moment when she’ll be called to the witness stand to testify in her own defense.
She knows her name is Penny Francone, that she’s been accused of killing Rachel Boyd, and that Rachel Boyd is her birth mother. She knows this from flickers of memories of conversations she’s had with her mother, Grace, in a place called Edgewater, and because Attorney Navarro has told her so. She’s been told that Eve was the mainstay at Edgewater, which explains all of her memory gaps—those weren’t her memories to retain. But there’s something else feeding her awareness. It’s like a strange voice prattling inside her head, less of a whisper and more like a knowing, as if she’s experienced things she has no recollection of ever having done.
She doesn’t remember much of the time she spent locked up in
Edgewater, but that knowing tells her she has lived there for quite a while. She knows she has multiple personalities inside her, and that the memories of her life inside Edgewater, possibly the memories of the murder itself, belong to one of her alters—probably to a girl named Eve. She’s the dark one. She also has no recollection of plunging a knife time and time again into Rachel’s body, but then, she’s lived with lost time for most of her life. It’s always so confusing that really anything feels possible, even herself committing a brutal murder.
She is wearing gray pants and a slim-fitting white blouse that her mother brought from home. She misses home, misses her mother, her family, her life. She looks behind her and sees her mother sitting in the front of the courtroom along with Jack and Aunt Annie.
To her surprise, Ryan is there, too, even though she knows he doesn’t like her. Ryan still blames her for their father’s death. Maybe he’s over it, she hopes, and that’s why he’s come. She wants to wave to her family, but knows that’s something she cannot do. Anything she does might influence the jury, Attorney Navarro warned. She’s been told to sit still and be quiet like a good girl, so that’s what she does. She is that girl.
She sees Dr. McHugh in the row behind her mother. The courtroom lights make his silver hair shine and his neatly trimmed beard glow. She has only a few memories of Dr. McHugh from Edgewater—for example, she can recall meeting him on the day she found out she was living in a special hospital that kept patients in handcuffs. That knowing feeling returns to tell her that Eve has spent a lot of time with Dr. McHugh.
There is much she can’t remember.
But she remembers this trial. Every day of it she has been Penny Francone.
The trial started on August 1, with twelve jurors selected plus two alternates. The prosecution called thirty-two witnesses to the stand. There were a number of police officers. Several of them had investigated Rachel’s murder, and others arrested her for that crime. The jurors saw diagrams and pictures of Rachel’s home. There was evidence—bloodstained clothes that belonged to her; her anchor pendant necklace, also bloodstained—all kept safe and contamination-free inside sealed evidence bags.