by Sean Desmond
“Thank you, Your Honor. Reverend Raleigh, who is the note addressed to?”
“Gail Greenough, the research librarian at Bridwell.”
Anne understood now—there were two of them, the head librarian, who saw Raleigh leave at eight thirty, and the research librarian he left the note for. That’s why this was a surprise. The cops didn’t interview the second librarian.
“And what time and date is listed on this note?”
“April twenty-first, ten thirty p.m.”
Anne noticed Blackburn shaking his head ever so slightly.
“So you were at the library until ten thirty?”
“Yes, I left shortly after that.”
“And returned home?”
“No, sir. I went back to Lucy Goodfellow’s apartment.”
“Did you enter that apartment?”
“No, the lights were out. I wanted . . .” Raleigh trailed off and then restarted. “I wasn’t leaving Peggy. I think this was an infatuation. I felt attracted to Lucy, but it wasn’t love. I was acting out of lust.”
“Were you living a lie?”
“Yes, I was.”
“You betrayed your wife’s trust, did you not?”
“That is correct. But I committed adultery, not murder.”
This struck Anne as very rehearsed. Too matter-of-fact. Too helpful in his own defense.
“So how long were you outside Miss Goodfellow’s house?”
“I’d say twenty minutes.”
Convenient amount of time. The kids were asleep. I bet he was on Credo Drive.
“And did you knock on the door or try to call her?”
“No.”
“Were you drinking?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And then what?”
“Well, I called home. From the car phone.”
Whiteside made a quarter turn to the jury. “We have heard that message for Peggy. In it, you claim it’s about nine thirty or nine forty-five, correct?”
“Yes.”
“But that wasn’t the time, was it?”
“No, it was later.”
“About two hours later?”
“Yes, I was lying to Peggy about the time”—he paused—“because I was creating an alibi to cover my attempt to see Lucy. I assumed my wife was asleep and she would hear these messages in the morning.”
His carefully worded answers, Anne felt certain, all of his practiced testimony, was backfilled from what happened.
“Would that be true for the second message you left?”
“Yes, my guilty feelings made me give Peggy more information than she needed.”
He’s good, he believes his own bullshit.
“So, Reverend Raleigh, those guilty feelings you talk about. Would you say those feelings are overwhelming at times?”
“They are.”
Whiteside shifted his weight. “And in the days and weeks after Peggy was attacked, did the guilt of having cheated on her and not being home at the time overwhelm you?”
“It did.”
“When the police first came to you to talk about Peggy’s attack, did you tell them about your relationship with Lucy Goodfellow?”
“No, I hid it. I lied.”
“But then it became obvious that this trial was going to reveal your affair, correct?”
“It did, and that was so upsetting to me I tried to take my own life.”
Raleigh looked up at the ceiling and blinked, then pulled at his tie like it was a noose. He was breaking, but Anne couldn’t tell why exactly. Seems more embarrassed than upset about his wife’s near death.
“Reverend Raleigh, you wrote a suicide note before that attempt. Is that right?”
“Yes, that was my moment of absolute and total despair.”
The clerk produced a copy of the note and handed it to the bailiff, who walked it over to Raleigh.
“Can you explain this letter, Reverend Raleigh, particularly the part about the demon?”
“When I say this about the demon, I was talking about an inner restlessness that has been with me all my life. I didn’t just have lust, I was unfaithful to Peggy.”
Raleigh had tears rolling down his cheeks. Anne felt the tears were genuine, but not for Peggy. They’re for Standing Raleigh. He turned the note into a sermon, and the devil can cite scripture for his own purpose.
“If I had been at home that night, this may not have happened. That’s what I mean by the lowest of the low.”
Raleigh threw his head in his hands and winced with pain as he stifled his sobs. Anne watched the white knuckles of the defense attorney relax and let go of the podium. He believes the lies. Raleigh thinks he has everyone fooled, including himself.
“Thank you, Your Honor, no further questions.”
* * *
Douglas Blackburn strode toward the witness stand with his legal pad and ballpoint tucked against his chest. As Raleigh composed himself, Blackburn gave the jury a wry smile. He wore a gray, stippled suit with a banana-yellow tie and waited for a signal from Judge Sam. Anne scanned the courtroom. The anticipation for the cross-examination was apocalyptic. Bread and circus for these assholes. Judge Sam looked up and behind at the giant Roman numerals on the clock. It was just past three p.m. Raleigh exhaled wearily and crumpled tissues up his sleeve. Judge Sam nodded, and Blackburn began.
“Dr. Raleigh, do you have anything you want to get off your chest?”
“Excuse me?”
“Anything you want to confess to, like you did in the suicide note?”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Whiteside had barely sat down and he was rising up again.
“I said what I needed to say,” Raleigh offered.
“Dr. Raleigh, is it true you saw Miss Goodfellow on the day you attempted suicide?”
“Yes. As I said, it was a moment of despair for me.”
“So you met with your mistress—who you lied about to police investigators—as your wife lay in a coma in Presbyterian Hospital?”
Raleigh muttered assent at a barely audible level.
“Dr. Raleigh, the way I read this suicide note, it sounds like you’re confessing to doing something very bad to Peggy Raleigh.”
“I was ashamed and overwhelmed that I was not at home at the time someone tried to kill my wife.”
Overwhelmed—there was that rehearsed word again, Anne realized. Blackburn continued.
“The night of the attack, you left a note for the research librarian at SMU, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And is it typical for you to write the date and the time on your notes like this?”
“Yes, sometimes I do that.”
“Even at ten thirty at night, when establishing the time doesn’t really matter, unless, say, you were—”
Judge Sam raised his palm in the air, warning Blackburn.
“And this note—no one saw you leave it for the librarian?”
“I’m not sure. But I don’t think so.”
Blackburn smacked the lectern, the microphone amplifying his frustration. “Dr. Raleigh, this is very important, if you are planting an alibi with this note—”
“Objection, Your Honor.”
“Counselor, knock it off.” Judge Sam sat up and rested his chin on his knuckles, a number 2 pencil speared behind his index finger.
“Withdrawn. So no one saw you at the library at ten thirty?”
“Objection,” Whiteside repeated.
“After you left the library the second time that night, unseen by anyone, including the desk attendant, you claim to have gone back to Lucy Goodfellow’s house.”
“Correct.”
“But no one saw you there. And you said you were drinking, drinking and driving, actually. Is that correct?”
“
I had been drinking, but I was not that intoxicated.” Raleigh grimaced as he realized how bad that sounded out loud.
“Not too drunk to remember the exact time or how long you were curbside at Miss Goodfellow’s apartment building?”
“No.”
“I see, good memory then,” Blackburn deadpanned. Stop hamming it up, Anne cautioned, but the looks of disbelief around the courtroom showed her that it was working.
“And then did you call your wife?”
“Yes, just after eleven.”
“Right, at eleven twenty-four. To lie about the time, and lie about where you had been that night.” Blackburn ventured back out from behind the lectern. “And so a lot about your alibi for your whereabouts was false that night, correct, Dr. Raleigh?”
Raleigh nodded. “I was lying to my wife about Lucy, yes.”
“Dr. Raleigh, if you lied about that alibi then, why are we supposed to believe this alibi now?”
“Objection, uh . . .” Whiteside had nothing but exasperation.
“Sustained,” Judge Sam said quietly. He let the point score. “Mr. Blackburn, move along.”
Blackburn pivoted. “How often did you have sex with Miss Goodfellow?”
A yelp of shock came from the gallery. The mistress is a red herring, Anne thought. Locate him at the crime scene. Judge Sam gaveled for silence. Not nearly long enough for Raleigh, who was still caught off guard.
Whiteside shot up. “Your Honor . . .”
Blackburn talked over the objection. “Let me be more specific. The week prior to the attack, the week of Easter, the holiest week of the Christian calendar, how many times did you have sex with Miss Goodfellow?”
“Objection . . .”
“Overruled. The witness will answer.”
“Twice.”
“What was that, Reverend?” Blackburn cupped his ear. Again, too much, Anne thought. Blackburn had heard the reverend.
“Twice that week.”
“You said that you were living a lie.”
“Yes, I did.”
“So how do we know when you’re telling the truth?”
“Objection, Your Honor, the witness is under oath.”
Blackburn pressed on. “Did you type the letters, the threats to your family?”
Now, that’s a better line.
“No I did not.”
“Now, can you describe to me the scene when you came home that night to Credo Drive?”
“Starting when?” Raleigh asked, irritated. Blackburn’s pinballing is wearing him down.
“As you are coming up the driveway to your home, please.”
“I put the car in park and opened the door. I saw half of Peggy’s body in front, sticking out. So I jumped out of the car, and ran to her,” he said haltingly. “And her face was red and purple and swollen. She was gurgling, there was something—foam, spit—coming out of the side of her mouth.”
He sees this with his hands around her throat, Anne decided.
“Let me ask you one more time, Dr. Raleigh: anything you want to get off your chest?”
“No.” Raleigh was shaking and began to cry.
Anne watched closely as the minister broke down again. She felt strangely distant. Blackburn went for a confession, but he’s also trying to get headlines and TV time. He went hard. Maybe too hard. But Anne had heard and seen enough. She was ready to convict Raleigh right then and there.
“We pass the witness, Your Honor.”
[ APRIL 8 ]
Oglesby passed back the essay tests on To Kill a Mockingbird with grim quietude. Once he had every paper returned—from Atherton to Winkleman—he let the sophomores read over his comments while retrieving his teaching stick Ptolemy, a blue and gold scepter with a shepherd’s crook, from the well of the blackboard.
Dan leafed to the last page. He had done all right. A flat A with an “Interesting” next to his answer for what was really on trial in the book, and an “Excellent” by his explanation of all the bird names—the Finches, Tom Robinson—and how they related to the title. Phew. Got all five names for Scout too. He looked over the slumped shoulders of Cameron Coleman in front of him. A sea of red marks. Ouch.
“So now we turn to Animal Farm by Mr. Orwell. Everyone up on their reading? That is the case, right, Mr. Humphrey?”
“If you have no further follow-up questions, then yes, absolutely, sir.”
Oglesby stamped the floor with Ptolemy. “Rule number sixteen: by failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail. Gentlemen, you are almost upperclassmen. Don’t waste my time.”
Oglesby wheeled around to the teacher’s desk and picked up his copy of the Orwell.
“Mr. Dowlearn, what kind of a story is Animal Farm?”
“An allegory, sir.”
“Good. An allegory about . . . ?”
Rob raised his hand like he was shooting a free throw. “The British Empire?”
“The Russian Revolution,” Oglesby replied flatly. “I’m not giving anything away—if you had read the preface by Mr. Orwell, he tells you that.”
Frustrated, Oglesby looked up from his paperback at the asbestos tiles in the ceiling. It was Friday, the golden afternoon streaming, tantalizing, through the blinds. Everyone was restless and semipresent. Right then, he tacked to a different course.
“You need to understand this book deeply, gentlemen, because Animal Farm is the key to winning the Game. And since we’re clearly not ready to discuss Animal Farm, I’m going to explain the Game and assign roles.”
He threw his Orwell paperback at his army bag and came to his signature position—chin resting on the back of two hands that lay on the top of his teaching stick. He had kicked the sophomores out of the horse latitudes of a Friday and gotten their attention.
“I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of rumors and scary talk about the Game. All true, no doubt, but the premise of the Game is simple: Scientists have discovered a panacea called the Blaireric. The Blaireric comes from a plant on the Blaireric Islands, and from it you can derive everything man needs. Endless power, endless wealth, and ultimately a potion for world peace.”
“Question, sir?” Liam Plimmer was suffering major indigestion from grade insecurity.
“I didn’t ask for questions, Mr. Plimmer. Put your hand down and listen. The Game will decide which form of government should be in charge of the Blaireric.”
Oglesby reached back to the teacher’s desk to retrieve his grade book. He opened to the class roster.
“Okay, first I have to assign heads of state. Mr. Dowlearn?”
“Yes, sir,” Rick replied with a confidence that first pick was a good thing. It was not.
“You will now be King Richard. Your country will be run as a monarchy.”
Rick stood up and feigned a courtly bow. “God save me.”
“Settle down, my liege. Flanagan?”
“Yes?”
“Your Excellency Bishop Flanagan now—you are in charge of a country run by a theocracy.”
The transformation into Richelieu was immediate as Flanagan grinned with delight at his perceived power. “What’s my country called?”
“That’s up to you.”
“The Holy Empire of Flanagan?”
“If you think that name is going to impress the judges, then yes.”
Plimmer was about to lose his mind. “Wait, who are the judges?”
“At this time, the identities of the tribunal are secret.” Oglesby slammed the business end of Ptolemy on Plimmer’s desk. No further questions.
“Mr. O’Donnell, you are now Comrade O’Donnell and in charge of a communist country.”
“What?” Sticky tapped the metal cubby below his seat with a blue Bic. “That’s the sucky one!”
“Talk to your proletariat about what sucks. Mr. Boudreaux?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied meekly. Like Plimmer, Boudreaux was a gradehounding worrywart.
“You are philosopher-king of your own meritocracy. Everyone in your country is selected by their special abilities and skills. Mr. McGhee? Are you going to read Mr. Orwell and work hard as a head of state to argue for the Blaireric?”
“Sir, you can—”
“You are in charge of an oligarchy.” Oglesby shook his head—Rob always had a wind-up and delivery, and he had to cut him off. “Do you know what an oligarchy is?”
Rob imagined a good answer but then safely retreated to: “No, sir.”
“It’s where power is held by a few elites. So let’s call you Robber Baron McGhee, and you and the other captains of industry in your country—”
“Uh, sir . . . can I switch with Flanagan and do theocracy?”
Oglesby balked out of reflex but remembered Rob was a preacher’s son.
“Mr. Flanagan, any objection?”
“Am I God in this theocracy? Or just like a Pope?”
“Whatever divinity you claim is up to you. You can be an ayatollah, a rabbi, a patriarch—just remember the judges have to be convinced that your holiness is next to godliness.”
“Ayatollah, huh?” Flanagan was starting to get the delirious, glassy-eyed confidence of a cult leader.
“Come on, Flanagan, let me do the religious one.” Rob riffled through his backpack until he found the remains of his half-eaten lunch. “I’ll throw in some Little Debbie Nutty Bars.”
“Deal.”
Rob tossed the cellophaned wafers at Flanagan.
“Fine, McGhee is theocracy, Flanagan a nut-bar oligarchy.”
“Sir, can I—?”
“No more trading.” Oglesby swatted across the front row with Ptolemy like a roulette dealer waving off bets. “The final country must represent democracy. So let’s see . . .”
Oglesby’s mouth curled into a wry smile, and he looked to the back row. “Mr. Malone. Or should I say President Malone? You will head the democratic state in the Game.”
“Thank you, sir.” Dan swallowed his excitement. A disappointed groan came from the rest of the sophomores as Oglesby had clearly selected his favorites for heads of state. Malone especially. The Game felt rigged.
“Be careful what you pine for, gentlemen. In my seventeen years of teaching, the democracy has never won.”
