by Jodi Picoult
Just moments ago, when he was excused from the witness stand, he walked past her and winked. Her entire face was glowing, as luminous as the moon. Now it is pale, her eyes standing out like bruises, deliberately fixed away from him.
He finds himself staring at Mariah the way one cannot help but watch a building collapse or a fire burn out, committed to the tragedy. He does not blink when she covers her face with her hands, when the cries come.
Joan spends thirty seconds trying to console her client, something that has never been her forte. Then she stands, vibrating with anger. If this were a jury trial, it would be totally different. She could do her cross of McManus and somehow plant doubt that Ian was holding his phone at the time the call was placed. It could have been an intern, it could have been stolen--who the hell knows what the possibilities are? A judge, though, will have already weighed the possibility of whether or not Ian Fletcher was actually using his own phone to call Allen McManus. And--like everyone else--will have concluded that Ian is guilty of several counts of betrayal.
"You work at the Globe?" she barks out.
"Yes."
"How long have you worked there?"
"Six years."
"What's your training?"
"I went to the Columbia School of Journalism and worked at The Miami Herald as a stringer before coming to the Globe."
"Who assigned you to this particular case?"
"The special-events editor, Uwe Terenbaum. He sometimes asks me to cover symposiums and conferences if obits aren't too busy."
Joan moves back and forth in front of him, like the shuttle of a loom. McManus's eyes follow her, dizzy. She does not know what she can get out of this worm, but she has a hunch that his ego is an Achilles' heel. And the stupider she makes him look, the better. "Do you think you're a good reporter, Mr. McManus?"
For a moment, Allen preens. "I like to think so."
"Do you have a good reputation among your colleagues?"
"Sure."
"Were you assigned to this case because you're one of the Globe's best reporters?"
"Probably," he says, seemingly growing taller in the chair.
"You must have felt pretty good when you traced that number back to Ian Fletcher."
"Well, yeah," Allen admits. "I mean, he's certainly a household name."
Joan drums her fingertips on the railing of the stand. "Did you talk to Mr. Fletcher after you found out that it was his number?"
"I tried, but--"
"Yes or no?"
"No," he says.
"You simply took his tip and ran with it."
"Yes."
"You went to Greenhaven?"
"Yeah," Allen says.
"Where you were able to get Mariah White's file?"
"No. I got a doctor to confirm that she had been in the hospital."
"I see. Was he Mariah's doctor?"
"Well, no--"
"Did he treat Mariah at all when she was at Greenhaven?"
"No."
"Did he know particulars about her case?"
"He knew the essentials."
"That wasn't my question, Mr. McManus." Joan's brows draw together. "Did you find out during your thorough investigations that Mariah was placed in Greenhaven involuntarily by her husband?"
"Um, no..."
"Did you find out that she was not given the opportunity to pursue other treatment alternatives for depression before being institutionalized?"
"No."
"Did you find out that because her husband was running around screwing other women, Mariah White had what's colloquially called a nervous breakdown?"
"No," the reporter murmurs.
"Did you find out that that was the reason she was suicidal?" Joan regards McManus steadily. "You didn't find out the basic facts, Mr. McManus. You didn't find out anything at all. So what makes you think you're such a great investigative reporter?"
"Objection!"
"Withdrawn," Joan says, but by then she does not care.
When it becomes clear that Mariah cannot stop crying, the judge suggests an hourlong recess. Before the press has even managed to get out of their seats, Joan whisks Mariah out of the courtroom and down the hall that leads to the bathroom. Once they are inside, Joan holds the door shut so that no one will intrude. "Mariah, Fletcher's testimony wasn't that damaging. Not even the newspaper article. Really. By the time we get onto the stand, no one's going to remember." When Mariah does not answer, Joan suddenly understands. "It's not what he said," she murmurs. "It's that he said it at all. That's how you knew he was going to cross Metz on the stand. Jesus, you're in love with him."
"It's not as simple as that--"
"It hardly ever is!"
Mariah waves her away. "Right now, I just think I need to be by myself."
The attorney eyes her carefully. "I don't know if that's such a good idea."
"Afraid I might have a razor blade up my sleeve?" Mariah says bitterly. "Is the testimony of the morning getting to you?"
"I didn't mean that. I--"
"It's all right, Joan. Please."
The attorney nods and exits the bathroom. Mariah stands in front of the sinks and gazes into the mirror. Her eyes are puffy and red; her nose is running. Beside her, in the reflection of the towel dispenser, is a distorted view of this mirror, so that her ravaged face is repeated over and over.
She should have known better. Maybe what Metz has been suggesting is the truth: that once you have experienced pain, it knows your address. It comes to prey upon you in the middle of the night, sneaking up when you least expect it and leveling you before you have a chance to fight.
Ian must have laughed at her, at finding such an easy target. How could she have believed that his interest in her was anything more than a ploy to get closer to Faith?
Those remarkable nights with him, those words that had cast a spell and turned her into someone she has always wanted to be--to Ian, they were just words, just nights. All in the line of duty.
With tremendous resolve she forces herself to look in the mirror again. She will get a grip on herself and she will march back into that courtroom. She will say everything that she and Joan rehearsed. She simply must keep custody of her daughter.
She doesn't have anything else.
When she exits the bathroom, she is expecting a crowd of reporters and photographers, waiting to glimpse some sign of her distress in an area of the courthouse where their cameras are sanctioned. But the only person standing there is Ian.
"Mariah," he begins, coming toward her.
She pushes past him. The contact of her shoulder with his upper arm almost brings her to tears again.
"I didn't know back then. I didn't know what you were like."
Mariah stops, turns, and fixes her gaze on his face. "That makes two of us," she says.
Joan is about to enter the courtroom again when she feels a hand grab her shoulder and draw her to the side. "Don't say anything," Ian warns when she immediately opens her mouth.
"Ah, if it isn't James Bond. If you'd told me you were going to play double agent, we might have been able to avoid this McManus crap."
"My apologies."
Joan crosses her arms. "I'm not the one who's crying her heart out."
"I tried to make her understand that the Globe story came before we...well, before. She won't listen to me."
"Can't say I blame her." She glances toward the courtroom, beginning to fill. "Look, I'll talk to Mariah later. I can't help you right now--"
"Actually," Ian interrupts, "you can."
Joan and Metz approach the bench. "Your Honor," he says, "I've gone through all my witnesses except for the psychiatrist I mentioned at this morning's emergency hearing."
"Judge," Joan adds, "as I mentioned earlier today, I don't know Munchausen Syndrome from tennis elbow. I need time to prepare a rebuttal to Mr. Metz's ridiculous theory about my client. Moreover, this is the second witness Mr. Metz has pulled out of a hat; Allen McManus's name, astoundingly, di
dn't manage to make it to the witness list either." She glances at the other attorney. "If Mr. Metz wants to put his psychiatrist on the stand, I want to recall Ian Fletcher."
"No way. The whole point of putting Allen McManus on was to illustrate how Ian Fletcher was lying during my direct, Your Honor. Having him questioned by the defense again is only going to be confusing," Metz says.
"I think I'll be able to keep it straight in my head," the judge says dryly. He addresses the gallery. "Mr. Fletcher, would you mind taking the stand again?"
Ian climbs onto the witness stand in silence. Joan watches him carefully, hoping this is going to work the way Ian thinks it is. She is not doing it, really, to further the case. She is doing it as a gift for her client. And as Ian pointed out correctly, since Mariah has not yet testified, getting her back together again is clearly in the best interests of the case.
Joan walks toward Mariah and squeezes her arm. "Sit up and listen," she whispers, then approaches the witness stand. "Mr. Fletcher, when did you call Mr. McManus?"
"In early October."
"Why did you call him?" Her questions are clipped, tight. To observers, she appears angry with Ian...and rightfully so.
"I wanted to disprove Faith White's claims. It would have meant a huge ratings coup for my show. I didn't know Faith, or her mother, from Adam." He spreads his hands. "I've given anonymous tips before. It looks better when other people create the rift at first, and I step in to peel back the layers and expose the fraud. McManus seemed to be a halfway decent reporter, and I thought he might be able to help."
"It sounds very underhanded."
"It's part of being a journalist," Ian says, "and my job involves that from time to time. On occasion I get anonymous tips; on occasion I hand them out. Reporters often do this for each other." He glances at McManus. "Sometimes we even serve as those sources that other journalists refuse to reveal. I meant no harm to Miz White, because I wasn't thinking of her then. I was only thinking of exposing her daughter, no matter what it took."
"What's different now?" Joan asks.
"Now I know her," Ian says softly.
Joan glances from her client to Ian, holding her breath. "Nothing further."
Metz is already on his feet to redirect. "You couldn't find anything? Not one measly bit of dirt on Faith White?"
"I postponed my digging," Ian answers, his eyes steely.
"Are you implying that Faith White's visions are real?"
He thinks carefully about his answer. "I'm implying that Faith White is one extraordinary little girl, and that I don't think she's deliberately lying."
"But, Mr. Fletcher, you've said repeatedly that you're an atheist. Does this mean you now believe in God?"
Ian freezes. He realizes what Metz has done to him: He cannot get into Mariah's good graces again unless he ruins himself completely. If he admits that Faith is a miracle worker, the attorney will press for proof, and Ian doesn't care to divulge information about the private joy of his twin brother's few lucid moments. He glances at Mariah, who is staring at him, waiting for his answer.
I'm sorry, he thinks.
"Mr. Fletcher? Do you believe in God?"
Ian raises his brows and adopts the charming mask of his television persona. "The jury's still out on that one," he says, playing into the hands of his audience, watching their grinning faces, instead of the one that matters most.
Joan asks for a short recess. Mariah is remarkably controlled, if incredibly quiet, and for some reason this scares Joan even more than an out-and-out tantrum. "I can try for a continuance. I can tell the judge you're sick."
"I only want an hour. I have to see Faith," she explains. "It's been all day."
Until that moment, Joan has forgotten the restraining order signed that morning. In the confusion of the testimonies, she still hasn't had a chance to tell Mariah about it. "You can't."
"But if you ask the judge..."
"You can't go now, and you can't go later. Judge Rothbottam signed a restraining order to keep you away from Faith for the duration of the trial."
It starts like a slow-motion avalanche, the gradual disintegration of Mariah's calm. "Why?"
"If she gets better when you're kept away, Metz will use it as evidence."
"Because I'm not there? Because I left when she needed me the most?"
"No, Mariah. He's got an expert testifying, who'll say that when you were separated by force, you weren't able to make Faith hallucinate or bleed."
She covers her mouth with her hand and turns away. "What do they think of me?"
Joan frowns, not liking the direction of her own thoughts. Mariah had kept silent about Ian Fletcher's testimony for Metz; what else might she be hiding? "They think," she says, "that eventually you'll kill her."
FIFTEEN
Children are the anchors
that hold a mother to life.
--Sophocles, Phaedra
It takes several long seconds before Joan's words sink in. "Are you kidding?" I finally manage. It is laughable, really, except that the whole thing makes me want to cry. "They think I'm going to kill my own daughter?"
"Malcolm Metz is painting you as an emotionally unstable woman in a crisis. Supposedly he's got some expert who's going to testify about other mothers who have done the same thing. There's a name for it--Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy."
A crisis. How much, after all, am I supposed to bear? My daughter is hospitalized. The man I've fallen in love with has been lying to me. The man I used to love thinks I'm capable of killing our child.
"It's not true," I say firmly. "Can't you make them see that?"
"I'm gonna try. But Metz is allowed to say anything he wants to. If it strikes his fancy, he can build a case around the idea that you're programming Faith's behavior with voodoo dolls. Whether or not it's the truth doesn't matter. The important thing is that we can get up when he's done and make the judge realize what a load of bullshit he's been handed." She sighs. "Look. You've got a weak spot. You were in a mental hospital. If I were in Metz's position, I'd probably be running with that particular play, too."
"Joan," I say shakily, "I've got to be able to see my daughter."
The pity in her eyes almost sends me over the edge.
"I'll call the hospital for you and find out how she's doing."
I know she is trying to give me hope, but it slips through my grasp like sand.
"We're going to get Faith back home with you."
For her sake, I nod and manage a smile. But I do not say what I truly think: that a custody battle means nothing at all if the child is dead.
When Joan walks back into the courtroom, she feels as if she's just finished climbing Mount Washington. There's nothing like reducing your client to emotional Jell-O before you need her to be coherent on the stand. She glares at Metz with all the horrible thoughts that are on her mind, praying for a brief moment of psychic connection. He's leaning over the gallery railing, speaking to a smaller, slighter, carbon copy of himself who could only be another underling from his office.
He turns as the judge enters and summons counsel to the bench. "Well, Mr. Metz, as I recall, we agreed to rendezvous about now. I assume that you're ready to put on your expert witness?"
Before he can answer, Joan interrupts. "Excuse me, Your Honor, but I have to raise an objection once again. My client was just told that she can't see her daughter for the duration of the trial, and, frankly, she's a basket case. It's three o'clock in the afternoon, and since I don't have the same army of human resources available to me that Mr. Metz does at his big-city firm, I still have not had a chance to research Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. I don't know this expert, I don't know his credentials, and I certainly don't know about this esoteric disorder. Out of fairness, if you're going to allow Mr. Metz to put on his witness, I feel that I ought to have at least the weekend to prepare my cross."
Metz nods. "I agree. In fact, I recommend that we break for the day, if it pleases Your Honor, so that Ms. Standish has the
rest of the afternoon to begin her research."
"You do?" Joan says, surprised.
Judge Rothbottam frowns. "Hang on a second. You were too fired up this morning for an about-face. What's the problem, Mr. Metz?"
"My witness has apparently tried several times to interview Faith White today, which of course would be germane to his testimony, but she is too incapacitated to speak to him." He smiles, conciliatory, at Joan. "It turns out that I'm going to need a little more time, too."
"Too damn bad," the judge says. "You jumped in the water, you're going to swim. As you pointed out, it's three. I have supreme faith that you'll be able to keep your expert on the stand for an hour reciting credentials. We'll get through whatever you can, and pick up on Monday. Your doctor will have a chance to talk to the girl this weekend." He turns to Joan. "And by then, I assume, you'll have a cross-examination prepared."
"Yes, Your Honor."
"Marvelous." He looks at Metz. "Call your witness."
Metz's expert psychologist, Dr. Celestine Birch, clearly resembles the tree that shares his surname. Tall and cadaverously thin, pale as the silver bark, he sits on the stand stiffly with the air of supreme confidence that comes when you know you are outstanding in your field.
"Where did you go to school, Doctor?"
"I attended Harvard University, then Yale Medical School. I did my residency at UCLA Medical Center and practiced for ten years at Mount Sinai in New York City before setting up my own private practice back in California. I've been practicing there for eleven years."
"What is your major field of practice?"
"I deal mostly with children."
Metz nods. "Are you familiar, Doctor, with a psychiatric disorder called Factitious Disorder by Proxy?"
"Yes, in fact I'm considered one of the top three specialists in the nation on the disorder."
"Could you describe it for us?"
"Certainly," Birch says. "According to the American Psychiatric Association's DSM-IV, Factitious Disorder by Proxy is a rare disorder in which a person deliberately produces physical or psychological symptoms in another person under his or her care." The psychiatrist begins to warm to his subject. "Basically, it involves one person making another look or feel sick. It's often called Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy--or MSP--after Baron von Munchausen, an eighteenth-century mercenary who became famous for his exaggerated tales.
