Guilty Wives

by James Patterson

  The courtroom broke into a collective stir, visibly and audibly evident even through my headphones. Technically, the investigation of the juge d’instruction was confidential. There had been leaks, bits of information and rumor coming in weekly drips, but none of it had been confirmed until now.

  “A small sample of mucus was located on the interior of the driver’s side door that matched the DNA of the accused, Winnie Brookes,” said Rouen. “A blood smear on the front passenger seat was confirmed as the blood of the accused, Serena Schofield.

  “And a sample of cerumen, a glandular substance commonly known as earwax,” he said, “was located near the gear shift between the two bodies. The sample was a DNA match for the accused, Abbie Elliot.”

  “Please remind the court, Major,” said the presiding judge. “During questioning of these accused, you inquired as to whether any of them had been inside or around that vehicle?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. We made that inquiry of each of the accused.”

  “And how did they respond?”

  Major Rouen turned his head ever so slightly in our direction, though from his position he couldn’t see us.

  “Each of the accused denied ever being inside that vehicle,” he said.

  CHAPTER 39

  THE SPECTATORS’ COLLECTIVE reaction began to rise in volume, and the presiding judge called for order.

  “And after being confronted with this evidence,” the presiding judge asked Rouen, “did the accused continue to deny having been in that Bentley vehicle?”

  “They did,” said Rouen. “Each of them continued to deny it.”

  My lawyer had prevailed on me to admit being in the automobile. He’d tried to shape my story so that I maintained my innocence but admitted to that one fact. “Why fight it?” he’d said to me over and over. “If you deny something so obvious, you lose your credibility and you lose any goodwill you have with the court.”

  Serena shook her head, her jaw clenched and her eyes cast upward to the ceiling. She was a fighter, a competitor, but in this case she was flailing at shadows. My attorney was right: we had no credible explanation for this DNA evidence.

  The presiding judge gestured in the direction of the glass case that was positioned to the right of Major Rouen, where the physical evidence was held. The courtroom deputy removed the murder weapon from the case and handed it to Rouen. It was a subcompact handgun with a black grip, a Beretta Px4 Storm.

  “The weapon was recovered aboard the Misty Blue yacht owned by Mr. Ogletree,” Rouen explained.

  “Please explain where, within the yacht, the weapon was found.”

  “Mr. President, the weapon was recovered within this black purse.”

  The presiding judge referenced another exhibit. The greffier removed my black purse from the glass evidence case and handed it to Rouen.

  “The purse belonged to the accused, Abbie Elliot.”

  “Did the accused Ms. Elliot admit this much at least?”

  Someone in the gallery snickered at the judge’s sarcasm.

  “She did, Mr. President. She admitted that the purse was hers.”

  “And the weapon?”

  “She denied the weapon belonged to her.”

  “Did the accused Ms. Elliot offer an explanation as to why the weapon was in her purse?”

  “No, Mr. President. She did not.”

  Rouen continued to recount, consistent with the dossier, how the weapon was processed and analyzed for fingerprints, and how the four of us were fingerprinted.

  “Please tell us the results of the fingerprint analysis.”

  Major Rouen cleared his throat. If he was doing it for added drama, he needn’t have bothered; the courtroom was hanging on his every word.

  “A fingerprint matched to the right index finger of the accused, Serena Schofield, was found on the barrel of the weapon,” said Rouen. “A fingerprint matching the left thumb of the accused, Abbie Elliot, was found on the grip.”

  “And the third one, Major?”

  “A fingerprint on the trigger of the weapon was a match for the right middle finger of the accused, Winnie Brookes,” the major said.

  The presiding judge nodded solemnly, taking in this information with a sense of gravity. He already knew this information, of course, and there had been rumors in the media for weeks, but this was the first time it was publicly acknowledged: fingerprints belonging to Serena, Winnie, and me were found on the murder weapon.

  Winnie, sitting next to me, stared forward into the bulletproof glass, numb from the whole ordeal, unable to muster any emotion, even upon hearing the most damning evidence against her. Serena was tearing up again, surprising me by her emotional vulnerability—she was in many ways the toughest of us all.

  I wasn’t having a great time myself. Now, in addition to the DNA evidence placing me inside the vehicle where the dead bodies were found, it was revealed that the murder weapon had my fingerprints on it and was found in my purse.

  And then there was Bryah, passive, staring forlornly up at the ceiling, listening to the evidence.

  Evidence that, thus far, had miraculously avoided implicating her in any way.

  CHAPTER 40

  MY LAWYER, JULES LAURENT, stood and adjusted his microphone. Jules was tall and trim and clean-shaven, conveying a neat overall appearance save for his head of wild black curls that danced as he moved about. Jules was a good man. He’d spent hours listening patiently as I rambled incessantly about my innocence and my crazy theories about what had happened. And he’d taken some grief from some of his law partners for agreeing to defend me, though he was receiving a handsome sum for doing so—courtesy of Simon Schofield, who was bankrolling all the lawyers.

  “Major Rouen,” Jules began, standing just in front of our enclosed cell. “You recovered DNA evidence relating to Winnie Brookes, Serena Schofield, and my client, Abbie Elliot, in the automobile where the bodies were discovered.”

  “Yes,” said the major, turning to face my lawyer.

  “Saliva, hair follicles, blood, and a tiny bit of earwax.”

  “Yes.”

  “But no fingerprints?” asked Jules.

  Major Rouen took a moment. “No fingerprints in the vehicle. But recall that we found their fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

  “Exactly,” Jules agreed. “All three of these women were careless enough to leave their fingerprints on a gun that would have been perfectly easy to wipe off. Perfectly easy. And yet, when they were in and around the car, they were exquisitely careful, so much so that not a single fingerprint was found among them. Odd, yes?”

  Major Rouen inclined his head. “Presumably they didn’t expect the gun to be found. But the bodies—they knew those would be discovered.”

  Pretty good answer. Rouen had given this plenty of thought, no doubt.

  “Still,” Jules persisted. “Your position is that these women managed to leave all sorts of DNA throughout the automobile, and yet not a single fingerprint.”

  “I would imagine they were unaware of leaving behind this evidence,” said Rouen.

  Jules nodded. “But does this not leave room for the possibility that the DNA evidence was transferred from another site—not by these women but by someone else? That in fact these women were never in that car, as they have claimed, and instead someone else transferred that evidence into the car?”

  “I don’t consider that likely,” Rouen answered. “I would suggest that these women shot the president and his bodyguard while the men were in the car, and that they checked on the men to be sure they were dead. They would not necessarily have touched the inside of the car or even climbed inside.”

  “Really.” Jules delivered the word as an incredulous statement, not a question. “Well, take my client, Abbie Elliot. You found Abbie’s hair on the driver’s-side rear seat and on the dashboard. And her ear secretion on the gearshift between the president and Mr. Cousineau. How do you suggest Abbie managed to get her head between the two men, such that some of her ea
rwax could have fallen onto the gearshift? And she was in both the front and back seat at different times, each time with her hair falling out? But not a single fingerprint?”

  Major Rouen allowed a brief smile. “Mr. Laurent, we cannot reconstruct every movement. Nor should we assume that, simply because we did not recover a fingerprint inside the vehicle, that this somehow means that the women were not inside the vehicle. Sometimes you don’t leave a fingerprint.”

  “But tell me, Major: can you eliminate the possibility that the DNA evidence was planted there by someone else?”

  Rouen opened his hands, as if his patience were being tested. “Eliminate it? No.”

  Jules nodded, having gained a concession.

  “And perhaps I might be more skeptical,” Rouen added, “if two of the accused hadn’t confessed.”

  I heard some laughter from the gallery before the female voice in my headset had finished translating Rouen’s answer. I had to admit, it was a nice zinger.

  “We’ll get to that,” said Jules. “But Major, as you said, your theory is that President Devereux and Mr. Cousineau were shot while in the car, correct?”

  “That is correct, Mr. Laurent. We believe they were already in the car.”

  Jules informed the presiding judge that he would be referencing a photograph from the dossier. He produced a blowup of the photograph, which showed President Devereux and Luc Cousineau dead in the Bentley convertible. Luc was seated in an erect position, head back against the headrest. President Devereux, in the passenger seat, had fallen to his left side.

  Jules placed the blowup on an easel. “Major Rouen, from the angle of the wounds, you concluded that President Devereux was shot while he was falling to his left, just as he was found. In other words, he didn’t fall to the side after being shot; he was already in that position when shot.”

  “That was our conclusion, yes.”

  “And likewise, Mr. Cousineau here, seated upright. You concluded that this was his position when he was shot. He wasn’t moved afterward.”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, I suppose you might say that the president was attempting to duck from the shots.”

  “I would, yes.”

  “But is it possible, as well, that the president was reaching for Mr. Cousineau? Trying to help his friend?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Mr. Cousineau, on the other hand…” Jules pointed to Luc, who was seated completely erect in the driver’s seat. “He appears to have made no movement whatsoever in the direction of his president—the man he was sworn to give his own life to protect.”

  “Mr. Laurent,” said the presiding judge. “The deceased, Mr. Cousineau, is not on trial here for his bravery or professionalism. And you are not making a point that is helpful to your case, I must tell you.”

  Jules nodded respectfully to the judge. “Mr. President, with all respect, that is not my point.”

  Jules gestured toward the blowup photo. “My point is simply that it appears that the bodyguard, Mr. Cousineau, was shot before the president was. And I am wondering why.”

  CHAPTER 41

  DENIS GISCARD WAS the second in command in the presidential security force, the Groupe de Sécurité de la Présidence de la République. Giscard reminded me of his former boss, Luc Cousineau. He was built like a pro wrestler and had the intense eyes of a bodyguard, the rigid posture of a military man.

  “I have served four years in the GSPR,” he told the presiding judge.

  “Lieutenant Giscard, are you acquainted with the accused, Winnie Brookes?”

  “Sir, that is correct.” Giscard spoke in crisp sentences with a respectful, military tone. “Sir, I first met Ms. Brookes in July 2009.”

  “What was the occasion?”

  “Sir, I was providing security detail for President Devereux at the G8 summit in L’Aquila, Italy. There was an evening cocktail reception and the president made the acquaintance of Ms. Brookes.”

  Winnie sat motionless, seemingly holding her breath, as one of President Devereux’s bodyguards recounted Winnie’s yearlong affair with the president.

  “Sir, I would estimate that it was approximately monthly. There were times when the president would see the lady every week. Other times, several weeks would pass.”

  “Did you come to witness the interaction between the two?”

  “Sir, that is correct. As a bodyguard staying very close to the president, you cannot avoid observing some things. Sir, it was my impression that Ms. Brookes treated the relationship differently than did the president.”

  The red-robed presiding judge waved a hand. “Please elaborate.”

  “Sir, the lady, in my opinion, pursued the president. She initiated many of the contacts. She was…aggressive. I did hear her speak once of marriage.” The former bodyguard paused. “I heard her say that she wished to leave her husband and wished the president to leave his wife.”

  The spectators responded audibly and the presiding judge demanded decorum. In my peripheral vision I could see the figure of Winnie’s husband, Christien, immobile in the first row of spectators as he listened to this very public account of his wife’s infidelity. Presumably he’d had no idea of what Winnie had been doing. Certainly I hadn’t, and I was her best friend. In hindsight, the signs were there. Some of her weekend trips to visit “friends from the university” or some unnamed relative in another country, or spontaneous overnight trips to tend to a “sick auntie” were really her rendezvous with the president. I even recall noting a change in her, a certain glow about her, a spark in her eyes. I once said, “Maybe you should visit your sick auntie more often, Win,” which caused her to burst into laughter. But still, I never allowed my brain to travel to that place; it never once occurred to me she was having an affair.

  “When did the accused Brookes make this statement about leaving her husband?”

  “Sir, I recall it was early March 2010. The president was campaigning for the regional elections in Alsace. Ms. Brookes accompanied him during some of his travels.”

  After our arrest and the revelation that Winnie had been carrying on an affair with President Devereux, the press had gone into overdrive trying to obtain photographs of Winnie with the president. They found one. It was taken in February of 2010 in Kigali, Rwanda, when President Devereux became the first French head of state in more than a quarter century to visit that country. It had been notable because the president had expressed regret over France’s role in the 1994 Rwandan genocide. Now, however, it was far more notable for the photograph taken of President Devereux at the genocide memorial, which included in the background a beautiful woman in a royal-blue dress who, at the time, had probably blended in as part of the delegation. The number of times that this still photograph had appeared in print and television since our arrest probably rivaled the number of times that the video of Monica Lewinsky, at a rally for President Clinton, had run on TV.

  “And how did the president respond to the accused Brookes when she said she wanted him to leave his wife?”

  “Sir, the president indicated that he would not leave his wife. ‘Not an option,’ he said.”

  “And did the accused Brookes respond?”

  The lieutenant took a breath. “Sir, she indicated that the present situation was not acceptable. ‘Not enough,’ she said.”

  “Lieutenant, did this conversation cause you concern?”

  “Sir, that is correct. One of my principal responsibilities is threat assessment. I considered her a threat for violence. And for blackmail,” he added.

  “And did you convey this concern to the president?”

  “Sir, I did. The president indicated that he understood.”

  The presiding judge flipped to another portion of the dossier. He mentioned the new document he was referencing and waited a moment as the lawyers turned to the appropriate page.

  “Lieutenant, the trip to Monte Carlo in June of 2010,” said the presiding judge. “You did not accompany the president.”

 
“Sir, that is correct. Captain Cousineau was the only member of the detail to accompany him.”

  “That was a breach of protocol.”

  “Most definitely, sir. And rare, but not unheard-of.”

  “What was your understanding of the reason?”

  “Discretion, sir. The president was going to visit Ms. Brookes while she was on vacation. That was not the norm. The norm would be either a visit from Ms. Brookes in Paris or, otherwise, she would accompany him on an official trip. She would simply travel with the delegation. Monte Carlo was different. President Devereux wished to conceal his identity. Leaving behind his security detail was part of that.”

  “Did you approve?”

  “Sir, I did not. I conveyed as much to Captain Cousineau. In fact, I conveyed my concern to President Devereux directly.”

  “What did the president say in response?”

  Lieutenant Giscard turned his head to the left ninety degrees, so instead of seeing the back of his head, I could see his profile. But he wasn’t doing it for me. He was doing it for Winnie. It was as close as he could come to turning and looking at her.

  “Sir, the president indicated that he was going to end the relationship with Ms. Brookes in Monte Carlo. He told me that this was going to be their last trip.”

  CHAPTER 42

  BELOW THE PALAIS de Justice were jail cells that held inmates while they were standing trial. The cells for the women were remarkably pristine, thanks to an order of nuns in Paris who washed the linens daily and scrubbed the floors and walls. I’d never spent the night here—security concerns compelled the government to keep moving the four of us around—but sometimes they placed us here temporarily prior to a court appearance. During the trial, before we were shipped off for the night to some undisclosed location, they sometimes allowed us to use this location for brief visits with our families.

  Jeffrey had left court a few minutes early to pick up our kids, Richie and Elena. Because of his diplomatic status, the U.S. government had provided housing for Jeffrey in Paris ever since I was arrested. At least it gave him a permanent place to stay as he bounced back and forth between Switzerland and Paris over these last several months.