Guilty Wives

by James Patterson

  My kids had largely stayed in Bern at their new school, coming for visits on the weekends. Today was a school day, but it was also day one of the trial, and although I refused to let them be in the courtroom, I could understand their wanting to be in Paris today, their wanting to see me. Had I any energy to object and insist on their attendance at school, I would have done so, but the truth was that the rule book, at this point, had been thrown out the window. None of us, parents or children, had any clue how to handle what was happening.

  “Don’t just say you don’t like it,” I said to Richie, seated next to me on the bed in the cell, which was just a long plank with a thin mattress on top.

  “Why do I have to like it?”

  “You don’t, sweetie.” I stroked his hair. “But tell me why.”

  “I don’t like Holden. He’s stuck-up. He doesn’t like anything. Everyone’s a phony to him. He just makes fun of everything, like he’s too good for everybody. I mean, seriously, Mom, why does everyone think that book is such a classic?”

  Richie was fifteen now. His face was maturing, his jaw squaring like Jeffrey’s, his cheekbones gaining prominence, and—God help me—his chin showing the first signs of facial hair. He had my eyes, but that was all he inherited from me.

  “There is a bit of Holden in every boy growing up,” I said, placing the palm of my hand against his cheek. “Holden is scared, honey. He’s scared so he’s pushing everyone away, and he tells himself he’s pushing them away because they’re superficial and phony. And sometimes they are, but really he’s justifying his fear. He just doesn’t realize it.”

  “Maybe,” Richie conceded. “Or maybe the book just sucks.”

  Elena, age twelve, was sitting on the other side of me, her hand clutching mine and her head resting against my shoulder. She took after me more than Richie did, with her petite body, tiny nose, and large brown eyes—even the cowlick parting the right side of her hair. Her prepubescent body was developing now, her hormones beginning to flare up—major changes, without her mother there for her.

  I was an emotional powder keg in the presence of my kids. This was the only time I had with them and I had to maximize it. I was on the verge of tears and wanted to do nothing more than kiss them and hold them and squeeze my eyes shut and wish all this away. But I had to be their mother. I couldn’t imagine how extraordinarily difficult this must be for them—all I could do was guess. I saw them, at most, twice a week for limited visits, during which everyone was trying to keep up a brave front. I was left with little more than what I could force out of Jeffrey, and I could only assume that Jeff was sugarcoating matters to spare me greater pain. They’re doing fine. It’s hard but their spirits are up.

  I was losing them. I was slowly losing all of them. And here we were, debating the merits of The Catcher in the Rye while inside each of us was devastated and absolutely petrified.

  “How’s your Chinese teacher?” I asked Richie. It had been his favorite class in boarding school in Connecticut. We hadn’t told him to study any particular language; he’d been drawn on his own to Chinese, which we thought was a savvy move for the twenty-first century—especially if the boy is interested in a diplomatic career, Jeffrey had noted more than once.

  Richie seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

  “He’s not taking Chinese,” said Elena.

  “He’s—you’re not taking Chinese at your new school, Rich? Why not?”

  Richie shrugged. “Just taking a trimester off, I guess.”

  “I don’t understand.” I looked over at Jeffrey, standing in the corner of the cell, but he was no help. “You love Chinese. Are you taking a different language instead?”

  “Mom, who cares?”

  “He’s learning French,” Elena said. “So am I.”

  “French? Why are you—?” When it came to me, when I got it, it was like a blow to the chest. I gathered my arms around each of my kids and pulled them close. We didn’t move for a long time, save for the slight quiver of Elena’s body as she began to cry. It was all I could do to keep my composure, and then the dam broke.

  “Don’t you ever give up hope,” I whispered through my own sobs. “Not ever.” But clearly, everyone was bracing for the worst, even my children, who were preparing themselves for the possibility of spending a lot of time in France over the coming decades, visiting their mother in prison.

  CHAPTER 43

  DAY TWO OF the trial. The four of us entered the Palais de Justice the same way, traveling in separate vehicles from different locations. I’d spent the night at a local jail on the southwest side of Paris, which I would remember for its stench of body odor and for the two prostitutes, Lorissa and Florence, who were placed in the empty jail cell next to me and who spent the night singing off-key renditions of old Madonna songs.

  The next witness was Richard Ogletree, the fat American from that fateful night in Monte Carlo. Nine months later, he was still fat. His hair was still greasy, too. But he was dressed in more subdued attire, a blue sport coat and white dress shirt open at the collar, and his mood was decidedly less spirited. When he passed us on the way to the podium, where he would address the court, I noticed that his hairline was wet from perspiration. He nodded in the direction of Maryse Ballamont, the prosecutor, whose return nod was almost imperceptible.

  Because Ogletree’s primary language was English, all the principals concerned with his testimony—the judges, lawyers, and Ogletree himself—donned headsets like the ones the four of us in the defense cage were wearing. It lent a stilted quality to the proceedings, with a pause after every statement.

  “I’m primarily an investor, Your Honor,” said Ogletree. “I have also coproduced some movies.”

  “Mr. Ogletree, please refer to me as Mr. President or the presiding judge. This isn’t the United States.”

  The fat American raised his hand. “Sorry, Mr. President.”

  “Very well. Mr. Ogletree, please tell us what you can about the matter under examination.”

  “We were filming a movie in Paris, and we were on break for the weekend,” he said. “I wanted to go to my yacht in Monte Carlo.” His voice slightly trembling from nerves, Ogletree provided a brief summary of the events of that night in Monte Carlo—the trip to the nightclub, the casino, and then returning to his yacht, the Misty Blue. “Finally I went to bed,” he said. “I left all my guests, who were still enjoying themselves, and went to my quarters to sleep. That was the last I knew before the next morning, when the French officials boarded my yacht and arrested all of us.”

  After the questioning was completed, the prosecutor, Maryse Ballamont, stood to ask some follow-up questions. She was a tall, thin woman with very attractive features, taken by themselves—shiny jet-black hair, prominent cheekbones, expressive green eyes—but her overall look was severe and humorless, though I will admit to being biased against the woman who was trying to put me in prison for life.

  All business in her black robe, holding the headset up to her right ear, she cut right to the chase. “Mr. Ogletree, in your testimony you refer to President Devereux. That night, did you know that the man who called himself Devo was the president of the French Republic?”

  Ogletree nodded eagerly—too eagerly. “Yes, Madam Prosecutor. He introduced himself to me at the club. He explained his hairpiece—the toupee—and his beard as a disguise so he could enjoy himself that night without being swarmed by people. To the public at large that night, he didn’t want to advertise who he was. But in the small group? We all knew.”

  “I will convey to you, sir, that this is a matter of contention,” said Ballamont. “So let me focus on the four women who stand accused. In your presence, did you hear them refer to the man who called himself Devo as the French president?”

  “Yes. All of them did. I recall that someone would call him Monsieur le President and he would quickly say ‘Devo,’ to remind them to keep things quiet. He—for example, I remember he was talking about the American presidential election and how he
’d known Hillary Clinton for years because she’d been the first lady and he’d met Senator Obama a few times—things the president of France would talk about.”

  I shut my eyes. He wasn’t just lying; he was creating entire conversations out of whole cloth. How could this be happening?

  “Abbie Elliot?” Ogletree said in response to a question. “Yes, I recall her specifically saying to me, at the nightclub, what a unique experience it was, having drinks with the president of France.”

  “And are you certain of this?” the prosecutor asked. “Ms. Elliot in particular. You are certain she knew this man was the president of France?”

  “I am absolutely certain, Ms. Ballamont. Because it is the last thing I remember about that night.”

  Maryse Ballamont nodded. This felt like a well-rehearsed script playing out before us. “The last thing that night,” she repeated back to him. “You testified that you had been using your camcorder to record what was taking place on the yacht.”

  “Yes, that’s correct. Before I went to bed, Ms. Elliot asked for the camcorder.”

  The prosecutor paused a beat. “Tell the court why Ms. Elliot said she wanted the camcorder.” Then she pressed the headset to her right ear to hear the answer translated into French.

  The fat American, who had been turned to his right to face the prosecutor, turned his attention back to the court.

  “She said she wanted to make a sex tape starring Henri Devereux,” he said.

  CHAPTER 44

  “I’VE GOT SOME bad news, Mom.” Richie entered the jail cell beneath the Palais de Justice for our nightly visit before I was transferred to some undisclosed location. He held up his iPhone. “MonteCarloMistresses.com,” he explained. “Of the four of you, you were voted only the third hottest.”

  My heart did a brief flutter, the adrenaline shot at the mention of bad news, before I settled into a smile. “How did you vote?” I asked.

  Richie kissed my cheek. “Winnie won. She was your problem. You split the Caucasian-brunette vote. Bryah took second and Serena finished last. The Amazon-blonde thing must not be in these days.”

  I laughed, only because my son was trying to cheer me up and I wanted him to know that he had. But I wasn’t thrilled that he was checking out websites like that one. I had hoped to insulate him and Elena as much as possible from what was happening. That, I suppose, was a pointless exercise at this stage. By various accounts, there were as many as five websites and six Facebook pages devoted exclusively to the four of us, the deadly-but-lovely assassins of the French president. At least two books were being written. Last week, on CNN International, I watched Larry King interview a former college roommate of mine who said I always had a rebellious streak but it was hard to imagine that I would kill someone. Score one for me, I guess.

  Elena, looking like the young schoolgirl she was in a white sweater and pleated skirt, was reading from her iPhone as well. A frown covered her face and she didn’t respond when I asked her what she was reading. These kids, with their electronic toys. The Internet was all well and good, but I didn’t need to access it 24-7.

  “Let me see.” I took her iPhone to read it. It was a blog from a New York Times reporter named Joseph Morro, who was covering the trial. I knew Morro because he’d repeatedly tried to interview me. “Mr. Ogletree’s testimony was devastating, in particular to the American, Abbie Elliot,” he wrote. “With his testimony that she wanted to ‘make a sex tape starring Henri Devereux,’ he showed her to be a schemer with a motive, as well as a liar.”

  Wonderful. Great. But it was hardly the first time I’d read something to that effect, and anyway, I didn’t want to poison what little time I had with my kids with this negativity. I put her iPhone down on the bench in the cell and extended my arms. “Enough of the high-tech gadgetry,” I said. “Your mom wants a hug.”

  We came together and held each other for a long time. I took in the warmth of her body, the smell of her shampoo, the indescribable feel of a child’s embrace. These were the truest moments, and therefore the cruelest. I felt Elena’s tears on my own cheek. How quickly we could roller-coaster from levity to despair.

  “This is so unfair, Mom,” Elena managed with a shaky voice.

  It wasn’t fair, not even close to fair, for these wonderful kids. I could only imagine what it was like for them at school, as they watched television, as they read media accounts such as the Morro blog, as they lay in their beds at night, visited by their darkest fears. But I couldn’t speak without losing all composure, and I couldn’t do that, I wouldn’t do that to them right now. They needed my strength more than I needed theirs.

  “We’ll figure this out,” I whispered, the most I could muster. I didn’t know if it gave them any comfort.

  And I didn’t know if it was true. But the truth was out there somewhere. Some piece of evidence had to materialize, right? Sooner or later the dam had to break, didn’t it?

  CHAPTER 45

  “COLONEL BERNARD DURAND of the Central Directorate of Interior Intelligence,” said the next witness. Durand was Major Rouen’s partner—Square Jaw. He had been the intimidator, a role that came naturally to him. Even dressed in his courtroom best, he looked like a thug. He had a rough complexion that suggested a childhood illness or hard living or both, narrow eyes that emitted a cold glare, a military crew cut, and a thick neck. I knew firsthand that he was not a guy you wanted on the opposite side of a confrontation.

  “The women had grown desperate,” said Durand. “Winnie Brookes was facing the end of her affair with the president and an obviously unhappy marriage. Abbie Elliot, her closest friend and neighbor, was also in an unhappy marriage, as she admitted, and as her husband admitted during the investigation. And, like Ms. Brookes, Ms. Elliot lacked independent wealth. For both Ms. Brookes and Ms. Elliot, leaving their husbands would lead to financial hardship. Thus the need for blackmail money.

  “Serena Schofield acknowledged an unhappy marriage as well. And though she is wealthy, she and her husband, Simon, have a prenuptial agreement that would limit her to one million dollars in the event of a divorce. One million American dollars would be significant to most of us, but not to someone who is married to a man worth more than six hundred million dollars, like Simon Schofield.”

  The presiding judge, for the record, referenced all the pages in the dossier that chronicled the interviews with each of us and our husbands. In the years I’d known her, Serena had never mentioned that she’d signed a prenup with Simon.

  “The blackmail attempt obviously did not work,” Durand continued. “Winnie Brookes confronted the president with the video recording as he and Captain Cousineau were leaving. She shot the men in the Bentley convertible. Presumably, she did so because the president did not respond to the blackmail attempt to her satisfaction.”

  “There are no living witnesses to the shooting,” said the presiding judge.

  “That’s correct, other than Ms. Brookes, who has denied these facts.”

  “Yes, yes.” The presiding judge’s eyes crept toward the defense cage. “Colonel, you can say with certainty that it was Winnie Brookes who shot the deceased?”

  “Yes, we can, Mr. President. First, we can say so because of the statements signed by Bryah Gordon and Serena Schofield. They each swore that Winnie Brookes confessed to the murders when she returned to the yacht.”

  “These are statements that Ms. Gordon and Ms. Schofield have since disavowed?”

  Durand seemed amused. “Once they retained attorneys, Mr. President. Yes, at that point, they decided that they no longer wished to stand by those statements. But I can assure you that they were very clear with me at the time they signed them.”

  The judge waved a hand, as if there were no need to elaborate, as if he fully agreed with Durand’s take on the matter. “In any event, Colonel, even if we disregarded the signed, sworn statements, you have other proof that Ms. Brookes shot the men?”

  “Yes, Mr. President. We tested each of the women for the presenc
e of gunshot residue when they were taken into custody.”

  “And?”

  “Ms. Brookes’s right forearm tested positive for the presence of gunshot residue.” Durand nodded. “Mr. President, there is no doubt that Winnie Brookes is the one who fired the weapon that night.”

  CHAPTER 46

  PICTURE FOUR WOMEN on vacation, strolling into the lobby of a gorgeous hotel in their sundresses, holding glasses of Champagne and full of anticipation for a four-day weekend in Monte Carlo. At the reception desk, the well-groomed hotel clerk says something to the tall blond woman and the other three women react, making faces and raising mock complaints to the blonde.

  This was a scene everyone in the courtroom was watching on a large projection screen, courtesy of a digital surveillance tape from the Hôtel Métropole made on the day we arrived. I remembered the moment captured there; the receptionist had mentioned Simon’s name because he’d booked the suite for Serena, and we’d all recoiled at the mention of Simon, one of our husbands, on a trip that was supposed to be about everything but our husbands. Well, we’d certainly managed to make it about something else, hadn’t we?

  “This was twenty hundred and forty hours,” said Colonel Durand, gesturing to the screen. “This was the moment on seventeen June when the four accused arrived at the hotel.”

  He meant 8:40 p.m., near dusk, which jibed with my memory. Durand pointed to a stack of small black boxes that were contained in the glass evidence case. “Mr. President, we reviewed surveillance tapes for the entire week surrounding the morning of nineteen June, the day that the bodies of President Devereux and Captain Cousineau were discovered. As you can see, we were able to clearly see whenever hotel staff created a new key card for guests to enter their rooms.”