I doubted that—but, thankfully, the terror of the hearing was briefly superseded by the more immediate terror of not making the deadline. I was actually grateful for the pressure, as it did block out the fear I had. It also forced me to work fourteen-hour days for the last week. Bar the occasional trip to the supermarket for food—and a fast thirty-minute canter along the towpath by the river—I didn’t leave the house . . . except, of course, for my weekly visit with Jack. He was crawling now, and making a wide variety of sounds, and liked being tickled, and especially enjoyed a routine I did which involved holding him above me while I lay on the floor, and then going, “One, two, three, boom,” and pulling him straight down on top of me. In fact, he thought this hilarious, and in his own monosyllabic way, kept indicating that he wanted me to repeat it, over and over again. Which, of course, I was only too willing to do. Until Clarice walked in and informed me that our hour was up.
As always, this was the hardest moment. The hand-over. There were days when I clutched Jack to me and fought tears. There were other days when he would look a little disconcerted and perturbed by having to end our fun together, and I fought tears. There were days when he’d fallen asleep or was having a crying jag or just generally feeling out of sorts, and I fought tears. Today was no different. I picked us both up off the floor. I put his head against mine. I kissed him. I said, “Next week, big guy.”
Then I handed him to Clarice. She disappeared into the next room. I sat down in one of the molded plastic chairs and—for the first time since our initial supervised visit—I broke down. Clarice came in. She sat down beside me, and put her arm around me, and allowed me to bury my head in her shoulder as I let go. To her infinite credit, she said nothing. I think she understood the pressure I had been under—both to behave correctly and calmly in her presence, and to withstand the enforced separation of the last months with a necessary equanimity, in order not to be judged a troublemaker. Just as she also understood what I was facing in just three days’ time. And how, if it didn’t go my way . . .
So she held me and let me cry. And when I finally subsided, she said, “I hope that, by this time next week, these supervised visits will just be a bad memory for you, and you’ll be back with your little boy.”
Meanwhile, I had a job to finish—and I was determined to have it done before the start of the hearing, in order to allow me a decent night’s sleep before heading to the high court.
A few days before the hearing Sandy called me.
“So, Tuesday morning’s the big day, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I wish I was a Catholic. I’d have Mass said for you.”
“Divine intervention isn’t going to help me now.”
“You never know. Anyway, promise you’ll call me Tuesday evening.”
“You’ll definitely be hearing from me.”
I hung up. And worked that night until three, then fell into bed, and got up again at seven, and worked straight through (with an hour’s nap somewhere in the middle of the day) until seven next morning. At which time, I sat in a bath, and congratulated myself on finishing this endless proofreading job.
The manuscript went off by motorcycle courier at nine. I headed off to the public pool in Putney shortly thereafter and spent an hour doing laps. Then I went off and had my hair done, and took myself to lunch, then crossed the road to the local cinema and sat through some romantic drivel starring Meg Ryan, then collected my one suit from the dry cleaner’s, and was home by five, and received a phone call from Maeve Doherty—telling me that she had just been informed of the judge who would be hearing the case.
“His name is Charles Traynor.”
“Is he a reasonable judge?” I asked her.
“Well . . .”
“In other words, he’s not reasonable.”
“I would have preferred someone else besides him. Very old school. Very play-it-by-the-book. Very traditional . . .”
He sounded exactly like the last guy I faced. I asked, “Are you saying that he hates women?”
“Now to call him a misogynist might be just a tad extreme. But he does have a rather orthodox viewpoint on family matters.”
“Wonderful. Did you ever argue a case in front of this Traynor guy?”
“Oh, yes. And I have to say that, when I came up against him five years ago, Charles Traynor struck me as the worst sort of Old Etonian: stuffy, conceited, and someone who clearly couldn’t stand everything I stood for. Yet, by the end of the hearing, I completely respected him. Because—whatever about his High Tory demeanor and his questionable attitudes toward women, especially those who work for a living, he’s also scrupulously fair when it comes to the application of the law. So I certainly wouldn’t fear him.”
I decided to put all such fears on hold for the night—because I knew they would all come rushing in at daybreak. So I forced myself into bed by nine and slept straight through until the alarm went off at seven the next morning.
As I snapped into consciousness, there was a moment or two of delicious befuddlement until the realization hit:
This is it.
I was at the high court just after ten-fifteen. I didn’t want to get there too early as I knew I’d just loiter with intent outside the main Gothic archway, getting myself into an advanced stage of fear. As it was, I was clutching the Independent so tensely on the underground journey to Temple that it had started to fray. The court was already in full swing by the time I arrived, with bewigged barristers walking by, accompanied by solicitors lugging hefty document cases and anxious-looking civilians, who were either the plaintiffs or defendants in the legal dramas taking place within this vast edifice. Nigel Clapp appeared, pulling one of those airline pilot cases on wheels. Maeve Doherty was with him, dressed in a very conservative black suit—having explained to me during our meeting the previous week that, like the interim hearing, there would be no wigs, no robes. Just dark suits and (as she dryly noted) “the usual dour formalities.”
“Uhm . . . good morning, Ms. Goodchild,” Nigel said.
I attempted a smile and tried to appear calm. Maeve immediately detected my anxiousness.
“Just remember that it will be all over in a few days—and we stand a very good chance now of changing the situation. Especially as I spoke with those two witnesses yesterday on the phone. You did very well, Sally.”
A black cab pulled up in front of us. The door opened—and for the first time in more than eight months, I found myself looking at the man who was still, legally speaking, my husband. Tony had put on a little weight in the interim, but he still looked damnably handsome, and had dressed well for the occasion in a black suit, a dark blue shirt, and a tie which I’d bought on impulse for him at Selfridges around a year ago. When he caught sight of me, his hand covered his tie for a moment, before he gave me the smallest of nods, then turned away. I couldn’t look at him either and also deflected his glance. But in that moment, an image jumped into my brain: climbing aboard that Red Cross chopper in Somalia, and catching sight of Tony Hobbs seated opposite me on the floor, giving me the slightest of flirtatious smiles—one that I met in turn. That’s how our story started—and this is where it had now brought us: to the steps of a court of law, surrounded by our respective legal teams, unable to look each other in the eye.
Tony’s barrister, Lucinda Fforde, followed him, along with the same solicitor she used for the interim hearing. And then Diane Dexter emerged from the cab. Viewed up close, she did not contradict the image I had of her: tall, sleek, elegantly dressed in a smart business suit, tight black hair, a face that was wearing its fifty years with relative ease. I wouldn’t have described her as a beautiful woman, or even pretty. She was handsome in a quietly formidable way. Having caught sight of me on the steps of the high court, she looked right through me. Then, en masse, the four of them walked by us into the building, the two barristers exchanging pleasantly formal greetings with each other. It then struck me that with the exception of Nigel Clapp, who was in hi
s usual shade of mid-gray, all the other participants in this little drama were dressed in black, as if we were all attending a funeral.
“Well,” Maeve said, “it looks like we’re all here. So . . .”
She nodded toward the door and we all walked in. Maeve led us through the high court’s vast foyer. We turned left, crossed a courtyard, and entered the Thomas More Building, which, according to Maeve, was largely used for family law cases. Then, it was up two flights of stairs until we reached Court 43, a large chapel-like courtroom in bleached wood, much like the one in which the interim hearing was held. There were six rows of benches. The judge’s bench was positioned on a raised platform. The witness stand was to its immediate left. Beyond this was a doorway, which (I presumed) led to the judge’s chambers. As before, we were on the left side of the court, Tony and company to the right. There was a court stenographer and a court clerk positioned at the front. Maeve had already explained to me that, as Tony was making “application” to retain custody of Jack, he had been (legally speaking) cast in the role of applicant . . . and since I was being forced to “respond” to this application, I would be known in court as the respondent. Tony’s team would be opening the case and presenting their evidence first. His barrister would have already submitted her skeleton argument to the judge (as Maeve had submitted hers). Witnesses would be called, largely to corroborate the statements they had made. After each “examination in chief” Maeve would be permitted to cross-examine the witnesses, then Lucinda Fforde could reexamine, if she desired.
“We’ve largely gone over to the French inquisitorial model when it comes to family law,” Maeve explained to me when we met in her office, “which means that, unlike the States, neither side can interrupt the other’s examination of a witness unless it is absolutely crucial.” After the applicant’s case had been presented, we would give our evidence. Then after our case was presented, there would be closing arguments. We’d go first, with Tony’s barrister to follow. Then Maeve would be allowed to make a response, after which Tony’s barrister would have the final word.
“And I know what you’re going to say: that is completely unfair if you happen to be the respondent. Which is, I’m afraid, absolutely right. But that’s how the system works—and there’s precious little any of us can do about it. Except to make absolutely certain that they won’t be able to pick apart anything we’ve presented to the court—which is my job.”
Whereas my job was to sit there and wonder if I’d ever live with my son again.
Maeve Doherty positioned herself in the front row of the courtroom. I sat with Nigel Clapp directly behind her. Tony’s side had exactly the same seating arrangements. I glanced at my watch. 10:31 AM. The judge had yet to arrive. I knew already from Maeve that the hearing would be closed to members of the public, so the visitors’ pews at the back of the court would remain empty. But then, suddenly, the main door opened and I heard a very familiar voice say my name.
The voice was that of my sister, Sandy. I turned around. There she was, looking tired and disorientated, and dragging a roll-on suitcase behind her. I stood up, stunned. I said, “What are you doing here?”
My tone wasn’t wildly enthusiastic—and she picked up on this immediately.
“I just thought I should be here.”
Tony craned his neck, and appeared stunned to see her in court.
“What are you looking at?” she snapped at him, and he instantly turned away. Then she turned to me and whispered, “Aren’t you pleased I’m here?”
I gave her a quick hug and whispered, “Of course, of course. It’s just a shock, that’s all. Did you just arrive?”
“Yep. Just took the subway in from Heathrow. I suppose you can find a bed for me for a couple of nights.”
I managed a small smile. “I think that can be arranged. Who’s looking after the kids?”
“You know my neighbors, the Fultons? Their two are away at summer camp, so it was no sweat for them to . . .”
But we were interrupted by the court clerk announcing: “Please stand.” I motioned Sandy to find a seat, and I went racing back to my spot next to Nigel Clapp. He was already standing.
“My sister,” I whispered to him.
“Oh . . . uhm . . . right,” he said.
The rear door opened, and Mr. Justice Charles Traynor walked in. He was in his early sixties. Large. Imposing. Well-upholstered. With a full head of steel hair and an imperial bearing that immediately let it be known he thought a great deal of himself. His three-piece black suit was immaculate. So too were his white shirt and a school tie, which I guessed to be Eton (and which Maeve later confirmed to be correct). He took his place on the bench. He bowed to us, we bowed to him. He nodded for us to sit down. He removed a pair of half-moon spectacles from the breast pocket of his suit and placed them on his nose. He cleared his throat. The clerk called the court to order. Traynor peered out at us. I could see him catch sight of the lone visitor in the back row.
“And who might you be?”
Nigel quickly whispered an explanation to Maeve Doherty, who rose and said, “My Lord, that is the sister of the respondent, who has just arrived from the States to be with Ms. Goodchild for the hearing. We ask the court’s permission to allow her to stay.”
Traynor looked toward Lucinda Fforde.
“Does the applicant’s counsel wish to raise any objections to this visitor?”
“One moment, please, My Lord,” she said, then leaned back and had a quick sotto voce conversation with Tony and his solicitor. After a moment, she stood and said, “We have no objections, My Lord.”
“Very well then—the visitor may stay.”
I avoided turning around and looking at Sandy right then—for fear she’d do something mildly triumphalist and well-meaning, like giving me the thumbs-up.
Traynor cleared his throat. Then, without any fancy preamble or explanatory comments, he asked the applicant’s barrister to begin presenting her client’s case.
Lucinda Fforde stood up with a little bow of the head toward the bench, and began to speak.
“My Lord, having been in receipt of my statement, you are in no doubt aware that this is, without question, a desperately sad and tragic case . . .”
With that, off she went, painting a picture of an intensely successful professional man—Anthony Hobbs, “one of the outstanding journalists of his generation”—who had found himself involved with a woman about whom he knew very little, and who became pregnant only a few short weeks into their liaison. Of course, Mr. Hobbs could have played the cad and turned his back on this woman. Instead, upon learning of his transfer back to London, he asked if she would like to accompany him—and, in fact, regularize their situation through marriage. Now, though there’s no doubt that Ms. Goodchild had a most difficult pregnancy, and also had to cope with a most severe postpartum depression, her behavior became exceptionally erratic, to the point where . . .
And then—as in her opening at the interim hearing—she listed and embellished everything they had against me. My initial anguished statement in hospital that I didn’t care if Jack lived or died. My increasingly erratic behavior while at the Mattingly. My threat to kill him. The sleeping pill poisoning incident. My incarceration in the psycho ward. The wondrous steadfastness of my husband through all of this . . .
At which point, in the back of the court, there was a loud angry exhalation of breath. Sandy. Lucinda Fforde stopped in mid-speech, and craned her neck to see who caused this interruption. So did Maeve and Nigel Clapp, while Mr. Justice Traynor simply peered over his bifocals and asked, “Did somebody say something?”
Sandy hung her head, avoiding all those accusatory eyes.
“See that it doesn’t happen again,” the judge said crisply, in a tone that indicated the next time he would not be polite about it. Then he asked Lucinda Fforde to continue.
She picked up from where she left off, outlining Tony’s decency, and how he stood by me even after I spoke of murdering our son, and how
he turned, in despair, to his old friend, Diane Dexter, who offered shelter from the maniacal . . .
And so forth. And so on. I had to hand it to her: she was brisk. She was concise. She was tough. She left the listener in no doubt that I had turned infanticidal—and that, as horrible as it was to separate a mother from her child, there was no choice in this instance. To allow the child back with its mother now, she argued, would only put him back in renewed jeopardy—something, she was certain, the court didn’t want to facilitate. Especially as the child was so happily settled with his father and Ms. Dexter.
Now I had heard most of these arguments before. But it still didn’t lessen the impact of hearing them again. Like all good barristers, Lucinda Fforde was a brilliant persuader—and one who, in clear, precise, rational language, turned me into a terrifying wretch who so didn’t know what she was doing that she seriously considered killing her son.
It was now Maeve’s turn to outline our case, and she did so with impressive lucidity and compactness—brevity (she told me) being one of the virtues that Traynor preferred. She began by quickly reminding the judge of my journalistic background, my long-standing work as a foreign correspondent with the Boston Post, my ability to cope admirably as a journalist and a woman in the Middle East. She then detailed, in about three sentences, my whirlwind romance with Mr. Hobbs, becoming pregnant at the age of thirty-seven, reaching that “now or never” juncture that a woman approaching forty reaches on the question of motherhood, deciding to come with him to London, and then being hit with a nightmare pregnancy.
She took him through my decline and fall—her language economic, rigorous, and devoid of melodramatic pity for what had befallen me. She was a first-rate storyteller—and she had Traynor’s full attention as she pressed forward to the end of her opening statement.
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