The judge came in here. “But you must first let Ms. Doherty pose the question.”
“I’m sorry, My Lord.”
“But yes, I would be very pleased to know what you thought my next question would be?” Maeve said.
Dexter looked at her with calm, steely anger: “ ‘Did you, Ms. Dexter, miscarry the baby because of drug abuse?’ To which my answer would be: Yes. I was seriously abusing cocaine at the time, and it provoked a miscarriage. I sought professional help after this tragedy. I spent two months at the Priory Clinic. I have not used or abused drugs since then. If I now drink a glass of wine in the course of an evening, it’s an event. And my charitable work on drug education in schools is well known.”
“And you also attempted several IVF treatments in 1992 and 1993, both of which failed?”
Again, Dexter was taken aback by the revelation of this information. “I don’t know how you found out those facts, but they are correct.”
“Just as it’s also correct that the Harley Street specialist you were seeing at the time then told you there was no chance of you conceiving again?”
She looked downward. “Yes, he did tell me that.”
“And since then, you did try to adopt in . . . when was it? . . . 1996, but were turned down because of your age and your single status?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
“And then Tony Hobbs appeared in your life again, now back in London, now a new father with an infant child, and a wife who was suffering from profound clinical depression . . .”
Dexter looked at Maeve with barely contained rage.
“As I made clear earlier . . .”
“Now let me ask you this, Ms. Dexter: if an acquaintance was to run into you on the street where you live, and saw you pushing Jack along in his pram, and ask, ‘Is he your child?’ how would you respond?”
“I’d say yes, I’m his mother.”
Maeve folded her hands across her chest and said nothing, letting that comment fill the silence in the courtroom. A silence that the judge broke.
“But you are not his mother, Ms. Dexter,” he said.
“Of course, I’m not his biological mother. But I have become his surrogate mother.”
The judge peered at her over his half-moon spectacles and spoke in that half-weary voice he so preferred.
“No, you haven’t. Because it has yet to be legally determined whether or not you will be assuming the role of surrogate mother. The child in question has a mother and a father. You happen to live with the father. But that does not give you the right to state that you are the child’s mother, surrogate or otherwise.
“Any further questions, Ms. Doherty?”
“No, My Lord.”
“Reexamination, Ms. Fforde?”
She looked seriously disconcerted. “No, My Lord.”
“Then we’ll reconvene after a ten-minute adjournment.”
Once he was out of the court, Maeve sat down next to Nigel and myself and said, “Well, that wasn’t bad at all.”
“Why did the judge so jump on her comment about considering herself his mother?” I asked.
“Because if there’s one thing Charles Traynor hates more than barristers who try to attack a CAFCASS report, it’s the new partner of someone in a divorce dispute, going on as if she’s the newfound parent. It goes completely against his sense of propriety or familial fair play, and he always jumps on anyone who tries to play that card.”
“Which is why you walked her into it?”
“Precisely.”
Sandy came down and joined us.
“You were brilliant,” she said to Maeve. “You really shoved it in the face of that nasty little—”
“That’s fine, Sandy,” I said, cutting her off.
“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “I think I’m suffering from Tourette’s today.”
“Otherwise known as jet lag,” I said.
Maeve turned to Nigel and said, “Hobbs did score one off me, didn’t he?”
“I think you actually . . . uhm . . . did rather well there, considering . . .”
“That he won the point with that ‘I’ve never threatened a child’s life’ comment.”
“I don’t think it was a hugely damaging blow,” he said. “Especially after what you did to Ms. Dexter.”
“What now?” I asked.
“I . . . uhm . . . think that’s it for the witnesses. So I presume the judge will reconvene just to formally end the proceedings and tell us all to be here at nine tomorrow morning.”
But when the judge returned, Lucinda Fforde had a little surprise for us.
“My Lord, we have a last-minute witness we would like to call.”
Traynor didn’t looked pleased—as he probably pictured himself at home an hour from now. Instead . . .
“And why has this witness been called at the last minute?”
“Because he’s resident in the United States—in Boston, to be specific about it—”
I turned around and looked at Sandy, wondering if she had any idea whom they were planning to call. She shook her head, looking as nervous as I now felt.
“—and we were only able to obtain his statement the day before yesterday and fly him in last night. We apologize to the court for the lateness of his arrival. But he is crucial to our case and—”
“May I see his statement, please?” the judge asked, cutting her off. “And please give a copy as well to Ms. Doherty.”
She handed the statement to Traynor and to Maeve. My barrister scanned the document and didn’t look pleased. In fact, she noticeably stiffened. The judge looked up from his copy of the statement and asked, “And is Mr. . . .” He peered down at the document again. “. . . Mr. Grant Ogilvy here now?”
Grant Ogilvy. The name rang a distant bell somewhere.
“Yes, My Lord,” Lucinda Fforde said. “He can testify immediately.”
“Well, what say you, Ms. Doherty? You can raise all sorts of objections to this, should you wish to . . . and I would be obliged to back you up.”
I watched Maeve—and could see her thinking fast. She said, “My Lord, with your permission, I’d like a five-minute consultation with my client before I make a decision.”
“Five minutes is fine, Ms. Doherty. Court will stand in recess.”
Maeve motioned for me and Nigel to follow her outside. She found a bench. We grouped around it. She spoke in a low voice.
“Did you ever see a therapist named Grant Ogilvy?” she asked.
I put my hand to my mouth. Him? They found him?
I suddenly felt ill. Now I was certain to lose Jack.
“Ms. Goodchild,” Nigel said, his voice filled with anxious concern, “are you all right?”
I shook my head and sat down on the bench.
“Can I read what he told them?” I asked.
“Read it fast,” Maeve said, “because we need to make a decision in about four minutes.”
I read the statement. It was what I expected. Then I handed it to Nigel. He lifted his glasses and glanced right through it.
“Uhm . . . isn’t there some sort of patient-doctor confidentiality agreement about this sort of thing?” he asked.
“Yes, there is,” Maeve said, “except when—as in this case—there is a child protection issue. Then the cloak of confidentiality can be breached. But I’m sure we could challenge it, and hold things up for weeks, and incite Traynor’s ire in the process. And the other thing is: from what I’ve read here, this all happened so damn long ago that I can’t imagine Traynor will consider it substantive evidence against your character. You look skeptical, Nigel.”
“In . . . uhm . . . all honesty, it is a risk. And I’m sorry to say this, Ms. Goodchild, but it could call into question aspects about your character. Even though, personally speaking, I don’t find that it changes my perception of you whatsoever.”
“The problem here,” Maeve said, “is that tomorrow, we want to spring two surprise witnesses on them—which I
always thought was going to be a tricky maneuver, but which Traynor will more readily allow if we’ve already accepted their surprise witness. It is a gamble—but one which I think is worth taking, as our witnesses will have far more bearing on the case than theirs will have. But, ultimately, it has to be your decision, Sally. And, I’m afraid, you need to make it right now.”
I took a deep breath. I exhaled. I said, “All right. Let him testify . . .”
“Good decision,” Maeve said. “Now you have exactly three minutes to tell me everything I need to know about what happened back then.”
When we returned to the courtroom, Maeve explained our position to Mr. Justice Traynor.
“In the interests of expediting the hearing, and not causing any further delays, we will accept this last-minute witness.”
“Very well,” Traynor said. “Please call Mr. Ogilvy.”
As he walked in, I thought: fifteen years on and he still looks almost the same. He was in his mid-fifties now. A little heavier around the middle, somewhat grayer, but still wearing that same sort of tan gabardine suit that he was sporting in 1982. The same blue Oxford button-down shirt and striped tie. The same horn-rimmed glasses and brown penny loafers. He kept his line of vision aloft as he walked to the witness stand, so as not to see me. But once he was on the stand, I stared directly at him. He turned away and focused his attention on Lucinda Fforde.
“Now Mr. Ogilvy—to confirm your statement, you have been a practicing psychotherapist in the Boston area for the past twenty-five years.”
“That’s right.”
“And after the death of her parents in a car accident in 1988, Ms. Goodchild was referred to you as a patient?”
He confirmed this fact.
“Well then, could you also please confirm what Ms. Goodchild told you in the course of one of her sessions.”
For the next ten minutes, he did just that—recounting the story in just about the same way that I recounted it to Julia. He didn’t try to embellish or exaggerate anything. What he said was a reasonable, accurate rendering of what I told him. But—as my eyes bored into him—all I could think was: you haven’t just betrayed me, you have also betrayed yourself.
When he finished, Lucinda Fforde looked at me and said, “So, put rather baldly, Ms. Goodchild gave her father the drink that sent him over the limit and caused him to crash the car—”
“I thoroughly object to this line of questioning, My Lord,” Maeve said, genuinely angry. “Counsel isn’t simply surmising, she is also writing fiction.”
“I concur. Please rephrase, Miss Fforde.”
“With pleasure, My Lord. Though Mr. Goodchild informed his daughter that he was over the limit, she still gave him the glass of wine. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And later that night, he crashed his car into another vehicle, killing himself, his wife, a young woman in her thirties, and her fourteen-month-old son?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And did Ms. Goodchild share this information with anyone else but you?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Not with her one sibling, her sister?”
“Unless she did so in the last two decades, no. Because, at the time, one of the central themes of her conversations with me was the fact that she couldn’t confess this fact to her sister. She couldn’t confess it to anyone.”
Suddenly, I heard a long choked sob behind me. Then Sandy stood and ran out the back door of the court. As soon as she was outside, her crying reverberated in the hallway. I started to stand up, but Nigel Clapp did something very un–Nigel Clapp. He grabbed my arm and caught me before I could give pursuit, whispering quickly, “You mustn’t leave.”
Back up front, Lucinda Fforde continued on.
“What therapeutic advice did you give Ms. Goodchild at the time, sir?”
“I told her she would be better off making a clean breast of things with her sister.”
Lucinda Fforde turned toward the back of the courtroom. “Wasn’t that Ms. Goodchild’s sister leaving the court just now?”
Then, after the requisite dramatic pause, she said, “No further questions, My Lord.”
Maeve Doherty stood up and simply stared at Grant Ogilvy. She held this glare for a good thirty seconds. He tried to meet her contemptuous gaze, but eventually turned away. Mr. Justice Traynor cleared his throat.
“You won’t be kept here much longer, Mr. Ogilvy,” Maeve said. “Because I really don’t want to spend much time talking to you.”
She too paused for effect before commencing her cross-examination.
“How old was Ms. Goodchild when she saw you as a patient?”
“Twenty-one.”
“How old was her father when he died?”
“Around fifty, I think.”
“Ms. Goodchild handed him a drink at that party, yes?”
“Yes.”
“He refused.”
“Yes.”
“She said, ‘How middle-aged.’ And he drank the drink. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And you believe, because of that, she should be held culpable for the fatal accident he had several hours later?”
“I have never been asked to comment on her culpability.”
“But you’ve been brought all this way across the Atlantic to sully her character, haven’t you?”
“I was brought here simply to relate the information she told me.”
“While she was a patient of yours, yes?”
“That’s right.”
“Aren’t there laws in the United States about patient-doctor confidentiality?”
“I’m not a doctor. I’m a therapist. And yes, there are laws. But they mainly have to do with criminal malfeasance.”
“Now if Ms. Goodchild didn’t speak with anyone else about this, how on earth did Mr. Hobbs’s people find you after all these years, and why did you agree to be brought over here?”
“Because they asked me to testify, that’s why.”
“And what are they paying you for your trouble?”
“My Lord, I do hate to interrupt yet again,” Lucinda Fforde said, “but this is improper.”
“Oh, please,” Maeve hissed. “He’s obviously not over here for altruistic reasons . . .”
“We are running out of time, Ms. Doherty,” Traynor said. “Is this line of questioning likely to take matters further?”
“I have no further questions for this . . . gentleman.”
Traynor heaved a huge sigh of relief. He could go home now.
“The witness is dismissed. Court is adjourned until nine tomorrow morning.”
As soon as Traynor had left the court, I was on my feet, racing out the back door in search of Sandy. I found her on a bench in the hallway, her eyes red, her face wet. I tried to touch her shoulder. She shrugged me off.
“Sandy . . .”
The door of the courtroom opened, and out came Grant Ogilvy, accompanied by Tony’s solicitor. Before I could stop her, Sandy was in his face.
“I’m going back to Boston in two days,” she yelled, “and the first thing I’m going to do is make certain everyone who counts in your profession knows what you did here today. You understand? I am going to fucking ruin you. Because you fucking deserve it.”
A court usher, hearing her raised voice, came running toward the scene. But Tony’s solicitor shooed him away.
“It’s over now,” he whispered, and hustled a wide-eyed and deeply distressed Grant Ogilvy out of the building.
I turned toward Sandy, but she walked away from me. Maeve and Nigel were at the door of the courtroom, looking on.
“Is she going to be all right?” Maeve asked.
“She just needs to calm down. It’s a dreadful shock for her.”
“And for you too,” Nigel added. “Are you all right?”
I ignored the question and asked Maeve, “How much damage do you think he did?”
“The truth is,
I don’t know,” she said. “But the important thing now is: go deal with your sister, try to stay calm, and—most of all—get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be a very long day.”
I noticed Nigel had Sandy’s roll-on bag beside him.
“She left this behind,” he said. “Anything I can do?”
I shook my head. He awkwardly reached over and touched my arm.
“Ms. Goodchild . . . Sally . . . what you were just put through was so dreadfully wrong.”
Then, almost shocked by this show of emotion, he nodded good-bye to me.
As I went off to find Sandy, I realized that that was the one time Nigel Clapp had ever called me by my first name.
FOURTEEN
SANDY WAS WAITING outside the court, leaning against a pillar.
“Let’s get a cab,” I said.
“Whatever.”
In the ride back to Putney, she didn’t say a word to me. She just leaned against one side of the taxi, exhausted, spent, in one of those dark states that I got to know during childhood. I didn’t blame her for being in such a black place. As far as she was concerned, I had betrayed her. And she was right. And now I didn’t have a clue about how I should (or could) make amends for such a huge error of judgment.
But I also knew enough about Sandy to realize that the best strategy right now was to let her get through the big monstrous anger phase of this freeze-out. So I said nothing to her on the way out to Putney. When we reached the house, I made up the guest bed and showed her where the bathroom was, and let her know that there was plenty of microwavable food in the fridge. But if she wanted to eat with me . . .
“What I want is a bath, a snack, and bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Well, I’m going to take a walk then.”
What I wanted to do was knock on Julia’s door and ask her to pour me a vodka and allow me to scream on her shoulder for a bit. But as I approached my front door, I saw a note that had landed on the inside mat. It was from her, saying:
Desperate to know how it went today . . . but had to go out to a last-minute business thing. I should be home by eleven. If you’re still up then and want company, do feel free to knock on the door.
Hope you got through it all.
Love, Julia
The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1 Page 106
