“So, correct me if I’m wrong here—if you had to incorporate into your chart the information that this woman, the mother of the pond baby, had not had sexual contact with any other man but the father of the pond baby, what impact would that have on your conclusions?”
Again the frown. He peered at his scribbles. Then he spoke. “Well, if this woman had had sexual contact only with this man, it would be impossible for her to have produced the OO-genotype child.”
Judith nodded. “I see. So, in other words, this baby here”—she pointed to the Sabbathday River baby’s genotype—“wou!d have to belong to an entirely different family, with other parents.”
“Yes.”
Judith paused. “Dr. Leslie,” she said, “as a geneticist, do you have any opinion on superfecundation?”
He considered. “I don’t think so, since I don’t know what it is.”
“Really? I thought superfecundation is an established medical event.”
He shrugged. “I’m sorry. It’s not a term I’m familiar with.”
“Oh. Well, superfecundation is the conception of fraternal twins by different fathers.”
He broke into a smile. He had, Naomi could not help but notice, a very sweet smile. “You’re kidding. Really?”
“Really,” Judith said, rolling her eyes for the jury’s benefit.
“I’ve never heard of it before.”
“Dr. Leslie, when you analyzed the blood-type information in this case, were you aware that the prosecution contends that this baby”—she pointed to the Sabbathday River baby’s genotype—“and this baby”—she pointed to the pond baby’s genotype—“are fraternal twins, born to the same mother but fathered by different men?”
He was grinning widely now. He shook his head. “No, I didn’t know. I was just asked to analyze the data. Wow.” He looked over at Charter, then quickly stopped smiling. “I only analyzed the data. I don’t have any other information.”
She thanked him.
It was three o’clock.
Charter called his psychiatrist, a brittle woman with a flat, triangular face and a cap of tight gray curls who walked briskly to the witness chair, her little hips moving stiffly beneath a narrow tweed skirt.
Once she was sworn in, he began, in a loving, adulatory fashion, to recount her titles and degrees. (This, too, Naomi thought, was some kind of a stalling tactic, since Charter also evidently had his eye on the clock. But after the third honorary doctorate, Judith stipulated to the witness’s expertise, and the district attorney had to move on.)
Her name was Roslyn Staple. She said that she had been asked to interview and examine the newly arrested Heather Pratt, and this she had done, in three sessions of one hour each, which had taken place in the Peytonville jail. The report of her findings, a document she held up helpfully, then placed in her lap, was bound in red covers. Heather, for her part, sat still in her seat, her hands folded before her on the tabletop as if she had been shut off or deactivated, but the psychiatrist did not look at her.
“What were your general impressions of Heather Pratt, Dr. Staple?” Charter said, folding his arms in anticipation of an essay-length answer.
Heather’s emotional immaturity was the most striking element of her character, the psychiatrist went on. Under the circumstances, the defendant dwelt inappropriately on the topic of Ashley Deacon: her love for him, her sense of loss at no longer having access to him. She was also intensely narcissistic, showing no interest in others, apart from the aforementioned Ashley Deacon. She was withdrawn and noncommunicative. She refused to discuss one of the two infants—the pond baby—and showed a marked lack of interest in the other. She volunteered no information, asked no questions, and appeared generally to be without concern for either or both of the two infants who had died. From this it could be basically inferred that Heather possessed at least psychopathic tendencies, if not full-blown psychopathology.
“How would you characterize a psychopath, in layman’s terms?”
As a person without conscience, the doctor said, and capable of violence. A person who would stop at nothing, including murder. “But I found, as I said, that the patient possessed psychopathic tendencies. I did not diagnose a full-blown psychopath. Rather, my diagnosis is of a personality disorder. To be specific, I concluded from my examination of Heather that she most closely resembles the profile of the Borderline Personality Disorder, although she does show some features of the Avoidant, Narcissistic, and Histrionic Personality Disorders. Her character and mood experience rapid shifts between grandiosity—the belief that she is better than everyone else, a “special” person—and feelings of worthlessness, with very little in the way of middle ground between the two extremes. This is normally a problem of arrested development. Borderline personalities seldom evolve to the point where they can have meaningful relationships, in lieu of which they might form alliances with unsuitable or unavailable people.”
“Such as a married man?” Charter asked helpfully.
Such as a married man.
Instability of mood, she continued placidly, and relationships and self-image were marked by some of Heather’s more notorious attributes: impulsiveness in self-damaging areas (such as sex and/or exhibitionism) and lack of long-term goals. There would also be, consistent with this disorder, a lack of control, such as Heather might have shown in her public fights with Sue Deacon in the sports center, or with Ann Chase on the porch at Tom and Whit’s. Finally, the Borderline Personality’s frantic efforts to avoid abandonment had significance as a motive for the murder of Heather’s children. “She thought that killing them would bring her loved ones back,” Dr. Staple said.
“Could you clarify that for us, Doctor?”
“Certainly. These were naturally stressful circumstances, but I do not believe Heather experienced a psychotic break. In other words, there were not, suddenly, voices or visions instructing her to murder the infants. What I do believe is that her psychopathic tendencies came into play, and she made a non-rational bargain to regain what she had lost —specifically, her relationship with her boyfriend—by sacrificing what she now had—the two babies. Heather had, after all, confronted death twice in the recent past: the death of her grandmother and the death of her relationship. Now here, in the face of these deaths, were two new lives. She did not want the lives, she wanted the deaths they had replaced. Her acts against the babies can be seen as a somewhat confused and certainly callous attempt to exchange what she had for what she wanted.”
“But, at the same time, you are not calling this a mental illness.”
“No. Her grip on reality was intact. She was not, for example, delusional. She did not attack her children because an aural or optical delusion instructed her to do so, as is sometimes the case in instances of postpartum psychosis.”
It was possible, she went on, for a person under stress—an ordinary person whose defenses might successfully sustain her under normal circumstances—to lose her judgment under sufficient assault. “There can, in other words, be an eruption of neurotic and psychopathic symptoms which are normally latent.”
“And that is what, in your expert opinion, occurred in this case and caused the death of Heather Pratt’s two babies?”
She inclined her head with confident gravity. “Yes. That is my diagnosis and my opinion.”
Charter folded his arms and looked plaintively at the jury. “Dr. Staple, to most of us, the very notion of killing a child, let alone a newborn infant, is so reprehensible that we cannot even imagine it ever occurs. Have you worked with cases of infanticide previously?”
“I have. Several. And I have studied all the available literature on infanticide.”
“So you are well qualified to determine if and how Heather Pratt might fit into the profile of an infanticide?”
“I would consider myself well qualified, yes,” she said, her voice prim.
“And what, in your opinion, influences your decision to include Heather in this group?”
“W
ell, the diagnostic features I discussed a few moments ago, and in addition, the fact that, statistically, she does fit the profile of a mother who murders her infant child.”
And what profile was that? Charter prompted.
In her still, flat tone, Dr. Staple informed the courtroom that fully 20 percent of babies killed during the first year of life are killed on the first day of life. Moreover, those infants killed on the first day of life are almost exclusively killed by their mothers.
This bleak statement Charter shrewdly gave a moment to sink in.
Methodology differed for women who kill and for men who kill, Staple noted. Mothers tend to be less violent—suffocation and drowning are the preponderant techniques. Fathers generally maim.
“So her suffocation of the pond baby in particular would be in keeping with the majority of mothers who kill their newborns?”
“Yes. She fits right into the profile.”
“And the stab wound to the other baby?”
“Less familiar, but very conceivably the act of a psychopathic person.”
Charter nodded, as if he were hearing this for the first time. “Dr. Staple, do you understand why Heather should have admitted having one baby but withheld the information that she had actually given birth to twins?”
“I think I can,” Staple said, shifting in her seat. “It’s possible that, having murdered one infant, she considered that her crime against the second might possibly be seen as ‘not counting,’ particularly since the second infant had not been discovered.”
“In other words, she could get two murders for the price of one confession?”
And this, as luck would have it, was the very moment Heather Pratt passed out.
Chapter 39
Just Like the Sixties
IN THE END, IT WAS JUDITH WHO SEEMED TO SUFFER most. Judith, who checked her watch with increasing anxiety as the next hour slid by, as the doctor was called, as Heather slumped against the wall of the room they took her to, as the minutes passed and the chance of dispatching Charter’s psychiatrist before the day was out grew more and more remote. Across the square her own witness languished in the diner, reading the newspaper (his meter running at the rate of one hundred dollars an hour) as he waited to be called. This man, an expert on false confessions, had driven up from Boston “just in case,” at her request, and now he sat, eyeing the crush of press around the courthouse as they milled tensely about, knowing what was going on inside but unable to find anything to film or anyone to talk to who knew more than they.
Naomi waited in her seat in the courtroom, through the recess that was never officially called. She wished she had the authority to go back to where Heather was, but Judith had taken off without a backward glance, trailing her client’s limp frame as the court officer scooped it and ran. Past her, through the milling, chattering crowd, came a doctor, flushed, with a proper medical bag, and as he passed her and rushed through the small door behind the bench, she thought, At least, at last, someone is going to look at Heather and see that she isn’t all right, and try, honestly, to make her better. Someone with normal diagnostic tools and without an agenda will put a stethoscope to her chest and a finger to her radial, and ask her kindly where it hurts and whether anything can be done to relieve her suffering. In her seat across the room, Ann Chase reached into her bag and withdrew a lap-sized measure of monk’s cloth, which she began, incredibly, to hook with some garishly bright acrylic fabric. A fuck you, Naomi knew, to herself. She shook her head and stared plaintively at the door.
In time, Judith returned, looking cross. She came and sat by Naomi and put her head close. “She’s fine,” she said preemptively.
“Oh, good.”
“She fainted. What do you expect? She’s been living on a cup of tea a day or something ridiculous like that. But when she came to, she started crying. She said she couldn’t come back.”
Naomi shook her head.
“If she knew what this is going to cost her she’d make an effort,” Judith went on, her voice chilly. “Because this is it now. For the weekend. The last thing the jury got to see was this shrink calling her a manipulative psychopath, and then her fainting.” She shook her head. “All my work. And of course Charter’s just beside himself. He thinks I put her up to this so I could get a new trial later. He thinks this is how we try cases in New York, by manipulating the process.”
Naomi clucked in sympathy, but Judith fumed on.
“So naturally there’s no way we’re going to get to my guy this afternoon. I called over to him at the diner. He’s gone back already.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “Well, if she wants to play Camille, that’s what happens.”
“But, Judith,” Naomi said pleadingly, “you know she didn’t do this on purpose. She just couldn’t take any more. I mean, this girl’s been drawn, quartered, dissected, and biopsied. There are people reading about her menstrual cycle over their morning coffee. I’d probably faint if it were me.”
Judith looked sourly at the door, then exhaled in a rush.
“What did the doctor give her?”
“Valium. I could use some myself. She started screaming when I suggested we resume testimony.”
Naomi, who hardly blamed her for that, kept her tongue.
“So that’s it. Recess till Wednesday. No.” She smiled for the first time since returning to the courtroom. “I don’t think our Judge Hayes is taking Passover off. He’s got a conference in New Haven. He warned us at the outset.”
“Well, maybe it’s for the best,” Naomi thought aloud. “Give everybody a break. And you can concentrate on your haroseth.”
“Breaks are only a good thing if you’re screwing up,” Judith said, ignoring the levity. “I really had some momentum going.”
“You were doing great,” Naomi confirmed.
“And Heather made her histrionic gesture right on cue! Shit, you call her a master manipulator, and presto! She manipulates.”
“Come on,” Naomi said. She helped Judith with her things. As they drew nearer the door, the din came up, of its own accord, a chatter and then a roar. “What are you going to tell them?” Naomi said.
“Them.” Judith looked tired. “Oh, fuck them.” But Naomi saw that she was already thinking, turning it as best she could to Heather’s advantage. They pushed out the door, walking into Charter’s television backdrop. There was, as they took their first steps down the granite staircase, a collective gasp. Naomi looked at Sarah Copley, who was suddenly beside her.
“Can you believe he just said that?”
“What did he say?” Naomi said. She had to raise her voice.
“He said he was going to request that Heather have a pregnancy test. He said his office would want to be reassured that she wasn’t pregnant, and that’s why she fainted!”
From behind her, she heard Judith: “What a shmuck!”
“Do you have evidence that she’s pregnant?” somebody shouted.
“Who’s the father?”
“Has Ashley been to visit her in jail?”
They were swarming, like girls on a hockey field with their sticks flying and their heads down. It took a moment for somebody to identify Judith. One microphone was pressed into her face, then another, then a thornbush of electronics.
“Is your client pregnant?” a woman said. She was, Naomi thought, so perfectly, blankly, and unremarkably pretty that she must represent some major television market.
“Of course she isn’t pregnant,” Judith said with controlled rage. “The suggestion that she is pregnant is absurd, as Mr. Charter knows perfectly well. This is a blatant effort to gain in shock value what he is losing inside the courtroom, and I think it’s appalling. My client has endured a week of having her character dissected by people who have never met her, and listening to the love of her life explain to the world that he only wanted her for sex, all because she had a stillborn baby and was too confused and bereft to notify what Mr. Charter considers the proper autho
rities. Frankly, I’m amazed Heather lasted as long as she did. I don’t think I would have the strength of character to sit there while absolute strangers talk about me.”
“Why did she faint if she isn’t pregnant?” a man shouted. Judith gave him a look.
“She’s barely eaten for a week. She misses her little girl, who she hasn’t seen out of a jail cell in five months. Her heart is broken because of Ashley Deacon’s testimony. She still loves him very much. All she wants is for this nightmare to be over so she can go back to her daughter and be the good mother that everyone in this trial, on both sides, has testified she is. I wish District Attorney Charter and Attorney General Warren would see that this has all been a terrible mistake, that they identified the wrong woman as the mother of the Sabbathday River baby, and that in the process they are ruining the life of an innocent girl. Once again I call on these two men to reconsider the charges against Heather. I hope they will have the bravery, and the decency, and the honor to do so.”
There were more questions, but there were no more answers. Judith shook her head, reached up in a single, giveaway gesture to comb one curl behind her right ear, then took Naomi’s elbow and pulled it after her down the steps. “You were … That was great,” Naomi said, stumbling on in her wake. Judith, without turning her head, shrugged.
“C’mon, get me out of here.”
They bucked a tide of white as women climbed the stairs. There were so many, Naomi thought. Even since lunchtime. Where had they all come from? Surely not Dartmouth—they were thick in the middle and gray, but also young, with cropped hair and long braids, in blue jeans and caftans and sweat suits. They looked like the followers of one of those color-coded swamis, and Ella led them up the steps, clutching her white microphone and a fistful of white blooms. Naomi, helpless, tugged Judith’s hand, and they turned to watch.
She was in her element, Ella was. Flushed and alive, her brief hair almost architectural in its precision. Only her hands, chapped red in the March wind, gave away any frailty as she lifted the microphone and called to her the faithful. “We invite all women who are outraged by Heather Pratt’s ordeal to come here to Peytonville and make their voices heard. Women who cannot travel to the trial have already begun to show their support for Heather by sending her a single white rose,” and she lifted hers to the sky, “the same symbol of resistance against oppression that Sophie Scholl and her “White Rose” comrades adopted in their courageous stand against the Third Reich. The woman on trial in this parody of justice happens to be Heather Pratt, but she could be any of us. Remember that, and be thankful it isn’t you having your sexual history and your physical attributes discussed by these so-called experts.” Ella adjusted her microphone, signaling a crescendo, and indeed, she jacked up her voice to a scream rendered downright painful by the further amplification of the loudspeaker: “Women demand freedom for Heather Pratt, who has committed no crime! We demand the identification and interrogation of her male oppressors! We demand the restoration of her child! We demand that no other woman should ever be forced to endure what she has endured! We demand the end to this patriarchal repression of women’s sexuality! We demand an end to this attempted annihilation of female power!”
The Sabbathday River Page 47
