The youngest of them was older than Marielle, and had three children of her own, but all of them were much older than Teddy. There was a woman who had been a nun for thirty years and had recently relinquished her vows to come home and take care of her dying mother. And when her mother had died, she had decided not to go back to the convent again, but she was not married. There were two women who were friends and were on the same jury by coincidence, both were schoolteachers in the same school, and neither was married, and then there were three women who seemed very plain, were married, had no children at all, and were all either secretaries or employees of large corporations. One had worked for an attorney for a brief time, but she said she had no special knowledge of the law, and neither attorney objected. It was, for all intents and purposes, a jury of Charles's peers, and a group of supposedly normal, decent, fair people.
It was Friday, just before noon by then, and the judge ordered the jury to go home, tie up their affairs, and enjoy their last weekend, because starting on Monday they would be sequestered. He ordered them not to read any newspaper stories about the case, or listen to the radio over the weekend.
He recessed the court then until Monday morning, and Marielle was surprised by how exhausted she was, just by the process of five days of jury selection. It had seemed endless, listening to people's tales and watching the lawyers decide to bounce or keep them. As she and Malcolm stood up, Charles was led away to spend another weekend in jail, and Tom Armour walked past her with no sign of recognition.
The FBI men took them home, and Bill Palmer came to see Malcolm that afternoon. They spent a long time in the library, but they never included Marielle, and she had coffee in the living room with John Taylor. There was no news at his end, but at least it was a relief to talk to someone sympathetic after the difficult week it had been. Every time Marielle had moved an inch out of the courtroom, Bea Ritter had pounced on her and begged her to see her. She called later that afternoon, and Marielle didn't take the call. She was too drained to deal with her or listen to her pleas on Charles's behalf. And Marielle did not want to help her.
“She's quite a girl,” Taylor remarked. “She must be crazy about him.”
“Some people feel that way about him.” Marielle smiled. She had no secrets from this man. “I did once. But then again, I was eighteen then.”
“And now?” John Taylor looked worried, but not about the case, as Marielle smiled.
“I'm a lot smarter now.” But that didn't mean she wished the death penalty on him either, if he didn't deserve it. She was still having a hard time with that, and the FBI had been able to shed no new light on the case. There had been a sighting in Connecticut earlier that week, a little boy who supposedly looked just like Teddy. But like all the other leads they had had, when it was checked out, it turned out to be bogus.
“You look tired.” Taylor spoke softly as she poured him a second cup of coffee.
“It's been a rough week.”
“Not nearly as rough as next week's going to be, and the week after.” He knew what was coming, he knew the people involved. The U.S. Attorney was a tough son of a bitch and he wanted to win this case. He knew the whole world was watching, even FDR, and he wasn't going to let the defense win, no matter what it cost him. And Armour was tough too, but in a cleaner, crisper way, he went right for the gut, and then he destroyed you. And the kinds of things they were going to drag up and remind her of, weren't going to be pretty. “Are you ready for it?” He worried about her, as resilient as she was, she was frail too, and he hated to see her go through that kind of pain. He remembered what it had been like when she told him about Andre. But she was holding up fairly well, considering the fact that she had gone three months without Teddy. “Whatever happens,' he tried to warn her now, “don't let them frighten you …don't let them make you feel it's your fault.” He knew that was the ghost that haunted her most, and had for years. “You know it isn't.” He tried to reassure her.
“I wish Malcolm felt that way too. He still blames me for everything. For bringing Charles back in our lives, and costing us Teddy.”
“You didn't want that any more than he did.” What a fool the man was, and he didn't like him any better when he swept through the hall a little while later with Bill Palmer. John was talking to one of his men and Malcolm snapped his fingers at him like a dog, which didn't sit well with John Taylor.
“The U.S. Attorney is going to need some help from you, Mr. Taylor,” he said. He had very little respect for him. He certainly hadn't been very effective in finding Teddy. “We need some information.”
“About Delauney?” Palmer nodded.
“Why don't we go talk somewhere?” the attorney suggested, but when they did, Taylor didn't like what he heard. It was smear campaign stuff, ugly business about the past that had nothing to do with Teddy, and Taylor objected. The attorney wanted him to help dig up facts about Marielle and Charles that he knew would be painful to her.
“What does that have to do with this?”
“It's character stuff for chrissake, man. Don't get prissy on me now. We're talking about winning.”
“Winning what? The conviction of an innocent man, or actually nailing the guy who did it? If he's guilty, you don't need this kind of shit, Palmer.”
“If you don't get it for me, someone else will.”
“Is that what this case is about now? Get him at all costs? And what about her? What are you going to do to her with this?” It had to do with Andre's death in Geneva and her time in the sanatorium afterward and Taylor knew, as Palmer did, that if Charles was guilty, they didn't need it.
“Mrs. Patterson is not my problem, Taylor. And her own husband wants it. Look, if it's no good to us anyway, we won't use it.”
“How nice,” Taylor said sarcastically, thinking to himself that he liked Tom Armour's tactics better. He was a lot cleaner. And he couldn't believe that Patterson was willing to sacrifice her just to nail Delauney. But Malcolm was convinced Delauney had kidnapped and killed his son, and he was willing to do anything to get Charles convicted. Maybe in some ways, Taylor told himself as he started making the calls, you couldn't blame him. At least if he got the information himself, he could figure out Palmer's next move and he could warn her what was coming. But what he didn't know was that Malcolm was making calls too, and he was going after the big stuff.
The weekend passed too quickly for her. And on Monday morning, they were back in court, and the trial began in earnest.
The following week, the opening statements seemed very dry, compared to their friendlier remarks previously to the jury. But some of the ugly things the two attorneys said were also very effective.
In his opening statement, the U.S. Attorney assured the jury and the courtroom at large that what they were dealing with here was very certainly a kidnapper, maybe even a baby killer, a man who had assaulted women in the past, killed men without batting an eye, a liar, a Communist, and a threat to all Americans. He told them that little Teddy Patterson had been torn from his parents' home in the middle of the night, in the dark, and the people who cared for him had been chloroformed and bound and gagged and might easily have been killed as well, and the child had disappeared without a trace, never to be seen again, and was probably dead, buried somewhere in a ditch, in a field, but for those who loved him, gone forever.
Marielle clutched her chair as she listened to the words, and he seemed to drone on for hours about what an evil man Charles had always been, what a sweet man Teddy would have become, and how we had all been robbed because this one child had died, and for nothing. And if it was true, if he was never to return, then Marielle had to agree with him. But it was still so painful to believe him gone for a lifetime.
Tom Armour's statement to them was only slightly more reassuring. He told them that Charles Delauney was a decent, honest, in some ways deeply troubled man, who had lost his own son nine years before, in fact his unborn daughter too, his entire family, and knowing how great the pain of that ha
d been, he would never have hurt any child, or taken any man's children from him. He had fought honestly in the Great War and in the fight in Spain since then. He was no Communist. He was a man who believed in freedom. Educated, intelligent, decent, yet heartbroken by the shattering of his youthful dreams, he was admittedly misguided in some of his behavior, or even his words, but this was not a man who could kidnap anyone's son. And the defense was going to prove that he hadn't. Furthermore, he reminded everyone, Mr. Delauney was on trial for kidnapping here, and not for murder. And if the jurors listened to the evidence carefully, he was sure they would acquit him. As he spoke to them, Tom Armour walked slowly before the jury, looking each one in the eye, speaking directly to them, not in a condescending way, but as equals, as friends, making sure they understood and believed him. He was masterful at what he did, and it was fascinating to watch him. He also explained to them that the U.S. Attorney would be presenting his case first, from beginning to end, and Tom would be cross-examining his witnesses, of course, but he would not present his case until the prosecution had completed theirs. And he reminded them again that it was up to the prosecution to prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Charles Delauney had kidnapped the Patterson boy, and if the prosecution could not convince them of that, whether they liked Charles or not as a man, they had to acquit him. But Tom assured them that by the time he finished his case, they would understand that he had been wronged by these charges.
There was a long silence when they were both through, and Judge Morrison instructed the U.S. Attorney to call his first witness, and Marielle was stunned when she heard her name. She had no idea he was intending to call her as his first witness. She raised an eyebrow as she walked past John, and he tried to look reassuring, but he was worried about what Palmer was going to do. He knew what had turned up in the calls he made, and none of it was very damaging. But he had no idea what Palmer and Malcolm had dug up without him.
She took the stand, and carefully smoothed down the plain black dress she had worn. She nervously crossed her legs as she glanced around the courtroom, and then uncrossed them again. And all the while, Bill Palmer strutted around the courtroom and watched her. He watched her as though there were something strange about her, as though he were suspicious of her, and more than once he glanced from her to the defendant, as though there was something he didn't understand about them. It was as though he was trying to convey something unpleasant or unsavory to the jury. And what he was doing was making Marielle very nervous. She glanced at the judge, then at Malcolm, who looked away, and at John, who looked serious as he watched her, and she waited for Palmer's first question.
“Please state your name.'
“Marielle Patterson.”
“Your full name please.”
“Marielle Johnson Patterson. Marielle Anne Johnson Patterson,” she smiled, but he did not smile in answer.
“Is there more?”
“No, sir.” Two women on the jury smiled, and Marielle felt a little better. But her hands were shaking terribly as she held them in her lap where no one could see them.
“Have you ever had another name, Mrs. Patterson?” And then she knew what he was asking.
“Yes.” Why was he doing this? What would it help? She didn't understand.
“Would you please tell us that name?” He boomed out the words as though to frighten her, and she couldn't see Malcolm's eyes.
“Delauney,” she said quietly.
“Could you say that a little louder please, so the jurors can hear you.”
She flushed bright red and said it louder for all to hear while Charles watched her in sympathy. “Delauney.” He felt sorry for her suddenly. Sorrier even than John Taylor, because he suspected what was coming. Palmer was smarter than they had thought. He was going to discredit her early on, so anything she said later would be worth nothing. He wasn't going to take the chance she would question Charles's guilt in public, and weaken his case in front of the jury.
“Are you related to the defendant in any way?”
“I was married to him.”
“When was that?”
“In 1926, in Paris. I was eighteen years old.”
“And what kind of marriage was it?” He pretended to be friendly to her, he even smiled. But she knew now that he was going to destroy her. “Was it a big wedding? A small one?”
“We eloped.”
“I see. …” He looked disturbed, as though somehow she had done something wrong, and he was sorry. “And how long were you married?”
“For five years actually. Until 1931.”
“And how did the marriage end? In divorce?”
“Yes, that's correct.” There was a thin film of perspiration covering her forehead, and she prayed that she wouldn't faint or vomit.
“Would you mind telling us why, Mrs. Delauney …sorry, Patterson …” He pretended to slip but she knew he had done it on purpose, just to emphasize her having been married to Charles, and yes she did mind telling him why, but she knew she had no choice. “Would you mind telling us the reason for the divorce?”
“I … we … we lost our son. And neither of us ever recovered from the shock.” She said it very quietly, and very calmly, and John Taylor was proud of her and so was Charles. Both of them felt their hearts torn in half, watching her, but she didn't know that. “I suppose you could say it destroyed the marriage.”
“Is that the only reason why you divorced Mr. Delauney?”
“Yes. We were very happy before that.”
“I see.” He nodded again sympathetically and she began to hate him. “And where were you when you got the divorce?”
She misunderstood his question, but Taylor didn't. “In Switzerland.”
“Were you there for any particular reason?” And then she knew. He was trying to discredit her completely. But he couldn't. If losing three children hadn't killed her yet, she knew nothing would. Not this man, not this court, and not these proceedings. She held her head high and looked directly at him.
“Yes, I was in a hospital there.”
“You were ill?” She wasn't going to give him more than she had to. And he knew just what he wanted, and why, but so did she now.
“I had a nervous breakdown when our son died.”
“Was there any particular reason for that? Was his death unusually traumatic? A long illness … a terrible disease?” Her eyes filled with tears as she listened to him, but she wouldn't give in to them. She brushed them away and spoke through trembling lips as everyone in the courtroom waited.
“He drowned.” That was it. That was all she had to say. That was what it said on the death certificate. Andre Charles Delauney, two years five months, death by drowning.
“And were you responsible for this …accident …” He accentuated the word almost as though she had planned it, and Charles was frantically whispering something to Tom, who shot to his feet immediately, with an objection.
“Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is leading the witness, and implying that the child's death was her fault. That is not for us to decide here. Mrs. Patterson is not on trial here, my client is.”
Judge Morrison raised an eyebrow at both men, surprised at Tom Armour's kindness. “Objection sustained. A little less zeal please, Counsel.”
“Sorry, Your Honor. I'll rephrase my question. Did you feel responsible for the child's death?” But that was worse, because now they would never know if it actually was her fault or not and there was no way to save it.
“Yes, I did.”
“And that was why you had the nervous breakdown?”
“I believe so.”
“You were in a mental hospital there?”
“Yes.” Her voice was growing softer and Charles felt sick, but so did John Taylor. Malcolm Patterson looked straight ahead, with an inscrutable expression.
“You were in effect mentally ill, is that right?”
“I suppose so. I was very upset.”
“For a long time?”
“Yes.�
��
“How long were you there?”
“Two years.”
“More than two years?”
“A little.” But Tom Armour was on his feet again.
“May I remind the court again that Mrs. Patterson is not on trial here.”
“Sustained. Mr. Palmer, where are we going with this? It's going to take us six months if we try every witness.”
“If you'll bear with me, Your Honor, for just a moment, I'll show you.”
“All right, Counsel, speed it up.”
“Yes, sir. Now, Mrs. Patterson.” He turned to Marielle again. “You were in a mental hospital for something more than two years, correct?”
“Correct.” Palmer nodded at her, and for once he looked almost happy with her.
“Did you ever try to commit suicide during that time?” For a moment, she looked sick while he asked her.
“Yes, I did.”
“More than once?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
She thought for a moment, and unwittingly glanced at her left wrist, but you could no longer see the scars thanks to a very artful plastic surgeon. “Seven or eight times.” She kept her eyes down this time, it was not something she was proud of. And she could have told him she didn't remember.
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