“Thank you.” She wasn't supposed to be on their side, but there didn't seem to be sides anymore. There was just everyone searching for the truth …and for Teddy.
The next two days seemed endless to her with Malcolm away, and John Taylor gone to help with the investigation. Suddenly, she had no one to talk to, and with Malcolm gone, the house seemed unusually quiet. It made her start to think about what she would do when she moved out. She had nowhere to go, nothing to do, no family to turn to. In some ways it worried her, but she wasn't as frightened as she might have been years before. He didn't frighten her anymore. Suddenly, she didn't care about him at all. All he had done was hurt her.
Bea Ritter called her once too on the second day of the recess, but she didn't say what the investigation was about either. She pretended not to know, and she didn't admit that she had brought the tip to Tom Armour. She just called to say hello, and see if they had any more leads about Teddy.
“No, nothing. Have you seen Charles again?”
“A few days ago. He's incredibly tense since they're so close to going to the jury.” And she was praying they wouldn't have to.
But by midnight that night, nothing had changed. There were two more ships to go through, and one of them was refusing. It was German and they claimed they didn't have to submit. It took another eight hours to get a court order to force them. And at ten o'clock the next morning, as Judge Morrison called the court to order, John Taylor was boarding the last ship with the Coast Guard, the Port Authority, and the FBI, and he was sure they would find nothing. But if nothing else, he had to do it for Marielle. He called Tom Armour from the dock, just before he left for the courtroom.
“Well?”
“We got nothing. We came up empty. No Teddy, no more tips, no one will talk, no one knows anything. We touched base with every one of our informants. Nothing. And Louie the Lover's not answering his phone. I think he's scared. He may have run out on us.” Taylor had nothing but bad news for him.
“Shit. What am I supposed to do now?”
“You close your case, just like you were going to do two days ago.”
“But he didn't do it, dammit, man. You heard the man. Someone paid him fifty thousand big ones to plant the kid's pajamas.”
“Yeah, I know. But who's going to testify to that? You, or me? Hell, it's hearsay.”
“You can't do this to me!” Tom was practically in tears, but Taylor was too tired to care. He still had one last ship to tear apart, and he was almost too exhausted to do it.
“Fuckin' A, man, I haven't slept in two days and I've been all over every slimy rotten ship in this port,” and a few fancy ones too, but they all looked the same to him by now, “and I haven't turned up shit. I think your guy probably didn't do it, but I can't give you the goods to get him off with, and we don't have the kid. What more can I tell you?”
“I'll ask for a mistrial.” Tom's voice was shaking he was so upset. But so was Taylor. No matter how hard they pushed, no one was talking.
“A mistrial based on what?” Taylor asked tiredly as his men started boarding the German ship to look around, but their hearts weren't in it anymore. They knew they weren't going to find the boy. Either he was gone, so well hidden he would never be found, or he was dead and buried somewhere and wouldn't turn up for years. “How the hell are you going to get a mistrial?” Taylor repeated when Tom didn't answer.
“I don't know …give me time …can you give me any reason at all to ask for another recess?”
“None at all. And if Louie doesn't surface soon, the judge is going to have your ass and mine to replace him.”
“Yeah. I know that.”
“I'll send a message to you in court with one of my guys, after we check this ship, but don't get your hopes up.” Tom's hopes were already dashed and he dreaded telling Charles that Louie the Lover had vanished.
“He what?” Charles shouted when Tom told him.
“He's gone,” Tom whispered tersely as they walked into the courtroom.
“Son of a bitch. How could those assholes have let that happen?”
“Keep your voice down.” The judge was rapping his gavel. “He had a lot to lose. He could have gone to prison for what he did. And he's on parole with a rap sheet as long as your arm. It's a rotten thing to do, but you can't really blame him.”
“The hell I can't. They're going to execute me for this.” Tom's eyes were like rocks, and there was a pain in the pit of his stomach.
“I'm not going to let that happen to you.” Tom tried to sound confident but it was not what he felt as the judge asked him and Bill Palmer to approach the bench with a look of suspicion.
“Well, Counsellor? Your new evidence? Do we have a witness?”
“No, sir, we don't,” Tom Armour said grimly. “The FBI have been investigating this lead and several others for two days, and so far they've gotten nowhere.” He was brutally honest and the prosecutor looked pleased.
“And your informant?” the judge asked, looking displeased with Tom.
“Has vanished, Your Honor. For the moment.”
“I can't believe you've wasted two days of the court's and the taxpayers' time, Mr. Armour.” The judge was rapidly sliding from displeasure to fury.
“We had to check it out, sir. I was even hoping to ask for a further recess. But …”
“Don't even consider it, Counsellor.” He glared at both of them and waved them back to their seats. Bill Palmer was looking extremely happy, and he glanced at Malcolm sitting staunchly in the courtroom, with Marielle next to him, very still and quiet. They never spoke in court. The judge rapped his gavel again, and told Bill Palmer to make his closing statement.
Tom Armour couldn't believe this was happening. They had almost had the key to it in their hands, and they had lost it. Charles looked as though he was near tears, and Bea Ritter was frantically wondering what had happened, but there was no one to tell her.
In his closing arguments, all of Bill Palmer's statements were predictable, and ugly. He reminded the jurors of every ugly thing Charles had ever done, every stupidity, every weakness, every threat, every drunken binge, every minor, or major, act of violence. His attack on Marielle, his wanton destruction years ago, at nineteen, of a neighborhood bar in Paris. All of these were the early signs, according to Bill Palmer, of a lack of control, a self-indulgence, a tendency to violence that would eventually lead him to kidnap and kill little Teddy. His violence at war, his thirst for killing which had led him to the Great War at fifteen …His leaning to Communism, which had taken him to Spain …and the threats he had made in Central Park, which had been carried out only thirty-six brief hours later. And the little red pajama suit found in his basement, a sign that he indeed had kidnapped Teddy. The man was a kidnapper, the prosecutor raged across the courtroom, and he had almost certainly killed this helpless baby. And as he said the words, and looked at the jury, and then around the courtroom, there was a small flutter, and brief thumping sound. Finally, after all that had come before, it had been too much for her. Marielle Patterson had fainted.
As she came to, there was a terrible hum of noise, and blurred lights overhead, a feeling of something cold and damp on her forehead. She opened her eyes, and after a few moments, Marielle realized she had been carried into the judge's chambers. His secretary was standing over her with a damp cloth, and a doctor had been called, but she insisted that she was all right. She tried to sit up, but she felt weak, and then she saw that both attorneys were there, and her husband. Someone was pressing something cool against the in-sides of her wrists, and someone else handed her a glass of water. It was Bea Ritter. She had pressed right through the crush of photographers and literally climbed over them to get to Marielle, and it was Bea who had called for help as she knelt next to her on the floor, not Malcolm. He only looked annoyed and embarrassed, and not one whit sympathetic.
“Mrs. Patterson?” the judge asked quietly. “Would you like someone to take you home?” Her head throbbed angrily as he as
ked her.
The truth was she would have liked to have gone home, but she thought it cowardly not to stay till the end. She felt she owed it to Charles, or to Malcolm, or to someone. She wasn't sure whom, but she thought she was supposed to be there. Maybe just to prove to the world that she wasn't a weakling. But everyone was looking so sorry for her now that she hated to be there.
“I'm all right. If you don't mind …perhaps I can stay here for a few minutes.” At least long enough to regain her composure.
“Had you finished your closing statement, Mr. Palmer?” The judge looked across his office and inquired, and Bill Palmer nodded. He hadn't expected the additional drama to punctuate his statement, but it hadn't done any harm either. Actually, he rather liked it.
“Yes, I had, Your Honor. Just.”
“Then why don't we recess for lunch? Mr. Armour can close after the noon recess. Is that all right with you, Counsellor?” It was already eleven-thirty, and he wouldn't have wanted to break into his closing statement anyway, so it was fine with him, and he agreed with a concerned look at Marielle. She was white as a sheet, and she looked really awful. But the judge had seen it too. “I think Mrs. Patterson should go home and rest for a little while, during the recess,” he suggested to the room at large.
“Thank you, Your Honor,” she whispered as Tom's heart went out to her, and Bea patted her hand in sympathy.
Malcolm made a show of assisting her to the car, but when they got to the house, he left her to her own devices. She lay down in her room, in the dark, with a cold cloth on her head, and tried to drink a little tea. But it was too late. She already had a crushing migraine. But she knew that no matter how rotten she felt, or how blinded by pain, she had to be back at the courtroom by one-thirty. But suddenly she could hardly force herself to go. It was as though she had expected something that only that morning she had finally come to understand wasn't going to happen. In some odd way, she'd thought it was all like a terrible game …and if they won … in the end, she'd get her child back. Someone would admit what they had done with him, or say they were sorry. There was going to be a reasonable end to it all, a prize for all the pain, some reasonable closure, only now she realized that there wasn't. There was nothing. There were only words and people and actors …and liars …and in the end, someone would say either innocent or guilty, and they would either execute Charles or set him free, but no one was ever going to bring Teddy back. Never. That had never been part of the bargain. And she felt as though she were in a haze of confusion as she lay there.
“Are you coming?” Malcolm walked into her darkened bedroom at one-fifteen, and looked with scorn at her lying on the bed. She felt too ill to move. And she couldn't even imagine getting to the courtroom.
“I don't think I can,” she said weakly. She couldn't even open her eyes, or sit up now.
“That's nonsense,” he snapped at her. “You have to. Do you want them to think that you're afraid to be there?” He said it as if it were a cardinal sin. Was fear so terrible then? The second deadly sin. Fear. The first one was weakness. And what about love? Was that a sin too? Had she sinned because she'd loved Charles …and Andre …and their baby girl … or even Teddy? Where was “love” in Malcolm's vocabulary, or did it even exist? Were there only responsibility and obligation and duty? Her head was spinning. Or was love something he'd saved only for Brigitte.
“If you don't go, Marielle, they'll think you were in league with Delauney and you can't bear to watch him convicted. Is that what you want? Is that what you want smeared all over the press? Well, I don't. Get up for God's sake, and face it.” He was shouting at her in the darkness, and she could feel her whole body tremble. But from somewhere, she drew on a strength she didn't know she had, and she sat up quietly and took the cloth off her head as she winced and looked at her husband. “I've been facing things all my life, Malcolm, things you couldn't begin to face, even now. So don't tell me what to get up and face.” She spat the words at him in a way she hadn't dared speak to him since she'd known him. But he'd been vicious to her ever since Teddy's kidnapping, and she'd finally had it. It wasn't her fault, or his, or probably even Charles's. It had probably been done by some totally insane crazed stranger. And whoever had done it, they had, and it was over. Why did he continue to blame her?
“You look dreadful,” he said, as he watched her comb her hair and pull it back in a bun in her dressing room. She went to wash her face and put on some lipstick, but she looked very severe, as she put on dark glasses and followed him to the car, thinking how long it had been since she'd seen John Taylor.
She sat quietly in the car next to Malcolm, with their guards and their policemen, and as usual they made their way through the crowds to the courtroom, dodging hands and people who wanted to touch them and ask questions, trying to avoid the press, and shield their faces from photographers. And with her headache, it seemed particularly awful. But they finally made it to their seats, and she took off her dark glasses.
For the first time during the trial, the judge was ten minutes late, and Tom was poring over his notes, while Charles sat with his eyes closed, looking grim. He had almost no hope left, in spite of Tom's skill. He was certain that without the informant's testimony about the pajamas and the bear, he would be found guilty.
The-judge had just invited Tom to begin his closing argument, and he had just stood up, when John Taylor walked into the courtroom. He stopped for a moment and looked at the judge, who knew him well, and both prosecution and defense looked at him with profound expectation. And everyone in the courtroom wondered why the usually pristine FBI agent was so disheveled and filthy. He was wearing work pants and a rough sweater, and he was absolutely covered with oil and dirt, and it seemed a very odd appearance in court, but he went straight to Marielle, as everyone watched, and with an apologetic glance at the judge, John whispered to her to come with him. She followed him out of court silently, without even saying a word to Malcolm. Everyone watched them go, with turned heads and whispers, and the judge finally rapped his gavel again to get everyone's attention.
“May I remind you, ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed, “that Mr. Armour is making his closing statement.” Tom turned himself to what he was doing then, and attempted to concentrate and not think about why John Taylor had taken Marielle out of the courtroom. He had the terrible feeling that they had found Teddy's body and he wanted to tell her first. But wouldn't he have taken Malcolm with him too, or was it kinder not to? Tom forced himself to focus on the man with one leg …and the ex-nun …and the young black musician …and tell them what a fine man Charles was, how he had been unfairly accused, and the prosecution had not proven beyond a reasonable doubt that he was guilty. That if they examined their conscience there was no way they could send this man to the electric chair for things he had said, and never meant, in the heat of a drunken moment. Even to his own ears, he droned on, as he continued to wonder why Marielle had left the courtroom. It was all he or anyone else could think of. Only Malcolm looked calm as he continued to watch the proceedings.
And as she walked to a car with John, she looked at him in terror. “What's happening?” she asked anxiously. “What's going on?”
“I want you to trust me. I have to take you somewhere. Are you all right?” He looked at her worriedly. She had swayed for a moment, and no one had told him she'd fainted that morning.
“I'm fine. I just have a very bad headache.” She winced again, but she followed him into the car without hesitation.
“I'm sorry to do this to you. It won't be as bad as you think, and I'll make it as easy as I can for you …but I need to take you with me.” He started the car, and they drove off toward the West Side, and she looked frightened.
“Are you arresting me?” Was that possible? Was he crazy? Did he think she'd been in collusion with Charles after all? Had Malcolm told him that? His final revenge on her? As they drove west, she looked really frightened.
“Of course not.' He patted her hand gently, and then
raised an eyebrow, trying to make light of the moment. “Should I be?”
“I don't know,” she said nervously.- “I don't know where we're going. Should Malcolm be here too?” Like Tom, she was suddenly afraid they were going to ask her to identify Teddy's body, and she knew she couldn't stand it, and maybe John thought he was being kind to her by taking her there alone, but he shook his head in answer to her question.
“No, he shouldn't. You'll be fine with me, Marielle. Trust me. You'll be all right. This won't be as difficult as you think.” He looked at her gently, wanting to kiss her. But right now, they had serious business to take care of.
“Can't you tell me what this is about?” She was almost in tears. All he had said to her in court was “Mrs. Patterson, I have to ask you to come with me.” And Malcolm had looked as startled as she did.
“I can't tell you, Marielle, I'm sorry. Right now, this is official business.” But he patted her hand, and left a smudge of soil on her fingers.
She nodded, trying to be brave as she rode along, but the headache was so bad now she could hardly stand it. He chatted with her on the brief drive, but it was obvious that he was preoccupied, and she couldn't help noticing that he was absolutely filthy, and she wondered why. And he was so distracted he didn't even notice her silence.
A few minutes later they reached the port, and he drove right onto the docks, where half a dozen FBI cars were waiting. And everyone scrutinized her intently as she got out of the car and he helped her.
“I hate to touch you, I'm so dirty.” He smiled and the gentleness of his eyes seemed to help her.
He took her on board the ship then, it was a small German ship, and it wasn't particularly attractive or particularly clean, and there was a terrible smell of cabbage which did nothing to help her headache. It was a freighter which took passengers on too, and the captain was waiting for her in the small dining room, with a serious expression. Taylor introduced her, and half a dozen FBI men were standing by, and she was not sure if they were guarding her, or the captain, or John Taylor. But the captain came forward to her quickly.
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