‘Wasn’t he someone particularly well known in Wall Street because of his family antecedents?’
‘Not particularly,’ she repeated.
‘Did you know of the family history?’
‘I may have heard something of it.’
‘Did you or didn’t you?’ demanded Reid, brusquely.
‘I’d heard something about it,’ conceded Leanne, defensively.
‘What about the historically well known Bellamy family?’
‘I didn’t know anything about a Bellamy family,’ protested the woman.
‘You didn’t know that your lover, Alfred Appleton, was married to Alyce Bellamy, uniting two of the best known families in America’s founding history?’
‘No,’ said Leanne. Before every answer she looked hopefully towards Wolfson although still steadfastly refusing to look at Appleton, so close at the adjoining table.
‘When did you discover the identity of Alfred Appleton’s wife?’
‘I don’t remember. Not until we became close, I don’t think.’
‘How did you become close? When did it happen? Who approached whom?’
Leanne took several moments to reply. ‘It was at a seminar in New Jersey. Went over two days.’
‘When did it begin, the first night or the second night?’
There was another pause. ‘The second night.’
‘Before you went to bed with Alfred Appleton the second night, you knew he was a married man, didn’t you?’
‘He told me he was divorced.’
Appleton thrust sideways to talk to his lawyer at Leanne’s answer.
‘Was divorced? Or getting divorced?’ pressed Reid.
‘Was divorced,’ insisted Leanne. ‘Just waiting for the decree to become absolute.’
‘That’s exactly what he said, that he was waiting for the decree to become absolute?’
‘Yes,’ blurted Leanne, before seeing Wolfson shaking his head. ‘I mean … I think … yes …’
‘By then you knew who Appleton was … the history, didn’t you?’
‘Something had been said … I had an idea,’ the woman stumbled on.
‘You saw yourself as the second Mrs Appleton, didn’t you, marrying into one of America’s oldest families?’ pounced Reid.
‘No!’ Leanne denied, flustered. ‘That wasn’t how it was … what it was … I told you, it wasn’t a commitment.’ She looked at Alyce, beside her interrogator. ‘Like her’s wasn’t a commitment. Didn’t mean anything. Just something that happened …’ She twisted, looking for the first time to Appleton and managed, ‘You … you bastard …’ before collapsing back into her chair, sobbing.
To Jordan, Beckwith finally said, ‘If I can only get the chance!’
First Bartle and then Wolfson objected to Beckwith taking up the cross-examination, Wolfson even pleading that Leanne was incapable of continuing despite her obvious recovery on the witness stand, but Pullinger dismissed both arguments that further questioning was unnecessary.
‘You did believe Alfred Appleton’s marriage was over, didn’t you?’ began Beckwith, softly encouraging.
‘Yes.’
‘Because that was what he’d told you?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he lied to you?’
‘Your honour!’ Bartle tried to protest but Pullinger gestured him down.
‘Yes,’ said Leanne. She no longer appeared uncertain.
‘As he lied about catching chlamydia from his wife?’
‘I suppose so … from what I’ve heard here, in court.’
‘Why didn’t you go to a doctor, a venerealogist, in New York?’
‘He said he knew people in Boston who could help … that he had influence there.’
‘Alfred Appleton persuaded you to go to Boston because he had influence there!’ said Beckwith. ‘What did you understand he meant by that?’
‘I don’t really know … that they were good doctors, I suppose.’
‘Why weren’t you treated by the same venerealogist who treated him, Dr Chapman?’
‘He said it would be best if we were treated separately.’
‘Did you ask him why?’
‘No, not really. I was very upset, at having been infected. He said I wasn’t to worry. That he’d fix everything.’
‘Your honour,’ objected Bartle, again. ‘I really must protest at this! My client—’
‘Is here, in court, able to refute anything that this witness says if you choose to call him,’ stopped Pullinger. ‘As you are to cross-examine in an attempt to obtain contrary evidence if you choose, Mr Bartle.’
‘He told you he would fix everything,’ picked up Beckwith. ‘Is Alfred Appleton a dominant man, Ms Jefferies?’
‘Very much so.’
‘Who dislikes opinions contrary to his own?’ finished Beckwith.
‘Who refuses opinions contrary to his own,’ said the woman. She was sitting forward in her chair now, looking directly at Appleton.
‘When was the first time you heard of a person named Sharon Borowski?’
There was a falter from Leanne Jefferies. ‘When I was served with the court papers, ordering me to appear here.’
‘You hadn’t expected them? Been warned to expect them?’
‘Of course not!’ replied Leanne, indignantly.
‘Because you believed the divorce was already resolved: over?’
‘Exactly!’
‘What did you do?’
‘Called Alfred. Asked him what was happening.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That there had been a mix-up: a mistake. That he’d fix it.’
‘That he’d fix it,’ repeated Beckwith, for the second time. ‘How did he say he was going to fix it?’
‘He made me go to his lawyers in Boston who said—’
‘Stop!’ sharply ordered Pullinger, from the bench. ‘Do you intend pursuing this, Mr Beckwith?’
‘In view of the suit that has been brought against my client I believe it is incumbent upon me to pursue it, your honour,’ said Beckwith.
‘Mr Bartle?’ asked the judge.
‘I would respectfully submit that this is far beyond any grounds of admissibility,’ said Appleton’s lawyer.
‘Mr Wolfson?’ repeated Pullinger.
‘With equal respect, your honour, I would make the same submission,’ said Leanne’s lawyer. ‘And would further seek to approach your honour either at the bench or in chambers if your honour feels there is benefit to your court or to yourself from such discussion.’
Pullinger slumped reflectively into his high-backed chair, leaving three of the four attorneys on their feet. Leanne looked around her, confused. Alyce stared directly ahead, unmoving. Appleton’s bison’s head was forward, over his table. There were the sounds of shifting from the jury box.
Pullinger came slowly forward, further than he normally sat, immediately bringing to Jordan’s mind the imagery of a watchful predatory vulture. ‘To permit the continuation of this examination, while permissible within the bounds of law, would seriously invite the possibility of my having to dismiss this jury and declare a mistrial upon the grounds of undue and prejudicial bias. To deny its continuation provides Mr Beckwith with the opportunity to seek an appeal on behalf of his client, as indeed it does Mr Bartle and Mr Wolfson on behalf of theirs. So be it. This has been the most contentious and most unsatisfactory hearing I believe I have ever been called upon to adjudicate. I further believe, however, that at this stage it is still possible for me to direct the jury, subject to consultation with the respective attorneys about further potential witnesses, to a fitting and legally satisfactory conclusion. Which it is my intention to do. It is also my intention to release the jury from their responsibilities for the rest of this day, be available in chambers for individual or combined discussion with counsel about witnesses to whom I have already referred and subject to those representations, address the jury at the opening of the court tomorrow.’
*
‘There can’t be any doubt,’ agreed Reid.
They’d gone together to see Pullinger in chambers, to announce neither had any remaining witnesses nor objection to the hearing being closed and waited back at their tables to be recalled by the judge if the separately attending Bartle and Wolfson had raised a question needing a fuller discussion, which seemingly they hadn’t. Reid telephoned his office from the courtroom corridor, before helping Alyce into his car, and the ordered champagne – French, not American – was waiting when the four of them arrived.
Alyce hesitated at the toast and said, ‘You heard what Leanne said, about his always needing to dominate. Which I’d already told you he does. Alfred will appeal. The judge actually invited him to!’
‘Not even a control freak like your soon-to-be ex-husband could risk having paraded in open court, to be reported every day, what’s come out here,’ insisted Reid. ‘And it would come out, if you retained me to appear on your behalf at an appeal. I’d object to any closed hearing and make that clear to whatever attorney he engaged. And it wouldn’t be David Bartle. I don’t think he would take the case even if he were offered it. Which I don’t think he would be able anyway because I think Pullinger is going to report both him and Wolfson to their bar council for professional misconduct. Which in my opinion Wolfson’s move last night definitely was.’
‘I’m still waiting to hear what that was!’ protested Jordan.
‘He offered a deal, an out-of-court damages settlement of $500,000 to Alyce from Leanne if we agreed not to call her. She’d told Wolfson, who’d told Bartle, that she’d be a hostile witness because of the crap Appleton dumped on her.’
‘But I said no,’ added Alyce. ‘I didn’t – don’t – want her money. I want Alfred just once to be shown he’s not God.’
Which she would, although not immediately, thought Jordan. ‘Where was Leanne going to get $500,000?’
‘Appleton, I guess,’ said Reid. ‘Wolfson insisted the money was there, if we agreed.’
‘She wouldn’t have done,’ said Alyce. ‘The bastard would have cheated her, like he cheats everybody.’
‘Are we going to get around to drinking to victory?’ complained Beckwith.
They finally drank, Alyce hesitantly. She said, ‘Thank you. Thank all of you. I can’t believe it’s virtually all over. And it is, isn’t it? Virtually all over? We can behave like normal people again?’
‘All over but for the formalities,’ promised Reid, bringing out the Jack Daniels from his desk drawer in preference to the champagne.
Alyce shook her head against her glass being refilled, as Jordan did, moving with her away from Reid’s desk.
‘What are you doing this afternoon?’ asked Alyce.
‘I haven’t thought about it,’ lied Jordan. He’d already calculated that at only just past one he had more than sufficient time to get to Manhattan to empty the overflowing bank accounts to make room for more transfers and be back in Raleigh long before tomorrow’s court opening.
‘Why not spend it back at the house?’ invited Alyce.
‘I’d like that very much,’ accepted Jordan. The bank accounts could wait, overflowing or not.
Thirty-One
Jordan and Beckwith had alternated between cars to move between the hotel and the court building and that day they had used Jordan’s hired Ford. Beckwith accepted with a frown, although nothing more, at being told he’d need a taxi for his hotel return and within fifteen minutes Jordan and Alyce were driving in the opposite direction to the Bellamy estate. Jordan followed Alyce’s route directions from the civic centre court avoiding any possible media interference, isolating none, but Jordan quickly recognized the surroundings, and as they passed it nodded towards the previous night’s restaurant. ‘That’s where we saw them, after Wolfson made his pitch to Bob.’
‘Bob told me,’ said Alyce. ‘They must have thought you were having them watched, knowing where they were, when you walked in.’
‘They certainly reacted as if they had been caught doing something wrong,’ laughed Jordan. It wasn’t difficult for him to laugh – to be very happy – alone with Alyce driving through the low, undulating North Carolina countryside.
‘I can’t believe they thought I’d go for the offer, legal or otherwise. Bob doesn’t think they ever expected you to fight the case in the first place; that you’d be too frightened of losing and simply stay away.’
‘I still might wish I had stayed, after tomorrow.’
‘I’m not as confident as either Bob or Dan,’ Alyce admitted. ‘They don’t know Alfred like I do. He doesn’t lose, ever: doesn’t know how. He’ll appeal if there’s the slightest room for him to do so.’ There had been no building, no sign of any habitation at all, for the previous fifteen minutes and Alyce raised her arm, gesturing to his right. ‘Just around this bend there’s a turning to the right that suddenly comes up. Take it.’
Jordan did and almost at once found himself on the edge of a plain that stretched out in all directions as far as he could see. He said, ‘That’s incredible! The world’s flat and we’re right at the edge!’
Alyce shifted in her seat. Quietly, as if she were embarrassed, she said, ‘It’s all Bellamy land, as far as the horizon and as much – more than as much – again beyond.’
‘That’s … I don’t know … it must be …’ groped Jordan.
‘A lot of land,’ helped Alyce. ‘And there’s more, way over to the south right up to the coast. We’ve leased a lot of it: long, hundred year leases, but we still own it.’
‘You own it,’ qualified Jordan.
‘Ultimately, I guess,’ agreed Alyce. ‘It’s all tied up in trusts and foundations and charities and God knows what. It was all here for the taking when the first ships landed, all those years ago. And a man named Hector Bellamy took it. At least, unlike most of the other early settlers, he didn’t annihilate the native Americans who already lived here. Maybe he should have done. According to the history they rose up against his settlement and killed him. But not until he had sons …’ Almost inaudibly, she said, ‘Which I can’t now have.’
Jordan wasn’t sure if she’d intended him to hear and pretended that he hadn’t. They drove on for what Jordan knew from the car’s speedometer trip to be a further ten miles, passing through an unexpected neon-lit township – which Jordan thought of as an unwelcome intrusion – before Alyce gestured another right turning on to a private blacktop. Within yards there was a CCTV-monitored gatehouse with a further camera-mounted identification speaker grill, into which Alyce leaned across him to announce their arrival. A huge, electronically-controlled barrier that filled the entire gate space began to open. From both sides of the gatehouse spread a high fence in front of which, at intervals, were printed warnings of its electrification. About twenty yards behind the fence began a thatch of even higher trees seemingly planted without any design but which, in fact, formed a straggled forest beyond which it was impossible to see from the outside. No house was immediately visible but there were several flocks of faraway sheep as well as a herd of nervously attentive deer. When the buildings came into view Jordan realized that there was not one house but several, a complex dominated by the central, columned and veranda-encircled white clapboard original with separate, two-and three-storey constructions grouped around it, completed by a single storey, L-shaped stabling to one side. Around it all was looped a stand of very tall and long-established shading trees. Jordan was surprised, when he stopped, to see that they had only been driving a little over an hour.
As the towering front door opened to their approach Jordan said, ‘It’ll be a uniformed butler!’
‘House manager,’ corrected Alyce, although it was a man in a black suit and tie waiting for them at the entrance. ‘We’ll eat something when I’ve got out of these court clothes.’ To the man she said, ‘We’ll use the garden room, Stephen. Take Mr Jordan through, will you?’
Alyce’s instinctive au
thority he remembered from that night at the Carlyle – but only occasionally in France – had returned, Jordan recognized, following the man as Alyce mounted the wide stairway winding around half of the circular entrance hall. From its panelled walls were displayed a portrait gallery of whom Jordan guessed to be Alyce’s ancestors. The garden room fulfilled its title. It was a vast glass-walled and roofed conservatory stretching out into sculpted and fountain-flower displays on three sides, with long-leafed plants and vases of more flowers inside. Jordan declined the offered drink, looking out beyond the neatly bordered and colour-coordinated beds in which two gardeners were working.
When Alyce entered she was wearing a V-necked sweater, light blue jeans that Jordan was sure he’d seen in France and was barefoot. He nodded in the direction in which he had been frowning and said, ‘What looks like a long red flag, way beyond all the buildings? It’s a wind sock, right?’
‘An airstrip,’ she agreed. ‘Flying is the quickest and most convenient way to commute up and down from New York. There’s a helicopter as well as a Lear. Both owned and run by the Bellamy Foundation.’
‘I didn’t guess it was anything like this … as extensive as this … an empire.’
Alyce shrugged. ‘Stephen offer you a drink?’
‘I thought I’d wait.’ Jordan saw that while he’d stood with his back to the room a table, glass topped to fit its surroundings, had been laid with cutlery, goblets and tumblers.
‘Lunch is scrambled eggs and smoked salmon.’
‘Sounds good.’
Alyce, totally comfortable in her own accustomed environment – the creator of her own environment – went to a side cooler Jordan hadn’t seen and said, ‘How about a drink now?
Jordan saw at once that it was the white burgundy he’d ordered for them in France. ‘Now I’d like one.’ His conflicting – unaccustomed – feelings were colliding. At that precise moment he knew himself to be confused. Seeking a balancing plateau, he said, ‘I thought your mother would be here?’
‘She likes the beach house at this time of the year. She paints. Actually paints quite well.’
Faraway in another part of the mansion there was the distant sound of a telephone and almost at once a louder summons from a multi-lined console on a side table. As Jordan gestured that he was leaving the room he heard Alyce say, ‘Hello? Hi … Sorry … Yes, he’s here now … I’m fine … no problem … OK …’ He was at the door when he heard, ‘Hey, come back.’ And when he re-entered the room she said, ‘Thanks for the politeness but you didn’t have to do that. It was Walter. He’s coming over when he’s finished.’
The Namedropper Page 35
