by Sydney Bauer
‘No!’ But Sara saw it, the hint of panic in her eyes.
‘And isn’t it the case that the letter you read for us in court, the same letter you claim brands Rayna Martin as a racist, is actually a note referring to Christina’s frustration at the intolerance of her own parents?’
‘Objection,’ Katz was up. ‘Your Honour, this is preposterous. I understand we have to allow Ms Davis some leverage given her inexperience but, not only is she badgering the witness, she is also on the border of committing slander against one of this country’s finest public figures.’
‘He’s right, Ms Davis. This better be moving somewhere fast.’
‘Yes, Your Honour.’
Sara expected this. The main reason for asking the questions was to set up an alternative scenario in the jurors’ minds, and to have Elizabeth’s negative responses on record.
‘Mrs Haynes, earlier this week you spoke of your impenetrable bond with your daughter.’
‘Yes.’
‘She was your miracle.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your only child.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your greatest achievement.’
‘Yes.’
Elizabeth shifted in her seat.
‘Would you say you had a good memory, Mrs Haynes?’
‘Well yes, I would.’
‘Short term? Long term?’
‘Yes. Yes. I don’t understand, Ms Davis. Is this some form of cruel joke?’
Elizabeth’s eyes shot across the courtroom to her husband. It was a quick glance, not seen by the majority of the gallery. But Sara caught it.
‘On the contrary, Mrs Haynes. I am just trying to establish the importance of a mother/daughter relationship, an unforgettable connection would you agree?’
‘Yes, yes. I have already said . . .’
Elizabeth stopped short and watched to see Sara turn and nod to Tyrone Banks who had moved to the back of the courtroom. She pulled out her white lace handkerchief from her white Escada suit jacket and began to twist it in her perfectly French manicured hands, behind the witness partition.
Tyrone responded to Sara’s signal by opening the large cedar double doors prompting every head in the room to swivel around, determined not to miss the next instalment in this unbelievable chain of events. Four people entered the room and proceeded to move up the centre aisle and towards the bench immediately behind the defence table.
The first to enter was a tall man with thick grey hair and a distinctively proud stride – Senator Theodore Buford. He led the group up the aisle like a guardian, assisting an older man who walked with one arm on Buford’s elbow and the other on an old brown walking stick. This elderly man was of average height, with white hair and leathery skin. He walked slowly, but with his head high.
The third to enter, behind Buford and the old man, was a woman of about forty. She was tall, attractive and well groomed, with coffee-coloured skin, shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes. Her right hand held the small dark hand of a little boy, aged about six, who seemed more than happy to be the centre of attention.
Sara saw Haynes react immediately. He bent forward to whisper something in Scaturro’s ear. Sara saw the Senator’s right index finger point towards Ted Buford but guessed he was having trouble identifying the three other members of the group.
Scaturro turned closer towards Haynes, Katz now out of their little huddle. Sara watched as the pair then turned to look at Elizabeth as if trying to ascertain if she could shed some light on the identity of the three strangers.
Elizabeth’s normally cream complexion had turned a sickly shade of grey. She recognised at least one of them, Sara was sure of it. In fact, she was counting on it.
‘Mrs Haynes, do you recognise this man?’ said Sara, pointing at Senator Buford.
Elizabeth was starting to perspire.
‘Yes,’ Elizabeth managed. ‘It is Ted Buford, from Louisiana. Mr Buford is a Republican Senator. He and my husband . . . they . . .’
‘They what, Mrs Haynes?’
Elizabeth’s eyes flicked quickly towards her husband, before returning to Sara.
‘They do not see eye to eye,’ she said, her breaths now short.
‘And what about the elderly gentleman seated next to Senator Buford? Do you recognise this man, Mrs Haynes?’
‘I . . .’ Elizabeth stuttered. ‘No, I . . .’
‘Yes or no, Mrs Haynes.’
‘I am not sure. He is so . . . old. I . . .’
‘Mrs Haynes, do you wear glasses?’
‘Ah yes, but usually just for reading.’
‘Would you mind putting them on now?’
‘I . . .’ Elizabeth looked up at Stein who nodded for her to proceed. She fished into her small Chanel purse and retrieved a pair of petite mother of pearl YSL eye glasses, unfolding their arms and bringing them up to her face. ‘Dear God,’ she said.
‘Yes Beth,’ said the old man rising from his seat.
‘Spence. Spence, is that you?’
‘Yes dear,’ he said.
‘Mrs Haynes,’ said Sara softly, trying not to break Elizabeth’s focus. ‘This man is Spencer Bloom who once worked for your father as a motor mechanic on your family’s property at Green Farms, Connecticut. Is that correct?’
‘Yes . . . yes. But it was so long ago, I assumed he was . . .’
‘Dead? No,’ smiled Spencer now aged ninety-two. ‘I’m still here. It’s family. They keep you going, give you a reason to go on living.’
‘Yes . . . I . . .’ Elizabeth began. ‘But I don’t understand. Why . . . ?’
‘Mrs Haynes,’ Sara continued, ‘I know you have never seen the woman next to Mr Bloom, but she has been waiting her entire life to meet you, so I will allow her to introduce herself.’
Scaturro went to object but Stein used his hand to signal a return to her seat. There was no way to stop this thing now, the entire room waited as the woman stood to say: ‘My name is Mary Beth Bloom McCarthy. Spencer Bloom is my grandfather, my father was killed in Vietnam and my mother . . . well, my mother gave me up at birth and her name was . . . her name is, Elizabeth Whitman Haynes.’
There were no words to describe what happened next as the noise in the room exploded. A court artist drew madly, trying to capture Elizabeth’s shocked expression, making the most of the unusual light which had now turned her shiny skin a surreal shade of lilac.
Stein called for order and the racket subsided as quickly as it had risen, for they all wanted to hear how the witness would respond. But all she could manage was . . .
‘No.’
‘Mrs Haynes,’ Mary Beth continued, ‘this is my son, Christopher. He was named after his father. Christopher,’ she said turning to the boy, ‘this is your grandmother.’
The child looked up into this pale woman’s eyes, confused by all the fuss and not knowing how to react.
‘Hello Grandmother,’ he said and the crowd erupted again.
‘No! No. Rudi please,’ shrieked Elizabeth, determined her husband hear her above the din. But the Senator sat mute, a look of pure disgust on his face. ‘Rudi, I can explain,’ she called.
‘Be quiet, Elizabeth,’ said Haynes getting to his feet, his voice strong and loud, his hands clenched on the bench in front of him.
‘It was one stupid mistake,’ she said still struggling to be heard. ‘My father sent me away to a clinic. To New Hampshire. I only saw her for a minute. I thought she was adopted. I thought she was with her own kind. Look at her! I could never have kept her. I did not know that Spencer took her. My father told me it had been taken care of.’
Sara felt a surge of emotion well up inside her. She had a lot in common with Mary Beth Bloom McCarthy.
‘I . . .’ she turned again to her husband. ‘Christopher was not black, his mother was black but I promise you Topher looked white, I broke it off as soon as he told me. You know I would never have . . .’
‘Objection,’ yelled Scaturro, not knowing exactly what she was o
bjecting to but determined to stop the witness from incriminating herself further. But it was too late, the jury had heard every word. Even Nancy Pirot looked at Elizabeth with disgust.
Stein banged his gavel. ‘Order, order. Objection overruled, Ms Scaturro. I want to get to the bottom of this. I will ask the gallery to behave or else I shall be forced to clear the courtroom.’ He banged his gavel again. ‘Go on, Ms Davis.’
‘Mrs Haynes,’ said Sara, ‘Mrs McCarthy can provide evidence of her parentage. Whether or not you chose to accept her as your first daughter – a daughter you now have the chance to get to know and love – is entirely up to you.’
‘I . . . I am very tired and I cannot . . .’ said Elizabeth. Her mouth looked dry, her eyes bloodshot.
‘Ms Davis,’ said Stein, ‘I understand the need for further questioning of this witness, but I am becoming concerned for her welfare. Perhaps a short recess so that we might . . .’
‘Please, Your Honour. I am almost done. There are just a few more questions I need to ask and then this will all be over for good.’
At that point Tyrone opened the back door again, allowing a tall, dark-haired man to enter the room. He was lean but strong, in his thirties, with close cropped hair and an athletic stance. He wore a clean-cut black suit, crisp white shirt and dark tie with shoes so shiny they reflected the light, and sunglasses so dark they concealed any hint of the eyes that lay behind them.
The room was abuzz as to his identity, with most agreeing he looked like a federal agent of some sort. Unlike the other group, this man did not move to the front, but remained near the doors right at the back of the room.
Sara hoped Elizabeth would now be lulled into accepting what they needed to propose. But they didn’t have much time. Haynes would be quick to see through their plan. This was a gamble.
Elizabeth squinted to see who it was and then her face showed pure horror. She looked at her husband who had turned completely around to stare at the man who now stood slightly behind Tyrone, and was, as such, blocked from his view.
‘Mrs Haynes,’ said Sara, knowing she had to be quick. ‘Do you know a man named Vincent Verne?’
Sara shot a look at the Senator, the veins in his brow now bulging in a contorted network of dread as he tried desperately to see around Tyrone.
‘I . . .’ Elizabeth turned to her husband, but he was still facing the back of the room.
‘Yes or no, Mrs Haynes?’ asked Sara.
‘Ah, yes, he is a friend of my husband’s.’
Haynes turned back to his wife, his face said it all. Stupid answer.
‘Ah, no . . . he is a business associate, I think.’
Sara stole another quick look at Haynes. His head snapping back from the obscured man at the back of the room towards his now panicking wife.
‘Did Mr Verne work for your husband?’
‘Ah, no. I mean, they are friends . . . no, more like acquaintances.’
‘Isn’t it true that Mr Verne once worked as a secret service agent for the President of the United States, but was forced to step down for medical reasons?’
‘I believe that is right. I am not sure.’
‘And since that time, he has been in the employ of your husband?’
‘I already told you, they are acquaintances.’
Sara tried to keep tabs on Haynes, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head before turning once more towards the back of the room.
‘And his job was to carry out various discreet investigations and act as a form of personal security . . .’
And then Sara saw it, the realisation in Haynes’ eyes. This was not Verne, it was an impostor – a trick.
Haynes turned to whisper to Scaturro and Sara looked at David. They had one chance, one chance to get her to give him up. She had to ask the question now – right now – or else their opportunity would be lost. Sara took his cue and walked quickly up to the witness stand, confronting Elizabeth face to face, blocking her view of her husband.
‘Mrs Haynes, is it not true that a call was made from your house to Mr Verne in his hotel room at the Boston Regency Plaza Hotel on the night of 28 June of this year, the same night as your husband’s honorary banquet, the same night Teesha Martin was shot and almost killed?’
‘Don’t answer that, Elizabeth,’ yelled Haynes.
‘Objection,’ yelled Scaturro.
‘The witness will answer the question,’ overruled Stein, now banging his gavel demanding some quiet.
‘I don’t remember,’ said Elizabeth, her voice a bare whisper above the hubbub.
‘Mrs Haynes,’ Sara pushed on, her voice now loud and clear, ‘the police have the telephone log in hand. There is no use denying it. You are under oath and, as such, in danger of committing perjury and being arrested and incarcerated. I will ask you again. Is it not true that a call was made from your home to Mr Verne in his Regency Plaza Hotel suite 1025, on the night of 28 June?’
‘Stop Elizabeth,’ yelled Haynes. ‘It’s a trick.’
‘Mrs Haynes . . . ?’ demanded Sara.
‘I am not sure . . . perhaps . . .’ said Elizabeth.
‘Objection,’ yelled Scaturro, now on her feet.
But Sara shouted over the top. ‘And did not this caller instruct Mr Verne to carry out the assassination of your daughter’s African-American friend? Did not this caller tell Vincent Verne to kill Layteesha Martin for fear she might reveal the true identity of the real bigots in this courtroom?’
The room held its breath, Stein bent forward to hear the witness’s response and Scaturro and Katz were both on their feet, yelling objection after objection after objection.
‘Enough, Counsellors,’ said Stein banging his gavel, his voice loud and strong above his congregation. ‘The witness will answer the question.’
And then as the noise diminished the strangest thing happened.
Elizabeth Haynes looked at Stein. Then, she faced forward and looked at Sara, before turning to her left to look at the jury and smile. She got out her purse and began to check her face in a small tortoise shell mirror. She used her right index finger to remove a breakaway wisp of hair from her left eyebrow, and pursed her lips to smooth out her neutral-coloured lipstick before shutting the mirror – ‘click’ – returning it to her bag, and shifting her gaze to look straight at her husband.
‘Rudolph, I am sorry. But your efforts were getting us nowhere. I had no choice. You were right. The girl may have had further evidence – another letter, another diary.’
My God. Sara turned to look at David in shock. It was her. It wasn’t Haynes, it was his wife.
‘I had to protect us. I was only doing what you seemed unwilling to do. Because you see, I am stronger than you think. I even thought you would be proud of me.’ She let out a small sigh as if the thought now seemed ridiculous. ‘It’s all right, Rudi. She is in a coma. I saw her. She cannot testify. They have no proof.
‘Not to worry, my dear. There are no further surprises. That is the lot of them. Over and done with.’ Elizabeth paused before turning again to look at Judge Stein.
‘Is that all, Your Honour?’ she smiled. ‘Because you see I am really quite tired. It has been a long morning and the light has been bothering my eyes.
‘I . . . I would like to step down now, if that is all right, for I have said all there is to say. There is nothing else. No more secrets, no more lies. That is the lot of it. I promise.’
51
It was early – 4am. Rayna Martin could not sleep.
She twisted in her tiny bunk, trying to avoid the springs that dug into her ribs and attain some semblance of rest. She had become accustomed to sleeping in a building full of people, hearing their night-time noises – their coughs, their sighs, their tears.
But tonight, she revelled in the interruptions for they came in the form of two-hourly checks, of Teesha’s blood pressure and heart rate and oxygen intake.
Her bunk sat a foot below Teesha’s hospital bed and every now and again she
would sit up to look at the most beautiful face in the world.
‘Teesha,’ she whispered, sure her daughter could hear her. ‘I am here, my darling. Mom is here and I will never, ever leave you again.’
52
Two months after trial.
‘Congratulations,’ said Joe Mannix, shaking the hand of Boston’s newly elected District Attorney.
‘Thanks, Joe. To be honest, this victory feels even sweeter than the first.’
Joe Mannix put on his sunglasses. Despite the onset of the fall, the sun was strong and bright and this evening, as it bounced off the seemingly weightless golden dome above Beacon Hill’s strikingly beautiful Massachusetts State House, it cast a circle of clarity down upon the impeccable grounds below. The whole world looked as if it had been given a fresh coat of paint, including Loretta Scaturro who, as guest of honour at this election reception, was glowing with newfound enthusiasm.
Scaturro took Joe by the elbow. ‘Walk with me a minute, will you?’
‘Sure,’ said Joe who always felt uncomfortable at these coat and tie functions.
‘You’re surprised,’ she began as she steered him away from the majority of the early evening cocktail crowd.
Joe took his usual route and decided to say nothing.
‘Of course you are. You never dreamed we could win a second term after the Martin trial.’
‘Well,’ said Joe. ‘It was a pretty big loss.’
‘But that’s where you’re wrong, Joe. A “not guilty” would have been a loss. This was a dismissal. Two totally different things.’
‘If you say so.’
‘It’s true. No jury would have convicted Rayna Martin after Elizabeth Haynes’ testimony. I had to drop the charges. It was the smartest thing to do, the responsible thing to do. No hard feelings. Justice was served.’
‘Like I said, if you say so.’
‘Besides, if it was anyone’s loss it was Roger’s, not mine.’
They walked some more, down towards the eastern side of the building, stopping near the statue of Mary Dyer, a Quaker hanged in 1660 for defending her religious beliefs.
‘Now there’s a shoo-in for another term,’ said Scaturro, following Mannix’s gaze back towards the front gates where Mayor Novelli and his wife Sofia had just arrived.
