A Season in Purgatory

by Dominick Dunne

  “But there is no jury at an arraignment,” insisted Maureen.

  “There’s going to be at the trial,” said Valerie, who had taken an instant dislike to Maureen. “And, besides, I think Constant’s adorable.”

  Several times Constant turned and smiled encouragement to members of his family. Then he was told to rise. He rose from his seat and stood in place at the defense table.

  The judge, Edda Consalvi, spoke in a lugubrious, knelllike voice as she read the charge that had been brought against him. “You have been charged with the murder of Winifred Utley, lying in wait for her, bludgeoning her to death with multiple blows from a baseball bat, for which, if convicted, you could receive life in prison. How do you plead?”

  There was silence in the courtroom, as the spectators and reporters waited for him to reply. The television camera was trained on his face. The only sounds that could be heard were the clicking of the shutter of the single still camera that Judge Consalvi allowed in her courtroom. Instead of replying from the defense table, as was the norm, Constant approached the bench, walking slowly. Once there, he leaned forward and looked Judge Consalvi straight in the eye.

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” he said. Then he turned and walked back to his seat.

  “That was a nice touch, walking up to the bench and looking at Consalvi like that. It looked sincere. Whose idea was that?” asked Sandro. “Jerry’s?”

  “No. Valerie Sabbath’s.”

  At the end of the day, the deluge was at its most violent. The lawyer who had driven me had been called to the district attorney’s office. Other members of the team had dispersed. I found myself without transportation. I called for a taxi. Because of the storm and the close of the business day, all the taxis were taken. The dispatcher told me to wait in front of the courthouse, and he would send the first available cab there. I stood without an umbrella and waited. From the underground garage came the Bradley station wagon, filled with lawyers and family members. Constant sat in the front seat, with Maureen between him and the driver. Behind, in the center seat, sat Jerry, with Valerie Sabbath on one side and a member of her defense team on the other. At the same moment they all spotted me, standing, soaked, waiting for the taxi. Even in the pounding rain, I could hear the roar from inside the car. I had become the enemy of the family. The station wagon veered toward me, splashing the muddy water from a curbside puddle over me. I could hear the shouts of laughter as the car went on.

  Five minutes later, when the cab had not arrived, I turned to go back inside the courthouse. A car pulled up. The driver honked his horn. I turned. The driver rolled down a window. “Need a ride?” he called out.

  “Yes, yes,” I called back. I ran and got into the front seat. “I’m soaked, I’m afraid. I’ll get your car all wet.”

  “It don’t matter,” he said. “Where to?”

  “The Hessian. It’s a hotel on Wentworth Street.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.”

  “This is very kind of you. I made a terrible mistake today and let myself be driven. I won’t do that again.”

  “No, you’re right. You should always have your own wheels.”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

  I turned. He was a stout man with a friendly Irish face. I didn’t recognize him. I wondered if he had been a policeman on one of my many visits to the police station in Scarborough Hill.

  “Fatty Malloy,” he said. “When I knew you, they used to call you Harry.”

  “Oh, my God. Fatty. How are you? It’s been years.”

  “What’s that expression? A lotta water over the dam.”

  “Yes, you can say that again, a lotta water,” I said. “It’s a wonder you would pick me up. The family station wagon just splashed a reservoir over me.”

  “I saw. That was probably Constant saying, ‘Get him.’ They always like a good joke. You must remember that,” he said, laughing. When Fatty laughed, his eyes disappeared into slits, and he looked, momentarily, Chinese.

  I did not respond.

  “Are you sorry you got into this?” he asked.

  “You know, Fatty, I don’t really think I should be discussing this with you. Anything I say, you could repeat back to them. We’re on opposite sides here.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The family dropped me like a smelly turd when I refused to quit my job at the market to be an orderly for Uncle Gerald after his stroke.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I didn’t want to carry Uncle Gerald back and forth to the toilet and have to wipe his ass for him, and that’s what they had in mind for me to do. There’s a lot of people who make a living doing that who could use the work.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I don’t like it that they snap their fingers and expect you to change your life to accommodate them when they get themselves into trouble, especially when you haven’t heard from any of them for years, except Aunt Grace, who sends a Christmas gift each year. The first thing Constant said to me when I went out to Southampton was, ‘Hey, Fatty, show us how you pack the grocery bags,’ and they all laughed, and then they say, when they think they may have hurt your feelings. ‘Aw, we’re only kidding you, Fatty. You know we love you.’ My job at Riley’s Market may not be a big deal in their eyes, but I like doing it, and I’m good at it.”

  “What about Sis?”

  “Oh, Sis went. She’d do anything Aunt Grace wanted her to do. When it happened, you know, when Winifred Utley got killed way back in ’73, Jerry tried to get me to take the fall, to say I was in the house that night, that I was drunk, that it was an accident. He had a scenario all worked out. He said I’d get just a couple of years for manslaughter, but that Sis and I’d be taken care of for life.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep.”

  “Would you testify to that?”

  “No, I couldn’t do that.”

  “Who knows this?”

  “Nobody. Not even my sister. She worships all of them, especially Aunt Grace.”

  “Dear God,” I said.

  “Listen, Harry, if they could have pinned it on you, they would have, you know. I’m sure it was discussed,” said Fatty. “But you were too smart, and they all knew it.”

  We pulled up to the hotel. “Come on in and have a drink with me,” I said.

  “No. Too risky. Besides, you better get some dry clothes on.”

  “You know, Fatty, I should have gone to the police back when it happened. I shouldn’t have lied. It’s haunted my life, knowing what I knew.”

  “Let up on yourself, Harry. Look at it this way. If you’d gone to the police, or even threatened to go, something might have happened to you. You were not a very noticeable character in those days. Who the hell would have missed you? You had no parents, no friends to speak of, except Constant. Only your aunt Gert. What’s the matter?”

  “A chill just went through me.”

  “You’re soaked, that’s why.”

  “Yes, that’s why.”

  “They used to laugh at your aunt Gert, you know, when you weren’t there, just as they used to laugh at Sis and me.”

  I couldn’t bear to think that they had laughed at Aunt Gert. After I showered and changed, I drove over to St. Mary’s Home in Ansonia, where she had been a patient for years. I hadn’t been to see Aunt Gert in ages. The last time I had seen her, she hadn’t recognized me.

  “Visiting hours are over,” said the nun on duty.

  “Yes, I know, but can’t you bend the rules just this once? I would like to see her. I have come a long way. Please. I am her nephew. I pay her bills here.”

  “Let me see if she’s asleep,” said the nun.

  Finally I was let in. Aunt Gert looked tiny in her bed. Her face was very pale and her hair very white. She looked over at me, and I knew she recognized me. I leaned over and kissed her forehead. She reached out her hand, and I took it and sat on the
edge of her bed. I didn’t tell her that Claire and I were separated. I didn’t tell her that I was involved in a murder trial. I didn’t tell her that I had more or less abandoned my career, at least for the present time, because I could not concentrate on anything but what was happening in my life. I could, and did, talk about the twins. She loved hearing about Timmy and Charlie. I had brought her a picture of the boys, and her face lit up with joy. Then I stood up to leave.

  “I wanted to say thank you, Aunt Gert, for taking care of me after they died,” I said. She knew I meant my mother and father. With her, I always said they died, not that they were killed, or murdered. “I don’t think I ever told you that before. I don’t think I was ever grateful enough. I didn’t understand how good you were to me. I didn’t understand how important your advice was to me. Once you said to me, ‘You are bewitched by those people, Harrison.’ Do you remember that? I was. You were right. I didn’t listen.”

  She looked at me.

  “I know you’re getting tired. Before I go, I want to ask you something. Do you still pray so much? Do you? Pray for me.”

  I leaned over and kissed her cheek. I never realized that I had loved her. Her eyes followed me.

  “Thank you, Aunt Gert. I love you.”

  16

  I grew fond of Fatty Malloy. Occasionally we would meet, always in secret. He talked to Sis every day and kept me abreast of the doings in the family.

  “Gerald has become very religious,” he said. “Communion every day. Cardinal has sort of reconverted him back. Cardinal said to Sis, ‘He has reembraced his Catholicism with fervor. It is a beautiful thing to see.’ ”

  “Gerald religious?” I was incredulous.

  “According to Sis, Cardinal says he’s abandoned the sins of the flesh.”

  “I would think at age seventy-five, after a massive stroke, it was time to slow down in the flesh department.”

  Fatty roared with laughter.

  “How’s Kitt?” I asked.

  “She’s always falling down, covered with bruises, or breaking a toe, or something.”

  “Who is that girl?” asked Kitt. She was sitting in the car outside the courthouse with Maureen.

  “Her name is Maud Firth, from Lake Forest. Winston Firth’s daughter,” said Maureen.

  “Oh, yes, Maud Firth. I thought I recognized her.”

  “You know her?”

  “I went to her coming-out. What’s she doing here?”

  “The same thing Weegie Somerset’s doing. Testifying against Constant.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Kitt. “I never heard about that.”

  On the day of the preliminary hearing to discuss the admissibility of the testimony of Weegie Somerset, who, married, was now known as Louise Belmont, and Maud Firth, the atmosphere in the courtroom was tense. The prosecution felt that the testimony of the women at the trial was vital for a conviction, as it showed a pattern of behavior on the part of Constant Bradley. Valerie Sabbath was equally determined to keep the two women from testifying in front of a jury.

  “Let me go over this with you one more time, Constant and Jerry, so you absolutely understand what ‘pattern of behavior’ means in a court of law,” said Valerie, speaking low to her client and his brother at the defense table. “At the risk of appearing a little crude, I’ll give you an example. If you had pasted on a red mustache every time you fucked these women, and you only fucked them up the ass, and all the women were Chinese, that’s a pattern of behavior. But just knocking them around a little bit doesn’t necessarily constitute a pattern of behavior. Understand?”

  The brothers looked at each other.

  “Do you understand?” she repeated.

  “Yes,” said Constant.

  “Weegie what’shername in the cabana, who later tells Captain Riordan you didn’t hit her, and then almost twenty years later says you did, forget it,” said Valerie. “I scared the shit out of that girl, with her little pageboy and her little gold barrettes, when I took her deposition. She’ll cave in on the stand, you mark my words.”

  Constant didn’t reply.

  “Take Maud Firth. That’s a little different. She had seventeen stitches. There are hospital records. But she took money, am I right? A settlement? And she was loaded when it happened, right? That won’t look so good when I get her up there. There’s a fruit cousin, called Fruity Suarez, if you can believe that name, whom she went to see that night. He wants to testify how beat up she was.”

  “Fruity Suarez got kicked out of Milford for kissing dicks,” said Constant.

  “Good to know,” said Valerie, making a note. “You mark my words, Judge Consalvi will disallow the testimony of these ladies.”

  A smartly dressed woman walked down the corridor of the courthouse.

  “You probably won’t remember me, Harrison,” she said. “I’m Louise Belmont. When we knew each other in Scarborough Hill, I was Weegie Somerset.”

  “Of course, I remember you, Weegie,” I said.

  “I just hate today. I’m terrified,” she said. “My husband’s furious with me for agreeing to testify at this hearing. I think it’s wonderful what you did, Harrison.”

  “The betrayer, I’m called. A snitch, a sleaze, you name it.”

  “I don’t call you any of those things. My parents don’t, either. There’s a lot of people cheering for you.”

  “Why did you always say he didn’t hit you that night in Watch Hill? I was out by the cabana that night. I saw. I heard. But you told Captain Riordan after Winifred was killed that it wasn’t true. Why did you do that?”

  “I loved him then. I ached with love for him. I’m sure if I had gone to the police then, Winifred might still be alive today. I felt responsible in a way, and now that I’ve got a little girl of my own, I had to come forward when Mr. Lupino called me in for a deposition.”

  Valerie Sabbath was chatting in a corner of the corridor with Charlotte Bradley. A woman quite unlike Weegie Somerset and Maud Firth walked by, her hair in a snood.

  “Who’s that?” asked Charlotte.

  “Wanda Symanski,” said Valerie.

  “The one my husband picked up in the bar in Sag Harbor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she testifying?”

  “Not yet. She’s made charges that are unprovable.”

  “She’s not even waitress-pretty,” said Charlotte.

  A television news cameraman came precariously close to their faces with his camera. “Take that camera out of my face,” Valerie yelled at the cameraman. Charlotte withdrew quickly, out of camera range, but Valerie was incensed at the intrusion. As the cameraman withdrew, he held the camera on her. She followed him down the length of the corridor, holding up her middle ringer to the lens. “This what you want? This what you want?” she screamed in a taunting voice. By this time, the corridor was filled with reporters. “You people think you own the courthouse,” she screamed at them. “I was having a private talk with Mrs. Constant Bradley, and he stuck his camera right in my face. You sleazoids will go to any length. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

  “Oh, dear,” said Maureen.

  Maureen and Kitt and Charlotte sat unblinking and stony-faced as the prosecutor, Bert Lupino, gave graphic descriptions of the depositions of Weegie Somerset and Maud Firth. Their hands were folded in their laps. Through the years, they had heard whispers that there had been an altercation with Weegie, but they did not know about Maud Firth. They had never heard that she had been knocked down in a hotel room and had seventeen stitches taken in her head.

  “I don’t believe a word of that,” said Maureen.

  Neither Kitt nor Charlotte said anything.

  Judge Consalvi said she would make her ruling on the admissibility of the women’s testimony on the first day of the trial.

  The more salacious newspapers and television shows reported the event with painful prominence.

  “Oh, dear,” said Maureen, watching the television news.

  For the first time in ye
ars I had days with nothing to do. My time was taken up only with waiting for the trial to start. Each postponement requested by Valerie Sabbath and granted by Judge Edda Consalvi was agonizing. I lost interest in the sort of stories that used to fascinate me to write. I could no longer cover trials. I was in one. I went on leave from my career. I had no office to go to. I had no deadlines to keep. I stopped swimming. I read War and Peace. I read the six Palliser novels. I rented videos, six at a time, but rarely saw one all the way through. Other than Fatty Malloy, to whom I became devoted, I had no one to talk to who was not involved in the case. I missed Claire. I missed her intelligent conversation. I missed being married. I missed the day-to-day life of watching my sons grow up. I telephoned them each evening at six, eager to hear their tales of playschool and Halloween costumes and the class pageant. More and more I drove up to the country to see them, and take them out to McDonald’s, but also to talk to Claire. I asked her to tell me about the book she was editing. She was totally involved with the work of an author she had discovered, and read me passages from her first novel. For those moments my turmoil abated. She never asked, “What’s the latest?”—meaning about the case—for which I was grateful. But when I spoke, I would start sentences with “When the trial begins” or “When the trial is over.” It was the moment in my life that I was waiting for and dreading. All things led to it and away from it. Claire understood without saying she understood. Once she said, “Are you keeping a journal? Are you keeping track of all this? You should, you know.” When I left them, I often had nowhere to go. I began driving with no purpose in mind, looking at towns and villages and covered bridges and seasonal changes, things I had never spent time doing before.

  One day, stopping to look at a sign, I realized that I was near the village where the Milford School was. I had never gone back there since I graduated in 1973. I rarely read the school magazine they sent me, even though I heard from time to time I was written up in it. I knew that Dr. Shugrue had retired and become headmaster emeritus. Once I had a letter from the new headmaster asking me if I would come and speak at the school, but I declined, saying that I was going to be on assignment in Europe, although that was not the truth. I drove through the village, which had become a small town. The local theater where Constant and I had sneaked to movies had become a cineplex. At the far end of Main Street, I turned to the right and drove up the hill. At the top of the hill was the entrance to Milford. THE MILFORD SCHOOL said the sign. What a strange feeling it was to look down on the school that sprawled below. I had forgotten how happy I had been there, until it happened.