by Wendy Walker
“Mrs. Anderson? Leigh Anderson?” Marie asked.
“Yes. Who’s this?”
Marie sighed and looked at Randy. Here we go.
“My name is Marie Passeti. I’m a lawyer in Connecticut’representing Carson Farrell.”
There was a long silence. Marie and Randy locked eyes as they waited for the response.
“Yes?” she said, cautiously, confirming they had found the right Leigh Anderson.
“Mr. Farrell is in a custody dispute with his wife and we’re trying to pin down the events of the morning when his daughter passed. It might be important in helping Carson.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, though she wasn’t at all certain if this was the right tack. How well did Mrs. Anderson know the Farrell children? Or Mrs. Farrell? Was she partial to one of them? Did she, like everyone else, blame Farrell for his daughter’s death? Or did she pity him? Marie didn’t have the patience tonight to feel her out.
The woman let out a soft moan. “Such a shame,” she said in a solemn voice. “Such a tragic shame.”
“Yes. Tragic.”
“What is it you need from me?” Her intonation reflected a growing skepticism.
“Just a technicality, really. I’m trying to make sure Carson has all his facts straight for his deposition.” Marie’s face squinted as she lied. “I wanted to confirm the time of the phone call he made to the office that morning. That’s all.”
It was a good place to start’something benign that the woman could answer in good conscience. Then they would move on to more important matters.
But Mrs. Anderson was silent. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“Oh,” Marie said. “Well, I have in my notes that Carson called the office that morning around nine forty. But they’re from a while back when I first interviewed him. Do I have it wrong?”
Randy sat back, his eyes wide with concern.
“Yes, you must have misunderstood him. Mr. Farrell was in the office that morning. He received a call sometime before ten. Then he left in a hurry.”
Marie held back a gasp. Randy was motioning for her to keep going, to draw the woman out slowly. Carefully.
“Right, right. I did have it wrong. Carson was in the office’the usual time’then he got the call and rushed home.”
“Yes. That’s right. I’ll never forget that call.”
Of course, Marie thought. It was the call that changed a man’s life forever.
“We all pray not to get one of those.”
Leigh Anderson agreed. “Amen to that.”
Marie looked at her notes, the list of questions she had for Farrell’s secretary. But everything had just been turned on its head.
“And you remember the call coming in between nine thirty and ten?”
“Closer to ten. Is that all you needed?”
Randy nodded at Marie. “Yes. Thank you for your time. I’m sorry to have disturbed you so late.”
“Not at all. And please give my best to Mr. Farrell. He’s been through hell, that man.”
“Good night,” Marie said. Then she disconnected the call.
Randy leaned back in his chair and ran his hands across his face. “Shit.”
“Farrell wasn’t home that morning,” Marie said, echoing his thoughts.
“We have the phone records in the police file. Someone from Farrell’s house called his office at nine forty-five. Then they called 911 at ten twenty-one.” Randy recapped what they knew.
“No’not they. We know it was Carson Farrell who called 911 from the house at ten twenty-one. And now we know someone else called him at his office from his house at nine forty-five.”
Marie’s eyes were glued to Randy’s as her words sank in. Farrell was in the office. He was not home that morning as he claimed, at least not when he claimed.
“There’s only one explanation,” Randy said, taking another sip of the beer.
It was not a surprise that Farrell had lied. For some reason, a reason that had just become momentous, he didn’t want anyone to know what really went on in that house. From his wife’s postpartum depression, to the fighting, to the domestic disturbance call, and now this. Farrell had been doing a complicated tap dance to keep his children without revealing the truth, and Marie had reached her limit. She was his lawyer, but first and foremost, an officer of the court.
“I need to make some calls,” she said, reaching for her BlackBerry.
“To Farrell?”
“Farrell, his wife, Tim Connely, and the guardian ad litem.”
Randy looked at her, puzzled, as she started dialing the first number. She told each one to be at her office in the morning. She said nothing about the nature of the meeting but accepted no excuses. And as she worked, Randy continued to watch her, reading her face, trying to follow her thoughts. Step after step, he recalled the phone records, the conversation with the neighbor. And now the conflict surrounding Farrell’s whereabouts.
When the last call was concluded, Randy had finished his beer.
“Ten thirty,” she said, her attention still focused on the electronic organizer.
When she was done, she looked up at Randy. A moment passed when nothing was said, and it was then that he was able to see inside her. It was then that he knew exactly how Simone Farrell died.
Marie grabbed the beer from his hand. “Can you work MapQuest?”
Randy looked at her sideways.
“Of course’stupid question. Can you do some research tonight?”
Randy nodded. Then he grew concerned.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, knowing the answer, but needing to acknowledge the risk she was about to take.
Marie shook her head. She should have given more thought to the consequences of what she was setting in motion, but she was tired of thinking. And she was thankful to have one thing she actually was sure about.
“This is about the children now.”
FIFTY-THREE
THE QUIET HAZE
“MOMMY.”
Oliver Beck stood over his mother, who was curled up at the foot of his bed. This was the third morning in a row he’d awakened to find her there.
“Mommy,” he said again, this time giving her a gentle nudge. “The phone is ringing and ringing.”
Opening her eyes to the morning light, Gayle reached out to touch her son’s face. She knew she shouldn’t be there. But waking up to the sweet sound of his little-boy voice was close to what she was able to bear.
“Just give me a minute, Oliver. One more minute.”
Gayle closed her eyes again, savoring the last traces of sleep. Soon the calm pulse of her body would begin to rev, the nerves would once again show their frayed edges and send her reeling in a sea of anxiety. It would begin the moment she lifted her head, the moment her body was no longer fooled by the serenity of her dreams, the presence of her child. It would feel the call for movement as she sat up, sending blood to her muscles, then back to her head, where it would pick up the information. The tenuous order she had created so meticulously was gone. The marriage that had become a lie over the years had been confined to a little box and kept on a shelf with the other little boxes’her mother, the social climbers who wanted a piece of her, the women from the clinic. There were so many now. Still, she had learned to live around them, somehow immune. Until Paul reached out to her, reminding her how to feel. And now that had been a lie as well.
Oliver left the room, returning quickly with the phone. Still lying on the floor, Gayle pressed it to her ear, hoping to find a dead line. Instead, she heard Marie.
“Thank God! I was beginning to think you’d skipped town.”
Gayle cleared her throat. “No. I’m here.”
It was a straight answer, though Marie had teed her up for a clever, sarcastic one-liner. Their relationship had been strained since Marie confronted her about the board, but there had been some signs of normalcy. Gayle had not missed a chance to keep Marie’s feet to the fire, though she’d done it with her trademark dry
wit. All of that had stopped in the past several days. Now, there was no doubt in Marie’s mind that something was very wrong at the Beck house.
“I can’t get there until the afternoon. Something’s come up at work. Can you run the circus for a while?”
Again, Gayle’s voice was flat. “OK.”
Gayle hung up the call, then propped herself up. Oliver sat next to her and waited as she rolled her head from side to side, then, finally, opened her eyes.
“I’m hungry,” he said.
Gayle managed a smile as her heart began to pound. It was coming now, and there was a long day ahead. She rose to her feet and took her son’s hand. Together they walked to the foot of the stairs.
“Go on down, Oliver. I just need to get something from my room.”
She waited for her son to reach the bottom step. Then she turned and headed back down the hall to the prescriptions that were waiting.
FIFTY-FOUR
THE SHOWDOWN
THE CALLS WERE STILL coming at ten thirty and Marie was scattered. The caterer, florist, even the band had last-minute problems, none of which were serious. Still, the collective ineptitude was eroding what little patience she had left, and she was now verging on belligerence.
“Just get your asses there by five. Someone will show you where to set up. Come on’this isn’t brain surgery!”
She pounded the phone on the receiver, then let out a frustrated sigh. She could feel Randy watching her from his desk, knowing not to say a word until she found her way back to center. That he knew her this well only added to her misery.
“If I make it through this day …”
“It’ll be OK. Like you said, it isn’t brain surgery. They’ll figure it out, and you’ll be there well before five.”
The sound of the office door pulled them back to the present moment.
“That will be Farrell,” Marie said, taking a breath. Nothing about the next hour was going to be easy.
Randy waited for his boss, filing in behind her as she walked to the conference room to meet their client. Carson Farrell had taken a seat at the table, his hands folded in the customary fashion. His face was blank, his demeanor nonexpressive. But through it all, his nerves were showing.
“Thank you for coming, Carson,” Marie said, taking a seat across from him. Then she was silent.
Randy took a seat next to her. Everyone was in position, yet Marie was still quiet, and Farrell quickly became unsettled.
“So, what are we doing here?” he asked.
“Right now, we’re waiting.” Marie’s voice was decisive and remarkably calm given the state she’d been in just a moment before.
As for Farrell, the sense of alarm was escalating. “I don’t understand … ,” he started to speak, but stopped himself when he heard the door open. One after another, his wife, her lawyer, and the lawyer for their children walked in and sat down at the table. They all seemed surprised at the full house of guests.
“What the hell is this?” As expected, Farrell’s fear had turned to anger when he realized that his wife had been summoned.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Marie said, her tone exceedingly formal. “I first want to say that I am acting here as an officer of the court, not as the attorney for Mr. Farrell.”
Carson Farrell sat frozen, shocked into silence.
“That’s a tricky position, Marie. Even for you.” Tim Connely sounded unusually sincere. Still, Marie could sense his excitement. Farrell’s lawyer was jumping ship, which was a sign that there might be blood in the water.
“I know I’m on a limb here. I’ve weighed my responsibilities to Mr. Farrell against my ethical duties regarding the Farrell children, and this is where I’ve come out. Believe me, I was up half the night with the bar’s Code of Ethics, reading between the lines.”
Sitting at the far end of the table, intentionally equidistant from the Far-rells, the attorney for the children was now concerned. “What do you mean, Marie? Why are you concerned for the children?” Patricia West had been representing children in custody battles for many years. It was required by the court when custody was being contested, and she had seen her share of ugly battles in the name of the children. What was happening in this room was a first.
“In the course of conducting due diligence in this case, I came across some conflicting information regarding the accident,” Marie said. Then she paused, giving the room time to turn back the pages.
“The accident involving the youngest child, Simone?” Patricia West asked.
“Yes.”
Farrell was suddenly on his feet. “You had no right!”
“Please, Carson, sit down. You can seek your vengeance later.” Marie’s voice, her words, were commanding. Still, part of her was uneasy’the part that wasn’t convinced she was within her rights to do what she was about to do.
“What do you mean, conflicting information?” It was Connely’s turn to be worried. He looked at his client for clues but, as before, Vickie Farrell wasn’t all there.
Now Marie turned to her client. “Carson, you told the police you were watching Simone that morning. That Vickie had taken the others to school, and you were working from home.”
“That’s right,” Farrell said, his position steadfast.
“There was a call placed from your home to your office in downtown Boston a little over thirty minutes before the call was made to 911.”
Carson Farrell shrugged defiantly. “I called to check in. That was when I turned my back, when Simone headed for the stairs.”
“No,” Marie said, trying to hold steady. “You didn’t make that call. You were at the office that morning, and you were still there at nine forty-five when the call was made from your home.”
The room fell silent. Farrell, Connely, and Patricia West each scanned the present faces for signs of recognition. Marie and Randy Matthews were the only two who were not visibly taken aback.
“I know about the depression, the outbursts. Mrs. Farrell was seeking treatment, maybe even recovering from what, I can only imagine, was a terrifying experience of postpartum illness. But the fact remains that Carson Farrell was not home at the time of the accident.”
Farrell jumped in quickly, attempting to recover a situation that was now getting away from him. “I was home. I was at the office early on, then I came home. Vickie left when I walked in the door. Simone fell, and I called 911. Check with the police. It’s my voice on the tape.”
Marie shook her head. “It’s not possible, Carson. The drive from your office to your old house is a good half hour, any way you slice it. There’s just not enough time for things to have happened that way.”
“Marie, what afo/happen?” Patricia said in a tentative voice.
Marie took a long breath. It was painful, even for her, to rehash the death of the Farrell baby. But it had to be done. “Carson went to the office. The older children were at their schools. It was Mrs. Farrell who was home with Simone. We know she was ill, struggling with her emotions. She was taking antidepressants. There were many factors, but in the end, she was the one who left the gate open, who wasn’t watching Simone when she crawled to the staircase.”
“Stop!” Farrell said, but Marie continued.
“After the fall, Vickie Farrell called her husband at the office. I don’t think she realized what had happened. Carson left the office abruptly, making it home to find Simone already dead. That’s when he called 911.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Tim Connely had caught up with it now’he could see where this was headed, and it wasn’t good for his case. “We have the police report. Farrell gave his statement.”
“That’s not the end of the story. That’s the beginning. We spoke with Farrell’s secretary, who was there that day. She remembers him being there right up to the time when he received a phone call, the same time the phone records show a call placed from the Farrell home to the office. The 911 call came in almost exactly half an hour later’just enough time for
Carson to get home and find the baby at the foot of the stairs.”
Connely looked at his client. The face that had been as empty as stone was now flushed. All eyes turned to Vickie Farrell as the emotion filled up inside her’until, finally, it had consumed every space. She looked at her husband.
“Is it true? Did I kill our baby?” Her face was riddled with confusion, and it became clear to everyone in the room that Carson had worked hard to protect his wife, even from herself. For years, he had allowed her to believe that he was the one who’d let their daughter fall to her death, and the truth had buried itself in the depths of her mind. Still, it was there, and keeping it buried had required a complete shutdown of emotion, until there was no sign of life at all.
Carson Farrell rose from his chair and walked slowly to his wife’s side. Her eyes grew wider as time continued to pass without an answer. “Did I?” she asked again, as Farrell knelt beside her.
“No one killed our little girl. It was an accident,” he said. “It’s OK. It’s going to be OK.”
With the answer now confirmed by his avoidance, Vickie Farrell’s face began to coil with anguish. “No!” she said defiantly, grabbing at his shirt until he pulled her to him and held her tightly, trapping her arms at his chest. Her cries were too painful to witness, yet no one moved’as if the slightest shift in the air would break the woman entirely.
Finally, Patricia West whispered across the table to Marie. “We need to talk,” she said.
Motioning to the other lawyers in the room, Marie got up from her chair and led them to her back office. As she passed by her client, she placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll work this out. I promise.”
But Carson Farrell did not look up. He was lost now, in a place two years ago’the place they should have been had he not tried to shield his wife with impudent devotion. The picture was finally in focus, the price he was willing to pay to spare her the hell she was now facing. He told the lie, but then the lie took on a life of its own, growing like a cancer inside Vickie Farrell. All this time, she had believed it’to the point of leaving Carson and fighting to keep his children from him. Her anger was that profound. And now, it would be turned on herself.
