Vanished (24 page)

There was a long silence when they were both through, and Judge Morrison instructed the U.S. Attorney to call his first witness, and Marielle was stunned when she heard her name. She had no idea he was intending to call her as his first witness. She raised an eyebrow as she walked past John, and he tried to look reassuring, but he was worried about what Palmer was going to do. He knew what had turned up in the calls he made, and none of it was very damaging. But he had no idea what Palmer and Malcolm had dug up without him.

She took the stand, and carefully smoothed down the plain black dress she had worn. She nervously crossed her legs as she glanced around the courtroom, and then uncrossed them again. And all the while, Bill Palmer strutted around the courtroom and watched her. He watched her as though there were something strange about her, as though he were suspicious of her, and more than once he glanced from her to the defendant, as though there was something he didn't understand about them. It was as though he was trying to convey something unpleasant or unsavory to the jury. And what he was doing was making Marielle very nervous. She glanced at the judge, then at Malcolm, who looked away, and at John, who looked serious as he watched her, and she waited for Palmer's first question.

“Please state your name.'

“Marielle Patterson.”

“Your full name please.”

“Marielle Johnson Patterson. Marielle Anne Johnson Patterson,” she smiled, but he did not smile in answer.

“Is there more?”

“No, sir.” Two women on the jury smiled, and Marielle felt a little better. But her hands were shaking terribly as she held them in her lap where no one could see them.

“Have you ever had another name, Mrs. Patterson?” And then she knew what he was asking.

“Yes.” Why was he doing this? What would it help? She didn't understand.

“Would you please tell us that name?” He boomed out the words as though to frighten her, and she couldn't see Malcolm's eyes.

“Delauney,” she said quietly.

“Could you say that a little louder please, so the jurors can hear you.”

She flushed bright red and said it louder for all to hear while Charles watched her in sympathy. “Delauney.” He felt sorry for her suddenly. Sorrier even than John Taylor, because he suspected what was coming. Palmer was smarter than they had thought. He was going to discredit her early on, so anything she said later would be worth nothing. He wasn't going to take the chance she would question Charles's guilt in public, and weaken his case in front of the jury.

“Are you related to the defendant in any way?”

“I was married to him.”

“When was that?”

“In 1926, in Paris. I was eighteen years old.”

“And what kind of marriage was it?” He pretended to be friendly to her, he even smiled. But she knew now that he was going to destroy her. “Was it a big wedding? A small one?”

“We eloped.”

“I see. …” He looked disturbed, as though somehow she had done something wrong, and he was sorry. “And how long were you married?”

“For five years actually. Until 1931.”

“And how did the marriage end? In divorce?”

“Yes, that's correct.” There was a thin film of perspiration covering her forehead, and she prayed that she wouldn't faint or vomit.

“Would you mind telling us why, Mrs. Delauney …sorry, Patterson …” He pretended to slip but she knew he had done it on purpose, just to emphasize her having been married to Charles, and yes she did mind telling him why, but she knew she had no choice. “Would you mind telling us the reason for the divorce?”

“I … we … we lost our son. And neither of us ever recovered from the shock.” She said it very quietly, and very calmly, and John Taylor was proud of her and so was Charles. Both of them felt their hearts torn in half, watching her, but she didn't know that. “I suppose you could say it destroyed the marriage.”

“Is that the only reason why you divorced Mr. Delauney?”

“Yes. We were very happy before that.”

“I see.” He nodded again sympathetically and she began to hate him. “And where were you when you got the divorce?”

She misunderstood his question, but Taylor didn't. “In Switzerland.”

“Were you there for any particular reason?” And then she knew. He was trying to discredit her completely. But he couldn't. If losing three children hadn't killed her yet, she knew nothing would. Not this man, not this court, and not these proceedings. She held her head high and looked directly at him.

“Yes, I was in a hospital there.”

“You were ill?” She wasn't going to give him more than she had to. And he knew just what he wanted, and why, but so did she now.

“I had a nervous breakdown when our son died.”

“Was there any particular reason for that? Was his death unusually traumatic? A long illness … a terrible disease?” Her eyes filled with tears as she listened to him, but she wouldn't give in to them. She brushed them away and spoke through trembling lips as everyone in the courtroom waited.

“He drowned.” That was it. That was all she had to say. That was what it said on the death certificate. Andre Charles Delauney, two years five months, death by drowning.

“And were you responsible for this …
accident
…” He accentuated the word almost as though she had planned it, and Charles was frantically whispering something to Tom, who shot to his feet immediately, with an objection.

“Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is leading the witness, and implying that the child's death was her fault. That is not for us to decide here. Mrs. Patterson is not on trial here, my client is.”

Judge Morrison raised an eyebrow at both men, surprised at Tom Armour's kindness. “Objection sustained. A little less zeal please, Counsel.”

“Sorry, Your Honor. I'll rephrase my question. Did you
feel
responsible for the child's death?” But that was worse, because now they would never know if it actually was her fault or not and there was no way to save it.

“Yes, I did.”

“And that was why you had the nervous breakdown?”

“I believe so.”

“You were in a mental hospital there?”

“Yes.” Her voice was growing softer and Charles felt sick, but so did John Taylor. Malcolm Patterson looked straight ahead, with an inscrutable expression.

“You were in effect mentally ill, is that right?”

“I suppose so. I was very upset.”

“For a long time?”

“Yes.”

“How long were you there?”

“Two years.”

“More than two years?”

“A little.” But Tom Armour was on his feet again.

“May I remind the court again that Mrs. Patterson is not on trial here.”

“Sustained. Mr. Palmer, where are we going with this? It's going to take us six months if we try every witness.”

“If you'll bear with me, Your Honor, for just a moment, I'll show you.”

“All right, Counsel, speed it up.”

“Yes, sir. Now, Mrs. Patterson.” He turned to Marielle again. “You were in a mental hospital for something more than two years, correct?”

“Correct.” Palmer nodded at her, and for once he looked almost happy with her.

“Did you ever try to commit suicide during that time?” For a moment, she looked sick while he asked her.

“Yes, I did.”

“More than once?”

“Yes.”

“How many times?”

She thought for a moment, and unwittingly glanced at her left wrist, but you could no longer see the scars thanks to a very artful plastic surgeon. “Seven or eight times.” She kept her eyes down this time, it was not something she was proud of. And she could have told him she didn't remember.

“Because you felt responsible for the death of your child?”

“Yes,” she almost shouted.

“And Mr. Delauney, where was he during this time?”

“I don't know. I didn't see him for several years.”

“Was he as distraught as you?”

Tom Armour objected again, but even he couldn't save her. “You're asking the witness to guess my client's state of mind. Why not save it for later?”

“Sustained. Counsel, be warned please.” Morrison was starting to look annoyed and Palmer apologized again, but you could see he wasn't sorry.

“Was Mr. Delauney with you when the child drowned?”

“No. I was alone with him.' Charles was skiing.

“And did he blame you for the child's death?”

“Objection!” Tom shouted. “You're guessing at my client's state of mind again.”

“Overruled, Mr. Armour,” the judge intoned, “this could be important. Objection overruled.”

“I repeat, Mrs. Patterson,” he got her name right this time, “did the defendant blame you for the death of his child?”

“I believed so at the time … we were both terribly upset.”

“Was he very angry?”

“Yes.”

“How angry? Did he hit you?” She hesitated in answer to the question. “Did he beat you?”

“I …”

“Mrs. Patterson, you're under oath. Please answer the question. Did he beat you?”

“I believe he slapped me.”

“Your Honor.” William Palmer held out a telegram to the judge, and then handed it to Tom Armour for inspection. “This telegram is from the administrator of the Sainte Vierge Hospital in Geneva, which states that according to their records, Mrs. Marielle Delauney was 'beaten,' they use the word
battue,
which translates to 'beaten,' by her husband on the premises of the hospital at the tim§ of her child's death. She suffered extensive injuries, and a miscarriage later that night.' There was a gasp from the courtroom, and then Palmer turned to her again as she grew paler by the moment. “Would you say this account is correct, Mrs. Patterson?”

“Yes.” She couldn't say more. She could hardly speak now.

“Did Mr. Delauney beat you on any other occasion?”

“No, he did not.”

“And had you ever suffered mental illness before the incident of your son's death?”

“No, I hadn't.”

“Would you say you have recovered fully now?”

“Yes, I would.”

There was a brief pause as Palmer consulted some notes and then went on, “Mrs. Patterson, do you suffer from severe headaches?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And when did they start?”

“At …after …during my stay in Switzerland.”

“But you've had them since then?”

“Yes.”

“Recently?”

“Yes.”

“How recently?”

She almost smiled but she couldn't. “This weekend.”

“How many would you say you've had in the past month?”

“Maybe four or five a week.”

“As many as that?” He looked sympathetic. “And before your son's kidnapping? Just as many?”

“Maybe two or three a week.”

“Do you have other recurring problems from the past, Mrs. Patterson? Are you unusually shy or withdrawn, are you afraid of people sometimes? Are you afraid of responsibility … of being blamed for things?”

Tom Armour stood up again in an attempt to stop what was becoming a slaughter. “My colleague is not a psychiatrist. If he feels he needs one, he should call an expert witness.”

“Your Honor.” Bill Palmer approached the bench again, and then waved another piece of paper at Tom Armour. “This telegram is from Mrs. Patterson's doctor at the Clinique Verbeuf in Villars, confirming that she was indeed incarcerated there.”

“Objection!” Tom looked furious now, and she wasn't even his client. “Mrs. Patterson wasn't in prison!”

“Sustained. Mr. Palmer, please watch your language.”

“Sorry, Your Honor. She was hospitalized there for two years and two months for a nervous breakdown and severe depression. She apparently attempted suicide repeatedly and suffered from severe migraines. That was the official diagnosis. Dr. Verbeuf goes on to add that he is aware that her migraines have persisted and that at times of great stress like the present one, her mental health could be considered extremely fragile.” Without meaning to, the good doctor had killed her. And no matter what she said now, they would think her disturbed, and an unreliable witness. But Palmer wasn't through yet.

After the telegram from Dr. Verbeuf was admitted as Exhibit B, he went on with his questions. “Have you had an affair with the defendant since your divorce?”

“No, I have not.”

“Have you seen him in the past several months, or rather before your son was kidnapped?”

“Yes, I ran into him in church on the anniversary of our son's death. And the following day in the park.”

“Was your son with you on either occasion?”

“Yes, the second one.”

“And what was Mr. Delauney's reaction? Was he pleased to meet him?”

“No.” She lowered her eyes so she didn't have to look at him. “He was upset.”

“Would you say he was angry?”

She hesitated and then nodded. “Yes.”

“Did he threaten you in any way?”

“Yes, but I don't know if he really meant it.”

“And when was your son kidnapped, Mrs. Patterson?” If nothing else, he was making her out to be extremely stupid.

“The next day.”

“Do you believe that there's a connection between Mr. Delauney's threats, and your son's disappearance?”

“I don't know.”

And then he switched tacks again. “Have you kissed Mr. Delauney since your divorce from him, Mrs. Patterson?” She hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. “Please answer my question.”

“Yes.”

“And when was that?”

“When I saw him in church. I hadn't seen him in almost seven years and he kissed me.”

“Was it just a peck on the cheek, or a kiss on the lips, like in the movies?” The audience tittered but Marielle didn't even smile. And John Taylor knew that Palmer had been talking to their driver, with his asinine tales about her “boyfriend.”

“It was a kiss on the lips.”

“And have you visited him in jail?”

“Yes. Once.”

“Mrs. Patterson, are you still in love with Mr. Delauney?” From then on, anything she said about him would be useless.

She hesitated again, and then she shook her head. “I don't believe so.”

“Do you believe he kidnapped your child?”

“I don't know. Perhaps. I'm not sure.”

“And do you feel responsible for that kidnapping in any way?”

“I'm not sure …” Her voice cracked as she said the words, and everyone in the courtroom was reminded of what the Swiss doctor had said, that under stress her mental health could be extremely fragile. Palmer had done exactly what he wanted to do with her. He had discredited her completely. She sounded mixed up and confused, unsure about Delauney's guilt, or her own, a woman who had tried to commit suicide several times, suffered from migraines and was probably responsible for her first child drowning. And if the defense wanted to use her now, she wouldn't do them any good, and Palmer knew it. It was exactly what he had set out to do, but he had wiped the floor with her in the process and John Taylor knew exactly who had helped him. It was Malcolm. And Taylor himself felt guilty for every call he'd made. But his had all been harmless.