Vanished

11

The following week, the opening statements seemed very dry, compared to their friendlier remarks previously to the jury. But some of the ugly things the two attorneys said were also very effective.

In his opening statement, the U.S. Attorney assured the jury and the courtroom at large that what they were dealing with here was very certainly a kidnapper, maybe even a baby killer, a man who had assaulted women in the past, killed men without batting an eye, a liar, a Communist, and a threat to all Americans. He told them that little Teddy Patterson had been torn from his parents' home in the middle of the night, in the dark, and the people who cared for him had been chloroformed and bound and gagged and might easily have been killed as well, and the child had disappeared without a trace, never to be seen again, and was probably dead, buried somewhere in a ditch, in a field, but for those who loved him, gone forever.

Marielle clutched her chair as she listened to the words, and he seemed to drone on for hours about what an evil man Charles had always been, what a sweet man Teddy would have become, and how we had all been robbed because this one child had died, and for nothing. And if it was true, if he was never to return, then Marielle had to agree with him. But it was still so painful to believe him gone for a lifetime.

Tom Armour's statement to them was only slightly more reassuring. He told them that Charles Delauney was a decent, honest, in some ways deeply troubled man, who had lost his own son nine years before, in fact his unborn daughter too, his entire family, and knowing how great the pain of that had been, he would never have hurt any child, or taken any man's children from him. He had fought honestly in the Great War and in the fight in Spain since then. He was no Communist. He was a man who believed in freedom. Educated, intelligent, decent, yet heartbroken by the shattering of his youthful dreams, he was admittedly misguided in some of his behavior, or even his words, but this was not a man who could kidnap anyone's son. And the defense was going to prove that he hadn't. Furthermore, he reminded everyone, Mr. Delauney was on trial for kidnapping here, and not for murder. And if the jurors listened to the evidence carefully, he was sure they would acquit him. As he spoke to them, Tom Armour walked slowly before the jury, looking each one in the eye, speaking directly to them, not in a condescending way, but as equals, as friends, making sure they understood and believed him. He was masterful at what he did, and it was fascinating to watch him. He also explained to them that the U.S. Attorney would be presenting his case first, from beginning to end, and Tom would be cross-examining his witnesses, of course, but he would not present his case until the prosecution had completed theirs. And he reminded them again that it was up to the prosecution to prove, beyond a reasonable doubt, that Charles Delauney had kidnapped the Patterson boy, and if the prosecution could not convince them of that, whether they liked Charles or not as a man, they had to acquit him. But Tom assured them that by the time he finished his case, they would understand that he had been wronged by these charges.

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.

“Thank you, Mrs. Patterson,” Bill Palmer said coolly, and then turned to Tom Armour. “Your witness.”

“The defense would like to call Mrs. Patterson at a later time, Your Honor.” He wanted to give everyone time to cool down, especially Marielle, who looked as though she'd died as she walked off the stand, and the judge called a recess until after lunch at two o'clock that afternoon. But as she tried to leave the courtroom with Malcolm and the FBI surrounding her, she was mobbed by the press at the door to the courtroom. Charles had tried to catch her eye as she left but she was too sick to even look at him, and the press physically tried to pull at her clothes and shout questions at her as she fled the courthouse.

“Tell us about the hospital…the suicides…your little boy… Tell us everything…come on, Marielle, give us a break!” Their voices were still ringing in her ears as they drove uptown, and John Taylor looked stonily out the window. Only Malcolm dared speak to her in a whisper, and she was startled by what he said.

“That was disgusting.” She looked at him, not sure what he meant, certain he meant the way Palmer had treated her, but she could see from the look on his face that he meant what he'd heard about her. He said not another word, and tears filled her eyes as they rode home. Once in the library, alone with him, she asked him what he meant, but he could only look at her with disdain now.

“Marielle, how could you?”

“How could I what? Tell him the truth? What choice did I have? He knew it all anyway. You heard the letters from the two doctors.”

“My God…the suicides…the migraines…two years in a mental hospital…”

“I told you all that in December.” And she had, right after Teddy was kidnapped. In fact, the next morning.

“It didn't sound quite like that then.” He looked genuinely aghast, and suddenly she was deeply embarrassed. She stared at the man she thought she knew, and ran upstairs to her own room, and locked the door. But a few moments later, she saw a slip of paper slide under the door. All it said was “Call your doctor.” She thought it was someone being wicked at first, and then she recognized John Taylor's handwriting, and she wondered why he wanted her to call her doctor. And then she knew. Somewhere deep inside of her, she knew. She ran to her address book, picked up the phone, and asked the operator to call the number. It was nine o'clock in Villars, but she knew that he was there round the clock because he lived there. And he was in, of course, and startled to hear from her.

“What is going on there?”

She told him about the kidnapping, but assumed he knew, and he told her he had already answered many questions. She didn't tell him he'd ruined her with his telegram, she knew how upset he'd be to have his words misused. At one time in her life, the man had saved her.

“Are you all right?” he asked, with deep concern for her.

“I think so.”

“Les migraines?”

“Better sometimes. Not right now. It's difficult with Teddy gone…and Malcolm…my husband… I had to tell him about Charles, and Andre…and the clinique. He never wanted me to tell him anything before we were married.”

“But he knew.” Docteur Verbeuf sounded surprised that she didn't know that. “He called me before you were married in…oh…when was it?…1932? Yes, that was it. It was the same year you left here. You left in February, and he must have called in October.” They were married three months after that, in January, on New Year's Day.

“He called you?” She was confused. “But why?”

“He wanted to know if there was anything he could do for you… for the migraines… to make your life a little happier… I told him you should have lots of children.” But he was sad for her now that tragedy had found her again. She was such a nice girl, and she hadn't been very lucky. “Is there any news of the child?”

“Not yet.”

“Let me know.”

“I will.” She wondered if he even knew what purpose his telegram had served, and as she hung up, she wondered at Malcolm's motive. He had known for all these years, and yet, when she'd told him he'd been shocked, and he had even let Bill Palmer use the information.

But there was no time to ask him anything as they sped back to the courthouse before two. And she said nothing to John all that afternoon. She was lost deep in her own thoughts and she had too many questions.

The U.S. Attorney put Patrick Reilly on the stand that afternoon, and he described what he'd seen at Saint Patrick's, and the look on Delauney's face in the park the following afternoon. He said he'd been furious and Patrick said he'd seen Charles grab her and try to shake her.

And it seemed hours to her until she could confront Malcolm. They rode home in silence again that afternoon, and at last they were alone, and she found him in his dressing room. He was dressing for a quiet dinner at his club. He said he needed to get out and clear his head for an evening.

“You lied to me.”

“About what?” He turned to her with obvious disinterest.

“You let me tell you the whole story after Teddy disappeared. And you knew. You knew everything…about Andre…about Charles…about the clinic. Why didn't you tell me?”

“Did you really think I would marry you without knowing where you came from?” He looked at her with derision. She had made a fool of herself on the stand that day, as far as he was concerned, and a fool of him…kissing Charles Delauney in church. It was disgusting.

“You lied to me.”

“And you endangered my son. You brought that bastard into our life, and because of you, he took him.” It looked as if he didn't care what they said about her fragile state of mind, as far as he was concerned, she had cost him everything he cared for. “And it's none of your business what I knew about you. That's my affair.”

“How could you tell Bill Palmer?”

“Because if he didn't discredit you, you might support that fool that you were married to…that son of a bitch…that killer…but you, with your bleeding heart, you're still not sure he's guilty.”

“So you did that to me? So I couldn't help him?” She didn't understand him anymore, and wondered if she had ever really known him.

“If he goes to the chair for Teddy's death, it'll be too good for him.”

“Is that what all this is? A game of revenge between the two of you? He takes Teddy and you kill him? What's wrong with all of you?” She suddenly felt sick looking at him.

“Get out of my room, Marielle. I have nothing to say to you tonight.”

She stared at him in disbelief. He had calculatingly ruined her, in order to destroy Charles. “I don't know who you are anymore.”

“It's no longer important.”

“What are you saying to me?” She was shrieking at him, but it had been a hideous day and she could no longer stand it.

“I think you understand me.”

“It's over, isn't it?” If it ever had existed in the first place. What had they ever had in common, except Teddy?

“It ended the day Delauney took my son out of here. Now you can go back to him when it's over, and you can both cry over what you've done. I'll tell you one thing. I'll never forgive you.” And she knew he meant it.

“Do you want me to leave now, Malcolm?” She was ready to. She would have gone to a hotel that night if he had wanted.

“Are you so anxious for more scandal? You could at least have the decency to wait until the spotlight is off us after the trial.”

She nodded, and a moment later, she went back to her own room. There was nothing left that could surprise her now. She was married to a stranger, a man who hated her for losing their son. Another one. Life had been cruel to her. And whatever happened next, whether they found Teddy or not, she knew the marriage was over.