Danielle Steel - Vanished

“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.