Which is exactly what I'm about to do.
“Hello, Betty.”
“Mr. Carpenter, I really must ask you to stop bothering me like this. It's not-”
“I know about Julie McGregor.”
The effect is immediate, and it is all in her eyes. First there is the flash of fear, as she starts to process the words she hoped never to hear. Then comes the realization that there is no defense to those words, that resistance is futile. Then her body catches up to her eyes, and she sags noticeably, the fight taken out of her.
Watching her reaction is exhilarating and terribly, terribly sad.
She doesn't say a word, just opens the door wider for me to enter. The apartment is exactly what I would have expected … small, inexpensively furnished, but meticulously kept. There are a number of religious artifacts around, as well as pictures of family members, including many of Mike.
Betty starts to straighten the place up, dusting areas without dust and moving things which do not need to be moved. I suppose it is her way of trying to bring order into what is soon to be a chaotic situation.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asks.
“Yes, thank you.”
She is trying to find something to do. We both know that she is going to speak to me, but I'm helping her put it off at least for a few more minutes.
She makes the coffee and brings it to me. Finally, she says, “How much do you know?”
“Enough to tell the world the story. Not enough to prove it.”
She nods. “He was never the same after that night. He thought it would get better, but it got worse as the years went by.”
“Did you know him then?”
“Yes. We were engaged. But he didn't tell me the full story about what happened until years later.”
A pause, as she struggles with her own guilt. “But I couldn't help him with it.”
“Down deep he had to know it would come out,” I say. “He couldn't keep it inside any longer. And neither can you. Not anymore.”
She sighs. “I know.”
“Tell me about that night.”
She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “They were in Manhattan for a dinner, some kind of awards event for the best students from around the country. A future leaders thing, or something. Most of them never met each other before that night.”
I start to ask her if she knows their names, but I decide I'm not going to interrupt. The story is going to come pouring out of her, and I'm not going to do anything to influence or derail it.
She goes on. “A group of them began drinking at the banquet, and then went to a bar on the Upper West Side. All they were interested in was alcohol and women, but it was late on a slow Tuesday night, so they were having much more luck with the alcohol.
“The bar was about to close, and nothing much was happening, so they accepted the offer of one of their group to go to his house, where they could keep drinking and swim in his pool.
“On the way out into Jersey, they called out to other drivers, yelling jokes and having fun. A few people yelled back, but most just ignored them.
“Five minutes from the house, a young woman that seemed to match their fun-loving attitude pulled up next to them at a traffic light. The fact that she was young and great-looking made the situation almost too good to be true, and they asked her to follow them to the house for a swim, never really expecting that she would.
“But she did follow them, and pulled her car in the driveway behind theirs.”
I already knew that, because her car would later that night be in a photograph, and many years later her license plate would be computer-enhanced and read. Lieutenant Pete Stanton would check that plate number and learn her identity.
The young woman's name was Julie McGregor. Wife of Wally. Mother of Denise.
I finally interrupt Betty to ask her if she knows the identity of the other men with Mike that night.
She shakes her head. “No, Mike would never tell me. I only knew one of them; he was the friend that Mike came to New York with.”
Then she hesitates, as if unsure whether to continue. But she understands there is no turning back now. “There is something else you should know.”
“What's that?”
She's in terrible pain. “That poor young woman. The reporter that was killed.”
“Denise McGregor,” I say.
She nods. “Yes. She was here, tracing what happened. She was piecing it together. I felt so badly for her.”
“How long was this before she was murdered?”
“I think a few months. I didn't find out about her death until much, much later.”
“Had she learned who was there that night?” I ask.
“She only knew about the same two people that I did … Mike and Victor Markham.”
IT'S ELEVEN-THIRTYBEFORE I LEAVE BETTY Anthony's. Court is going to reconvene at two, but I have someplace where I must stop first, even if it means being late. It's not a newsstand, and it's not some superstition that has to be indulged.
I have to go talk to my father.
I get to the cemetery, not swarming with people as it was the last time I was here, only a few visitors paying their respects to those they loved. I find my father's grave, and take a few moments to get my emotions in check.
“Dad, I have something to do today … I don't know how it's going to come out.”
I am overcome by a feeling of closeness to him; I have never really believed in an afterlife, yet I know in the depths of my being that he can hear me.
“I know about the money … and Victor … and Mike Anthony … and now I know what happened that night. But I don't know about you. Were you a part of it, or did you just know about it? Why did you take the money, if you'd never let yourself touch it?
“Dad, I know who you are, nothing can ever change that. But please understand, I need to know what you did.”
A woman walks by, and she speaks to me, hesitatingly.
“Excuse me,” she says. “Were you talking to me?”
Not wanting to look like a complete lunatic, I say, “Yes. I asked you what time it was.”
She looks at her watch. “One o'clock.”
“Thank you,” I say. And then I turn back to my father. “It's time to move on.”
I race back to the courthouse and arrive a little after two. When I enter the courtroom, Kevin is questioning Edward Markham. Obviously Hatchet had not granted him a further delay.
I stay in the back of the room for a while, watching Kevin and deciding exactly how I am going to handle things. Kevin really has nothing to ask Edward; I have not given him any instructions on what I want to accomplish. He is vamping for time, taking Edward through what is basically a rehash of his direct testimony for Wallace.
“So after you found her, what did you do?” asks Kevin.
“As I said previously, I called the police first. I wanted them to get an ambulance there right away, just in case there was any hope. Then I called my father.”
“He was at home?”
Wallace objects, stating the obvious, that all these questions have been previously asked and answered. Hatchet overrules the objection, but his patience is wearing a little thin.
“No, it was Friday night,” says Edward. “He's always at the club on Friday nights.”
Kevin prepares to ask another question he already knows the answer to, when he turns and sees me coming toward him. The look of relief on his face is palpable.
“No further questions, Your Honor,” I say.
“Well, Mr. Carpenter,” says Hatchet. “So glad you could join us.”
