I had figured that Kate Meade would present the opportunity for Howell to put as much of Brendan’s pedigree before the jury as Amanda’s, and that she would establish for the defense some of his best qualities. It might even weigh in the decision that Howell would later have to make about whether to let his client testify. If he could establish enough of the defendant’s good nature through the prosecution witnesses, he might not expose him to the cross-examination I so dearly wanted the chance to do.
But I had no other choice than to use Kate in my direct case. She gave me facts-the repeated separations that occurred in the middle of the night, the revelation that Amanda had chosen to end the marriage, and the last phone call before Amanda’s death-that were among my strongest evidentiary links to Brendan’s motive and role in the murder of his wife.
“I believe that you served on several nonprofit boards over the last decade, some organizations that do great work for the people of this city, am I right, Mrs. Meade?”
“Yes, I have.”
One art museum, one major medical center, two diseases in need of a cure, and the junior committee of the best public library in America. Howell called out the name of each, his mellifluous voice investing them with even greater dignity.
“And was Brendan on any of those boards with you?”
“Yes,” she answered quietly.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Meade,” Howell said, cocking his head so that the jury could see how pleased he looked. “You did say yes to that, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“And, let me see, God’s Love We Deliver,” he said, referring to a well-regarded New York City organization that delivers meals to terminally ill people in their homes. Lem was holding out one of his well-manicured hands as he counted fingers to mark Brendan’s good works.
“No, no.”
“No, ma’am? You’re saying Brendan wasn’t involved in that very noble cause?” Howell said, pressing his arm across his chest in a false sign of distress.
“No, Mr. Howell, you’re mistaken about me. I’ve never served on that board.” Kate Meade was becoming flustered. She held out a hand with the crumpled handkerchief in the defendant’s direction. “Brendan did.”
“So, I am also correct that my client found time for even more community involvement than someone such as yourself, Mrs. Meade?” Howell asked, ticking off the names of four other charitable groups that Brendan helped.
“The Quillians were both very generous. It was Amanda’s way.”
Howell had made his point and moved on. “Your eldest daughter, Mrs. Meade, that would be Sara?”
Kate stiffened again, peeved that her child’s name was being brought into the proceedings. She pursed her lips and stared at the defendant. “Yes.”
“And you told us, in answer to Ms. Cooper’s question, that the Quillians are her godparents, isn’t that right?”
Her answer was another clipped “Yes.”
Howell took the witness through another list of personal duties that established the close relationship between the nine-year-old girl and her parents’ best friends-shared holidays, overnights when the Meades had other engagements, vacations together on ski trips and to beach resorts.
“In fact, with whom did Sara attend her first Yankee game last spring?”
“Brendan.”
“With or without Amanda?”
“Without.”
“And whom did you call to take Sara ice-skating in Central Park when your husband had the flu a few months before that?”
“Brendan.”
Howell was getting nothing from Kate Meade. One-word answers seemed barely able to escape from her lips before she clamped them shut again.
“With or without Amanda.”
“Without.”
“So, I take it you never said to your daughter as you sent her out the door-and we all assume you love her dearly-‘Now you watch out, Sara, ’cause your uncle Brendan, well, he’s a murderer, did-’”
“Objection, Your Honor. Amanda Quillian was very much alive then.”
Some of the jurors were chuckling along with Howell-and with the defendant himself-always a bad thing to hear at a murder trial. The hammer in my brain had resumed its dull thud, reminding me that Lem had something in store for Kate Meade.
“I’ll allow it.”
“No.” Kate Meade was looking to me to rescue her, but there was nothing I could do.
“And by the way, you never took stock around the boardroom at the Museum of Modern Art-or when he was raising millions of dollars for Mount Sinai Hospital-you never said to any of your colleagues at either institution that your dear friend Brendan Quillian wasn’t to be trusted with your money-or your life, did you?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained,” Judge Gertz said. “Let’s move on.”
“Now, Alexandra-sorry, Ms. Cooper,” Howell said, winking at me as though to apologize for slipping into the familiar, so that the jurors would know we had a friendship outside this arena. “Ms. Cooper asked you about the night that Amanda Quillian first appeared at your door, at one a.m. You told us that you didn’t see any injuries on her face, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, did you call a doctor-that night or any day thereafter during the week?”
“No, no, I did not.”
“Did you take Mrs. Quillian to an emergency room?”
“No.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No.”
“Was your husband at home with you that night?”
“Yes.”
“And apart from him-that would be Preston Meade, am I right?-apart from your husband, did you tell anyone else about Amanda’s visit?”
“No.”
“Her parents?”
“No.”
“Her sisters?”
“I’ve told you that I didn’t,” she snapped. “No one.”
Howell was setting himself up nicely for his closing argument, three weeks away. He didn’t want to ask Kate why she had told no one, because he was aware that the answer would be that Amanda had pleaded with her not to. Rather, he would leave the impression that things hadn’t been serious enough to require any intervention. I made notes to try to clarify that question on my redirect of Kate Meade, hoping that the judge would think Howell had opened the door far enough to let me go there.
“Not even your nanny?” Howell asked. “Surely, Mrs. Meade, you have a nanny for your girls?”
“We do,” she said, ruffled again. “I simply forgot about her, Your Honor. I-uh-I didn’t mean to hide it.”
Howell used his softest expression to try to calm her. “I didn’t think you were doing any such thing. I’m sure your memory of those events isn’t quite as clear now as it was back then. Did you tell the nanny why Amanda Quillian was staying at your apartment?”
“No. She knew Amanda was my best friend. I didn’t have to tell her anything.”
“Because she just worked for you, isn’t that right?”
“Exactly,” Kate answered, in a way that would not endear her to most of the jurors.
Howell was clever about subtly creating even more distance between them and my young socialite
