The judge’s wife immediately pulled off her skirt, exposing a half-slip. “Will this help?”
“Thanks,” Anya pushed hard into the wound. “An ambulance is coming. Just hang on, Bevan.”
He was agitated and tried to push her hands away.
“This will help stop the bleeding,” she said.
“Please,” he managed. “Let me go.”
Anya heard him but refused to believe he meant what he was saying. She had failed to save his daughter but wouldn’t fail him.
She pressed harder and he winced, moving his head from side to side.
“No, no more. I want to die.” he whispered. “Giverny is here.”
She continued to apply pressure but Mrs. Pascoe bent over the man’s face.
“Bevan, do you see her?”
He nodded.
“Is she happy?”
He smiled broadly.
“He’s about to pass,” she said, one hand stroking his cheek. The other hand rested over Anya’s.
Bevan gasped and expelled his last breath. Still with a smile.
Two ambulance officers pushed past the police and bent down to examine their patient.
“It’s too late,” Mrs. Pascoe said, “he’s gone.”
One checked for a pulse and the other tore open the shirt and attached ECG dots to a portable machine.
The line on the monitor was flat. “No pulse, no spontaneous breathing, he’s lost a lot of blood.”
Anya and Mrs. Pascoe stepped back as they worked through their protocol, pushing fluids into a vein, still trying to find a heartbeat, even trying to shock it into motion.
Anya was unaware of anything or anybody else in the room. Just the tragedy of Bevan Hart. First Giverny, then Natasha and Savannah, all dead, all unnecessarily.
Mrs. Pascoe placed an arm around her shoulder. “He’s at peace now, I felt him go.”
Anya excused herself and moved between two rows of bottles for some space. One of the officers removed an envelope from Bevan’s jacket.
“Looks like a suicide note,” he said, gloved hands unfolding the lower half.
Judge Pascoe was being tended to by one of the ambulance officers. “Do we need to hear the ravings of a vigilante?”
“Wait,” Anya said. “I think we should all hear it.”
The officer continued reading aloud.
The room fell quiet. Bevan Hart was no longer a maniac who broke into a judge’s house with a gun. This was a grieving father with a genuine reason to be distraught. It was never going to end well. His daughter’s final words would haunt them all.
Anya now understood why she hadn’t remembered petechial hemorrhages on Giverny’s face. They weren’t there. Giverny had killed herself, without anyone else present. She flashed back to that morning. Bevan Hart had been to the bedroom before finding his daughter. He could have picked up the note and hidden it from them. From his point of view, the Harbourns had driven her to suicide, helped along by judges, lawyers, and Savannah’s forced silence.
No one involved had won a thing, so far. Except the ones who were responsible for the entire chain of events.
The Harbourn brothers.
43
The following morning Anya stood with Dan Brody in Judge Pascoe’s private chambers.
They expected him to excuse himself from the trial, even though the damage to his leg was superficial.
He sat in a brown leather chair, behind a walnut desk. He did not invite either of them to sit.
“I will not discuss the events at my home last evening. I believe they are irrelevant to this trial.”
Dan stood in a relaxed position, although from the way he was wringing his hands he was anything but comfortable. Anya wasn’t sure whether she was here to chaperone or act as a witness.
“In reference to the issue of your accusations, if you repeat your ridiculous claims I’ll sue you for defamation. You have no proof of nonconsensual activity, and DNA merely confirms relations took place, which I do not deny. This will be the end of the matter.”
“Well then, Your Honor, I formally request to be excused from this trial on the grounds of personal conflict.”
The judge placed his hands downward on the edge of the desk.
“I believe I just explained the situation. What possible grounds do you think you have?”
“Well, Your Honor, I believe you are the father of my late sister and that could be viewed as a form of nepotism. I therefore feel it’s unethical for me to continue.”
Pascoe slammed a book down on the desk.
“Nepotism? My boy, I could charge you with contempt of court. Your client has pleaded insanity at the time of the crime for which he is accused. If you lose, and the insanity plea is rejected, your client is entitled to appeal. Your duty is to comply with your client’s wishes, and defend him to the best of your ability. Anything less and I’ll have your arse in a sling. You will not be excused from this trial.”
Dan tensed and Anya thought he was about to strike the judge again. Thankfully, he seemed to have more control this morning and resisted the urge.
“Your Honor, I have advised my client against the insanity defense. I don’t believe it’s in his best interests; however, he insists that’s what he wants. My client is refusing my instructions, which are based on the best of my experience and knowledge.”
“In that case, you will represent your client by complying with all of his wishes. Do I make myself clear?”
Dan didn’t answer.
“Doctor Crichton.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Her mouth was dry. This was worse than being in the principal’s office, not that she’d ever been in trouble at school. But a hostile judge could make her testimony in any trial detrimental to a case. Lawyers might then consider her too high a risk as an expert witness and her work would quickly dry up. Her pulse raced and she felt a rash develop on the back of her neck. She despised this man, for what he did to Therese Brody, to his wife, and for the way he dismissed Bevan Hart’s reasons for what he did. Right now wasn’t the time to show it, though.
“You will remain a witness and I’ll permit Mr. Brody to call on you if you have an expert opinion that is relevant to the case. Again, if you repeat the ridiculous allegations against me, by the time I’m finished with you, you won’t
