Vanished

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.”