Part 51 (1/2)
”How long did it take you to walk there?”
”I didn't time myself.”
Jordan walked toward Charlie. ”Longer than thirty seconds?”
”No.”
”Were there any obstacles in the way?”
”No.”
”No rocks you had to climb over? No ditches to fall into?”
”It's a flat, level path.”
By now, Jordan was almost face-to-face with the detective. ”After his arrest, my client told you he was innocent, didn't he?”
”Yes.” Charlie shrugged. ”So do most perps.”
”But unlike most perps, you didn't get a confession out of my client at the station. In fact, my client has steadily denied his involvement in this crime, isn't that true?”
”Objection!” Matt cried.
”Sustained.”
Jordan didn't blink. ”When you met Gillian Duncan at the edge of the cemetery, how did her clothing appear to you?”
”Dirty, covered in leaves. Her s.h.i.+rt, it was b.u.t.toned all wrong.” Charlie glanced at Jack. ”Like she'd had it ripped off her.”
”I have here the transcript of Ms. Duncan's testimony yesterday, Detective. Would you mind reading the section I've marked off?” Jordan handed Charlie a piece of paper.
” 'How about your sweater? Did he take that off?' ” Charlie read, and then gave Gillian's answer. ”No. 'Unb.u.t.ton it?' No.”
”Thank you.” Jordan held up a photograph of Jack that had been placed on the evidence table. ”Did you take this photo of Mr. St. Bride?”
”Yes.”
”Is it a fair and accurate representation of how he looked when you arrested him?”
”Yes.”
”Take a look at the scratch on his face. Is that one scratch or five?”
”One.”
”Is that consistent with five fingers being raked across a face?”
Charlie suddenly remembered Gillian's hands twisting in her lap, how Amos had reached for one to hold. She'd had long fingernails, bright red, the same color polish his daughter had come home wearing that week after visiting Gilly at her house. ”I'm not sure,” Charlie murmured.
Jordan slapped the picture down. ”Nothing further.”
The incense cast a lavender cloud over Gilly's bedroom, and as she drew it in, she imagined that she was drifting with the smoke, dissolving, energy rising. Cinnamon sprinkled freckles over her mother's cheek, the worn photo tucked beneath a candle. ”I call upon the Earth, Air, Fire, Water,” she whispered. ”I call upon the Sun, Moon, and Stars.”
She did not know what was going on in the courtroom across town, and at this moment, she truly did not care. In fact, she was not thinking of her father, seated behind Matt Houlihan like the dragon who guarded Gilly's virtue. She was not thinking of Jack St. Bride. Sweet sage tickled the inside of her nose, and with all she had inside her, Gillian wished for her mother.
Just on the edge of the circle, she could see her, a translucent figure with a laugh that fell into the sh.e.l.l of Gilly's ear. And this time, something happened. Instead of the candle sputtering out and her mother simply disappearing, she looked Gillian in the eye and sang her name, a series of bells. ”You shouldn't,” her mother said, and the flame on the candle roared so bright it was blinding.
By the time Gillian realized the rug was on fire, her mother had gone. She batted at the flames but didn't manage to save the photograph. It was charred through, the only remaining fragment a piece of her mother's hand, now curled and scorched with heat.
Gillian threw herself down beside the ashes, breathing in the smoke and sobbing. She would not learn until much later that she had burned her hands putting out the flames, that each broken blister would scar in the shape of a heart.
Matt Houlihan was tired. He wanted to go home and have Molly fall asleep on his chest while Syd rubbed his feet. He wanted to drink himself into oblivion, so that when he was tottering at the edge of consciousness, he wouldn't have to see Gillian Duncan's face.
He was almost done.
That, more than anything else, drew Matt to his feet. He slipped a piece of paper from a manila envelope and offered it to McAfee, who'd known ever since the motions hearing that it was coming. ”Judge, the state has no more witnesses for its case in chief. However, at this time I'd like to offer a certified copy of the conviction of Jack St. Bride for s.e.xual a.s.sault on a plea of guilty entered August 20, 1998, in Grafton County, New Hamps.h.i.+re. To wit, Mr. McBride admitted that he s.e.xually a.s.saulted a fifteen-year-old victim and received a sentence of eight months to serve in the Grafton County Correctional Facility.”
The jury gaped. They looked at Matt, they looked at the defendant, and they thought what any reasonable man or woman would think when presented with this evidence-if he's done it before, he most likely has done it again.
Matt placed the conviction on the clerk's desk, then looked directly at Jack St. Bride, hoping to h.e.l.l the b.a.s.t.a.r.d was fully suffering the terror of being at someone else's mercy, someone who held all the cards. ”Your Honor,” Matt said. ”The state rests.”
1969.
New York City That morning, while drinking her imported Sumatran coffee, Annalise St. Bride had read a story in the New York Times New York Times about a woman whose baby had been born in a tree. The woman lived in Mozambique, a country suffering from a flood, and had climbed to safety when her hut washed away. The baby was healthy, male, and rescued by helicopter a day later. about a woman whose baby had been born in a tree. The woman lived in Mozambique, a country suffering from a flood, and had climbed to safety when her hut washed away. The baby was healthy, male, and rescued by helicopter a day later.
Surely that was worse than what was happening now.
She had been on Astor Place shopping for the most darling christening outfit when her water broke. Two weeks early. The ambulance told her she couldn't get to Lenox Hill-the hospital where she'd planned to have her baby-because there was a parade blocking traffic one way, and a broken water main had locked up the conduit through Central Park. ”I am not not going to St. Vincent's,” she insisted, as two paramedics hefted her into the back of the ambulance. going to St. Vincent's,” she insisted, as two paramedics hefted her into the back of the ambulance.
”Fine, lady,” one said. ”Then drop the kid right here.”
A band of pain started at her groin, then radiated out to every nerve of her skin. ”Do you know,” she gasped, ”who my husband is?”
But the paramedics had already set the ambulance screaming crosstown.
Through the tiny window over her feet, Annalise watched the city roll past, a palette of gray angles and swerving pedestrians. In minutes, they arrived at the last hospital in New York City she could possibly wish to be.
Drug addicts and homeless people were splashed along the sides of the building like decorative puddles; Annalise had even heard of patients who had died in the halls simply waiting to be cared for. It was a far cry from Lenox Hill, with its lushly appointed exclusive birthing suites meant to offer a couple the feel of being at home.
St. Vincent's? Being born in a tree was a better pedigree than this this.
As the paramedics loaded the stretcher off the ambulance, she realized she had to fight in earnest. But the moment the wheels of the gurney slapped onto the pavement, she felt shock rocket through her. Her spine was shattering-she could feel the vertebrae at the base cracking, she was certain of it. In her womb, where she'd been carrying a baby, there was now a huge fist. It twisted like a puppeteer's, pulled so hard and so long that she writhed, at odds in her own body.
I am going to die, she thought. she thought.
When she opened her mouth, all she could say was, ”Get Joseph.”
She was admitted before the s.h.i.+fty-eyed drunks and the mothers with six sniffling children hanging like ornaments from their limbs. The curtained room smelled of alcohol and cleaning fluids, and Annalise's gaily wrapped package stuck out awkwardly, a Meissen vase in a Woolworth's living room. ”She's eight centimeters,” said the doctor, an Asian man with hair that stood straight, like a rooster's comb.