As Time Goes By (21 page)

“And were these therapies helpful to Dr. Grant?”

“They certainly did help in the earlier years of his illness. Particularly in his final year, not withstanding these treatments, he was suffering more acutely with depression, agitation and sleeplessness.”

“Dr. Bevilacqua, I want to go to the morning of March 22nd last year, when Dr. Grant was found deceased in his bed. By that point you had been treating Dr. Grant for almost seven years?”

“That's correct.”

“How were you contacted that morning?”

“I received a phone call from an Alpine police officer who informed me that it appeared that Dr. Grant had died in his sleep.”

“What was your reaction at that time?”

“I was somewhat surprised.”

“What do you mean by ‘somewhat surprised'?”

“Dr. Grant had been to my office for an examination four weeks prior to that date. Alzheimer's disease attacks both the mind and the body. Although his mental condition was steadily deteriorating, his vital organs appeared to be in relatively good shape at that time.”

“But when you agreed to sign the death certificate, were you satisfied that he had died of natural causes?”

“Based upon the information I was given at that time, yes I was. Let me explain. Medicine is far from an exact science. There are many examples of patients who undergo physical examinations that indicate no signs of imminent problems, and they die of a heart attack or stroke later the same day. When an individual who has been suffering from Alzheimer's disease for seven years dies suddenly, even if that patient appeared to be in relatively good physical health, that is not all that unusual.”

“Dr. Bevilacqua, evidence has been presented at this trial that has indicated that Dr. Grant's death resulted from a blow to the back of his head, and not from natural causes. In your expert medical opinion, if Dr. Grant had not suffered that injury to his head, how much longer might he have lived?”

“Every Alzheimer's disease case is different. The average life expectancy after diagnosis is eight to ten years.”

“You said ‘average.' Is there a wide variation?”

“Yes. Some patients live as little as three years, while others survive as long as twenty years after their diagnosis.”

“So, would it be fair to say that Dr. Grant could have survived at least several more years?”

“I say again, every patient is different. But based upon Dr. Grant's condition when I saw him a month before his death, and the high level of care he was receiving, it is more likely than not that he would have lived a few more years, perhaps as many as five years.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Robert Maynard stood up. “Dr. Bevilacqua, you have testified that you were somewhat surprised to receive the call on March 22nd of last year that Dr. Grant had passed away?”

“Somewhat surprised, but not shocked.”

“And you also testified that most victims of early onset Alzheimer's disease, on average, do not live more than eight to ten years. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And at the time of his death, how many years had Dr. Grant been suffering from the disease?”

“I had been treating him for seven years. And by the time I diagnose the disease in a patient, in most cases it has been present for at least a year.”

“So while on average patients with this disease live eight to ten years after diagnosis, in all likelihood, by the time of his death, Dr. Grant had been afflicted for at least eight years. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Doctor, you also testified that despite the medications you were prescribing and despite the high level of home care that he was receiving from Betsy Grant and his caregiver, the depression and agitation and sleeplessness had significantly increased in his final year. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Prosecutor Elliot Holmes stood up. “Your Honor, the state rests.”

The judge looked at Robert Maynard. “Judge, we request an hour recess. The defense will be ready to begin at that time.”

“Very well,” the judge said.

W
hen Alvirah and Willy started up to Rowayton for the third time, Alvirah was tingling with excitement. “Oh, Willy, to think that we will know the name of Delaney's mother and probably even her father too. I just hope that the mother hasn't moved to Japan or China.”

“Highly unlikely,” Willy said dryly. He thought about how he had spent the previous day visiting ten banks making withdrawals. He had used the same line at each bank, “I sure hope I get lucky in Atlantic City.” To his relief the tellers had just smiled as they counted the bills and wrapped the bundles.

They were scheduled to meet Cora at Leslie Fallowfield's house on Wilson Avenue at two o'clock. They had both been surprised when he had said, “his house.” He caught their exchanged glances and quickly added, “the house I'm renting.”

Now Alvirah looked anxiously at the navigation map, which showed that they were only a mile away from the address Fallowfield had given them. A few minutes later the mechanical voice said, “Your destination is five hundred feet ahead on the right.” Then seconds later it said, “You have arrived at your destination.”

They were in front of a ranch house, the kind built in the postwar 1940s. It had a small front lawn and only a few sparse shrubs under the front window. “Depressing,” Willy muttered as he turned off the car.

Willy popped the trunk lid, got out and removed an old suitcase from the trunk. The fifty thousand dollars, in fifty bundles, was jammed inside.

Alvirah got out and they began walking up the stone pavement to the front door.

Obviously Fallowfield had been watching for them, because the door opened as Willy was about to ring the bell.

“Right on time,” Fallowfield said, as if he were greeting old friends as he held open the door. Alvirah noticed that he was quick to eye the suitcase Willy was carrying.

Fallowfield led them into a small den. “Sit right here and I'll get Cora,” he said. As she and Willy took their chairs, Alvirah shrugged off the light fall coat she was wearing. She had bought all new clothes for their river cruise that had ended in early September. This coat was the one she wore when she and Willy left the ship after dinner and took a stroll through the nearby neighborhoods. For an instant she had a keen memory of how much fun that trip had been, but then her mind came back to the present.

Fallowfield returned. “Before coming down, Cora wants to count the money. I'll take it upstairs—”

“You'll count the money right here,” Willy said firmly, as he put the suitcase on the glass-top coffee table in front of him and Alvirah. Fallowfield was about to object, but when the suitcase popped open and he saw the neat rows of twenty-dollar bills, he changed his tune. “I'll be right back.”

Alvirah glanced around. The room was pleasant, with two upholstered couches facing each other at opposite ends of the room. On either side of the fireplace there were two armchairs in a striped blue-and-maroon design, and there was an imitation oriental in a cheerful pattern on the floor. What do I care what the room looks like? Alvirah thought to herself, annoyed at her habit of always taking in her surroundings.

She and Willy both sat up straight when they heard footsteps descending from the second floor. A moment later Leslie Fallowfield and Cora came into the room.

Cora's face was very pale, probably because of her years in prison. Her slacks and sweater were loose on her body. Her mud-brown hair was liberally streaked with gray. She looked to be in her late sixties or early seventies. She barely glanced at Willy and Alvirah before her eyes came to rest on the rows of money Willy had stacked on the coffee table. Fallowfield pulled up two chairs for him and Cora.

Cora's smile revealed stained teeth. “I trust you two, but of course we'll want to count it.”

“Help yourself,” Willy said, “but keep all of the money on top of the table.”

Willy and Alvirah watched as they got to work. They remind me of kids counting Halloween candy, Alvirah thought. She made a note to share that with Willy on the ride back.

Cora and Fallowfield randomly chose four packets, broke the paper seals and counted out, note by note, the fifty twenty-dollar bills in each one. Satisfied that each bundle contained one thousand dollars, they began to go through the remaining bundles, fanning them like a deck of cards to assure that all of the bills in each bundle were twenties. They stacked these next to the bundles they had counted and compared the height of the bundles until they agreed they were all the same.

“It's nice to do business with honest people,” Cora said, smiling.

Alvirah was not in the mood for conversation. “Okay, you have the money. Now give us the name of Delaney's birth mother.”

Cora reached into her pocket and unfolded a sheet of paper. “The mother was seventeen years old. She was from Hawthorne, New Jersey. Her parents' names were Martin and Rose Ryan. The baby was born on March 16th on Oak Street in Philadelphia. The name of the seventeen-year-old who had her was Betsy. The birth was registered to Jennifer and James Wright from Long Island, New York, as the natural parents. They named the baby Delaney.”

R
obert Maynard initially called six character witnesses. Two were fellow teachers from Pascack Valley High School, two were neighbors, one was the director of the Villa Claire hospice where Betsy, until three years ago, had devoted hundreds of hours as a volunteer. The last witness was Monsignor Thomas Quinn, the pastor at St. Francis Xavier church, where Betsy attended mass on Sundays.

Each one of them testified that they had known Betsy Grant for many years and had observed her unfailing devotion to her husband.

The monsignor's testimony was particularly compelling.

“Monsignor Quinn, how often did you visit at the Grant home?”

“During the last couple of years, when Dr. Grant was no longer able to attend church, I went to their home every couple of weeks to bring him Communion. Betsy was always there taking care of him.”

“What were your observations of his overall condition during the last year of his life?”

“I observed him sinking deeper and deeper into the horrific effects of Alzheimer's disease. The poor man was terribly afflicted.”

“Did Betsy Grant ever talk to you about putting him in a nursing home?”

“She did on two occasions in the last year. She told me that there had been terrible outbursts and that he had hit her. She said that she wanted very much to keep him at home until the end, but if his behavior deteriorated further, it could become necessary, but
only
as a last resort. She knew that he would be devastated if he was no longer in his own home with her.”

“Monsignor, with respect to Betsy Grant's character, what is her reputation in the community for truth and veracity?”

The monsignor answered substantially as the other witnesses had. “Everyone who knows Betsy Grant understands that she is a person of good character and credibility.”

“I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

The judge turned to Holmes and said, “Sir, you may cross-examine.”

Elliot Holmes was a very experienced prosecutor. He knew that there was nothing to be gained in attacking these kinds of witnesses. He formulated his questions carefully and in a respectful tone. He questioned the monsignor in the same manner as he had questioned the other witnesses.

“Monsignor Quinn, you have testified that you visited the home every few weeks during the last couple of years of Dr. Grant's life. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“And Monsignor, how much time did you ordinarily spend at the home during these visits?”

“Usually about a half an hour.”

“And Monsignor, is it fair to say that you have no personal knowledge of what went on in that household between your visits every few weeks?”