Honor (25 page)

Honor said, “Have you ever been unfaithful to your husband, Mrs. Graham?”

“Never,” she snapped indignantly.

“And you have never given him cause to think you unfaithful?”

“Never.”

Honor smiled and thanked Genevra for her testimony, then told the justice she had no further questions and returned to her seat.

Frick rose and turned his unblinking stare on Genevra. “Mrs. Graham, you are considerably younger than your husband, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Did you marry him for his money?”

Genevra glanced at her husband. “No. At the time, I loved him.”

Frick raised his brows in surprise. “If you loved him, why did you abort his child without telling him?”

Stay calm, Genevra, Honor silently pleaded. Don’t let him rattle you into making an outburst.

“I was fearful of bearing another child,” she replied, her voice steady. “I almost died giving birth to our son, and I was afraid that if I did have another child, I would surely die.”

“Did you ever stop to consider your husband’s wishes?”

Genevra’s hazel eyes hardened. “No. He had no consideration for my fears. He just wanted me to give him one child after another, so why—”

“Just answer the question, Mrs. Graham.”

“No, I never stopped to consider my husband’s wishes.”

Frick paused and stared at her. “You have testified under oath that you believe your abortion caused your husband to turn away from you. Is that true?”

“Yes.”

He leaned forward. “But isn’t there another reason, Mrs. Graham?”

Genevra looked confused. “I can think of no other.”

“Oh, I can.” Frick took another quiet stroll around the courtroom, letting his cryptic words sink in. When Justice West looked impatient, Frick stopped in front of the witness box, his unblinking stare pinning Genevra to her seat. His voice rang out: “Isn’t it true that your husband suspected you of having illicit affairs with other men?”

Honor sat up straighter.

Genevra turned as white as plaster. “That’s not true!”

Frick walked back to his table, picked up his notes, and made a great production out of studying them. “I have statements here from several of your servants swearing that they overheard your husband accusing you of seeing other men.”

So that’s Frick’s sordid little game, Honor thought. “Objection, Your Honor. This is hearsay. Just because Mr. Graham was overheard accusing his wife of adultery doesn’t mean she committed it.” Still, Frick had just planted a seed of doubt in the jurors’ minds. That had obviously been his intention all along.

“Sustained.”

Frick’s snake eyes narrowed. “What is your relationship to Nevada LaRouche, Mrs. Graham?”

Genevra turned a guilty shade of red. “What do you mean?”

Genevra and LaRouche lovers? Honor hadn’t even considered that possibility. She shook off her doubts at once. That weekend at Coppermine, they had been nothing more to each other than host and guest. Besides, they would have told her.

Frick said, “Is he an acquaintance, a business associate of your husband’s, a friend…”

“He is—was—a good friend of my husband’s,” she replied cautiously.

“Do you consider him your friend as well?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You have spent several weekends at Mr. LaRouche’s Hudson Valley estate as his guest, have you not?”

“Yes.” Lest the jurors get the wrong impression, she quickly added, “Along with my husband and several other couples.”

Honor objected at once. “I don’t see how Mrs. Graham’s friendship with Mr. LaRouche has any bearing on this case.” Other than to discredit Genevra by insinuating that she had an affair with him.

“I quite agree,” Justice West said and sustained her objection.

Frick all but winked lasciviously at the jury. “I have no further questions of this witness.”

Determined not to let Frick get away with his character assassination of her client, Honor rose and asked for permission to approach the bench. Standing before Justice West, she said, “Your Honor, I would like to request a short recess to summon another witness who isn’t present at the moment.”

“And who would that be?” the justice demanded.

Honor glanced at her opponent. “Nevada LaRouche.”

A half hour later, Nevada LaRouche strode into the courthouse, his impatient gaze cutting through the crowd to find Honor pacing around the edge of the rotunda. When he reached her side, he said, “I got here as fast as I could. What’s this about you wanting me to testify?”

“Gordon’s lawyer has intimated that you and Genevra were lovers,” Honor said, steeling herself for the explosion that was sure to follow.

A rare red flush flooded LaRouche’s cheeks, his usual composure deserting him. “Why, that low-down good-for-nothing… He’s lying.” He stared hard at Honor. “You don’t think—”

“Of course not.” She didn’t tell him about her momentary doubts in the courtroom.

Honor was surprised to see relief flare briefly in the depths of his eyes. “His lawyer is too wily to actually accuse you,” she said, to mollify him, “but even though he can’t prove anything, he’s planted a seed of doubt in the jurors’ minds. If they think Genevra is as guilty of committing adultery as her husband, they won’t grant her a divorce.”

LaRouche rubbed his jaw. “You think my testifying will help?”

Honor nodded. “All you have to do is tell the truth. I doubt if Gordon’s attorney will want to cross-examine you, but if he does, please don’t lose your temper.”

LaRouche’s jaw clenched. “Afterward, Gordon and I are going to have a few words.”

“Don’t waste your breath. He’s not worth it.”

“I don’t take kindly to someone telling lies about me.”

“I realize that, but please restrain yourself.”

“I’ll do my best.”

In the courtroom, Honor watched Frick when LaRouche took the stand and was sworn in, and was delighted to see that her opponent did not look too pleased.

“Mr. LaRouche,” Honor began, “how did you come to know Genevra Graham?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Graham were friends of my business partner, Damon Delancy.”

“And you socialized often?”

“Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Graham were often Delancy’s guests at his home here in New York and for weekends at his country estate.”

“And during these weekends were you ever alone with Mrs. Graham?”

LaRouche bristled with barely restrained annoyance. “No, ma’am. There were always other people present.”

“Pardon my frankness, Mr. LaRouche, but were you and Mrs. Graham ever lovers?”

“Absolutely not!” he growled, glaring at Gordon. “I don’t make a habit of sleeping with other men’s wives, and any man who says I do is a bald-faced liar.”

Justice West admonished LaRouche to refrain from making personal comments, but Honor had made her point to the jury and turned the witness over to Frick, who prudently declined to cross-examine.

Honor’s next witness was Gordon Graham’s mistress.

Chapter Thirteen

A breathless hush fell across the courtroom when the alleged “other woman” was called to the stand.

Honor couldn’t resist looking over her shoulder as Araminta deGrey entered the courtroom and glided up to the witness stand as regally and contemptuously as a queen, leaving just a sigh of Parma violet perfume in her wake.

Even Elroy’s awestruck description of Graham’s
petite amie
as “the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen” didn’t do her justice. First of all, there was nothing petite about her. Nearly six feet tall, Araminta deGrey displayed a lush hourglass figure that was already impressing the gentlemen of the jury.

Dressed in a modish ensemble of cornflower-blue faille that matched her spectacular eyes, she possessed a slender, patrician nose and a Cupid’s bow mouth that begged to be kissed. A flawless ivory complexion and hair the color of sun-ripened wheat gilded an already impressive lily.

But underneath all that golden glitter is pure brass, Honor thought.

There was nothing remotely wifely or domestic about the woman. Her lush hothouse beauty evoked secret trysts in a house of assignation and tributes of priceless jewels from a grateful, satisfied lover, one Gordon Graham. At least Honor could see it. Now all she had to do was convince the jury.

Once Araminta deGrey took the stand and was sworn in, Honor approached her with a conciliatory smile.

“Miss deGrey, what a lovely ensemble you’re wearing. Was it designed by Redfern?”

“No. Worth,” the woman replied in a low, soft voice more suitable to the boudoir than to the courtroom.

A juror snickered. Justice West rolled his eyes and said, “Mrs. Davis, this is a courtroom, not a dressmaker’s salon.”

“Sorry, Your Honor.” Although men would fail to see the significance of this seemingly frivolous line of questioning, Honor had her reasons for pursuing it. She strolled over to the jurors’ box. “Miss deGrey, I understand that you are an actress.”

“I used to be. I haven’t appeared on the stage for several years.”

“Are you employed now?”

The cornflower-blue eyes sparkled at some secret joke.

“I understand you own an apartment at the Central Park Apartments, also known as the Spanish Flats. Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you lived there?”

“A year and a half.”

“You’re not married?” When the woman answered in the negative, Honor smiled and added, “And you’re not an heiress.”

Araminta deGrey smiled back. “No, I’m not an heiress, Mrs. Davis.”

Honor made sure all the jurors could clearly see her puzzled frown. “Quite frankly, Miss deGrey, I’m confused. How can a woman who is not married, not employed, and not an heiress afford a thousand-dollar Worth ensemble like the one you’re wearing, and a four-thousand-dollar cooperative apartment?” An expectant hush fell over the courtroom. Twelve jurors leaned forward in their seats. Even Justice West looked eager to hear the answer.

Araminta deGrey batted her long eyelashes, smiled, and said, “I have an…admirer, Mrs. Davis. He bought me this Worth ensemble, the apartment, and many other things.”

Her brazen admission that she was a kept woman caught Honor unawares. She had never expected her to admit it. Never. Honor prayed her face didn’t reveal her shock at this unexpected turn of events.

She thought fast. “And is Gordon Graham, the man seated over there, your admirer, Miss deGrey?”

“No.”

“If he isn’t, who is?”

Frick rose. “Objection, Your Honor. Since the witness has denied that Gordon Graham is her admirer, the man’s identity has no relevancy to this case.”

When the judge sustained the objection, Honor said, “Miss deGrey, I have witnesses who will testify that Gordon Graham has been seen visiting your apartment quite frequently, often late at night. Do you still deny that he is your…admirer?”

The witness tried to suppress an unladylike smirk and failed. “I deny that Mr. Graham is my admirer, but I’ve never denied knowing him. As a matter of fact, we are good friends.” She gave Graham a bold glance that was anything but platonic, then said to Honor, “There’s no law against a simple friendship between a man and a woman, is there? I may break the laws of propriety by allowing Mr. Graham to visit me late into the night, but that doesn’t mean he is my lover, Mrs. Davis.”

Honor nodded graciously when she really wanted to wring the woman’s perfect, swanlike neck. “Thank you for clarifying your relationship, Miss deGrey.” She paused. “What do you do when Mr. Graham visits?”

“We dine, we talk, we play poker,” she replied smoothly. “And nothing else.”

“What does your admirer think of your friendship with Mr. Graham?”

“Oh, he understands perfectly.”

“How fortunate for you. No further questions, though I would like to reserve the right to recall this witness, Your Honor.”

As Honor returned to her seat, she saw that both Frick and Graham were trying hard to keep from laughing. They were deliberately taunting her with Araminta deGrey. Honor wasn’t surprised when Frick declined to cross-examine this witness. He didn’t need to prove anything.

Honor’s next witnesses were the doorman at the Spanish Flats and two neighbors of Miss deGrey’s. They all swore to having seen Gordon Graham coming and going at all hours. When Frick cross-examined them, he forcefully brought home the fact that none had actually witnessed Graham fornicating with the beauteous Araminta. So how could Honor prove him guilty of adultery?

Her only hope was to force one of them to confess.

But how?

At home late that night, as she lay in bed beside her snoring husband and tried to sleep, something Araminta had said kept going around and around in her mind like a dog chasing its tail: “We dine, we talk, we play poker.”

“Poker…” Honor muttered. “I’ll bet my law degree that woman has never played a game of cards in her life.” Unlike Honor, who had been taught by her cardsharp of an aunt.