The Sabbathday River (45 page)

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Authors: Jean Hanff Korelitz

BOOK: The Sabbathday River
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“And what about Heather, Ashley? How did you think Heather was going to interpret this, your having the choice to stay with your wife but choosing her instead?”
“I didn't
choose
her,” he said scornfully.
“You don't think so? You don't think that's what it felt like to her? You took her arm and you walked away from your wife.”
Charter objected. Ashley could not know what it felt like to Heather. Judith nodded. The question was as potent unanswered.
“So you left your wife in the woods and you went off with Heather. Whose idea was it to go to the mill?”
“I don't remember.” He sulked. “Might have been mine.”
“Whose idea was it to break in through the window?”
“I knew I could fix the window the next day.”
Judith nodded. “I see. And do I understand correctly that you broke into the mill because you wanted sex?”
Again, that look of disapproval, for her coarseness.
“We had unfinished business. We both wanted it.”
“I just want to make sure I understand,” Judith said. “Heather never actually said, ‘Let's go to the mill. Let's break into the mill. I want to have sex.'”
He shrugged. “She might have. I don't remember.”
“You have no memory of her saying those things.”
“I don't remember.”
“And yet,” Judith reflected, “those things happened. Is it possible that Heather communicated them to you telepathically?”
“What?” Ashley stared.
“Or is it possible that these were
your
decisions? That you did not consult Heather at all? Because, let's see, you were pissed, by your own account. And what better way to get back at your wife and all her busybody friends than to grab your girlfriend and go and have sex with her
as soon as possible? And the mill was close, right? And it really didn't matter if you broke in, because you'd be the one to fix it, anyway. And when you get right down to it, this whole thing made you pretty horny, too, I guess.”
“Hey,” Ashley said, “just wait a minute.”
“What, you weren't horny?”
“I didn't-”
“But after you were finished with Heather you knew you were going to go home and make it up with your wife somehow, right? So you looked down at this girl who adored you, who was lying there next to you, so completely happy because, after years of loving you, and bearing your child, and watching you go home to your wife, you had just chosen her, and taken her away, and made love to her. And you looked down at this girl and said, Well, so long, sweetie, this seems like a good time to break up.
Or words to that effect.
Right, Ashley?”
The room, was silent.
“Is that right?”
“I was a married man. I never said I would leave my wife.”
“Well, I guess that makes you some kind of paragon, Ashley,” Judith said cruelly.
He sulked, his arms crossed. The women on the jury were glaring at him.
“And she was pregnant. And you were the father of her second child.”
“If you say so.” He wouldn't look at her now.
“Because there was nobody else for Heather, Ashley, was there?”
“There might have been!”
“Because she adored you, and there was nobody else. And eight months later she gave birth to one baby, and you were its father.”
That wasn't a question, Charter objected, and Hayes concurred.
“And you never contacted her again,” Judith said. “You never gave a damn about her. You just dropped her, isn't that right?”
“We broke up,” he affirmed.
“Were you aware that Heather's grandmother died suddenly on the very day that you dropped her?”
“I heard that,” he said.
“Did you call her to offer your condolences?”
He said no.
“Did it occur to you that Heather must be devastated, losing her only relative and the father of her child on the very same day?”
He scowled at her.
“Can you imagine how it must have felt for Heather to discover that she was again pregnant, so soon after this moment in her life?”
Ashley shrugged and examined his hands.
“You never gave her a second thought, did you, Ashley? You just went back to your wife and kissed and made up, and got her pregnant again, is that right? And it was all right with you because you were a married man, even if you didn't behave like one, and it was too bad for Heather if she made the mistake of thinking you cared. That about it?”
“Nope,” he said, sarcastic, downright adolescent.
“Too bad for Heather. Too bad for Polly, who would never know her father. Too bad for the second child you'd already conceived with Heather, who would also never know her father. She knew you were married!”
“Hey,” he shouted, “you can't just say I was their father. I don't know that!”
Judith sighed. She twisted on the desktop and opened one of her files, fishing out a form and holding it before her, peering at it. “Would it surprise you if I told you that a forensic serologist has concluded to —I'm quoting here—a ‘high degree of certainty' that you are in fact the biological father of Polly Elizabeth Pratt?”
He took this in. “I guess not,” he said grudgingly.
“You're not particularly surprised.”
“I just said so.”
“And would it surprise you if I told you that the same forensic serologist has concluded, to an equally high degree of certainty, that you are also the biological father of an unnamed infant girl, born last September, and in fact one of the babies at issue in this case?”
“You can get anyone to say anything,” he said bitterly. “You just hire your own expert and pay them, isn't that how it works?”
Judith appeared taken aback. She fluttered the report in her hand. “Well, I wouldn't know. This report was actually made by the prosecution's expert.” Wide-eyed, she let the jury note her surprise. She smiled.
“Ashley,” she said after this moment had been milked for its worth, “let me ask you something. You knew Heather pretty well, obviously. By your own account, you saw her almost every day. Did she
ever
tell you that she was seeing another man?”
He shook his head. “She didn't
tell
me, no.”
“Well, did you ever actually
see
her with another man?”
He hadn't
seen
her either, he admitted.
“Or ever come across any concrete evidence that she had met with and had a physical relationship with another man?”
She would hardly leave
evidence,
he countered. But no.
“And you have no idea who this phantom Christopher Flynn is, do you, Ashley?”
“I said I never met him. I said that before.”
Judith sighed, a mite theatrically. “You know perfectly well there's no such person as Christopher Flynn, don't you, Ashley?”
“I don't-”
“You know there was you and just you. A pregnancy that produced your daughter Polly. Then a second pregnancy that produced only one infant, your second daughter, who was born and died without a name. You know that, don't you, Ashley?”
“I don't know shit,” he yelled, and then Charter was yelling, too, and Judith, with a deeply disingenuous smile, briefly thanked the witness and said she had no further use for him.
friends Can Quarrel
“GUESS I'M GOING TO NEED A NEW CARPENTER,” Judith said the next morning as Naomi approached. She was waiting on one of the benches in front of the courthouse, wrapped in her heavy coat, her briefcase pinched between her calves.
“What, did he call or something?” Naomi said. She took a seat and gave Judith one of the two takeout coffees she was carrying. It didn't matter which one, they took it the same way.
“No, but Sue did. Around midnight. You won't believe what she called me.”
“What?” Naomi put down her cup, peeled off the plastic cap, and carefully tore out a triangle. A triangle-shaped wedge of steam hit the cool air when the cap went back on.
“A kike,” Judith said smugly. “Can you believe it? I've never known
anyone
who was actually called a kike.” She considered. “I'm not sure I even know exactly what it means.”
Naomi shook her head and sipped, instantly scalding her tongue. “Jesus, Judith. I'm really sorry.”
“Don't be. My only problem was calming Joel down. He wanted to call the papers. But I don't think it would actually help.” She peeled off the lid and blew at the black surface. “For all I know, it might reflect badly on Heather if her lawyer started whining about being called names. And frankly, those eight or nine people in New Hampshire who can't figure out on their own that somebody named Friedman is probably Jewish, why should I tell them?”
“But it's nasty. For you.”
“Nah.” She grinned. “Listen, it's rare in life you get to be so totally on higher moral ground. Especially in my line of work. This is just fine.”
Naomi laughed. “Maybe she resented your implication that her husband ought to keep his fly zipped a little more tightly.”
“Maybe.
I
would.”
“Maybe you were a little hard on her yesterday,” Naomi said, testing the waters. She didn't actually believe that herself.
“I don't think so.” Judith blew and sipped. “But if I was, it's because I had to be. In something like this, you just can't take prisoners. I needed to show that Ashley always went to Heather, you know? Never the other way around. He went to her when he wanted sex. He took her in his car. He chose the place in the woods. He went to her house. He bought her gifts. He called all the shots in the relationship. Sue's resentment was misplaced. I had to show that I would have been disgusted, too, if he'd been my husband.”
“If he'd been your husband, he'd be an ex-husband.”
“No shit.” She grinned.
“Extend thy balls to another woman and I reserve the right to cut them off.”
“I was chopping onions, your honor, and I was crying, and I just couldn't see clearly! I had no idea he was resting them on the chopping block!”
“He fell on my knife, fourteen times!”
“But really, he looks fine without them.”
“I never even knew he had 'em in the first place!”
Naomi was red-faced, sputtering glee. “Judith, you are
evil.”
“Yeah,” she said happily. “That's why the boys all love me so …”
“Fuck the boys.
I
love you. I think you're swell,” Naomi said.
Judith shook her head modestly.
“No, seriously. I thought you were brilliant with Martina yesterday. Did I tell you?”
“Sure.” She nodded. “But don't let that stop you from saying it again.”
So Naomi said it again, because Judith had indeed been brilliant. Martina Graves had testified about Heather's first months at the sports center: her own acts of friendship and neighborliness toward the new employee, then her gradual alarm at what was developing between Heather and Ashley, and her outright revulsion at the illegitimate pregnancy Heather flaunted. Christian values, Martina said, wringing her hands in her lap, rendered her incapable of continuing the friendship with Heather. She had been shocked to discover how vastly different a person her friend had turned out to be—profligate, prideful, wanton. Martina shook her hay-blond head. It was sad, she told the jury, but the fault was her own for not seeing sooner the true measure of Heather's character. She, like Sue Deacon before her, did not personally know Christopher Flynn, but Martina volunteered to the district attorney that she was praying for him nonetheless.
Charter, murmuring gratitude, then turned the witness over to Judith.
And so followed an hour's discourse on the essence of Christian values. Had Martina, Judith asked, ever offered counsel to her misguided young friend? No? What about support during her pregnancy? Solace during her bereavement? Succor during her imprisonment? Perhaps Martina would have preferred, under the circumstances, that Heather procure an abortion?
Judith downed the last of her coffee and crumpled the cup.
“I'm worried about Heather,” Naomi said, understating the obvious. “She isn't strong.”
“No,” Judith agreed.
“I didn't think she was going to make it through Ashley's testimony,” Naomi said, looking up at the prison wing of the courthouse. “I thought she was going to fall apart.”
“She
did
fall apart,” Judith said dryly.
“No, I mean … I thought she was going to start screaming, or have a fit or something.”
“And that would have been worse than just moaning and groaning like a zombie? I don't think so. She made herself seem absolutely demented to the jury. I mean, here I am, building her up,
resilient girl abandoned by spineless bastard, mother of the year
, right? And instead of sitting there and attempting to look the part, she behaves like a wet
noodle. I could use the support, you know. I mean, I'm only trying to save her life here.”
“Well, of course,” Naomi soothed. “I'm sure she knows that.”
“Are you?” Judith said grimly. “You see, I'm not. I'm not sure she knows that at all. She just glowers at me any time I say anything bad about Ashley, that's all she cares about. You know, what is this about, anyway? I mean, what does she think we're all doing here? Does she think she did nothing to contribute to this mess?”
Naomi could not seem to say anything. Judith's voice never rose above a whisper, but the whisper grew harsh and her face tight with aversion.
“You know, you ask any criminal defense attorney and they'll tell you: the worst thing isn't your generic evil guy—the one who wreaks havoc and then says he was somewhere else at the time. I mean, when that guy gets convicted he just shrugs, like,
Oh well, I gave it my best shot.
Nope! The worst thing is your basic sociopath. You know, it's not just that he's been falsely accused and he's innocent, but actually,
he's the victim here!
Can you believe it? It's all twisted around, it's a horrible perversion of justice that he should be in the defendant's seat, because the truth is that the real injustice has been done to
him
!”
“I don't—” Naomi began.
“Oh”—she held up her hand—“don't listen to me. I'm just tired. And she's pissing me off.”
But Naomi's thoughts were coursing on ahead, even as the two women sat motionless and Naomi's coffee went stone cold between her palms. She was testing the notion, trying to dull it before having to speak it aloud, but it wouldn't dull. It was so obvious, and so totally impossible. She took a breath.
“You hate her.”
Judith frowned at the broad gray wall of the courthouse. “Yes.” Slowly, she nodded once. The wet breeze picked up and then dropped a stray tight curl. “I believe I do.”
“But why?” Naomi wailed, unable to temper her voice. Judith looked at her sharply; then her face softened.
“I would have thought that was obvious, Naomi. I hate her because she killed her baby.”
Naomi stared, numb and lost. She did not know how to look, or how to answer. Judith shrugged.
“She had a beautiful, healthy baby. And she killed it.”
“But”—Naomi found her voice—“my God, Judith, there's no evidence for that at all!”
“Keep your voice down,” Judith said. She put an oddly comforting hand on Naomi's arm. “Listen, Naomi. Heather hardly did anything
for
her baby, did she? Did she run up to the house? Or call the doctor? Or even slap it like they do in the movies? No. Which is amazing. I mean, everyone knows you're supposed to slap the kid, right? Isn't there some instinct that tells you you have to make sure the baby is all right? But not Heather. She never wanted that baby, so she just sat there and waited for it to be as dead as she wanted it to be.” She paused and looked hard at Naomi. “Even if she didn't do anything
to
it. Even if there was no overt act to
harm
the baby … even if she didn't shoot it or … stab it. She
killed
it. She let it die. So yes. I hate her. You can feel what you like. You have some history with this person, but I don't. All I know about her is that she ran around with a married man and she killed her baby.” She smiled softly, disconcertingly. “Please don't look so upset about it!”
“But you're defending her,” Naomi said wonderingly. “I mean, if you think—”
“No. I'm defending a woman wrongly accused of stabbing her infant to death. I'm defending a woman who came to the attention of police solely because her fellow citizens condemned her moral character, and her sexuality, and her decision to have an illegitimate child, all of which I find reprehensible, as I've said before. I don't need to like Heather in order to defend her. Which, as it turns out, is no bad thing.” She stopped and shifted on the bench. She was looking at Naomi, not unkindly, but with some amusement. “Actually, I doubt you like her much, either.”
Naomi roused herself to object, but found herself strangely mute on the subject. She could only shake her head. “I just … It seems strange to me that you're so judgmental, that's all.”
And Judith, to her surprise, laughed openly at this and shook her head. “Oh please!
Judgmental.
I can't stand this sanctimonious shit about being judgmental. I mean, come on—every single person is judgmental, especially the ones who whine about how it's wrong. We're just using our minds, that's all. Our
characters.
This is who we are, this is what we think.
It's our moral code.
Isn't that what separates us from the monkeys? You know? That ability to be judgmental?”
“But still,” Naomi said, flailing a bit, still utterly thrown. Still
what
, she didn't quite know. “It isn't … I mean, it's not your place to judge Heather, no matter what you think of her privately.”
Judith frowned, but affectionately. “Because somebody else is going to? Ultimately? Like, on the Day of Judgment when all sins are revealed? Goats to the left, sheep to the right? And we take our leave of Heather the murderess and go frolic in the land of milk and honey?” She shook her head. “Oh, Naomi, you of all people.”
Naomi stared at her. “Did I say that?” It came out sounding not accusatory but stunned.
And Judith, to her further amazement, had covered her face with her hands. Naomi instinctively put an arm over Judith's shoulder and was instantly able to feel it shake, even through the buffer of their two heavy coats, but having moved her arm, was not able to move it again. She did not understand, in the first place, why she had abruptly assumed this posture, why it was called for, and above all what was happening to Judith. That their talk had turned the corner to this inexplicable barrier at all was surprising, but the suddenness of the turn left her lost. Now, the incongruity of their posture—two women in winter coats on a bench beside an ugly municipal building, one sobbing, the other sheltering the first with a useless arm—rendered Naomi inert. She had never felt so stupid, so ineffectual, so undecided about what to say next.

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