Hide and Seek (24 page)
“Look. If you don’t want to take this on—”
“Oh, I didn’t say that.”
“Then you’ll join us?”
“For you, Barry Kahn—”
There was a pause. “God bless you, Ms. Breen,” Barry said.
“Call me Norma.”
She could hear his sigh of relief, imagined the strain he was under. And she admired his loyalty to his friend, even if she was the “black widow” of Bedford and almost surely guilty as sin.
M
OST PEOPLE STILL didn’t know the issues separating the Serbs and the Croats, but the murder trial of Maggie Bradford was being watched everywhere around the world. Reporters and television crews arrived not only from across the United States, but also from Europe, South America, Asia, and probably from the moon. The crush of the press was as great, Norma Breen thought, as at a presidential inaugural—only the desperation for the “inside” story was far more lunatic.
Christ, it’s a goddamn murder trial
, she thought.
Whatever the outcome, it won’t change the world. So what if she killed a husband or two? Most of them deserve it!
She pointed her dusty yellow Camaro down Clarke Street in Bedford Village and slowly drove past the buzzing courthouse for the second time that morning.
A procession of black umbrellas, vinyl raincoats, Boston Chicken and Dunkin’ Donuts take-out bags stretched along the main street, past Hamilton Drugs, Willie’s Newspapers, and the new public library. The slow parade turned onto Charles Street and continued five more blocks.
What a mess! What a freaking disaster area! Tourist buses were parked down Millar and Grant streets: bright yellow school buses and Greyhounds with names like PITTSFIELD and CATAWBA on their foreheads. It was early December, and snow already hung in the air.
“
Maggie and Will: Bittersweet Love Tragedy
.” That was
today’s
headline; similar phrases floated out to Norma from her car radio, including “
Three Strikes. She’s Out!
”
Cute! Norma liked that one. Finally, a little sense of humor about this fiasco, which happened to be her
job
for now.
The chief defense investigator hated publicity, didn’t care about the fame, or even getting rich. It interfered with her work, all those reporters scurrying after her. Still, she knew what she was in for. Maggie Bradford was a star. One segment of the public had decided she was guilty; the other, innocent as a lamb. And Norma?
Dammit, I still don’t know what to think. Maggie isn’t sure herself. What she told the police was damn close to a confession. The evidence is impressive
.
Her yellow pass, pasted conspicuously on her windshield, enabled her to spin the Chevrolet into the black-topped courthouse parking area. The lot was already packed with similarly stickered state and local police cars, and private cars belonging to the attorneys and their aides from both sides.
Judge Andrew Sussman’s blue Mercedes was in his private stall beside the courthouse back door. Nearby stood Nathan Bailford’s silver Porsche, looking like a car a college boy might drive to pick up pretty girls on weekends.
And it was Bailford who came up to her as she hefted her slightly overweight body out of her car.
Bailford gestured toward the crowd outside the lot. “And today’s only for jury selection. Imagine the scene when the real trial starts.”
“How’s your client holding up?” Norma asked. She had visited the accused woman several times in the past weeks, finding her surprisingly down-to-earth, although remote, neither helpful nor hindering. “
Confused,
” she was told.
Clinically depressed
, Norma described her.
“The same. Hasn’t really changed since the night of the killing. All lows, no highs.” He looked at her anxiously. “Anything new on your end?”
“Nothing yet. Lot of balls in the air though. Sometimes I feel like the
court
juggler. Ha, ha.”
Norma didn’t tell the lawyer that there were aspects to the killing that troubled her a great deal. There was nothing really specific yet, just things that didn’t hang together, or hold up to close scrutiny.
What did seem clear was this: If Maggie shot her first husband, she was forced to do it. If she shot Will Shepherd, she was also forced to. By what or by whom was unclear.
The real trouble was that there
were
two killings. One might be explained—temporary insanity, self-defense, long-term abuse. But
two?
She would go back to the murder site that afternoon, looking for more information, looking for some trail to follow.
There was something she hadn’t found, something crucial. There had to be.
Dammit. Something was definitely wrong
.
In Palm Springs, a California hazy, grapefruit-pink desert sun slid over the rocky stubble topping the mountains. The early rays came shimmering down onto the swimming pool and the surrounding red tile terrace.
Peter O’Malley laid aside his copy of yesterday’s
New York Times
. He removed his new mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses, put them on a wrought-iron drink stand, and stared at the sparkling blue sheet of pool water.
His mind was sparkling too. On the surface itself, superimposed over the reflection of the stucco pool house, he could almost
see
the face of Maggie Bradford. Just as he had seen it on television last night. Pale, shadows under the eyes. She looked like a damn zombie, out of it, and his heart leapt at her plight.
Serves her fucking well right!
Later that night he’d heard her singing voice, the sound that literally
destroyed
him, blaring from his car radio. Her songs were all over the radio, of course.
The caged songbird
, the deejay called her.
Well, that voice wouldn’t be around much longer. Not on the radio (who would play the songs of a convicted murderess?), not in the boardroom of his father’s company either.
He put his dark glasses back on, picked up the pen and legal pad he had brought with him to the pool, and began the letter that he believed would guarantee the process of sending Maggie Bradford to her doom.
What goes around, comes around, sweetheart. Now you get yours. Trust me on that. Your “affair” with the O’Malleys isn’t quite over with yet
.
E
VERYBODY WHO CAME into close contact with Dan Nizhinski, the Westchester County district attorney, had the same reaction: he was too good to be true, he was perfect for his part.
First, there were his looks. He was six foot one, with corn-blond hair prematurely thinning on top but long on the sides. His face was somewhat weatherbeaten, making it look older than its thirty-six years, but the lines around his light blue, sparkling eyes gave them a mischievousness that made women jurors light up and men jurors consider him their friend.
Second was his courtroom manner. Standing ruler-straight, he seemed to take the jurors into his confidence, yet distanced himself enough so that they regarded him with awe. “I’m telling you the truth,” he seemed to be saying. “Trust me. Astonishing as the revelations are, the facts support them.”
Right now, though, at ease, cordovaned feet resting on top of his desk, he was addressing his assistants about the upcoming trial.
“The facts aren’t in doubt,” he said for what must have been the tenth time. “She just about admitted she shot him, handed over the murder weapon to the police, has cooperated more with them, I gather, than with her own attorneys. Such behavior is not uncommon in murder cases.
“But”—and here he paused for dramatic effect—”but this woman has enough money to buy the best legal and investigative resources available. Nathan Bailford himself will do the actual cross-examination; he’s had more experience in murder trials than he has in corporate ones. It’s how he made his reputation. And they’ve hired Norma Breen as their investigator. If there’s something exculpatory to find, she’ll find it—only there’s nothing, damn it.
Nothing!
”
Another pause, this one to control his emotions. “The defense they’ll offer, the only possible defense, is self-defense. That Maggie Bradford was defending herself against Will Shepherd, that if she hadn’t killed him, he’d have killed her.
“Well, I say that’s bullshit, and when we’re finished with her, so will the jury. It’s a defense that makes me sick. We’re talking about
Maggie Bradford!
She couldn’t have gone to the police? She was
afraid
of him? Well, it might have worked in the shooting of her first husband, but it sure as hell
ain’t
gonna work here. She’s a superstar. Any court in the world would have
guaranteed
her protection if she’d asked for it. A battered wife? My ass.”
A third pause, a sip of coffee. The three others in his office knew his judicial beliefs, were inured to his melodramas. They also understood just how good he was at his job—and just how much this particular trial meant to his career.
“Two husbands, two deaths. That’s putting a charley horse in the long arm of coincidence, as S. J. Perelman once said. But then,
then
, there’s the death of a
third
man in the life of Maggie Bradford. A man she supposedly loved most of all.
“Patrick O’Malley, her live-in lover, died of a heart attack on his boat. Well,
was
it a heart attack? So the autopsy said.
But
, we don’t know what brought it on.”
Nizhinski continued speaking in his very controlled voice. “Maggie Bradford is a killer. Cold-blooded, basically heartless, and until this last time, clever as the devil himself.
“But we’ve got her now. Guilty as charged? I’ve never been so convinced of anything in my life!”
Nizhinski finished, and he looked around at his assistants. “Any questions, cubs, or are you too dazzled to speak? Anyone see any way we can lose this one? I sure can’t.”
I’
M NO EXPERT on prisons, and don’t want to be, but if the Bedford Hills Correctional Facility for Women is “one of the most luxurious,” then I pity the women incarcerated elsewhere. This stinks big time, especially when you’re innocent; but even if you’re not, this can’t be the way to proper rehabilitation. I am absolutely certain that it isn’t.
I have no cellmate—because I’m a “star.” I exercise, and eat the bad food, alone. I’ve made a friend, another woman accused of killing her husband. The grim irony isn’t lost on either of us.
I’m surrounded by drug addicts, small-time thieves, gang members, arsonists, a few murderers. Jennie visits a few times each week, and I can’t wait to see her. Allie’s been told I’m away, and to mind Mrs. Leigh. I miss them so much I can’t write about it.
When I think about my sweet girl, my darling boy, I can
feel
my heart ripping—I’m forced to double over with pain. I don’t feel sorry for myself; I just can’t live without the two of them. I can’t let myself go to pieces, for their sake.
I finished the last entry before the lights went out. It sounds like a long whine, and I’m not like that. Not even locked up in this prison. It is now six hours before the trial begins.
What will ultimately happen? What will the verdict be? I have no idea. None, zero, not a clue. When I hear the evidence, will I be any closer to the truth? Finally know how it all happened? Who will tell me what lies hidden in my heart?
Will
you
be closer to the truth? I’ve told you everything so far. What do you feel?
Are you sure?
Am I telling the truth—or am I just another celebrity liar?
Are you really sure about me?
When really bad trouble comes, do I simply shoot my way out? Is killing my only weapon? Do I have a tendency to get myself involved with monsters?
Am I a monster myself?
H
ERE WE GO!
“You ready, Mrs. Bradford? Everything’s going to be fine. Let’s go now. We’re going to get you inside the courtroom as fast as humanly possible. We need your help with that. Keep your head down. Keep walking.”
“I’ll do my best, Bill.”
“I know you will.”
More perks. They sent a specially trained guard up from New York City for me. A pro at this. His job is to oversee the
other
guards who’ll protect me from the press.
He’ll lead me inside, sit near me while the trial’s going on, then get me back to prison as quickly and easily as he can. Bill Seibert’s his name. A nice man, actually. Nice manners and an even disposition.
I felt him push me gently from behind, and I tripped slightly as I got out of the van.
A great start, huh?
I could already see the headlines:
MAGGIE TRIPPED UP ON FIRST DAY!
I walked into the blinding TV lights, closely packed human bodies, and a barrage of embarrassing questions: Did I do it? How did I feel? Was I able to write in prison? What were the inmates like? Did I sing any of my songs for them?
Give me a break!
The level of stupidity and “high sleaze” was beyond anything I could imagine. I felt as though I might be sick. My legs were unsteady as I tried to walk. The handcuffs I wore made me feel guilty.
“Just follow me,” Seibert said. “Don’t stop for anything. Don’t say anything to anybody, Mrs. Bradford.”
I did just what he said.
He was the pro.
State troopers in cowboy hats could barely hold back the crowd. There were a few boos, but cheers too. The scene made me absolutely dizzy. The last time I had been in such a crush was in San Francisco—not exactly something I wanted to remember now.
Hands grabbed at me from across the police barricades.
Don’t touch me. Please leave me alone! I don’t belong to any of you
. The thought of a stranger’s hand on me made me want to scream out loud. I held it in, held everything inside.
Blessedly, most of the loud, unruly crowd was shut out by a great oak door.
Suddenly, I was inside the high-ceilinged courthouse foyer. Court clerks, extra—mostly elderly—policemen, and minor village dignitaries stared at me now as though I were an alien from outer space. There were the usual black-and-white photos on the white plaster walls leading up a marble staircase; state, local, and American flags hung limply on gilded poles. It was so unbelievably weird.
