James PATTERSON - Alex Cross’s Trial

I read that last sentence again… and again…

I doubt this will truly come as a surprise to you. You know that we have not been in love, as husband and wife must be, for some time now.

My hand was shaking now. The paper began to rattle and my eyes burned.

I rested my head back against my chair. “ I’m still in love, Meg,” I said out loud.

I have prayed much about this matter, and have spoken to my father about the situation.

I should have known. Meg had consulted the one god in her life, the almighty Colonel Wilfred A. Haverbrook, U.S. Army, Ret. No doubt the colonel had agreed with her that her husband was a miserable failure.

I know that my decision may strike you as a terrible mistake on my part. Yet I believe it is the only correct solution to our dilemma. We must be honest with each other and ourselves.

I think it best if you do not come home at this time. I will be in touch with you by post or wire, as I begin the steps necessary to bring about a most painful but inevitable result.

Cordially, your wife

Meg

I have often heard the expression “It hit him like a punch in the stomach,” but I had never felt it myself. Suddenly I knew exactly what it meant. The letter struck me a blow that caused a physical ache so sharp I had to bend over. Then I sat up. Perhaps I’d missed a word, or an entire sentence, and reversed the meaning of the thing.

I grabbed the letter and read it again. I read it out loud.

Eventually I turned it over and found another message scrawled on the back in pencil, a child’s handwriting.

Daddy, me and Alice miss you terrible, just terrible. Pleas come home soon as you can. I love you, your dauhgter, Amelia.

And that is when I felt my heart break.

I POURED COLD WATER from the pitcher into the basin, then washed my face with the coarse brown soap, scrubbing so hard I threatened to take the skin off.

Next I took a sheet of writing paper from my valise, along with a pen Meg had given me for the first anniversary of our marriage: a beautiful Waterman pen.

I pulled the wobbly chair up to the wobbly table and uncapped the pen. Immediately I felt all my lawyerly eloquence disappear.

Dear Meg,

As your husband, and your friend, I must tell you that you have some things wrong. I do love you. You are simply wrong to say that I don’t. A separation like this is a rash thing to do, especially considering that we have never even discussed these problems face to face.

I don’t care about your father’s opinion of our marriage. But I do care that our parting will break the hearts of everyone involved – Alice, Amelia, my own heart, even yours.

Before you take any further action, please, my darling Meg, we must discuss this – together, as husband and wife, as mother and father of our two little daughters, as Meg and Ben who always planned to spend our lives together.

Suddenly I came out of my writing trance…

“Mr. Corbett! Mr. Corbett!”

It was Maybelle, hollering from the foot of the stairs. I quickly wrote,

Your loving and faithful husband,

Ben

“Mr. Corbett!”

I put down the pen and walked out to the landing.

“What is it, Maybelle?” I called.

“Mrs. Nottingham is here to see you. She’s here on the porch. She’s waiting on you, Mr. Corbett. Hurry.”

THERE ELIZABETH WAS, standing on Maybelle’s wide wraparound porch. She had put on another bonnet and seemed even more attractive than she’d been this morning.

She reached out for my hand. “I came to apologize, Ben.”

I took her hand. “What do you mean? Apologize for what?”

I said this for the benefit of Maybelle, whom I could see lingering in the parlor, trying not to be observed.

“Let’s go look at Miss Maybelle’s rose garden,” I proposed. “It’s in full bloom this time of year.”

I made a motion with my eyes that disclosed my real meaning to Elizabeth. She nodded and followed me around the porch toward the backyard.

Maybelle’s roses were actually in sad shape, a few blossoms drooping among a profusion of weeds.

“I’m sorry for this morning,” Elizabeth said. “The way I ran off.”

“You didn’t run, you walked. I watched your every step,” I said and smiled.

“You can still be funny, Ben.”

“Sit on the bench,” I said. “I won’t bite you.”

Smoothing her dress, she sat on the stained marble bench amid the raggedy roses.

Sitting close to her, I was fascinated by her every gesture, word, movement. I noticed the way Elizabeth touched her mouth with the knuckle of her second finger, giving herself a little kiss before coming out with an opinion. And the slow southern musical rhythm of her speech. Lord, what was getting into me? Probably just loneliness. Or was it being rejected by my wife?

“You were surprised I came to see you again so soon?” she said.

“I’m always glad to see you, Elizabeth,” I said. Then added, “Yes, I’m surprised you’re here.”

“I do have an ulterior motive,” she said. “We’re having a luncheon after church on Sunday. Will you come?”

“We?”

“Richard and I.”

“Sure, I’ll come,” I replied.

I caught the faint scent of rose water, and I noted the curve of her nose, and remembered being very young and in love with that little nose.

“Wonderful,” she was saying. “Come about one, Ben. We’ll have some nice people in. I’ll try not to have any of those you were subjected to at L.J.’s.”

She stood. “I can’t be late picking up Emma from her lesson. She’s quite the little pianist, and I guess I’m quite the doting mother.”

I stood, and we smiled. This time, there was no kiss on the cheek.

But I watched Elizabeth walk away again, every step, until she finally disappeared behind the rooming house porch.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

That same afternoon, Senator John Tyler Morgan, [2] John Tyler Morgan (June 20, 1824 – June 11, 1907) was a general in the Confederate States Army during the American Civil War, and a six-term U.S. senator from the state of Alabama after the war. He was a strong supporter of states rights and racial segregation through the Reconstruction era. He was an expansionist, arguing for the annexation of the Republic of Hawaii and for U.S. construction of an interoceanic canal in Central America. Democrat of Alabama, stood in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, yelling at the general manager.

“I have never been refused service in my life! That insufferable man in the elevator had the nerve to tell me he was holding the car for an important personage . He told me to get off that car and wait for another car!”

Senator Morgan was so angry that specks of saliva were speckling the lapels of the general manager’s morning coat.

“Senator, I am so sorry for the inconvenience–”

“Not an inconvenience! It’s a goddamned insult! Who the hell was he holding the elevator for, the goddamned president of the United States?”

As he roared this question, the great glass doors of the lobby flew open at the hands of two uniformed guards. In walked Theodore Roosevelt.

He took one look at John Tyler Morgan in mid rampage and the poor little cowering manager. Then Roosevelt thundered, “Unless my eyes deceive me, the man at the center of that ruckus is none other than the senior senator from the great state of Alabama. Good morning, John!”

The famous Civil War general and southern statesman was stunned into silence. No one had called him John in many years.