Уильям Макгиверн - Summitt

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Santos.”

The defense then called Mrs. George Thomson, but Judge Flood ordered a half-hour recess to give the TV technicians time to set up and test their equipment and remote hook-up to her home.

Adele Thomson wore tiny pearl earrings and a blue bed jacket with a microphone clipped to a quilted lapel. Her maid had brushed her tight, vibrant curls into a soft crescent around her fragile forehead; they were like a small, shining halo against the white bedstead and pillows.

Her image was brought to the courtroom on a large screen set up beside Judge Flood’s bench. It was immediately obvious that her appearance created a favorable and heightened emotional impact on the court and the jury; her motionless body provided a touching contrast to her resonant voice and lively, intelligent eyes. She seemed intent on testifying clearly and accurately, her manner suggested an eagerness to cooperate and, more important for its effect on the jurors, a gallant indifference to her physical helplessness.

Her account was simple and straightforward... Earl had stopped by her room around seven o’clock on the night in question. She was certain of the time. Two clocks, one electric, the other solar-powered, were in clear view of her bed.

Earl was dining with her that evening. After looking in to say hello, he’d gone off to shower and change. He returned fifteen minutes later. They had a glass of wine and watched the end of the news. Dinner had been prepared; Earl set up trays and served.

Davic asked if she could have been mistaken about the time. Had she taken any medication before Earl arrived? Was it possible she’d been drowsy or confused?

Adele Thomson replied firmly in the negative. She had taken no medicine, cough syrups or alcohol (except the single glass of wine) that night. She volunteered that she did take medication on occasion, both for pain and to help her sleep. Prescription drugs — five milligram Valium and Dalmane. Actually she hadn’t taken anything that night. With a smile, she said, “Imagine taking a sleeping pill when you’re expecting your son for dinner.”

They had talked and watched television until ten-thirty or eleven o’clock. Then Earl went off to his own room.

“Then it’s your sworn testimony, Mrs. Thomson,” Davic said, “that your son was with you from seven o’clock until approximately eleven o’clock on that Friday night last October sixteenth?”

“Yes. That’s what I’ve told you, Mr. Davic, that’s right.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. Thomson. I know this has been an ordeal for you. I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

Brett began her cross-examination by assuring Mrs. Thomson that if she wanted to pause or rest at any time, that would be satisfactory to the prosecution.

“Thank you, but I don’t require any special consideration. I’m not a hothouse flower, Miss Brett, regardless of what you may think. I can be as strong as I need to be, particularly in circumstances like these.”

“Mrs. Thomson, when your son stopped by your room for the first time on that night in question — before he showered and changed — did you notice what he was wearing?”

“No, I don’t believe I did.”

“Was his hair damp?”

“I think it was. Yes, I’m sure it was. It had started to rain, as I recall.”

“Were his garments wet, Mrs. Thomson?”

“I suppose they were. Does it matter?”

“Did you notice if his shoes were muddy?”

“No, I would have noticed that.” Adele’s frail hand gestured to her carpets. “Everything here is white, you see. He would have tracked dirt all over the place.”

“Mrs. Thomson, did your son always shower and change before dinner?”

“Well, I surely encouraged him to. Any mother would understand that, Miss Brett. I wasn’t always successful, of course, particularly when he was young—”

“When your son returned to your room, what was he wearing, Mrs. Thomson?”

The question seemed to surprise Adele, her hand plucked at the cord of the microphone. “I’m not sure.”

“You don’t remember what he was wearing?”

Adele Thomson’s voice rose. “Are you suggesting I was in no condition to know what he was wearing? That I wasn’t even sure of the time. Is that what you’re getting at?”

“Mrs. Thomson, you testified you had taken no medication that night. I have no reason or intention to question that.”

“My son was wearing—” Adele was frowning. “He was wearing — I remember quite clearly — slacks, gray flannels, and a sports shirt with short sleeves. But he wasn’t wearing his watch, or any jewelry. I do recall the details, you see. He’d taken a shower and hadn’t bothered to put them back on. But there’s no doubt about the time, my clocks are very dependable. You can have them checked if you wish.”

“Mrs. Thomson, did your son tell you Miguel Santos had driven him home that night from Muhlenburg?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you his car had been stolen?”

“Of course he didn’t.”

“Why do you say ‘of course,’ Mrs. Thomson?”

“You wouldn’t understand, and it would probably be a waste of time explaining.” Adele’s voice was strained. “Earl would never worry me about such things.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Thomson, for laboring the point. When did you learn your son’s car had been stolen?”

“I have no idea.”

“He never mentioned it to you?”

“He’s my son!” Adele’s voice was rising again. “He would never frighten me, or worry me about such things. I’m his mother .”

“Forgive me again, but why would it frighten you to know his car had been stolen?”

“It would destroy a... mood. He would never upset me like that. He loves me, don’t you see? Why are you trying to hurt him?”

Adele closed her eyes, but not before the camera lights caught the glitter of her tears. Davic gripped Earl Thomson’s arm and forced him back into his chair.

Brett said, “Your Honor, I regret any distress I may have caused the witness. I have no further questions.”

As she walked to the plaintiffs table, Brett’s eyes fell on the empty chair in the gallery behind Shana. Harry Selby hadn’t come back to the courtroom since testifying that morning. His absence was a reminder of his presence... of him ... to her, she realized, as Judge Flood announced the lunch recess.

She was light-skinned with oddly flecked brown eyes and kinky red hair cut short above a broad face. Her expression was wearily impassive, but it suggested to Selby a childish petulance rather than mature reserve. The roots of Emma Green’s bronze-colored hair were dark when the light touched them. A scar on her upper lip tended to pull her mouth into a grimace. Two of her upper front teeth were missing. She kept a hand close to her face when she talked.

An eight-year-old daughter, Libby, was studying at a table in the kitchen off the living room, but her agile little body was twisted around to watch Selby.

Emma Green wore jeans that were tight across her stomach, and a blue T-shirt with the words “Country Gal” stitched in white on the front. She was thirty-two and didn’t want to talk about Earl Thomson.

“I had my fill of that big honky shit with his uniform and all. He fucked me over good. And no real cause for it, if you’d like to know the truth. But it was a long time back, mister, days long gone.”

A church bell rang somewhere down the block. Emma Green lived in a white frame house on a dirt lot outside of Jefferson, New Jersey.

Rockland Military College — Selby had driven by there earlier — was twenty miles away, sprawled across neatly tended acres, with playing fields marked by white goal posts, tennis courts, an enclosed skating rink and a half-dozen fieldstone buildings standing about a rectangular quad — dormitories, classrooms and administration offices.