Chapter 11.
11.
Prior Bad Acts (n., phrase)
when a witness provides information about the defendant’s past behavior or actions, which may be used to establish the defendant’s character
who we are at sixteen
D .A. Stern moves on, having adequately cemented his point that Margot’s mother was violent at worst, aggressive when heated at best. “When did you last speak to your daughter, Mr. Frankel?”
“It’s been years. She cut us out of her life completely. It devastated her mother. But our relationship with her was never the same after her disappearance when she was sixteen.”
Disappearance?
I have whiplash from all the casual bombshells Ken Frankel is dropping.
I vaguely remember Margot discussing on the show—with Joe, in fact—how she had a “lively” run the last few years of her time in Minnesota before moving to L.A. But nothing related to a disappearance.
I instinctively look to Margot, as many in the courtroom do. She whispers busily into Durrant Hammerstead’s ear.
Hold it in, I think, aiming the thought in her direction.
Her own father is incriminating her on the stand when her life is on the line. My father has disappointed me in significant ways, yes, but this... this is a whole different level.
“Can you tell us about Margot’s ‘disappearance,’ as you phrased it?” D.A. Stern asks.
Durrant Hammerstead again attempts to object to the line of questioning, but once again Judge Gillespy allows it, though she warns D.A. Stern to tread lightly.
Ken Frankel runs a pillowy hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Her mother and I reported her missing to the St. Cloud Police Department after she didn’t show up to school one day or come home after. It was in October of her sophomore year of high school.” He pauses, seemingly to collect his thoughts on what to share next. “Her mother was in a panic. We had no idea where she’d gone. The officer we spoke with told us most teenagers who go missing show up on their own, having gone off with a boyfriend or friend on some adventure, either too aloof to tell their parents or to get back at them in some way.” He drags his fingers against his cheeks, palm cupping his chin. “Given Margot’s... rebellious streak, we thought that might be reasonable. But it was odd that nothing of Margot’s appeared to be missing or out of place. She didn’t take an overnight bag with her. We didn’t have cell phones back then. That’s why we returned to the police the next day when she still hadn’t turned up.”
D.A. Stern takes a beat to look to the jury box, his gesture implying, Remember this . “And what did the effort to find Margot look like?”
Mr. Frankel’s eyes go wide and then retract. “She was a popular girl, so the community really dove in. Within hours there were flyers on every pillar, pole, and shopfront in St. Cloud. Some as far as Minneapolis. It was on the local news as well. Nobody seemed to know anything. Or if they did, they weren’t talkin’. Lots of kids came forward trying to help, but none of it was particularly useful, I don’t think.”
I look on, wondering how this could have never come out after she became a celebrity? I wonder if once she reached the point where there could be particular interest in her life, Margot used her—and Joe’s—power to suppress the “before” details of her life. If there’s one thing I’ve learned after spending so much time in rooms with angry executives, it’s that powerful people know how to remove obstacles from their paths and, specifically, how to scrub certain portions of their digital footprints from the internet.
“And how and when was Margot eventually found?” D.A. Stern implores.
Ken Frankel shakes his head, glancing over at Margot with a look both incredulous and questioning. “She just showed back up. After a week. A full seven days of vigils and strangers volunteering to look for her. And then, around dinnertime, she just showed back up at the house like it was nothing.”
D.A. Stern takes a long pause, peering at the jury box, then clicks his ballpoint pen twice. “Did you ask her what happened?”
Ken Frankel runs a hand down his face again and stares at the floor thoughtfully. “We asked, but we didn’t get much in the way of answers. Nothing, really.”
“What do you mean?” D.A. Stern asks with bravado, eyes wide with feigned confusion.
“I mean, she said she couldn’t remember anything. Not a thing. Said the only thing she remembered was being on Wisteria, our street, walking home. She didn’t seem to have any idea what happened in those seven days.”
“Had she been... harmed in any way?”
Ken Frankel shakes his head. “No, it didn’t appear so. She was wearing the same clothes her mother had seen her leave the house in. She was unshowered but otherwise unharmed. They did a, uh, rape kit, which showed sexual activity, but they told us it was unclear whether that activity had taken place during that week or before. According to her mother, she was sexually active before.”
I glance over at Margot and many do the same. She is clenching her jaw, but not in outward anger. It’s more as though if she were to let go, the bottom half of her face might fall right off.
“Did you try anything to return her memory of that time? To get to the bottom of what happened in those seven days?”
He nods. “Yes. There was hypnotherapy, several intensive interviews by the police, even talk of a lie detector test. Nothing came of any of it.”
D.A. Stern turns his back on the witness to face the jury when he asks, “Were there any drugs found in her system?”
Ken Frankel holds his daughter’s gaze as he says, “We did not test.”
D.A. Stern whips around to face Ken Frankel. “Your sixteen-year-old daughter goes missing for seven days, comes back with no apparent memory of what happened, and there was no testing for drugs? Why not?”
“Her mother and I declined. We were afraid...” He trails off as if fighting an internal battle of what to say next. Finally, on an exhale, he says, “We were afraid of what we might find out.”
Durrant Hammerstead objects yet again, and I tune out the back and forth with Judge Gillespy. The break in testimony leaves the last statements hanging in the air, so we—the jury and gallery alike—are left to run through our own storylines of Margot and potential drug use.
Damon begins to jot something down on his notepad for one of the first times today, and I have to force my eyes away, too interested in what he might be writing.
“Mr. Frankel, where do you believe Margot was during those seven days?” D.A. Stern asks when the squabble is resolved.
Durrant Hammerstead is quick to object again, stating, “The witness’s personal opinion is irrelevant to the facts of the situation back then and to the case here today.”
“Judge Gillespy,” D.A. Stern says in his down-the-nose way, “Mr. Frankel’s discernment on the circumstances of a costly missing person case that was at the very least a waste of police time, but may well have involved various illegal and criminal activities, can point to characterization of the defendant.”
Thankfully, Judge Gillespy agrees with the defense, her annoyance with the number of steps outside the lines D.A. Stern has taken obvious in the strain of her neck and narrowed eyes.
D.A. Stern nods and turns to walk back to his table. When he’s barely taken a step, Ken Frankel leans into the microphone. “I think she made it up,” he says. His words are rushed, flat. Nonetheless, I hear them clearly. We all do.
Judge Gillespy is quick on the gavel. “That is enough, Mr. Frankel!” she scolds.
Margot slumps, the first break in posture she’s had in this courtroom. It’s as though the weight of her father’s betrayal has shoved her deeper into her seat, shrinking her into her childhood self.
Durrant Hammerstead is quick in response with a nearly indiscernible elbow into Margot’s hip. She recoils, only slightly, her eyes catlike and predatory as she glares at her estranged father.
Judge Gillespy lectures Mr. Frankel about contempt. There’s a swell of a low murmur within the room, and I feel like a bystander trapped in the middle of an argument between an angry parent and willful child.
I’m convinced the only reason Ken Frankel is allowed to remain on the stand is so the defense can get a chance at him. I squirm in my seat awaiting Durrant Hammerstead’s cross-examination.
When the room has settled, Durrant Hammerstead rises slowly from the defense table, as I’ve come to know him to do. No rush in his movement, no panic in his face. Cool. Always cool.
“Mr. Frankel,” he begins, “you mentioned that the community came together in search of Margot during those seven days?”
He clears his throat and looks up at Judge Gillespy, who is staring down at him with the sternest of looks, her jawline pulsing. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“Meaning, she was a beloved member of the community?”
“In the way one becomes when missing.”
“And when she returned home, the community once again rallied in support, isn’t that right?”
“Some did. Others were skeptical, wondering what had happened.”
“Well, there will always be naysayers, just go on the internet.” Hammerstead smiles at the jury box as if he’s just delivered the most fulfilling punch line. It does nothing to defuse the heightened anxiety of the courtroom. I glance at Margot, who looks small and frail, like a child whose parent is publicly chastising them. The situation isn’t that far off.
“Am I supposed to respond to that?” Ken Frankel asks.
Hammerstead ignores him and instead says, “Must be someone of incredible likability, popularity, and character for a community to come together in that way.”
The conversation meanders to an unfulfilling end, and I find myself not just tired after this testimony but to-the-bone weary.
So much has come to light in the last few minutes. I have trouble accepting any of it. Margot has been estranged from her father for almost thirty years, since she disappeared for a week at sixteen. While she’s been living the high life in L.A., her father has continued working his labor-intensive job. Margot grew up in an often anger-filled household.
And while I’ve always held an affinity for Margot, I had no idea our kinship extended this far.
Damon shifts his notepad toward me, his large thigh tapping mine. It reads.
WHERE DO YOU THINK SHE WAS DURING THAT WEEK SHE DISAPPEARED?
I stare at Margot, who appears even more broken than moments ago despite her resolute face.
I need to know what happened to her during those seven days at sixteen, unwilling to believe any of it could point to her being capable of murdering Joe.