Chapter 57
Patrick
Falling.
That’s what it felt like to Patrick, as he sat in the witness box, concentrating on Riley’s questions, focusing as hard as he could on answering him and keeping his statements short and to the point.
He could have no fat on his words at all.
His heels were pressing down hard on the wooden floor to help keep his posture upright, so he could look assured and confident.
But inside his feet were dangling as he fell through the air. His body was screaming danger, danger, danger . . .
His mind began to wander, the adrenaline soaking his back with sweat. His collar was too tight, and his jacket too. Dear God, he hoped he wasn’t sweating through his jacket. This suit was professional, but perhaps a shade too light. Christ, he had to focus.
Listening hard to Riley’s questions, clinging to them, he felt as if his body was tumbling through open space.
This is how the old family friend, and his father’s former number two in the business, Boris Cherry, must have felt as he jumped off the top of his building. Maybe this was how Boris felt as his father fired him. Patrick could never forget that man’s face, his world crumbling around him.
‘Mr. Vanderpool, could you describe your relationship with your wife, the defendant?’ asked Riley.
Patrick put his hands on his knees and pressed down, rooting himself to the present, as he said, ‘We had no problems until this case. Vanessa was a very loving and supportive spouse. Since I learned of the evidence in this case, I could no longer be part of the marriage, so I instructed my lawyers to file for divorce.’
‘And are you legally divorced now?’
‘Not yet. It has to work its way through the courts, but the relationship is over. I couldn’t be with someone who could do something like this to anyone, never mind one of my campaign staffers.’
‘You believe your wife murdered Molly Green?’
‘Objection, Your Honor, pure speculation,’ said Vanessa’s lawyer.
Flynn had been quiet up to now. So much so that Patrick had almost forgotten he was there.
‘Move on, Mr. Riley,’ said the judge, with a sigh. Patrick formed the view that the judge had reluctantly taken Flynn’s point, but it was clear there was no love lost there.
‘The victim was a smart, attractive young woman, Mr. Vanderpool. Given your knowledge of your wife, is it possible that she was jealous of such a woman working in close proximity to you every day?’
‘She was insanely jealous, and she hated Molly.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘We fought about it. She said—’
‘Objection, Your Honor . . .’
Flynn again. This time, Patrick wrinkled his nose at the defense lawyer. He wasn’t used to being interrupted by anyone, except his father.
‘The witness and the defendant had many conversations when they were married, and all such conversations are privileged, and neither spouse can divulge the content of those discussions. Mr. Ford has precedents he will hand up.’
Flynn’s partner, or lackey, the old man in the tweed jacket, Ford, got up from his chair and gave a pile of documents to the judge and Riley. They scanned the pages.
The courtroom was quiet, like a funeral parlor.
Patrick hated funerals. They always reminded him of his mother’s.
He saw her face in the coffin again, eyes closed unnaturally, like she wanted to open them, but they were glued shut.
Her skin had so much make-up on it, layers upon layers, like she was hiding her bruises, even in death.
He remembered the little boy that he had been back then, wondering if his mother’s face had been horribly beaten, and if all that product on her face was there to hide the horrors beneath.
‘Mr. Riley, what do you say to this?’ asked the judge.
‘Your Honor, this isn’t matrimonial court. This is a murder trial. A young, innocent woman is dead and we have to be able to get to the truth, for the jury.’
‘Did you read this? Is there any reason why I shouldn’t be bound by these decisions?’
‘Your Honor . . .’ began Riley, then tailed off. He had nothing.
‘I have no choice, I’m afraid. Objection sustained. Move on . . .’
‘Mr. Vanderpool, were you at the victim’s apartment on the night she was killed?’
This was it. The tricky part. The uncomfortable admission.
Patrick remembered his media training, and put on a somber look, deepened his tone to a respectful depth and said, ‘We were working on my political campaign. It wasn’t unusual to have long days.
Sometimes I needed to go over notes for meetings the next day and I would occasionally do that in Molly’s apartment.
It saved her the expense of travelling to my home, or the office. I left around ten fifteen.’
‘Right before your wife is shown in the security camera footage entering the victim’s building?’
‘Correct.’
‘Did you know she was there that night?’
‘No, not until I heard about the charges in this case.’
‘Mr. Vanderpool, I have to ask this, because Mr. Flynn will likely ask you. Did you kill Molly Green?’
Patrick lowered his head.
He had prepared himself for this question. He knew it was coming. He had rehearsed his answer in the mirror many times. When he raised his head, there were tears in his eyes. He looked at the jury . . .
And lied.
‘No, I did not kill Molly Green.’