Hide & Seek - James Patterson [58]
Judge Sussman was holding the formal murder indictment in a solemn-looking black folder. My lawyers had told me what to expect—but I couldn't get used to it.
What in the name of God was I doing here? How could this be happening to me?
I wasn't the bad person in all of this—I was the victim. How could I be on trial for murder?
The press who would be covering the murder trial were already in the courtroom. Not one, but several artists were on hand to draw versions of the way I looked today. How goddamn artistic!
I stood with my chief attorney, Nathan Bailford, in front of the bench. This couldn't be happening to me. None of it seemed real.
“Good morning,” Judge Sussman said in a civil tone, as though I'd come about a parking ticket, or a violation of the Bedford town code on keeping the grass cut short at the curbside around my house.
“Good morning, Your Honor.” I was surprised that I could speak so confidently, that I could get the words out, that I could be civil too.
Judge Sussman held up the black folder for me to see.
“Mrs. Bradford, I have here the indictment from the grand jury. You've seen it?” he asked. He talked plainly and simply, as though I were a young child, but accused of something very serious.
“Yes, I have, Your Honor.”
“You've read it, and had time to discuss the indictment with Mr. Bailford or your other attorneys?” he asked next.
“We've talked about the indictment.”
“You understand the charge against you? That you are accused of the murder of your husband, Will Shepherd?”
“I've read the indictment. I understand the charge against me.”
He nodded, like I was a good student, or an especially good defendant. “And do you plead guilty, or not guilty, to the charge of murder?”
I looked him square in the eye. I knew it didn't matter, but I needed to do this anyway.
“I am not guilty of murder. I plead not guilty.”
CHAPTER 66
NEW YORK CITY. Central Park. Will and I had been married for nearly a year.
“Maggie, can you see anything? I can't see a damn thing. Too many bloody trees in this bloody park.”
Will, Jennie, and I were sitting in the fuzzy-gray darkness of a stretch limousine. Nervously, Will lit a cigarette, the match flaring blue and gold, lighting his face. He raked his fingers back through his thick curls.
How pale he is. Tired. Scared, I thought as I watched him. This is his World Cup all over again, isn't it? He needs to prove something tonight. Well, I can understand that.
“What are they doing at the head of this blasted, interminable line?”
“I can't see,” I told him. “Clearing away pedestrians, I suspect.”
“See how popular your movie's going to be?” Jennie added support.
The limo was stuck, engine idling, at the Columbus Circle entrance to the park. We were fifth in a shadowed row of Rollses, Bentleys, and Lincolns bearing dignitaries, the producer/director, and the stars.
Finally, the caravan began to move, making its way down Central Park South, then onto Seventh Avenue and across Fifty-fourth Street to the Ziegfeld Theatre, and the world premiere of Primrose.
With each turn of the limo, Will's anxiety increased; his hand, when I took it to comfort him, was sweaty, and as soon as he finished his cigarette he lit another. He rarely smoked, but tonight he couldn't seem to stop. He wasn't himself.
“It'll be all right,” I said. “It's just pregame jitters.”
“All right? In fifteen minutes the critics are going to watch me on the screen, thirty feet tall, nowhere to hide, saying ‘Top of the Morning, Ellie. That's a wonderful name for your horse. You take care of her, girl, just as you would your very own child.’ ”
“It's just a story, Will. People want it to sound like that. They want to escape from real life sometimes.”
“Not the New York critics. They'll see it for the abominable shit it is, see me for the fake I am, and—poof—there goes my short-lived acting career.”
“No way,” Jennie told him.
“Way,” Will joked with her at least.
The caravan stopped. Suddenly there were chubby, hairy fingers rapping at the limousine's side window. I recognized a chubby