Fatal Vision (91 page)

"Doctor MacDonald," Bernie Segal began, "where do you
r
eside, please?"

"In Huntington Beach, California."

"Doctor MacDonald," Segal said softly, "are you married
t
oday?"

"No," MacDonald said, bitin
g his lip and looking as if he w
ere about to cry.

"Is there some reason why you are not married?"

With that, the sobs began to come from MacDonald's throat.
^‘
I can't forget my wife and children," he managed to say.

"Do you still have occasion to think about your family, even
t
hough it has been nine and a half years since they died?"

"Every day," he sobbed.

Segal's tone and manner were that of a funeral director, about
t
o assist a grief-stricken wid
ow to a limousine. "May I ask, D
octor MacDoriald," he said
, appearing embarrassed by the n
ecessity of speaking at all, "what are your strongest or most consistent memories of your wife, Colette?"

Jeffrey MacDonald, who had been through it so many times, for so long, had to make himself
go through it one more time. H
e rubbed his eyes with his hand
, as if wiping away tears, and h
e began to glance helplessly arou
nd the courtroom, as if hoping t
hat someone could come and save him from all this. Then the sobs came again, preventing him from answering immediately. It was demeanor quite different from that which he'd last displayed in a Raleigh courtroom, when, at the end of his grand jury testimony, he had told Victor Woerheide to shove all his fucking evidence right up his ass.

"Excuse me," MacDonald said, momentarily regaining his composure. "Colette was very beautiful and intelligent and warm. She was a great mother and wife."

"May I ask, Dr. MacDonald, what are your strongest memories of your daughter Kimberly?"

"Of her beauty and brigh
tness," MacDonald said. "She was
very inquisitive, I think e
xceptionally bright—a delightful
person and very loving."

"Can you share with us, please," Segal continued, "what are your memories of your daughter Kristen?"

"Well, she was the prettiest of all of us. She was a little ball of fire. She was a tomboy at
two and a half and she was very
loving also."

He covered his face with his h
ands, and his shoulders began to
heave as sobbing sounds came
from his throat. It was all that
Bernie Segal could have wanted.

"What sort of things did
you and your family—the four of
you, including the children—what sort of things did you do together?"

"We lived together," MacDonald said. "We shared most everything. We had a good life. We were all friends. Colette and I shared the children growing up. We shared our life experience."

It went on that way for almost five hours, not including the morning recess, the break for lunch, and the afternoon recess. Segal had MacDonald read the printed message in the Valentine card that Colette had given him from Kimberly and Kristen ("To a Wonderful Daddy: Dad, there are millions of daddies in the world, it's true, but the nicest by far is you"), and he had MacDonald read the Valentine card that Kimberly had made for him in school ("I'll trim my little Valentine with hearts and ribbons gay, to tell you I love you, today and every day"), and he showed MacDonald a series of enlarged photographs—visible also to the jury—and asked him to identify each one. "This is Colette and I when we were getting married. . . . This is Colette and I when Colette was pregnant in Chicago. . . . That's me with Kimberly as a baby in Princeton. . . . That's Kimberly. . . . That's Kimberly and I on a couch in Chicago. . . . That's Colette playing with Kimmy. . . . That's Kimmy and I studying for an examination in medical school. . . . That's Kristy, probably about eighteen months old. . . . That's Colette and I at my mom's home. . . . That's Kimmy and I holding ice—I was playing in a football game the day before and had a bruise on my face, and Kimmy and I were both applying ice. . . . That's Colette and Kim swimming. . . . That's Colette and I at a Princeton football game. . . . That's Kimmy and I at the children's zoo in Chicago. . . . That's Kim and I playing at the beacli—I vas just covering her up with sand. . . . That's Colette, Kim, md Kristy. It is Christmastime. That is my family."

"About what year?" Segal asked.

"Nineteen sixty-nine."

"The last Christmas you and your family spent together?" "Yes."

"Finally, I want to show you this photograph—the last of the
s
eries. Tell us what it depicts and what you know about it." "That is Kim and Kris."

"Are the girls dressed up
in some kind of costumes, Dr. M
acDonald?" Segal asked, his own voice now seeming close to he breaking point.

MacDonald, sobbing again
, was unable to answer. All he c
ould do was nod.

"Would that be Halloween of 1969?"

"Yes."

"Do you see the clothing that Kristen MacDonald is wearing?" "Yes."

"What is it, Dr. MacDonald?" "Pajamas made up like a clown."

"The same pajamas that she was wearing on the night of
February
17, 1970?" "Apparently so."

"Your daughter Kimberly—is she wearing some kind of nightgown also?"

Again appearing unable to speak, MacDonald nodded. "Can you tell us what it reads ac
ross the top of the nightgown, P
lease?"

"Little Angel," MacDonald said, and then he, Segal, and a lumber of others in the courtroom,
which was filled to capacity, b
egan to cry openly.

Among those who did not cry were Freddy and Mildred Cassab, who were seated in the front row. Grinning sardonically, Cassab shook his head from side to side, and uttered the word
f
aker
loud enough so he could be heard across the aisle.

During the course of the morning and afternoon, MacDonald ;aid, at various times, that Colette had been "ecstatic" at the lews that he had decided to enlist in the Army ("She thought it vas great"), that he had very much
wanted their third child to be a
boy, because "I thought it was fair that we had one boy," and
t
hat both he and Colette had felt that his proposed thirty-day trip
t
o Russia with the boxing team "was an advantage and sort of a privilege, and a good time, and
an honor. She was not reluctant
in the least."

Segal did not question MacDo
nald in detail about the apparent
discrepancies between his accou
nt of February 17 and the physi
cal evidence found inside the apartment. ("The government, lik
e
hounds to the fray, will leap at that tomorrow," he said later.
"I
was not part of what I wanted to do.") He did, however, elici
t
from his client the information
that MacDonald was "not certan
at all" about the exact details of what had transpired. "I hav
e
never been certain," MacDona
ld said. "I have never told any
one I was certain. It is extremely vague. There is a lot o
f
confusing thoughts. There is a lot of sounds, and there is a lot o
f
sights, and the recollection is hazy, at best."

Segal made MacDonald look at the crime scene photographs and asked him if they were an ac
curate representation of what he
had seen.

"All I remember is a lot
of blood," he said, looking at a
colored picture of Colette's battered body on the floor. "Shi looked bloodier than that to me."

When shown similar pictures of each of his daughters, Mac Donald said, "That is Kimmy," and also identified Kristen— much as his neighbor, the warr
ant officer, had done nine and a
half years before.

"What did you do there, in Kristen's room," Segal asked "on this second trip?"

"I only recall doing one thing." MacDonald, throughout the day, had never been far from tears—or at least from the appearance of them—and now he was, once again, on the edge.

"What was that?" Segal asked softly.

"I patted her on the head and said she'd be okay." His voice trailed off into a sob.

"I'm sorry," Segal said. "I h
eard you say that you patted her
on the head but did not hear the words."

"He said she'd be okay!" Franklin Dupree interjected sharply, glaring at Segal with an expression of obvious distaste.

Later, Segal asked MacDonald to describe what his life had been like following the dismissal of charges against him and his honorable discharge from the Army.

"I don't really remember the last part of the month of December. It was kind of depressing with Christmas coming up. I was seeing friends and friends were trying to see me and we were also trying to reopen the investigation. We were making trips to Washington, D.C. I was having meetings with congressmen and senators and newspaper people and TV people. There were people trying to write a book about the case. It was a very confusing and depressing time."

"When you went to New York City, what were your plans for the future? What were you going to do with the rest of your life?"

"Well, I was trying to figure that out. The plans that Colette and I had always had, you know, they were shattered."

"Well, what were the factors that caused you to give up your goal of taking a residency at Yale and going to California instead?"

"There were a lot of reasons. I did not have the interest in becoming a great orthopedic surgeon teaching at Yale because it was part of Colette and the kids, and that was our dream. And with part of it gone, it did not make much sense, but I had other reasons also."

"Well, I would like you to share those with us, please."

"The East Coast had become a very sad place for me. I was uncomfortable. My friends were very supportive, and yet I was uncomfortable receiving their support. No one really knew what to say, and I didn't know what to say, and it was constantly there because it was constantly in the press; and the reinvestigation was now beginning."

"How did you arrive at the decision to go to California? What were the key factors that helped you make that decision?"

"Distance from Freddy. A new environment. Not so many people maybe worried about my welfare, my emotional makeup and constantly either—you know—trying to support me or to get me to do something like public appearances or to write a book or whatever. And I just—it was—once I arrived in California, I had this tremendous sense of relief."

"Now, when did you arrive in California?"

"July 5th, 1971."

"Where did you start working at that time?" "St. Mary's Hospital in Long Beach." "Where you still are employed today?" "That is correct."

"What kind of life did you build for yourself between July of 1971, and, say, January of 1975? Just tell us about the kind of life you created for yourself up until that juncture."

"Well, I was working very hard. I developed a good position at the hospital. I was active in community affairs. Our group was becoming prominent in the area in emergency medicine. We were teaching at USC and later UCLA. I bought a house on the water—not a house—but a small two-bedroom condo which I still—that is where I live now. I bought a boat and lived on the water—working, I think, fairly hard."

"How many hours a week do you ordinarily work?"

'
^‘
Eighty—seventy or eighty

^‘‘
Why do you choose to work that many hours, Dr. MacDonald?"

"It just seemed easier. Work was good for me."

^‘
'Easier than what?"

"Easier than sitting and thinking."

"About what?"

"My family."