I Heard That Song Before (13 page)

“No, Peter Carrington will appear with his attorney before the judge. He will have been waiting in a holding cell next to the courtroom. The prosecutor will read the charges that have been filed.”

“How will he be dressed?”

“In a prisoner’s jumpsuit.”

“Will he be wearing handcuffs?”

“Yes. After the charge is read, the judge will ask him how he pleads. His attorney will answer for him. Of course, he will say, ‘not guilty.’ ”

“I would certainly expect him to plead that way,” Gladys said bitterly.

Greco could see that his client was biting her lip to keep it from trembling. “Mrs. Althorp,” he said, “this isn’t going to be easy for you. I wish you had someone in your family with you now.”

“My sons could not have made it in time. They both live in California. My husband was already on his way to Chicago this morning when the word came that Peter Carrington had been arrested. But you know something, Mr. Greco, in a way, I’m not sorry to be the only one in my family here today. No one has grieved for Susan as I have all these years. We were so very close. We did so many things together. From the time she was a child, she loved to go to museums and the ballet and opera with me. She was a fine arts major in college, just as I had been. When she chose that major, she joked that it would give us even more in common, as if we needed it. She was beautiful and intelligent and sweet and loving, a perfect, perfect human being. Charles and the boys will attend Peter Carrington’s trial. I won’t be around to see it. Today is my day in court to represent her. I feel almost as though Susan will be there in spirit, too. Does that sound silly to you?”

“No, it does not,” Greco said. “I have attended many trials, and the presence of the victim is always felt as their relatives and friends give testimony about them. Today, when the formal charge of murder is read, everyone in that courtroom will be thinking of the pictures they have seen in the papers of Susan. She will come alive in their minds.”

“You’ll never know how grateful I am to you for locating Maria Valdez. Her testimony, and the copy of that check from Peter’s father, will surely be enough evidence to convict Carrington.”

“I believe that ultimately Carrington will be convicted,” Greco replied. “It has been an honor to be of service to you, Mrs. Althorp, and I do hope that after today you will find some measure of peace.”

“I hope so, too.” She leaned back and closed her eyes, obviously exhausted. Twenty minutes later, the car pulled up to the courthouse.

E
ven though he was wearing an overcoat, Conner Banks felt chilled as he hurried from the parking lot to the Bergen County Courthouse in Hackensack, New Jersey. The lot was crowded, and the space he finally had found was about as far away from the courthouse as it was possible to get.

He began to walk faster, and Walter Markinson, his face already wet from the sleet, snapped, “Take it easy. I don’t run two miles every morning the way you do.”

“Sorry.”

“It wouldn’t have hurt you to have brought an umbrella.”

“Sorry.”

On the drive from Manhattan, they had debated the exact wording of the statement they would make to the media. “Mr. Carrington is innocent of this charge, and his innocence will be demonstrated in court.” Or, “Our client has steadily maintained his innocence. The case against him is based on supposition, innuendo, and a woman who, after twenty-two years, is recanting her sworn statement.”

The way this case is developing, we might as well be defending Jack the Ripper, Conner thought grimly. He had never before been involved in a media circus quite like this one.

There have been some pretty sensational cases tried in this courthouse, he thought, as they finally reached the shelter of the building. There was the so-called Shoemaker, that guy from Philadelphia who marched through Bergen County, attacking women, with his twelve-year-old son in tow. His last victim, the one he killed, was a twenty-one-year-old nurse who had stopped by the house he was robbing to help out with an invalid who lived there. Then there were the Robert Reldan killings. That guy, handsome and from a good family, was reminiscent of Peter Carrington. He abducted and killed two young women. During his trial, he slugged the officer on guard who was taking off his cuffs out of sight of the jury, jumped out the window, stole a car, and had about thirty minutes of freedom. Now, twenty or thirty years later, the Shoemaker is dead, and Reldon is still rotting in prison.

And it is very likely Peter Carrington will spend the rest of his life with him, he thought.

The arraignment was to be held in the courtroom of the Honorable Harvey Smith, the judge who had signed the arrest warrant for Peter Carrington. As Banks had expected, when he and Markinson got there, the courtroom was already crowded with both spectators and the media. The cameramen were focused on a woman seated in the middle section of the room. To his dismay, he realized that she was Gladys Althorp, the mother of the victim.

He and Markinson darted to the front of the room.

It was only twenty of three, but Kay Carrington was already there, sitting in the front spectator row with Vincent Slater at her side. Somewhat to Banks’s surprise, he noted that she was wearing a jogging suit. Then he realized, or thought he realized, the reason for it: Slater had told him that Carrington was about to go jogging when the arrest warrant was served. That’s what he’ll be wearing when he posts bail and leaves for home, Banks thought. She’s presenting a united front.

Markinson’s grumpy expression had changed to a benevolent father-figure look. His brow furrowed, his eyes filled with understanding, he patted Kay’s shoulder as he said in a reassuring voice, “Don’t worry. We are going to take that Valdez woman apart when we get her on the stand.”

Kay knows how bad this is, Banks thought. Walter should give her more credit. He caught a flash of anger in Kay’s eyes as she looked up at Markinson.

In a voice that was low and strained, she said, “Walter, I don’t need reassurances. I know what we’re facing. What I also know is that there is someone out there who took that girl’s life and who should be in this courtroom right now instead of my husband. Peter is innocent. He is incapable of hurting anyone. I want to feel that that is exactly what you believe, too.”

“Blessed are they who have not seen and have believed.” The words of scripture ran through Conner Banks’s mind as he greeted Kay and Vincent. “He’ll be home tonight, Kay,” Conner told her. “
That
I can promise you.” He and Markinson took their seats. Behind them, Banks could hear the courtroom filling up. It was to be expected—this was the kind of high-profile case that many courthouse personnel stopped in to observe.

“All rise for the court,” the clerk announced.

They stood as the judge walked briskly into the courtroom from his chambers and took his seat on the bench. Banks had done his homework as soon as he learned who would be handling the arraignment. He’d learned that the Honorable Harvey Smith was known as very fair, but tough when it came to handing out sentences. The best we may be able to do for Carrington is to drag out the proceedings as long as possible, because once he’s convicted, he goes straight to jail, Banks thought. After he is released on bail, at least he can sleep in his own bed until the trial is over.

Peter Carrington’s case was not the only one on the docket: there were other detainees awaiting arraignment. The clerk read thecharges as, one by one, the others came before the bench. Comparatively petty stuff, Banks thought. The first one was accused of passing bad checks. The second was a shoplifter.

Peter Carrington was the third to be arraigned. When he was led into court, wearing an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, Banks and Markinson stood and placed themselves on either side of him.

Prosecutor Krause read the charge against him. Cameras clicked and whirred noisily as, looking straight at the judge, his expression grave, his voice firm, Peter entered his plea: “Not guilty.”

It was obvious to Conner Banks that Barbara Krause was salivating at the prospect of personally trying this case. When bail was about to be set, she addressed the judge: “Your Honor, this is a defendant with unlimited means at his disposal. He is a very high risk for forfeiting bail and leaving the country. We ask that bail be set in proportion to his resources; that his passport be taken from him; that he be ordered to wear an electronic wrist bracelet at all times, that he be confined to his home and the gated grounds around it; and that his leaving the grounds be confined to attending religious services, visiting his doctor, or conferring with his lawyers, and that these visits take place only after notification to and permission from the monitor of his electronic bracelet.”

She’s going to be one tough cookie at trial, Banks thought as he looked at Krause.

The judge addressed Peter. “I realize, Mr. Carrington, that with your great wealth, it doesn’t matter whether I set bail at one dollar or twenty-five million dollars. Bail is hereby set at ten million dollars.” He reviewed the list of conditions the prosecutor had requested and approved all of them.

“Your Honor,” Peter said, his voice loud and clear, “I will absolutely abide by all conditions of bail. I can assure you that I look forward to clearing my name at trial and ending this horror for myself and my wife.”

“Your wife! What about the wife you drowned? What about her?”
The words were shouted, passion in every syllable.

Like everyone else in the courtroom, Banks turned around quickly. A well-dressed man was on his feet in the middle of the courtroom. His face twisted with anger, he slammed his fist on the seat in front of him. “Grace was my sister! She was seven-and-a-half-months pregnant. You killed the child our family will never know. Grace wasn’t a drinker when she married you. You drove her into depression. Then you got rid of her because you didn’t want to take the chance of having a damaged baby. Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”

“Remove that man!” Judge Smith ordered. “Remove him at once!” He rapped his gavel sharply. “Silence in this court.”

“You killed my sister!” Grace Carrington’s brother shouted defiantly as he was rushed from the courtroom.

A hushed silence followed his exit. Then it was broken by the agonized sobs of Gladys Althorp, who sat with her face buried in her hands.

I
t was six o’clock and pitch dark before we finally got home. Outside it was still raining heavily. A police officer stood guard by the roped-off area of the grounds that the dogs had not yet searched.

Thanks to Vincent’s quick action, Peter did not have to spend the night in jail. As soon as I phoned to tell him that Peter had been arrested, he had arranged to have whatever amount of bail the judge set wired to a bank near the courthouse in Hackensack. As soon as the arraignment was over, he rushed to that bank, got a check certified in the amount of ten million dollars, and returned to the courthouse to post it with the bail unit.

While he was gone and we waited for Peter to be released, I was allowed to stay with Conner Banks and Walter Markinson in the empty jury room off Judge Smith’s courtroom. I think that they were almost as startled and shaken by the attack from Grace’s brother, Philip Meredith, as I was. Then, to have it followed by the pitiful tears of Susan Althorp’s mother made it all seem surreal. I watched Peter as he heard Meredith’s accusations and Gladys Althorp’s sobs. I don’t think the expression on his face could have conveyed more pain if he were being flayed alive.

I said that to Markinson and Banks.

They expressed concern that, in the eyes of everyone in the courtroom, everything that happened was prejudicial to Peter, and they acknowledged that the media coverage of the event was going to be absolutely terrible. Even Markinson did not offer his usual conciliatory pats on the shoulder to me.

Then Conner Banks asked a question that absolutely threw me: “To your knowledge, did any member of the Meredith family ever threaten to file a civil suit for wrongful death against Peter?”

I was shocked. “No,” I responded immediately. Then I amended my answer: “At least, Peter never told me about one.”

“I’m going to be cynical,” he said. “Philip Meredith may be a brother lusting for what he perceives to be justice, or he may be looking to extract a settlement from Peter. Actually, it’s probably both. He certainly knows that the last thing Peter needs is to have another legal battle going on at the same time as his murder trial.”

When Peter was released, Markinson and Banks spoke to him for a few minutes before they headed back to New York. They suggested he try to get as much rest as possible and told him that they would be at the house the next day, early in the afternoon.

Holding Peter’s hand, I was aware suddenly of the electronic bracelet on his wrist. We walked down the long corridor toward the car waiting outside. I had hoped naïvely that there wouldn’t be any media around when we finally left the courthouse. I was wrong, of course. They were there in force. I found myself wondering if they were the same people who had filmed Peter this morning on his way into jail, or if this was a fresh batch of reporters and photographers.

They began to hurl questions at both of us: “Mr. Carrington, have you anything to say about—?” “Kay, did you ever meet—?”

Vince was standing beside the car, the door open. We rushed into the backseat, ignoring the questions. When we were finally out of sight of the reporters, Peter and I wrapped our arms around each other. We hardly exchanged a word on the drive home.

Peter went straight upstairs. He didn’t have to tell me that he wanted to shower and change. I’m sure that after the experience of being in a cell, it was a physical need to have gallons of hot water splash over him.

Vincent was staying for dinner. Saying he had business phone calls to make, he went to his office in the back of the house.

I headed to the kitchen. I would have thought that nothing could lift my spirits, but the heartwarming smell of pot roast simmering on the stove gave me a genuine pickup, if for no other reason than the fact that Peter had told me it was his favorite meal. I was grateful for Jane Barr’s thoughtfulness in remembering that and preparing it tonight.