Keeping Faith: A Novel (52 page)

“You knew,” the attorney breathes. “Jesus Christ.”

“He wants to help me,” Mariah says quietly. “He didn’t think you should know beforehand.”

Joan stares at her for a beat. “Then tell me now: How far is he willing to go?”

When Ian looks at Joan, a current passes between them, a bond forged of common purpose. “You say you spent some time investigating Mariah?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen Mariah being a good mother.”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell me about that?”

Ian leans forward in the witness stand. “I have never seen a woman so protective of a child,

ma’am. Miz White has done her best to shelter Faith from the media, from the religious zealots on the property, and even from me. As Mr. Metz just pointed out, she attempted to take her daughter away from the whole affair by apparently running off to Kansas City. When I accompanied her to the hospital with her daughter, the time Faith’s hands started bleeding, she didn’t leave that girl’s side for a moment. I have to confess that when I came to New Canaan I was expecting to see some kind of harridan–a woman who was trying to get attention by setting her own kid up as some kind of religious miracle worker. But the facts just didn’t add up. Miz White’s a good woman, a good mother.”

“Objection!” Metz shouts.

“Grounds?” the judge asks.

“Well … he’s my witness!”

“Overruled.” Rothbottam nods at Ian.

“Please continue, Mr. Fletcher.”

“I was just going to add that when I was growing up in Georgia, I was told never to come between a mama bear and her cub, because the mama would tear through anything–including you–to get to her baby.

Course, even back then I didn’t listen to what I was supposed to believe. Sure enough,

when I was about eight years old I got ‘tween a mama bear and her little one, and spent three hours in a tree until she lost interest in punishing me. But I’ve never forgotten the look in that animal’s eyes–there was just something in them that made me realize I was a fool to cross her.

And thirty years later, I’ve seen the same kind of conviction written all over the face of Mariah White.”

Joan tries not to smile. First and foremost,

Ian Fletcher is an actor. He knows how to sell a line. “Thank you, Mr. Fletcher.”

Then she grins. “And thank you, Mr. Metz.

Nothing further.”

At one thirty-five, Faith opens her eyes for the first time in twelve hours. The nurse’s back is to her, so it takes a moment for the monitors to make her realize the girl is conscious. “Don’t fight it, honey,” she says, as Faith begins gulping for air. “You’ve got a tube down your throat.” She pages Dr. Blumberg and the pediatric surgeon on call. “Just breathe,” she instructs.

But Faith continues to round her mouth and flatten it, in what looks like a gasp for breath, but what is actually the word “Mom.”

“Mr. Metz,” the judge continues. “Your next witness?”

Metz lifts his head. “Your Honor, may I approach?” Joan walks beside him, gearing up for the fight she knows is about to happen–the battle over the expert Metz mentioned that morning. “I need to call a witness who isn’t on the list.”

“I’ve already stated my objection to this witness,

Your Honor,” Joan says immediately. “I had no knowledge of this alleged expert of Mr. Metz’s,

and I need time to research this ridiculous psychological syndrome he’s found buried in the Encyclopaedia Britannica.”

“I’m not talking about the Munchausen expert,”

Metz answers impatiently. “This is someone else. And as a matter of fact, he’s not sequestered. He happens to be in the courtroom.”

Joan’s mouth drops open. “Why did you even bother giving me a witness list?”

“Look, Ian Fletcher was an unexpectedly hostile witness, and I didn’t cover what I was supposed to during his testimony.”

The judge turns to Joan. “How do you feel about this?”

“No way, Your Honor.”

Metz smiles at her, silently mouthing,

“Appeal issue.”

Joan sets her jaw and shrugs. “Fine,

then. Go ahead.”

Metz walks away, satisfied. This next witness will paint Fletcher as a liar–putting into question his entire testimony and his inexplicable championing of Mariah. At the very least, after this,

Metz will have negated whatever unexpected damage Fletcher’s done to his case.

“The plaintiff would like to call Allen McManus to the stand.”

There is a flurry of confusion in the gallery as the reporters shift to let one of their own move from his seat to the witness stand. McManus hesitantly walks toward the clerk of the court,

clearly surprised, as he lets himself be led through the swearing-in.

Metz silently blesses Lacey Rodriguez for once again turning up more information than he’d expected to use–information that most people weren’t even aware existed, such as long-distance service provider’s logs of incoming and outgoing phone calls at office buildings.

“Could you state your name and address for the record?”

“Allen McManus,” the witness says.

“Two-four-seven-eight Massachusetts Avenue, Boston.”

“Where do you work, Mr. McManus?”

“I’m an obituary editor for the Globe.”

Metz clasps his hands behind his back. “How did you first hear about Faith White?”

“I, uh, was assigned to cover a psychiatric symposium in Boston. And a lady psychiatrist was talking about one of her cases, a little girl who was talking to God. At that time, though, I didn’t know the little girl was Faith White.”

“How did you find out?”

“I was at the office, and I got this fax about a dead woman who’d come back to life after her granddaughter had worked a miracle. Turns out it happened in the same town where this lady psychiatrist practices. And then the phone rings, and it’s this anonymous call telling me to think about who would benefit by having the kid be considered some kind of healer.”

“What did you do after that call?”

McManus lifts his chin. “I’ve tucked a lot of years of investigative reporting under my belt, so I figured I’d dig into it. I did a little research on the kid’s mother.” He smiles widely. “I was the one who broke the story that Mariah White was institutionalized for four months.”

“Was it unusual for you to receive that anonymous phone call?”

Allen tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“Well, working obits, I don’t get Deep Throat calls very often. At the Globe we have Caller ID, so I copied it down, just in case I needed to get back in touch.”

“What was the number, Mr. McManus?”

“I can’t reveal a source, sir.”

The judge frowns, as the press corps in the gallery murmur their respect. “You can and you will,

Mr. McManus, or I’ll hold you in contempt of court.”

Allen is quiet for a moment, considering his options. Then he digs into his pocket for a small notebook and flips through several pages. “Three-one-zero, two-eight-eight,

three-three-six-six.”

“Did you ever have it traced?”

“Yes.”

Malcolm Metz walks in front of the defendant’s bench and turns toward Mariah.

“Mr. McManus, whose number was it?”

The judge clears his throat, a warning, but there is no need. By now McManus is staring at one man, his eyes narrowed as he remembers a past indignity. “It’s a personal cell phone,”

he says. “Registered to Ian Fletcher.”

The minute Allen McManus takes the stand,

Ian feels himself rooted to his seat, unable to move and equally sure that staying is the worst possible thing he can do. How could he have underestimated Metz? Now Ian sits two rows behind Mariah, watching her shoulders stiffen as she discovers that Ian was responsible for the slanderous story published about her. I should have told her, he thinks. If I had told her, she would have forgiven me.

He wishes she would turn to him. He wishes he could see her face.

Just moments ago, when he was excused from the witness stand, he walked past her and winked. Her entire face was glowing, as luminous as the moon.

Now it is pale, her eyes standing out like bruises, deliberately fixed away from him.

He finds himself staring at Mariah the way one cannot help but watch a building collapse or a fire burn out, committed to the tragedy. He does not blink when she covers her face with her hands, when the cries come.

Joan spends thirty seconds trying to console her client, something that has never been her forte. Then she stands, vibrating with anger. If this were a jury trial, it would be totally different.

She could do her cross of McManus and somehow plant doubt that Ian was holding his phone at the time the call was placed. It could have been an intern, it could have been stolen–who the hell knows what the possibilities are? A judge, though,

will have already weighed the possibility of whether or not Ian Fletcher was actually using his own phone to call Allen McManus. And–like everyone else–will have concluded that Ian is guilty of several counts of betrayal.

“You work at the Globe?” she barks out.

“Yes.”

“How long have you worked there?”

“Six years.”

“What’s your training?”

“I went to the Columbia School of Journalism and worked at The Miami Herald as a stringer before coming to the Globe.”

“Who assigned you to this particular case?”

“The special-events editor, Uwe Terenbaum. He sometimes asks me to cover symposiums and conferences if obits aren’t too busy.”

Joan moves back and forth in front of him,

like the shuttle of a loom. McManus’s eyes follow her, dizzy. She does not know what she can get out of this worm, but she has a hunch that his ego is an Achilles’ heel. And the stupider she makes him look, the better. “Do you think you’re a good reporter, Mr. McManus?”

For a moment, Allen preens. “I like to think so.”

“Do you have a good reputation among your colleagues?”

“Sure.”

“Were you assigned to this case because you’re one of the Globe’s best reporters?”

“Probably,” he says, seemingly growing taller in the chair.

“You must have felt pretty good when you traced that number back to Ian Fletcher.”

“Well, yeah,” Allen admits. “I mean,

he’s certainly a household name.”

Joan drums her fingertips on the railing of the stand. “Did you talk to Mr. Fletcher after you found out that it was his number?”

“I tried, but–“

“Yes or no?”

“No,” he says.

“You simply took his tip and ran with it.”

“Yes.”

“You went to Greenhaven?”

“Yeah,” Allen says.

“Where you were able to get Mariah White’s file?”

“No. I got a doctor to confirm that she had been in the hospital.”

“I see. Was he Mariah’s doctor?”

“Well, no–“

“Did he treat Mariah at all when she was at Greenhaven?”

“No.”

“Did he know particulars about her case?”

“He knew the essentials.”

“That wasn’t my question, Mr. McManus.”

Joan’s brows draw together. “Did you find out during your thorough investigations that Mariah was placed in Greenhaven involuntarily by her husband?”

“Um, no …”

“Did you find out that she was not given the opportunity to pursue other treatment alternatives for depression before being institutionalized?”

“No.”

“Did you find out that because her husband was running around screwing other women, Mariah White had what’s colloquially called a nervous breakdown?”

“No,” the reporter murmurs.

“Did you find out that that was the reason she was suicidal?” Joan regards McManus steadily. “You didn’t find out the basic facts, Mr. McManus. You didn’t find out anything at all. So what makes you think you’re such a great investigative reporter?”

“Objection!”

“Withdrawn,” Joan says, but by then she does not care.

When it becomes clear that Mariah cannot stop crying, the judge suggests an hourlong recess.

Before the press has even managed to get out of their seats, Joan whisks Mariah out of the courtroom and down the hall that leads to the bathroom. Once they are inside, Joan holds the door shut so that no one will intrude. “Mariah, Fletcher’s testimony wasn’t that damaging. Not even the newspaper article. Really. By the time we get onto the stand, no one’s going to remember.” When Mariah does not answer, Joan suddenly understands. “It’s not what he said,” she murmurs.