Authors: Richard North Patterson
Jackson had been right, Caroline thought: today the law’s demands were a kindness.
She had driven Brett to Masters Hill. Larry and Betty waited on the porch; dropping Brett off, Caroline did not go in. As Brett looked back at her, Caroline had the irrational, bitter sense of having deserted her once more. Then Betty pulled Brett into her arms, and Caroline drove away.
Now she worked with Jackson at Carlton Grey’s office. Again, Jackson was the consummate professional. His press release required little editing.
Retired Judge Channing Masters, it said, was an apparent suicide. A preliminary inquiry had uncovered substantial evidence—including a written confession—to suggest that he had killed James Case. Pending full investigation, the indictment against Brett Allen was dismissed. A more complete statement would be forthcoming as the facts were known.
Caroline’s statement was equally terse. It confirmed that Channing Masters was dead. On her family’s behalf, she expressed understanding that the evidence had led to a mistaken judgment, and thanked the Attorney General’s Office for Brett’s prompt release. Except to state relief at Brett’s exoneration and sadness over the circumstances of Judge Masters’ death, the family would have no further comment. Now, or ever.
Jackson read it. “Very gracious. At least to me.”
“Of course.”
He pushed his chair back, gazing at her across the desk. “I’ll do the press,” he said. “Go hide.”
Afternoon became evening, and then night. Caroline stayed in her room, not hungry, unable to sleep. Betty was dealing with the prosaic details of a nonprosaic death: scheduling a service, arranging a burial, trying to fathom what a clergyman might say. As she should be, Brett was with them; like Caroline, they were not answering any but the most pressing messages; unlike Caroline, they could retreat into the circle of family. There was nothing for Caroline to do.
Far too tired to sift her own thoughts, she lay there, far from sleep.
There was a knock on the door.
What could it be? Caroline wondered. She had refused to answer any calls from the press; one after another, slips of paper had appeared beneath the door, to be filed in her wastebasket until the moment—if ever—that further comment was helpful to Brett.
Gingerly, Caroline opened the door.
It was the night manager, a shy man with a cowlick and a look of perpetual bemusement. “It’s another telephone call,” he said. “This man says he’s the President. Problem is, the man sounds like the President.”
For a moment, Caroline did not know what to say. “I’d
like to hear this,” she answered. “Put him through.” A minute later, the telephone rang in her room. “Caroline?”
“Mr. President?”
“Well, I’m glad I reached you.” His voice, Caroline realized as he paused, was a mixture of warmth and discomfort. “They brought me a wire report, not long ago. It’s obvious you’ve suffered a tragedy, and we wanted you to know how much we sympathize. About your father, and about how you must be feeling.” Another pause. “It’s not too early to call, is it? This must just be sinking in.”
Caroline found herself strangely touched. “No. It’s not too early. Actually, this is a help to me.”
“Then there’s something else I ought to say, for whatever little it’s worth in circumstances like these. That you were right to believe in your niece, and stand by her no matter what.” His voice grew quieter. “They say a lot of us ought to be disqualified from office for wanting it too much. I don’t know about that. But the choice you made reflects well on you, as a person and a prospective judge. And it’s sure not any disqualification.” All at once, the irony of this came over her. There was never any choice but to stand by Brett; not knowing that, the President admired her for something she could not help. But she was far too tired, and too grateful for the misper-.ception, to say this. She simply thanked him, and got off.
Two nights later, her life in suspension, Caroline ate with Jackson at his fishing camp. It slowly dawned on her that he had remained here, taking a few vacation days, because of her. But she did not know how to acknowledge this. Caroline ate a juicy piece of T-bone steak, washed it down with Cabernet. “I just couldn’t tell him,” she said. It continued a conversation dropped before dinner. But Jackson, looking at her over his wineglass, knew at once that she meant the President. “I expect,” he answered, “that you didn’t really want to.” Caroline felt defensive. “As I said before the hearing, I’ve stopped wanting to be a judge. After all this, why on earth should it matter to me?” Jackson gazed at the fire. “Over the years, Caroline, you became someone. You don’t stop being that person just because you’ve had to face the reasons for it.” Who would she be, Caroline remembered asking herself, if not a judge or a lawyer? “It’s not just that. Or even the time it will take to process what my father did. It’s that I broke into Megan’s apartment.” Her voice turned flat. “That’s not the kind of thing that judge-type people do.” Jackson gazed at the fire. “Megan perjured herself,” he said at last. “Who’d believe her?”
“No,” Caroline said sharply. “I can’t lie about that.” Jackson turned to her now. With great calm, he answered, “You’ll never have to. I’ve made it very clear to your friend Megan that whether she’s indicted for perjury is wholly up to me. And that I don’t expect to see her charging anyone else with any crimes—whether in the courts or in the media.” He paused. “She’s left college, Caroline, and dropped out of sight. All she wants to do is avoid what last humiliation she can. She’s not a problem for you, anymore. And never will be.” He smiled a little. “After all, I have her diary now.” Caroline frowned. “I don’t want you to salvage me. Please don’t try …. “
“You were trying to salvage your daughter, for Christ sake. People do worse every day—I did worse, in this case, without breaking a single law. Which has led to some sobering midnight thoughts. But I very much doubt I’ll let them keep me from a judgeship.” Caroline shook her head. “You misjudged a witness, Jackson. I broke the law. On the Court of Appeals I’d have to review case after case of other people who broke it, many of whom offer up the most sympathetic of reasons. How can I do that, knowing what I know?”
“Because it would be so colossally stupid not to. You’re a brilliant lawyer and, more to the point, a compassionate one. Nothing about this experience makes either of those less true.” Caroline stood abruptly, walking to the fire. For a time, she watched the flames, flickering orange blue. “Right now,” she said at last, “what I do with Brett seems a little more important.” She felt Jackson step behind her. “What do you want to do?”
“Want?” She turned to him with sudden intensity, felt the depth of her desire and need. “Every fiber in me wants her for my daughter. I’m so damned sick of lies. But it’s much more than that.” She looked at him intently now, tears coming to her eyes. “I want her in my life, Jackson. The other
day, watching Betty put her arms around her, I was so damned scared of losing her again.” He looked at her with sympathy and something that, in her despair, she could not quite identify. “How would Brett take it, I wonder?”
“I don’t know—all right, I think, in time. But the one sure way to keep her is to tell her who I am. If anyone knows the power of parenthood, I do.” With sickening suddenness, Caroline heard herself and then her voice became almost pleading. “She’s still a young woman, and I could help her. Before, I never believed that. But now I’ve been with her, and I know I could. How can I just walk off and leave her again?” Jackson gave her a considering look. He did not reach for her. “As I just told you,” he said at last, “you’re a compassionate person. Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll know what’s right to do.”
Three mornings later, when they buried her father, Caroline still did not know. The service was at the chapel at Masters Hill. The family sat in its pew—Larry at the end, Brett between Caroline and Betty. None of them said much; before the service began, Brett touched Caroline’s hand. She looked tired but composed. “Are you all right?” Caroline asked. Brett could not quite answer. “He was my grandfather,” she said simply. The pews were almost filled. Caroline knew many of the faces: people too decent to stay away or to forget who Channing Masters had been to them. Caroline felt the passing of a time. Many who came were old; Channing had been retired for over a decade, and most of his works—large and small—were now a matter of memory. He would surely be the last of them to be buried on Masters Hill. The service itself was spare and decorous—a soft-spoken minister whom Caroline did not know, simple words from the Old Testament, an expression of hope and redemption. Caroline listened fitfully; she had left this to Betty and Larry. As little as she believed in an afterlife, she believed even less in public pieties, the rituals by which the living, seeking to comfort themselves, obscure the truth about the dead and the act of dying. Her mother’s funeral had been enough: Caroline would bury her father, and David, in whatever way her heart might find. Still, she went to the graveside.
They buried him next to Betty’s mother, Elizabeth Brett. What might have happened, Caroline wondered, if Elizabeth had lived? There might have been sons to slake her father’s needs; Nicole Dessaliers might still live, an old woman in Paris. Surely there would have been no Caroline, no Brett, and her father would have died as he had meant to, in the fullness of time. And then the earth had covered him, and the four of them were alone. They stood facing each other, standing around the fresh-turned dirt, Brett between Betty and Larry. What memories of him did they have together? Caroline wondered; in that moment, what she must do became clear to her. Though perhaps she had always known. She looked at Brett, then at Larry. “Leave us here,” she asked. They knew what she meant. Larry nodded, and turned to Brett. Caroline watched them leave, side by side, walking to their house beneath the cool gray sky. Caroline faced Betty across their father’s grave. “I won’t tell her,” she said at last. Betty’s gaze was steady, stoic. “Why, Caroline? When it’s so clear.to me that you want to.” Caroline nodded. “I do, very much. But no one should have to reinterpret her entire life at the age of twenty-two. That’s what you, and Father, made me do. I can’t bring myself to do the same to Brett.” Caroline’s voice filled with emotion. “Though there have been times, understanding what was done to limit her, that I’ve quite forgotten how selfish that would be.” Betty reddened. “Yes. It would be selfish.”
“But there’s a price,” Caroline went on. “When she was born, I let her go. I can do it again. As long as you do, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“That it’s time for Brett to leave here. Leave you, if she wishes. Which, when she comes to terms with this, I’m very sure she will.”
Silent, Betty gazed at their father’s grave, and then nodded. “If she does, I won’t try to keep her. Now.” Caroline regarded her. “Then I doubt you’ll see me again. Except, I hope, on Bret’s occasions—a wedding, perhaps a baby. But you needn’t have me on your conscience, Betty. I think that, now, I”ll be able to let you go.” She paused a moment; in the distance, she could see Brett and her father. “As for Larry, tell him that perhaps I always knew what he would do, and shut my eyes. It was all too much for me, then.” Betty seemed to look at her across the years, a graying woman who long ago, and at great cost, had gained for herself a daughter. “Can you really live without telling her?” she asked. “You won’t look at her, or someday her child, and need for her to know.”?” Caroline shook her head. “I’ve become a very disciplined person, Betty. You should know that much by now.” Caroline paused for a moment, and then told her sister the rest of it. “It’s enough that I came back for her,” she finished softly. “Brett will never be my daughter. But, for me, I’ve earned the right to feel like her mother.”
Alone, Caroline stood by her mother’s grave, where Betty had left her. Well, Caroline said silently, its over now. I’ve done the best I could. In the quiet, a few birds calling, she felt someone behind her. Turning, Caroline saw her daughter, waiting for her. “Do you mind?” Brett asked. “My mother said you might be here.”
“No. I meant to see you before I left.” Caroline paused. “To say how sorry I am that you have to live with this.” Brett stepped closer now, hands in her pockets, seeming to avoid the sight of Channing’s grave. “I’ve loved Grandfather all my life. And then he kills someone I care for. How could he have thought that was out of love for me?” How best to answer? Caroline wondered. “He was old, Brett. Something happened to him.” Brett gave a short, dissatisfied shake of the head. “He wasn’t old when you left here. Was that over a boy?” Her face, Caroline thought, was so very much like Nicole’s. Except that the mouth and chin were David’s. “Yes,” she answered simply. “It was.” Brett regarded her in silence. “I’m too old to need protecting, Caroline. From whatever this is about.”
“I know that. But I’m protecting me. And I’ve got enough to deal with just sorting through this for myself.” Pausing, Caroline searched for a truth that might be helpful. “Your grandfather was a troubled man. I don’t know why; he wouldn’t, couldn’t, talk about himself … his own parents, his own hurts, anything. But there was something damaged about him: although he badly wanted to, he didn’t know how to love my mother, or your mother, or me, or you, or how to give us what we needed. Because whatever it was he needed kept him from knowing. So that, in the end, all of us were damaged too. You least of all. “You’re young, Brett. You’ve got a whole life, and now it’s yours. There’s nothing about you to keep you from living it fully.” Brett seemed to watch her. I’d never met you,” she said at last. “But ever since you got here, I could sense you weren’t going to let anything worse happen to me. At least if you could help it.” Caroline gazed back at her, the daughter she loved in secret, standing near the headstone of her grandmother Nicole. It made Caroline want to smile, though she did not know why. “I wasn’t,” she answered. “It didn’t matter what you’d done. Though it rather pleases me that it was nothing.” Brett tilted her head. “Was that because of Grandfather? Things you thought we had in common?”