Guilty Wives (9 page)

“YOU WERE IN LOVE.”

“No. I don’t know. Maybe. I cared for him…yes…I cared for him…maybe I loved him…”

“It would be understandable that you would be…upset. This man you cannot have? This life you cannot have?”

“Tell us why you killed him, Winnie.”

“I killed him…for the money…he wouldn’t pay me…he wouldn’t pay me money…I’m sorry…”

Durand turned off the small, handheld voice recorder. After he had secretly recorded Winnie’s statement, he had spent an hour reviewing the recording and making editing decisions, then a technician had spent another hour cutting and splicing Winnie’s words so that only the damning ones remained, making it sound like a seamlessly flowing conversation.

Bryah shook her woozy head. “No…no…it…can’t be…Winnie wouldn’t…she couldn’t…”

“She has already confessed. You can no longer help her. Your only question is whether you help yourself.” Durand was freshly showered and refreshed from sleep. Rouen was wearing the same suit but with a different white shirt underneath. Each of them was holding a bottle of water.

To Bryah, handcuffed to a rickety wooden chair, it had been one long day-and-night-and-day of blinding lights and white walls. As much as she’d tried to track the time, she could do no better than a very rough estimate. Thirty-six hours was her guess. They’d fed her a cheese sandwich and a small bottle of water and they’d let her sleep on the floor for some time—how long, she had no idea, but probably just long enough to make her desperately want more.

Her head bobbed. She began to cry. It was Winnie’s voice on the recording, no doubt.

“She already confessed to shooting them,” said Durand. “You can deny all knowledge and join her in prison for life. Or,” he added, “you can tell us what we already know. You will have a…very short sentence.”

Bryah shook her head, as if she were shaking away cobwebs.

“She already confessed to shooting them over the money,” said Durand. “Say it. ‘She shot them over the money.’”

“No—”

“Say it. ‘She shot them over the money.’” Durand nudged her shoulder. “And then we can permit you a bath and get you something to eat and drink. You want…sandwich? Croissant?
Café?
”

With dark, tired eyes, Bryah looked up at Durand. “I…can’t. No…”

“Why this nonsense?” Durand flailed his arms. “We already know! You simply say what we already know! You do this and you leave prison in two years. You do
not
do this? Then you are a liar and you are equally to blame. You never see your
famille
again. You spend thirty years in
la prison.
Maybe a lifetime.”

“Madame Gordon,” said Rouen. “
Écoute-moi bien.
Winnie has admitted she killed him over the money. This is a benefit to her. It means for her that this was not
une action terroriste.
Not an…act of terrorism. You see? For
le terrorisme,
we have stronger laws, yes? Harsher punishments. Lifetime in prison. But what your friend has confessed? This is not terrorism. The penalty is…much lower. Yes? So you must help her now. You must…support what she says.”

Durand pressed a hand to his chest. “We? We do not know that what Winnie says is true. She wants us to believe this so she receives the lesser sentence. If you want to help her, you say only what she has already said
herself.
You help her avoid a
terrorisme
charge and you help yourself by…cooperating.”

Bryah tried to control her sobbing. She’d heard about France’s terrorism laws, the lengthy detentions, the harsher penalties, the outcry from human rights groups. She wasn’t a lawyer and she didn’t know the details, but what they were saying rang true. And—

And it
was
Winnie’s voice on that tape.

“She shot them over the money,” said Rouen. “She shot them over the money.”

Bryah’s head dropped.

“She shot them…over the money,” she said.

THE DOOR OPENED.
I’d drifted off, by which I mean my mind had wandered, my vision had become cloudy and unfocused. Some might define that as sleep. I couldn’t define anything now. I’d barely slept the night of the partying and the yacht and Damon—and since then I hadn’t had more than a few winks. I thought I’d drifted off when they put me on the floor for a few hours last night—or was it noon? The morning?—but otherwise I had fallen into a semiconscious haze.

Don’t say anything, I tried to tell myself. Your brain isn’t working.

They showed me papers. I stared at them for a time, my head wobbly.
Procès-verbal d’audition de la personne gardée à vue,
they said. Some kind of a witness statement.

“Your final…opportunity,” said Durand. “You can see that the others have complied. Your friend Winnie has confessed.”

I closed my eyes, or maybe they were already closed.

Winnie…no.

“The others have confirmed—yes?”

“Corroborated,” said Rouen.

No…impossible…a bad dream…someone else’s nightmare…

Durand pushed my chin up from my chest, so I was facing him. “Winnie says you gave her the gun. You assisted her.”

No…not the gun…not my gun…

“No,” I managed. “Never…touched a…gun.” My tongue was heavy; my words were coming with great effort.

Durand shook the papers, the witness statements, in my face for emphasis. “You see here. All of them say it. It was
le chantage
. Blackmail, Abbie.”

“Black…blackmail…who…?”

“Still?
Still
you insist you know nothing?”

“Why would we black…blackmail Devo?”

“Devo,”
Durand scoffed. “Do not call him that again.”

“What should I…call him?”

Rouen approached me, holding up an official photo of a balding man in a suit, his posture proud and confident, giving a speech with the flag of France behind him.

It took me only a moment, my mental inebriation notwithstanding. Put a beard and a toupee on the man in that photo…

“Oh, no,” I whispered.

Devo the Tycoon was Henri Devereux.

I was being accused of murdering the president of France.

THE CELL DOOR OPENED.
Dan Ingersoll looked in before entering. The woman was sitting on the floor in the corner, her elbows on her knees. Her hair was shoulder length, greasy, and flat against her head. Her face was pale and drawn. Her eyes were heavily bloodshot and vacant. Her gaze slowly made its way up to him.

“Abbie Elliot?” he asked.

She wet her lips and raised her chin. “Who are you?”

“My name is Dan Ingersoll. I’m with the U.S. Embassy.”

“Congratulations.” Her head fell back against the wall. The cell was all concrete. It was cold and clean.

He wasn’t sure where to start. He’d never done this before.

“Have you been treated okay?”

She rolled her neck. It was probably a dumb question. Four days in French custody, being interrogated mercilessly. “They forgot the mint on my pillow,” she said.

“I’m serious.”

“Oh. You’re serious.” Her eyes tracked up to the ceiling. “But not so serious to come visit me even once during four days of this?”

“They denied me access,” he said. “This isn’t like Ameri—”

“Oh, I swear, if another person reminds me that I’m not in America, there’s going to be a third murder to prosecute.”

He could hardly blame her. She didn’t look like the type who had a history of spending time with angry cops and investigators. This must have been a nightmare.

“How are the others?” she asked. “Have you talked to them?”

“Only Serena Schofield,” said Ingersoll. “You two are the Americans.”

“How’s Serena doing?”

Ingersoll thought about his answer. He prided himself on his bluntness. An FBI agent once told him that he didn’t talk like a lawyer. He took it as a compliment. “It’s a difficult situation,” he said.

“I didn’t ask you if it’s a difficult situation. I actually figured out that much all by myself. I asked you how Serena is doing.”

He deserved that, he thought. “She’s distraught,” he said. “Terrified.”

She nodded slowly. The sleep deprivation was evident. She appeared to be numb at this point, suffering from sensory overload. Four days of fear and anxiety and manipulation was too much for anyone. He wondered if Abbie had confessed. Most would under these circumstances.

“I didn’t kill anybody,” she said.

He didn’t answer. It wasn’t relevant—not for his purposes. She was an American citizen, and he needed to make sure she was given her rights. He wasn’t there to exonerate her.

“And I sure as hell didn’t know that guy was the president of France. How was I supposed to know that?”

It was the same thing Simon Schofield had said in his office a few days ago.
How were they supposed to know who he was?
Ingersoll didn’t have an answer then and he didn’t have one now.

“Have you talked to my husband?” she asked.

“Of course. He’ll be here soon.”

“And what about my kids?”

“I understand that they’re on their way to France,” he said.

Abbie’s dry, dead eyes filled at the topic of her children.

She didn’t look like a killer, he thought, even knowing how silly that thought was. He’d seen all kinds as a prosecutor. Some of the quietest, tamest people were some of the most vicious criminals. You just never knew.

“This is everywhere, isn’t it? I mean, our identities? We’re all over the news?”

Ingersoll nodded. “Your names are known, I’m afraid.”

Abbie tilted her head in the direction of the door. “What are they telling you? About the evidence?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know much about that.”

She stared at him for a long time. “Mr. Ingersoll, be the first person in here who
doesn’t
bullshit me.”

It seemed out of character, the cussing. For some reason that he couldn’t pin down, he had a feeling that Abbie Elliot was a very good mother.

He would see her on almost a daily basis now, assuming they incarcerated her somewhere close. He’d watch out for her and Serena. They were American citizens. He owed it to them. It wasn’t his job to save their hides, but he’d look out for them as best he could. His chest swelled at the thought.

“Okay, no bullshit,” he said. “This thing is quickly spinning out of control. It’s a lynch-mob mentality. A very popular president is dead, and right or wrong, everyone seems to think that four beautiful, privileged foreigners did it. The people of France want blood. They want to bring back the death penalty just for you. The U.S. government wants to duck down and hide, because two of the suspects are American. My advice would be to get the best lawyer you can find.”

He took a breath. Abbie’s face disappeared into her knees.

“But Ms. Elliot, no bullshit, if there’s any way I can help you, I’ll do it.”

She nodded her head, her face still buried between her knees. Her way of showing appreciation for his candor. She probably felt incredibly alone right now.

As Ingersoll exited, he could hear her weeping softly.

He wiped sweat from his face, as if Abbie Elliot’s anxiety had transferred itself to him. This was perhaps the biggest case the French had ever prosecuted, he realized.

There was no way they were going to let these women walk free.

LE PROCÈS COMMENCE,
blared the front page of
Le Monde
this morning. “The Trial Begins,” requiring no further elaboration; anyone in France who didn’t know what that meant was either comatose or a newborn. The
International Herald Tribune,
in its typically sedate way, informed the public that it was “Day 1 in Devereux Assassination Trial.”
USA Today
announced, “Trial of Monte Carlo Four Opens.” All this I knew courtesy of one of the guards at the jail in southern Paris where I spent the last two nights before my trial. They’d moved me from the prison where I was staying so that my route to the courthouse would be unknown. The French were taking the death threats seriously.

I traveled in a blue vehicle with sirens on top, a cross between a minivan and an SUV, the word
GENDARMERIE
stenciled in white on the side. I sat in the back along a bench, where I was restrained at the wrists and ankles and shackled to the bench itself. Across from me sat two armed gendarmes. Our area in the vehicle’s rear was sealed off from the driver’s cabin by a plastic shield, which had a slit that opened only for communication. There was some light back here, courtesy of the tinted, bulletproof windows.

From what I understood, there were four separate vehicles for the four of us—each of which was taking a different route—and there were decoy vehicles as well. Whatever else the French wanted to do to us, they didn’t want us gunned down by some grief-stricken protester. They’d had enough high-profile security lapses for one decade. The heads of the entities primarily responsible for the safety of the French president, the Groupe de Sécurité de la Présidence de la République and the RAID unit—Recherche Assistance Intervention Dissuasion—had resigned following President Devereux’s death. Apparently it was no excuse that the president hadn’t wanted his security detail, other than Luc Cousineau, to accompany him to Monte Carlo; they weren’t supposed to take no for an answer when it came to presidential security, and after his death, heads had to roll.

The trial was at the Palais de Justice, which houses the Parisian police force and the courts, including the country’s supreme court, the Cour de Cassation. The Palais is located on the Île de la Cité, an island on the Seine that is home to the Cathédrale Notre Dame de Paris as well. Next to the Palais is the Sainte-Chapelle, a chapel where Jeffrey and I, years ago, had spent an afternoon listening to a six-piece orchestra play Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
as daylight streamed through the stained-glass windows.

The roads bordering the Palais de Justice were barricaded. A few news trucks had been let in but otherwise the only vehicles allowed passage were the decoys and the ones carrying the defendants. Spectators were lined up along the streets, many of them holding signs. Some of the signs were in French, some in English. Some supported us—
FREE THE MONTE CARLO MISTRESSES
—but most did not:
JUSTICE POUR HENRI
;
DEATH TO THE KILLERS!
The collective commotion of the crowd, which I heard through the thick windows of the vehicle, left me with the sensation of putting my ear up to the door of a rock concert.

On the Boulevard du Palais, our vehicle passed through the magnificent wrought-iron gates into the courtyard of the Palais itself. I bent my head down to peer up through the window at the main building, where the supreme court was located—the long set of stone steps, the four majestic columns, and the words that I couldn’t make out but I knew were there, carved into the structure:
LIBERTÉ, ÉGALITÉ, FRATERNITÉ.

In the courtyard, which was still open to public view, the vehicle went through an arched passageway that led into a loading area. I was taken out of the vehicle and walked through a series of empty hallways, the gendarmerie at my front and back.

I’d made this trip often over the last nine months, but the security was much tighter this time—the barricades, the decoy cars. The threats had escalated in the last few weeks. The Palais de Justice had been emptied one day last week after a bomb threat, and since then the Sainte-Chapelle had been closed to tourists and the Palais limited either to people having business with the court or members of the public willing to undergo the screening, which rivaled that of an Israeli airport.

Or so I’d been told. I’d been cut off from the outside world. I hadn’t spoken with, much less seen, my three friends for months, except during court hearings. I’d had only Jeffrey and my kids as visitors. I got most of my information from my attorney or the prison guards. The guard at the Paris jail for the last two nights was a chatty character named Solly, who was eager to touch any part of the biggest criminal case in modern French history. Solly had made the comment that I was the most famous
criminel féminin
since Marie Antoinette, which I think he intended as a compliment, but I don’t recall it turning out so well for her.

We reached the door of the holding area. One of the gendarmes used a key. I turned to the one holding my arm, a man named Guy, whom I had come to know and who liked to practice his English with me.

“Wish me luck,” I said.

I moved into the holding area and a door closed behind me. I heard Guy’s response through the door.

“Elles n’ont pas besoin de chance,”
he said to one of his colleagues.
“Elles ont besoin d’un miracle.”

He didn’t think I could hear him. No matter. He wasn’t saying anything I hadn’t heard a hundred times already. And I couldn’t bring myself to disagree.

They don’t need luck, he’d said. They need a miracle.