“Objection!” Catherine Fitzgibbon called out loudly.
The video was admitted over the prosecution’s objections and after yet another lengthy sidebar. The newspapers had claimed
that Judge Fescoe was intimidated by Jules Halpern, which seemed the case.
The tape began with an arresting close-up of a painting of a clown’s face. As the camera pulled back, everyone in the courtroom
could see it was the sign on Silly Billy’s van, which was parked in front of a handsome redbrick town house with a glass conservatory
linked to the main building. The Shafer house.
The next scene showed Silly Billy ringing the front bell and apparently surprising the Shafer children at the door.
Once again, the prosecution objected to the videotape. There was another sidebar. The lawyers returned to their seats, and
the tape resumed.
The other children at the birthday party then ran to the door. The clown handed out toys from a sack slung over his shoulder
—teddy bears, dolls, shiny red fire trucks.
Silly Billy then performed magic tricks and gags on the sun porch, which looked out onto the backyard. The yard was very pretty,
with potted orange trees, white climbing roses, a jasmine vine, lush green grass.
“Wait! I hear something outside!” he turned and said into the camera. He ran and disappeared from sight.
The kids all followed. The tension of surprise and imminent fun showed in the children’s eyes.
A cream-colored pony appeared, cantering slowly around the corner of the house. Silly Billy was riding the pony.
But when the clown dismounted, the kids discovered that the clown was actually Geoffrey Shafer! All the kids went wild, but
especially the Shafer twins. They ran and hugged their daddy, who seemed the perfect father.
There were heartwarming candid shots of the children eating frosted cake and playing party games. There were more shots of
Shafer laughing and playing with several of the children. I suspected that Jules Halpern had supervised the final editing
of the tape. It was very convincing.
The adult guests at the party, all dressed up and looking sophisticated, gave glowing testimonials. They said that Geoffrey
Shafer and his wife were outstanding parents. No longer in his clown costume but in a smart navy suit, Shafer modestly deflected
the tributes. He had changed into the same clothes he wore when he was apprehended at the Farragut.
The tape ended with the smiling and quite beautiful twins telling the camera that they loved their mommy and daddy for making
their “dream come true.” The lights came up. The judge granted a brief recess.
I felt incredibly angry that the video had been shown. It made Shafer out to be a wonderful father—and such a
victim
.
The jury was all smiles, and so was Jules Halpern. He had argued masterfully that the tape was crucial to establishing Geoffrey
Shafer’s state of mind shortly before Patsy Hampton’s murder. Halpern was so skillful an orator that he’d actually made the
outrageous request to show the video sound logical. At any rate, it was moot now.
Shafer himself was smiling broadly, as were his wife and son. It suddenly occurred to me that Shafer had been riding a pale
horse at the party for his children. He was Death, from the Four Horsemen.
It was all theater and games to him, his entire life.
SOMETIMES I WANTED to shut my eyes tight and not have to watch another moment of the trial. I wanted things to be the way
they’d been before the Weasel.
Catherine Fitzgibbon was doing a very good job with each witness, but the judge seemed to be favoring the defense whenever
possible. It had begun at the critical suppression hearing, and it continued now.
Lucy Shafer took the witness stand early that afternoon. The warm, homespun videotaped images of the Shafer family were still
fresh in the minds of the jurors.
I had been trying to understand Lucy Shafer’s odd and perplexing relationship with her husband since the first time I met
her, on the night of Patsy Hampton’s murder. What kind of woman could live with an unrepentant monster like Shafer and not
know it? Could this woman be that much in denial? Or was there something else that motivated her, somehow held her captive
to Shafer? I had seen all kinds of marital relationships in my therapy practice, but nothing like this.
Jane Halpern conducted the questioning, and looked every bit as confident and winning as her father. She was tall and slender,
with wiry black hair tied in a bow with a dark-crimson ribbon. She was twenty-eight, just four years out of Yale Law School,
but seemed older and wiser.
“Mrs. Shafer, how long have you and your husband known each other?”
Lucy Shafer spoke in a gentle but clear voice. “I’ve known Geoffrey for most of my adult life, actually. My father was his
commanding officer in the army. I believe I was just fourteen when I first met Geoff. He was nine years older. We married
when I was nineteen, after my second year at Cambridge. Once, when I was studying for exams, he showed up at university in
full military dress—polished saber, medals, shiny black leather riding boots—right in the middle of the library. I was
studying in a sweatshirt or some such awful getup, and I don’t think I’d washed my hair in days. Geoff told me it didn’t matter.
He didn’t care a bit about appearances. He said he loved me and always would. I must tell you, he’s kept that promise.”
“Very nice,” Jane Halpern said, seemingly utterly charmed, as if she’d never heard the story before. “And has he remained
romantic?”
“Oh, yes, even more so. Scarcely a week goes by when Geoff doesn’t bring me flowers, or perhaps a beautiful Hermès scarf,
which I collect. And then there are our ‘ouch’ excursions.”
Jane Halpern wrinkled her nose, and her dark-brown eyes twinkled. “What are ‘ouch’ excursions?” she asked with the exuberant
curiosity of a morning TV-show host.
“Geoff will take me to New York, or maybe Paris, or back to London, and I get to shop for clothes until he says ‘ouch.’ He’s
very generous, that way.”
“A good husband, then?”
“The best you could imagine. Very hardworking, but not so much that he forgets about his family. The children adore him.”
“Yes, we could tell that from this morning’s film, Mrs. Shafer. Was the party an unusual occasion?”
“No. Geoffrey’s always throwing parties. He’s very joyful, full of life, full of fun and surprises. He’s a sensitive, very
creative man.”
I looked from Lucy Shafer to the jury box. She had the jurors in a spell, and they couldn’t take their eyes off her. She was
also credible. Even I had the sense that she genuinely loved her husband, and more important, that she believed
he
loved
her
.
Jane Halpern milked the testimony for all it was worth. I couldn’t blame her. Lucy Shafer was attractive and seemed nice,
kind, and obviously was very much in love with her husband and adored her children, but she didn’t appear to be a fool. Just
someone who had found exactly the man she wanted and valued him deeply. That man was Geoffrey Shafer.
It was the indelible image the jurors took away with them at the end of the day.
And it was an amazing lie, spun by a master.
I TALKED THINGS OVER with Andrew Jones when I got home after court that afternoon. I’d tried to contact Oliver Highsmith again,
but so far hadn’t gotten any response. Also, there was nothing new to link Shafer to the Jane Doe murders in Washington. Shafer
didn’t seem to have murdered anyone, at least locally, in the past several months.
After a dinner of chicken pot pie, salad, and rhubarb pie, Nana gave the kids the night off from their chore of doing the
dishes. She asked me to stay and help, to be her “partner in grime,” as we used to call it.
“Just like the good old days, same as it ever was,” I said as I splashed soap and water onto silver and dishes in the porcelain
sink that’s as old as the house.
Nana dried the kitchenware as quickly as I got it to her. Her fingers were still as nimble as her mind. “I like to think we’re
older
and
wiser,” she chirped.
“I don’t know. I’m still the one getting dishwater hands.”
“I haven’t told you something, and I should have,” Nana said, going serious on me.
“Okay,” I said, and stopped splashing water and soap bubbles around in the sink. “Shoot.”
“What I wanted to say is that I’m proud of the way you’ve been able to handle the terrible things that have happened. Your
strength and your patience have given me inspiration. And I’m not easily inspired, especially by the likes of you. I know
it has had the same effect on Damon and Jannie. They don’t miss a thing.”
I leaned over the sink. I was feeling in a confessional mood. “It’s the worst stretch of my life, the hardest thing I’ve ever
had to do. It’s even worse than when Maria died, Nana, if that’s possible. At least back then I knew for sure she was dead.
I could let myself grieve. I could finally let her go and breathe again.”
Nana came around the sink and took me in her arms, which always surprised me with their strength.
She looked me squarely in the eyes, just like she always has since I was around nine years old. She said, “Let yourself grieve
for her, Alex. Let her go.”
GEOFFREY SHAFER had an attractive, loving wife, and that incongruous and monstrously unfair fact bothered me a lot. I couldn’t
understand it as a psychologist or as a detective.
The clever testimony of Lucy Shafer continued early the following morning and lasted just over an hour. Jane Halpern wanted
the jury to hear more about Lucy’s wonderful husband.
Finally, it was Catherine Fitzgibbon’s turn. In her own way, she was as tough, and maybe as formidable, as Jules Halpern.
“Mrs. Shafer, we’ve all been listening to you intently, and it all sounds very charming and idyllic, but I’m troubled and
confused by something. Here’s what troubles me: your husband tried to commit suicide eight days ago. Your husband tried to
kill himself. So maybe he isn’t quite what he seems to be. Maybe he isn’t so well balanced and sane. Maybe you’re mistaken
about who he really is.”
Lucy Shafer stared directly into the prosecuting attorney’s eyes. “In the past few months, my husband has seen his life, his
career, and his good name falsely put in jeopardy. My husband couldn’t believe that these horrible charges were made against
him. This whole Kafkaesque ordeal drove him, quite literally, to despair. You have no idea what it means to lose your good
name.”
Catherine Fitzgibbon smiled and then quipped, “Sure I do. Of course I do. Haven’t you read the
National Enquirer
lately?” That got a laugh from the courtroom audience, even the jury members. I could tell that they liked Catherine. So
did I.
She continued, “Isn’t it true that your husband has been treated for ‘despair’ for many years? He’s seeing a psychologist,
Mrs. Shafer. He suffers from manic depression, or bipolar disorder, correct?”
Lucy shook her head. “He’s had a midlife crisis. That’s all it is. It’s nothing unusual for men his age.”
“I see. And were you able to help him with his crisis?”
“Of course I was. Although not with respect to his work. So much of what he does is classified and top-secret. You must understand
that.”
“I must,” the prosecutor said, then quickly went on, “So your husband has a great many secrets he keeps from you?”
Lucy frowned, and her eyes shot darts at the wily prosecutor. “In his
work
, yes.”
“You knew that he was seeing Dr. Cassady? Boo Cassady?”
“Yes, of course I did. We often talked about it.”
“How often did he see her? Do you know? Did he tell you that? Or was it
top
-
secret?
”
Jane Halpern shouted, “Objection!”
“Sustained. Ms. Fitzgibbon,” warned Judge Fescoe, with an arched brow.
“Sorry, Your Honor. Sorry, Lucy. All right, then. How often did your husband see Boo Cassady?”
“He saw her as much as necessary, I suppose. I believe her name is
Elizabeth
.”
“Once a week? Twice? Every day?” Fitzgibbon pressed on, without missing a beat.
“I think once a week. Usually it was once a week.”
“But the doormen at the Farragut testified that they saw your husband much more than that. Three or four times a week, on
average.”
Lucy Shafer shook her head wearily and glared at Fitzgibbon. “I trust Geoffrey completely. I don’t keep a leash on him. I
certainly wouldn’t
count
his therapy sessions.”
“Did you mind that Dr. Cassady—
Elizabeth
—was such an attractive woman?”
“No. Don’t be absurd.”
Fitzgibbon looked genuinely surprised. “Why is that absurd? I don’t think it is. I think
I’d
mind if my husband was seeing an attractive woman at her home-office two, three, four times a week.”
Fitzgibbon moved swiftly. “Didn’t it bother you that Boo Cassady was a surrogate
sex
therapist for your husband?”
Lucy Shafer hesitated, seemed surprised, and glanced quickly at her husband.
She hadn’t known
. It was impossible not to feel sorry for her.
Jane Halpern quickly rose from her seat. “Objection! Your Honor, there is no foundation that my client was seeing a sex surrogate.”
Lucy Shafer visibly pulled herself together on the witness stand. She was clearly stronger than she looked. Was she a game
player, too? Could she be one of the players? Or did she and her husband play a completely different kind of game?
She spoke. “I’d like to answer the question. Madam Prosecutor, my husband, Geoffrey, has been such a good husband, such a
good father, that even if he felt it necessary to see a sex therapist, and did
not
want to tell me about it because of the hurt or shame he felt, I would understand.”
“And if he committed
cold-blooded murder
—and did not want to tell you?” the prosecutor asked, then turned to the jury.