“I saw her yesterday and she was still very upset. Let me be the one to talk to her.”
“I’m sure the prosecutor will ask for an emergent hearing regarding Peter’s bail,” Banks told him. “You’d better warn Kay. She’ll want to be there. I’ll let you know what time it’s set for.”
Warn Kay, Slater thought as he showered and dressed. Yesterday she had me send one million dollars to Elaine’s account because she believes Elaine has something that could hurt Peter. Then Elaine upped the ante. Blackmail on top of blackmail.
It’s got to be the shirt, he thought.
Or could it be something else?
There was no use going into the Manhattan office today, he decided. If there was going to be an emergent bail hearing, he intended to be there. Rather than going into the city, he would work out of his office at the mansion, then drive Kay to the hearing.
It wasn’t easy to phone Kay and tell her what had happened at the sleep center, but he got the job out of the way. An hour later he drove through the gate of the Carrington estate. The security guard gave him a friendly wave. The guard stationed at the house nodded to him as he drove around the mansion and parked his car in the back. He used the key to his private office to enter the house. He was barely inside before his cell phone rang.
It was Nicholas Greco, requesting a brief meeting at his convenience.
“Mr. Greco,” Vincent said, “I can see no reason for our meeting, today or any other time. Peter Carrington has been indicted for murder because you located that maid who, for her own reasons, now claims that the sworn statement she made twenty-two years ago was a lie. Why would I be interested in exchanging a single word with you?”
“Mr. Slater, I am not in anyone’s employ at this time. For my own sake, I do not like to leave loose ends dangling when I work on a case. I understand that Peter Carrington may admit in court that it is possible he committed those crimes while he was unaware of his actions. But is it not also possible that there is, in fact, another answer? As his close friend and assistant, please give me half an hour. Hear me out.”
Without answering, Vincent Slater slammed the phone shut.
“Who was that, Vince?”
He turned around. Kay was standing in the doorway.
“Nobody important, Kay,” he told her. “One of those crank callers who somehow manage to get private numbers.”
57
When the sheriff’s officers reported to Prosecutor Barbara Krause that Peter Carrington had attempted to leave his hospital room by forcibly pulling on the locked door, she immediately requested, and was granted, another emergent bail hearing just as Conner Banks had expected.
At 2:30 that afternoon, she and the defense attorneys and Peter Carrington once more stood before Judge Smith. And as before, the courtroom was filled with the media and dozens of spectators.
I sat with Vincent Slater in the row behind Markinson and Banks. It’s difficult to express how I felt. I guess the best way to put it is to say that I felt numb. In the space of a few days—by opening the possibility that Susan had been the woman I overheard in the chapel all those years ago—I had, according to Peter’s attorneys, established a motive for him to have murdered her. I had seen the stained shirt he was wearing the night Susan disappeared, and I had paid one million dollars to his stepmother to get it from her. It was blackmail, but I felt I had no choice. And then after paying that money, I’d been held up for more blackmail. I had also visited Susan Althorp’s closest friend and learned that Susan had referred to Gary Barr as “her pal.” So much was happening, and I was still trying to make sense of it.
I watched as Peter, my husband, my love, was led into the court, emotionally wounded and degraded, wearing shackles and manacles, paraded around for all the world to see on the evening news.
The prosecutor had a triumphant yet outraged air about her as she got up to speak. With every word she uttered, I hated her more.
“Your Honor, this is the second time that this man, who is indicted for two murders, and is a suspect in one other death, has violated the conditions of his bail. The first time, he left his home and went on the property of Susan Althorp’s family, which caused them enormous distress. One of the police officers who attempted to arrest him was seriously assaulted. Last night, Peter Carrington attempted to force open the door of his hospital room in yet another attempt to escape. The sheriff’s officers reported to me that he desperately pulled on the door for at least a minute. Fortunately, he was not successful.”
Peter, I thought, Peter. What are you thinking? Why is this nightmare happening to us?
“Your Honor,” the prosecutor was saying, “the state moves that the twenty-five-million-dollar bail posted by Peter Carrington for the purpose of allowing him to go to the Sleep Disorders Center overnight be forfeited. We ask that he now remain in the Bergen County Jail while he awaits trial. It is hard to imagine a person who would constitute a greater risk of flight than he does.”
Conner Banks had been waiting impatiently for the prosecutor to finish. Now it was his turn. I watched as he arose from his chair at the defense table and prepared to address the judge. He had a confident air about him that gave me a measure of hope. He glanced at the prosecutor as if he couldn’t believe what he had just heard; then he began his argument.
“Your Honor, let’s talk about the risk of flight. If Peter Carrington wanted to leave the country, he could have done it over twenty years ago. Instead he has lived in his own home, tried to ignore the scurrilous rumors, cooperated with all the investigations, and now, knowing he would never willingly harm another human being, he has tried to find an explanation for the crimes he may have committed. Or that he may not have committed.”
It was far too soon for me to have any response from the child I was carrying, but I swear I felt a phantom kick of approval.
Conner continued with his argument: “The entire purpose of the neurological testing at the sleep disorder clinic was to determine whether Peter Carrington is a sleepwalker, and, if he is, to determine the severity and frequency of this problem. I have been informed by my client’s doctors that his neurological readings, when he is asleep, are highly irregular, and clearly indicative of a person with a serious sleepwalking disorder called parasomnia. The doctors who have viewed the tape of this incident have told me that, in their judgment, it was clearly a sleepwalking episode, and that he was totally unaware of his actions.”
He’s doing a good job, I thought. Please God, let the judge believe him.
“Your Honor,” Banks said, his voice rising, “we do not dispute that Peter Carrington got up and attempted to leave the room. However, given the substantial security measures that were in place, of which Peter Carrington was not only aware, but was paying for, it is abundantly clear that this episode was the result of his being afflicted with this terrible disorder. Your Honor, as per your previous order, he spent the night at the center, and now has been returned to jail. It would be a terrible injustice to forfeit the twenty-five-million-dollar bail as a result of actions over which he had no control.”
Judge Smith had listened intently to both sides. He looked up, and our eyes locked for just a second before he addressed the courtroom. What did he see when he looked at me? I wondered. Did he see the way I am pleading with him to understand? I felt my heart pounding as he began to speak.
“I can candidly state that this is the most unusual set of circumstances that I have ever encountered with respect to a bail hearing,” he said. “I am fully aware that sleepwalking may be an issue in Mr. Carrington’s upcoming trial. I, of course, am taking no position at this time regarding the merits of the state’s case, or the validity of any sleepwalking defense. The sole issue today is whether Mr. Carrington deliberately attempted to violate the conditions of his bail, and whether he should forfeit the twenty-five million dollars he posted. Defense counsel does not dispute that Mr. Carrington attempted to leave the hospital room in which he was confined.”
I l
ooked at the prosecutor. An angry frown was forming on her face. Dear God, let that mean that the judge isn’t going to make Peter forfeit that bail. Because if he does make him forfeit it, it will mean he believes Peter was putting on an act.
The judge continued: “The defense counsel has proffered substantial indication that the medical testing has revealed a serious sleepwalking disorder. It is also a fair argument that Peter Carrington was fully aware of the intense security surrounding him, which would have made any attempt to escape a virtual impossibility. It is also true, as defense counsel notes, that Mr. Carrington had both agreed to and paid for this intense security. Under all of these circumstances, and again recognizing that the entire purpose of the hospital’s evaluation was focused on whether there was or was not a sleepwalking disorder, this court is not convinced that Mr. Carrington consciously tried to escape, or otherwise deliberately violated conditions of his bail. The state’s concern about flight is legitimate, and the defendant will remain in jail pending his trial. But given the information before me, I will not order the forfeiture of the twenty-five million dollars bail.”
At last we had a sort of victory. I felt myself slump in my seat. Vincent Slater patted my shoulder, an unusual gesture for him to make. “Kay, this is really important,” he said, his voice full of relief and concern.
Slater so seldom showed any emotion that I was both surprised and touched. I had always thought of him as someone who was efficient and devoted to Peter’s interests, but otherwise was basically cold and unresponsive. His reaction offered an unexpected glimpse into the interior Vincent Slater. Of course, I reminded myself, he was undoubtedly thrilled about the return of the twenty-five-million-dollar bail.
I was allowed a few minutes with Peter while he was in the holding cell. “Kay,” he said, “last night I was dreaming of kneeling on the Althorps’ lawn, the way I was when the cops arrested me. When I was trying to open the door, it was because, in my dream, I had to go there again.” His voice dropped to a whisper so that the guard standing nearby could not hear him. “But last night was different.” He paused. “I thought that Gary Barr was sitting in the room watching me.”
58
Nicholas Greco heard on his car radio that Peter Carrington might have tried to break out of the sleep center. Knowing there would be a bail hearing, he called Barbara Krause’s office and learned what time it would be held.
That was why he was in the courtroom during the hearing, and why he waited outside in the hall after it was over, hoping to speak to Carrington’s wife, Kay.
When she came out, she was accompanied by Vincent Slater. When Slater saw Greco, he tried to rush Kay Carrington past him, but Greco blocked his way. “Mrs. Carrington,” he said, “I would very much like to speak with you. There is a possibility I might be of assistance to you.”
“Assistance!” Slater snapped. “Kay, this is the investigator who located the maid and got her to change her testimony.”
“Mrs. Carrington, I am seeking the truth.” Greco handed her his card. “Please take this. Please call me.” Satisfied that she had slipped it in her pocket, he turned and walked in the opposite direction from the elevators.
He knew by now that he had become something of a familiar figure in the prosecutor’s office. Barbara Krause’s door was closed, but Tom Moran was standing in the hall outside, talking to a police officer. Greco managed to catch Moran’s eye, then waited until Moran came over to speak to him.
Moran waved aside Greco’s apologies for dropping in without an appointment. “Come in my office,” he suggested. “The boss is not a happy camper after losing the motion for bail forfeiture.”
“I understand,” Greco said, with a silent prayer of thanks that he had not intruded on Barbara Krause. He knew there was a thin line between her considering him helpful and deciding he was a pest. He also knew that he should not take up much of Moran’s time.
Once inside Moran’s office, Greco got to the point. “I have been speaking with Susan Althorp’s closest friend, Sarah Kennedy North. As you know, Gary Barr used to chauffeur Susan and her friends to parties. But according to Sarah North, it seems he had an unusually close relationship with Susan.”
Moran raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”
“Susan apparently referred to Barr as ‘her pal.’ Rather unusual, don’t you think, for an eighteen-year-old and a servant who was then in his early forties? Also, the atmosphere in the Althorp home does not suggest familiarity ever existed between the family and the employees. If anything, I would say quite the opposite.”
“Mr. Greco, we have always suspected that Peter Carrington had help in both hiding and later in burying Susan Althorp’s body. We knew, of course, about the chauffeuring Gary Barr did. The police also spoke to Susan’s friends at the time of her disappearance. None of them mentioned Barr as having an unusual relationship with Susan. Perhaps it’s time for us to talk to him again. Maybe his memory has improved over the years as well.”
Greco got up. “I won’t take any more of your time. May I also suggest that you thoroughly investigate Gary Barr’s background to see if there may have ever been any problem with the law. A possibility has occurred to me which I am not yet ready to share. Good day, Mr. Moran. It is always a pleasure to see you.”
59
I despised Elaine for her trickery, but in an odd way, it was also a relief that I was not in possession of the infamous shirt. Even though she was blackmailing us, she also was postponing a moral dilemma for me. As Peter’s wife, by law, I did not have to testify against him. To actively withhold or destroy evidence was, however, something else again. But now, I told myself, I was not withholding evidence because I did not possess it.
The media had a field day after the bail hearing. The cover of one of the tabloids had a picture of Peter standing before the judge, his back to the camera. The judge was looking down. The headline was, ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. IS THE JUDGE ASLEEP, TOO? A cartoon in another newspaper depicted Peter with electrodes hanging from his forehead, a breathing tube over his shoulder, and a hatchet in his hand that he was aiming at a door.
I didn’t know what access Peter had to the newspapers and didn’t ask him. On my next visit, I did question him about the dream he had at the sleep center, when he tried to open the door because he wanted to go to the Althorp home again. “Do you think there was a possibility that you actually saw Gary hanging around Susan’s house the night she disappeared?” I asked him.
“Absolutely not, Kay! If I had, I wouldn’t have let him come within a mile of you!”
Of course he wouldn’t. He was convinced it was just a confusing twist to his dream—but I was not.
Our visits were so painful: We looked at each other through a Plexiglas panel and spoke by telephone. He could sit down with his lawyers at a conference table but was not allowed to touch me. I longed to put my arms around him, to feel the strength of his arms around me. It wasn’t going to happen.
Conner Banks’s suggestion that Peter married me because of what I had heard in the chapel was always in the back of my mind. Then, when I saw the way Peter looked at me, the way his face lit up at his first glimpse of me, I was again certain that he loved me and had loved me from the beginning.
But a few hours later, when I was by myself at home, it did not seem impossible that he and Susan might have been quarreling about money in the chapel that afternoon. Peter was in college at that time. What kind of allowance did he get from a father who was a notorious skinflint? If Susan had something on him, was he driven to desperation—perhaps by fear of his father—to keep her quiet?
These questions haunted me, but when visiting day finally came around again, I felt wretched for ever doubting him.
A dozen times during the weeks after the hearing, I took Nicholas Greco’s card from my desk and considered calling him. I had this crazy feeling that somehow he could help Peter. But each time I would remind myself that Peter might not have been indicted had Greco not tracked down Maria Valdez, a
nd I always put the card back in the drawer, and slammed the drawer shut.
We were enjoying a mild February, and I started jogging again, running every morning around the estate. I often stopped at the place where they had found my father’s remains. This grave seemed more real to me than the one he now shares with my mother in MaryRest Cemetery. The police had dug at least ten feet in every direction around the spot where the dogs had started their frantic barking. That area had been filled in now, but it still stood out from the dormant grass around it, and I knew the dirt would start to sink when the spring thaw began.
I decided I wanted to plant rosebushes here, but then I realized I was too new in my position as Mrs. Peter Carrington to know who attended to the landscaping.
Sometimes I would stand at the fence and look out at the area where Susan’s body had been found. I would try to imagine the twenty-year-old Peter thinking that it was safe to put her body there, because the cadaver dogs had already been through the estate. I even called Public Service Electric & Gas Company. One of their employees told me that there was a gas line near the curb of our property beyond the fence, and that PSE&G had a perpetual easement to service or replace the line. He told me that normally they would never have any need to disturb the ground nearly fifty feet from the curb.
“When there’s a suspected leak, we move right in without notification,” he said. “The day the Althorp girl’s body was found, an odor of gas had been reported, and our people went right over. Our detectors bored test holes much closer to your fence than they might ever do again, he told me.
Which might answer why, even if he were guilty, Peter had not looked particularly upset when he saw the emergency crew digging near the curb.
I thought back to what I knew about that night. Elaine claimed she had seen Peter come in at two A.M. There is no question that he drove Susan home at midnight. Would she have had the nerve to sneak out immediately, or would she wait twenty minutes or half an hour to be sure one of her parents didn’t look in on her? I asked myself. And where between twelve thirty and two o’clock in the morning—whether in a sleepwalking state or not—would Peter have managed to hide Susan’s body?