Keeping Faith Read online

  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. "It's that he said it at all. That's how you knew he was going to cross Metz on the stand. Jesus, you're in love with him."

  "It's not as simple as that--"

  "It hardly ever is!"

  Mariah waves her away. "Right now, I just think I need to be by myself."

  The attorney eyes her carefully. "I don't know if that's such a good idea."

  "Afraid I might have a razor blade up my sleeve?" Mariah says bitterly. "Is the testimony of the morning getting to you?"

  "I didn't mean that. I--"

  "It's all right, Joan. Please."

  The attorney nods and exits the bathroom. Mariah stands in front of the sinks and gazes into the mirror. Her eyes are puffy and red; her nose is running. Beside her, in the reflection of the towel dispenser, is a distorted view of this mirror, so that her ravaged face is repeated over and over.

  She should have known better. Maybe what Metz has been suggesting is the truth: that once you have experienced pain, it knows your address. It comes to prey upon you in the middle of the night, sneaking up when you least expect it and leveling you before you have a chance to fight.

  Ian must have laughed at her, at finding such an easy target. How could she have believed that his interest in her was anything more than a ploy to get closer to Faith?

  Those remarkable nights with him, those words that had cast a spell and turned her into someone she has always wanted to be--to Ian, they were just words, just nights. All in the line of duty.

  With tremendous resolve she forces herself to look in the mirror again. She will get a grip on herself and she will march back into that courtroom. She will say everything that she and Joan rehearsed. She simply must keep custody of her daughter.

  She doesn't have anything else.

  When she exits the bathroom, she is expecting a crowd of reporters and photographers, waiting to glimpse some sign of her distress in an area of the courthouse where their cameras are sanctioned. But the only person standing there is Ian.

  "Mariah," he begins, coming toward her.

  She pushes past him. The contact of her shoulder with his upper arm almost brings her to tears again.

  "I didn't know back then. I didn't know what you were like."

  Mariah stops, turns, and fixes her gaze on his face. "That makes two of us," she says.

  Joan is about to enter the courtroom again when she feels a hand grab her shoulder and draw her to the side. "Don't say anything," Ian warns when she immediately opens her mouth.

  "Ah, if it isn't James Bond. If you'd told me you were going to play double agent, we might have been able to avoid this McManus crap."

  "My apologies."

  Joan crosses her arms. "I'm not the one who's crying her heart out."

  "I tried to make her understand that the Globe story came before we...well, before. She won't listen to me."

  "Can't say I blame her." She glances toward the courtroom, beginning to fill. "Look, I'll talk to Mariah later. I can't help you right now--"

  "Actually," Ian interrupts, "you can."

  Joan and Metz approach the bench. "Your Honor," he says, "I've gone through all my witnesses except for the psychiatrist I mentioned at this morning's emergency hearing."

  "Judge," Joan adds, "as I mentioned earlier today, I don't know Munchausen Syndrome from tennis elbow. I need time to prepare a rebuttal to Mr. Metz's ridiculous theory about my client. Moreover, this is the second witness Mr. Metz has pulled out of a hat; Allen McManus's name, astoundingly, di