A Special Relationship (52 page)

When we returned to the courtroom, Maeve explained our position to Mr Justice Traynor.

‘In the interests of expediting the hearing, and not causing any further delays, we will accept this last-minute witness.’

‘Very well,’ Traynor said. ‘Please call Mr Ogilvy.’

As he walked in, I thought: fifteen years on and he still looks almost the same. He was in his mid-fifties now. A little heavier around the middle, somewhat greyer, but still wearing that same sort of tan gabardine suit that he was sporting in 1982. The same blue Oxford button-down shirt and striped tie. The same horn-rimmed glasses and brown penny-slot loafers. He kept his line of vision aloft as he walked to the witness stand, so as not to see me. But once he was on the stand, I stared directly at him. He turned away and focused his attention on Lucinda Fforde.

‘Now Mr Ogilvy – to confirm your statement, you have been a practising psychotherapist in the Boston area for the past twenty-five years.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And after the death of her parents in a car accident in 1988, Ms Goodchild was referred to you as a patient?’

He confirmed this fact.

‘Well then, could you also please confirm what Ms Goodchild told you in the course of one of her sessions.’

For the next ten minutes, he did just that – recounting the story in just about the same way that I recounted it to Julia. He didn’t try to embellish or exaggerate anything. What he said was a reasonable, accurate rendering of what I told him. But – as my eyes bore into him – all I could think was: you haven’t just betrayed me, you have also betrayed yourself.

When he finished, Lucinda Fforde looked at me and said, ‘So, put rather baldly, Ms Goodchild gave her father the drink that sent him over the limit and caused him to crash the car—’

‘I thoroughly object to this line of questioning, My Lord,’ Maeve said, genuinely angry. ‘Counsel isn’t simply surmising, she is also writing fiction.’

‘I concur. Please rephrase, Miss Fforde.’

‘With pleasure, My Lord. Though Mr Goodchild informed his daughter that he was over the limit, she still gave him the glass of wine. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

‘And later that night, he crashed his car into another vehicle, killing himself, his wife, a young woman in her thirties, and her fourteen-month-old son?’

‘Yes, that’s correct.’

‘And did Ms Goodchild share this information with anyone else but you?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Not with her one sibling, her sister?’

‘Unless she did so in the last two decades, no. Because, at the time, one of the central themes of her conversations with me was the fact that she couldn’t confess this fact to her sister. She couldn’t confess it to anyone.’

Suddenly, I heard a long choked sob behind me. Then Sandy stood and ran out the back door of the court. As soon as she was outside, her crying reverberated in the hallway outside. I started to stand up, but Nigel Clapp did something very un-Nigel Clapp. He grabbed my arm and caught me before I could give pursuit, whispering quickly, ‘You mustn’t leave.’

Back up front, Lucinda Fforde continued on.

‘What therapeutic advice did you give Ms Goodchild at the time, sir?’

‘I told her she would be better off making a clean breast of things with her sister.’

Lucinda Fforde turned towards the back of the courtroom. ‘Wasn’t that Ms Goodchild’s sister leaving the court just now?’

Then, after the requisite dramatic pause, she said, ‘No further questions, My Lord.’

Maeve Doherty stood up and simply stared at Grant Ogilvy. She held this glare for a good thirty seconds. He tried to meet her contemptuous gaze, but eventually turned away. Mr Justice Traynor cleared his throat.

‘You won’t be kept here much longer, Mr Ogilvy,’ Maeve said. ‘Because I really don’t want to spend much time talking to you.’

She too paused for effect before commencing her cross-examination.

‘How old was Ms Goodchild when she saw you as a patient?’

‘Twenty-one.’

‘How old was her father when he died?’

‘Around fifty, I think.’

‘Ms Goodchild handed him a drink at that party, yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘He refused.’

‘Yes.’

‘She said, “How middle-aged.” And he drank the drink. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you believe, because of that, she should be held culpable for the fatal accident he had several hours later?’

‘I have never been asked to comment on her culpability.’

‘But you’ve been brought all this way across the Atlantic to sully her character, haven’t you?’

‘I was brought here simply to relate the information she told me.’

‘While she was a patient of yours, yes?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Aren’t there laws in the United States about patient/doctor confidentiality?’

‘I’m not a doctor. I’m a therapist. And yes, there are laws. But they mainly have to do with criminal malfeasance.’

‘Now if Ms Goodchild didn’t speak with anyone else about this, how on earth did Mr Hobbs’s people find you after all these years, and why did you agree to be brought over here?’

‘Because they asked me to testify, that’s why.’

‘And what are they paying you for your trouble?’

‘My Lord, I do hate to interrupt yet again,’ Lucinda Fforde said, ‘but this is improper.’

‘Oh,
please,’
Maeve hissed. ‘He’s obviously not over here for altruistic reasons…’

‘We are running out of time, Ms Doherty’ Traynor said. ‘Is this line of questioning likely to take matters further?’

‘I have no further questions for this …
gentleman!

Traynor heaved a huge sigh of relief. He could go home now.

‘The witness is dismissed. Court is adjourned until nine am tomorrow morning.’

As soon as Traynor had left the court, I was on my feet, racing out the back door in search of Sandy. I found her on a bench in the hallway, her eyes red, her face wet. I tried to touch her shoulder. She shrugged me off.

‘Sandy…’

The door of the courtroom opened, and out came Grant Ogilvy, accompanied by Tony’s solicitor. Before I could stop her, Sandy was in his face.

‘I’m going back to Boston in two days,’ she yelled, ‘and the first thing I’m going to do is make certain everyone who counts in your profession knows what you did here today. You understand? I am going to fucking ruin you. Because you fucking deserve it.’

A court usher, hearing her raised voice, came running towards the scene. But Tony’s solicitor shooed him away.

‘It’s over now,’ he whispered, and hustled a wide-eyed and deeply distressed Grant Ogilvy out of the building.

I turned toward Sandy, but she walked away from me. Maeve and Nigel were at the door of the courtroom, looking on.

‘Is she going to be all right?’ Maeve asked.

‘She just needs to calm down. It’s a dreadful shock for her.’

‘And for you too,’ Nigel added. ‘Are you all right?’

I ignored the question and asked Maeve, ‘How much damage do you think he did?’

‘The truth is: I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But the important thing now is: go deal with your sister, try to stay calm, and – most of all – get a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be a very long day.’

I noticed Nigel had Sandy’s roll-on bag beside him.

‘She left this behind,’ he said. ‘Anything I can do?’

I shook my head. He awkwardly reached over and touched my arm.

‘Ms Goodchild … Sally … what you were just put through was so dreadfully wrong.’

Then, almost shocked by this show of emotion, he nodded goodbye to me.

As I went off to find Sandy, I realized that that was the one time Nigel Clapp had ever called me by my first name.

Fourteen

S
ANDY WAS WAITING
outside the court, leaning against a pillar.

‘Let’s get a cab,’ I said.

‘Whatever.’

In the ride back to Putney, she didn’t say a word to me. She just leaned against one side of the taxi, exhausted, spent, in one of those dark states that I got to know during childhood. I didn’t blame her for being in such a black place. As far as she was concerned, I had betrayed her. And she was right. And now I didn’t have a clue about how I should (or could) make amends for such a huge error of judgment.

But I also knew enough about Sandy to realize that the best strategy right now was to let her get through the big monstrous anger phase of this freeze-out. So I said nothing to her on the way out to Putney. When we reached the house, I made up the guest bed and showed her where the bathroom was, and let her know that there was plenty of microwavable food in the fridge. But if she wanted to eat with me…

‘What I want is a bath, a snack, and bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

‘Well, I’m going to take a walk then.’

What I wanted to do was knock on Julia’s door and ask her to pour me a vodka and allow me to scream on her shoulder for a bit. But as I approached my front door, I saw a note that had landed on the inside mat. It was from her, saying:

Desperate to know how it went today … but had to go out to a last-minute business thing. I should be home by eleven. If you’re still up then and want company, do feel free to knock on the door.

Hope you got through it all.

Love, Julia

God, how I needed to talk to her, to anyone. But instead, I took what solace I could from a walk along the river. When I got back I found that Sandy had indeed eaten a Chicken Madras and had taken her jet lag and her anger to bed early.

I picked at a microwaved Spaghetti Carbonara. I stared blankly at the television. I ran myself a bath. I took the necessary dose of anti-depressants and sleeping pills. I crawled into bed. The chemicals did their job for around five hours. When I woke, the clock read 4.30 am – and all I could feel was dread. Dread about my testimony today. Dread about yesterday’s debacle with Sandy. Dread about the influence that Grant Ogilvy would have on the judge’s decision. Dread, most of all, that I was now destined to lose Jack.

I went down to the kitchen to make myself a cup of herbal tea. As I walked by the living room, I saw that the light was on. Sandy was stretched out on the sofa, awake, lost in middle-of-the-night thought.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘You know what really kills me?’ she said. ‘It’s not that you gave Dad that last drink. No, what so fucking upsets me is that you couldn’t tell me.’

‘I wanted to, but …’

‘I know, I know. And I understand all your reasons. But to keep that to yourself for all these years … Jesus Christ, Sally … didn’t you think I’d understand? Didn’t you?’

‘I just couldn’t bring myself to admit…’

‘What? That you’ve been carrying fifteen years worth of guilt for no damn reason? I could have talked you out of your guilt in a heartbeat. But you chose not to let me. You chose to keep stagnating in the fucking guilt, and that’s what really staggers me.’

‘You’re right.’

‘I know I’m right. I may just be a fat little suburbanite…’

‘Now who’s trading in self-hate?’

She laughed a cheerless laugh. And said, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’ve always hated my last name.
Goodchild.
Too much to live up to.’

She pushed herself up off the sofa. ‘I think I’ll try to get two more hours of sleep.’

‘Good idea.’

But I couldn’t sleep. I just took up her place on the sofa, and stared at the empty grate in the fireplace, and tried to fathom why I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what I should have told her, why I dodged the absolution I so craved. And why every child wants to be a good child – and never can really live up to the expectations of others, let alone themselves.

Somewhere over the next few hours, I did nod off-and then found myself being nudged by Sandy, who had a mug of coffee in one hand.

‘It’s eight am,’ she said, ‘and this is your wake-up call.’

I slurped down the coffee. I took a fast shower. I put on my good suit again. I did a little damage control with foundation and blusher. We were out the door and on the tube by nine-fifteen. It was a brilliantly bright, sun-dappled day.

‘Sleep all right?’ Maeve asked me as we settled down in the front left hand pew of the court.

‘Not bad.’

‘And how is your sister?’

‘A bit better, I think.’

Just then Nigel showed up, accompanied by Rose Keating. She gave me a little hug.

‘You didn’t think I was going to miss this, did you?’ she asked. ‘Who’s the woman in the back row?’

‘My sister,’ I said.

‘All the way over here from the States to support you? Good on her. I’ll sit with her.’

‘How are our last-minute witnesses?’ Maeve asked.

‘Due here this afternoon, as requested,’ she said.

‘They know how to get to the High Court?’ Maeve asked.

‘It’s all arranged. Nigel meeting’s one of them at Paddington during the lunch break, and I’m going to Victoria for the other one.’

Tony and Co. then arrived – his lawyers nodding with their counterparts on this side of the court; their client and his new partner avoiding my gaze as before. Just as I also didn’t want to make eye contact with either of them.

Then the court clerk stood up and asked us to do so as well. Mr Justice Traynor entered, sat down, greeted us with a brief ‘Good morning,’ and called the hearing to order.

It was now Maeve’s turn to present our case. And so she called her first witness: Dr Rodale.

She didn’t smile at me from the witness stand. She seemed to be deliberately ignoring my presence – perhaps because that would give her testimony more weight.

Maeve got her to recite her professional qualifications, her long-standing association with St Martin’s, the fact that she’d had two decades’ experience of treating women with postnatal depression, and had written several medical papers on the subject. She then had her outline, briefly, the emotional and physiological roller-coaster ride that was this condition, how it sneaked up unawares on its victims, how it often caused those in its vortex to do uncharacteristic things like uttering threats, becoming suicidal, refusing to eat or wash, committing violent acts … and how, with rare exceptions, it was always treatable.

Then she detailed my clinical case.

When she had finished Maeve asked her, ‘In your opinion, is Ms Goodchild fully capable of resuming the role of full-time mother?’

She looked straight at Tony and said, ‘In my opinion, she was fully capable of that role when she was discharged from hospital nearly ten months ago.’

‘No further questions, My Lord.’

Lucinda Fforde stood up.

‘Dr Rodale, during the course of your twenty-five-year career, how many women have you treated for postnatal depression?’

‘Around five hundred, I’d guess.’

‘And, of these, how many documented cases can you remember of a mother threatening to kill her child?’

Dr Rodale looked most uncomfortable with this question.

‘When you say “threatening to kill a child…?”’

‘I mean, just that: someone threatening to kill a child.’

‘Well … to be honest about it, I only remember three other
reported
instances…’

‘Only
three
other instances, out of five hundred cases. It’s obviously a pretty rare threat to make then. And let me ask you this: of those three cases … actually four, if you include Ms Goodchild, how many of those actually went on to murder their child?’

Dr Rodale turned to the judge.

‘My Lord, I really find this line of questioning…’

‘Doctor, you must answer the question.’

She looked straight at Lucinda Fforde.

‘Only one of those women went on to kill her child.’

A triumphant smile crossed the lips of Lucinda Fforde.

‘So, given that, one of those four women actually killed her child, there was a twenty-five per cent chance that Ms Goodchild would have killed her child.’

‘My Lord—’

But before Maeve could utter anything more, Lucinda Fforde said, ‘No further questions.’

‘Re-examination?’

‘Absolutely, My Lord,’ Maeve said, sounding furious. ‘Dr Rodale, please tell us about the patient who killed her child.’

‘She was suffering from extreme schizophrenia, and one of the worst cases of manic depression I’ve ever treated. She had been sectioned – and the murder happened on a supervised visit with her child, when the supervisor became physically ill and had to leave the room for no more than a minute to seek help. When she returned, the mother had snapped her child’s neck.’

There was a long silence.

‘How rare is this sort of case in postnatal depression?’ Maeve asked.

‘Rarer than rare. As I said, it’s the one instance in five hundred or so cases I’ve treated. And I must emphasize again that, unlike all the other cases, this was one where the patient was essentially psychotic.’

‘So there is absolutely no relation whatsoever with the condition suffered by the woman who killed her child, and that of Ms Goodchild?’

‘Absolutely none whatsoever. And anyone who attempts to make that sort of comparison is guilty of a monstrous manipulation of the truth.’

‘Thank you, Doctor. No further questions.’

Next up was Clarice Chambers. She did smile at me from the witness box and, under gentle, brief questioning from Maeve, told her how well I had ‘bonded’ with Jack, the grief I had displayed at our first supervised visit, and the way I had been able to establish a genuine rapport with him during our hourly visits each week. And then Maeve asked her virtually the same question she had posed to Dr Rodale.

‘As you have been the one-and-only person to have watched the interaction of Ms Goodchild and her son over the past months, is it your professional opinion that she is a caring mother?’

‘A
completely
caring mother, in whom I have the greatest confidence.’

‘Thank you. No further questions.’

Once again, Lucinda Fforde played the ‘I have just one question for you’ game. And the question was, ‘In your experience, don’t all mothers who have been legally prevented from unsupervised contact with their child – due to worries about the child’s safety – don’t they always express terrible grief in front of you?’

‘Of course they do. Because—’

‘No further questions.’

‘Re-examination?’

‘Ms Chambers, is it true that, for the past six weeks, you have allowed Ms Goodchild to have unsupervised contact with her child?’

‘That is completely correct.’

‘And why have you permitted this?’

‘Because it’s clear to me that she is a normally functioning person, who presents no danger whatsoever to her child. In fact, I’ve actually felt that way about her since the beginning.’

‘Thank you very much, Ms Chambers.’

Moving right along, Jane Sanjay took the stand. She explained that she had been my health visitor – and had seen me several times after I had come out of hospital with Jack. And she reported that she had no doubts about my competence as a mother. Maeve asked, ‘However, this was before the full-scale effects of the postnatal depression had afflicted her, is that correct?’

‘Yes, that’s true – but she was, at the time, obviously suffering from exhaustion, post-operative stress, not to mention ferocious worry about her son’s condition. The exhaustion was also exacerbated by sleep deprivation, and the fact that she had no help at home. So, under the circumstances, I thought she was coping brilliantly.’

‘So, there was nothing in her behaviour to indicate a woman who could not deal with the day-to-day business of child care?’

‘None at all.’

‘You know, of course, that she did accidentally breastfeed her son while taking a sedative. Is that, in your professional experience, a rare occurrence?’

‘Hardly. We must have a dozen of those cases a year in Wandsworth. It’s a common mistake. The mother isn’t sleeping, so she’s on sleeping pills. She’s told, “Don’t breastfeed while taking the pills.” The child wakes up in the middle of the night. The mother is befuddled. She breastfeeds the child. And though the child goes floppy for a bit, he or she simply sleeps it off. And in the case of Sally … sorry, Ms Goodchild … the fact that this happened didn’t have any bearing whatsoever on my opinion that she was a thoroughly competent mother.’

‘No further questions.’

Up came Lucinda Fforde.

‘Now, Ms Sanjay, didn’t the breastfeeding incident of which you speak happen
after
your dealings with Ms Goodchild?’