Guilty Wives (12 page)

DENIS GISCARD WAS
the second in command in the presidential security force, the Groupe de Sécurité de la Présidence de la République. Giscard reminded me of his former boss, Luc Cousineau. He was built like a pro wrestler and had the intense eyes of a bodyguard, the rigid posture of a military man.

“I have served four years in the GSPR,” he told the presiding judge.

“Lieutenant Giscard, are you acquainted with the accused, Winnie Brookes?”

“Sir, that is correct.” Giscard spoke in crisp sentences with a respectful, military tone. “Sir, I first met Ms. Brookes in July 2009.”

“What was the occasion?”

“Sir, I was providing security detail for President Devereux at the G8 summit in L’Aquila, Italy. There was an evening cocktail reception and the president made the acquaintance of Ms. Brookes.”

Winnie sat motionless, seemingly holding her breath, as one of President Devereux’s bodyguards recounted Winnie’s yearlong affair with the president.

“Sir, I would estimate that it was approximately monthly. There were times when the president would see the lady every week. Other times, several weeks would pass.”

“Did you come to witness the interaction between the two?”

“Sir, that is correct. As a bodyguard staying very close to the president, you cannot avoid observing some things. Sir, it was my impression that Ms. Brookes treated the relationship differently than did the president.”

The red-robed presiding judge waved a hand. “Please elaborate.”

“Sir, the lady, in my opinion, pursued the president. She initiated many of the contacts. She was…aggressive. I did hear her speak once of marriage.” The former bodyguard paused. “I heard her say that she wished to leave her husband and wished the president to leave his wife.”

The spectators responded audibly and the presiding judge demanded decorum. In my peripheral vision I could see the figure of Winnie’s husband, Christien, immobile in the first row of spectators as he listened to this very public account of his wife’s infidelity. Presumably he’d had no idea of what Winnie had been doing. Certainly I hadn’t, and I was her best friend. In hindsight, the signs were there. Some of her weekend trips to visit “friends from the university” or some unnamed relative in another country, or spontaneous overnight trips to tend to a “sick auntie” were really her rendezvous with the president. I even recall noting a change in her, a certain glow about her, a spark in her eyes. I once said, “Maybe you should visit your sick auntie more often, Win,” which caused her to burst into laughter. But still, I never allowed my brain to travel to that place; it never once occurred to me she was having an affair.

“When did the accused Brookes make this statement about leaving her husband?”

“Sir, I recall it was early March 2010. The president was campaigning for the regional elections in Alsace. Ms. Brookes accompanied him during some of his travels.”

After our arrest and the revelation that Winnie had been carrying on an affair with President Devereux, the press had gone into overdrive trying to obtain photographs of Winnie with the president. They found one. It was taken in February of 2010 in Kigali, Rwanda, when President Devereux became the first French head of state in more than a quarter century to visit that country. It had been notable because the president had expressed regret over France’s role in the 1994 Rwandan genocide. Now, however, it was far more notable for the photograph taken of President Devereux at the genocide memorial, which included in the background a beautiful woman in a royal-blue dress who, at the time, had probably blended in as part of the delegation. The number of times that this still photograph had appeared in print and television since our arrest probably rivaled the number of times that the video of Monica Lewinsky, at a rally for President Clinton, had run on TV.

“And how did the president respond to the accused Brookes when she said she wanted him to leave his wife?”

“Sir, the president indicated that he would not leave his wife. ‘Not an option,’ he said.”

“And did the accused Brookes respond?”

The lieutenant took a breath. “Sir, she indicated that the present situation was not acceptable. ‘Not enough,’ she said.”

“Lieutenant, did this conversation cause you concern?”

“Sir, that is correct. One of my principal responsibilities is threat assessment. I considered her a threat for violence. And for blackmail,” he added.

“And did you convey this concern to the president?”

“Sir, I did. The president indicated that he understood.”

The presiding judge flipped to another portion of the dossier. He mentioned the new document he was referencing and waited a moment as the lawyers turned to the appropriate page.

“Lieutenant, the trip to Monte Carlo in June of 2010,” said the presiding judge. “You did not accompany the president.”

“Sir, that is correct. Captain Cousineau was the only member of the detail to accompany him.”

“That was a breach of protocol.”

“Most definitely, sir. And rare, but not unheard-of.”

“What was your understanding of the reason?”

“Discretion, sir. The president was going to visit Ms. Brookes while she was on vacation. That was not the norm. The norm would be either a visit from Ms. Brookes in Paris or, otherwise, she would accompany him on an official trip. She would simply travel with the delegation. Monte Carlo was different. President Devereux wished to conceal his identity. Leaving behind his security detail was part of that.”

“Did you approve?”

“Sir, I did not. I conveyed as much to Captain Cousineau. In fact, I conveyed my concern to President Devereux directly.”

“What did the president say in response?”

Lieutenant Giscard turned his head to the left ninety degrees, so instead of seeing the back of his head, I could see his profile. But he wasn’t doing it for me. He was doing it for Winnie. It was as close as he could come to turning and looking at her.

“Sir, the president indicated that he was going to end the relationship with Ms. Brookes in Monte Carlo. He told me that this was going to be their last trip.”

BELOW THE PALAIS
de Justice were jail cells that held inmates while they were standing trial. The cells for the women were remarkably pristine, thanks to an order of nuns in Paris who washed the linens daily and scrubbed the floors and walls. I’d never spent the night here—security concerns compelled the government to keep moving the four of us around—but sometimes they placed us here temporarily prior to a court appearance. During the trial, before we were shipped off for the night to some undisclosed location, they sometimes allowed us to use this location for brief visits with our families.

Jeffrey had left court a few minutes early to pick up our kids, Richie and Elena. Because of his diplomatic status, the U.S. government had provided housing for Jeffrey in Paris ever since I was arrested. At least it gave him a permanent place to stay as he bounced back and forth between Switzerland and Paris over these last several months.

My kids had largely stayed in Bern at their new school, coming for visits on the weekends. Today was a school day, but it was also day one of the trial, and although I refused to let them be in the courtroom, I could understand their wanting to be in Paris today, their wanting to see me. Had I any energy to object and insist on their attendance at school, I would have done so, but the truth was that the rule book, at this point, had been thrown out the window. None of us, parents or children, had any clue how to handle what was happening.

“Don’t just say you don’t like it,” I said to Richie, seated next to me on the bed in the cell, which was just a long plank with a thin mattress on top.

“Why do I have to like it?”

“You don’t, sweetie.” I stroked his hair. “But tell me why.”

“I don’t like Holden. He’s stuck-up. He doesn’t like anything. Everyone’s a phony to him. He just makes fun of everything, like he’s too good for everybody. I mean, seriously, Mom, why does everyone think that book is such a classic?”

Richie was fifteen now. His face was maturing, his jaw squaring like Jeffrey’s, his cheekbones gaining prominence, and—God help me—his chin showing the first signs of facial hair. He had my eyes, but that was all he inherited from me.

“There is a bit of Holden in every boy growing up,” I said, placing the palm of my hand against his cheek. “Holden is scared, honey. He’s scared so he’s pushing everyone away, and he tells himself he’s pushing them away because they’re superficial and phony. And sometimes they are, but really he’s justifying his fear. He just doesn’t realize it.”

“Maybe,” Richie conceded. “Or maybe the book just sucks.”

Elena, age twelve, was sitting on the other side of me, her hand clutching mine and her head resting against my shoulder. She took after me more than Richie did, with her petite body, tiny nose, and large brown eyes—even the cowlick parting the right side of her hair. Her prepubescent body was developing now, her hormones beginning to flare up—major changes, without her mother there for her.

I was an emotional powder keg in the presence of my kids. This was the only time I had with them and I had to maximize it. I was on the verge of tears and wanted to do nothing more than kiss them and hold them and squeeze my eyes shut and wish all this away. But I had to be their mother. I couldn’t imagine how extraordinarily difficult this must be for them—all I could do was guess. I saw them, at most, twice a week for limited visits, during which everyone was trying to keep up a brave front. I was left with little more than what I could force out of Jeffrey, and I could only assume that Jeff was sugarcoating matters to spare me greater pain.
They’re doing fine. It’s hard but their spirits are up.

I was losing them. I was slowly losing all of them. And here we were, debating the merits of
The Catcher in the Rye
while inside each of us was devastated and absolutely petrified.

“How’s your Chinese teacher?” I asked Richie. It had been his favorite class in boarding school in Connecticut. We hadn’t told him to study any particular language; he’d been drawn on his own to Chinese, which we thought was a savvy move for the twenty-first century—especially if the boy is interested in a diplomatic career, Jeffrey had noted more than once.

Richie seemed momentarily at a loss for words.

“He’s not taking Chinese,” said Elena.

“He’s—you’re not taking Chinese at your new school, Rich? Why not?”

Richie shrugged. “Just taking a trimester off, I guess.”

“I don’t understand.” I looked over at Jeffrey, standing in the corner of the cell, but he was no help. “You love Chinese. Are you taking a different language instead?”

“Mom, who cares?”

“He’s learning French,” Elena said. “So am I.”

“
French?
Why are you—?” When it came to me, when I got it, it was like a blow to the chest. I gathered my arms around each of my kids and pulled them close. We didn’t move for a long time, save for the slight quiver of Elena’s body as she began to cry. It was all I could do to keep my composure, and then the dam broke.

“Don’t you ever give up hope,” I whispered through my own sobs. “Not ever.” But clearly, everyone was bracing for the worst, even my children, who were preparing themselves for the possibility of spending a lot of time in France over the coming decades, visiting their mother in prison.

DAY TWO OF
the trial. The four of us entered the Palais de Justice the same way, traveling in separate vehicles from different locations. I’d spent the night at a local jail on the southwest side of Paris, which I would remember for its stench of body odor and for the two prostitutes, Lorissa and Florence, who were placed in the empty jail cell next to me and who spent the night singing off-key renditions of old Madonna songs.

The next witness was Richard Ogletree, the fat American from that fateful night in Monte Carlo. Nine months later, he was still fat. His hair was still greasy, too. But he was dressed in more subdued attire, a blue sport coat and white dress shirt open at the collar, and his mood was decidedly less spirited. When he passed us on the way to the podium, where he would address the court, I noticed that his hairline was wet from perspiration. He nodded in the direction of Maryse Ballamont, the prosecutor, whose return nod was almost imperceptible.

Because Ogletree’s primary language was English, all the principals concerned with his testimony—the judges, lawyers, and Ogletree himself—donned headsets like the ones the four of us in the defense cage were wearing. It lent a stilted quality to the proceedings, with a pause after every statement.

“I’m primarily an investor, Your Honor,” said Ogletree. “I have also coproduced some movies.”

“Mr. Ogletree, please refer to me as Mr. President or the presiding judge. This isn’t the United States.”

The fat American raised his hand. “Sorry, Mr. President.”

“Very well. Mr. Ogletree, please tell us what you can about the matter under examination.”

“We were filming a movie in Paris, and we were on break for the weekend,” he said. “I wanted to go to my yacht in Monte Carlo.” His voice slightly trembling from nerves, Ogletree provided a brief summary of the events of that night in Monte Carlo—the trip to the nightclub, the casino, and then returning to his yacht, the
Misty Blue.
“Finally I went to bed,” he said. “I left all my guests, who were still enjoying themselves, and went to my quarters to sleep. That was the last I knew before the next morning, when the French officials boarded my yacht and arrested all of us.”

After the questioning was completed, the prosecutor, Maryse Ballamont, stood to ask some follow-up questions. She was a tall, thin woman with very attractive features, taken by themselves—shiny jet-black hair, prominent cheekbones, expressive green eyes—but her overall look was severe and humorless, though I will admit to being biased against the woman who was trying to put me in prison for life.

All business in her black robe, holding the headset up to her right ear, she cut right to the chase. “Mr. Ogletree, in your testimony you refer to President Devereux. That night, did you know that the man who called himself Devo was the president of the French Republic?”

Ogletree nodded eagerly—too eagerly. “Yes, Madam Prosecutor. He introduced himself to me at the club. He explained his hairpiece—the toupee—and his beard as a disguise so he could enjoy himself that night without being swarmed by people. To the public at large that night, he didn’t want to advertise who he was. But in the small group? We all knew.”

“I will convey to you, sir, that this is a matter of contention,” said Ballamont. “So let me focus on the four women who stand accused. In your presence, did you hear them refer to the man who called himself Devo as the French president?”

“Yes. All of them did. I recall that someone would call him
Monsieur le President
and he would quickly say ‘Devo,’ to remind them to keep things quiet. He—for example, I remember he was talking about the American presidential election and how he’d known Hillary Clinton for years because she’d been the first lady and he’d met Senator Obama a few times—things the president of France would talk about.”

I shut my eyes. He wasn’t just lying; he was creating entire conversations out of whole cloth. How could this be happening?

“Abbie Elliot?” Ogletree said in response to a question. “Yes, I recall her specifically saying to me, at the nightclub, what a unique experience it was, having drinks with the president of France.”

“And are you certain of this?” the prosecutor asked. “Ms. Elliot in particular. You are certain she knew this man was the president of France?”

“I am absolutely certain, Ms. Ballamont. Because it is the last thing I remember about that night.”

Maryse Ballamont nodded. This felt like a well-rehearsed script playing out before us. “The last thing that night,” she repeated back to him. “You testified that you had been using your camcorder to record what was taking place on the yacht.”

“Yes, that’s correct. Before I went to bed, Ms. Elliot asked for the camcorder.”

The prosecutor paused a beat. “Tell the court why Ms. Elliot said she wanted the camcorder.” Then she pressed the headset to her right ear to hear the answer translated into French.

The fat American, who had been turned to his right to face the prosecutor, turned his attention back to the court.

“She said she wanted to make a sex tape starring Henri Devereux,” he said.