Guilty Wives (15 page)

THE CARGO DOOR
of the vehicle burst open and armed gendarmes jumped in. My restraints were removed and I was carried out of the vehicle by guards on either side of me. In the open air, the smell of burning gasoline filled my nostrils and the chaotic shouts of the turbulent crowd drowned out the thumping of my pulse.

Through the blur of activity, people dashing madly about and shouting and colliding violently with riot police, it was clear that I was being steered toward the rear vehicle in the convoy, which thus far was intact. But between the vehicle and us were a half dozen men, wild-eyed in their rage, who now had me in their sights. The riot police, trying to intercept them, fired on them. Two of the protesters took shots to the chest and fell backward. One of them ran from the riot troopers and hurled an object at me, a brick that hit one of the guards to my left. He fell to his knee and I went down with him, as he was holding my arm. On the ground, I picked up the brick because I figured I should have a weapon of my own. The guard pulled me to my feet and we tried to navigate forward.

Another man, shouting wildly, tackled the riot police head-on, lunging at their shields and receiving swats from their batons for his trouble. The noise had grown deafening, the movements of the people a dizzying collage of desperation and rage…

But then there was the man who stayed just outside the immediate fray, who, for a split second, seemed not to move at all, despite the turmoil around him. That was the man who, by his stony pose, drew my attention. That was the man who lifted his shirt and revealed a gun.

He widened his stance and drew the weapon from his waistband. I was unable to speak but my arm was working fine. By the time he was raising the gun, I had thrown the brick at him. It grazed his shoulder, startling him more than anything, but it was enough to throw off his aim. The gun went off in the air while he regained his balance. Then one of the gendarmes fired and hit him. Blood splattered from his midsection and he dropped to the ground. Riot troopers converged on him, separating him from the gun, flipping him over, and cuffing him.

The bloodshed seemed to scatter the remainder of the protesters from the immediate area and I ran, with the two guards, to the rear vehicle in the convoy. They pushed me into the backseat, did a quick U-turn, and floored it.

I looked back through the rear window. Flames on the street, one vehicle on fire, several protesters lying prone, others still battling the riot police.

“You are…safe,” said the guard next to me, panting, as we sped away.

“Safe?” For now, maybe. But I was beginning to wonder if I was even going to make it through this trial alive.

I DIDN’T KNOW
where I was, which somehow seemed fitting under the circumstances. This gave new meaning to the term “undisclosed location”; it wasn’t even disclosed to me.

I knew this much: I was at a French military compound, and I was in some kind of stockade made of twisted wire that, I was told, would cut me if I tried to grab it.

I was alive and relatively intact. Given the attempt on my life, my physical injuries were comparatively minor—abrasions on my knee when I fell and more serious cuts to my wrists, which I suffered when our vehicle had jerked to the right and thrown me off my seat, straining me against the handcuffs. Some military doctor had dressed the wounds on my wrists with gauze and tape.

“You okay, Ms. Elliot?” It was Dan Ingersoll, the Department of Justice attaché to the U.S. Embassy. He was dressed in a nice blue suit—courtroom attire, as he’d attended every day of the trial. He addressed me formally, which is pretty much the way he’d related to me over these many months while I awaited trial. He’d visited me several times each week, making sure I was being kept secure and fed and not being stripped of all those nice human rights that diplomats look out for. That was his job, to make sure I was being afforded basic dignities while I awaited trial. And he’d limited his conversations with me to those topics.

Still, his formality aside, Dan seemed to genuinely care about my predicament. On the rare occasion when I lodged a complaint, he followed up on it for me. If I had a question, he got the answer. If I just needed to vent, he was an attentive listener.

His eyes moved to my bandaged wrists. I knew what he was thinking. “From the handcuffs,” I explained. “I’m not suicidal.”

“Ah.” He nodded.

“Where am I?” I asked.

“An air force base in Creil,” said Dan. “About thirty miles north of Paris. No more random jail cells. They’re keeping you guys on a military base from now on. You’ll be flown to and from court in a military helicopter.”

I didn’t know if that meant my accommodations would be better or worse. I suspected the latter.

“Who tried to kill me, Dan?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “They don’t know too much about him. He was twenty-two. Dropped out of Sorbonne University. He was a political supporter of Devereux. Apparently he had some psychological problems.”

“You’re using the past tense,” I said.

“He was killed.” Ingersoll sighed. “Three dead, in all. Thirty-some wounded. I think they arrested like sixty people or something.”

“I saw at least three people get shot,” I said.

He shook his head. “The riot squad used rubber bullets. Nonlethal. Only the guards escorting you had weapons with real bullets. They killed the guy who tried to shoot you. Another guy died from a baton blow. A third guy, an older man, died from cardiac arrest.”

I shuddered. Three dead, more than thirty wounded. I closed my eyes and dropped my head. The list of casualties from our fun little weekend continued to grow.

“Oh, and the New York Yankees called,” Dan added. “They saw the video of you hurling that brick and they want to sign you to a minor-league contract.”

I tried to manage a smile. I appreciated his attempt at levity.

“It was your basic Molotov cocktail,” Dan explained when I asked him what had caused the fires. “Fill a bottle with petrol, tie a rag around the stopper, soak it with alcohol, light the rag, and toss the bottle. Homemade incendiary devices. They’ve worked for centuries.”

“They worked today.”

He smiled for some reason, then grew serious. “We’ve been in touch with the interior ministry about the safety of you and Ms. Schofield. And they’re on the same page with us, Ms. Elliot. What happened today was a black eye for them. They look out of control when something like this happens. And governments don’t like to look out of control. Especially new ones formed after their last president was assassinated.” He drew a breath. “Your safety will be guaranteed,” he assured me.

Something told me he enjoyed that paternalistic role. I was willing to bet he had a daughter.

“During the trial, you mean,” I said. “My safety will be guaranteed during the trial. But not afterward.”

Dan didn’t debate me. What could he say? Look what these people did while I was surrounded by armed escorts. Imagine what would happen when I was alone in a prison cell, or out in the prison yard.

Don’t think that way, I told myself. Once trial resumed next week, we had our defense. We had several weeks’ worth of evidence. We would testify. Our experts would testify about evidence being planted and hotel key cards duplicated. Our husbands would testify that, whatever our faults, we weren’t murderers.

We hadn’t begun to fight. We still had our defense. There was still a chance.

“Don’t give up hope,” I always told my children. I had to keep reminding myself to follow that same advice.

I AM DROWNING
in a sea of boiling water, my flesh tearing from the bone. I try to cry out; nothing escapes from my mouth but a desperate whisper. When my head goes back underwater I see the wavy images of my children, Richie and Elena, above me. They are calling to me, offering a hand to me, but I don’t want to reach out for them; I’m afraid that the water will scald them.
Go away now,
I silently plead with them.
Go away before you get burned—

I popped up in bed, sucking in deep breaths of air. A man was standing at the door of my cell, raking a metal key across the wired bars.

Still pulling myself out of the dream, out of that water, I blinked through bleary eyes.

The man opened the cell and approached me. He was dressed all in black. I could hardly make him out at all.

“Get up,” he said.

I got out of bed and he led me by the arm out of the cell. Another man, also in black, was waiting out there and followed behind us. I struggled to keep up with the man pulling me forward. I was hardly awake and my socks had no traction on the slippery floor. We walked down two flights of stairs. Then he led me into what appeared to be another cell. It was pitch-black, but I sensed it wasn’t empty. I could hear labored breathing and noticed a smell I couldn’t quite make out. The smell of fear—

The lights went on. Bryah, Serena, and Winnie were each sitting in a different corner of an unfurnished cell, each wearing a gray gown like the one I was provided. We glanced at each other, squinting with bewilderment. They looked like I assumed I did—bloodshot eyes, hair all over the place, roused from the depths of sleep.

A few minutes passed in silence. None of us spoke. None of us understood. Then we all turned as we heard the echo of footsteps on the concrete floor.

Colonel Durand—Square Jaw—entered the room. He stopped in the middle and looked around at the four of us. He studied each of us with something close to amusement. Then he began to stroll about the room casually, nodding his head and cupping his chin with his hand.

“Winnie Brookes killed the president. This is…beyond debate, of course. The rest of you? You knew of the scheme to blackmail, but that is all. You did not intend any murder. You played a role in concealing it, but this was…afterward. As for Winnie, it was not her intention to commit murder. She…snapped? Snapped. There was no plan. No…premeditation. A blackmail scheme that…went bad.”

Durand stopped and looked around at each of us.

“Is that a question or a statement?” I asked.

“A statement,” he answered. “A statement that each of you will make when court resumes on Monday. And then the trial will end. Monday, the trial ends.”

Monday?
“No,” I said. “We have weeks’ worth of testimony ahead.”

Durand shot me a confident look and ambled over to Bryah. “What I have described is quite like the statement that you signed, Ms. Gordon.”

“You tricked me,” Bryah spat.

He wagged a finger at her. “No more of that. You cooperated previously and you will cooperate once again. You will state what I have just described.”

“In exchange for what?” she asked.

“Ten years,” he answered. “The prosecutor will recommend ten years of prison. And the court will accept that recommendation.”

“How could you possibly know that?” I called out.

Durand ignored me and walked to the corner where Serena sat. “Ms. Schofield. I say the same to you. You also previously signed this statement. You will also receive ten years.” He opened his hands. “Ten years is a gift. Your children will still be young when you are released.”

Serena and Bryah were still, but their faces had grown intense.

“Ms. Brookes.” Durand turned to Winnie. “The evidence against you is…quite overwhelming. You are facing a certain life sentence. You are quite fortunate that France does not have the death penalty.” He rolled his hand. “But now you will receive forty years because of the absence of intent. A long time, yes, but preferable to life. You will still have good years left.”

Winnie was speechless. It wasn’t a terrific offer but Durand had struck a chord with her. The evidence against her was very strong. In her wildest dreams, she hadn’t expected to receive an offer of any kind from the prosecution.

“And Ms. Elliot,” he said, turning to me.

I took a breath.

“You did not cooperate, but neither did you shoot the men or plan a murder. For your lack of cooperation, you will receive a sentence of twenty years.”

I shook my head. “You couldn’t possibly have the authority—”

“You’ll really just give me ten years?” Bryah cut in.

“I’ll really just give you ten years,” said Durand, still staring at me. “And Ms. Elliot, you think I do not have the
authority?
I am Central Intelligence. I
am
the authority.” He looked at his watch. “It is two hundred hours. You have until sunrise to make a decision. Then the offer will expire.”

He gestured to the two goons, who followed him out the cell door.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he said, peering at us through the bars of the cell. “This is what you call a package deal, yes? Either all of you accept, or none of you accepts.”

He slid the cell door shut with a metallic
clang
and disappeared.

WE ALL SAT
for a moment in shock. Could this be? Was this some cruel, sadistic hoax? No, I thought. The French government wanted this trial over now, before there could be any more bomb threats or riots or assassination attempts. “What happened today was a black eye for them,” Dan Ingersoll had said. Of course. They wanted a quick confession, the passing of a sentence, and closure.

“I’ll take the deal,” Serena announced.

“Oh, you’ll take it, will you?” Winnie sprang to her feet. “What happened to ‘They tricked me into signing that statement’? You’ll just throw me under the bus, then?”

Serena popped up as well. “I’m not the one who made us go to that nightclub. I’m not the one who was secretly meeting her boyfriend. And I’m not the one who forgot to mention that her boyfriend was the damn president of France!”

“As if that would have mattered. You had your eyes—and hands—all over Luc the moment you saw him. Don’t make this
my
fault.”

“No?” Serena moved closer. “And how do we really know that while we were sleeping, you
didn’t
go out and kill them, Winnie? How do we
really
know that? I mean, it sounds like your president boyfriend was about to dump you!”

“You think—you actually think that
I
could have—” Winnie gasped and placed a hand on her chest.

“Guys,” I said. “Come on. Don’t do this. This is what they want.”

I was sure of that last point. Durand knew as well as anyone that we’d been separated from each other since our arrest. We’d each harbored some resentments and this was our first opportunity to vent them. Durand was forcing an all-or-nothing plea bargain. He was making Serena and Bryah an offer so inviting that they couldn’t possibly turn it down, thus forcing the hands of Winnie and me.

“I’m accepting it, too,” said Bryah, standing next to Serena. “Craig’s only four. I have to think of him. Winnie, the cold fact of the matter is that whether you did it or not, they have you dead to rights. You’re right lucky to get forty years, you are.”

“Well, isn’t
this
just lovely?” Winnie stepped forward, her hands in fists. “And Bryah, I couldn’t help but notice that all the blood and DNA and fingerprint evidence—you seem to have been left out of it completely.”

“Everyone stop,” I said.

“What is
that
supposed to mean?” Bryah cried.

“Oh, I’m just saying how very convenient that is for you, love. The rest of us look guilty but not you—”

“Convenient?” Bryah stepped forward and slapped Winnie hard across the face. “
Convenient?
You think
any
of this has been con—”

Winnie lunged at Bryah, punching her shoulder and grabbing her hair. They locked in a struggle, an awkward dance, slamming against the wall before I managed to slice an arm between the two of them and separate them.

“Stop now!” I demanded, holding each of them at arm’s length. “This isn’t going to solve anything.”

“She has to face facts, Abbie,” said Bryah, panting. “If she doesn’t accept the deal, none of us gets it.”

“This is your fault, Winnie.” Serena poked the air. “You got us mixed up with these people and now our lives are ruined!”

Winnie started to respond but halted. She looked back and forth at Serena and Bryah, two of her closest friends, and then collapsed to the floor. She began to sob uncontrollably, wailing like a wounded animal, pounding the floor with her fist, her body convulsing as if she were being shot full of electricity.

Serena looked at me. “You have to convince her, Abbie. You’re the only one she’s ever listened to.”

Winnie went on like that for what felt like an hour. Her wails finally turned to dull moans, and then she curled into a fetal position and grew still. She stared forward at nothing. I didn’t need to convince her of anything.

“I can’t…do this anymore,” she said, her voice flat and scratchy, void of any life at all. “I’ll take the deal.”

I dropped my head. Look at us. Winnie was deteriorating before our eyes. So was our four-way friendship. We were scared beyond comprehension and trying to find a way, any way, out of this mess. There were no good options—only shitty ones and less shitty ones.

Twenty years, I thought. Objectively, a decent offer. My lawyer would be thrilled.

A life. Some kind of life, when I got out. If I got out alive.

“So we’re all agreed?” Serena asked.

“A package deal,” Durand had said.

Three down, me to go.

Hope,
I always preached to Richie and Elena. Something to look forward to. A light at the end of the tunnel, even if it’s a twenty-year tunnel. A chance to watch my kids blossom as adults. A chance to spoil grandchildren.

I took a deep breath. My head fell back against the wall. I looked upward. Maybe I was searching for a sign.

A sign that I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t agree to this deal.”