When furious, Mahoney turned red. Enraged as he was that day in the judge’s chambers, his face looked ablaze. Judge Laughton, in contrast, was icy cold. Fixing Barbara with what looked like a prosecutor’s going-in-for-the-kill penetrating gaze, he demanded, “Just what the hell are you pulling?”
“She’s been manipulating the court from day one,” Mahoney said bitterly, “manipulating the evidence, the jury, and now her own client. You can’t change horses in the last hour of the last day—”
“Mahoney, I advise you to speak when I ask for a comment and to be quiet until I do,” Laughton said. “Ms. Holloway, I warned you that one more stunt would be the last. You’re in contempt of court. Do you have an explanation?”
“Yes, I do. I didn’t know Carrie would say that. As of yesterday she still didn’t know she was born Carolyn Frye. I hoped her amnesia would last until the trial was over.”
“You knew she was here under an assumed name?”
“Your Honor, I met her as Carol Frederick, known as Carrie. I saw documents to that effect, her birth certificate, parents’ death certificates, medical records, school records, her driver’s license, everything. All issued or made out to Carol Frederick. In the course of my investigation I learned that her birth name was Carolyn Frye, but she had amnesia for the first years of her life and she believed her name was Carol Frederick. I don’t know when she came to know the truth. I haven’t had a chance to talk to her.”
“Bah!” Mahoney muttered. “Why didn’t you inform the prosecution or the court?”
“Mahoney, I’ll throw you out if you butt in again,” Laughton said.
To Barbara he said, still icily, “You came into court knowing that? Why didn’t you inform the court?”
“I feared for her life,” Barbara said.
Mahoney made a strangled, inarticulate sound and she turned on him. “I had cause to fear for her. Her parents were killed by a car bomb when Carrie was a child. There was an attempted arson fire at my office building, and I was sent a bomb. There was reason to be afraid for her. I’ve had her under twenty-four-hour guard ever since I learned her true identity.”
Laughton drew in a long breath. “Both of you, sit down, and Ms. Holloway, you’d better start back further. Who is Carolyn Frye?”
They drew two straight chairs closer to the desk and sat down. Then Barbara said, “She is the daughter of Robert and Judith Frye. Her father was a staff assistant for our former senator, Jerome Atherton. Her mother was a concert pianist. Robert Frye was on a fact-finding mission for the senator and due to deliver materials to him on a Saturday at his ranch near Pendleton. But on Saturday morning a bomb exploded in his car, here in Eugene, killing him and his wife instantly, and critically injuring their seven-year-old daughter, Carolyn. When she woke up, she was in a Boston hospital with a new identity and a new set of parents. Her surviving relatives were told she had died from her injuries. They were given a death certificate and an urn of ashes identified as Carolyn’s.”
Laughton’s face never changed its expression, but he leaned back in his chair and held up his hand for her to stop. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “Are you saying she was put in a witness protection plan?”
“Yes. That’s what it looks like.”
“None of that has anything to do with this trial,” Mahoney said. “If any of that is even true.”
Laughton didn’t look at him. After another moment or two, he leaned forward again and said, “You know that’s going to be spread in every newspaper in the state, maybe beyond, by tomorrow morning. I’ll have to sequester the damn jury.” His expression was baleful when he said to Barbara, “I have to make arrangements for the jury, and I have to talk to them, tell them something—God knows what. Then I want you back here with that documentary proof of her identity, and I want a complete report of what you learned and an explanation about why you didn’t disclose it sooner. Half an hour. Back here in half an hour.”
“Your Honor,” Mahoney said stiffly, rising as he spoke, “I believe we have cause here for a mistrial.”
“I don’t know if we do or don’t yet,” Laughton said. “We’ll discuss it in half an hour. I will recess until Monday morning, give us time to sort this out.”
Back at her table, Barbara said, “After the judge calls for the recess, I want Bailey to take Carrie to a safe place. Don’t go to the house first, just get to a safe house. Stay with her, Shelley, and when we’re done here, I’ll call your cell phone and find out where you are. And you have to get in touch with Louise Braniff. They’ll mob her as soon as word gets out.”
“Can she go to wherever Bailey takes Carrie?” Shelley asked.
Barbara looked at Carrie who was unmoving, as remote as a statue, and nodded. “Why not? Bailey can pick her up, too. But after he hides Carrie. Carrie, are you all right? Do you need something? A drink of water, anything?”
“No.” She sounded as remote as she looked.
“As soon as I’m done here, I’ll pack some of your things and come to where Bailey takes you and we’ll have a long talk. Will you do what Bailey and Shelley say? Cooperate with them?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, that’s it, then. Alan can come pick me up when this is over.”
“And me,” Frank said. “I’ll stick with you for this next interview with the judge.”
At his table, Mahoney was having his own spirited talk with his assistants, two of them now, and a reporter in the rear of the courtroom was speaking on a cell phone. He hurried out.
It was closer to forty-five minutes than half an hour before they were escorted back to Laughton’s chambers. He had removed his robes and today he wore a blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up partway and Dockers pants with a stain on one knee. Barbara introduced Frank, and he pulled a chair in closer to the desk between hers and Mahoney’s.
“Now,” Laughton said to Barbara. “Start from the beginning, if you will.”
She started with Louise Braniff’s visit and being retained. She took various photocopies of certificates and the newspaper article from her briefcase and handed them to Laughton. He studied them all carefully, then put them aside.
“Didn’t she make an effort to tell people who she really was?” Laughton asked.
“She did. She had multiple surgeries and therapy that included a lot of anesthesia. Months were spent in that state when she was incapable of saying much of anything. The hospital personnel believed she was Carol Frederick, age eight and a half, and diagnosed amnesia caused by post-traumatic stress. They discounted whatever she said about a different life as a childish fantasy. Her foster parents believed the same thing. All those adults, plus paper proof, were more than she could counter. Her foster mother told her she was crazy and that crazy people were put in hospitals, and she had developed a phobia about hospitals. The memories of her former life had to be denied. Since she couldn’t remember a truck or a painter father, an itinerant life and, according to the birth certificate and what everyone kept telling her, a whole year and a half were a blank, she had to accept amnesia. She was only seven, even if everyone thought she was eight and a half. She had no defenses.”
“And overnight she made a miraculous recovery,” Mahoney muttered. “Right.”
Barbara ignored him and said to the judge. “I don’t know yet how much she remembers. Today she looked like someone in a state of shock. I believe the FBI created the new identity for her, and that they must have had reason to think she was in danger. Her aunt believes that, and I’ve come to believe it also. I didn’t want to get into any of that while the trial was underway. I was told by a psychologist that she should be under a doctor’s care if her memory started to come back, that whatever she remembers now may be as traumatic as the explosion she experienced. It could be that the stress of the trial itself was a trigger for her memory, but I don’t know.”
She was choosing her words carefully, confining them to Carrie and excluding any mention of what she had learned about the Wenzels. That was for a different set of investigators.
“So who’s on trial here?” Laughton said. “The woman named Carol Frederick, or Carolyn Frye?”
Frank had been listening without a word, but now he said, “Judge, I’ve been doing a bit of research into case law for a book I’m planning to write, and I’ve come across other instances where a person on trial was found to have more than one name and identity. I have numerous cites. Ten or twelve, I believe. They cover a range of procedures that were followed.” He extracted a folder from his briefcase and put it on the desk. “The preference seems to be to follow through with the name the accused was using when arrested unless that name was taken to avoid prosecution or for some other ulterior purpose.”
For a moment Barbara thought Laughton looked grateful, but the moment passed swiftly and he nodded to Frank. “I’ll look them over during the weekend,” he said. “Meanwhile, nothing that was said here today is to be repeated outside. God knows the media will have a circus, and I don’t want to add to their sideshow.” He was looking fixedly at Mahoney as he said this. Mahoney nodded.
“Do you require police protection for yourself or for your client?” he asked Barbara then, surprising her.
“Thank you, Your Honor. I believe the security we’ve been providing is sufficient.”
“The gag order is in effect until further notice,” he said. “I don’t know yet how we’ll proceed, but I will know by Monday morning. We’ll discuss it at eight on Monday. And you all know as well as I do that the courtroom is going to be a madhouse by then.” He sighed. “Anything else for now?”
Mahoney said stiffly, “If the case can move ahead exactly as it started, with Carol Frederick accused of murdering Joe Wenzel, I don’t see that any of this other matter is an issue for this court. There’s no reason to bring it up at this time.”
“I agree,” Barbara said. “I had no intention of bringing it up before this court.” She couldn’t have stated the truth more clearly.
In the judge’s outer office Barbara hit the speed-dial number for Alan’s cell phone. “Where are you?” she asked when he answered on the first ring.
“Circling the courthouse, on Eighth at the moment.”
“Okay. We’ll be at the Seventh Avenue entrance in two minutes. See you there.”
She hit the number for Shelley, who was just as fast to answer.
“Where are you?”
“Sylvia’s house.”
Barbara blinked in surprise, but it was a good place to hide someone, with more security than Fort Knox. “Okay. Where’s Bailey?”
“He’s meeting Louise Braniff at three, then heading out here with her.”
“Good. I’ll have him pick me up, too. How’s Carrie?”
“I just don’t know,” Shelley said in a worried tone. “She’s sitting down and not doing a thing, just sitting there.”
Barbara bit her lip. “Okay. We may have to get her to a doctor, but hang on until I get there.”
Frank nudged Barbara’s arm and motioned toward the door. Time to leave. She hit Bailey’s number as they walked.
“Where are you?” she asked him when he answered. He said a coffee shop in the university area.
“Okay. After you get Louise Braniff come by the house for me. I’ll be waiting.”
“There are reporters at Braniff’s place,” he said. “There’ll be others at your old man’s house.”
“We’ll deal with them there,” she said. “I’ll tell Herbert to sic the dog on them or something.”
The rain was hard and steady when they reached the door to Seventh, where a reporter hurried to Barbara’s side. “Hey, what’s going on? How did Carolyn Frye turn up all at once? Where’s she been? She was supposed to be dead.”
She shook her head. “No comment. Sorry. There’s our ride.”
Drenched in the short sprint to Alan’s car, she brushed rain from her hair and wiped her hands on her coat. “Dad, I really owe you this time. A hug and a kiss and even a box of chocolates when I have time to get it. Thanks. I didn’t dream she’d do that.”
He squeezed her arm. “Neither did I, but it’s good to be prepared, just in case.”
She told him the plan, then asked, “Are you going out to Sylvia’s with us?”
“Nope. I’m going to stay home and guard my castle with Herbert and Alan.” He sounded grim, and she knew he wasn’t thinking of bombs or arson fires. He was thinking of the reporters.
By the time Bailey arrived with Louise Braniff, Barbara had packed enough clothes for Carrie for the next few days, and was ready to leave. “Reporters,” she said to Bailey. He nodded glumly, then slouched away to talk to Herbert.
“Ms. Braniff,” Barbara said then, “apparently Carrie has recovered enough memory to know her name. I don’t know how much more yet, not until I talk to her. But as you saw, the press is hot on the trail. She’s in hiding, and I want to take you to her and keep you away from the media for the next few days, if you agree.”
“With her?” Louise asked. She was pale and anxious. “Is she all right? Not in danger?”
“Not where she is, but we have to keep her out of sight until this is all over.”
“Of course. I don’t have anything with me,” she said hesitantly.
“I’m sure your hostess will be able to provide whatever you need.” She looked past Louise to Bailey, who nodded.
“We’ll wait five minutes, then take off,” he said. Morgan began to bark, and Bailey nodded. “Right now, bet Herbert’s saying that if anyone gets out of a car on the property that dog will take off a leg or head.” He nodded again when they heard Herbert’s truck start in the driveway and leave. Bailey looked at his watch.
Minutes later they were in Bailey’s SUV heading first toward downtown, then he turned onto Fourth Avenue, a street barely wide enough for two cars. At the Lincoln Street stop sign he said, “Two of them. Thought there might be more. Here we go.” He made a left turn, and Herbert’s truck pulled up to the narrow entrance to Fourth and came to a stop, blocking it. Bailey drove to Sixth, turned, then made several more turns, and finally got on the Jefferson Street bridge. The rain was heavy and steady, traffic was slow, but he seemed unconcerned as he headed toward Springfield, then made another turn and was on the interstate. “Home free,” he said.
Half an hour later he stopped at the gate to Sylvia’s estate south of Mt. Pisgah, told the man on duty his name, waited for the gate to swing open and drove through. It was an awesome estate, thousands of acres of forested hills, then a manicured lawn, a swimming pool covered for the season, many gardens, all meticulously maintained, and finally a big house with several levels, and a portico out front.
Outside, the grounds were all professionally maintained and could have been exhibited on the cover of Horticulture, but inside the house was all Sylvia’s doing. Picasso and Miró cheek by jowl with calendar art, a few stark portraits of grim-faced bearded men, and God alone knew who they were, side by side with photographs by Ansel Adams or Weston, priceless Ming vases and depression glass bowls. Every wall was covered, and every flat surface held surprising objects, some very fine art, or kistch that might have been won at a state fair midway.
Sylvia met them at the door and seized Barbara in an embrace. “I can’t tell you thanks enough,” she said. “You are an angel. My very own angel. Where is Frank? Don’t tell me he didn’t come. Bailey, I did well, didn’t I? I did good work. You’ll have to call me more often, you foolish man. I work cheap and I do a good job for you.”
Barbara extracted herself and introduced Louise Braniff, who was looking awestruck at the clutter all around, or possibly at the sight of Sylvia. Her hair was canary-yellow that day and she wore black silk pajamas with a scarlet sash.
A young woman in black pants and a white sweatshirt was standing patiently behind Sylvia. “Tanya will take your coats and put them somewhere to drip,” Sylvia said. Smiling, Tanya stepped forward to take the coats. Over the years that Barbara had known Sylvia and visited in her house, she had come to realize that without exception all of her servants adored her.
“Now, do you want refreshment first, or to go directly to Carrie and Shelley?” Sylvia said then.
“Carrie,” Barbara said. “I’d like to talk to you a minute after I see her, of course.”
“Well, of course,” Sylvia said. “And you’ll want some lunch. All of you.” She looked at Tanya. “Dear, will you tell Dorothy we’d all like a little snack soon.” She started to walk down the wide hallway, motioning for Barbara and Louise to follow. “I thought she might be comfortable in the music room,” she said. “But the poor child, I don’t think she’d be comfortable anywhere right now. Come along.”
They passed other rooms, all showing the same kind of clutter. Then Sylvia stopped at a door and tapped lightly before opening it. Inside, on a green velvet-covered sofa Carrie was sitting with her hands in her lap. She didn’t look up. Shelley stood up when they entered, and she looked very relieved to see them.
“Carrie,” Barbara said softly. “You have company.”
Carrie turned toward them, and for a moment she didn’t move. Then she jumped up and held out a hand. “Gramma!” Her face underwent a change into that of a child afraid that Santa would take back the new toy, then changed again to disbelief. Louise dropped her purse and ran across the room and took Carrie in her arms. Carrie leaned into her and started to weep as Louise stroked her hair.
Barbara backed up a step, another, turned and almost pushed Sylvia ahead of her out the door. Shelley came after them and closed the door behind her.