Chapter 11

 

 

 

 

Court number four at Old Bailey had been buzzing like a beehive long before Judge Fletcher appeared and announced the start of Monday’s hearing. This was the third week of the criminal case of the year and it had attracted a diverse audience. By ten o’clock there were already reporters, solicitors and junior solicitors coming in droves, as well as a plethora of citizens curious to watch the trial. At ten fifteen, there were no seats left unoccupied. Judge Fletcher opened the court session at ten thirty.

“The Crown calls Graham Kershaw,” Sarah Eaton declared.

After Kershaw had given his oath she asked, “Will you give us your name and address for the protocol?”

“Graham Kershaw, Great Chapel Street 17.”

“State your occupation.”

“I’m a forensic psychologist at Her Majesty’s Prison Belmarsh.”

“And how long have you held that position?”

“I’ve been working as a forensic psychologist for twelve years, and at Belmarsh for five.”

“Have you any professional experience with the illness known as morbid jealousy?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Could you give us a brief summary of the cases you’ve treated, please?”

Kershaw smiled like a celebrity who had just been asked for an autograph.

“Certainly. Altogether, fifteen men who were diagnosed with morbid jealousy have served sentences in the prison so far. Six of them killed their partners, just like Hayworth, killed —”

Seagoe interfered immediately. “Objection, Your Honor! The witness’ statement hasn’t been proved.”

“Mr. Kershaw, being a forensic psychologist, I’m sure you are familiar with the witness code of conduct. Please abide by it to avoid any remarks on my part,” Fletcher scolded him.

“I apologize, Milord.”

His statement, however, had produced a visible effect on the members of the jury. Kershaw cleared his throat and continued.

“Six of them killed their partners, including one who murdered his former girlfriend because he suspected she had a new boyfriend. Of the remaining nine, more than half inflicted serious bodily injury on their partners.”

“What are the symptoms of morbid jealousy?”

Kershaw sat up a little straighter, and I braced myself for a lecture. “Morbid jealousy, also known as Othello syndrome or delusional jealousy,” he began, “is a pathological condition characterized by a persistent belief that one’s partner is being unfaithful, without any evidence of this. It’s expressed by things like following or stalking the suspected partner, making threats, frequent searching of the partner’s home or workplace, rummaging in their clothes and even hiring a detective. A significant percentage of people suffering from this condition — nearly half of them — demonstrate forcefully expressed aggression and, in some cases, even violence towards their partners. This is generally more characteristic of men, though there are exceptions, of course. In extreme cases of the illness there might be cases when the patient kills either his partner, or his partner and himself. Women rarely resort to murder. Alcohol or drug use also drastically increases the likelihood of physical violence against the partner suspected of infidelity.”

“And, in your opinion, as an independent psychologist, is it possible that the defendant, Jonathan Hayworth, suffered from morbid jealousy?”

“Oh yes. The frequent threats the victim received to her mobile and the display of jealousy at the bistro both indicate that diagnosis. Hayworth’s aggressiveness and alcohol misuse match the profile of patients suffering from morbid jealousy, as well.”

“Would you say, again speaking as an independent psychologist, that it might have been alcohol that pulled the trigger, figuratively speaking, the night of the murder — when Hayworth was particularly aggressive, that is?”

“Definitely. In fact, alcohol and drug misuse may in themselves lead to morbid jealousy. A study among men enrolled in the Alcoholism Treatment Center in 1995 found that 34% of them manifested symptoms of morbid jealousy. Psychotropic drugs like amphetamine or cocaine can also trigger the condition.”

“Does this mean that Hayworth’s frequent alcohol misuse might have facilitated the development of Othello syndrome?”

“That’s a completely plausible and logical possibility.”

“I have no further questions.” Sarah Eaton sat down after honoring Seagoe with her brilliant but cold smile.

“Mr. Kershaw,” Seagoe began his first question, “you mentioned that of the fifteen prisoners, nine did not kill their partner, and ‘more than half’ of those nine have exercised violence on their partners. Does this mean the other half didn’t display aggression?”

At that moment, the door of the courtroom opened and, much to my surprise, in walked Michelle. Although she had read a substantial part of the accounts, she hadn’t attended the questioning sessions up to this point. What had brought her here? I brought my eyes back to the cross-examination taking place in front of me.

“Actually, more than twenty percent of that other half have threatened…”

“Guess what I found?” Michelle whispered from behind me, taking a seat on the bench. “Thank goodness the prosecution hasn’t discovered it!”

“…but they haven’t resorted to violent actions,” the forensic psychologist finished.

“What?” I asked her, also whispering but continuing to face forward.

“And how many among them have consumed alcohol or taken narcotic substances?” Seagoe’s high voice resounded in the hall.

I heard a rustle as Michelle leaned closer. “A friend of mine, well, not just a friend…”

“Michelle, please, cut to the chase!” I interrupted, still facing the judge and witness stand. Judge Fletcher was watching us peripherally. I smiled at him.

“Anyway, she told me about an acquaintance of hers, a girl who used to date Hayworth not so long ago. She claims that he nearly killed her when he found out she was dating another man.”

“So you’re saying it’s possible for frequent alcohol consumption to actually not aggravate the patient’s state of morbid jealousy.” My attention was drawn back to the cross-examination.

“Every patient is a completely separate case. There are things that have to be taken into account — such as their individual personality, their genetic predisposition…”

“How did you find this out and who’s the girl?” I turned my attention back to Michelle, but didn’t turn around.

“She told me a few hours ago — but I promised not to mention any names unless I absolutely must. She said one night Hayworth came to her friend’s flat. The girl was certain he intended to kill her.”

I turned and looked at her, completely baffled.

“You didn’t answer my question!” Seagoe raised his voice. “Can we assume that alcohol consumption doesn’t necessarily influence morbid jealousy?”

“In some cases, yes,” Kershaw admitted. “But generally it plays a significant part in the escalation of the condition.”

“What are you trying to tell me?” I asked. I felt Judge Fletcher’s disapproving eyes on me when I spoke those words at an almost normal volume, and Michelle made a sign for me to hold on. I turned to sit with my back to her again and smiled sweetly at the judge.

“How do you treat morbidly jealous patients?”

“There are several methods of treatment —medical, psychological, or social. But first we need to determine the dominant reason behind the illness.”

“What sort of treatment would you generally prescribe in a case of morbid jealousy?”

“Abstaining from alcohol and narcotic substances, to start, as well as advanced cognitive therapy.”

“And you think cognitive therapy would help a patient with morbid jealousy?”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt, in any case.”

“So, if a patient with morbid jealousy starts regularly visiting a psychologist for, let’s say, a year, there would be an improvement in his condition, wouldn’t there?”

“Generally, yes. But often these — ”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Seagoe spoke over Kershaw’s last few words, then turned to the judge and announced, “No more questions,” and sat back at the bench. With Kershaw’s testimony, the Crown was finished questioning witnesses.

“Mr. Seagoe,” Judge Fletcher began, “you may call the first witness of the defense.”

“The defense calls Ian McCaffrey.”

The usher opened the door. Our witness entered the room in a business-like manner. He pronounced his oath in a clear and confident voice.

“What’s your name?” Seagoe asked him.

“Ian McCaffrey.”

“Where do you live?”

“7 Cheval Place.”

“What do you do, Dr. McCaffrey?”

“I’m a psychologist at Harley Therapy, a private therapy clinic.”

“Has the defendant, Jonathan Hayworth, been a patient of yours?”

“Yes, he has.”

“When did Hayworth’s psychotherapy begin?”

“In the beginning of 2011.”

“Why…” the beginning of Seagoe’s question hung in the air.

The court security officer had unexpectedly entered the hall. He quickly approached the judge and handed him a small piece of paper. The judge gave it a passive glance and put it to the side.

“Please proceed with your questioning, Mr. Seagoe.” The security officer left the room as briskly as he had entered.

“Why did Hayworth start coming to you, Dr. McCaffrey?”

“Hayworth sought my help to address the painful symptoms of jealousy he felt regarding his former girlfriend.”

“So Hayworth realized he had a psychological problem?”

“Absolutely. Hayworth was fully aware that he was suffering from morbid jealousy.”

“When was the first time he sought your help?”

“January 11 of last year.”

“Approximately two months after he’d broken up with Miss Torres and a month after her relationship with Hearn began,” Seagoe clarified.

“That’s right.”

“What kind of treatment did Hayworth receive?”

“Twice a week he took part in sessions at my office. I treat my patients using the Positive Psychotherapy method. This method makes the individual confront their problem in order to activate their own abilities to cope with it. In Hayworth’s case, that included controlling his jealous episodes.”

“Did Hayworth’s condition improve during the treatment process?”

“Considerably. He began to realize he had old traumas, some dating back to his childhood, which were at the core of his psychological problems.”

“Did he ever mention to you the threatening text messages he had sent to Miss Torres or the scene of jealousy he displayed at Raison d’être bistro?”

“Yes, he did mention them while we were working on ways to prevent such displays of aggression.”

“As his doctor, do you believe Hayworth might have attempted to take Mariana Torres’ life?”

“No, never,” McCaffrey said, his tone terse and confident, his head lifted slightly as if startled and annoyed.

“Despite all this, Hayworth is described to be an aggressive person.”

“There’s a saying, Mr. Seagoe: ‘The dog that barks doesn’t bite.’ It applies perfectly to Hayworth’s case. I believe that patients with inhibited morbid jealousy are much more dangerous.”

“So, let’s make clear what you are saying: As his doctor, you believe Hayworth could not have killed Mariana Torres in a fit of morbid jealousy?”

“You must go deeper into his psyche. Hayworth’s subconscious wanted Miss Torres alive. Her death wouldn’t have satisfied his ego. Hayworth’s psychological profile is one of an annoying bully, but not of a murderer.”

“Thank you,” Seagoe said, and sat back in his place.

Sarah Eaton rose and asked her first question. “How many morbidly jealous patients have you treated so far?”

“Five, including Hayworth.”

“And how many of them have been accused of murder or physical violence exercised on their partner?”

“None, except Hayworth,” McCaffrey replied after a short hesitation.

“No more questions.” Eaton sat back on the bench.

“I think this is a suitable time to pause for lunch. Court will resume at three-thirty.” Before rising from his chair Judge Fletcher turned to the barristers and said, in a quieter voice, “Mrs. Eaton, Mr. Seagoe, would you please come to my office?”

My eyes were glued to the backs of the retreating barristers. What could have happened to make the judge break for lunch earlier than usual?

***

 

“All rise,” the usher said after Judge Fletcher had come back into the room at the scheduled hour. When everyone had settled back into their seats, the judge made sure everyone’s attention was on him, then announced, “Two hours ago, Inspector Shelling, Scotland Yard’s chief inspector, who conducted the investigation of Mariana Torres’ murder, insisted on seeing me and the barristers for the prosecution and the defense in my chambers.”

This news caused muffled exclamations to resound across the room. The judge was forced to make use of his gavel. After silence had been restored, he asked, “Mrs. Eaton?”

“Your Honor,” she rose, “in light of the full confession from a previously unknown party regarding the murder of Mariana Torres, as well as the new evidence presented by the same party, the Crown has no choice but to suspend the trial against Jonathan Hayworth until this new evidence is evaluated.”

It was as if a bomb had been dropped in the room: The journalists stormed outside like spring toys pressed down and then let go, impatient to break the story. Hayworth’s more emotional girl fans loudly voiced their happiness with the outcome of the case. The judge was once again forced to establish order.

“In view of all this, I suspend the trial. The jury members are free to go — Mr. Hayworth, once the new evidence has been validated, you’ll be free to go, too. Until then, please don’t do any traveling,” Fletcher said, his final words before leaving the room.

I smiled at Seagoe. Over lunch he had informed me and Michelle about the conversation that had taken place in the judge’s office. Lee Helsbee had come to Scotland Yard that morning, Seagoe had said, and he’d brought with him the bloodstained gloves he’d worn when he had killed Mariana Torres. We fully expected the DNA analysis to show that the blood on them matched that of the victim, and he had given a full confession.

“It was only by sheer luck your boy’s off the hook,” Eaton told Seagoe as he gathered up his folders and papers. ‟And if his luck wavers,” she sneered, “he may well be on trial again.”

“Well, now I absolutely disagree with you on that. It was justice that saved Hayworth from being convicted of a crime he didn’t commit.”

“It seems he didn’t. But you know, I still can’t believe it,” I heard Sarah Eaton say as she left court number four.

Seagoe and I were headed down the stairs when Jonathan Hayworth caught up to us, surrounded by his security team. They formed a loose ring around us to keep his fans and the reporters at bay.

“Thank you both!” He shook our hands vigorously. “You saved me from going to jail. I owe you my life!”

“It’ s not yet over,” Seagoe cautioned, “but I have a gut feeling that the DNA will match and you’ll be cleared. You know what the most interesting thing here was?” he asked after a pause.

“What?” Hayworth thrust his hands in his pockets. The movement revealed a white T-shirt with writing on it underneath his jacket.

“Fulmer & Archibald’s private investigator had learned about Helsbee, but we couldn’t definitively connect him to the case or even track him down to question him. And then he just comes in and confesses to the crime. I guess the man upstairs is really fond of you,” Seagoe said, patting him on the back as if they were old friends.

I finally managed to read the writing on Hayworth’s T-shirt — Tell me what you want.

“Well, whatever the case, I am extremely grateful to you, and to Fulmer & Archibald. Miss Roseburg, you’re American, aren’t you? I’ve always had a thing for America.”

“Umm, yes.” I replied in a hoarse voice. Much to my surprise, my voice seemed to have suddenly changed. “You have, umm…” I said, pointing my finger at his T-shirt, “a very interesting piece of writing on your T-shirt.”

He looked at his chest, surprised.

“I don’t even remember where I got it. It might even have been a gift from Mariana. She would often buy clothes for me,” he said. Then he hesitated, throwing a curious look at Michelle, as if he wanted to be introduced to her.

“Oh, and this is Michelle Green, my assistant and a trainee at our firm. She assisted us on your case,” I said as I presented her to Jonathan Hayworth. They shook hands, then he exclaimed, “Well, I have to go. Thank you again,” and he hurried down the stairs, still surrounded by his security detail.

“To tell you the truth, I didn’t expect the case to end like this. But inside I did believe Hayworth wouldn’t go to prison for this,” Seagoe admitted just before we walked out of the courthouse.

“Yeah, he’s our very own O.J.,” I said, glancing at Hayworth. He had proceeded us outside, and was now surrounded by reporters. Seagoe, Michelle, and I passed him by with the buzz and camera flashes in the background.

 

“Do you really think he’s innocent?” Michelle asked me while we were crossing Bailey Street, on the way to the car.

“Who knows?” I sighed. “He might not have killed her. I have to admit it seems… odd. But then, things are not just black or white in this life. The truth is that life is usually colored in various shades of gray.”

“Just like the book Fifty Shades of Grey,” Michelle added, amused.

I pressed the alarm deactivation button for my Toyota. I remembered how Hayworth had caught my eye, staring at me with a challenging look, then smirking and winking at me as we had passed by him outside the courthouse.

“Yes, exactly. And that’s the screwed-up job of the lawyer — to change the gray into white in front of the jury. By the way, what were you trying to say back in the courtroom? You mentioned an acquaintance of yours whom Hayworth wanted to kill?”

“Oh, never mind. It makes no difference now, anyway, does it?”

“I guess not,” I muttered. I looked at my face in the mirror before I fastened my seat belt. Tell me what you want — I could still see the writing on Hayworth’s T-shirt. I started the car.