The Lost Years (16 page)

“You did?” Mariah asked, shocked.

“Yes. She called me. She was really distraught. Don’t forget, Mariah, I met her on that cruise when she was with your father. After that I only saw her one other time, when your father invited us to his lecture at the 92nd Street Y. We had dinner but by then we had met you and she certainly sensed that I was uncomfortable being with her. That’s the last time I saw or heard from her until she called me out of the blue yesterday. She said she wanted to talk to me about something, so of course I said okay.”

“What did she tell you?” Lloyd Scott asked.

“That’s just it. Nothing. Between the time she called me sounding very anxious to talk and a few hours later when we actually met for lunch at the restaurant, it was obvious she had changed her mind about confiding in me. All she did basically was go on about how much she missed Jonathan and how he should have put your mother in a nursing home a long time ago.” Alvirah leaned back in her chair. “But without knowing it, she may have told me something very important.”

“What, Alvirah, what is it?” Lloyd Scott and Mariah asked the same question.

“I asked Lillian when was the last time she spoke to Jonathan and she told me it was the Wednesday evening before the Monday evening that he died.”

“But that’s impossible!” Mariah exclaimed. “I know that he always went to see Lillian over the weekend. Delia—who, as you know, is always here on the weekends when Rory is off—has told me about that. He’d spend part of Saturday with Mom, then take off. He often didn’t come back until Sunday afternoon, unless he knew I was coming over in the morning.”

“Think about this,” Alvirah said, allowing herself a degree of excitement. “Perhaps they weren’t speaking for those last five days. What if something big happened between them? And, Mariah, we haven’t had much time to talk, but I’ve read in the paper that your father may have come into possession of a valuable biblical letter and now nobody knows where it is. My question is, could he have given it to Lillian, and then they ended up fighting over it? And then he ends up dead? And Kathleen becomes the second victim—maybe of a setup?”

“If my father didn’t speak with Lillian for five days, that’s very significant,” Mariah said quietly. “Father Aiden told me at the funeral that Dad had visited him on Wednesday afternoon and that Dad was sure the parchment was genuine but was also very troubled that one of the experts he showed it to was only interested in its monetary value. From what I gather, that person wanted to sell it through the underground market. Dad absolutely intended to return it to the Vatican Library.”

“Do you know if your father went to confession that day with Father Aiden?” Alvirah asked.

“Father Aiden didn’t say that, but I also know he wouldn’t tell me if he did or he didn’t, since that would be privileged.”

“I’m not Catholic,” Lloyd Scott said, “but if your father went to confession, wouldn’t he be seeking forgiveness for something that he had done that he believed was wrong?”

“Yes,” Alvirah said firmly. “And take it one step more. If Jonathan was going to go to confession, he must have made up his mind to give up Lillian. So let’s suppose that’s the way it happened. And let’s suppose he told her it was over between them that Wednesday night, which is exactly when she told me that she last spoke to him.”

“The police took boxes of papers out of his office today,” Mariah said. “Some of them contained the documents he was translating, but I just don’t think he would put something as valuable as the letter there. In fact, I don’t think he would have kept it in the house since he knew that sometimes my mother rummages through his office. We certainly know that very well since she found the pictures of him and Lillian.”

“It would seem to me,” Lloyd said, “that it would have been logical of him to entrust the parchment to Lillian. We all know that they were very close. She could have kept it at her apartment or in some other secure location. My first thought is that Jonathan would have wanted the parchment that Wednesday evening, unless of course she was keeping it somewhere else and couldn’t give it to him. In that case they would have had further contact in the next few days. So maybe she really
did
give it to him before he died and maybe he actually did have it in his study that night.”

“I’ll say it again. When Lillian called me she was trying to make up her mind about something,” Alvirah replied positively. “Whatever she is holding back now has something to do with that parchment and maybe even with Jonathan’s death.”

“I would say we have to get the phone records of Jonathan’s home and cell phones immediately,” Lloyd said. “If he used either or both of those phones to call her, then we’ll see if Lillian is telling the truth about having no communication with him in those last few days.”

“I doubt he did,” Mariah said. “I caught him once using a cell phone that I knew was not his regular one. I just have the feeling that he would not have had his calls to Lillian showing up on any of the phone bills that went to the house. Frankly, he’d have been afraid I might see them.”

“You know, I’ve seen a lot of this kind of thing,” Alvirah said. “When people want to keep their communications private, they get one of those prepaid cell phones, then keep buying additional minutes for it as they go along.”

“As I see it,” Lloyd Scott said slowly, “it is entirely possible that Jonathan’s last visit to Lillian Stewart was to break off their relationship. If that is the case and if she was in possession of the parchment, then she may have given it back to him, in which event the prosecutor’s office will presumably find it in those boxes. I note that we only have her word for it that she and Jonathan didn’t speak for those several days. Or, and this is entirely possible, Lillian may have refused out of anger to give it back to him and his further communications with her to try to get it returned were on that other phone.”

Listening, Mariah felt as if a terrible weight was being lifted from her shoulders. “Until now, as much as I have fought it, I have believed in my own heart that my mother killed my father in a demented rage,” she said quietly. “But now I just don’t believe that’s true. Now I think there is another explanation, and we have to find out what it is.”

Lloyd Scott stood up from his chair. “Mariah, I need to digest all of this and decide what we share with the prosecutor at this point. I’ll pick you up at seven thirty tomorrow morning. That will give us plenty of time to get to court before nine. Good night, everyone.”

W
hen she finally got to bed on Sunday evening, it occurred to Mariah that she had not phoned Rory to tell her that there would be no need for her to come in tomorrow. It was too late to call, but she rationalized that Rory had surely seen the evening news. If anything, Mariah was surprised that Rory had not contacted her to say how sorry she was.

At seven
A.M
. the next morning, already dressed, Mariah was having coffee in the kitchen when to her astonishment she heard the front door open and a moment later was greeted by Rory. “Mariah, I’m so sorry about all that has happened. Your poor, dear mother would never have hurt anyone if she had been in her right mind.”

Why does her expression of sympathy sound so damn hollow? Mariah asked herself. “My poor dear mother didn’t hurt anybody, Rory, in her right mind or not.”

Rory looked flustered. Her graying hair was pulled back in its bun but as always a few strands were hanging loose. Her eyes, enlarged by wide-frame glasses, moistened. “Oh, Mariah, my dear, the last thing in the world I would want to do is offend you or your mother. I just thought that everyone believed the tragedy was caused by her dementia. I heard on the news she was in jail and she is going before the judge this morning. I was hoping he would let her come home on bail. I wanted to be here to take care of her.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” Mariah said. “If by any chance the judge lets Mom come home today, I will need your help. I didn’t go into my office at all last week, and I’ve got to start taking care of some things there.”

At precisely seven thirty Lloyd Scott rang the bell. “I hope you got some sleep last night, Mariah, but if you did, I suspect it wasn’t much,” he said.

“Actually, not much. I was exhausted, but I’m so worried about how we can prove that Mom is being framed.”

“Mariah, in case Kathleen
is
released, would you like me to ride to the courthouse with you?” Rory asked.

Scott answered for Mariah. “Rory, that isn’t necessary. I can almost guarantee that the judge will want to order a psychiatric evaluation before she’s allowed to post bail. That will take at least two or three days.”

“Rory, you go ahead home. Of course I’ll pay you for these days, until we see when Mom is released. I’ll let you know later on what’s happening.”

“But…” Rory started to protest leaving, but then she said, reluctantly, “Okay, Mariah, I hope to hear that you need me very soon.”

When they arrived at the courthouse in Hackensack, Lloyd escorted Mariah to the fourth-floor courtroom of Judge Kenneth Brown. They waited quietly on a bench in the hallway until the doors were unlocked. It was now only eight fifteen and they knew that within the next half hour the media would be everywhere. “Mariah, they’ll bring your mother to the holding cell adjacent to the courtroom a few minutes before the judge comes out,” Lloyd told her. “I will go in and speak to her when she arrives. The sheriff’s officer will let me know. When I do that, you just wait in the front row. And again, Mariah, it is most important that you say nothing to the press, no matter how much you want to.”

By now Mariah’s mouth was dry. She had been tempted to put on
the black-and-white jacket she had worn to the funeral but instead chose a light-blue linen pantsuit. She wrapped her hands around the strap of the navy shoulder bag that now rested on her lap.

An incongruous thought came to her: This is the suit I was wearing two weeks ago when Dad met me in New York for dinner. He said that he always thought that blue was my best color.

“Don’t worry, Lloyd. I won’t say anything,” she said finally.

“Okay. The doors are open. Let’s go in.”

As the next half hour passed, the courtroom began to fill with reporters and cameras. At ten of nine a sheriff’s officer approached Lloyd and said, “Mr. Scott, your client is in the holding cell.”

Scott nodded and got up. “Mariah, the next time I come out it will be just before your mother is brought in.” He patted her shoulder. “She’ll be all right.”

Mariah nodded and kept her gaze resolutely forward, aware that she was being photographed. She watched as the prosecutor, a file jacket under his arm, took his place at the counsel table nearest the jury box. Now that she was here, the reality of what might be yet to come terrified her. Suppose by some crazy decision they actually put Mom on trial and the jury finds her guilty? she thought. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear it.

Lloyd emerged from the side door and went to his counsel table. At that moment the court clerk announced, “All rise!” and the judge entered from his chambers. The judge turned to the sheriff’s officers and said, “Please bring in the defendant.”

The defendant, Mariah thought. Kathleen Lyons, the criminal defendant whose only “crime” has been to lose her mind.

The same door Lloyd had used opened again. This time, two female sheriff’s officers came out walking on either side of Kathleen and led her to where Lloyd was standing. Kathleen’s hair was disheveled. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit with black lettering on the back:
BCJ
—for Bergen County Jail. She looked around and
spotted Mariah. Her face crumbled into tears. Mariah was horrified to see that she was handcuffed at the wrists. Lloyd had not warned her about that.

The judge began to speak. “In the matter of
State versus Kathleen Lyons,
on warrant complaint 2011 dash 000 dash 0233, would you enter your appearances please?”

“Your Honor, appearing on behalf of the State, Chief Assistant Prosecutor Peter Jones.”

“Your Honor, appearing on behalf of Kathleen Lyons, Lloyd Scott. I note that my client, Ms. Lyons, is present in court.”

“Ms. Lyons,” the judge said, “this is your arraignment and first appearance in court. The prosecutor will read the complaint into the record and then your attorney will enter a plea on your behalf. I will then consider the amount and conditions of bail.”