“No, Mr. Howell, you’re mistaken about me. I’ve never served on that board.” Kate Meade was becoming flustered. She held out a hand with the crumpled handkerchief in the defendant’s direction. “Brendan did.”
“So, I am also correct that my client found time for even more community involvement than someone such as yourself, Mrs. Meade?” Howell asked, ticking off the names of four other charitable groups that Brendan helped.
“The Quillians were both very generous. It was Amanda’s way.”
Howell had made his point and moved on. “Your eldest daughter, Mrs. Meade, that would be Sara?”
Kate stiffened again, peeved that her child’s name was being brought into the proceedings. She pursed her lips and stared at the defendant. “Yes.”
“And you told us, in answer to Ms. Cooper’s question, that the Quillians are her godparents, isn’t that right?”
Her answer was another clipped “Yes.”
Howell took the witness through another list of personal duties that established the close relationship between the nine-year-old girl and her parents’ best friends-shared holidays, overnights when the Meades had other engagements, vacations together on ski trips and to beach resorts.
“In fact, with whom did Sara attend her first Yankee game last spring?”
“Brendan.”
“With or without Amanda?”
“Without.”
“And whom did you call to take Sara ice-skating in Central Park when your husband had the flu a few months before that?”
“Brendan.”
Howell was getting nothing from Kate Meade. One-word answers seemed barely able to escape from her lips before she clamped them shut again.
“With or without Amanda.”
“Without.”
“So, I take it you never said to your daughter as you sent her out the door-and we all assume you love her dearly-‘Now you watch out, Sara, ’cause your uncle Brendan, well, he’s a murderer, did-’”
“Objection, Your Honor. Amanda Quillian was very much alive then.”
Some of the jurors were chuckling along with Howell-and with the defendant himself-always a bad thing to hear at a murder trial. The hammer in my brain had resumed its dull thud, reminding me that Lem had something in store for Kate Meade.
“I’ll allow it.”
“No.” Kate Meade was looking to me to rescue her, but there was nothing I could do.
“And by the way, you never took stock around the boardroom at the Museum of Modern Art-or when he was raising millions of dollars for Mount Sinai Hospital-you never said to any of your colleagues at either institution that your dear friend Brendan Quillian wasn’t to be trusted with your money-or your life, did you?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained,” Judge Gertz said. “Let’s move on.”
“Now, Alexandra-sorry, Ms. Cooper,” Howell said, winking at me as though to apologize for slipping into the familiar, so that the jurors would know we had a friendship outside this arena. “Ms. Cooper asked you about the night that Amanda Quillian first appeared at your door, at one a.m. You told us that you didn’t see any injuries on her face, isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, did you call a doctor-that night or any day thereafter during the week?”
“No, no, I did not.”
“Did you take Mrs. Quillian to an emergency room?”
“No.”
“Did you call the police?”
“No.”
“Was your husband at home with you that night?”
“Yes.”
“And apart from him-that would be Preston Meade, am I right?-apart from your husband, did you tell anyone else about Amanda’s visit?”
“No.”
“Her parents?”
“No.”
“Her sisters?”
“I’ve told you that I didn’t,” she snapped. “No one.”
Howell was setting himself up nicely for his closing argument, three weeks away. He didn’t want to ask Kate why she had told no one, because he was aware that the answer would be that Amanda had pleaded with her not to. Rather, he would leave the impression that things hadn’t been serious enough to require any intervention. I made notes to try to clarify that question on my redirect of Kate Meade, hoping that the judge would think Howell had opened the door far enough to let me go there.
“Not even your nanny?” Howell asked. “Surely, Mrs. Meade, you have a nanny for your girls?”
“We do,” she said, ruffled again. “I simply forgot about her, Your Honor. I-uh-I didn’t mean to hide it.”
Howell used his softest expression to try to calm her. “I didn’t think you were doing any such thing. I’m sure your memory of those events isn’t quite as clear now as it was back then. Did you tell the nanny why Amanda Quillian was staying at your apartment?”
“No. She knew Amanda was my best friend. I didn’t have to tell her anything.”
“Because she just worked for you, isn’t that right?”
“Exactly,” Kate answered, in a way that would not endear her to most of the jurors.
Howell was clever about subtly creating even more distance between them and my young socialite witness.
“Let me understand this, Mrs. Meade. When is the very first time you told anyone-anyone at all-about the night Amanda Quillian left Brendan to come stay with you?”
Kate paused to think. “The day I met Ms. Cooper. The detectives took me down to the District Attorney’s Office the morning of October fourth. I told Ms. Cooper about it then.”
“So, that was-my goodness-that was four-no, four and a half years after the night you’ve described, wasn’t it?”
“I guess so.”
Howell wasn’t going to question her certainty about the timing. I had turned over Kate’s datebook entry that confirmed she had made a record of her friend’s brief estrangement from Quillian.
“And we all know how our memories of events, of conversations, of details-how they change over months and years.” Howell was walking in front of the jury box now, one hand on the railing and the other adjusting his tie.
“I remember everything that happened with Amanda. I have a very good memory.”
“But for telling me that your help-your nanny-was at home that week, isn’t that right?”
Kate was smart enough not to keep the battle going, and Howell knew he could weave her five-year silence into a suggestion that nothing had been more serious between the couple than an occasional lovers’ quarrel.
“Now, when Brendan came to the door of your home, that first week, more than five years ago, didn’t you ask him, Mrs. Meade-didn’t you ask him to explain what he had done to upset your best friend so?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you ask him to tell you his side of the story?”
“I didn’t need to ask him. Amanda had already told me.”
“But surely, you would agree that there are two sides to every story, wouldn’t you? Whether you wanted to hear what Brendan had to say or not?”
Howell was scoring twice. Not only was he making Kate Meade seem obstinate and small-minded, but he could later argue the same principle in the event the defendant didn’t testify on his own behalf.
“Possibly.”
“But you didn’t even bother to ask, did you?” Howell said, speaking slowly and emphasizing each of the words in that short question with obvious disapproval.
Kate Meade was pouting in silence.
“You must answer the question,” Gertz said to her.
“I did not.”
“Ms. Cooper,” Howell said, standing to my side and holding out his hand. “May I see People’s Exhibit twelve?”
I removed the pile of photographs that had been admitted during my direct exam of Kate and handed him the one he asked for.
“Would you look at this again for us, Mrs. Meade?”
“Of course.”
“Now, this is the actual photograph-the entire photograph-that you took at your lunch with Mrs. Quillian the terrible day she was killed, isn’t it?”