“All rise for the court,” the clerk announced.

They stood as the judge walked briskly into the courtroom from his chambers and took his seat on the bench. Banks had done his homework as soon as he learned who would be handling the arraignment. He’d learned that the Honorable Harvey Smith was known as very fair, but tough when it came to handing out sentences. The best we may be able to do for Carrington is to drag out the proceedings as long as possible, because once he’s convicted, he goes straight to jail, Banks thought. After he is released on bail, at least he can sleep in his own bed until the trial is over.

Peter Carrington’s case was not the only one on the docket: there were other detainees awaiting arraignment. The clerk read thecharges as, one by one, the others came before the bench. Comparatively petty stuff, Banks thought. The first one was accused of passing bad checks. The second was a shoplifter.

Peter Carrington was the third to be arraigned. When he was led into court, wearing an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs, Banks and Markinson stood and placed themselves on either side of him.

Prosecutor Krause read the charge against him. Cameras clicked and whirred noisily as, looking straight at the judge, his expression grave, his voice firm, Peter entered his plea: “Not guilty.”

It was obvious to Conner Banks that Barbara Krause was salivating at the prospect of personally trying this case. When bail was about to be set, she addressed the judge: “Your Honor, this is a defendant with unlimited means at his disposal. He is a very high risk for forfeiting bail and leaving the country. We ask that bail be set in proportion to his resources; that his passport be taken from him; that he be ordered to wear an electronic wrist bracelet at all times, that he be confined to his home and the gated grounds around it; and that his leaving the grounds be confined to attending religious services, visiting his doctor, or conferring with his lawyers, and that these visits take place only after notification to and permission from the monitor of his electronic bracelet.”

She’s going to be one tough cookie at trial, Banks thought as he looked at Krause.

The judge addressed Peter. “I realize, Mr. Carrington, that with your great wealth, it doesn’t matter whether I set bail at one dollar or twenty-five million dollars. Bail is hereby set at ten million dollars.” He reviewed the list of conditions the prosecutor had requested and approved all of them.

“Your Honor,” Peter said, his voice loud and clear, “I will absolutely abide by all conditions of bail. I can assure you that I look forward to clearing my name at trial and ending this horror for myself and my wife.”

“Your wife! What about the wife you drowned? What about her?” The words were shouted, passion in every syllable.

Like everyone else in the courtroom, Banks turned around quickly. A well-dressed man was on his feet in the middle of the courtroom. His face twisted with anger, he slammed his fist on the seat in front of him. “Grace was my sister! She was seven-and-a-half-months pregnant. You killed the child our family will never know. Grace wasn’t a drinker when she married you. You drove her into depression. Then you got rid of her because you didn’t want to take the chance of having a damaged baby. Murderer! Murderer! Murderer!”

“Remove that man!” Judge Smith ordered. “Remove him at once!” He rapped his gavel sharply. “Silence in this court.”

“You killed my sister!” Grace Carrington’s brother shouted defiantly as he was rushed from the courtroom.

A hushed silence followed his exit. Then it was broken by the agonized sobs of Gladys Althorp, who sat with her face buried in her hands.

27

It was six o’clock and pitch dark before we finally got home. Outside it was still raining heavily. A police officer stood guard by the roped-off area of the grounds that the dogs had not yet searched.

Thanks to Vincent’s quick action, Peter did not have to spend the night in jail. As soon as I phoned to tell him that Peter had been arrested, he had arranged to have whatever amount of bail the judge set wired to a bank near the courthouse in Hackensack. As soon as the arraignment was over, he rushed to that bank, got a check certified in the amount of ten million dollars, and returned to the courthouse to post it with the bail unit.

While he was gone and we waited for Peter to be released, I was allowed to stay with Conner Banks and Walter Markinson in the empty jury room off Judge Smith’s courtroom. I think that they were almost as startled and shaken by the attack from Grace’s brother, Philip Meredith, as I was. Then, to have it followed by the pitiful tears of Susan Althorp’s mother made it all seem surreal. I watched Peter as he heard Meredith’s accusations and Gladys Althorp’s sobs. I don’t think the expression on his face could have conveyed more pain if he were being flayed alive.

I said that to Markinson and Banks.

They expressed concern that, in the eyes of everyone in the courtroom, everything that happened was prejudicial to Peter, and they acknowledged that the media coverage of the event was going to be absolutely terrible. Even Markinson did not offer his usual conciliatory pats on the shoulder to me.

Then Conner Banks asked a question that absolutely threw me: “To your knowledge, did any member of the Meredith family ever threaten to file a civil suit for wrongful death against Peter?”

I was shocked. “No,” I responded immediately. Then I amended my answer: “At least, Peter never told me about one.”

“I’m going to be cynical,” he said. “Philip Meredith may be a brother lusting for what he perceives to be justice, or he may be looking to extract a settlement from Peter. Actually, it’s probably both. He certainly knows that the last thing Peter needs is to have another legal battle going on at the same time as his murder trial.”

When Peter was released, Markinson and Banks spoke to him for a few minutes before they headed back to New York. They suggested he try to get as much rest as possible and told him that they would be at the house the next day, early in the afternoon.

Holding Peter’s hand, I was aware suddenly of the electronic bracelet on his wrist. We walked down the long corridor toward the car waiting outside. I had hoped naïvely that there wouldn’t be any media around when we finally left the courthouse. I was wrong, of course. They were there in force. I found myself wondering if they were the same people who had filmed Peter this morning on his way into jail, or if this was a fresh batch of reporters and photographers.

They began to hurl questions at both of us: “Mr. Carrington, have you anything to say about-?” “Kay, did you ever meet-?”

Vince was standing beside the car, the door open. We rushed into the backseat, ignoring the questions. When we were finally out of sight of the reporters, Peter and I wrapped our arms around each other. We hardly exchanged a word on the drive home.

Peter went straight upstairs. He didn’t have to tell me that he wanted to shower and change. I’m sure that after the experience of being in a cell, it was a physical need to have gallons of hot water splash over him.

Vincent was staying for dinner. Saying he had business phone calls to make, he went to his office in the back of the house.

I headed to the kitchen. I would have thought that nothing could lift my spirits, but the heartwarming smell of pot roast simmering on the stove gave me a genuine pickup, if for no other reason than the fact that Peter had told me it was his favorite meal. I was grateful for Jane Barr’s thoughtfulness in remembering that and preparing it tonight.

Gary Barr was in the kitchen, watching television. He turned it off as soon as he saw me, but not soon enough. On the screen I could see that Philip Meredith was being interviewed. For a moment I was tempted to find out what he was saying, but I quickly changed my mind. Whatever it was, I had heard enough from him today.