“She seemed absolutely normal. I remember she had on a lot of makeup, lipstick. Her hair was done. She didn’t look as if she’d been crying.”
A witness, who prefers to remain anonymous, saw the striking redhead cross the street to a car which is believed to have been driven by her estranged husband. As she approached the car, he leaned out and beckoned to her to hurry up. In response, the witness clearly heard her say,
“If we’re late, we’re late. This is important. I have to look right.”
Mrs. Malone’s thoughts were surely more with her own outfit than with her daughter, lying cold and alone on a morgue slab. And she was apparently focusing more on her appearance than on the continued disappearance of her son, aged just five years old.
Police and volunteer searchers spent hour after hour combing the neighborhood for the boy over the course of a long and difficult week. Most of those involved were parents themselves, and the moment when the child’s body was discovered was “a terrible blow” to all, according to one officer.
From the outset, the police suspected Mrs. Malone, who is expected to be released on bail in the next couple of days.
The piece was accompanied by a photograph of Ruth in a short dress and heels. Her head was bowed but her eye makeup was as clear and dark as the ink on the page.
Scott returned, took his seat, picked up his cup. Pete threw the paper on the table in disgust.
“Have you seen this?”
Scott nodded, his face expressionless.
“That’s bullshit. I don’t know what the real story is, but that’s just . . .”
But even as he spoke, Pete was aware that, until recently, he’d been part of that. That he’d written what he’d been told to write, that he’d portrayed shades of gray as black and white.
He felt a hot rush of shame and then, underneath, cool relief that his life was different now.
Scott was holding the paper, skimming the article.
“I hope so, Mr. Wonicke. Because this is the kind of thing the jury will be reading every day until the trial. That’s what I’ve got to work with.”
“But she’s . . . she didn’t do it. These people don’t know her. They don’t know her at all.”
Scott looked at him, and Pete had the strange feeling that the other man was seeing him for the first time.
“This is going to be a tough case, Mr. Wonicke. An ugly case. I don’t underestimate the sizable task ahead. My first opponent is Mrs. Malone herself.”
He saw Pete’s frown and nodded. “Oh yes. My first hurdles are Mrs. Malone’s appearance and her manner. The way she chooses to dress and the image she chooses to project are not those of a grieving mother. She is the very picture of a scandalous woman.”
“Christ. You sound just like . . .”
He raised his hand. “Please. I am on her side. My job is to think the way a typical jury will. Twelve average men and women who will have never met anyone like Ruth Malone. Who won’t be able to imagine the mind-set it might take to kill two children. Who will have condemned her out of hand just for being in this position.
“I’ve filed a motion that Mrs. Malone should not be questioned on the stand about her extramarital relationships. But it’s probable the motion will be rejected, and that will mean that Mrs. Malone cannot give evidence.”
“Why would it be rejected?”
“They think it’s relevant, Mr. Wonicke. They think her relationships are relevant to this crime.”
He sighed. “And the coverage in the press is driving that idea. That said, as much as your ex-colleagues are giving her a rough time, what people are saying in the street is far worse.”
“What do you mean, worse?”
Scott took a breath. “I had dinner last night with an old friend, in a restaurant not far from here. A nice place. Nice people. I heard two women behind me talking about the case and about Mrs. Malone. One of them said—please excuse the expression—‘I’m going to the trial. I want to see that bitch get what she deserves.’ And the other said, ‘I know just what you mean. I don’t like to prejudge but in this case it’s difficult not to. A tramp like that is capable of anything.’ ”
He put down his fork then and wrinkled his nose.
“This cake’s stale.”
Scott told Ruth that the court appearance was a formality, that she would be granted bail that afternoon. He asked who would post it and she said, “My mother.”
She thought of her mother’s lined red face, her rough red hands. Her mother’s prayers at her father’s bedside. Her anger. Her shame.
“My mother will post bail.”
Then they talked about the trial in general terms: who would be there, who would be allowed to speak. He told her that she would not be called as a witness, would not have to take the stand. That she would not have a voice.
And when she asked why, he only said, “It’s best this way, trust me.”