The Evangeline Page 6

  ‘Mr Offenbach was in the best condition—and in the worst condition—of all.’

  ‘I’m afraid that is more of a riddle than I can solve.’

  ‘He had nothing broken; no injuries of that sort whatsoever. And though he was the oldest, he did not seem to have suffered quite so much as the others from exposure. Of course, he had lost a lot of weight; they were all barely skeletons. God knows what they looked like when they were first picked up. I have the sense, given Mr Offenbach’s age, that he was looked after by the others in a way they did not—or could not—look after anyone else. He could not possibly have survived what happened to him otherwise.’

  ‘And what was that, Dr Steinberg? What happened to Hugo Offenbach?’

  ‘He had a heart attack; a minor one, but bad enough. It happened during the storm, when they had to abandon the Evangeline. He felt the pain running down his arm. He lost consciousness. Someone must have carried him to the lifeboat; he certainly could not have reached it on his own.’

  ‘I assume that he was not delusional, or irrational, during the time you observed him?’

  Dr Steinberg lifted his chin. His eyes seemed darker than before. ‘Hugo Offenbach may be the most rational man I have ever met.’

  ‘And what about Aaron Trevelyn? Other than his physical condition, did he suffer any mental impairment, anything that would make us doubt his ability to remember what happened or to render a clear account?’

  Steinberg gave Roberts a look that bordered on incredulity.The physical condition of Aaron Trevelyn was the worst of all of them.

  ‘His wrist was broken, and he lost his foot.’

  ‘Frostbite?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. He’ll be crippled for life. I’m not really sure about his mental condition. He may have suffered some memory loss.’

  Roberts had taken two steps towards the jury box. He looked back at the witness.

  ‘You’re not saying that Mr Trevelyn doesn’t remember what happened, are you?’

  ‘When I examined him, he seemed vague, confused—but whether it was because he could not remember or did not want to, I can’t really say.’

  ‘But you could say the same thing about the others, couldn’t you? Wouldn’t it be quite reasonable—given what they went through—to have a certain reluctance to talk about it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose, but Mr Trevelyn…’

  Roberts seemed in a hurry to move on.‘There were three other survivors—the defendant and two female passengers: Samantha Wilcox and Cynthia Grimes. Beyond what they suffered physically, did either of them exhibit any symptoms that would prevent them from recalling the events that transpired before their rescue at sea?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but I can’t be completely certain. Mrs Wilcox appeared to be a deeply religious woman, but how far that might affect her ability to perceive events, I’m in no position to say.With regard to the other woman, Cynthia Grimes, I can’t even tell you much about her physical condition. She left right after the ambulance brought her to the hospital.’

  ‘You never saw her?’

  ‘She refused treatment. She did not say why. She was not a patient, and we couldn’t hold her against her will.’

  ‘No further questions, your Honour,’ Roberts announced as he crossed in front of the jury on his way back to the counsel table.

  Once he had taken his chair, Roberts clasped his hands under his chin, awaiting with more than usual interest the next move of the defence. Most lawyers were predictable, asking the same questions in the same ways, but you could never be quite certain what William Darnell would do on cross-examination. There were times when he did not cross-examine at all. He would just flap his hand in a petulant show of impatience, as if the witness had already wasted too much of the jury’s time. But this time Darnell shot to his feet. Then, as if he had suddenly changed his mind, he sat down again. Maitland started to turn towards Dr Steinberg to tell him he was excused. Darnell jumped up again.

  ‘That bracelet, the one you wear on your wrist,’ he said with a puzzled expression.‘What exactly is that? It’s one of those medical things, isn’t it? Identifies you as a donor, so that if something happens to you someone else can receive the benefit. Am I right?’ he asked, raising his chin with an air of expectation.

  Joshua Steinberg held the metal bracelet between his fingers. ‘Yes, that’s right. It means I’m an organ donor.’

  ‘But why wear a bracelet, if you have it in your will?’

  Steinberg was not sure that Darnell was serious. If it had not been for a look of intense and almost obstinate ignorance on the lawyer’s face, he would not have thought it necessary to answer. ‘Because it could be days, or even weeks, before anyone would know what was in my will.’

  Darnell continued to profess his ignorance.‘But if you’ll forgive me for putting it like this, Doctor—dead is dead, isn’t it? What difference does it make when anyone finds out that you are willing to have your organs used by another?’

  ‘If the organs deteriorate, they can’t be used.’

  ‘I see, I see,’ said Darnell, stroking his chin. ‘Then the organs themselves don’t die, not all at once. There is still life in them, for at least a short while, after we’re dead? Is that a fair way of putting it?’

  Roberts understood immediately where this was going. There was at least a chance that the rules of evidence did not allow it. ‘Your Honour, I’m not sure I see the relevance of this line of questioning. That Dr Steinberg is an organ donor is no doubt laudable, but the connection to this case seems a little obscure.’

  Darnell turned around and for a moment searched Roberts’s eyes. ‘Do you really think so? I wonder.’

  Roberts was left with the uncomfortable sensation of having done something wrong and, worse yet, of having lost a battle before it had even begun. ‘Relevance, your Honour?’ he asked in a voice that seemed forced and hollow.

  Darnell took away even this. Instead of leaving it to Homer Maitland, he decided what would happen next. ‘A few more questions, that’s all I’ll need.’ Then he turned back to the witness. ‘You wear the bracelet because it is important that the transplant be done right away, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, precisely.’

  ‘And I assume that you would encourage others to do the same—to make those kinds of arrangements so that people who need these transplants can have them?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Thousands of lives are saved every year. There is a tremendous need.’

  ‘In other words, Dr Steinberg, there is no objection to the use of other bodies? In fact, if I understand you correctly, the lives of thousands of people depend upon it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Very good,’ said William Darnell with a sidelong glance at the jury. ‘And in fact, Doctor, there are cases where to save the life of one person, the organs of another person are taken while that other person is not in every sense of the term quite dead—isn’t that true?’

  There was an audible murmur in the courtroom, the expression of a collective doubt, an instinctive disapproval.

  ‘What is the medical definition of death, doctor? When the heart stops beating—or when there is no more activity in the brain? Isn’t that when a heart is taken, a heart that can save another life? Because if you wait much longer, it can’t be used; because if you wait much longer, it won’t have the gift of life…’

  ‘Yes, but I—’

  Darnell shook his head.‘It doesn’t matter. Forgive me, Doctor, I got a little ahead of myself.What I need to ask you about is the condition of those you examined. And I have just a few follow-up questions from what Mr Roberts asked.’

  Darnell stood next to the counsel table, glancing down at his notes. ‘James DeSantos was the first person Mr Roberts asked about. He is the well-known movie actor, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was rather seriously injured, was he not? I believe your testimony was a broken ankle, broken teeth, ulceration and even blindness?’


  ‘Yes, but fortunately the blindness was only temporary.’

  ‘So his vision is fully restored?’

  ‘No, not quite. He still has partial blindness in his right eye. He can see out of it, but his vision in that eye is blurred.’

  ‘And his ankle? I don’t think you mentioned it—I noticed Mr Roberts did not ask about it—but that was a compound fracture, was it not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Meaning…?’

  ‘The broken bone punctured the skin. With that kind of break, if it is not set properly at once, it won’t heal right.’

  ‘Which will affect the way he walks?’

  ‘Yes, but with physical therapy…’ ‘I understand. Do you know how his ankle was broken?’

  ‘He said it happened when he jumped into the boat. He landed on it, and it twisted under his weight.’

  Standing at an angle to the witness so he could see the jury, Darnell lifted an eyebrow and nodded slowly. ‘An accident, then. No one broke it for him. And what about his teeth? Another accident?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘As far as you know.Yes, of course. One other question about Mr DeSantos: his wife was on that voyage with him, was she not?’

  ‘Yes, according to what I’ve read.’

  ‘You didn’t examine her, though, did you?’

  ‘No, she was not one of the survivors.’

  With a rapid stride, Darnell went across to the counsel table where he appeared to study a page of longhand notes.

  ‘Aaron Trevelyn,’ he said, his eyes still on the page. He looked up, a strangely pugnacious expression on his smooth, round face. ‘May have suffered some memory loss? He was a member of the crew, was he not? Or is that one of the things he has managed to forget?’

  ‘I’m just reporting what I observed,’ said Steinberg, stiffening.

  ‘What you observed? Or what Mr Trevelyn claimed?’ asked Darnell with a wrathful look that changed almost immediately into an apologetic smile. ‘You may be wondering why both the prosecution and the defence have concerns about what Mr Trevelyn can or cannot remember. I’m afraid that will have to remain a mystery a little while longer. But so we’re all clear about one thing: I take it you found no physical damage to his brain, no physical trauma that would explain this alleged partial loss of memory?’

  ‘No, the CAT scan was normal; but there are other kinds of trauma.’

  ‘Oh, indeed, Doctor; and perhaps few as severe as what those poor people suffered during their long ordeal. Did any of the others—and you examined all but one of them—claim any loss of memory?’

  ‘No, but I could not go so far as to state categorically that none of them didn’t suffer some loss, or some distortion,’ he explained in a slightly hesitant voice.

  ‘Are you saying that some of what they saw, some of what they experienced, may have been so traumatic that what they remember of it may not be entirely accurate?’

  ‘We have all done things we later regret, and sometimes, perhaps to ease our conscience, we begin to shade the truth, to see it in less vivid colours—to make it appear, even to ourselves, that it was not really as bad as we had thought at first. Sometimes it’s more dramatic than that. When a memory is too painful, we try to forget it—and sometimes the mind will do this, so to speak, on its own. It pushes that memory into the subconscious and replaces it in the conscious mind with something more palatable, something that gives a different shape to the same event.’

  ‘Mrs Wilcox, for example?’ asked Darnell.‘I believe you testified that she appeared to be a “deeply religious” woman. Another witness testified that she claimed two angels came from heaven to help her. Is this the kind of thing you’re talking about, Dr Steinberg? The way the mind reinterprets reality to make it easier for us to live with something that has happened?’

  ‘I shouldn’t like to comment on anyone’s religious experience, but yes, it’s possible.’

  ‘Just one or two questions more, Dr Steinberg. The other woman who was rescued—Cynthia Grimes. She refused treatment? She left the hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t know where she went? Whom she saw?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘But you had seen her before, hadn’t you? She wasn’t a complete stranger to you, was she?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re the chief of staff of the hospital, and Benjamin Whitfield, in addition to being a member of the board, is the largest single contributor to the hospital’s endowment. He is also—is he not?—a man you consider a close friend.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. Benjamin Whitfield and I are friends.’

  ‘Then surely you knew that he and Ms Grimes had been involved? And isn’t that the reason she left, to avoid having to face any questions about what she had been doing on the Evangeline in the first place? To avoid, I imagine, the embarrassment of having to explain her relationship with one of the country’s most respected men? Yes, well, never mind,’ he remarked, before Roberts was out of his chair with an objection.‘It doesn’t matter. Let me see … Hugo Offenbach.Yes, I saw him play here, myself. You say he had a heart attack—correct?’

  ‘Yes, a mild one, but—’

  ‘A mild one that would have killed him if someone had not taken care of him. Do you happen to know who that was?’

  ‘Mr Offenbach told me that Mr Marlowe saved his life.’

  ‘Did he, now? Did he say that? Well, yes, I imagine he would say that. One last thing, Dr Steinberg,’ said Darnell, peering intently at him from the end of the jury box. ‘You examined the survivors of the Evangeline—all but one of them—and you did this how long after they had been picked up by Captain Balfour and the crew of the White Rose a thousand miles east of South America?’

  ‘Nearly a week.’

  ‘During which time they had been given food and water and at least some medical care, to say nothing of a dry bed and plenty of sleep?’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’

  ‘Would it be fair to say, then, that Captain Balfour, though he is not a doctor, had a better opportunity to observe the mental condition they were in at that time than you had?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘So when he said that they were all nearly dead and that some of them were quite deranged, you would not contradict that?’

  ‘No, I would not.’

  ‘And finally, Dr Steinberg, let me ask you about the one person you examined that Mr Roberts did not ask about. What was the condition of Vincent Marlowe when he first arrived?’

  ‘Physically exhausted, emotionally spent. He had lost more weight than any of the others. He had a broken shoulder and two broken fingers. He was the one I was most concerned about. I knew the others would all survive. I was not sure about him.’

  ‘Because of his physical state?’

  ‘No, because I don’t think he wanted to survive; I think he wanted to die.’

  Chapter Eight

  THE PROSECUTION, AS IT WAS REQUIRED TO DO, had given the defence a list of the witnesses it intended to call. Darnell knew the names, but could only guess at the order in which they would be summoned to the stand. He had guessed correctly so far, but that had not been difficult. In selecting his first three witnesses, Michael Roberts had followed a strict chronology. He had led with Benjamin Whitfield for the obvious reason that it had all started with the owner of the Evangeline. The voyage had been his idea, and the boat had been built to his specifications. Who better to give the jury a sense of the enormous contrast between what was expected at the beginning and what had happened at the end?

  The second witness, Thomas Balfour, was the logical sequel to the first. Whitfield had seen them off, the smiling passengers and crew, on a sun-drenched morning in Nice; Balfour had seen them next, or rather what was left of them, the six survivors he rescued from the windswept ravages of the south Atlantic. He had found them all half dead, some of them out of their minds. The third witness, Joshua Steinberg, was a
ble to establish that those who survived were now all well enough to be in command of their senses—whatever may have happened to them during their forty-day ordeal—perfectly capable of telling what they knew.

  Those three witnesses had been enough for Roberts to give the jury a broad outline of the story. A sailing vessel, the most advanced of its kind, had left for a luxury voyage around Africa. The boat had gone down in a storm so violent that there had been no chance to communicate with the outside world and very little time for even one lifeboat to get away. Only fourteen people out of twenty-seven had managed to escape the Evangeline, and forty days later only six of them were left alive. Without food, without water, they had travelled nearly a thousand miles in an open boat, six people barely alive and what was left of one dead body. But the only thing the testimony of those three witnesses had proved was that the Evangeline had left Nice in the third week of June with twenty-seven people on board and that six of them had been found a thousand miles east of Brazil at the end of July. There were only six people who could be called to testify about what had happened after the Evangeline went down, and one of them, Vincent Marlowe, could not be forced to say anything unless he chose to testify for the defence. That left five witnesses, and until the day the trial started, only one of them had agreed to talk to anyone connected with the case.

  ‘There were five other people in that lifeboat and none of them will talk to me. Five witnesses and only one of them has spoken to anyone. Why? Was there some agreement made before you were rescued—or while you were on the White Rose—that you would all maintain your silence, that none of you would reveal what happened out there? Has Trevelyn now broken that agreement, broken his word to save himself?’

  William Darnell leaned back in his leather chair. He had spent so much of his life in it that it fitted him like a well-worn glove. He waited while Marlowe thought about his answer. There was always a pause, a silence, while Marlowe took in fully everything you had said. Darnell was convinced that he had unusual powers of concentration. In the months they had known each other—or rather, because that implied a degree of openness, of candour, that didn’t exist, in the months in which they had had occasional conversations—Darnell could not remember a single instance in which he had been asked to repeat something he had said. There was something slow and steady and reliable, something you could trust, about Marlowe. But beyond that, there was something deep and impenetrable about him. He would never lie, but there were things about him, secrets, at which you could only guess.