Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

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bsp; Catherine Fitzgibbon smiled and then quipped, “Sure I do. Of course I do. Haven’t you read the National Enquirer lately?” That got a laugh from the courtroom audience, even the jury members. I could tell that they liked Catherine. So did I.

She continued, “Isn’t it true that your husband has been treated for ‘despair’ for many years? He’s seeing a psychologist, Mrs. Shafer. He suffers from manic depression, or bipolar disorder, correct?”

Lucy shook her head. “He’s had a midlife crisis. That’s all it is. It’s nothing unusual for men his age.”

“I see. And were you able to help him with his crisis?”

“Of course I was. Although not with respect to his work. So much of what he does is classified and top-secret. You must understand that.”

“I must,” the prosecutor said, then quickly went on, “So your husband has a great many secrets he keeps from you?”

Lucy frowned, and her eyes shot darts at the wily prosecutor. “In his work, yes.”

“You knew that he was seeing Dr. Cassady? Boo Cassady?”

“Yes, of course I did. We often talked about it.”

“How often did he see her? Do you know? Did he tell you that? Or was it top-secret?”

Jane Halpern shouted, “Objection!”

“Sustained. Ms. Fitzgibbon,” warned Judge Fescoe, with an arched brow.

“Sorry, Your Honor. Sorry, Lucy. All right, then. How often did your husband see Boo Cassady?”

“He saw her as much as necessary, I suppose. I believe her name is Elizabeth.”

“Once a week? Twice? Every day?” Fitzgibbon pressed on, without missing a beat.

“I think once a week. Usually it was once a week.”

“But the doormen at the Farragut testified that they saw your husband much more than that. Three or four times a week, on average.”

Lucy Shafer shook her head wearily and glared at Fitzgibbon. “I trust Geoffrey completely. I don’t keep a leash on him. I certainly wouldn’t count his therapy sessions.”

“Did you mind that Dr. Cassady—Elizabeth—was such an attractive woman?”

“No. Don’t be absurd.”

Fitzgibbon looked genuinely surprised. “Why is that absurd? I don’t think it is. I think I’d mind if my husband was seeing an attractive woman at her home-office two, three, four times a week.”

Fitzgibbon moved swiftly. “Didn’t it bother you that Boo Cassady was a surrogate sex therapist for your husband?”

Lucy Shafer hesitated, seemed surprised, and glanced quickly at her husband. She hadn’t known. It was impossible not to feel sorry for her.

Jane Halpern quickly rose from her seat. “Objection! Your Honor, there is no foundation that my client was seeing a sex surrogate.”

Lucy Shafer visibly pulled herself together on the witness stand. She was clearly stronger than she looked. Was she a game player, too? Could she be one of the players? Or did she and her husband play a completely different kind of game?

She spoke. “I’d like to answer the question. Madam Prosecutor, my husband, Geoffrey, has been such a good husband, such a good father, that even if he felt it necessary to see a sex therapist, and did not want to tell me about it because of the hurt or shame he felt, I would understand.”

“And if he committed cold-blooded murder—and did not want to tell you?” the prosecutor asked, then turned to the jury.

Chapter 95

ELIZABETH “BOO” CASSADY was in her late thirties, slender and very attractive, with lustrous brown hair that she had worn long since she was a young girl. She was a regular shopper at Neiman Marcus, Saks, Nordstrom, Bloomingdale’s, and various chic specialty shops around Washington. It showed.