Most important, they wouldn’t jeopardize Audra’s right to keep her son.
Her hands trembled as she pitched the toy plane into the trash. She scoured his desk for anything more and found the submarine from Dr. Shaw.
No surprise that the hypnosis had failed. If the man were astute enough, he would have known why. Jack needed someone who recognized what this was from the beginning.
That someone should have been her.
It wasn’t too late. She would start over and do it right. Together they would clear out mistakes of the past. To that end, she picked up the journal, its pages splayed in her hands. She would take Jack to the store and let him pick out a new one, any design of his choice. A journal that couldn’t be used as evidence of what a gullible mother she had been.
“What are you doing?”
Audra swung toward the doorway. Jack stood there in front of Tess and Grace. He scanned the room in a panic, over the bare wall and ceiling, and halted at the open journal in her hand. The look he gave was of sheer betrayal.
In defense, she reminded herself what had driven her here. This wasn’t all of her doing. “I found the library book you destroyed, the pages all cut up. Jack, why would you do that?”
He stared at her, not answering.
“Jack? Tell me why.”
Still he was silent.
“Please, say something,” she demanded. Frustration returned and her eyes pricked with tears. “Don’t you realize what you’ve done to us?”
“Audra,” Tess broke in. “I think that’s enough.”
Jack curled his fingers, his chin crinkling, fighting back his own tears. The sight was a stab to Audra’s heart. She was trying to protect him, and all she was doing was making things worse.
“Baby ... I didn’t mean that.” She moved toward him, but he vehemently shook his head. He pushed past Tess and ran toward the front door. Audra instinctively went to follow, but Tess touched her arm.
“You stay, I’ll go.”
It was either a kind gesture from an experienced mother or a message that Audra had done enough damage. Whichever the case—perhaps it was both—Audra managed to nod. When Tess hurried off, Grace followed.
Alone, Audra surveyed the room. In the aftermath of an explosion that she had largely created, she couldn’t deny that if it were up to her, if she were the judge at this very moment, there wasn’t a chance she would rule in her own favor.
50
Encircling Foley Square in Lower Manhattan were tangible, solid structures of age-old justice. A granite pediment, Corinthian colonnades, and broad, sweeping steps adorned a trio of courthouses. The relevance of this symbolism was not lost on Vivian as she approached the FBI’s office.
She had a block to go when two suited men exited the building, one with a briefcase, the other with a cigarette. Brimmed hats shaded their features from the early evening light. From this distance either one could be Agent Gerard. If not, they just might know his whereabouts.
“Pardon me!” Vivian called out. Though they continued on, she tried again over the motors of passing cars. “Agent Gerard!”
They turned to her, exposing their faces, and rewarded her attempt; the gentleman smoking was indeed the one she sought. He uttered something to his companion, sending him off, before meeting Vivian halfway.
“Miss James–”
“I’m sorry to come unannounced, but I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“Yes, I know.... I was going to call when I had more information.”
“When is Isaak going to be released? Are they allowing him to defect, or will he be sent back? Please, I need to know what’s happening.”
Agent Gerard pitched his cigarette at the pavement, ground it beneath his shoe. He appeared to hold his breath even as he replied, “There’s been a trial.”
A trial?
She shook her head, certain she had misheard. “When you talked about legal formalities ... that’s what you were referring to?”
“When we started, it was just a possibility. But FDR pushed for a military tribunal.”
“What is-what does that mean?”
“It’s an armed services court of law. Closed-door. No press, no jury. Just seven generals on a panel.”
She visualized the daunting scene. “You never said anything about this.”
“It’s not the usual. They haven’t convened one since the Civil War. But the President wanted to move things along, keep it out of the media. Plus, with a war on, he didn’t want civilian rights getting in the way.” At this, the agent gazed toward the street with a slight look of distaste.
“So you’re saying the trial is over,” she realized, still trying to process the update. It didn’t seem possible in the span of a few weeks. She fought to keep her voice level. “What was the ruling?”