Page 126 of The Girl You Left Behind
“My late husband, David Halston, was also a good man. A really good man. I believe now that had he known that Sophie’s portrait, the painting he loved, had this—this history, he would have given it back long ago. My contesting this case has caused his good name to be removed from the building that was his life and his dream, and that is a source of immense regret to me, because that building—the Goldstein—should have been his memorial.”
She sees the reporters look up, the ripple of interest that passes over their bench. Several of them consult, start scribbling.
“This case—this painting—has pretty much destroyed what should have been his legacy, just as it destroyed Sophie’s. In this way they have both been wronged.” Her voice begins to break. She glances around her. “For that reason I would like it on record that the decision to fight was mine alone. If I have been mistaken, I’m so very sorry. That’s all. Thank you.”
She takes two awkward steps to the side. She sees the reporters scribbling furiously, one checking the spelling ofGoldstein. Two solicitors on the bench are talking urgently. “Nice move,” says Henry, softly, leaning in to her. “You’d have made a good lawyer.”
I did it, she tells herself silently.David is publicly linked to his building now, whatever the Goldsteins do.
The judge asks for silence. “Mrs. Halston, have you finished preempting my verdict?” he says wearily.
Liv nods. Her throat has dried. Janey is whispering to her lawyer.
“And this is the painting in question, is it?”
“Yes.” She is still holding it tightly to her, like a shield.
He turns to the court clerk. “Can someone arrange for it to be placed in safe custody? I’m not entirely sure it should be sitting out here. Mrs. Halston?”
Liv holds out the painting to the court clerk. Just for a moment her fingers seem oddly reluctant to release it, as if her inner self has decided to ignore the instruction. When she finally lets go, the clerk stands there, briefly frozen, as if she has handed him something radioactive, and then, after a pause, hands her back the blanket.
I’m sorry, Sophie, she thinks, and, suddenly exposed, the girl’s image stares back at her.
Liv walks unsteadily back to her seat, the blanket balled under her arm, barely hearing the growing commotion around her. The judge is in conversation with both barristers. Several people make for the doors, evening-paper reporters perhaps, and above them the public gallery is alive with discussion. Henry touches her arm, muttering something about how she has done a good thing.
She sits and gazes down at her lap, at the wedding ring she twists round and round her finger, and wonders how it is possible to feel so empty.
And then she hears it.
“Excuse me?”
It is repeated twice before it can be heard over the melee. She looks up, following the swiveling gaze of the people around her, and there, in the doorway, is Paul McCafferty.
He is wearing a blue shirt, and his chin is gray with stubble, his expression unreadable. He wedges the door open, and slowly pulls a wheelchair into the courtroom. He looks around, seeking her out, and suddenly it is just the two of them.You okay?he mouths, and she nods, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
He calls again, just audible above the noise. “Excuse me? Your Honor?”
The gavel cracks against the desk like a gunshot. The court falls silent. Janey Dickinson stands and turns to see what is happening. Paul is pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair down the central aisle of the court. She is impossibly ancient, hunched over like a shepherd’s crook, her hands resting on a small bag.
Another woman, neatly dressed in navy, hurries in behind Paul, consults with him in whispers. He gestures toward the judge.
“My grandmother has some important information regarding this case,” the woman says. She speaks with a strong French accent, and as she walks down the center aisle, she glances awkwardly to the people on either side.
The judge throws up his hands. “Why not?” he mutters audibly. “Everyone else seems to want to have a say. Let’s see if the cleaner would like to express her view, why don’t we?”
The woman waits, and he says, exasperated, “Oh, for goodness’ sake, madame. Do approach the bench.”
They exchange a few words. The judge calls over the two barristers, and the conversation extends.
“What is this?” Henry keeps saying, beside Liv. “What on earth is going on?”
A hush settles over the court.
“It appears we should hear what this woman has to say,” the judge says. He picks up his pen and leafs through his notes. “I’m wondering if anybody here is going to be interested in something as mundane as an actual verdict.”
The old woman’s chair is wheeled round and positioned near the front of the court. Someone brings her a microphone. She speaks slowly, haltingly, as if her English has been long unused.
“Before the future of the painting is decided, there is something you must know. This case is based on a false premise.” She pauses. “The Girl You Left Behindwas never stolen.”
