Pop Goes the Weasel

She said, “Let yourself grieve for her, Alex. Let her go.”

Chapter 94
    GEOFFREY SHAFER had an attractive, loving wife, and that incongruous and monstrously unfair fact bothered me a lot. I couldn’t understand it as a psychologist or as a detective.
    The clever testimony of Lucy Shafer continued early the following morning and lasted just over an hour. Jane Halpern wanted the jury to hear more about Lucy’s wonderful husband.
    Finally, it was Catherine Fitzgibbon’s turn. In her own way, she was as tough, and maybe as formidable, as Jules Halpern.
    “Mrs. Shafer, we’ve all been listening to you intently, and it all sounds very charming and idyllic, but I’m troubled and confused by something. Here’s what troubles me: your husband tried to commit suicide eight days ago. Your husband tried to kill himself. So maybe he isn’t quite what he seems to be. Maybe he isn’t so well balanced and sane. Maybe you’re mistaken about who he really is.”
    Lucy Shafer stared directly into the prosecuting attorney’s eyes. “In the past few months, my husband has seen his life, his career, and his good name falsely put in jeopardy. My husband couldn’t believe that these horrible charges were made against him. This whole Kafkaesque ordeal drove him, quite literally, to despair. You have no idea what it means to lose your good name.”
    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