Chapter 5 - The Cross-Examination
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Then Malcolm called Beatrice to speak.
She rose gracefully, smoothing her skirt, and walked to the witness stand as though accepting an award. Under questioning, she described herself as a devastated mother forced to defend her son’s memory from exploitation. Her voice quivered beautifully when she said Gabriel had been “too trusting.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief when she said I had isolated him from his family. She claimed I refused to allow her access to medical records because I had something to hide. She said she had watched me at the funeral and noticed I moved “too easily” for a woman six months pregnant.
Too easily.
I almost laughed. At Gabriel’s funeral, I had moved like a person walking underwater. I had held my stomach with one hand and the casket with the other. I had kissed the wood before they lowered him and whispered, “I don’t know how to do this without you.” Beatrice had stood ten feet away and checked her phone.
Elise cross-examined with quiet precision.
“Mrs. Langham, did your son know about the pregnancy before his death?”
Beatrice’s eyes flicked toward me. “So she claims.”
“Did you read his last text messages to his wife?”
“My son’s phone is part of the estate review.”
“Answer the question.”
Beatrice looked annoyed. “I read some messages.”
Elise lifted a paper. “On January seventeenth, Gabriel texted Nora, ‘I heard his heartbeat in my dreams last night.’ On January eighteenth, he texted, ‘Mom can rage all she wants when she finds out. I choose you and our son.’ Were you aware of those messages?”
Beatrice’s face hardened. “My son was manipulated.”
“Were you aware of those messages?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you filed a petition stating he could not confirm the pregnancy.”
“My son is dead.”
“But before he died, he confirmed it repeatedly in writing.”
Beatrice’s lips thinned.
My father made a note.
Malcolm shifted in his chair.
Elise continued. “Did you contact media outlets before this hearing?”
“I made no official statement.”
“That was not the question.”
“I may have spoken to family friends.”
“Family friends who happen to own news sites?”
Beatrice’s eyes flashed. “People were concerned.”
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“About truth, or about pressure?”
Malcolm objected. My father sustained it, but his eyes remained fixed on Beatrice with a coldness I recognized from childhood. It was the look he gave witnesses who mistook polish for credibility.
