and she had to shake it out of his body or it would kill her and the baby.”
As Saunders talked, images of Lenore violently shaking her crying baby forced themselves on me. I felt ill and couldn’t imagine how he lived with the pain.
“Did you believe her?” I recalled what Lenore had told me. That no one believed her about what had happened to Max. No one except Nina.
“I
wanted
to,” he said with sad earnestness. “Lenore’s doctor said hers was a textbook case. He explained that she’d had a postpartum psychotic episode, and everything he said made sense. The symptoms were all there. And Lenore was obviously severely depressed. The day of Max’s funeral she tried to kill herself in jail. She broke a makeup mirror and used a piece to slash her wrists, and she overdosed on medications she’d somehow hoarded. She tried again a few weeks later. I felt terribly sorry for her, and I blamed myself for not having seen the signs, for not having protected Max.”
I didn’t know a pleasant way of bringing up my next question. “You felt sorry for her, but you divorced her.”
He flinched as though I’d struck him, then nodded. “Maybe another man would have been stronger. I couldn’t get past the fact that she’d killed our son. I hired the best criminal defense attorney we could find. I was there for her during the trial, and after. I just couldn’t stay in a marriage that had died.”
There are violent deaths to a marriage, I thought, and there are petty, sordid ones. “What happened during the trial?”
“The jury found her guilty of manslaughter, and the judge decided against jail time. She was in a psychiatric hospital for six months, and as far as I know, she’s been continuing therapy with Dr. Korwin, and on medication.” Saunders sighed. “But I guess the guilt was too much for her.”
I understood now why Lenore had felt she hadn’t deserved a second chance. Connors, of course, had known all along. That’s why he was so sure she’d killed herself.
“Lenore wouldn’t want all of this to come out again,” Saunders said, his tone urgent. “Her mother certainly doesn’t. One of the reasons I returned to L.A. was to get away from the notoriety. The media coverage was worse than the trial.” He was scowling at me, as if I were personally responsible.
“I’m surprised there hasn’t been more coverage here now that you’re running for office,” I said.
“Me, too.” He grimaced. “I’m waiting for the shoe to drop. So far it hasn’t.” He looked at me pointedly.
I pitied the man. If what he told me was true—and why would he lie?—he’d suffered a horrible tragedy, and I had no interest in forcing him or anyone in his family or Lenore’s to relive it. I understood now why Betty Rowan had been evasive when I’d asked her if she knew what Lenore was doing on Laurel Canyon.
But what about the events of last Sunday morning? According to Andy Connors, neither of Saunders’s vehicles had struck Lenore. Still, I was skeptical about Saunders’s story. I wondered whether he’d pursued Lenore—to protect her, as he claimed, or to harass—and forced her into the street; whether he’d seen her lying there, injured, and had decided not to come to the aid of the ex-wife responsible for the death of his son.
fifteen
The vacuum was groaning when I let myself into my parents’ house. After calling “Hello?” and receiving no answer, I went upstairs to my old bedroom and unpacked. I don’t usually spend Friday night with my parents. They live on Gardner, south of Beverly, over a mile from my apartment, and since I don’t drive on the Sabbath, I have to sleep over. Sometimes I prefer the solitude of my apartment, the uninterrupted introspection; sometimes, as my sister Edie claims, I’m determined to prove my postdivorce self-reliance. The truth is that, as comfortable as my parents try to make me feel, since the divorce it’s been odd returning to the bedroom I left when I got
As Saunders talked, images of Lenore violently shaking her crying baby forced themselves on me. I felt ill and couldn’t imagine how he lived with the pain.
“Did you believe her?” I recalled what Lenore had told me. That no one believed her about what had happened to Max. No one except Nina.
“I
wanted
to,” he said with sad earnestness. “Lenore’s doctor said hers was a textbook case. He explained that she’d had a postpartum psychotic episode, and everything he said made sense. The symptoms were all there. And Lenore was obviously severely depressed. The day of Max’s funeral she tried to kill herself in jail. She broke a makeup mirror and used a piece to slash her wrists, and she overdosed on medications she’d somehow hoarded. She tried again a few weeks later. I felt terribly sorry for her, and I blamed myself for not having seen the signs, for not having protected Max.”
I didn’t know a pleasant way of bringing up my next question. “You felt sorry for her, but you divorced her.”
He flinched as though I’d struck him, then nodded. “Maybe another man would have been stronger. I couldn’t get past the fact that she’d killed our son. I hired the best criminal defense attorney we could find. I was there for her during the trial, and after. I just couldn’t stay in a marriage that had died.”
There are violent deaths to a marriage, I thought, and there are petty, sordid ones. “What happened during the trial?”
“The jury found her guilty of manslaughter, and the judge decided against jail time. She was in a psychiatric hospital for six months, and as far as I know, she’s been continuing therapy with Dr. Korwin, and on medication.” Saunders sighed. “But I guess the guilt was too much for her.”
I understood now why Lenore had felt she hadn’t deserved a second chance. Connors, of course, had known all along. That’s why he was so sure she’d killed herself.
“Lenore wouldn’t want all of this to come out again,” Saunders said, his tone urgent. “Her mother certainly doesn’t. One of the reasons I returned to L.A. was to get away from the notoriety. The media coverage was worse than the trial.” He was scowling at me, as if I were personally responsible.
“I’m surprised there hasn’t been more coverage here now that you’re running for office,” I said.
“Me, too.” He grimaced. “I’m waiting for the shoe to drop. So far it hasn’t.” He looked at me pointedly.
I pitied the man. If what he told me was true—and why would he lie?—he’d suffered a horrible tragedy, and I had no interest in forcing him or anyone in his family or Lenore’s to relive it. I understood now why Betty Rowan had been evasive when I’d asked her if she knew what Lenore was doing on Laurel Canyon.
But what about the events of last Sunday morning? According to Andy Connors, neither of Saunders’s vehicles had struck Lenore. Still, I was skeptical about Saunders’s story. I wondered whether he’d pursued Lenore—to protect her, as he claimed, or to harass—and forced her into the street; whether he’d seen her lying there, injured, and had decided not to come to the aid of the ex-wife responsible for the death of his son.
fifteen
The vacuum was groaning when I let myself into my parents’ house. After calling “Hello?” and receiving no answer, I went upstairs to my old bedroom and unpacked. I don’t usually spend Friday night with my parents. They live on Gardner, south of Beverly, over a mile from my apartment, and since I don’t drive on the Sabbath, I have to sleep over. Sometimes I prefer the solitude of my apartment, the uninterrupted introspection; sometimes, as my sister Edie claims, I’m determined to prove my postdivorce self-reliance. The truth is that, as comfortable as my parents try to make me feel, since the divorce it’s been odd returning to the bedroom I left when I got
Similar Books
