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“I earned my Ph.D. in the genesis of developmental psycholinguistics within higher primates.”
Well, whatever that was, it certainly ruled out dumb. Which meant that Remy Westbrook had been bought. Marc felt a spate of disappointment, although he couldn’t clearly define why. He had no time to think about it. He only had time for attending to the business at hand.
“What do you do for a living, Dr. Westbrook?”
“I head the new Center for Primate Language Studies at the University of Washington.”
So she was a professional engaged in what was obviously important scientific research. It would be hard for this jury to believe this intelligent, attractive woman would lie. It looked like Binick had chosen his confederate well.
“Dr. Westbrook, did you avail yourself of the services of the Bio-Sperm company?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted a baby.”
“You couldn’t find a husband?”
“I didn’t look.”
“Was that because as a busy professional woman you didn’t have the time?”
“No.”
“Then why didn’t you marry and have a child in the conventional way?”
Sato rose to his feet. “Your Honor, I object,” he said in his quiet, polite manner. “These questions are totally irrelevant to the issue at hand and constitute an unnecessary invasion of Dr. Westbrook’s life.”
The judge nodded. “I tend to agree. Mr. Truesdale, would you care to explain the purpose of your current thrust?”
“I’m trying to explore the motives behind the actions of this witness in order to determine her credibility, Your Honor. Since Dr. Westbrook is claiming to have given birth to David Demerchant’s child, I have every right to—”
“I am claiming no such thing,” she interrupted in that same liquid and languid tone.
“Excuse me?” Marc said, turning back to her.
“Dr. Westbrook, please do not answer any more questions until I rule on the objection before this court,” the judge admonished. “Mr. Truesdale, the only personal questions I will allow you to ask of this witness are those germane to this issue of the child’s paternity. Objection sustained.”
Marc nodded at the bench before eagerly turning back to his witness. “Dr. Westbrook, did you just say you’re not claiming to have given birth to David Demerchant’s child?”
“That’s right.”
“Then whose child did you have?”
“My child. He belongs to me. I’m here only because I was subpoenaed, Counselor. I would not have come under any other circumstances.”
So, she was playing the reluctant mother who had been dragged into the courtroom battle against her will. A most believable role. Yes, she was smart, all right. Too damn smart.
He belongs to me. How casually she had conveyed the fact that her child was a boy. Marc spared a quick glance at his client. The light of hopeful joy in Louie Demerchant’s eyes struck deeply at Marc’s sense of justice and fair play. This was such a cruel thing this woman was doing. Did she understand how cruel? Did she care?
He swung back to his witness. His fascination for the lady’s lovely legs, sensual walk and mysterious air had momentarily clouded his judgment. Well, not anymore. Work was work and women were women, and Marc knew better than to ever mix the two. He shot out his next questions in rapid fire.
“Dr. Westbrook, how many times were you inseminated with donor sperm from Bio-Sperm?”
“Just once.”
“When?”
“July 5, two years ago.”
“When did you give birth?”
“April 7 of last year.”
“How much did your baby weigh at birth?”
“Six pounds, twelve ounces.”
“Was he a full-term baby?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“The doctor confirmed my pregnancy at the end of August the previous year.”
“And you think you became pregnant and gave birth to your son as a result of the sperm you received at Bio-Sperm on July 5 of the month before?”
“I know it.”
“You know it? How can you know it?”
“I was only artificially inseminated once, Counselor.”
“There are other ways of becoming pregnant, Dr. Westbrook. How many times did you have intimate relations with a man during the months of June, July and August during the year when your baby was conceived?”
For the first time, Marc saw a slight stiffening in the relaxed shoulders of his witness. Remy Westbrook shifted sideways in her chair in order to face and address the judge.
“Your Honor, is that question permissible?”
The judge’s lined face looked apologetic. “Yes, Dr. Westbrook. You are instructed to answer.”
Remy Westbrook turned back to Marc, but this time he saw a tiny lick of golden flame in the center of her cinnamon eyes. Its heat gave him a small shock because of the message it conveyed.
It seemed he’d been dead wrong. Remy Westbrook was not tranquil and serene and untouched by these proceedings at all. She was blazing mad.
“None,” she answered, her tone still as mellow as ever.
“You had no intimate relations with a man during the months of June, July and August of that year? Three whole months?” he emphasized with raised eyebrows.
“None,” she repeated.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Engaging in intimate physical relations may be a nonselective, common, insignificant event to you, Counselor. I, however, take such an act seriously, am very selective and, hence, remember each and every occasion well.”
Her voice had retained its languid, liquid quality. But those cinnamon eyes now blazed with that golden, indignant flame.
Marc was struck with a sudden doubt. Could she be telling the truth? Had he entirely misread this situation—and her? Only one way to find out.
“Dr. Westbrook, in the event that irrefutable evidence is uncovered to prove that your child is the descendant of my client, Louie Demerchant, what do you intend to do about it?”
“Do about it? What do you mean ‘do about it’?”
“Do you intend to make a claim on the Demerchant estate on behalf of your child?”
“Certainly not.”
“Are you aware of how much money may be involved?”
“No, and I don’t care. I don’t want any of it.”
“You want none of a billion-dollar fortune?”
For the first time since she had entered the courtroom, Marc watched Remy Westbrook’s calm countenance ripple with a wave of surprise. She leaned forward in the witness chair. “A billion dollars?”
The courtroom rocked with excited whispers as its inhabitants responded to that staggering amount in their own shocked way. The judge rapped for order. The silence that followed was instant and absolute. No one wanted to miss anything that was going to be said.
“Yes, Dr. Westbrook,” Marc assured solemnly, his voice carrying to every corner of the courtroom in that silence. “If your son is the offspring of David Demerchant, he could be the sole beneficiary of a billion-dollar estate.”
She locked eyes with him for a moment. She had completely emerged from that quiet center, and Marc could feel the considerable will of the woman behind that cinnamon stare. Those initial interesting twitches that had begun inside him began to multiply by leaps and bounds.
And then, in the next instant, she leaned back in the chair and retreated again to that quiet inner center.
“I don’t care how much money is involved,” her liquid, languid voice said. “I want none of it.”
“Are you willing to go on record that you would refuse such a financial windfall, even if your child were David Demerchant’s?”
“I just did.”
And so she had. Which brought up some interesting new possibilities. Marc pushed on. “If your child does turn out to be David Demerchant’s, do you intend to grant Louie Demerchant visiting rights to his great-grandchild?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“If my son just happens to have Demerchant genes, those genes came to him purely by accident. It was neither David Demerchant’s intent nor was it mine to have a child together. We never even met. If he were still alive, even he would have no claim to my son, much less his grandfather.”
“You will not even let Louie Demerchant see this boy who could be his great-grandchild?”
“That’s right. I will not.”
“Your attitude seems rather extreme, does it not?”
“I do not believe it is. I paid for anonymous sperm. My contract with Bio-Sperm affords me exclusive rights to that sperm and any offspring produced from it.”
“How are you going to explain away these actions to your son when he is old enough to understand?”
“I won’t have to explain away anything. There is no real proof that my son carries Demerchant genes, and since David Demerchant is dead, obtaining such proof now is impossible.”
“So your son will never even know he might be a Demerchant?”
“He is not a Demerchant. He is a Westbrook.”
“You will not meet with Louie Demerchant to discuss this?”
“No, I will not.”
Marc smiled. Yes, the lady might just be telling the truth, after all. Binick and his attorney would have to be out of their minds to have encouraged her to make up this story.
Because, for the purposes of this suit against Bio-Sperm, her testimony wasn’t damaging at all to Marc’s case. On the contrary. He was delighted with it. Remy Westbrook was a keg of dynamite that he would soon be detonating right in Binick’s face.
Marc could already hear his closing arguments.
“Gentlemen of the jury. Even if Remy Westbrook had David’s child, Louie Demerchant will never know for certain, will he? What agony he will be forced to go through because of this uncertainty! And even if Louie Demerchant wants to believe he has this great-grandchild, the only hope of his line, he will never be permitted to see this child. Nor will this child ever carry the Demerchant name. He will not even be allowed to know who his father’s family was. What could be worse torture for a loving great-grandfather? And all because of yet another mistake that Bio-Sperm has made!”
As the rehearsal for his final statement to the jury whirled through his mind, Marc decided that if he had known of the existence of Remy Westbrook and her child, he would have talked Demerchant into asking for fifteen million instead of ten.
“Thank you, Dr. Westbrook,” he said aloud to his witness. “That’s all I have.”
“Do you wish to cross, Mr. Sato?” the judge asked.
Binick’s attorney nodded, rose and approached Remy. “Dr. Westbrook, I know you’ve had less than a week to learn of and digest these startling revelations, on top of which you have been subpoenaed and have been forced to reveal very personal parts of your life to this court. I can understand how upset you must feel.”
“Can you?” she asked in that languid voice, while even from the plaintiff’s table Marc could see the golden flame flickering again in the center of her eyes.
“Yes, and I truly regret the necessity,” Sato continued. “However, we are only interested in getting at the truth here. And as upsetting as this intrusion into your private life must be, I cannot believe that you would deny your son’s right to even know about his father and his father’s family.”
Marc rose to his feet. “I object. Counsel is making argumentative speeches, not asking questions.”
“Sustained,” the judge ruled.
“Dr. Westbrook,” Sato began again. “Do you love your son?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want the best for him?”
