“No.”
“When was the last time you saw Mister Bradfield prior to his leaving for the shore on Friday, June twenty-second, 1979? Do you remember?”
“No, I don’t.”
“The testimony up until this time has been that Mister Bradfield was in Cape May for the entire weekend. What were you doing over the weekend when Mister Bradfield was away?”
“I was looking at architecture in Philadelphia. Getting to know the city.”
“And had you done that prior to that weekend while you were living in that hotel?”
“Yes. That was one of the main purposes for my being in Philadelphia.”
“Did you do anything with anybody, or do anything in terms of registering, to verify your whereabouts for that weekend?”
“Aside from the hotel, I can’t think of anything offhand.”
After she testified that a change in plans had necessitated her driving his VW Beetle with their belongings, Guida asked her, “Were you in any way upset that you had to drive alone across the country while your friend, Mister Bradfield, flew?”
“Well, it would have been nicer to have him in the car, but I wasn’t worried about the drive across the country alone.”
“When you arrived in New Mexico, what was your living arrangement?”
“I stayed in the same room as he did.”
“Now, you indicated that in 1979 you had this romantic relationship with Mister Bradfield. Does that romantic interest continue today?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Pass the witness.”
Bill Costopoulos began by asking about the present relationship: “Because of your romantic interest that has continued until this day with Mister Bradfield, is it fair to say that you communicate with him now that he’s in prison?”
“Yes.”
“And how frequently do you communicate?”
“I see him probably twice a month and talk maybe twice a month with him on the telephone.”
“Have you always kept him advised of the investigation that was going on in this matter?”
“Meaning?”
“When the police would come to talk to you, would you report that to him?”
It was one of the few times she hesitated. She said, “I would say he probably … I probably talked to him about it, yes.”
“And in fact you’d tell him exactly what you were being asked about, wouldn’t you?”
“There’s a possibility. I don’t remember specifically trying to tell him everything I’d been asked about.”
“Do you remember resisting any cooperation with law enforcement after the weekend in question?”
“Resisting?”
“Not cooperating?”
“Not by my definition,” she said.
With this, Rachel leaned forward in her witness chair and folded her tiny hands and stared Bill Costopoulos right in the eye and answered questions as precisely as anything manufactured by IBM.
“Not by your definition,” he said. “Well, when they would come to talk to you, would you talk to them?”
“No, not without my lawyer’s permission and my lawyer’s presence.”
“And was it Bradfield’s suggestion that you have a lawyer present when you were questioned?”
“No, it was my lawyer’s.”
“When was the last time you talked to Bradfield before coming here today?”
“I spoke with him on the telephone last night.” Then she paused and said, “Or the night before.”
“Did you tell him you were under subpoena?”
“Oh, yes. He knew that.”
“When did you first learn that Bradfield was having a romantic relationship with Susan Reinert?”
The witness leaned forward a little more and the tone in her voice could have chilled a martini. She paused and said, “I don’t believe he was having a romantic relationship with Susan Reinert.”
“You don’t believe that to this day?”
“That’s correct.”
“When did you find out that he was having a romantic relationship with Sue Myers?”
“Since I’ve known him, he hasn’t had a romantic relationship with Sue Myers.”
“All right, just so I’m clear, we’re not having a definition problem about a romantic relationship, are we?”
“I don’t think so,” she said.
“Did he ever tell you that he was the named beneficiary to the tune of seven hundred and thirty thousand dollars in life insurance?”
“No.”
“He never told you that?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Did he tell you that he was the designated beneficiary of her estate by a will executed May fourth, 1979?”
“No.”
“Did you ever learn of those possible facts?”
“Well, I learned of those possible facts, as you put it, after the death of Susan Reinert.”
“Did Bradfield tell you after her death that he was shocked that Reinert would name him as beneficiary in that insurance policy?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Now when you say you were looking at architecture for the three weeks before the weekend in question, what is it that you would do?”
“Wander around in Philadelphia, go to see specific buildings, go to see neighborhoods in general.”
“Do you recall where you were on June twenty-second, 1979, in the evening hours?”
“June twenty-second was a Friday, I understand, from what Mister Guida has said?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“You don’t know. When was the first time you were asked that question by the authorities?”
“Probably the first time I spoke to them.”
“Do you recall when that was?”
“No.”
“The fact is, is it not, that on that Monday, June twenty-fifth, when the two of you were supposed to go to Santa Fe together, that was the day that he told you to drive because he was flying?”
“On that Monday?”
“Yes.”
“That probably was the day that the plans were eventually clear that he would fly and I would drive.”
“How far is Santa Fe?”
“Approximately two thousand miles.”
“So, when he told you to drive two thousand miles in his car with his belongings, you really didn’t even question that, did you?”
“Question it in what way?”
“Would you consider your act of driving that car two thousand miles an act of obedience?”
“I consider it an act of common sense.”
“Would you consider it an act of loyalty?”
“No. We had to have the belongings and the car taken to New Mexico.
“How did you learn of Reinerts death?”
“When I was driving across the country, I spoke with him on the phone.”
“When did he tell you about the children?”
“I don’t remember if he had anything to say about them, or not.”
“Did you ever ask him what he might know about her death and their disappearance?”
“No, I did not.”
“When the two of you left Santa Fe to go to Boston there was a certain typewriter that he left in your custody and control, wasn’t there?”
“That’s correct.”
“The authorities were interested in that typewriter, weren’t they?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“You refused to give it to them for a long period of time, didn’t you?”
“No, that’s not precisely correct.”
“What is precisely correct?”
“There was, I believe, an FBI agent who came and asked for it. My lawyer in Philadelphia and I didn’t think that I should give up something without a subpoena or warrant of some sort. I told him to contact my lawyer, that I wasn’t going to give it to them. And I contacted my lawyer for instructions.”
“And he told you to give it to them?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you of course had talked to Bradfield before you gave it to them, didn’t you?”
“I don’t recall whether I did or not.”
“The typewriter that you gave them had a ball on it, didn’t it?”
“An element, yes.”
“Did you give them the same element that was on the typewriter when Bradfield left it in your custody and control?”