Just as she had done with me, Patsy went one-on-one with Haney without hesitation ... she would sometimes close her eyes and retreat into herself before giving her answers. She began very politely, although she was rather vague on general topics during the first two days, denying involvement and saying, "I just did my best."
By the third day Haney had figured out how to push her buttons. "She's not a very good actress," he observed. He needled her by saying that the $100,000 reward they had posted was not really very much compared with the family's total wealth. It was about the price of a new boat, he noted.
As her patience grew exhausted, she grew animated and aggressive on that third day, and Haney bored in. Instead of the teary victim, I saw an agitated and curt woman. I saw the southern belle vanish and a steel magnolia emerge. During the breaks she stood outside chain-smoking.
When he brought up the prior vaginal abuse, she demanded to see the evidence. Haney pressed. "It's a fact," he said. "I want to see it," she replied. "I'm shocked, I am very distressed." Her voice, however, remained calm at that point. "Does this surprise you?" he asked. "Extremely," she said. "Who could have done it?" Haney asked. She had no idea.
But when he indicated that we might have trace evidence linking her to the death of her daughter, Patsy became indignant. "Totally impossible. Go retest it," she ordered, with a sharp edge to her voice. "I don't care what you have. I don't give a flying flip. Go back to the drawing board."
She pointed a finger straight at her questioner. "We have to start working together to find out who the hell did it! My life has been hell ... this child was the most precious thing in my life. Quit screwing around asking me this stuff and let's find the person who did this."
Haney said they were not ready to show her evidence and challenged her further. "Pal, you don't want to go there," she warned, adding that she was a good Christian woman who did not lie. She pushed back against the couch and exhaled in disgust. "Criminy," she exclaimed.
Haney continued to be inhospitable and probed about whether the death could have been an accident resulting from bed-wetting. Patsy help up a hand, like a stop sign. "You're going down the wrong path, buddy!"
Later she said, "If John Ramsey were involved, honey, we wouldn't be sitting here. I'd have knocked his block off. Read my lips! This was not done by a family member. Didn't happen. Period. End of statement."
Still Haney came on, polite but insistent, inquiring about any family secrets, and she tired of him. "Cut to the chase," she barked.
"Oh, no," Haney responded smoothly. "That would spoil the ride."
"Then spoil my ride," Patsy said, her eyes riveting him. She didn't give an inch.
It was a spellbinding exchange. Tom Haney, with his no-nonsense style and three days in which to ask his questions, had found something I felt had to be there somewhere not too far below that polished beauty queen surface. Patsy Ramsey had, for a few moments, lifted her mask. Beneath it, I saw cold rage.
