Shatter My Rock (16 page)

“So
what do you think?” Zoe asks. “We’re off to a good start, huh?”

Rudy,
who has been perched expectantly behind us all morning, slips out of the
first-row bench and answers for me. “Great cross on Dearborn.”

Zoe
smiles in the way only an ex-wife can. “Thanks.”

As
I suspected, the prosecution tried to color me as a sloppy drunk, the kind of
unfit parent who should be sterilized in protection of humanity. Once the issue
of alcohol came into play, though, Zoe was able to impeach Carson’s
testimony—in part, at least—with his own boastful admissions of intoxication,
not to mention his past history of alcohol-related offenses, including multiple
drunken assaults and more than a handful of DUI convictions. But my lawyer
couldn’t erase what Carson said about me and Owen, how he characterized me as a
distant and unresponsive parent, an ice-queen of a mother. Tim, he said, was
the caregiver, which was truer than anyone knew. Because as much as I loved Owen,
I was afraid of him. If I’d embraced him completely, I never would have let him
go. And I had to.

Paul
has skittered off to fetch lunch, which apparently we will consume right here
at the defense table as we lay out the plan of attack for the afternoon and beyond.
Rudy borrows a chair from the prosecution, its side of the courtroom vacant,
and sits unnervingly close to me. I stare out the window at a rustling maple,
the weather on the cusp of a thunderstorm I wish would break loose already.
Once it passes, perhaps my nagging migraine will too.

“Are
you ready for the sister?” Rudy asks, presumably referring to Jenna.

Zoe
nods. “Kid gloves. This is where we’re going to score niceness points with the
jury.”

Rudy
lifts an eyebrow, as if he may disagree. “As long as they don’t back you into a
corner.”

Zoe
stiffens, pulls her eyeglasses to the tip of her nose and peers over them.
“She’s on our side. The prosecution’s only going to get so far before…”   

I
am relieved to hear that Zoe intends to question Jenna gently. There is no
reason my friend should be spun through the wringer on my account, although
Charlotte Tupper may have other plans. “What about Ally?” I say. “Do you think
they’ll really call her?”

“I
wouldn’t,” Zoe says. “She humanizes you too much. That’s the last thing they
want. Plus, she can’t testify to anything that at least three other witnesses
won’t have already said. It’s redundant and risky—unless, of course, they just
want to rattle you.”

“They’re
not gonna call her,” Rudy says, and for no reason whatsoever, I believe him.

It
isn’t until court resumes after lunch that I notice a sadistic detail that has
escaped my attention thus far: Charlotte Tupper is pregnant. Not the kind of pregnant
one can camouflage with a boyfriend shirt and an ‘80s-era blazer. More the
variety of pregnant that draws one’s eye like a blinking neon arrow to the
mother-to-be’s abdomen. Six months along, at least—a coincidence that is sure
to weigh heavily in the minds of the jurors as they ponder my fate.

The
beginning of Jenna’s testimony is tediously textbook:
Does she know me? Am I
in the courtroom? Can she point me out?
Even her answers to the questions
surrounding Owen’s death amount to little more than an elaboration of Carson’s
testimony:
Yes, I was drunk. Yes, Tim seemed to be in charge of Owen’s care.
No, she hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual on the morning of May 28th.
And
so on.

But
then the prosecutor jumps the rails. “Do you know a man by the name of Eric
Blair?”

Jenna
nods. “Yes.”

“How
do you know him?”

“He
worked at Hazelton United.”

“That’s
where you work, right?”

“Yes.”

“And
the defendant worked there too, didn’t she?”

“Yes,
she did.”

“Did
she work with Eric Blair?”

“Not
directly.”

“But
she knew him, correct?”

“Yes.”

“To
your knowledge, was there ever a time when the defendant took a business trip
with Eric Blair?”

“Objection!”
Zoe barks. “Relevance?”

“I’ll
allow it,” Judge Parsons says. “Go ahead, Ms. Dearborn.”

Jenna
glances at me, hesitates. “Yes, there was.”

“Would
that be the trip to Cincinnati on December 14, 2009?”

“I’m
not sure of the date, but that sounds right.”

“When
the defendant returned from that trip, did she tell you about a sexual
encounter that had occurred between her and Eric Blair?”

“No,
she didn’t. She said he hadn’t tried anything.”

Charlotte
Tupper cocks her head. “What do you mean by ‘he hadn’t tried anything?’”

“Just
that he hadn’t made a pass at her. We were both surprised by that.”

“Why
would that surprise you?”

“Because
he’s known for, well, sleeping with lots of women.”

“So
you were aware that Eric Blair had a reputation for, to use your words,
‘sleeping with lots of women?’”

“Yes.”

“At
some time after your conversation with the defendant regarding the Cincinnati
trip, did you become aware of an image of a naked woman that existed on Eric
Blair’s cell phone?”

Jenna
whispers, “Yes.”

“Excuse
me, Ms. Dearborn?”

Jenna
clears her throat. “Yes, I did.”

“And
who is the woman in that image?”

“I
have no idea.”

“Isn’t
it true that the defendant, Claire Fowler, is the woman in that image?”

“I
don’t think so.”

Ms.
Tupper shakes her head, stalks over to the prosecution table and retrieves a
sleeve of evidence from her deputy, which she brandishes as she marches back
toward the bench. “State’s exhibit nine,” she says. She moves to admit the
photo and then dangles it at arm’s length for Jenna to view. “Is this the image
you saw on Eric Blair’s cell phone?”

Jenna
winces, turns away.

“Would
you instruct the witness to answer the question?” Ms. Tupper impatiently asks
the judge.

“Please
answer the question, Ms. Dearborn.”

Her
voice raw and worn, Jenna says, “I’m sorry. Can you repeat…?”

The
prosecutor jostles the photo. “Is this the image you saw on Eric Blair’s
phone?”

“I
think so.”

“And
you don’t believe this image bears a striking resemblance to the defendant?”

Before
the answer arrives, I know it will be against me. Jenna’s eyes lock with mine.
“I guess maybe it does.”

Zoe
knocks the wind out of Jenna’s testimony on cross-examination, has her admit
that she has no direct knowledge of a relationship between me and Eric Blair
and that she believes me when I deny one ever existed. She also gets on the
record the possibility of the photo being a fake, which I suspect must be
proven by someone more expert than Zoe or Jenna, but the suggestion can’t hurt.

The
jurors have been released for the day, which leaves me to wonder where these
twelve souls, my peers under the law and in the eyes of God, will lay their
heads tonight. A firehouse or a convent? A mansion or a college dorm? A basement
apartment or a cot in the intensive care unit? What I know for sure is that,
unless fate possesses an even more disturbed sense of humor than I suspect, the
dozen men and women who sit in judgment of me will not close their eyes on this
day from the inside of a jail cell.

“Try
to get some rest,” Zoe tells me, as she corrals the various papers that have
escaped her accordion file. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

I
wish it weren’t. “When will this be over?”

“Be
patient,” she says. “It’ll take as long as it takes to get the facts on the
table. We don’t want to rush this.”

Rudy
has gone, but Paul remains. “Shorter trials favor the prosecution,” he says. “The
longer this goes, the better for you. For us.”

His
explanation makes intuitive sense. “All right,” I say with a shallow sigh. “I’ll
trust you.”  Because it’s not as if I have a choice in the matter anyway.

In
the spring of nineteen seventy-four, when Ricky was four years old, our mother got
it in her head that he should learn to ride a bike. The Dukate diagnosis was
fresh then, a rare childhood illness, the doctors told us, with a terminal
prognosis and no foreseeable cure. We should treasure our time with Ricky, they
said. Make the most of it while we still could. And even though our parents
nodded agreeably, murmured weak platitudes and donned rose-colored glasses, it
was clear that none of us appreciated the ramifications or the ruthlessness of
what was to come.

This
particular day in May, our father was at work, a fact that lent a fleeting
sense of normalcy to the distorted existence we were now charged with living.
After a morning spent boxing up our possessions and carting them over to the
carriage house, our mother came across my old bike at the back of the garage.
It was pink and sparkly, with delicate plastic streamers cascading from its
rubber handlebar grips. I could see the idea developing in her mind as she
wheeled it through a maze of clutter and stood it on display in our circular
driveway, its kickstand wedged between two rows of blue cobblestones.

Ricky
watched us work from the steps, too weak and jittery to lug even the bed sheets
or the pillows. “What do you think?” our mother asked about the bike, a
mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Want to give it a whirl?”

I
think he did it for her, mostly. And maybe part of him had to know for sure,
one way or the other. I wanted to tell him to forget it, not to take the risk.
But I couldn’t find it inside myself to be so cruel. Instead, I steadied him as
he tottered, two or three ragged lurches at a time, to the middle of the
driveway, where he struggled to lift his leg over the crossbar and then stood
there for a long, desperate moment.

As
he maneuvered clumsily onto the too-high seat, I suddenly regretted having
begged our father to remove the training wheels from what now seemed a certain
deathtrap. But then I caught sight of what our mother must have yearned for all
along: Ricky’s bliss. Happiness so pure it existed on another plane, in a
dimension untouchable. “I’ll run alongside,” I told him, my fingers curled around
the sissy bar in anticipation, “so you won’t fall.”

He
gave me a nod that was both hesitant and imbued with possibility, lifted his
feet to the pedals and began trying to push them down. But the sad fact was, he
hadn’t the strength even to accomplish that. So I gave the bike a gentle shove,
sending it wobbling along for ten feet with Ricky clutching the handlebars and
me struggling to keep the whole ill-conceived endeavor afloat. At the edge of
the tree line, though, I lost my clammy grip and sent him coasting alone for
two full revolutions and then tumbling into the grass.

Our
mother swooped in, peeled Ricky from the ground and gave him a frazzled once-over.
But the damage was done. Not to Ricky’s body, which, except for a few scrapes
and bruises, was as intact as it had ever been. What broke that day was Ricky’s
spirit, his trust in the world, the last bit of confidence he had in himself
and in us.

Day
two of my trial brings a busload of religious zealots from somewhere down
south—or perhaps out west—who set up shop on the courthouse lawn with their
glittery, hand-decorated signs and adorable, brainwashed offspring.

As
the deputies haul me through the courthouse doors, the sweetest raven-haired
boy of about four, in his high-pitched, speech-impaired voice, squeals, “You
gonna wot in hell, wady!”

I
carry this hateful, stomach-churning taunt with me to the defense table,
because it rings of Owen, a fact not lost on the orchestrators of such a campaign
of intimidation, I’m sure.

I
try to force a smile at Zoe, but it doesn’t take. “You look awful,” she tells
me bluntly. “Are you sick?”

The
strange thing is, I’ve had my first sound night of sleep in some time, and even
my migraine has decided to retreat. I shake my head, brush away her concern.
“I’ll be all right.”

The
next person to testify against me is the female sheriff’s deputy who acted as a
liaison between me and the outside world on the morning of Owen’s death. Today
she sports the same starched uniform and glistening badge that are forever
stamped in my memory.

Charlotte
Tupper wastes no time getting to the point. “Please state your name and tell
the court what you do for a living.”

“Maureen
Kennedy. I’m a deputy sheriff with the Genesis County Sheriff’s Department.”

“On
May 28th of last year, did you respond to the scene of a drowning aboard the
yacht,
Lucy in the Sky?
”

“Yes,
I did.”

Something
in the deputy’s voice soothes me, massages me into a state of false calm. For a
number of minutes, I zone out, a particular bit of testimony drawing me back.

“Can
you describe the defendant’s demeanor as she spoke to you?”

“She
seemed very withdrawn. I’d characterize her as detached,” the deputy says. “No
emotion at all, really.”

“And
did that surprise you?”

Zoe
shoots out of her chair. “Objection! Relevance?”

“I’ll
allow it,” the judge says, “but get on with it, Ms. Tupper.”

“Yes,
Your Honor.” The prosecutor inches closer to the witness stand and repeats,
“Did the defendant’s demeanor on the morning of her son’s death surprise you?”

“It
seemed off the mark. I would’ve expected her to be more upset.”

“But
she wasn’t upset, was she?”

“Didn’t
seem to be.”

“How
long was it from the time you arrived on the scene until Owen Fowler’s body was
recovered?”

“Ninety
minutes, maybe.”

“And
for those ninety minutes, where was the defendant?”

“In
the stateroom.”

“She
didn’t come out to check on the recovery effort, or to see if she could be of help
to law enforcement?”

“Not
that I saw.”

“And
when baby Owen’s body was recovered, who broke the news to the defendant?”

“Nobody.
She heard one of the divers call out, and she knew.”

“How
did she react when she heard the diver call out, indicating he had located baby
Owen’s body?”

“She
asked me to bring her daughter.”

“Did
she cry?”

“No.”

“Was
she shaking?”

“I
don’t think so.”

“Did
she collapse?”

“Not
in my presence.”

“Were
there any outward signs in the defendant’s demeanor that would indicate she had
just learned of her son’s death?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“No
further questions.”

Maureen
Kennedy’s testimony offers Zoe little of substance to attack, but she takes aim
at what she can. “You testified that you’re a deputy with the Genesis County
Sheriff’s Department, correct?”

“That’s
correct.”

“How
long have you held that position?”

“Just
over three years.”

“Seniority-wise,
would you say you’re one of the
most
senior or the
least
senior
members of the sheriff’s department?”

Reluctantly,
the deputy says, “Least senior.”

“And
how were you employed before you began working at the sheriff’s department?”

“I
was a security guard at USM.”

“The
University of Southern Maine?”

“That’s
right.”

“And
before working at USM, you were employed as…?”

“A
technician at Jiffy Lube.”

“And
before that?”

She
shakes her head. “Dunkin’ Donuts. I was a baker.”

“How
old are you, Ms. Kennedy?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“And
how many jobs would you say you’ve had?”

She
shrugs. “Eleven or twelve.”

“Did
any of those jobs include training on how to assess a grieving parent’s state
of mind?”

“Not
specifically,” she says after thinking a moment.

“Have
you had any training whatsoever that would qualify you to determine that my
client was ‘withdrawn’ or ‘detached’ at the news of her son’s death?”

“I
took psychology at USM.”

“You
have a degree in psychology?”

“No.”

“But
you took a course?”

“Yes.”

“One
course or more than one course?”

“Just
the one.”

“And
what course was that?”

The
deputy frowns. “General Psychology?”

“And
you believe this course in general psychology qualifies you to render a
professional opinion on my client’s state of mind on the morning of May 28,
2011?”

“I
didn’t say that.”

“But
you did describe my client as ‘withdrawn’ and ‘detached,’ correct?”

“That’s
right.”

“Would
you classify such a description as a professional opinion or a layperson’s
opinion?”

“I’m
not a psychologist,” the deputy says, “so I guess I’d say it’s a layperson’s opinion,
based on years of law enforcement experience.”

“In
your years in law enforcement, have you observed anyone who you would describe
as being in shock?”

“Yes.”

“Did
that person or persons appear ‘withdrawn’ or ‘detached’?”

“I
guess you could say that.”

“Isn’t
it possible that my client’s emotionless demeanor could have signified
she
was
in shock?”

“It’s
possible.”

“Nothing
further.”

For
reasons beyond explanation, the sight of Det. Hanscom puts me in mind of the
ogre from
Jack and the Beanstalk
.
Fee, fi, fo, fum,
I imagine hearing
as he takes the stand,
I smell the blood...

The
detective looks energetic today, his contemporary black suit and crew cut
taking ten years off his appearance. But Charlotte Tupper fails to take
advantage of this exuberance, instead prompting the detective to simply rehash
the events of the morning of Owen’s death, a method of questioning that comes
across as weak and shallow, with the exception of a brief exchange that catches
me in a lie.

“According
to the defendant, what time did Owen Fowler go into the water?”

“Seven
a.m.”

“Did
the defendant describe what the weather conditions were at the time of the
incident?”

“She
said it was dark, and the deck was wet.”

“She
told you it was dark outside at seven o’clock in the morning in May?”

Det.
Hanscom nods. “Sure did. Twice, I believe.”

“What
time did you come on duty on May 28, 2011?”

“Seven
a.m.,” he says with a smile.

“Was
it dark outside?”

“No,
it wasn’t.”

“Do
you know what time the sun rose on May 28, 2011?”

“I
checked with the National Weather Service, just to be sure,” he says.
“Five-oh-five a.m.”

“What
time did the 911 call come in?”

“Seven
fifty-two.”

“So
the sun had been up nearly three hours by the time the defendant called
police?”

The
detective shakes his head. “She didn’t call.”

Ms.
Tupper shoots a sidelong glance at the jury. “She didn’t?”

“Uh-uh.
The husband did. Tim Fowler.”

“But
not until nearly eight a.m.?”

“It
would appear so.”

The
prosecutor smirks. “Nothing further.”

If
the State’s handling of the detective is unorthodox, my attorney’s is doubly
so. Matter-of-factly, Zoe tells the judge, “I have no questions for this
witness, Your Honor.” And thus the ogre is released.

I
have no right to miss my baby, and yet I do. But only for a moment at a time,
in the weak spots of the day when my mind gets away from me. What I allow to
register more is the lack of my husband and daughter, their continued absence a
hole in my spirit that, depending on the outcome of this trial, may never let
me go.

Tim
enters the visitation area, sits across from me and drops his head in his
hands, a pose that captures the desperation to which we have succumbed. I give
his salt-and-pepper mane a sad smile and say, “Hi.”

He
forces his eyes to mine, and in their depths I see everything: every brush of
his fingers against my neck; every loving word I’ve breathed in his ear; every
late-night vigil he’s held at my bedside—and the ones we’ve spent together at
Ally’s. The positive sum of a life shared.

He
catches me off guard by saying, “God, I’ve missed you.”

When
last I saw him, I had the unshakable feeling he was preparing to leave me, the
way I prepared to leave Ricky and Owen. “I’m glad you came,” I say. With the
trial in full swing, I need him more now than ever.