A Book of American Martyrs

by Joyce Carol Oates

  She was waiting for him to turn to her. To seek her out. The widow of the man he had murdered.

  Their eyes would lock. The murderer, and the widow of the murdered man. Are you ashamed, are you shattered in your soul? For what you have done?

  Dunphy had denied that he’d had anything to do with the death of Timothy Barron, the fifty-eight-year-old volunteer whom he’d shot after he’d shot Gus Voorhees. He would not discuss this second death (it was said) even with his lawyer. Though witness after witness recounted the shootings, describing how he had shot both men, and forensic evidence unquestioningly identified the single shotgun used, yet Dunphy refused to acknowledge Barron’s death; he could not accept that he’d killed a longtime resident of Muskegee Falls who was not an “abortion doctor.”

  Jenna thought it preposterous, the man had readily, even proudly confessed that he’d shot the “abortion doctor” for reasons of “self-defense” but he refused to acknowledge his second victim.

  Insane! Or very cunning.

  There was no defense—obviously. The defendant did not deny having killed at least one of his victims and he had been seen by numerous witnesses including even law enforcement officers.

  Yet, the plea was “not guilty.” The trial had been postponed several times. The defense’s strategy was to postpone as long as possible—this was a typical defense ploy, when guilt was so clear-cut. At first, Dunphy’s attorney was going to argue that his client was “not guilty” for reasons of extenuating circumstances; then, strategy shifted, and Dunphy’s attorney argued that he was “mentally unfit” to participate in his trial. Predictably, psychiatrists for the defense reported that Luther Dunphy was “delusional”—“borderline schizophrenic”—“bipolar” while psychiatrists for the prosecution reported that Luther Dunphy was “of reasonably sound mind”—“capable of understanding that he had broken the law” and “capable of participating in his own defense.” After months of delay and prevarication the Broome County judge had ruled that Dunphy was not delusional to the degree that he couldn’t participate in the trial, thus the trial would proceed.

  Did Jenna think that Luther Dunphy was insane? All that she’d read about him, all that she’d been told by prosecutors, led her to think yes, the man was insane; he heard voices, he’d claimed; he believed he was fulfilling the will of God in shooting two unarmed men. Yet, there were many for whom this wasn’t “insanity”—in the context of religious belief, it was certainly not “insanity.”

  There were many more religious persons in the United States than there were secular persons; of these, the great majority were Christians. A serious Christian would have to accept that, if God so willed, God might speak directly to him; it would be illogical to be a believing Christian and deny that God, or Christ, could have such a power. In this way, Luther Dunphy was not insane in his beliefs; in his actions, he had violated the law, but not as an insane person.

  The defense’s argument was a shrewd one: Luther Dunphy had not committed any crime in “defending” the “defenseless”—that is, unborn babies scheduled to be aborted that very morning in the Broome County Women’s Center; under the law, one is allowed to commit an act of homicide in order to defend oneself or others. By presenting this act as idealistic, altruistic, and motivated by Christian charity, and in no way self-aggrandizing, the defense attorney was claiming that the defendant had acted selflessly. He had also suggested that his client, though seemingly “of sound mind and body” at the present time, had been “in a state of extreme mental duress” at the time of the shootings.

  Which would provoke any juror to think, reasonably: had Luther Dunphy been insane? Was he insane, even now?

  Jenna didn’t want to think that Gus would have diagnosed Luther Dunphy as mentally unfit to stand trial. He’d often remarked that many of the most desperate girls and women who came to abortion clinics, the poorest ones, seemed to him mentally unstable if not actually ill. And a good many were suicidal, threatening to kill themselves if they could not terminate their pregnancies.

  Jenna had begun to notice, with much interest, the family and relatives of the defendant, seated in two rows directly behind the defense table. These had been pointed out to her by the prosecutor’s staff. Most fascinating to her was the murderer’s wife—the other wife. Her name, Jenna knew from the newspapers, was Edna Mae; she’d been a nurse’s aide before marrying at a young age. And there, beside Edna Mae, the murderer’s children—at least, two children in their early teens who appeared to be brothers or (the younger had a plain pale face defiantly sexless) a brother and a sister, who resembled their father in the shape of their faces and about the eyes.

  The other wife resembled a frayed cloth doll. Her unkempt fair brown hair she’d covered carelessly with a scarf that kept unknotting, slipping off her head. She wore a fleece-lined jacket, trousers, square-toed rubber boots. Her thin face was paste-colored and her eyebrows were penciled in arcs of mild surprise. Mrs. Dunphy too appeared older than her probable age as if her life had been sucked from her, from within. While court was in session her small mouth was often open, her lips moving in what Jenna supposed was silent prayer.

  Silent prayer to what, whom?—Jenna wondered.

  Did Edna Mae Dunphy truly think that her psychopath husband might be not guilty?

  This other wife had not once glanced in Jenna’s direction though others around her (family, relatives?) often glanced at Jenna coldly, disdainfully and disapprovingly. The sallow-skinned boy, who might have been a year or two older than Darren. The plain-faced girl (Jenna saw now, this was almost certainly a girl) who might have been Naomi’s age. She wondered how the son and daughter of Luther Dunphy must feel—their father on trial for murder.

  Did they love him, regardless? Did they approve of his act of violence, were they indeed his children?

  Jenna thought it curious, and worthy of note, that Mrs. Dunphy was allowing her children to attend the trial at which their father was (almost certainly) going to be found guilty of murder. Or hadn’t Mrs. Dunphy the power to bar the teenagers from the courtroom? Jenna saw how in the courtroom there appeared to be virtually no communication between the mother and the teenaged children. From time to time the girl shifted about restlessly in her seat; she did not like to hear testimony condemning her father, and she was often annoyed or embarrassed or anxious about her mother—for Edna Mae Dunphy sometimes appeared dazed or sedated as if not entirely aware of her surroundings; while the boy, more mature than his sulky sister, thus more responsible, took care to help his mother get to her feet, and to guide her, with a subtle grip of her elbow, into and out of the crowded courtroom. Jenna saw them elsewhere in the courthouse, and always the boy was overseeing the mother while the stonily impassive daughter ignored them both. How protective of his mother, this boy of fourteen! Jenna was moved, even as Jenna did not like to see; she did not want to feel any sympathy for the Dunphys, that would complicate her feeling for the father. She’d been able to banish her own young-adolescent children from the trial because they were living far from Muskegee Falls, Ohio, and she would allow them nowhere near.

  Mom, please! I want to attend the trial with you.

  Darren, no. That is not going to happen.

  Behind the defendant’s family were Dunphy relatives who attended the trial less regularly than Edna Mae and the children. These were solitary men who frowned menacingly during the testimony of prosecution witnesses; sometimes, they left the courtroom abruptly. There was a man of thickset middle age resembling Luther Dunphy, an older brother perhaps, with a hatchet-sharp face, who stared in mute incredulous fury at officers of the court (judge, lawyers, guards, bailiffs) as if he believed they might wish to impinge upon his freedom of movement; he seemed, at times, particularly disgusted with his brother’s court-appointed lawyer who (it may have seemed to him) was not speaking vehemently enough on Luther’s behalf. But between Luther Dunphy and this individual there never passed a glance; it seemed to Jenna quite possible that Luther didn�
��t know the man was there. Beside him there sometimes sat an older couple who appeared ravaged as if with illness—the defendant’s parents. They were an elderly couple who appeared to be in their early eighties. The man was heavyset, with flesh-colored hearing aids prominent in both ears. The woman was frail, anxious. Jenna felt pity for them, and impatience. It was not their fault that their son had become a murderer—(was it?)—but they had to be pleading with their God to save him.

  Luther is not guilty. Luther killed those two men but—we know—he is not guilty.

  They had to be praying with some desperation, to save their son from a first-degree conviction, that might bring with it a death sentence.

  While court was in session Luther Dunphy did not glance around at his family and relatives though he must have been aware of them behind him. Like a man in a trance he appeared to be listening to the procession of witnesses—repeatedly hearing his name uttered—but he did not react. Jenna didn’t want to think He is with God. He imagines that.

  Jenna wondered if Dunphy did indeed think of himself as a soldier. One who takes orders, does another’s bidding. He kills, but he is not a murderer.

  He didn’t really look like a murderer—he didn’t look like the enemy. His wife Edna Mae, his children, most of the Dunphy relatives she’d seen did not look like the enemy. Except for two or three of the glaring men they did not look vicious, or malevolent, or evil, or psychopathic; even the girl with the smirking mouth whose eyes fixed boldly and defiantly on Jenna’s face did not seem so very different from girls her age Jenna might see in Ann Arbor, high school girls, middle school girls, girls at the Ypsilanti mall, girls trailing after their families at Walmart, Target, Home Depot, girls embarrassed of their ill-kempt mothers.

  A girl very different from her daughter Naomi. A girl who might (Jenna supposed) have intimidated Naomi, if they were at the same school.

  Gus would recognize the Dunphys: lower-income working-class or welfare citizens of the sort who might well be his community health clients. Very easy to imagine Edna Mae Dunphy pleading with Jenna Matheson in the Ann Arbor Legal Aid office in which she’d once worked, in desperate need of legal advice.

  Please help us! My husband—my children’s father—made a terrible mistake and got involved with the Army of God—they sent him out to kill, and he killed . . .

  But Jenna did not want to think of the Dunphys like this. She shifted in her seat, and looked away from Edna Mae Dunphy’s wan impassive face. The Dunphys were the enemy, she could not bear to contemplate them otherwise.

  LIKE DIRTY WATER it swept over her. A wave of visceral horror that left her dazed, exhausted and gagging.

  As soon as she was alone. Where no one could observe the widow.

  As soon as she could flee the Broome County Courthouse. Flee even the well-intentioned, the sympathetic who wanted only to grasp her hands and hold her trapped in the effusion of their attention—Please accept our condolences, Mrs. Voorhees! We were all so shocked, such a terrible thing, never before in Muskegee Falls which is a friendly place, the world will have such an erroneous impression of our community . . . Alone in the privacy of her hotel room in which she was staying for the duration of the trial.

  In Muskegee Falls she’d insisted upon staying in a hotel, not in someone’s home. Many people had graciously invited her to stay with them but Jenna had declined all invitations. She had not the energy to talk with people, even to listen to people talk to her. She had not the capacity to be commiserated-with, continuously; and she could not bear being told for the ten-thousandth time that her husband had been a wonderful man, a generous man, a courageous man, a selfless man, a beloved friend, colleague who was terribly missed.

  I know. I know. I miss him too. What more can I say to you.

  Above all she did not want people to misinterpret her bouts of panic, despair, nausea. Her life had collapsed when Gus had died as abruptly as if she’d been stricken by a virulent illness. She could summon strength when required, but she could not sustain strength for very long. Like a blown-up balloon that gradually leaks air, and has to be replenished. And when she was totally deflated, defeated, lying near-comatose on a hotel bed, teeth chattering with cold, she did not want another person to observe her, and be concerned for her; she did not want a well-intentioned friend to insist upon taking her to a doctor, still less calling an ambulance. That was all she needed, to be forcibly hospitalized in Muskegee Falls, Ohio! Like all the doctors they knew Gus had horror stories of the quality of medical care in “outpost” hospitals. It was another fact of widowhood (which perhaps only a widow could know) that such attacks always subsided within an hour or so. If she didn’t develop tachycardia, or a migraine headache, or acute nausea, in which case she would do well to stay away from other people overnight.

  You’re just upset, darling. You’ll be fine. Breathe deeply.

  The only remedy was waiting, solitude. Feeling Gus’s presence, consoling her.

  Almost, if she drifted into sleep, she could grasp his hand. Or, rather—Gus would grasp her hand.

  You’ve gotten through this in the past. You will again now. Try to sleep for a while.

  She’d had to hide such weakness from the children of course. If she could not be strong for the children she did not want them to see her at all.

  In the past several months the grief-attacks had been coming with lessening frequency but now, in Muskegee Falls, where the total focus of her attention, her concentration, was on the trial, and she was forced to hear the most devastating accounts of her husband’s death, and to listen to the reports of law enforcement officers, emergency medical technicians, the county medical examiner, she was as vulnerable as she’d been a year ago.

  The realization that Gus was dead, and had vanished from the earth while his murderer remained alive, untouched, in his stubborn, insular trance, that no one could enter—this swept over her at least once a day, when she returned to the hotel, and left her shattered.

  She felt the need to explain to Gus: “No matter where I go, you aren’t here. You are—nowhere.”

  Or, rather—“Reduced to ashes.”

  She had not brought Gus’s ashes to the cemetery where she’d purchased a plot. (Only just a single plot because as she reasoned her body too would be cremated, eventually; a double plot is not required when husband and wife have been reduced to ashes.) She had had too much to think about though she had not (yet) given in to Darren, that Gus’s ashes should be scattered at Katechay Island.

  One thing she’d have wished to keep from Gus—(though surely Gus wouldn’t have been surprised)—was the fact that many individuals attending the trial, as elsewhere in the country, supported the man who had murdered him. This was painful to realize, though it should not have been surprising.

  Since the arrest of Luther Dunphy there had been much publicity about the case. And now with the onset of the trial, yet more publicity.

  A wealthy Midwestern manufacturer named Baer, associated with right-wing politics, had taken out TV advertisements extolling Dunphy as a “martyr” for the Right-to-Life movement. An evangelical preacher was exhorting his millions of viewers on cable TV to pray for Luther Dunphy’s release. On Fox News, which was covering the trial as “breaking news,” a popular commentator named Tom McCarthy whom Jenna had never seen, or wished to see, frequently praised Dunphy as a “soldier of God” and excoriated Gus Voorhees and the pro-choice movement as a “pack of atheist-socialist baby killers.”

  Of course, Tom McCarthy always paused to make it “abundantly clear” that he did not believe in, condone, or in any way encourage violence.

  The single time that Jenna had forced herself to watch the terrifying Tom McCarthy Hour she’d had the impression that, as Tom McCarthy said these words, he’d all but winked at the television audience.

  Violence? Noooo. Not me!

  Anti-abortion organizations—or, as they called themselves, Right-to-Life organizations—had rallied to provide a defense fund to replace Dunp
hy’s court-appointed attorney with a high-profile attorney but—unexpectedly—Dunphy had refused to accept a new attorney, and had refused to cooperate with the defense fund. He had not denied having shot the “abortion doctor” but he would not enter a plea of either guilty or not guilty; his attorney had entered the plea in his place, not guilty. The defendant’s position seemed to be that he would submit to a trial but he would not actively defend himself for he did not accept that he had committed any crime, “in the eyes of God”—killing Voorhees was not a “crime.”

  Indeed, having killed Voorhees was a matter of pride for him while having killed Barron was a matter of shame.

  (Timothy Barron had been a native of Muskegee Falls. From what Jenna knew of him he’d been an exceptional person. Gus had spoken of him warmly; of course, Jenna had never met him. She had supposed that, in Muskegee Falls, where she was staying at a hotel, she might have been invited to visit with the Barrons during the trial, and might have befriended them; but they had not expressed much interest in meeting Gus Voorhees’s widow. She’d been introduced to them in the prosecutor’s office—wife, adult daughters, adult son, a brother of the deceased man—but to her surprise they’d been stiffly polite and not at all friendly. Jenna was made to realize that of course, they blamed Gus for Timothy Barron’s death: if not for Gus, Timothy Barron would still be alive.)

  Each evening after the trial Jenna called the children. This was a high point of her day—though it was not an easy hour or so, and left her shaken.

  Always she spoke with Melissa first. For it was her youngest child who most needed her, and missed her.

  Melissa never asked about the trial for Melissa was acutely sensitive to her mother’s wishes, even over a telephone; but Darren and Naomi wanted to know how the trial was going, and all Jenna could tell them was, “It seems to be going well. Each day is exhausting.” Darren had said several times that he wanted to attend the trial and Jenna had told him without hesitation No.