The Woman He Married

by Ford, Julie

  “Judge, actually,” John corrected as politely as possible. In his world everyone knew his status and rightfully shrunk in his presence. He wondered, what’s wrong with all these women, don’t they pay attention to what’s going on in the world around them?

  “That’s funny, Josie never mentioned her husband was running for office,” an older woman, about as round as she was tall, with short spiky hair and what John thought might be a permanent sneer, commented suspiciously.

  Mom with the baby jumped back in. “But then she’s not real talk’tive…kinda quiet, but very sweet.”

  John nodded, trying to hide his annoyance that Josie hadn’t mentioned she was married to a future judge. But then she’d never been one to elevate herself above others—or to brag.

  “That’s right! I’ve seen your commercial.” Nodding, the mom with the toddler asked, “I thought the attractive woman standing behind you was your wife.”

  “Oh yeah, she’s real perty,” said a thin woman wearing a plaid jumper and reading glasses, looking up briefly from her knitting.

  “No, that’s my press secretary,” John corrected, trying to hide his embarrassment at the implication.

  “Um, huh,” spiky hair lady grunted doubtfully.

  He slid his finger between his collar and neck, allowing extra air to reach his now-flushing skin. John’s anxiety level rose with the guilt that burned after positioning Trisha front and center when it should have been Josie all along.

  “You know, Josie’s quite the looker herself,” infant mom said, scanning the other women for confirmation. “More of a nat’ral beauty though…don’t you think so?”

  All eyes turned to John, pressuring him to comment. “Yeah, I…um, love the way her freckles dot her nose,” he said, remembering how beautiful she was after he’d dunked her in the water down in the Caribbean. “She’s always trying to cover them up, but I think they’re kinda sexy.”

  “Ahhh.” The women recited in unison, except spiky hair, who disagreeably rolled her eyes.

  Encouraged by his audience’s admiration, John took his affection for Josie one-step further. “I especially love the way her eyes change color with her moods.” Emboldened by their undivided attention, he continued. “When they start turning to amber, I know to take cover, ’cause there’s a storm brewin’.”

  The women sighed in unison.

  “That is just the sweetest thing I have ever heard. Bubba doesn’t even know what color my eyes are,” infant mom said wistfully, and voices around the room spoke up in agreement.

  Smiling smugly on the inside, John decided now was a good time to bow out of the conversation. “You ladies don’t let me bother y’all now. Just pretend like I’m not here.” Pulling out his PDA, he pretended to occupy himself.

  “Then you don’t mind if I breast feed? I’m ’bout to burst.” Pulling up her blouse, infant mom turned the baby on its side and plugged him in.

  John started to wonder if he shouldn’t have opted for the van. “Won’t bother me a bit. Jocelyn nursed all of our babies.”

  “Are you feeling better?” toddler mom asked infant mom.

  “Oh, much better.” Raising her voice to address John, she said, “I had the mastitis.”

  John looked up. What the hell is she talking about now?

  “Did Josie ever have that when she was breast feeding?”

  “I really can’t say for sure.”

  “You would’ve known,” infant mom explained. “First you get a real high fever, and your breast feels like it’s on fire. Then when the baby sucks, it feels like red-hot needles are shooting right through your nipple.”

  John felt his face wrinkle disconcertedly before he could stop it. He had no possible response to that.

  Completely unaffected by infant mom’s graphic explanation, knitting mom asked, “How’s your sister doing? Did she have her baby?”

  “Yes, but her labor was long. She had to wait hours to get her epidural. She was pitchin’ such a fit, they finally went ahead and gave it to her.”

  “Epidurals are a wonderful invention. I don’t even think I’d have a baby if I couldn’t get one,” toddler mom said, ducking when her little guy launched a cracker at her head.

  “We didn’t have such things in my day. They just knocked you out, or put up with the screaming,” Spiky hair lady said. “Hell, my daughter was playing cards and watching the soaps while she was in labor with our little ballerina in there.”

  “Epidurals also make it easier on the daddies. Isn’t that right, John?” Infant mom seemed determined to include John in on the conversation.

  “Oh, um, I can’t really say. Jocelyn had all our babies natural.” Looking up casually from his PDA, he saw shocked faces trained on him once more.

  “On purpose?” Knitting mom abandoned her project, looking aghast.

  “That’s just crazy. Why would she put up with the pain when she didn’t have to? Are you sure?” Spiky lady asked, swaying her round body and putting one hand to her waist.

  “You bet. Almost lost two fingers and got slapped the first time Jocelyn gave birth.” He gave his head a quick shake. “I tell you what. I learned the difference between being encouraging and being supportive.”

  All the women stayed quiet, waiting for him to explain. “‘Encouraging’ will get a man slapped. ‘Supportive’ means anything Jocelyn wanted, Jocelyn got,” he finished by giving his audience an arduous look.

  Toddler mom put a hand to her chest. “You are so sensitive and accommodating. Eddie just sat in the recliner through the entire labor, watching the Auburn game on the TV,” she said.

  “My hats off to you ladies. I have the utmost respect for y’all. I got to tell ya, if I had to do it, Jocelyn and I wouldn’t have any children—you know what I’m saying.” John leaned back, smiling, satisfied with himself as he observed all the affectionate eyes gazing in his direction. This really is too easy, he concluded.

  “How is your sister now?” Knitting mom brought the conversation back on topic.

  “Oh Lord, her labor was awful and they ended up giving her a fourth degree episiotomy just to get the baby out.”

  Infant mom cringed in horror.

  For the next ten minutes, voices around the room chimed in with personal accounts of cutting, stitches, cold versus hot compresses, and subsequent healing. John shifted nervously in his chair, feeling the blood drain from his face.

  “Eddie drove me crazy after Travis was born,” toddler mom said, pointing to her child who was now throwing goldfish crackers at his discretion. She ignored his behavior, like throwing food was perfectly normal and continued, “You’d think he’d gone a year without sex, or something,” she said and the other women appeared to agree. “Not only were my stitches still healing, but I felt all squishy and my breasts were leaking.” She made a disgusted face and directed it at John.

  “Why don’t men understand that after squeezing a “watermelon” out of an opening this big,” Spiky lady made a ring with her thumbs and forefingers, “the last thing you want is something going back in. Especially the thing that got you pregnant in the first place.”

  “Why can’t y’all just wait a few weeks, is all I’m askin’. It’s not gonna kill ya.” Toddler mom grabbed the crackers from poor Travis who finally got in trouble, not for throwing food, but simply for being born into the male species. Nods of agreement passed between all the women as the mood in the room turned precarious.

  An eerie silence engulfed the space while John watched the women’s expressions change from those of adoring fans to lynch mob. Looking around anxiously for the quickest escape route, John was saved when the studio door flew open, and eight screeching four-year-olds spilled out and to their mother’s waiting arms.

  * * * *

  On his feet again, Scott began to argue his case for the State. He began by bringing on his strongest witness, Mrs. McGee, the victim’s wife and only witness to the crime. Josie decided that it was time to really pay attention. Only, her pantyhos
e were pinching in places she couldn’t re-adjust in public, and she really wished she’d gone to the ladies room one more time before taking her seat.

  Scott began with the day of the crime—November third. What was she doing? “Sitting in the back room watching television with the grandkids.” Where was Mr. McGee? “Out front at the register.” What did she hear? Was it still light outside? What did she see…and so on. Mrs. McGee was certain about everything including the fact that Slidell was the killer. In addition, she added that Sly frequented the station on his way to work, and that he was a kind, courteous boy. “Always polite,” she said.

  The time of the crime, five forty-five in the afternoon, was the most damning evidence against Slidell. Slidell punched in for work at the Dairy Queen down the road at six, giving him plenty of time to commit the crime and then head to work, acting as if nothing happened.

  “And are you sure the time was five fort-five exactly?” Scott asked again.

  “Yes, I am sure.” Mrs. McGee was very insistent.

  “And what makes you so sure?”

  “Because I looked at the clock in the office just before and it said five forty-five. And the grandbabies and I were watching that Sponge Bob on the television.”

  Wait a minute, Josie thought. Something wasn’t right about that. Thinking back to the night of John’s dinner party when she’d sat the kids down in front of the TV to stop them from wreaking anymore havoc, she remembered noticing the show had started an hour earlier than usual, which meant that in November it had likely begun at six-thirty, not five-thirty. If Sly had punched in at six o’clock, he couldn’t have shot anyone at six-forty-five. She picked up her pencil, scratched her thoughts on the legal pad, and slid it in front of Brian. Then leaning back, she whispered to Sandra to double-check the programming changes. Sandra nodded and snuck out of the courtroom.

  Brian kept his ears trained on Scott, but glanced over at Josie’s notes. “Are you sure?” he mouthed.

  Nodding, Josie whispered, “Sandra’s checking right now.”

  “What about the clock? She said she looked at the clock,” Brian said.

  The judge and some of the jurors were beginning to notice the sudden activity at the defense table, so Josie wrote another note:

  “What if the clock was wrong? It was just after the daylight savings time change. Maybe the clock was reversed twice, reflecting 5:30 when it was in fact 6:30?”

  She slid it over to Brian.

  He read it then whispered, “It’s a long shot, but I’ll give it a try.”

  Brian looked apprehensive now. Josie knew that, like any lawyer, he didn’t want to ask a question if he didn’t know the answer beforehand.

  Just as Scott was finishing up, Sandra returned to her seat with a faxed sheet, and handing it over to Brian, she gave Josie a thumbs-up.

  When the judge asked Brian if he had any questions for the witness, he acknowledged that he did and began with his original strategy of creating reasonable doubt.

  “Mrs. McGee, how often would you say you see the defendant?”

  “Once, maybe twice a week.”

  “And how often do you actually speak to the defendant?”

  “I dunno…occasionally.”

  “If you saw Mr. Henry outside of the station, would you recognize him…say, at the Piggly Wiggly?”

  “Probably, though I’ve never seen him anywhere else.”

  “You mean in a town as small as Harpersville, you have never, on any occasion, run into the defendant anywhere else—not once?” Pausing, he eyed her suspiciously before looking to the jury with an expression clearly intended to convey a perception of uncertainty. “Or, have you, and you just didn’t recognize him because you really don’t know him as well as you say?”

  Brian pursued the point relentlessly until Mrs. McGee finally admitted, “I s’pose I really don’t know Sly well enough to be certain.” She gave a sigh, and her eyes turned sad in Sly’s direction as she added, “It’s just that the sheriff seemed so sure he was the one.”

  Satisfied that he’d established some doubt, Brian looked to Josie for encouragement before launching into a new line of questioning.

  “Mrs. McGee, you testified earlier that you were watching a children’s program on the television in the back room at the time of the crime. Sponge Bob, I believe it was, and you mentioned that the clock on the wall read approximately five-forty-five which coincides with said program, beginning at five-thirty?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What would you say if I told you that last November, this particular children’s program was shown in the six-thirty time slot. Only after the start of the New Year did it change to the five-thirty time slot in which you claim to have seen it.”

  Mrs. McGee looked bewildered, and Scott got to his feet. “Your Honor, the defense is trying to confuse the witness. Ms. McGee already testified that she looked at the clock.”

  The judge regarded Brian over his glasses. “Mr. McAlister, do you have any proof to back up this line of questioning?”

  Brian produced the fax Sandra had acquired from the network, showing it first to the judge and then to the prosecutor. Scott perused it before he stoically said, “Withdrawn,” and took his seat.

  “If Mrs. McGee and her grandchildren were in fact watching this program, Mr. Henry could not have possibly shot Mr. McGee because he’d punched the time clock at the Dairy Queen a whole half-hour prior.”

  “Objection.”

  Scott didn’t bother getting to his feet.

  “Sustained. Ask a question, Mr. McAlister.”

  “Mrs. McGee, is it possible that the clock could have been wrong?”

  “I s’pose, but I don’t think—”

  “Have you been back to the station and noticed that the clock is correct?”

  “No, I have not stepped a foot once in the station since.”

  “To your knowledge, did the police or investigators ever double-check the clock to ensure that it reflects the proper time?”

  “No—”

  “Who generally turns back the clocks in the office when daylight savings time ends, which was just prior to the date of the crime?”

  “Well, my husband should, but he usually forgets, so I turned the clocks back myself.”

  “Is it possible that your husband did, in fact, turn back the clock, and that assuming he forgot you turned it back again—making it an hour behind where it should have been?”

  Getting to his feet again, Scott objected with gusto, saying, “What does the time change have to do with anything?”

  “Overruled.”

  “Your honor, defense would like to request a short recess so my associate along with a sheriff’s deputy can go over to the station and check the clock.”

  Reluctantly, the judge agreed. “One hour,” he said with a pound of his gavel.

  Scott sent his second chair, Margo Cavanaugh, along for insurance.

  * * * *

  The oppressive heat rolling in endless torrents from inside the van ignited John’s temper while he reminded himself of where child murderers ultimately end up spending eternity.

  Strapped securely in, Beth shrugged her shoulders. “They’re always like this,” she said, while John tried to wrangle the twins into their seat belts.

  Climbing under and over the seats, the twins laughed and wiggled until the beads of sweat rolling down John’s back told him it was time to yell. “Get your chubby butts in these seats before I—” Not a good idea because then they started crying, really loud.

  “God Almighty,” John grumbled as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Desperate to settle them down, he softened his tone as he said, “If you stop crying, I’ll buy you some ice-cream.” And like an Alabama summer downpour, the tears stopped as quickly as they’d started.

  Josie’s schedule said he was supposed to drop off the twins, pick up Bobbie, and then Jack. Mumbling, “That’s crazy, Jack’s school’s right here,” he tossed th
e schedule onto the passenger’s seat and headed into the Dairy Queen drive-through.

  Then on to Jack’s school. John slammed on the brakes behind three long lines of cars leading up to the front of the school. An open lane passing directly in front of where all the children sat waiting tempted John, and he maneuvered the van around the stationary cars, making his way up to the front. Scanning the throng, he saw Jack, and rolling down the passenger window, he yelled for him to get in.

  Big mistake, he soon realized when an older woman, who looked like she may have been teaching long before John was born, knocked irritably on his window. “You’re in the bus lane. You can’t pick your child up from here.”

  Then, as rudely as humanly possible, she told John he had to continue on and back around to the end of the line that by now was three times as long. Twenty minutes later, when John finally made it up to the front again, Jack opened the door, climbed in, and said, “Where’s Bobbie? You’re supposed to pick him up first.” Then he looked at the twin’s faces and their recital dresses covered with melting ice cream and smeared chocolate. “Why do the twins have ice cream? They can’t eat that! They’re allergic.”

  “That’s just great,” John grumbled.

  Driving on to Bobbie’s school, John swore when he got held up again. Only, this time it was slow traffic that had appeared out of nowhere and for no apparent reason.

  The swearing became more profuse when Jack said, “If you would have picked Bobbie up first, we’d be home by now.”

  By the time they got to Bobbie’s school, all the children had been taken back inside. John locked all the kids in the van and trudged in, looking for Bobbie.

  He felt pretty sure that murder would be warranted when the after-school aide looked him up and down, asking to see some I.D. before releasing Bobbie to, “a man that I don’t recognize as ever having been at the school before.”

  Dragging Bobbie by the hand while the boy droned on about how Brandon’s uncle Thad, who’d shot off his big toe while hunting, could still feel it itching sometimes, John ran into Bobbie’s teacher.