by J D Spero
“Did you ever witness rough play between Tyler and his younger brother, Henry?”
“Oh, absolutely not. Tyler would never hurt Henry.”
The Christmas fight involved hurt feelings, not sticks and stones, Marcella told herself.
“Would you say it was difficult raising Tyler with an absentee father?”
As if Tripp were marked absent from school. So easy to categorize. Bitterness filled her. “Yes. But I managed.”
“It must’ve been hard for Tyler as well.”
It wasn’t a question. Gerrity had told her not to speak unless a question was asked. But her defenses flared. “I think we did just fine. I work very hard to give my boys what they need. To keep them safe…” That last word stung.
“But a boy needs his father.” Dock looked pained.
What a haughty acting job. She glanced at the jury. Couldn’t they see through this?
No way. Tripp would not be made a martyr. Not on her dime. She didn’t hide her irritation. “Not that father. Honestly.”
“He grew up without a father. That’s bound to affect a young boy. Perhaps change him.”
Every muscle tensed. “I’m a good mother. I love my boys more than anything in the world. I’m not perfect. I’ve tried—I, I try to do—no, I do the best I can. The best I know how. I’m a good mother.”
Why was it hard to say? Doubt pressed down on her. Part of her knew she was nothing but a hack, band-aiding her children’s needs only when they became too obvious to ignore. Ripped shoes, overgrown fingernails, Mom, I’m hungry, holes in the socks, late permission slips. She’d never been ahead of the game. Many days, that’s what it felt like. A game with no instructions. A game she was destined to lose. No one taught her what to do. Was she supposed to magically figure it out? She should’ve learned how to be a better mom. Where was the telecourse for that? She loved them so much it ached. But long ago, she realized love was not enough.
Bernie’s voice cut through her ugly thoughts: Be kind to Marcella. It seemed impossible right now.
Dock waited a few beats. Marcella’s words—I’m a good mother—hung in the air like a body odor. “May I remind you, Mrs. Trout, that you are not on trial here?”
“Yes, I know that.” She swallowed hard, sealed her lips.
Ages passed before Dock spoke again. Marcella burned in her chair. He deposited a manila folder at the judge’s bench. “I submit this as evidence—records from the school nurse at Tyler’s school. These records indicate he suffered from severe anxiety.”
“What teenager isn’t stressed about school?” Marcella blurted.
“More than one report indicated he claimed to see or hear things that weren’t there. Interacted with them.”
Marcella’s tongue swelled dry. She sought out Tyler. Look at me. It was no use. He was elsewhere. What was going on in his mind?
“Mrs. Trout, have you seen evidence of such behavior at home?”
Darkness pierced Marcella’s heart. Her hands shook too much to take her water glass. How to answer such a question? “Not really. I mean, sometimes a commercial on TV would scare him. But, that’s nothing.”
“Oh? Like a trailer for a horror film? That kind of commercial?”
“Um, no. It was a car commercial. That was a long time ago.” Her voice trailed off. Why did she bring this up? It had nothing to do with—
“A car commercial.” Dock over-enunciated.
Marcella flushed. That was only the first hint that her son was different. His fear of that stupid car commercial was real, though.
Over the years, a handful of other odd things would set him off. The phase when the telephone ringing made him cry. At school, he didn’t make many friends. He had a hard time understanding coincidences, saying there was a higher power at work that made him and Artie Foy buy the same exact windbreaker. Then, on long drives, he’d insist the radio stay on scan and tally something on his fingers. Like he was patching together snippets of radio programs into something that made sense. Those were quirks. Right? Surely every child had them. Besides, this kind of behavior stopped after Hen was born. Didn’t it?
She hit rewind in her memory bank. Since Hen was born, she kept coming up blank when it came to Tyler. Hen filled most the space there. Seven years ago, Tyler was eleven—nearly old enough to take care of himself. Hen had needed her more.
The difference between the two brothers was obvious from the start. One look into their eyes told her everything. Hen’s were vibrant and eager, while Ty’s had dulled and…gone empty. Growing pains. Hormones. Teenager stuff. He just needed some space.
“Mrs. Trout?”
“Yes? Sorry.” Had he asked another question?
“Have you ever seen evidence of Tyler’s visions? Paranoia?”
Gerrity: “Objection.”
Judge: “Sustained.”
“Strike that last word from the record.” Dock’s sneer was hateful.
Visions? Paranoia? What was he now—a witch doctor?
Anger flamed up her chest. “Tyler is a normal teenage boy. Lately he keeps to himself. That’s what kids do these days. When he was little, he may have been—I don’t know—nervous. Scared sometimes. Night terrors and the like. This is all completely normal. But visions? Paranoia? You’re describing a different kid.”
“Who might that be?”
“Excuse me?”
“The different kid.”
Marcella bristled. “I don’t know. I’m not an expert on children.”
“No, you’re not.”
Her jaw dropped. Did he just? No, he didn’t! That was a direct insult. She clamped her mouth shut, simmering.
A long, excruciating pause. Dock glanced at his legal pad. When he approached Marcella’s casket again, his expression hardened. Marcella’s ears clogged. Defense mechanism.
“When did you become aware Tyler was abusing drugs?”
What? Her mouth fell open again. Tyler? Abusing drugs?
Gerrity: “Objection.”
Judge: “Sustained.”
Dock: “If you would allow, Judge, this question will not be objectionable once I call my psychiatric witness.”
“Then you’ll have to wait until after that evidence has been submitted. Please strike that last question from the record.”
But it didn’t matter. She’d already heard it. Silence fell down around her. Abusing drugs. No way. Impossible to get her mind around. Tyler…taking drugs? Like pot? Booze? What kind of drugs could he mean?
Her mind raced. Could it be true? Was that why he’d been such a jerky kid lately? It hit her with a sick sort of relief. But abusing drugs? That didn’t compute. It was too disturbing, the logistics too foreign. Drugs? Tyler? Which? How? When?
Too many questions spun. She was at a loss for words.
At his table, Tyler’s cheeks pinked up like they used to when he’d play in the snow too long. She dug a fingernail into the pad of her thumb.
“Let me ask you a different question. When did you become aware that your former husband abused drugs?” Before she had a chance to answer, Dock placed a stack of paper on the judge’s bench. “I submit this as evidence—a record from Ark Renewal in Springdale, Arkansas. Tripp Trout was treated for drug addiction in 1986. And again at the same facility in 1990.”
Well, there it was. The blame fell on Tripp, then. Marcella took her first full breath all day. Ha! No one would question his role in this crisis. He should probably have been on trial himself.
Dock went on. “It’s clear from this report that Tripp’s drug habits were not new. He’d been abusing for several years. So, I’ll ask it differently. During your marriage, when did you become aware that your husband was abusing drugs?”
And back to her. What a sucky volley. They wanted to pin this on her? “It’s not my fault he took drugs. I had nothing to do—”
“That’s not the question, Mrs. Trout.”
She recoiled. His tone was like venom. She shook it off and tried to think. Again, she hit
rewind in her memory bank. An image of Tripp came to: a red, unseeing glaze to his eyes, a possessed-like laugh that gave her a full-body chill. Had he been high? Well, sure. It seemed obvious now.
But how the hell was she supposed to know? She was no doctor. She knew nothing about getting high. She’d never tried anything. Not even cigarettes. It was no secret that Tripp did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. Trying to control that sonuvabitch was like trying to tame a hyena.
“I didn’t know anything.”
“You didn’t know Tripp Trout was abusing drugs during your marriage?”
“That’s right.”
“Were you aware that he worked with Leon in selling drugs when he lived in Severance?”
She traced her throat with her fingertips, glanced toward the jury. Would that make her an accomplice or something? “No. I was never aware that Tripp sold drugs. Not at all.”
“You knew the drug operation was going on. But you didn’t know Tripp had any part in it?”
“Right.” The word weighed a thousand pounds.
Dock didn’t believe her. Who knew what the stone-faced jurors thought?
Heat erupted from every pore. Marcella prayed her face didn’t show it.
Dock changed tack. “What was your relationship with Derek Hogg?”
She blinked away thoughts of Tripp. A tear settled in the corner of her eye. “He was Tyler’s best friend. Since they were little.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. I’m asking about your relationship with him.”
She blotted the tear with her thumb. “He was at our house a lot. Shared our pantry. That boy had an appetite. He was kind of folded into our family, I guess you could say.”
“So, you were like a mother to him?”
“I wouldn’t say that—”
“That’s how he described you.”
“He did?” Marcella’s throat went dry. Derek thought of her like a mother?
An image of Derek clomping in his big sneakers, his backwards baseball hat framing that wide face that still held a hint of baby fat. That face she’d wiped chocolate and dirt from industriously, like a daycare provider. And then it seemed to happen overnight. He grew into a massive man who towered over her, so much like his father.
And yet.
The way he turned on his manners whenever she was around, almost bashfully. He’d defended her at the diner on Tripp’s first night here. And then, at the time of his arrest—a time she’d been praying for—he’d come to her. Nuzzled against her, sobbing into her uniform, needing a mom. Needing to be loved. Needing her.
She had to ask Dock to repeat his last question.
“To your knowledge, did either Tyler or Derek have any conflict with Sally Hubbard?”
She cleared her throat. Grief for Sally was still fresh. “They were loud sometimes. She didn’t like that.”
“She didn’t like the noise?”
“She…thought they were headed for trouble.”
“How do you mean? What kind of trouble?”
How could he ask such a question, knowing what he knows? “She was worried about Tyler. She thought Derek was a bad influence.”
“Drugs?”
“I don’t think she knew anything about that, assuming it’s true.” She hoped Sally hadn’t kept it from her. “But she didn’t exactly say.”
“What was your opinion of Derek in that regard? Did you agree with Mrs. Hubbard?”
“Did I agree?”
“Did you think Derek was a bad influence?”
Marcella wiped lint from her skirt. Derek thought of her like a mother. She couldn’t shake the idea.
Derek’s trial would be later. And Leon’s. She would be called for a witness for those, too. She would testify about the back room, the illegal drug operation Leon had going there—white lie after white lie. Bernie would be called to testify about the documents found in Sally’s house. The rent, the eviction notice, the investigation report. Leon’s guilty verdict and harsh sentencing would bring a sigh of sweet revenge for Marcella.
But Derek. That situation just messed with her head. Derek would most likely be found guilty of possession of an illegal controlled substance with the intent to distribute, money laundering, and drug trafficking—fancy lawyer words for the things he’d done to ruin the lives of others.
Not murder, though. Not even involuntary manslaughter. According to Gerrity, Derek would probably be sentenced to eight to ten years in state prison and fined ten to fifteen thousand dollars. Months from today, Marcella would read about his fate in the Schroon Daily. She could already feel a rotten mix of fear and grief and betrayal and anger—a tangle of emotions that clogged her throat. Derek Hogg—a real and true criminal. Put away like human garbage.
She’d opened her home to him. She’d trusted him with her eldest son. Tyler had spent more of his young life with Derek than anyone else. Why hadn’t she seen Derek for the toxic person he was? How many times had Sally told her? What had she been waiting for? A siren? Police to intervene? Right there in her living room, on the very couch where Derek had cried on her shoulder. It was like the blue lights still flashed, snow clotted off his shoes, his hot tobacco-laced breath hissing: The truth will crucify him. How close had she been to danger?
All of this was Derek’s fault. That was clear as day.
Dock sounded impatient now. “You still haven’t answered the question. Do you believe Derek Hogg was a bad influence?”
“Yes. He was. I think that’s been established.” In her peripheral, Tyler squirmed in his chair.
“How so?”
“If it weren’t for Derek, Tyler obviously would never have experimented with drugs to begin with.”
“Mrs. Trout, you do realize that Derek’s drug screening came back clean. He’s sworn under oath he’s never taken a single drug in his life beyond marijuana, tobacco, and alcohol. Several people have corroborated his testimony.”
Marcella’s voice shook. “What do you mean? This is all his fault. He sold drugs. He gave them to Tyler.”
Dock stared hard at Marcella, drawing out his words for emphasis. “Theft is among Tyler’s charges. Derek didn’t provide them to Tyler.”
“But—”
“Tyler stole them.”
“Objection!” Gerrity’s voice jarred Marcella. She shot him daggers. About time.
Words. Ty hated them.
His mother’s words on the stand had made his chest ache. Gerrity constantly used words he didn’t understand. The worst was the judge.
It was a new day. But it felt the same as yesterday. Gerrity and Ty sat together at a wooden table, waiting for the judge to arrive.
Gerrity’s words always came fastest. “I have some news to tell you. I’ve been trying to get your father here to put him on the stand. I was having a hard time getting a straight answer from anyone, but it seems that—”
He stopped himself, like he just thought of something. His gentle tone was almost nurturing. “Tyler, were you aware that your father suffered from psychosis?”
“Psychosis?”
“Yes. More specifically, paranoid schizophrenia.”
Schizophrenia. What a word. It kept pinging around, his ears echo chambers. Schizophrenia. Gerrity pronounced it with a long E. Schizophrenia. Made it sound worse.
Ty chewed on his lip. “That means crazy, right? Like, serial killers and rapists kind of crazy. Homeless bums. Not my dad. He was a musician. He had tons of friends. He charmed the pants off everybody he met.”
“It manifests differently person to person. But the commonalities are fear, paranoia, sometimes hallucinations. I have some information on it.” Gerrity put a stack of papers on the table. “Is that a surprise to you? He was very sick. For years.”
Ty couldn’t respond. A strange, itchy fuzziness possessed him. What Gerrity described wasn’t Dad.
It was him.
“This diagnosis will help you.”
Fear crept in. Why? Because I’m crazy too? His thoughts were too
fragile to be spoken. “How?”
“We have our own psychiatric expert witness. Based on your medical history and your father’s, the case for genetic predisposition will be clear, the mental instability as well. I think that will be enough. It has to be. And, if it comes to that, we can plead insanity defense. I’ve already notified the DA. Expert evaluations are underway. Of course, this would imply an admission of guilt…”
His words fell like rubber erasers in this courtroom that held so much tacit garbage. The words bounced off the table and fell to the floor.
“You think I’m crazy.”
Gerrity almost rolled his eyes. “Tyler, schizophrenia is a serious mental illness. It will help us get a good deal for you. You may not have to sit inside a cell at all.”
“You think I’m crazy.”
“I think you have a genetic predisposition for mental illness, specifically schizophrenia. I’m going to bring in my psychiatric—”
“I want to see him.”
“Who? The shrink? You will. That’s part of the process.”
“No, my dad. I want to see my dad.”
Gerrity blew out a big breath. His tone was strange. “I’m sorry to say that that’s just not possible.”
“Why not? He came here before. He can come again.”
“I’m afraid he can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Tyler, I hate to be the one to tell you this…” His words kept cutting out, like they had a bad connection. Static on the radio. Filling Ty’s ears. Words were elusive to him. Ty only caught a few. Enough to understand the gist.
Your father. Drug overdose.
Your father. Won’t be able to testify.
Your father. I’m sorry.
“He’s not coming?” He was supposed to save the day. That’s what fathers do.
“Tyler, I’m sorry. But your father’s drug overdose was fatal.”
“What?” Air rushed near his ears like he was on an amusement park ride.
“Your father didn’t survive. I’m so sorry.”
“He’s dead?” Ty’s vision blurred.
Gerrity talked and talked. More words. Ty’s ears were full.
His mouth filled with saliva. His stomach erupted into his throat. “My father’s dead.”