“Good morning, counsel, ladies and gentlemen. You may be seated.” The judge settled a pair of reading glasses low on his nose and sorted through some papers. He glanced up, and Danny could see his thick eyebrows arch above the black frames. “We’re here to sentence Paul Frederick McMillan for his vicious assault on his wife,” he said. “This is his third conviction.”
Third conviction?
“I’ll hear from the prosecutor first,” the judge said.
Sandra stood before the judge. “Your Honor, Mr. McMillan is a dangerous man. He’s been convicted three times for assaulting his wife, and either he can’t, or he won’t, change. He’s a threat to his wife, a threat so serious, that for her the verdict in this case means life or death. Your Honor, this court must declare this man a dangerous offender and put him behind bars for at least seven years. He is a vicious man with hatred smoldering in his heart. He’s beaten his wife and burned her; he’s broken her bones and torn out her hair. Even though her physical wounds have healed, she still suffers serious injuries that linger on. These are not flesh-and-blood injuries that can be measured by X-rays, or by healing time, or by the lengths of scars. They are blows to self-esteem and confidence, damage to dignity and personal security, destruction of morals and values. These are the injuries that don’t heal. These are the hurts that are never forgotten. Fear. Unending, crippling, and ulcerating fear. This is the legacy of the sickness that is domestic violence.”
Sandra paused before turning from the judge to call her first witness to the stand. The elderly man rested his cane against the witness box and then sat in the black swivel chair. He laid a coil-bound report on the table in front of him.
The clerk swore him in, and Sandra walked toward the witness box. “Dr. Hamilton,” she said, “please tell us about yourself.”
“I am a forensic psychiatrist, and I work with violent offenders. I assess them on behalf of the court. I evaluate the level of threat in violent, high-risk relationships. I work with a team of experts: police, prosecutors, lawyers, and community services such as women’s shelters. We try to prevent crimes such as stalking, assault…and murder.”
Danny felt as if he’d been slapped.
“How do you do that?” the prosecutor asked.
“I create a risk profile. I look at the offender’s history, attitudes, mental health, family, social circumstances, and so on. I classify the offender’s threat level.”
“You examined Mr. McMillan?”
“Yes.”
“As a result of your work, what did you find?”
“Mr. McMillan is a violent bully bent on attacking his wife.”
The word bully catapulted Danny’s mind back into Grade 2, when James had flattened him with a punch. Two other kids had knelt on his back, ground their knees into his ribs, and pinned him down while the schoolyard bully forced a handful of dirt into his mouth. The sudden pain had made him cry out, and the dirt had crept back into his throat and made him gag. The boys’ laughter floated above him as the soil worked its way into his eyes, his tears unable to wash away the sting of dirt and disgrace. Today in the courtroom, Danny blinked – his dad was like James?
The psychiatrist was still talking. “Mr. McMillan isn’t your usual schoolyard bully. Those types of bullies use physical strength to stay on top and get what they want from their victims. They want to impress other people and obtain social standing amongst peers and even teachers.”
“What type of bully is he?”
“He’s a selective bully. He targets only his wife. The more she cowers, the better he feels. Over time, she becomes more easily scared. This makes him feel even better about himself, and the situation just keeps spiraling down. It gets easier and easier to make her afraid, and soon a mere stare is enough.”
Danny remembered one time when Dad had stared at Mom at the dinner table. Danny’s plate was heaped with pot roast and mashed potatoes awash in gravy, and he was outlining the Grade 4 science project on water systems he was working on.
“Is Brian going to be your partner?” Mom asked. “You worked together so well last time and –”
“Would you like to see the new water treatment plant?” Dad interrupted.
Danny’s eyes went wide. “Could I really?”
“I don’t see why not. I’m out there every couple of days anyway.”
“Well, it can’t be during school hours,” Mom said.
“Why not?” challenged Dad, giving her a long, hard look.
Her head dropped. “I just don’t think he should miss school, that’s all.”
Dad snorted. “Then we’ll take the whole class. Simple as that.”
Danny was delighted. “Really? Wow, that’d be great!”
“Sure. We’ll do it.” Dad had turned to Mom. “Why don’t you call his teacher tomorrow? I’m sure even you can figure out a way to set it up.”
Danny turned to his mother. “Pleeeease? Could you?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she mumbled.
“Yes!” Danny pumped his arm. “Wait ’till the kids find out!”
Mom had made the arrangements. Two weeks later, a yellow school bus buzzing with students bumped its way to the plant. Dad’s broad grin greeted the children, and Danny flushed with pride. His classmates giggled and shrieked as they strapped on fluorescent-orange safety helmets that constantly slumped over their eyes. Dad didn’t scold the boys when they ran around bonking the girls’ helmets in a noisy game of tag. The students learned about viruses, bacteria, protozoa, and the new ultraviolet technology that zapped them all. Danny stood close by his dad throughout the tour.
Back at school, the students made a giant thank you card. Everyone signed it. Danny wrote “THANKS DAD!” in bold letters across the top.
It had been a great day. But nobody had thanked his mom. She hadn’t even been invited to come along.
Danny’s attention was brought back to the courtroom as the prosecutor walked back and forth behind the counsel table. “Dr. Hamilton, to anyone looking at the McMillan family from the outside, let’s say through the living room window, it seems like a solid, respectable, and happy family. How can a family appear so normal on the outside and be so rotten on the inside?”
“It’s not as unusual as you might think. The public often thinks of batterers as being from low-income families. They believe the batterers were themselves the victims of childhood abuse or neglect. The public also tends to think abusers have serious mental health problems – they are psychopaths, alcoholics, drug abusers, or career criminals. But this isn’t always so.
“Violence also happens in what we might call privileged households. These people have higher than average incomes, both partners are usually well educated, and both partners seem confident, socially at ease, and happy. We call this type of bully an upscale domestic abuser.”
“How does an upscale abuser behave?”
“Well he – and it is almost always a man – he dominates his victim by criticizing her – sometimes publicly, but always strongly or even viciously. He also makes decisions – even important ones – without her input. He controls her access to money, and he keeps her from contacting her support group, her friends and family. He wants control, and that means cutting her off.”
Danny’s mind went back to spring break in Grade 3. Dad had promised to drive the family to Drumheller to see the Tyrrell Dinosaur Museum. “Catherine,” Paul directed, “you get our bags packed and we’ll leave in the morning.”
Sleep had eluded Danny. He pulled out his favorite dinosaur books – Giant Dinosaurs, The Complete T-Rex, Time Flies, A Pebble in my Pocket – and surrounded himself in bed. He flipped through every picture. He wanted to sneak downstairs and telephone Grandpa. Grandpa was a retired geology teacher, and Danny was used to spending a lot of summer days with him. He wanted to ask where to find fossils, but knew his dad wouldn’t approve of the phone call. They didn’t talk to Grandma and Grandpa much anymore.
The day had dawned clear and cold: a p
erfect end-of-winter day. They spent Monday exploring the museum and the treasures of the gift shop. Danny fingered bits of fossilized dinosaur bones, a balsa wood T-Rex skeleton, and a spider trapped in amber. They stayed in a hotel with an indoor pool. Mom watched from a deck chair as Danny and Jennifer splashed as much as they could get away with. Dad stayed in the room and watched the hockey game on TV. On Tuesday, they drove to Dinosaur Provincial Park where they hiked along the clay trail to the fossil beds. Although the sign said it was illegal to take fossils from the park, Danny picked one up and slipped it into his pocket.
“Put that back, Danny,” Mom ordered sharply.
“Let him keep it, for God’s sake, Catherine. Don’t be such a stickler.”
Danny had grinned at his dad. He kept his hand in his jacket pocket, twirling the long, smoothly-ridged cylinder of cool rock around and around in his fingers.
The prosecutor continued. “Does this type of bully follow a pattern?”
“Absolutely. A pattern of escalating violence. Mr. McMillan’s first conviction was ten years ago. He struck his wife in the face, twice – with a closed fist. He gave her a black eye and badly bruised her face.”
Danny looked at his mother. She stared straight ahead, her face rigid and emotionless. Ten years ago. He’d been just three years old, and his sister Jen hadn’t been born yet. He remembered nothing. But he saw that his mother remembered; the knuckles of her interlaced fingers were white.
“Then the next assault – at least the next assault he was convicted for – was only four years later, and it was violent. He flung her into a coffee table, broke her wrist, split open her palm, and pulled out her hair by its roots. And he kept threatening her with more.” He shifted in his seat. “For the bully, it’s a bit like an escalator ride. Once you get on that bottom step, there’s nowhere to go but up.”
Escalator. Mom’s escalator accident. Danny had been happy and excited about starting school that year. Every day, Mom took Jennifer and him to Annie’s day care a block from his elementary school. Annie’s sons, Tom and Julian, were his best buddies. Tom was in Grade 2 with Danny, but Julian was in Grade 4, so this year the three boys were old enough to walk to school on their own. Jen was just three and stayed with Annie for days of toddler games and naps.
After school, Annie usually let them play in the yard, but one November day they stayed a long time before Annie called them in. Even though the boys usually played in the family room, Annie sat Danny in a living room chair. Jennifer lay on the carpet, Barbies and Barbie clothes strewn about her like autumn leaves. Annie explained that Mom had had an accident. She’d been on the escalator in the mall. Someone had bumped into her, or she’d lost her balance, or something. Annie wasn’t sure which, but Mom had tumbled down. She’d broken her wrist and cut her palm on the metal stairs while trying to stop her fall. Some of her hair had gotten caught in the side of the escalator and had been torn from her scalp. But Annie assured them their mom would be okay. She said once Dad had fetched Mom from the hospital he’d come to get them. In the meantime, Annie would take all of them to a Chinese restaurant for supper.
It was almost bedtime before the doorbell rang. But it wasn’t Dad who came to pick them up, it was Mom. Her arm hung in a sling. Her jacket sleeve only partly covered the plaster cast on her right wrist. She curled her fingers against the thick white gauze taped across her palm. She was wearing a navy silk scarf, her favorite, the one patterned with golden sunflowers, knotted under her chin.
“Where’s Paul?” Annie asked sharply.
In a rush of words, Mom explained there had been a last-minute crisis at work and Dad had had to leave the hospital and go directly to the airport. He’d be gone for the next few days.
“What kind of a crisis could be that important?” Annie challenged. “Why can’t he take care of you? Who’s going to take care of you?”
Catherine had cut off Annie’s questions and told her not to worry. She said she’d be home from work for a while anyway, because she couldn’t type, so she’d get Danny to school herself. She had hustled the kids into the car and told them their dad was sorry he’d missed saying good-bye, but he’d be sure to bring them each something nice when he got home in a couple of days.
“Danny, help your sister into her car seat,” she said. “And then buckle yourself in.” Catherine started the one-handed drive home.
“Mom, what about your seatbelt?” he had asked.
“I’ll be fine.”
And now Danny knew she hadn’t been fine at all.
“Dr. Hamilton, what can you tell us about a bully’s ability to change his behavior – to get off that escalator?”
The psychiatrist stroked his chin. “Well, generally, once a bully, always a bully, because he lacks the desire to change. The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. If he’s done it before, he’ll do it again.”
“Doctor, given this pattern, what do you predict about Mr. McMillan’s behavior?”
The psychiatrist ticked off his conclusions on his fingers. “Mr. McMillan has an established pattern of violence. The violence always occurs, shall we say, behind closed doors, in an intimate relationship, and out of sight in the family home, where it’s likely to be repeated. He’s an upscale domestic abuser, a bully. He was, is, and likely will continue to be an abuser. He is a dangerous man. When someone acts violently, that event establishes the minimum violence he is capable of. He will most certainly re-offend with increasing violence. There is no limit.”
“So, this is a high-risk relationship?”
“Yes.”
“And what category are we in?”
The psychiatrist looked at the prisoner. “We’re in the category of homicide prevention.”
Chapter 4
Monday
The defense lawyer rose to cross-examine the psychiatrist. “Dr. Hamilton, isn’t it true that Mr. McMillan apologized to his wife?”
“Yes. In fact, he has quite often shown remorse.”
Danny nodded to himself. His dad had been sorry, he’d seen it himself. Mom wore that sunflower scarf for a few days, but a few weeks later, before Dad got home, she’d had her shoulder-length hair cut short. She combed it over the bald spot. Even though Danny now knew his father had been in jail, not on a business trip, he remembered him returning with a triumphant smile and gifts for everyone. It wasn’t even Christmas yet, but he’d brought a stuffed mountain gorilla with arms long enough to reach around Jen, a hockey jersey for Danny, and long-stemmed red roses for Mom. He stroked Mom’s short hair – “I didn’t know you’d cut it,” he murmured – and Mom wore her scarf again for the next few days. Because of her wrist, she wasn’t back at work.
“I’ll take two weeks off,” Dad had said, riffling his hands through Danny’s hair, “so the family can all be together again. I promise you a Christmas you’ll never forget.” They’d see the latest Christmas movies, drive through Candy Cane Lane, and go to the mall so Danny and Jen could sit on Santa’s knee and ask for all the toys they wanted. They’d drink mugs of steaming hot chocolate piled with clouds of whipped cream. Dad promised tobogganing, skating, and building snowmen in the park, but when the time came he didn’t explain why he thought it was too cold for Jen and Mom, but not too cold for Danny and him. Of course, Mom wouldn’t be getting her cast off for another couple of weeks, so she couldn’t come anyway. In the end it was mostly just Dad and Danny. That was the year Dad started teaching him how to play hockey, and it was great.
But best of all was the Christmas present he found in a cardboard box under the tree on Christmas morning – a border collie puppy, glossy black and shiny white and wildly playful. He couldn’t keep his hands off the dog and let Jen rip open the presents containing the dog’s bed, plastic dishes, a leather collar and retractable leash, mouse-shaped squeak toys, a rawhide bone, puppy treats, and an orange Frisbee.
Split logs burned in the corner fireplace, and the aroma of roasting turkey was thick enough to taste. Danny chatted endles
sly about what to name the dog. By the time Dad helped Mom lift the turkey out of the oven, Danny had decided on Buddy. Later, when Mom insisted, he pulled himself away from the puppy long enough to sit at the table. Danny and Jennifer bolted down their food while Buddy whined for attention from his cardboard box.
It had been a perfect Christmas.
The defense lawyer flipped through the psychiatrist’s report. “You’ve said the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior?”
“That’s true.”
“But people can change their behaviors, can’t they?”
“We’d better hope so, or we’ll all be in trouble.”
“Yes, no doubt. But, given that Mr. McMillan is not a psychopath, an alcoholic, or a drug abuser, doesn’t it stand to reason that he can change? That he is teachable?”
“Well now, that’s not so clear. We do know that the anger management training and marriage counseling he took after the first conviction weren’t successful.”
“Did you offer him any therapy?”
“No, that’s not my job. My job is to assess people, not to treat them.”
“So he hasn’t been offered therapy to control his emotions?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“He hasn’t been offered therapy to teach him to have compassion for his wife?”
“That’s correct.”
“He hasn’t been offered therapy to help him control his anger or change his pattern of behavior?”
“Well, he’s already had one anger management course, and it failed to change anything. Sometimes offering offenders more courses just makes them better at taking courses.”
“Now, would it be fair to say there are strong patterns of behavior and weak patterns of behavior?”
“Well, yes, the more incidents there are, the more obvious the pattern is.”
“So, in this case, those would be the two convictions in 1992 and 1996?”
“Yes, certainly those, but also all of the other times his wife told me about when I interviewed her.”
“How strong is Mr. McMillan’s pattern?”
The Second Trial Page 2