Shatter My Rock

by Greta Nelsen

  Ally stares at me a little too closely, makes me wonder if she’s doing the mental dance I did with my mother at Meadow Haven. Finally, she says about my hair, “I like it that way. It’s pretty.”

  She must be referring to the crown of gray that tops my chemically-processed locks, a ring that began forming the day before Owen died. “Maybe I’ll keep it,” I say with a twirl of my split ends, knowing the choice might not be mine anyway.

  There is a brief silence while Tim stares at the floor, notes that the table and even the chairs are bolted down. “Have you talked to Jenna?” he asks with a quick glance at Ally, who is preoccupied with a Betty Boop tattoo on a burly visitor’s bicep, the man’s arm so hairy it appears as if Betty may be part Sasquatch.

  “She’s on my list,” I say, knowing he can’t grasp the shame I must overcome to dial Jenna’s number. Thus far, I have spent my limited phone time on calls to Tim and Ally and updates from Zoe and Rudy about my case.

  “There’s talk at Hazelton United that they’re posting your job.”

  I have some wiggle room on this issue, but not much. The vacation and personal time I’ve accrued should cover us for ten weeks, but then my employment can—and certainly will—be terminated. “Oh.”

  “I’m going to put out some feelers,” Tim tells me confidently, only a hint of nervousness coloring his voice. “See if they might need an engineer at the D.O.T.”

  It was thoughtful of Jenna to give Tim a heads-up, but I hate what this news has done to him. No matter how effectively he grovels, it will not be enough. The best he can hope to earn is a quarter of my salary, which puts everything we have in jeopardy. And we both know it. I force a smile. “That would be good.”

  His gaze wanders back to Ally, who is squirming in her seat as if she has to pee. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

  I don’t want to tell him this, but if either he or Ally exits the visitation area—even to use the restroom—our time together will be over, a consequence drawn clear in the inmate handbook, which I read cover to cover my first night here in an attempt to kill a case of insomnia.

  Ally nods, and my heart sinks. “Can it wait?” I ask optimistically. We still have thirty-eight minutes to go.

  She shrugs, reads the disappointment on my face and backtracks. “I’m okay,” she says. Her resolve lasts eleven-plus minutes before biology trumps her willpower.

  Tim notices the tense way she crosses her legs, taps her toes faster and faster against the concrete. “Come on,” he says with a gentle smile, “let’s go.”

  They stand to exit, and I secretly bid them goodbye. There is always next time, and I’m going nowhere.

  * * *

  “A Genesis County grand jury handed down an indictment today in the death of nine-month-old Owen Fowler. The baby’s mother, Claire Fowler, of Calvary, Rhode Island, is being held at the Genesis County Jail on charges of murder. A trial date has yet to be set in the case.”

  I hear these words not from my lawyer but from a toupee-clad news anchor, his voice so silky and upbeat I nearly miss the dire turn my life has taken.

  The following morning brings a visit from Zoe and Rudy and their note-taking assistant. At the direction of my housing unit officer, I proceed to the area reserved for such interactions, which amounts to nothing more than an out-of-the-way cell fitted with yet another bolted-down table and chairs.

  “Hey,” Rudy says as I wander in, a twinge of shock stopping him from whatever he’s planned to utter next. In the weeks since he’s seen me, I’ve aged probably twenty years.

  Zoe seems less surprised by my appearance. “Obviously, you heard the news.” She smiles. “Don’t worry, though. We’re prepared.”

  I take a seat and try to feign interest in my defense, despite the specter of defeat that has settled over me. “So what’s next?” I ask no one in particular.

  The assistant is the one to respond. “Your arraignment’s tomorrow,” he tells me, without an introduction or even a glance my way, his eyes glued to a legal pad. I wonder if he’s a paralegal or maybe a junior lawyer from Zoe’s office, his diminutive stature and quirky, retro style more suited to a behind-the-scenes role than the public stage of a courtroom.

  “What’s that mean?” There are so many legal proceedings to deal with that I am struggling to keep them straight.

  “You’ll enter a plea,” Rudy says.

  I consider confessing to my lawyers and maybe even the police. A trial is an unnecessary burden, first on Tim and Ally but also on my legal team and the State. Yet if such a charade resolves in my favor, I could repair the damage I’ve done to my family. Otherwise, I will gladly pay the debt of suffering I owe my sweet, dead Owen.

  “How long before trial?” I ask.

  Zoe tucks an errant strand of fire-red hair behind her ear and repositions her cat’s-eye glasses. “It’ll take the State a while to build a case, especially considering the lack of motive we have here. I’ve seen it take as long as eighteen months for a case like this to go to trial.”

  My lips form the words eighteen months, but my voice refuses to make them audible. Instead, I say, “Do I have to testify?”

  Rudy shakes his head. “You never have to, but you may want to. You have no criminal record; you’re a successful professional; you have the support of a loving family; and, from what we’ve been able to uncover, you have no real enemies.”

  Except Eric Blair, I think. He is not only my enemy but the key to my motive and my undoing. Rumor is, he ran off to California to launch a tech startup, but I have been unable to substantiate this. And until now, I didn’t much care.

  “What about Tim?” I ask. “And Ally?”

  Zoe winces, shoots a stifling glance at her still-nameless assistant. “They’ll be subpoenaed. Everyone who was on the boat that night will be.”

  Tim, Ally, Jenna and Carson: my first-string defensive line. Of course, Tim and Ally will do no harm, and Jenna will protect me. But Carson is a wild card; his testimony could go either way. At the very least, he has the propensity to paint me as a careless, neglectful drunk.

  I ponder my next question for a few extra moments. “What about the autopsy and the DNA?”

  Rudy sucks in a concerned breath and looks me straight in the eyes. “That’s what we need to talk to you about.”

  * * *

  The jail is too close to the Genesis County Superior Court, a truth that solidifies the morning of my arraignment.

  A middle-aged sheriff’s deputy, the beginning of a pot belly tugging at the buttons of his uniform, chains me to two of my fellow prisoners and, with the assistance of his female counterpart, herds us outside and into the back of a transport van.

  I want to be mad about this humiliation, curse how we prisoners have been reduced to animals—or worse. But what I feel instead is a surge of happiness as the van’s engine roars to life. Because now we are in motion, cutting through the air and between the trees, the sweet musk of pine saturating our lungs.

  In my soul I am free, and for five glorious minutes, this is all that matters.

  Then the van jerks to a stop and shuts down. Half a minute passes and the doors swing open at the rear steps of the courthouse.

  The prisoner to my left, a squirrely guy with a lopsided buzz cut to match his asymmetrical eyes, makes a move for the sunlight. But he can’t get far without me, our fates bound by two feet of chain links. He yanks, but I am frozen by what awaits: a virtual swarm of reporters and cameramen; a full-tilt media circus. And all on my account.

  I tuck my head to my shoulder and flop my hair over my face. It’s the best cover I can improvise, so it’ll have to do. If I’m lucky, the sole image to make the evening news will be my frizzy, graying mop and ill-fitting, prison-orange jumpsuit.

  The deputies hurry us along, past the crush of cameras and into the bosom of the law. Irrationally, I feel safe here. Protected. As if, instead of destroying me, this place aims to make me whole.

  I am first to be arraigned, my hired gu
n, Zoe Blanchette, speaking on my behalf as the judge explains the charges.

  Of all the court holds me culpable for, eight words leap into my consciousness: depraved indifference to the value of human life. The syllables roll off the judge’s tongue as if they are devoid of meaning, but to me they amount to nothing short of heresy. I took Owen not out of indifference but in protection of his life, to preserve the beauty of the brief window granted him by a power higher than me. I killed him because I love him.

  As Zoe and I have practiced, I utter my line. “Not guilty, Your Honor.” Then I blank out, disappear inside myself while my fellow prisoners take their turns at bat, swing and connect, accept their lumps and move on.

  Chapter 16

  Incoming mail is opened, inspected, and sometimes read by jail personnel before it ever lands in the hands of an expectant prisoner. The exception to this is legal correspondence, which must be opened in the presence of the inmate to whom it is addressed and generally remains private in respect of the attorney-client privilege. I have received both personal and legal mail during my stay here, the former a blessing from God and the latter a devilish, stress-inducing distraction.

  But today is a good day, because as soon as I set eyes on those graceful cursive letters, I know Ally has, in her own hand, gifted me her love.

  Gently, I flatten the sheets across my lap and soak in her words, careful to let her voice breathe life into the pages. In neon-purple ink, there is news of an impending Harry Potter-themed slumber party. Then there is a mild rant about Tim’s overzealous protectiveness since I’ve gone. And finally I learn of the new addition to our household: Muffin and Daisy’s pup, which Ally has aptly named Cupcake. She has promised me a photo of the little guy once he’s weaned from his mother and settled in with Muffin at home.

  In jail we are allowed but five photographs at any given time, and none larger than a four-by-six snapshot. Thus far, I’ve amassed a candid wedding photo of me and Tim, our faces flush with joy and anticipation; a shot of Tim and Ally huddled around their first snowman, Ally’s soaked mittens dangling at her sides; and an innocent snap of Tim, Ally, Owen and me at Tim’s parents’ anniversary party, taken barely an hour before I spotted that first myoclonic jerk.

  I wait for Brandy to finish with the phone, then slip in behind her and grasp the receiver. I’ve committed my Telephone ID Number to memory, as it’s not only my key to the outside world but my portal to the commissary, from which I may purchase such luxuries as toothpaste and shampoo.

  I navigate my way through the phone prompts, and finally I am blessed to hear that glorious ringing. “Hello?” Tim says.

  “Hi.”

  It’s a good thing we have money, at least for the moment, because these calls are pricey. Eight dollars is the minimum balance required in one’s inmate account to even dial the phone.

  “How are you?”

  I always assert that I’m well, and this time is no exception. “Good,” I say. “How are things at home?” These trivialities seem pointless, especially in the face of our fifteen-minute time limit, but we have yet to devise a better way to ease into conversation.

  Tim sighs, struggles with guilt over burdening me with troubles beyond my control. Still, he tells me, “Hazelton United stopped payment on your check this week.”

  This news slaps me harder than it should. “They can’t do that.”

  “Well, they did.”

  “I have weeks of time left. They owe me…”

  “We might as well get used to it,” he says with resignation. “It’s only going to get worse from here on out.”

  His beaten-down tone cuts me to the quick. “There’s four-hundred thousand in my 401(k). We can tap into that if we have to.”

  “How soon can we get it?”

  I hate everything about this conversation. For all we’ve done to secure a bright future for our family, our efforts have gone to ruin. “Four to six weeks,” I say, “but there’ll be a big tax bite.” When all is said and done, we’ll be lucky to see fifty percent.

  “I know.”

  “What about the D.O.T.?” I ask, even though I cringe at putting him on the spot.

  “There’s a hiring freeze.”

  “Oh.”

  Our mortgage payment is four-thousand dollars per month, and that’s the tip of the iceberg as far as our financial obligations go. My attorneys’ fees alone could swallow the entirety of the 401(k) payout.

  Tentatively, Tim says, “I’m thinking of calling Monica.”

  Monica Wilkes is Tim’s cousin and a realtor. If we were to sell our home, she’d be the one to represent us. I don’t want to agree to this, but it may be the only way to keep Tim and Ally afloat until my case resolves. “When?”

  “In a few days.”

  “The market’s pretty bad,” I say. Then again, pretty bad is relative, considering the severity of the troubles we now confront.

  “At least if we could pay the mortgage off,” Tim says, with a bit more hope in his voice, “that wouldn’t be hanging over our heads anymore.”

  Too many threats are poised to squash us, I think. Far too many. I try a change of subject. “What about Ally? How’s she doing?”

  Tim waits too long to answer, which tells me something is wrong. “I think she needs to see someone.”

  “Like who?”

  “A psychiatrist, maybe.”

  “Why?” I ask, even though I know.

  “There was some…” he pauses, weighs his words, “…teasing before school let out. I thought she would improve over the summer, but she’s getting worse.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s wetting the bed.”

  This shocks me. “Wetting the bed?”

  “Yeah.”

  I think of the slumber party, about which Ally wrote with such enthusiasm. “Are you sure?”

  He huffs a little. “What else could it be?”

  “You’re right.”

  “I should make an appointment, before we lose the insurance.”

  “Good idea,” I say, but in the back of my mind, I realize we may have already lost it—or we will have by the time Ally cozies up on a psychiatrist’s couch anyway.

  For a moment I consider letting him in on this information, but he halts me by saying, “Can I ask you something, Claire?”

  There is tension in his voice, sharp inquisitiveness that takes my breath away. “What?”

  “Who’s Eric Blair?”

  Before I can craft an answer, an automated voice interrupts, warns that our call is nearing its end. I curl my fingers into a fist, absently rub my thumb against my wedding band, one of the precious few things I was allowed to retain upon intake. “Who?” I say, because there is not enough time to explain. If I’m able to work up the nerve, I may tell him next time. Or maybe I won’t.

  * * *

  In so many words, Zoe has advised me to change my story. She now suggests I say Owen was co-sleeping with me and Tim and accidentally suffocated. This explanation still leaves me open to prosecution—and perhaps Tim too—but the charges would be far less severe: felony neglect. With my pristine background, there’s a fair chance I could walk with a slap on the wrist—assuming, of course, that my lawyer can convince the State to bite on such an easy out.

  Zoe’s note-taking assistant, whose name I now know to be Paul, uncrosses his legs and recrosses them to the other side. “Juries want things to make sense,” he tells me. “They want to know why something happened.”

  This seems so plain I suspect he may need to return to law school for some remedial training, and yet I grasp why he would say such a thing. Once a jury lays eyes on that autopsy report, there’s no way I can continue to claim that Owen drowned. And if I do, it will be at my peril.

  “But I already told them…”

  “That will be an issue,” Zoe says. “It goes to credibility. But it’s quite believable—and common, actually—for suspects to initially make less than forthcoming statements, only to recant the
m later and tell the truth.”

  She has me convinced. “What about Tim? Won’t they charge him if I say…?”

  Paul scolds, “This isn’t about Tim; it’s about you.”

  “There’s something else we need to deal with,” Zoe says, her patience with Paul’s lecture as thin as mine. “Owen’s medical records.”

  I shrug, unsure where she’s headed.

  She rifles through a gigantic accordion files until she locates a neatly clamped stack of documents, which she withdraws. She flips a few pages and stops. “You made an appointment for Owen with Dr. Lasky in March? Why?”

  “Tim wanted to,” I say. “He thought the baby was having muscle spasms.” I know this will be in the records, so I might as well come out with it now.

  “What did you think?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he was a little jumpy, but I figured he’d grow out of it.” With this explanation, at least my version of events will match Tim’s.

  “You didn’t think it might’ve been a complication of group B strep, such as meningitis?”

  The shock in my expression is genuine and lengthy. “No. I didn’t even…”

  “The State may seize on this, cast you as a slipshod parent for failing to investigate the possibility.”

  What if Owen didn’t have Dukate Disease? I wonder, a knot of discomfort worming its way through my gut. What does that make me then?

  “The hospital never said anything,” I tell her weakly. “They just checked him out and sent him home.”

  “It didn’t take much digging to put two and two together,” Zoe says, as if she finds me neglectful too. “Once Paul spotted the infection in the hospital records and the note about muscle spasms in Dr. Lasky’s file, a simple Internet search turned up the likelihood of meningitis, caused by group B strep.”

  This information flattens me. “Well, I didn’t even… I never…” There is nothing for me to say.

  I drop my head in my hands, and Zoe moves on. “What about this Eric Blair?”