Shatter My Rock

by Greta Nelsen

  The mention of the yacht is designed to distance me from the jurors, squelch any sympathy they may feel, paint me as an elitist. And on some level, I am sure it will succeed.

  “After baby Owen was suffocated, he was dumped into the ocean by the defendant, who concocted an incredulous slip-and-fall story before alerting her husband, Tim Fowler, to the baby’s fate. It was the defendant’s frantic husband who dialed 911, but it was too late. Claire Fowler already knew this, however, because baby Owen had been dead a minimum of three hours, the medical examiner will testify, before the 911 call was even placed.” The prosecutor points at me. “And she killed him.”

  The slightest hint of an eye roll hits Zoe’s face, but she swiftly controls it. In short order, she will get a crack at the jury too.

  Ms. Tupper continues, “The difficulty with this case is not the evidence, ladies and gentlemen; the State has ample proof, as you will see, to show beyond a reasonable doubt that Claire Fowler murdered baby Owen. In fact, the defendant admits the infant was in her arms when he went overboard—only she wants you to swallow the same lie she told police on the morning of May 28th: that baby Owen accidentally drowned. The facts of the case are in direct contradiction to this story, however. According to the medical examiner’s report, the cause of baby Owen’s death was asphyxiation unrelated to drowning. And his manner of death was homicide.” She pauses, shakes her head and repeats, “The manner of baby Owen’s death was homicide.”

  Someone behind me sighs, drawing a frown from Judge Parsons.

  “And what possible motive could the defendant have for committing such a heinous crime, you ask? The answer is twofold and as old as time itself: lust and greed. Claire Fowler was having an illicit affair, a dalliance over which she was willing to toss aside her marriage and abandon her children. An affair that would have cost her handsomely in court had she been ordered to pay for baby Owen’s support and medical care—not to mention the alimony that, in all likelihood, would have been awarded to her stay-at-home husband, Tim. The brutal truth here is that, in the defendant’s estimation, baby Owen was simply too expensive. And thus he had to go.

  “Like I said, this is a difficult case—not to prove, but to accept. Claire Fowler is a wife and mother, to the untrained eye an upstanding citizen, some would even say a role model, yet she has killed her baby in cold blood. And as hard as these facts are to accept, they are nonetheless the truth of this case and the reason you must find her guilty of murder in the death of baby Owen. I trust that, when all of the evidence is in, you will do just that. Thank you.”

  As soon as Judge Parsons gives her the okay, Zoe pops out of her chair as if it’s spring-loaded, her three-inch heels no match for her eagerness. She stops directly in front of me and, not unlike Charlotte Tupper, begins by saying, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.”

  I cut my eyes to the jury box for the first time but don’t allow my gaze to settle. Instead, I snap a mental impression, a rough-hewn overview. An image that turns out looking like a Where’s Waldo? search, populated by vastly more than twelve faces that each resemble the haunting subject of Edvard Munch’s painting, The Scream.

  “I’d like to start today by agreeing with something my colleague, Ms. Tupper, just told you: This is a difficult case. It’s a difficult case for my client, Mrs. Fowler, who has suffered the most painful loss imaginable—the death of a child. It’s a difficult case for my client’s husband and twelve-year-old daughter, who have not only lost one family member but stand to lose another right in this courtroom. It’s a difficult case for you, the members of the jury, who are being asked to send an innocent woman to prison on the basis of faulty evidence and ill-considered, erroneous conclusions.”

  For no discernible reason other than my still-untreated migraine, a wave of nausea surges through my gut, threatens to turn day one of my trial into an explosive event. I shut my eyes, breathe in though my nose and out through my mouth. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

  “For every so-called fact the State intends to present in this case, one of our witnesses will testify to an equally legitimate—and innocent—explanation of things. Explanations that, when you hear them, you will recognize as the truth. Because Claire Fowler is not guilty of this crime; she did not—would not—kill her precious baby boy. And the only tragedy greater than what has already transpired here would be for you fine folks to send this innocent mother to prison. I implore you not to do that. I implore you to listen carefully to the evidence and then conclude, as I’m sure you will, that there are two sides to every coin—two sides that, in this case, add up to more than a sufficient amount of reasonable doubt. Why does this doubt exist? The answer is simple: Claire Fowler is not guilty. Please find her as such.” Zoe shoots the jury a snappy little nod and a smile. “Thank you.”

  If my count is correct, my lawyer employed the word innocent three times, and the phrase not guilty twice, in her succinct opening statement. I can only pray that this repetition will hold sway with the jurors, bubble up in their minds at the crucial time, slip the key into the lock of my cell and set me free.

  Zoe settles back in beside me as Ms. Tupper prepares to call her first witness, Carson Dearborn. Such a start to the State’s lineup leaves me to assume it will proceed against me in chronological order.

  * * *

  Tim and Ally are not permitted in the courtroom until closing arguments, as they are witnesses in my case. The same goes for Jenna. But when court recesses for lunch, I catch sight of all three of them in the hallway as the courtroom doors drift closed behind one of the prosecution’s law clerks.

  Distraught, I think. Empty. This is how my husband and daughter appear. Even Jenna’s countenance has turned uneasy. I form my lips into a smile, try to meet Ally’s eyes for a moment before the door clamps shut. Too late.

  “So what do you think?” Zoe asks. “We’re off to a good start, huh?”

  Rudy, who has been perched expectantly behind us all morning, slips out of the first-row bench and answers for me. “Great cross on Dearborn.”

  Zoe smiles in the way only an ex-wife can. “Thanks.”

  As I suspected, the prosecution tried to color me as a sloppy drunk, the kind of unfit parent who should be sterilized in protection of humanity. Once the issue of alcohol came into play, though, Zoe was able to impeach Carson’s testimony—in part, at least—with his own boastful admissions of intoxication, not to mention his past history of alcohol-related offenses, including multiple drunken assaults and more than a handful of DUI convictions. But my lawyer couldn’t erase what Carson said about me and Owen, how he characterized me as a distant and unresponsive parent, an ice-queen of a mother. Tim, he said, was the caregiver, which was truer than anyone knew. Because as much as I loved Owen, I was afraid of him. If I’d embraced him completely, I never would have let him go. And I had to.

  Paul has skittered off to fetch lunch, which apparently we will consume right here at the defense table as we lay out the plan of attack for the afternoon and beyond. Rudy borrows a chair from the prosecution, its side of the courtroom vacant, and sits unnervingly close to me. I stare out the window at a rustling maple, the weather on the cusp of a thunderstorm I wish would break loose already. Once it passes, perhaps my nagging migraine will too.

  “Are you ready for the sister?” Rudy asks, presumably referring to Jenna.

  Zoe nods. “Kid gloves. This is where we’re going to score niceness points with the jury.”

  Rudy lifts an eyebrow, as if he may disagree. “As long as they don’t back you into a corner.”

  Zoe stiffens, pulls her eyeglasses to the tip of her nose and peers over them. “She’s on our side. The prosecution’s only going to get so far before…”

  I am relieved to hear that Zoe intends to question Jenna gently. There is no reason my friend should be spun through the wringer on my account, although Charlotte Tupper may have other plans. “What about Ally?” I say. “Do you think they’ll really call her?”

  “I
wouldn’t,” Zoe says. “She humanizes you too much. That’s the last thing they want. Plus, she can’t testify to anything that at least three other witnesses won’t have already said. It’s redundant and risky—unless, of course, they just want to rattle you.”

  “They’re not gonna call her,” Rudy says, and for no reason whatsoever, I believe him.

  * * *

  It isn’t until court resumes after lunch that I notice a sadistic detail that has escaped my attention thus far: Charlotte Tupper is pregnant. Not the kind of pregnant one can camouflage with a boyfriend shirt and an ‘80s-era blazer. More the variety of pregnant that draws one’s eye like a blinking neon arrow to the mother-to-be’s abdomen. Six months along, at least—a coincidence that is sure to weigh heavily in the minds of the jurors as they ponder my fate.

  The beginning of Jenna’s testimony is tediously textbook: Does she know me? Am I in the courtroom? Can she point me out? Even her answers to the questions surrounding Owen’s death amount to little more than an elaboration of Carson’s testimony: Yes, I was drunk. Yes, Tim seemed to be in charge of Owen’s care. No, she hadn’t seen or heard anything unusual on the morning of May 28th. And so on.

  But then the prosecutor jumps the rails. “Do you know a man by the name of Eric Blair?”

  Jenna nods. “Yes.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “He worked at Hazelton United.”

  “That’s where you work, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the defendant worked there too, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Did she work with Eric Blair?”

  “Not directly.”

  “But she knew him, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “To your knowledge, was there ever a time when the defendant took a business trip with Eric Blair?”

  “Objection!” Zoe barks. “Relevance?”

  “I’ll allow it,” Judge Parsons says. “Go ahead, Ms. Dearborn.”

  Jenna glances at me, hesitates. “Yes, there was.”

  “Would that be the trip to Cincinnati on December 14, 2009?”

  “I’m not sure of the date, but that sounds right.”

  “When the defendant returned from that trip, did she tell you about a sexual encounter that had occurred between her and Eric Blair?”

  “No, she didn’t. She said he hadn’t tried anything.”

  Charlotte Tupper cocks her head. “What do you mean by ‘he hadn’t tried anything?’”

  “Just that he hadn’t made a pass at her. We were both surprised by that.”

  “Why would that surprise you?”

  “Because he’s known for, well, sleeping with lots of women.”

  “So you were aware that Eric Blair had a reputation for, to use your words, ‘sleeping with lots of women?’”

  “Yes.”

  “At some time after your conversation with the defendant regarding the Cincinnati trip, did you become aware of an image of a naked woman that existed on Eric Blair’s cell phone?”

  Jenna whispers, “Yes.”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Dearborn?”

  Jenna clears her throat. “Yes, I did.”

  “And who is the woman in that image?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Isn’t it true that the defendant, Claire Fowler, is the woman in that image?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Ms. Tupper shakes her head, stalks over to the prosecution table and retrieves a sleeve of evidence from her deputy, which she brandishes as she marches back toward the bench. “State’s exhibit nine,” she says. She moves to admit the photo and then dangles it at arm’s length for Jenna to view. “Is this the image you saw on Eric Blair’s cell phone?”

  Jenna winces, turns away.

  “Would you instruct the witness to answer the question?” Ms. Tupper impatiently asks the judge.

  “Please answer the question, Ms. Dearborn.”

  Her voice raw and worn, Jenna says, “I’m sorry. Can you repeat…?”

  The prosecutor jostles the photo. “Is this the image you saw on Eric Blair’s phone?”

  “I think so.”

  “And you don’t believe this image bears a striking resemblance to the defendant?”

  Before the answer arrives, I know it will be against me. Jenna’s eyes lock with mine. “I guess maybe it does.”

  * * *

  Zoe knocks the wind out of Jenna’s testimony on cross-examination, has her admit that she has no direct knowledge of a relationship between me and Eric Blair and that she believes me when I deny one ever existed. She also gets on the record the possibility of the photo being a fake, which I suspect must be proven by someone more expert than Zoe or Jenna, but the suggestion can’t hurt.

  The jurors have been released for the day, which leaves me to wonder where these twelve souls, my peers under the law and in the eyes of God, will lay their heads tonight. A firehouse or a convent? A mansion or a college dorm? A basement apartment or a cot in the intensive care unit? What I know for sure is that, unless fate possesses an even more disturbed sense of humor than I suspect, the dozen men and women who sit in judgment of me will not close their eyes on this day from the inside of a jail cell.

  “Try to get some rest,” Zoe tells me, as she corrals the various papers that have escaped her accordion file. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

  I wish it weren’t. “When will this be over?”

  “Be patient,” she says. “It’ll take as long as it takes to get the facts on the table. We don’t want to rush this.”

  Rudy has gone, but Paul remains. “Shorter trials favor the prosecution,” he says. “The longer this goes, the better for you. For us.”

  His explanation makes intuitive sense. “All right,” I say with a shallow sigh. “I’ll trust you.” Because it’s not as if I have a choice in the matter anyway.

  Chapter 18

  In the spring of nineteen seventy-four, when Ricky was four years old, our mother got it in her head that he should learn to ride a bike. The Dukate diagnosis was fresh then, a rare childhood illness, the doctors told us, with a terminal prognosis and no foreseeable cure. We should treasure our time with Ricky, they said. Make the most of it while we still could. And even though our parents nodded agreeably, murmured weak platitudes and donned rose-colored glasses, it was clear that none of us appreciated the ramifications or the ruthlessness of what was to come.

  This particular day in May, our father was at work, a fact that lent a fleeting sense of normalcy to the distorted existence we were now charged with living. After a morning spent boxing up our possessions and carting them over to the carriage house, our mother came across my old bike at the back of the garage. It was pink and sparkly, with delicate plastic streamers cascading from its rubber handlebar grips. I could see the idea developing in her mind as she wheeled it through a maze of clutter and stood it on display in our circular driveway, its kickstand wedged between two rows of blue cobblestones.

  Ricky watched us work from the steps, too weak and jittery to lug even the bed sheets or the pillows. “What do you think?” our mother asked about the bike, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Want to give it a whirl?”

  I think he did it for her, mostly. And maybe part of him had to know for sure, one way or the other. I wanted to tell him to forget it, not to take the risk. But I couldn’t find it inside myself to be so cruel. Instead, I steadied him as he tottered, two or three ragged lurches at a time, to the middle of the driveway, where he struggled to lift his leg over the crossbar and then stood there for a long, desperate moment.

  As he maneuvered clumsily onto the too-high seat, I suddenly regretted having begged our father to remove the training wheels from what now seemed a certain deathtrap. But then I caught sight of what our mother must have yearned for all along: Ricky’s bliss. Happiness so pure it existed on another plane, in a dimension untouchable. “I’ll run alongside,” I told him, my fingers curled around the sissy
bar in anticipation, “so you won’t fall.”

  He gave me a nod that was both hesitant and imbued with possibility, lifted his feet to the pedals and began trying to push them down. But the sad fact was, he hadn’t the strength even to accomplish that. So I gave the bike a gentle shove, sending it wobbling along for ten feet with Ricky clutching the handlebars and me struggling to keep the whole ill-conceived endeavor afloat. At the edge of the tree line, though, I lost my clammy grip and sent him coasting alone for two full revolutions and then tumbling into the grass.

  Our mother swooped in, peeled Ricky from the ground and gave him a frazzled once-over. But the damage was done. Not to Ricky’s body, which, except for a few scrapes and bruises, was as intact as it had ever been. What broke that day was Ricky’s spirit, his trust in the world, the last bit of confidence he had in himself and in us.

  * * *

  Day two of my trial brings a busload of religious zealots from somewhere down south—or perhaps out west—who set up shop on the courthouse lawn with their glittery, hand-decorated signs and adorable, brainwashed offspring.

  As the deputies haul me through the courthouse doors, the sweetest raven-haired boy of about four, in his high-pitched, speech-impaired voice, squeals, “You gonna wot in hell, wady!”

  I carry this hateful, stomach-churning taunt with me to the defense table, because it rings of Owen, a fact not lost on the orchestrators of such a campaign of intimidation, I’m sure.

  I try to force a smile at Zoe, but it doesn’t take. “You look awful,” she tells me bluntly. “Are you sick?”

  The strange thing is, I’ve had my first sound night of sleep in some time, and even my migraine has decided to retreat. I shake my head, brush away her concern. “I’ll be all right.”