Shatter My Rock

by Greta Nelsen

The next person to testify against me is the female sheriff’s deputy who acted as a liaison between me and the outside world on the morning of Owen’s death. Today she sports the same starched uniform and glistening badge that are forever stamped in my memory.

  Charlotte Tupper wastes no time getting to the point. “Please state your name and tell the court what you do for a living.”

  “Maureen Kennedy. I’m a deputy sheriff with the Genesis County Sheriff’s Department.”

  “On May 28th of last year, did you respond to the scene of a drowning aboard the yacht, Lucy in the Sky?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Something in the deputy’s voice soothes me, massages me into a state of false calm. For a number of minutes, I zone out, a particular bit of testimony drawing me back.

  “Can you describe the defendant’s demeanor as she spoke to you?”

  “She seemed very withdrawn. I’d characterize her as detached,” the deputy says. “No emotion at all, really.”

  “And did that surprise you?”

  Zoe shoots out of her chair. “Objection! Relevance?”

  “I’ll allow it,” the judge says, “but get on with it, Ms. Tupper.”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” The prosecutor inches closer to the witness stand and repeats, “Did the defendant’s demeanor on the morning of her son’s death surprise you?”

  “It seemed off the mark. I would’ve expected her to be more upset.”

  “But she wasn’t upset, was she?”

  “Didn’t seem to be.”

  “How long was it from the time you arrived on the scene until Owen Fowler’s body was recovered?”

  “Ninety minutes, maybe.”

  “And for those ninety minutes, where was the defendant?”

  “In the stateroom.”

  “She didn’t come out to check on the recovery effort, or to see if she could be of help to law enforcement?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “And when baby Owen’s body was recovered, who broke the news to the defendant?”

  “Nobody. She heard one of the divers call out, and she knew.”

  “How did she react when she heard the diver call out, indicating he had located baby Owen’s body?”

  “She asked me to bring her daughter.”

  “Did she cry?”

  “No.”

  “Was she shaking?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did she collapse?”

  “Not in my presence.”

  “Were there any outward signs in the defendant’s demeanor that would indicate she had just learned of her son’s death?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No further questions.”

  * * *

  Maureen Kennedy’s testimony offers Zoe little of substance to attack, but she takes aim at what she can. “You testified that you’re a deputy with the Genesis County Sheriff’s Department, correct?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “How long have you held that position?”

  “Just over three years.”

  “Seniority-wise, would you say you’re one of the most senior or the least senior members of the sheriff’s department?”

  Reluctantly, the deputy says, “Least senior.”

  “And how were you employed before you began working at the sheriff’s department?”

  “I was a security guard at USM.”

  “The University of Southern Maine?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And before working at USM, you were employed as…?”

  “A technician at Jiffy Lube.”

  “And before that?”

  She shakes her head. “Dunkin’ Donuts. I was a baker.”

  “How old are you, Ms. Kennedy?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “And how many jobs would you say you’ve had?”

  She shrugs. “Eleven or twelve.”

  “Did any of those jobs include training on how to assess a grieving parent’s state of mind?”

  “Not specifically,” she says after thinking a moment.

  “Have you had any training whatsoever that would qualify you to determine that my client was ‘withdrawn’ or ‘detached’ at the news of her son’s death?”

  “I took psychology at USM.”

  “You have a degree in psychology?”

  “No.”

  “But you took a course?”

  “Yes.”

  “One course or more than one course?”

  “Just the one.”

  “And what course was that?”

  The deputy frowns. “General Psychology?”

  “And you believe this course in general psychology qualifies you to render a professional opinion on my client’s state of mind on the morning of May 28, 2011?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But you did describe my client as ‘withdrawn’ and ‘detached,’ correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Would you classify such a description as a professional opinion or a layperson’s opinion?”

  “I’m not a psychologist,” the deputy says, “so I guess I’d say it’s a layperson’s opinion, based on years of law enforcement experience.”

  “In your years in law enforcement, have you observed anyone who you would describe as being in shock?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did that person or persons appear ‘withdrawn’ or ‘detached’?”

  “I guess you could say that.”

  “Isn’t it possible that my client’s emotionless demeanor could have signified she was in shock?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Nothing further.”

  * * *

  For reasons beyond explanation, the sight of Det. Hanscom puts me in mind of the ogre from Jack and the Beanstalk. Fee, fi, fo, fum, I imagine hearing as he takes the stand, I smell the blood...

  The detective looks energetic today, his contemporary black suit and crew cut taking ten years off his appearance. But Charlotte Tupper fails to take advantage of this exuberance, instead prompting the detective to simply rehash the events of the morning of Owen’s death, a method of questioning that comes across as weak and shallow, with the exception of a brief exchange that catches me in a lie.

  “According to the defendant, what time did Owen Fowler go into the water?”

  “Seven a.m.”

  “Did the defendant describe what the weather conditions were at the time of the incident?”

  “She said it was dark, and the deck was wet.”

  “She told you it was dark outside at seven o’clock in the morning in May?”

  Det. Hanscom nods. “Sure did. Twice, I believe.”

  “What time did you come on duty on May 28, 2011?”

  “Seven a.m.,” he says with a smile.

  “Was it dark outside?”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  “Do you know what time the sun rose on May 28, 2011?”

  “I checked with the National Weather Service, just to be sure,” he says. “Five-oh-five a.m.”

  “What time did the 911 call come in?”

  “Seven fifty-two.”

  “So the sun had been up nearly three hours by the time the defendant called police?”

  The detective shakes his head. “She didn’t call.”

  Ms. Tupper shoots a sidelong glance at the jury. “She didn’t?”

  “Uh-uh. The husband did. Tim Fowler.”

  “But not until nearly eight a.m.?”

  “It would appear so.”

  The prosecutor smirks. “Nothing further.”

  If the State’s handling of the detective is unorthodox, my attorney’s is doubly so. Matter-of-factly, Zoe tells the judge, “I have no questions for this witness, Your Honor.” And thus the ogre is released.

  * * *

  I have no right to miss my baby, and yet I do. But only for a moment at a time, in the weak spots of the day when my
mind gets away from me. What I allow to register more is the lack of my husband and daughter, their continued absence a hole in my spirit that, depending on the outcome of this trial, may never let me go.

  Tim enters the visitation area, sits across from me and drops his head in his hands, a pose that captures the desperation to which we have succumbed. I give his salt-and-pepper mane a sad smile and say, “Hi.”

  He forces his eyes to mine, and in their depths I see everything: every brush of his fingers against my neck; every loving word I’ve breathed in his ear; every late-night vigil he’s held at my bedside—and the ones we’ve spent together at Ally’s. The positive sum of a life shared.

  He catches me off guard by saying, “God, I’ve missed you.”

  When last I saw him, I had the unshakable feeling he was preparing to leave me, the way I prepared to leave Ricky and Owen. “I’m glad you came,” I say. With the trial in full swing, I need him more now than ever.

  “Rudy says things are looking good,” he tells me. “You could be home in a week or so.”

  Tim and I have done little serious talking about the future—or even the past—the subjects of our burnt home and the significance of Eric Blair having been compartmentalized and shunted aside. “I hope so,” I say to his optimistic remark on my chances of release. Then I ask, “How’s work going?” Because he has accepted the toll collector job on the very bridge his engineering firm once helped reinforce.

  “It’s not bad.” He gives me a weak shrug. “Monotonous as hell, though.”

  I glance around the visitation area. “Tell me about it.”

  We risk a brief burst of laughter. “It’s almost over,” he says. “Can you believe it?”

  A year in jail changes a person, and I am so fundamentally altered that I may never believe in anything again. “What if I’m convicted?” The words ring of heresy, yet I am compelled to set them free.

  Tim only shakes his head.

  “Hypothetically,” I say, “it could happen.” I know this train of thought stings him, as it does me, but we’d better get prepared, just in case. “The sentence for murder is twenty-five years to life.” At my age, I’d likely die in prison.

  “Stop…” he says, his gaze lingering on the door. “That’s not…”

  “Don’t wait for me if it happens. Live your life. Make things right for Ally. I can’t be anything from here. If I’m convicted, I’m dead. That’s the way you have to look at it.”

  He waits a long while before speaking, his throat probably as tense and achy as mine. “You didn’t kill Owen, Claire. If they screw this up, you’ll appeal. And you’ll win.”

  “You weren’t there, so you don’t know what I did,” I say. I stare him dead in the eyes. “And I’m tired of fighting.”

  Chapter 19

  The sheriff’s deputies require me to wear a bulletproof vest to court the next day, on the chance some fringe nut decides to take God’s will into his or her hands. By the time I am seated at the defense table, the heft of such a protective device has cemented a number of sloppy-looking wrinkles into my otherwise court-appropriate blouse and lightweight sweater.

  Zoe appears distracted, and I can’t help noticing that both Rudy and Paul are missing. Charlotte Tupper’s half of the courtroom, however, is fully stocked with members of the media, their pencils and notepads itching to record the events of the day.

  The prosecutor waits for the jurors to settle and then calls her next witness, the medical examiner, a petite Asian woman with an English-sounding name. The bailiff swears in Dr. Elizabeth Cook, who strides to the witness stand as if she has done this dance countless times before.

  Every twenty-four hours, Charlotte Tupper’s radiance doubles. Today her hot-pink, baby-hugging maternity dress perfectly offsets the chunky strand of pearls looped around her neck. “Good morning, Dr. Cook,” she says with a winning smile. “Can you tell the court about your duties as Chief Medical Examiner for the State of Maine?”

  “Certainly,” the doctor says. She swivels to face the jurors and, in a professorial tone, explains, “I perform autopsies, conduct toxicology tests, consult with detectives in criminal investigations.”

  “On May 28th of last year, did you perform the autopsy on nine-month-old Owen Fowler?”

  “I did.”

  “What did you determine to be the cause of Owen Fowler’s death?”

  “Asphyxiation.”

  “Not drowning?”

  “No. None of the signs I would’ve expected to find in a drowning were present.”

  “Could you please explain to the court what signs you’re referring to?”

  “Certainly,” the doctor says again. “The first thing I look for in suspected drownings is the presence of fine white froth in the lungs, airways, nose, and mouth of the decedent.”

  “Was there froth in Owen Fowler’s body?”

  “There was some blood-stained froth and mucus in his windpipe and bronchial tubes, but it was thicker than it should have been, and there wasn’t enough of it for me to conclude that it was a product of drowning.”

  “Thank you,” Ms. Tupper says. “What else caused you to conclude that Owen Fowler’s death was not due to drowning, as the defendant claims?”

  “The decedent’s lungs were not water-logged, as they should’ve been if he’d drowned. And his stomach and intestines were also free of fluid—another indicator he was deceased before he entered the water. To be blunt about it, a dead body does not breathe or swallow, where a live person would. Hence, the lack of significant water in the decedent’s lungs and digestive tract indicates he died from a cause other than drowning.”

  “Is there anything else that convinced you Owen Fowler hadn’t drowned?”

  “Yes,” the doctor says with self-assurance. “Another key thing I look for in suspected drownings is the presence of microscopic plants called diatoms. When a person drowns, he inhales these plants, and the cardiovascular system circulates them throughout the body, bringing them to distant organs, such as the liver and kidneys.”

  “Did you find any of these microscopic plants, these ‘diatoms,’ in Owen Fowler’s body?”

  “Yes, I did. But only a minimal number in the lungs.”

  “And why is that significant?”

  “If the decedent’s heart had been pumping when he entered the water, there should’ve been diatoms not only in his lungs but in his other vital organs as well. In the case of Owen Fowler, the fact that the diatoms were limited to the lungs suggests he was deceased before he entered the water.”

  “Any other signs you were looking for that you didn’t find?”

  She nods. “There’s a phenomenon called cadaveric spasm that we often see in drowning deaths that was not present in Owen Fowler’s case.”

  The prosecutor’s eyebrows pinch together. “What is ‘cadaveric spasm’?”

  The doctor smiles. “It’s a type of muscle contraction that freezes a person’s actions at the moment of death. In the case of drowning victims, we often find weeds or stones clenched in their fists, evidence they were alive and grasping at whatever was within reach when they succumbed.”

  “But Owen Fowler had no signs of cadaveric spasm? No weeds or stones clenched in his fists?”

  “He did not.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve told the court about the lack of evidence supporting the defendant’s claim that her son drowned, but could you now explain what led you to conclude that Owen Fowler was asphyxiated?”

  “Death by suffocation, particularly at the hands of a careful assailant, is difficult to prove with a high degree of certainty,” the doctor explains. “That said, there are a number of elements in Owen Fowler’s case that support such a finding.”

  I glance at the jurors, who are nothing short of riveted.

  “Go on,” Ms. Tupper prods.

  “Well, first of all, the decedent’s lungs were swollen. This is a typical finding in asphyxiation deaths.”

  “To clarify, the lungs
were not water-logged, though, correct?”

  “That’s correct. Just the sort of edema I’d expect to find in deaths by suffocation, strangulation, and choking.”

  “What else?”

  “There was some bruising to the decedent’s face, particularly his lips and nose, which suggests force having been applied to obstruct his breathing. Also, there were some petechial hemorrhages—small red dots resulting from ruptured capillaries—in the facial areas corresponding to the bruising.”

  The deputy State’s attorney ducks behind the prosecution table and hauls out a poster board-sized exhibit I knew was coming but still stuns me. He hands it off to Ms. Tupper, who persuades the judge to admit it into evidence. “Are these the physical findings you’re referring to?” the prosecutor then asks, a collage of photographs of my dead baby balanced against the witness box.

  Dr. Cook nods. “Yes.”

  Ms. Tupper arranges the collage on an easel before the jury. “In your opinion, what caused the bruising and hemorrhaging seen here?”

  I study the floor and think of nothing.

  “The findings are consistent with a suffocating object—a pillow, for example—being held over the victim’s face.”

  “Are you aware of a deck pillow that was recovered from the scene of Owen Fowler’s death aboard the yacht, Lucy in the Sky?” Ms. Tupper asks, the volume of her voice decreasing as she drifts away from the witness stand.

  “Yes, I am.”

  In my peripheral vision, the fuzzy, red outline of a pillow floats by. The prosecutor introduces it into evidence and asks, “Is this the pillow?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “And DNA tests have been conducted on this pillow?”

  “They have.”

  “Was any DNA found?”

  “Owen Fowler’s DNA was found, in the form of saliva and skin cells.”

  “What, if anything, were you able to conclude regarding the significance of the deck pillow in this case?”

  “In my opinion, the pillow containing Owen Fowler’s DNA is the object that suffocated him.”

  “Was there DNA on the pillow belonging to anyone other than Owen Fowler?”

  “We were able to extract a partial profile, but it wasn’t suitable for comparison and was thus deemed inconclusive.”