Shatter My Rock

by Greta Nelsen

  “Without that DNA match, were you able to reach any conclusions regarding Owen Fowler’s manner of death?”

  “As I said, his cause of death is asphyxiation. Due to the bruising and hemorrhaging, and in light of the decedent’s DNA on the deck pillow, I’ve classified his manner of death as homicide.”

  “So Owen Fowler was murdered?”

  “Yes, I believe he was.”

  “Oh…one more thing,” Ms. Tupper says lightly. “What did you determine to be the time of Owen Fowler’s death?”

  I lock eyes with the doctor. “Between three and four a.m., on the morning of May 28, 2011,” she says.

  “Not seven a.m., as the defendant reported to police?”

  “No.”

  “And how did you determine this?”

  “Calculating time of death is one of the most basic functions of a medical examiner’s job,” the doctor explains. “We utilize multiple means of assessment, including evaluation of body temperature, muscle rigidity, and the chemical composition of bodily fluids—in combination with a detailed analysis of the scene where the body was found—to arrive at an accurate time of death.”

  “And, in the case of Owen Fowler, these analyses and calculations established a time of death between three and four a.m.—hours before the 911 call came in?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank you for your time, Doctor. I have nothing further.”

  * * *

  Zoe’s sleek, stainless-steel pen flies across her legal pad as if it’s possessed by a rambunctious poltergeist. “Ms. Blanchette, your witness,” Judge Parsons says.

  For a moment I wonder how my lawyer will approach the doctor, but soon I know. “Are you familiar with the term dry drowning, Ms. Cook?” Zoe asks as she rises to her feet.

  “I’m familiar with it.”

  “Please explain to the court the process of dry drowning.”

  The doctor draws a breath. “In rare instances, a drowning victim’s larynx may spasm shut, inhibiting water from entering the airways.”

  “How rare are these instances?”

  The doctor squints, frowns and shakes her head. “Probably less than five percent of drownings, but I’d have to consult the literature to be sure.”

  “What differentiates a dry drowning from a wet drowning?” asks Zoe.

  “In a dry drowning, as the term implies, there would be little water in the victim’s lungs, as the cause of death is asphyxiation by way of laryngospasm and, secondarily, from airway obstruction by mucus and froth.”

  Zoe raises an eyebrow, gives the jury a confident smile that borders on a smirk. “So, in a dry drowning, there would be little water in the victim’s lungs, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And there would be evidence of mucus and froth in the victim’s airways, correct?”

  Dr. Cook sighs. “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  “There was little water in Owen Fowler’s lungs, correct?”

  The doctor grudgingly nods. “That is correct.”

  “And there was mucus and froth present in Owen Fowler’s airways, correct?”

  “I’ve already testified to that.”

  “Isn’t it true that the diatom test you conducted, the test for microscopic plants, is considered controversial and unreliable as an indicator of drowning?”

  “It has its drawbacks, like any other test. And it shouldn’t be relied upon in isolation. But as part of a comprehensive approach, I believe it yields valuable forensic insight.”

  “But some experts consider the diatom test controversial and unreliable, don’t they?”

  The doctor sets her jaw. “I’m sure they do. That’s their opinion. Many experts share my opinion as well.”

  “So you admit that there is disagreement among experts on the validity and reliability of this test?”

  “Sure. That’s science.”

  “What about the phenomenon of cadaveric spasm? Does the absence of cadaveric spasm exclude drowning as a cause of death?”

  “Not necessarily,” says the doctor. “But the evidence must be considered in totality. With the bruising and the DNA…”

  Zoe interrupts, “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve answered my question.” She crosses her arms over her chest and baby-steps toward the witness stand, her heels clicking each time they hit the floor. “Can you tell the court, statistically speaking, what level of confidence you have in your determination that the manner of Owen Fowler’s death was homicide?”

  “Objection!” Ms. Tupper declares. “Calls for speculation and conclusion.”

  Judge Parsons swivels to face Zoe, who argues, “If the witness isn’t permitted to reach a conclusion regarding the reliability of her investigation, how can the jurors be expected to do so?”

  “Overruled,” Judge Parsons grumbles. “Proceed, Ms. Blanchette.”

  Zoe tilts her head. “Statistically speaking, how certain are you that the manner of Owen Fowler’s death was homicide and not, for example, accidental drowning?”

  “There’s no way to measure that,” the doctor says with exasperation.

  “Are you one-hundred percent sure Owen Fowler’s death was a homicide?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you fifty percent sure Owen Fowler’s death was a homicide?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Charlotte Tupper creeps to the edge of her seat as if she’s preparing another objection.

  “Isn’t it true that, generally speaking, determinations of cause, manner, and time of death are not objective facts, but are conclusions based on interpretations of facts?”

  “That’s right. They are expert interpretations of the forensic facts of a case.”

  “And different experts could reach different conclusions in the same case, couldn’t they?”

  “Yes, they could.”

  “No further questions.”

  * * *

  Owen’s pediatrician, Dr. Elmore Lasky, has been subpoenaed all the way from Calvary to speak against me. As he settles in the witness box, I think back to the day Tim and I flipped through the phone book, scanned the yellow pages with giddy optimism for a doctor for Ally. Unlike my parents, we weren’t bound to specialists and university hospitals, researchers and experimental models. Because we’d assured our daughter’s health beforehand, we were liberated to employ more pedestrian means of decision-making, choosing Dr. Lasky’s office based on its proximity to our home. When we met the good doctor in person, I was struck by the incongruity between his gaunt, pock-marked face and the vigorous, airbrushed image that had stared out at us from that full-page, glossy ad.

  For the benefit of the jury, Dr. Lasky begins with a simplified explanation of group B strep infection and its consequences in pregnant women and newborns. Then Ms. Tupper asks, “From the hospital records, do you know if Claire Fowler was colonized with group B strep, and, if so, whether she was treated with antibiotics during labor?”

  “Yes to both. She was colonized and she was treated.”

  “Again, based on the hospital records, do you know if Owen Fowler was evaluated for group B strep?”

  Dr. Lasky nods. “He was.”

  “And what was the result of that evaluation?”

  “He exhibited no signs.”

  “Does that mean the defendant’s group B strep infection had no effect on her son’s health?”

  “There are two distinct forms of group B strep in infants,” the doctor says. “Early-onset, the signs of which appear within hours of delivery, and late-onset, the signs of which may not be evident for weeks or even months after birth. It’s possible that, if Owen Fowler was infected with group B strep, he had the late-onset type.”

  “What are the signs of late-onset group B strep?”

  The doctor pauses a moment. “Fever, lethargy,” he lists, “difficulty feeding, sometimes cough and congestion, and, in cases of group B strep-related meningitis, seizures.”

  Charlotte Tupper clasps her hands over he
r belly. “Did you note any of these signs during the time you cared for Owen Fowler?”

  “No, I didn’t. The only thing in my records that might suggest group B strep infection is a mention of muscle spasms, which I was due to evaluate on June 3, 2011.”

  “Did you ever observe these ‘muscle spasms’?”

  The doctor shakes his head. “No. They were reported by the father, Tim Fowler, over the phone. I never witnessed them myself.”

  “Isn’t it true that you were scheduled to see Owen Fowler on May 20, 2011, to evaluate these ‘muscle spasms’?”

  “Yes,” he says with an extended look in my direction. “There was an appointment, but Mrs. Fowler left my waiting room before I had a chance to…”

  Zoe rises a few inches off her chair but drops back down without objecting.

  The prosecutor squints. “So Owen Fowler was in your office on May 20, 2011, eight days before his death, to be evaluated for ‘muscle spasms,’ but the defendant fled with him before you were able to have a look?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did she explain why she’d behaved this way?”

  “There was a note on the intake form that said someone was sick.”

  “Who was sick?”

  “The note wasn’t specific.”

  “So she left without explanation?”

  “With vague explanation, I’d say.”

  “Is that unusual in your experience? A mother bringing her child in for an appointment and then suddenly fleeing?”

  Zoe squawks an objection, which Judge Parsons sustains with a weak groan. “Move on, Ms. Tupper.”

  The prosecutor doesn’t miss a beat. “Is it possible, Dr. Lasky, that baby Owen was stricken with late-onset group B strep?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Is it also possible that the ‘muscle spasms’ reported by Owen’s father could have resulted from this infection?”

  “If Owen Fowler had group B strep-related meningitis, those ‘spasms’ could have been meningococcal seizures.”

  “If that were the case, would it have been imperative for Owen Fowler to be seen by a physician, such as yourself, as soon as possible?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Yet the defendant cancelled Owen’s appointment, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Given the circumstances, couldn’t that have been a dangerous course of action?”

  “It certainly could have.”

  “Nothing further.”

  * * *

  Charlotte Tupper takes her seat, and Zoe strides toward the witness stand. “Just a few questions, Doctor.”

  Dr. Lasky nods, politely smiles.

  “Are you telling this court that Owen Fowler was infected with group B strep?”

  “No.”

  “Because, the truth is, you don’t know if Owen Fowler had group B strep, do you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But your testimony is that he could have had it, right?”

  “Yes, he could have. Based on the hospital records…”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Isn’t it also true that I could have group B strep right now? Or that you could have it? Or that every single member of this jury could be infected?”

  “That would be very unlikely,” the doctor says with a grimace. “And in healthy adults, it wouldn’t matter anyway, because the bacterium seldom causes symptoms.”

  “But it’s possible?”

  “The odds against that being the case are astronomical.”

  “It’s a yes or no question, Mr. Lasky. Isn’t it possible that everyone in this courtroom could be infected with group B strep?”

  “It’s not impossible.”

  “How concerned were you, prior to Owen Fowler’s death, that he may have been infected with group B strep?”

  The doctor casts his gaze downward. “Not all that concerned,” he softly admits.

  “Is that why Owen’s father had to beg your receptionist for an appointment to get his son seen?”

  The doctor shrugs. “I don’t know anything about…”

  Zoe goes in for the kill. “You didn’t think Owen Fowler had group B strep-related meningitis, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing further.”

  Chapter 20

  Our father was weak and sensitive, distanced himself from Ricky first by withholding affection, then by long stretches of physical absence, time our mother spent wringing her hands and guzzling chardonnay.

  Then one hot Saturday in August of nineteen seventy-six, for no discernible reason whatsoever, our father did an about-face, abruptly became worthy of the hero-worship Ricky felt for him—if only for a fragile moment.

  Despite the record warmth, the carriage house was cool enough, its stone exterior and abundant windows—not to mention the grove of elms surrounding it—ample protection from the midday sun. I was in my room (a space that, in another life, belonged to nannies and maids) listening to Linda Ronstadt 45s on the orange Palladium turntable my parents had picked up in Paris, when our father’s voice boomed, “Ricky! Claire! Get down here!”

  My mind immediately shot to the worst case: our mother having overdosed on some insane concoction of pills and alcohol, leaving us on the cusp of orphanhood. But then our father called again, this time more jubilantly, “Claire! Ricky!”

  I wandered into the hallway, creaked my brother’s bedroom door open. “Dad wants us downstairs,” I told him, although it was clear by the way he was struggling to his feet that he’d already heard.

  When we got to the landing, Ricky limp and me winded from carrying him, our father flashed us one of the sparkling smiles we seldom witnessed anymore, the kind reserved for impromptu photo-ops and glossy campaign ads. “We’re goin’ fishin’,” he announced, his foot balanced on a giant tackle box, a cluster of newly bought rods gripped in his Incredible Hulk-sized fist.

  Would Ricky’s hands have gotten that big? I wondered, knowing my brother would not survive long enough to squelch my curiosity in the matter.

  The ride to Calvary Pond was eventful in two respects: First, Ricky was so excited at the prospect of an adventure with our father that he worked himself into a string of seizures that didn’t subside until we propped him in the grass at the edge of the pond, a scraggly oak supporting his back. The second noteworthy occurrence was a conversation our father initiated about Mexico, how he pontificated on the lushness of its farmland, raved over the tranquility of its beaches, seemed utterly taken by its local color. I thought then that he was recalling a trip he’d made without us, during one of his “mental vacations,” as our mother referred to them—and maybe he was—but I have since come to believe he was also plotting, subconsciously or not, for the day he would leave us all behind.

  * * *

  The prosecution’s first witness today is the last person I expect: Tim’s and my insurance agent. Tim hired the guy to underwrite our life insurance policy, a duty squarely within my husband’s purview as the stay-at-home parent and financial planner of our family.

  I am not so thick as to wonder why this man has been called, but what Charlotte Tupper aims to prove sickens me. “Good morning,” she says in a sugary tone. “Could you please state your name and tell the court how you are employed?”

  With morbid fascination, I watch as the man’s plump, purplish lips part. “Lonnie B. Abrams,” he says. “I’m a licensed insurance agent, ma’am.”

  “And what type of insurance do you specialize in, primarily?”

  Lonnie straightens his checkered tie and sucks in a wheezy breath. “I do quite a few homeowners policies,” he says, “but mostly I’m in the life insurance business.”

  “Are you familiar with the defendant in this case, Claire Fowler?”

  He shakes his head. “Only by name.”

  “How do you know her name?”

  “She has a policy with us, ma’am.”

  “A life insurance policy?”

  “Yep,” he s
ays with a smile and a nod.

  “And who is covered by this policy?”

  “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “the whole Fowler family.”

  “That would’ve included Owen Fowler before his death, correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How much was Owen Fowler’s life insured for?”

  “A quarter of a million dollars.”

  A quarter of a million dollars? This figure sounds outlandish, even to me.

  “Is that a typical amount of life insurance for a parent to carry on a child?”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s typical.”

  “What would you say is typical?”

  Lonnie glances skyward, as if he’s performing a mental calculation. “Ten-thousand? Just enough to cover the funeral expenses and maybe start a scholarship in the kid’s name.”

  “But Claire Fowler requested twenty-five times that amount of insurance on her son, baby Owen, didn’t she?”

  On this question, he thinks longer. “I suppose she did.”

  I nudge Zoe’s arm and shake my head. On the legal pad before us, I scribble: Tim bought the policy, not me.

  Zoe simply smiles.

  * * *

  By the detached look on Judge Parsons’ jowled face, I assume he is thoroughly bored. “Ms. Blanchette?” he mumbles, without as much as a glance away from the swath of papers strewn about his desk.

  Zoe takes her time getting to her feet, thumbs through her notes as she sidles up to the witness stand. “Mr. Abrams, you told the court that you know my client ‘only by name,’ isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Before today, have you ever seen my client in person?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Have you ever spoken with her by telephone or exchanged any sort of written correspondence—for example, an email or text message?”

  He pauses. “Uh-uh.”

  “Yes or no answer, please, Mr. Abrams.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “But my client, Claire Fowler, has a life insurance policy with your company, doesn’t she?”