by Greta Nelsen
“You look a little off.”
I shrug. “Nervous, I guess,” I claim, though I feel so unnervingly calm I could be dead.
I glance around the courtroom, my gaze sweeping the benches behind me and then the jury box, where I search the faces of my confessors. Through some twist of happenstance, these are the folks to whom I will bare my soul.
Judge Parsons brings the court to order, and then Zoe calls me to the stand. I proceed in tiny, controlled steps, as if the floor is a sheet of ice I wish not to disturb. As I lower myself into the witness chair, my consciousness diverges from my being, hovers somewhere overhead, invisible and beyond reach.
Zoe starts with a series of questions designed to portray me as a conscientious and loving mother, an admired, respected professional, the kind of woman little girls are encouraged to become.
It’s hard to know if my answers hit the mark, though, because all I can focus on is the sea of eyes digging into me. “That’s right,” I say, in response to a question about my tenure at Hazelton United.
“In 2009, did a man by the name of Eric Blair begin working there?”
“Yes, he did.”
“And you know this because…?”
“I was vice president of human resources. Every new-hire crossed my desk.”
“Did Eric Blair simply ‘cross your desk,’ or were you familiar with him more personally, so to speak?”
This is where I am supposed to focus on the reptile’s infamy as a lecherous womanizer. “I met him briefly when Bob Evans, the VP of IT, hired him. And I crossed paths with him here and there, in the hallways and the cafeteria.”
“But you didn’t work with him directly?”
“No.”
“Did there come a time, in December of 2009, when Bob Evans, Eric Blair’s boss, became ill?”
I nod eagerly. “He got salmonella.”
“During this time, was Bob Evans due to attend a conference in Cincinnati, where he was scheduled as a presenter?”
“Yes,” I say. “Hazelton United had developed a new point-of-sale system to track customers’ buying habits and market to them on a micro level, thereby increasing sales.”
Zoe tilts her head. “Okay. So Bob Evans was going to speak about this system in Cincinnati?”
“Yes.”
“But then he got sick with salmonella?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then what happened?”
“The president of Hazelton United, Charles Denton Jr., asked me to attend the conference in Bob’s place.”
“And you agreed to do so?”
“I’d never turned him down before,” I say, “and I wasn’t about to start.”
“Were you to attend this conference alone, or was someone to accompany you?”
I ready my lips to speak his name. “Eric Blair,” I say with as much evenness as I can muster. “He designed the system. He knew it from the inside out. Bob wanted him to copilot.”
“So you and Eric went to Cincinnati together, at the request of your superiors?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you stayed at a hotel?”
“Yes.”
“In separate rooms?”
I look at the jurors. “Absolutely.”
Zoe comes closer. “Did you have anything other than a professional relationship with Eric Blair, prior to this Cincinnati trip?”
Emphatically, I say, “No, I didn’t.”
“Had you kissed him? Or had sex with him? Or asked him to impregnate you, as he testified in this case?”
The answer is simple. “No.”
“Was Eric Blair ever in your hotel room?”
I stare straight ahead. “Yes, he was.”
“Did you invite him there?”
“No. He had the company credit card and the room keys. He let himself in.”
“When was Eric Blair in your hotel room?”
“Twice that I know of,” I say. “Once when we first got to the hotel, right after check-in. And then the following night, while I was asleep.”
“You didn’t invite him inside either time?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Zoe cocks her head. “How did Eric Blair enter your room while you were sleeping?”
I shrug. “I have no idea. Maybe he got an extra key from the front desk. Like I said, he had the company credit card, and the reservations were in his name.”
“The first time Eric Blair entered your hotel room uninvited, how long did he stay?”
“Not long,” I say. “Two or three minutes.”
“What about the second time, the following night? How long did he stay then?”
Again, I say, “I don’t know. I went to bed early with a migraine. When I woke up, he was there.”
“You didn’t hear him enter?”
“No.”
“What happened when you awoke and unexpectedly found him in your room?”
“I was confused. I still had a migraine, and I was a little disoriented. I just wanted him to leave.”
“Did he leave?”
“Not immediately.”
“What did he do instead?”
“He sat on the bed with me, asked how I was feeling.”
“What happened next?”
“He said he had a muscle relaxer I could take for my headache.”
“A pill?”
“Yes.”
“Where did he get this pill from?”
“It was in his pocket.”
“He just happened to have it with him?”
“I guess so.”
“And he gave it to you?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Then what happened?”
“I walked him to the door, and he left.”
“What did you do then?”
“I took the pill and went back to bed.”
“Do you know what time it was when you took the pill?”
“Just after midnight.”
“When did you next see Eric Blair?”
I glance at Charlotte Tupper, who twirls her pen restlessly, as if she can’t wait for her shot at me. “I don’t remember seeing him again until breakfast the following day.”
“Did you speak to him about entering your room without permission?”
“He was very standoffish. It seemed like he was avoiding me,” I say. “So, no, I didn’t bring it up.”
“When you returned to work in Rhode Island, did Eric Blair’s ‘standoffish’ behavior continue?”
“We didn’t work that closely, so it wasn’t an issue. But, yeah, he kept his distance, walked the other way when he saw me coming.”
“Did that bother you?”
“Not at all. I mean, it was sort of strange, but, in a way, it was a relief.”
“How so?”
“He gave me the creeps. I felt uncomfortable around him. I was glad he was leaving me alone.”
Zoe draws an audible breath. “Mrs. Fowler, do you believe Eric Blair fathered your son, Owen?”
A chill scurries down my spine. “Yes,” I admit, “I do.”
“But you never had sex with him, did you?”
I shake my head. “Not willingly, and not that I remember.”
“Yet you believe Eric Blair was Owen’s biological father?”
I give her a shallow nod and murmur, “Yes.”
“What led you to believe this?”
“The first thing was that vile picture,” I say. “He was flaunting it around work, like it was a badge of honor. People were saying it was me. At first, I thought, no way. But then he showed it to me, and I recognized the wallpaper.”
“Eric Blair showed you a photograph of a naked woman, the same photograph the prosecutor submitted as evidence in this case?”
I hang my head. “Yes, he did.”
“And you recognized something about this photograph?”
“I already knew it must’ve looked like me, from the rumors at the office. But I thought he’d just put my head on someone else’
s body, as a sick joke or something. But the wallpaper in the background was the same blue and gold paisley from the hotel in Cincinnati.”
“And this led you to believe what?”
With conviction, I say, “Eric Blair took that picture of me in Cincinnati, after he drugged me. While he was raping me.”
There is a long, drawn-out pause, during which the air in the courtroom seems to solidify. Eventually, Zoe clears her throat and continues. “What makes you believe Eric Blair drugged you?”
“He gave me that pill,” I reiterate, “then he wrote a note in my welcome back to work card and signed it, ‘Kisses, Roofie.’ That’s the street name for Rohypnol, the date-rape drug.”
“Is there anything else that led you to believe Eric Blair raped you?”
“He claims that he had sex with me, but I don’t remember it. And I never would have done that to Tim.” I hesitate a moment before saying, “Then there’s Owen.”
Zoe’s gaze dances from the prosecution table to the jury box. “What about Owen?”
“First of all, his due date didn’t add up. Based on the embryo transfer, he should’ve been due August 15th. But when our doctor did the ultrasound, she came up with a due date of September 5th, which coincided with a conception date around the time of the Cincinnati trip.”
“So you and your husband had been undergoing fertility treatments, in an effort to conceive?”
“That’s right,” I say with a little gulp. “We’re both carriers of Dukate Disease, so we had the embryos genetically screened. Dukate is fatal, and we didn’t want our baby to die.”
But he did, I remind myself needlessly, at your hand.
“What else about Owen convinced you that Eric Blair was his biological father?”
“The blood test,” I say flatly. “I knew he couldn’t be type AB and be mine and Tim’s.”
“Anything else?”
I blink a few times, consider that the next words out of my mouth will be my undoing. Owen had Dukate Disease, I say in my mind, trying the words out there before anywhere else.
“Your Honor, I’m sorry,” Charlotte Tupper abruptly interrupts. “But I’m not feeling well. I’m afraid I’m going to have to...” She winces and sucks in a breath. “I’m going to have to excuse myself.”
The courtroom dissolves into disorder as I sit suspended in the witness chair, a full confession pressing at the backs of my teeth. In what seems an impossibly short span of time, the medics arrive and hoist the prosecutor onto a stretcher, then wheel her away.
And all I am left to do is weep.
* * *
Tim must have taken me at my word when we last spoke, moved on enough that I have drifted into his rearview, or, at least, his blind spot.
I am surprised by his voice when he picks up the phone, numerous calls I’ve made having gone unanswered. “Hello?” he says in a quasi-upbeat tone.
Tick-tock, I think. The countdown begins.
I launch right into it, for fear I won’t cross the finish line before that automated voice kicks in and cuts me short. “I should’ve told you,” I say without any sort of greeting, “about Eric Blair.”
I hear Tim breathing in soft, rhythmic bursts but nothing else.
“He raped me.” These words stick in my throat, no matter how many times I utter them. “I didn’t know until after Owen was born.”
Still, there is no reply, so I explain further. “In Cincinnati, he drugged me. It was right after the embryo transfer, so…”
“Owen was his?” Tim whispers, in a pensive, disbelieving way that makes clear he expects no answer.
Illogically, I nod. “There’s more.”
He turns harsh with me. “Like what?”
I kick my toes against the cinderblock wall, forget to care if the correctional officers notice. “Owen had Dukate Disease.”
“No, he didn’t. You know how fuckin’ impossible…?”
I persist. “He did. Why would I…?”
“Yeah. Right.” Tim clicks his tongue, lets loose a tsk sound that tells me: You have some nerve, Claire. Some fuckin’ nerve. “This is stupid. Why are we even talking about this?”
He can resist all he wants, but I’m not letting him off the hook this time, his denial even more toxic than my own. “Those ‘muscle spasms’?” I say. “Those were myoclonic jerks. Ricky had them for years, so I should know.”
“If that’s true,” he challenges, “how come you didn’t do anything about it? You did absolutely nothing to help him.”
I gulp hard, shake my head. “You’re wrong,” I say, more to the accusing voice in my head than to anything my husband has said. “I did the only thing I could. The only thing that would give him peace.”
What I’ve admitted takes a while to sink in with Tim, moments I spend holding my breath and praying. “This is so goddamn messed up,” he wails. “There ain’t a reason on earth why… He was a baby, for Christ’s sake.”
I am powerless to ease his pain. “I know.”
A series of muffled thuds on Tim’s end of the line suggests he may be punishing the drywall. I think about telling him to stop but don’t. In a distraught whimper, he finally asks, “He raped you?” And that’s when I realize he is on the verge of sobbing.
“It’s okay,” I say, even though nothing ever will be again. “It’s over.”
Chapter 23
Charlotte Tupper’s false labor pushes the rest of my testimony to the following day. To refresh the court’s memory, Zoe asks the stenographer to read back our last exchange. Then she says, “Is there anything else that led you to believe Eric Blair was Owen’s biological father?”
Ready or not, I tell myself. “Owen had Dukate Disease.”
Zoe’s eyes perk with curiosity—and confusion. This is not part of the story we’ve rehearsed. “Dukate Disease?”
“That’s how I knew he wasn’t Tim’s,” I say. “Because the embryos had been screened. And Tim had had a vasectomy twelve or thirteen years earlier. There was no way we could’ve borne a child with Dukate Disease.”
“How did you discover that Owen had Dukate Disease?” Zoe asks warily.
For this part, I turn toward the jury, rest my gaze on the shiny pearl buttons of a woman’s soft, pink blouse. “My brother, Ricky, had Dukate,” I explain. “I took care of him for most of his life, until he died in nineteen seventy-nine, when he was nine years old.”
“And this familiarized you with the signs of Dukate Disease?” Zoe intuits.
I agree with a nod. “You don’t forget watching someone you love disintegrate like that: the seizures, the blindness, the dementia. The last few years of his life, he just wanted it to end, wanted to be done with it.”
I turn back to Zoe, my mouth parched and my guts bubbling with nausea. She eyes me for a moment. “So you recognized something in Owen? Something you remembered seeing in your brother, Ricky?”
I try to swallow, but my throat just sticks and unsticks like a dried-out wad of gum. “The ‘muscle spasms,’” I say. “Ricky had them too. They’re called myoclonic jerks.”
“When you noticed these ‘muscle spasms,’ these ‘myoclonic jerks’ in Owen, what did that mean to you?”
My eyes suddenly well, three decades of tears aching to spill. But I push them back. “My baby was going to die.” I sniffle. “And he was going to suffer.”
Zoe shoots a look at the prosecutor, who, over the last bits of my testimony, should be preparing an objection. Then again, perhaps she is granting me the rope with which to hang myself. “Did you tell your husband, Tim, that you believed Owen had Dukate Disease?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Because…?”
“Then he’d have known the baby wasn’t his,” I say, “and it wouldn’t have helped Owen anyway.”
“Did you love your baby, Mrs. Fowler?” Zoe asks in a terse tone.
This time, the tears win. “I loved him,” I whimper. “I did. But I couldn’t… No matter what…”
Judge Parso
ns presses a box of tissues into my blurry view and motions at a water pitcher. “Take a breath, Mrs. Fowler. Try to calm down.”
With shaking hands, I dribble a stream of water into a plastic cup until it is just short of half full. Then I heed the judge’s advice, draw a few even breaths followed by a few deliberate sips.
When I have recovered, Zoe shifts her gaze from my tear-stained face to the jury box, where she seems to be weighing her chances of success—and mine. I remain as composed as possible while she leads me through our version of the events of May 28, 2011 with carefully composed questions that require me to utter only a syllable here and there in reply. Finally, she wraps up the questioning, tells the judge, “I have nothing further, Your Honor.” But I am not yet free to go.
* * *
I have managed to hold back the last shard of damning evidence, bite my tongue at the crucial moments and preserve the truth of Owen’s demise. But Charlotte Tupper is not so easily deterred. “Good day, Mrs. Fowler,” she begins, a hint of sarcasm underlying her otherwise congenial tone. “I’d like to clarify some aspects of your testimony, if you don’t mind.”
I give her an obligatory nod.
“You told this court that you believe Eric Blair raped you, correct?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s right.”
“But isn’t it true that, on the night in question, you were the one who invited Mr. Blair to your hotel room?”
“No,” I say with a vigorous shake of my head. “Absolutely not.”
Ms. Tupper backs up a few steps, slides a sheet of paper off the prosecution table and introduces it into evidence. “Let me refresh your memory,” she says, as she passes the paper to me. About a third of the way down the page, there is a highlighted line. “Do you recognize the number associated with this cell phone account? The one that ends in -6497?”
I shrug. “Yeah. It’s mine.”
“And directing your attention to the calls placed from your phone on December 15, 2009, do you recognize the highlighted number ending in -0275, which was dialed at 11:55 p.m.?”
The Rhode Island number she refers to has the same area code and exchange as mine. “I’ve never seen that before.”