by Angie Kim
“Excuse me,” Elizabeth said, and walked across the room toward Henry. Her legs felt heavy, as if chains were tethering her to a cage, and it took all her strength to move. The moms pretended not to notice, but she could see their eyes darting at her, could see in their faces intense gratitude that they weren’t her, and she felt fury surge up her throat. She grudged and envied and coveted and downright hated them, these women with their exquisitely normal kids. Walking through the kids laughing and talking, her arms ached to pick up one, any of them, and claim that child as her own. How different her life would be, full of mirth and trivialities (“I’m at my wit’s end—Joey won’t drink juice!” or “Fannie dyed her hair fuchsia!”).
When she reached Henry, she crouched behind him. Although she couldn’t see them, she could feel the adults’ stares, coming from all directions and converging on her back like sunlight through a magnifying glass, the heat rising up to her cheeks and ears, making her eyes water. She steadied her hands, placed them on Henry’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Henry,” she said as gently as she could manage. “Let’s stop.”
He seemed not to hear her, not to feel her hand. He kept rocking. Back and forth. Same rhythm. Same pace. Like a malfunctioning machine stuck in one mode.
She wanted to scream in his ear, to grab and shake him hard and fast and break him out of the world he was trapped in, make him look at her. Her face felt hot. Her fingers tingled.
“Henry, you need to stop. Right. Now,” she said in a whispered yell, then moved to shield her hand from everyone’s view and squeezed his shoulders. Hard. He paused, but only for a micro-beat, and when he resumed rocking, she squeezed harder, forcing the soft flesh between his neck and shoulder into a thin strip and pinching, harder and harder, wanting, needing it to hurt, for him to scream or hit her or run away, something to indicate that he was alive, in the same world as hers.
The shame and fear would come later, over and over in waves that choked her. When she saw the moms whispering as they left, making her wonder if they’d seen. At bathtime, when she took off Henry’s shirt and saw the crescent-shaped break in his skin, the splotch of red under the surface. When she tucked him in and kissed his head, praying she hadn’t harmed his psyche irreparably.
But before all that, in that moment, as Elizabeth pressed her fingers together, all she felt was a release. Not the sudden release of slamming a door or hurling a plate, but a slow, gradual dissipation of her fury, giving way to pleasure, the sensuous delight of squeezing something soft, like kneading dough. When Henry finally stopped rocking and twisted away, his mouth scrunched in pain, his eyes looking directly into hers—the first deep, sustained eye contact he’d made with her in weeks, maybe months—she felt power coursing through her and exploding into elation, her pain and hatred shattered into tiny shards she could no longer feel.
* * *
THE COURTHOUSE PARKING LOT was almost empty, which wasn’t surprising given that court had adjourned hours ago. Since then, her lawyer had kept her waiting in a side room, citing “urgent business” (probably hiding away her murderess-client until everyone was gone). Not that it mattered; it wasn’t like she had places to be or things to do. The terms of her house arrest allowed her to go only to the courthouse or Shannon’s offices, to be driven only by Shannon.
Shannon’s car, a black Mercedes, had been sitting in the sun all day, and when Shannon started the car, the fan blasted out on maximum and struck Elizabeth’s right jawline. The air was torch hot, the AC not having had time to cool. Elizabeth touched her jaw and remembered Matt’s testimony, the eruption of fire hitting Henry in that exact spot. The pictures, the skin and muscle from Henry’s right jaw scorched away. She opened her mouth and threw up onto her lap.
“Oh, shit.” Elizabeth opened the car door and stumbled out, getting vomit all over the leather seat, door, floor, everything. “Oh God, I’m making a mess. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she said, half sitting, half falling down onto the concrete. She tried to say she was fine, just needed water, but Shannon fussed over her, doing mother-y/doctor-y things—pulse-checking, forehead-feeling—before leaving, saying she’d be right back. After a while—two minutes? ten?—Elizabeth saw security cameras pointed her way, and she pictured herself, sprawled on the ground in her suit and heels, covered in vomit, and she started laughing. Violently. Hysterically. By the time Shannon returned with paper towels, Elizabeth realized she was crying, which was surprising; she didn’t remember transitioning from one to the other. Shannon, bless her, said nothing, just cleaned up methodically while Elizabeth sat, laughing and crying alternately, sometimes together.
On the drive back, as Elizabeth sat in the empty state of hypercalmness that follows a violent purge, Shannon said, “Where was all that emotion earlier today?”
Elizabeth didn’t answer. Just shrugged slightly and looked out at the cows—must’ve been twenty—crowding around a skinny lone tree in a field.
“You do realize the entire jury thinks you don’t give a damn what happened to your son, right? They’d love to send you to death row right now. Is that what you were going for there?”
Elizabeth wondered if the mostly white cows with black spots—Jersey cows? Holsteins?—were cooler than the dark brown ones. “I was just doing what you wanted,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t let them get to you, you said. Calm and collected.”
“I meant, don’t act crazy. Don’t yell or throw shit. I didn’t mean become a robot. I’ve never seen anyone so stoic, and definitely not through evidence about their own child’s death. It was downright creepy. It’s okay to show people you’re hurting.”
“Why? What difference would that make? You’ve seen the evidence. I don’t stand a chance.”
Shannon looked at Elizabeth, bit her lip, and swerved off the road and slammed on the brakes. “If you think that, why are we doing this? I mean, why hire me and plead not guilty and put on a defense at all?”
Elizabeth looked down. The truth was, it all stemmed from the research she’d started the day after Henry’s funeral. There were so many methods—hanging, drowning, carbon-monoxide inhaling, wrist-slitting, and on and on. She’d made a pro/con list and was wavering between sleeping pills (pro: painless; con: death uncertain—discovery/resuscitation risk) and gun (pro: death certain; con: waiting period to buy?) when the police cleared the protesters and arrested her. When the prosecutor announced he’d be seeking the death penalty, that’s when she realized: going through the trial would be the best atonement for her sin—the irrevocable, unforgivable action she took that day during one moment of anger and hatred, the moment that played over and over in her mind, morning and night, awake and asleep, and tore away at her sanity. To publicly and officially be blamed for Henry’s death, to be forced to sit through the details of his suffering, then to be killed by poisons injected directly into her blood. The exquisite torture of it all—wouldn’t that be better than some easy, blink-and-it’s-over death?
But Elizabeth couldn’t say that. She couldn’t tell Shannon how it felt today, forcing herself to look everyone in the eye, listen to every word, take in every exhibit, all the while keeping her face still, afraid the slightest movement might set off a domino reaction of emotion. The cauterizing shame of a hundred people pelting their stares of judgment at her like poison darts. Accept and absorb the blame. Gulp it down, more and more, until every cell in her body was bursting. She hadn’t just been ready for it; she’d craved it, relished it, couldn’t wait for more of it.
Elizabeth said nothing, and Shannon, apparently interpreting this as silent surrender, resumed driving. After a minute, Shannon said, “Oh, good news. Victor’s not testifying. He’s not coming at all.”
Elizabeth nodded. She knew why this was good, why Shannon had worried about a grief-stricken father affecting the jury, but his absence wasn’t something she could celebrate. He hadn’t contacted her at all since her arrest, which she’d expected, and, yes, she knew he had a busy life in California with his new house and new wife and new k
ids, but she’d assumed he’d at least show up at the trial for his son’s murder. She felt bile rise and snake around her chest, choking her heart. Poor Henry. Born to two such pathetic parents. One responsible for hurting and killing him, the other too worthless to give a shit.
Shannon’s phone rang. An obviously expected call—she answered with “You got it? Read it to me.” Elizabeth breathed in deep. The stench of vomit stung her nose, and she opened the window, which made it worse, the mix of sweet manure from outside and sour vomit smelling like rotting Chinese food. She closed the window just as the call ended, and said to Shannon, “You should get the car cleaned. Put it on my bill. Although, can you imagine your billing partner going, ‘Why are there car-vomit-cleaning charges under murder-trial expenses?’” Elizabeth laughed. Shannon didn’t.
“Listen. One of the Yoos’ neighbors was in court.” A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Shannon’s lips. “He came forward with something he didn’t think was important until today. So I put the team on it all day, and we found something. I didn’t want to tell you until we confirmed it.”
Somewhere outside, cows were mooing in unison. Elizabeth swallowed. Her ears clicked. “The protesters? You finally got something? I told you to focus on them, I knew they—”
Shannon shook her head no. “Not them. Matt. He’s lying. I can prove it. Elizabeth, I have evidence that someone else deliberately set the fire.”
THE TRIAL: DAY TWO
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
MATT
HE THOUGHT TODAY WOULD BE EASIER than yesterday. Once the story was told, he’d feel purged, like puking after overdrinking.
But walking up, taking the stand again, it had been harder to raise his head. How many people were wondering why he, a healthy young man, a fucking doctor, for Christ’s sake, had allowed a little boy to be burned alive in front of him?
“Good morning, Dr. Thompson, I’m Shannon Haug, Elizabeth Ward’s attorney.”
Matt nodded.
Shannon said, “I want you to know how sorry I am for the horrible things you’ve experienced. And I have to apologize in advance for making you recall all that again, sometimes in great detail. My goal is not to upset you, but simply to find the truth. If you need to stop at any time, just let me know. Okay?”
Matt felt his jaw relax and, despite himself, he smiled. Abe rolled his eyes. Abe did not like Shannon. He’d described her as a “bigwig from a fancy litigation factory,” and Matt had expected a TV-show-lawyer type: hair in one of those French buns, suit with pencil-thin skirt, stilettos, mysterious smile, gorgeous as hell. Instead, Shannon Haug looked and sounded like a kind aunt, totally benign, her suit wrinkled and loose, her shoulder-length graying hair a matted blob. Nurturing, with a generous bust—less femme-fatale vixen, more wet nurse. “She’s the enemy,” Abe had warned, but Matt craved this, a woman’s gentle pampering, and he clung to it.
“Now,” Shannon said, “let’s start with some basics. Easy yes-no stuff. Did you ever see Elizabeth set fire anywhere around Miracle Submarine?”
“No.”
“Ever see her smoking, or even just holding a cigarette?”
“No.”
“Ever see anyone else affiliated with HBOT smoking?”
Matt felt his face flush. He had to tread lightly here. “Pak didn’t allow smoking at HBOT. We were all clear on that.”
Shannon smiled, stepped closer. “Is that a no to my question? Have you seen anyone on Miracle Submarine’s premises with cigarettes, matches, anything like that?”
“Yes. I mean, my answer is no,” Matt said. He wasn’t lying, not technically—the creek was outside “the premises”—but still, his heart beat faster.
“To your knowledge, does anyone affiliated with Miracle Submarine smoke?”
Mary had once said that Camels were Pak’s favorite. But, he reminded himself, he wasn’t supposed to know that. “I couldn’t say. I’ve only seen them at HBOT, where smoking’s prohibited.”
“Fair enough.” Shannon shrugged and walked to her table, like this was a perfunctory checklist of questions she hadn’t expected anything from. Halfway there, she turned mid-step and said in a throwaway tone, “By the way, do you smoke?”
Matt felt a tingling in his missing fingers, could almost feel the thin roll of a Camel suspended between them. “Me?” He hoped his chuckle didn’t sound as fake as it felt in his mouth. “The number of smoker-lung X-rays I see, I’d need a death wish to smoke.”
She smiled. Thankfully, she was trying to butter him up and didn’t call him on his nonanswer. She picked up something from her table and sauntered back to him. “Back to Elizabeth. Ever see her hit Henry? Harm him in any way?”
“No.”
“Ever see her yell at him?”
“No.”
“How about neglect? Tattered clothes, junk food—anything?”
Matt pictured Henry in socks with holes, eating Skittles, and almost laughed; Elizabeth would never let him near anything not organic, dye-free, and sugar-free. “Definitely not.”
“To the contrary, she put a great deal of effort into Henry’s care, isn’t that fair to say?”
Matt raised his eyebrows in a half shrug. “I suppose.”
“She checked his eardrums with an otoscope before and after every dive, right?”
“Yes.”
“No other parents did that, correct?”
“No. I mean, correct.”
“She read books with him before the dives?”
“Yes.”
“She gave him all homemade snacks?”
“Yes. Well, that’s what she said, anyway.”
Shannon looked at him, tilting her head. “Elizabeth made everything from scratch because Henry had severe food allergies, isn’t that right?”
“Again, that’s what she said.”
Shannon stepped closer and tilted her head the other way, as if studying an abstract painting whose proper orientation she could not determine. “Dr. Thompson, are you accusing Elizabeth of lying about Henry’s allergies?”
Matt felt his cheeks redden. “Not necessarily. I just don’t know for a fact.”
“Well, let me correct that.” Shannon handed him a document. “Tell us what that is.”
Matt skimmed. “It’s a lab report confirming Henry’s severe allergies to peanuts, fish, shellfish, dairy, and eggs.” Abe looked at him and shook his head.
“Let’s try this again. Elizabeth gave Henry homemade snacks she made sure were allergen-free, correct?”
“That appears to be correct.”
“Do you recall an incident involving peanuts, Henry’s most severe allergy?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“TJ had peanut butter on his hands, from a sandwich. He got some on the hatch handle, going in. Henry grabbed the same spot, and luckily, Elizabeth noticed.”
“How did she react?”
She’d freaked out, screaming, “Henry could die!” and acting like the brown glob was a fucking cobra. But wouldn’t that play into the devoted-mother routine Elizabeth’s lawyer was putting on? “Elizabeth asked the boys to wash up, and Pak cleaned the chamber.” He made it sound like nothing, but it had been an ordeal, Elizabeth demanding that TJ brush his teeth, wash his face, and even change his clothes.
“If Elizabeth hadn’t noticed the peanut butter, what would’ve happened?”
Before Shannon even finished the question, Abe stood, the screech of his chair scraping the floor announcing his objection like a trumpet call. “Objection. If that doesn’t call for speculation, I don’t know what does.”
Shannon said, “Your Honor, a little leeway? I’m getting somewhere, I promise.”
The judge said, “Get there fast. Overruled.”
Abe sat and moved his chair, the slamming sound of the chair legs the equivalent of a petulant teenager’s door slam. Shannon smiled at Abe the way an amused mother might, then turned to Matt. “Again, Doctor, what would’ve happened if Elizab
eth hadn’t noticed Henry touching the peanut butter?”
Matt shrugged. “It’s hard to know.”
“Let’s think it through together. Henry bit his nails. You’d seen that, right?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s fair to say peanut butter probably would’ve gotten in his mouth during the dive?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Doctor, given the severity of Henry’s peanut allergy, what would’ve happened?”
“The airway swells and shuts off, and you can’t breathe. But Henry had an EpiPen, epinephrine, which counteracts that.”
“Was there an EpiPen in the chamber?”
“No. Since food’s not allowed, Pak had Elizabeth leave it outside.”
“How long does it take to depressurize and open the hatch?”
“Pak usually depressurized slowly, for comfort, but he could do it quickly if necessary, in a minute or so.”
“One full minute with no air. If you wait more than a minute to inject epinephrine, can it fail?”
“It’s not likely, but yes, that could happen.”
“So Henry could’ve died?”
Matt sighed. “I doubt that. I could’ve done a tracheotomy.” He turned to the jurors. “You can make a small incision in the larynx to relieve an obstruction in the airway. You can even do it with a ballpoint pen, in an emergency.”
“Was there a ballpoint pen inside?”