Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  During the long drive back to New York, I confessed to Chad that I wanted Bill to know I was there. Part of me felt foolish for that, as if I was still seeking his approval.

  “Don’t worry,” said Chad. “I think Bill knew you were there. He might not have looked at you, but he saw you. They all did.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Surprise Witness

  THE NEXT SEVERAL MONTHS were less about the impending trial and more about getting my life back on track. I closed my solo practice and partnered with another physician. When I’d first started out, it was my dream to have my own practice. The office on Twenty-third Street was the gift I gave to myself for my fortieth birthday. Three years later, that didn’t seem as important. My life with Chad and Hoffman was my priority. Work still took precedence over everything else, but partnering with another physician brought me something I never thought I needed before: security. I no longer felt the desire to be tethered to an office. A solo practice hinged on my presence. I had to open up the office in the morning, see patients, and then close it back up again at night. I felt as if I owned a Korean deli like the one across the street. Joining a practice was going to allow me the freedom to go on vacation and take time off in case of illness. That became more important once Chad had a stroke.

  Later that month, Chad underwent the procedure to close the hole in his heart. He agreed, though he was still convinced the stroke was caused by a dental procedure. I didn’t care what he thought as long as the PFO was closed. That same day I received a letter from the Pennsylvania attorney general’s office informing me that Bill Fox’s trial was scheduled to begin August 2. Nowhere did it mention that I was going to be called as a witness. It said only that I had to make myself available during the trial dates.

  In the cardiac intensive care recovery room, I showed Chad the letter. He read it while eating Jell-O. “So, I guess we’re going to the trial?”

  “I really don’t want to.”

  He looked over at me and raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

  “Of course we’ll go, but honestly, I’ve been through enough. That preliminary hearing wrecked me. I can’t imagine driving out there again and going through all that. Trials are different. A jury of strangers is going to listen to this case. They don’t know what I know, and it looks like I won’t even be called as a witness. Then they’re going to make a decision based on the testimonies of these boys, whom we both know aren’t the best witnesses. I just don’t think I could sit there and watch that snakeskin-wearing lawyer rip them apart. It would kill me.”

  Chad opened another cup of Jell-O and licked the lid. “Well, you don’t have to decide now. You have two months. A lot can happen between now and then. Just look at the news. It looks like New York is going to legalize gay marriage. Who knows? You may be married before the trial begins.”

  “I know you didn’t just propose to me in a cardiac intensive care unit.”

  Chad smiled. “Why not?” He chuckled. “I can’t think of a better place. Your mother said it best when she inferred your love couldn’t close the hole in my heart. Now it’s closed. What better way to celebrate?”

  DUE TO SCHEDULING CONFLICTS, Senior Deputy Attorney General Anthony Forray replaced Michael Sprow as the prosecutor. On July 31, he called me.

  “How do you feel going into this trial?” I asked.

  “I’m confident, but I’ve been a trial lawyer long enough to know that it could go either way, depending on the jury.”

  “Do you think I’ll be called as a witness?”

  “It’s not likely,” he said. “The only way we’ll be able to call you as a witness is if Mr. Fox takes the stand.”

  In my limited knowledge, most of it based on famous court cases, guilty individuals hardly ever took the stand. “I don’t think he will,” I said.

  “You never know. Mr. Fox has outsmarted people for years. He may very well take the stand because he feels he could convince a jury that he’s a good man who adopted unwanted boys and was voted Father of the Year. I’ll be honest with you, Dr. Spinelli. Juries have a hard time convicting a police officer, especially a highly decorated one. The witnesses are also a concern. I don’t have to tell you that their mental capabilities can work in Mr. Fox’s favor. I’m sure Mr. Fox’s lawyer will use that to his advantage. That’s why I’m having you on call, in case we need you to testify.”

  “Do you want me in the courtroom?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Honestly, I’d prefer if you weren’t there. The way I see this, jury selection will take place on Monday, and the trial begins on Tuesday. The judge has been adamant about sticking to the schedule. He doesn’t want any delays. I’ll likely get through all my witnesses on Tuesday.”

  “Really?” I asked. “It could all go that quickly?”

  “Yes. Now, I’ll call you Tuesday afternoon to update you on what’s happening. If Mr. Fox decides to take the stand, I plan on asking him if he has ever molested anyone else. If he says no, then I’d like to have you waiting in the wings, so to speak.”

  I felt a heightened sense of anxiety. Mr. Forray’s plan was intriguing, but unnerving. I hadn’t planned on going to the trial at all, and now it seemed I could be a witness. “Does that mean you’ll need me in Pennsylvania?”

  “No, not right away,” he said. “Once I see how fast the trial is progressing, I’ll call you as soon as I’m available Tuesday afternoon. If it looks like Mr. Fox is going to testify, then I’d like you to come here as soon as possible. I expect if all goes well, you’ll arrive on Wednesday in order to testify on Thursday.”

  “Okay, Mr. Forray. I’ll do whatever you ask. I only want to help you win this case.”

  ON MONDAY, AUGUST 1, I RECEIVED A CALL from Anthony Forray. He sounded very excited. “Dr. Spinelli, we’ve completed jury selection. Like I explained before, the judge wants no delays. We’re going ahead as scheduled.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve also been told that Mr. Fox is going to take the stand on his behalf. So I’m going to need you here by tomorrow night.”

  Silence hung in the air as I tried to muster up something to say. “I can’t believe he’s going to take the stand.”

  “Like I said before, you never know how things are going to go. I’m not surprised Mr. Fox wants to testify. He wants to tell his side of the story. He’s going to deny molesting these boys. If I can get him to open that door, ask him if he’s ever molested anyone else, then I’m going to bring you out. That’s why I don’t want you in the courtroom, but I’ll need you here by tomorrow evening.”

  At therapy that night, I told Dr. McGovern that I might testify after all. I read her impassive expression as the mirror image of my own. Then she smiled. “You know, this is the end of the road. All I can say is that you have to see it as the last thing you need to do. It’s been a long journey, and now you have to testify. The good news is that you are a wonderful historian. All you have to do is get up there and tell the truth. What scares you the most?”

  I thought about her question for a moment. “The long drive. I don’t want to be in a car for five hours after a long day of work. I don’t want to sleep in a cheap motel, wake up, and then wait for them to call me as a witness. I guess I’m scared of the unknown. I don’t know what to expect. Do I address the jury? Do I look at Bill?”

  “Do you want to look at Bill?”

  “I suppose at some point we’re going to have to acknowledge each other. Honestly, Dr. McGovern, I want to go in there not as a victim or a survivor. I want to testify as a doctor, who was molested, and present myself as a clinician so that I can explain this unimaginable thing to a jury, in the hopes that they will see it through my eyes. They have a hard job ahead of them. It’s difficult to look at grown men and imagine them as little boys. I want to bring my class picture from 1978 and show them what I looked like when I was eleven.”

  “I think you should.”

  “What I can’t understand for the life of me is, why didn’t Bill post bail? I as
ked the attorney, and he said that sometimes when sociopaths get caught, they feel relief at having finally been stopped. His theory is that Bill didn’t make bail because he wanted to stop molesting boys. Being in jail prevents him from acting on that impulse. I want to believe his theory, because that would make Bill human.”

  “No. He is a monster. What it makes him is tired and old. It’s your compassion as a doctor that makes you want to humanize him. Don’t forget that. As for you, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You’re going to be fine. Good luck.”

  On my walk home from therapy, I called Eric to tell him I was going to testify.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “You’re going to be a surprise witness?”

  “I knew you’d like that.”

  “How very Joan Collins in Dynasty, season finale. You have to wear a big hat with the veil and a little black dress. I’ll let you borrow mine. In fact, I’ve got my sewing machine out right now so I can make the alterations. I know you’re petite. So I’ll have to take it in a little.”

  “I’m glad you can make jokes. Now I have to go home and tell Chad the big news. Eric, this isn’t fun.”

  “It’s not fun. I know that, but it was never supposed to be. Tomorrow you’re going to work. Then afterward, you’ll drive out to Pennsylvania and testify. You’ve been rehearsing for this moment for a very long time. Do you need me to come with you?”

  “No,” I said. “Chad’s coming with me. I think it will be good for us to see this through to the end together.”

  That night I explained the plan to Chad. This time we didn’t argue. There were no questions. We both understood what had to be done. Chad arranged for a hotel room while I rented the car. We planned on leaving after work and driving straight through. Forray had told me little: I didn’t know what time I was going to testify. I didn’t know what questions they were going to ask. All I knew was that we had to be in Pennsylvania by tomorrow evening.

  In bed that night, we lay quietly side-by-side with Hoffman between us. Suddenly, we were exhausted. I found comfort in the silence. Half-asleep, I thought back to when I first met Chad and all we had been through. Although urinating in public was still somewhat of an issue, the nightmares were becoming less frequent and intimacy was slowly returning to our relationship. After Chad’s stroke, it occurred to me that I had to be always conscious of what little time we had together. It seemed as if I had a new identity now that was motivated by an extreme fear of death. As I drifted off to sleep, the full story of our lives unfolded slowly until it enveloped me. In a dreamlike state, I saw us lying in bed as two old men. I tried to envision how many years we’d have together until the time came for one of us to part.

  I felt Chad’s hand on mine and opened my eyes. It was morning.

  BEFORE I LEFT FOR WORK THAT DAY, Trooper Iverson called to confirm that I would be in Tioga County by nightfall. I assured him that Chad and I were all set to leave later that afternoon.

  “If anything comes up, please call me as soon as possible,” he said. His phone call left me feeling rattled.

  I quickly made my way over to my office so that I could arrive early, before anyone else. I needed time alone to sort through my schedule. At my desk, I flipped through the directions to the courthouse. I printed the hotel confirmation and details for the car rental. I placed all the printed information into a folder. Everything was set.

  Several hours later, I received a voice message from Trooper Iverson on my cell phone. “Dr. Spinelli, I need to follow up with you about this morning’s phone call regarding our issue here in P-A. If you could give me a quick call, I’d appreciate it. I need to update you on what’s going on here. If not, I’ll keep trying your number.”

  I called him back immediately. “Hello, this is Dr. Spinelli. I’m returning Trooper Iverson’s call.”

  “Yes, Iverson’s on the phone right now, but he wants to speak to you. It’s all over.”

  “What’s over?”

  “The trial. I’ll have him call you back on your cell to explain.”

  Hearing those words, “It’s over,” left me tingling, but I wouldn’t allow myself to read into what the officer said. I decided to take Hoffman out for a walk along Eighth Avenue. Anxiously, I marched up the street, talking out loud to myself. “What does he mean, the case is over? What happened? Is this good?” I wandered up to a French bistro and ordered coffee. Outside, I sat on a bench with Hoffman by my side, trying not to get too excited but imagining something miraculous had happened.

  While I sipped my coffee, I stared at Hoffman. Gazing into those sweet, almond-colored eyes that seemed like magical orbs, I said, “You know, Hoffman, don’t you?”

  Then I heard my cell phone ring.

  It was Forray. “It’s over,” he said. “Bill took a plea after Shane Fox testified. It was unbelievable. Once I had Shane on the stand, I asked him, ‘Putting the sexual activity aside, do you miss your dad?’ Shane replied, ‘Yes, we were friends. We did everything together. I sat with him through his surgeries. I was there with him through everything.’ It was heartbreaking testimony. After that you could hear a pin drop.”

  Bill’s attorney had declined to cross-examine Shane. Instead he requested a recess. At that time, he asked Forray whether they could make a deal. When Bill returned to the courtroom, he pled no contest to three counts against each victim and one for obstruction of justice for asking the third witness to recant his testimony. According to Forray, pleading no contest in Pennsylvania was like an admission of guilt.

  “I don’t understand why Bill didn’t take a plea earlier,” said Forray. “It would have been a better strategy. The judge heard Shane’s testimony. He was never cross-examined. The defense didn’t even try to discredit Shane. I would imagine the judge will consider this a waste of the court’s time, to have gone through all this only to plea.”

  “I’m shocked myself. Maybe Bill’s lawyer advised him to take the plea once they heard Shane’s testimony?”

  “Quite honestly, the case hung on Shane’s testimony. This couldn’t have gone better if you ask me.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Forray. You’ve done an amazing job.”

  William Fox was sentenced to the maximum state prison term for each of nine misdemeanor and felony charges, adding up to a sentence of seventeen and one-half to thirty-five years in state prison. Since he was also found to be a Sexually Violent Predator, Bill is registered for life with Pennsylvania’s “Megan’s Law” sex offender registry.

  Megan’s Laws are named for Megan Kanka, a seven-year-old girl from New Jersey who was sexually assaulted and murdered in 1994 by a neighbor who, unknown to the victim’s family, had been previously convicted for sex offenses against children.

  Less than two years after he was sentenced, Bill died in prison on July 3, 2013.

  EPILOGUE

  Beverly Glass

  WE WERE AT MY MOTHER’S HOUSE FOR DINNER. She had just returned from an extended visit with Maria in Alabama. “Matthew wants to study music,” she announced. My sister and her husband had been visiting colleges all summer in preparation for Matthew’s matriculation the next year.

  “Music?” I asked, handing Chad a tray of homemade pizza.

  “Be careful,” my mother warned him. “I used hot peppers from the garden.”

  Chad piled on several slices and began eating.

  “Give him some wine,” she ordered me. “Drink wine. It’s good for your heart, Chad.”

  “Please,” I said. “You don’t need to give him a reason to drink.”

  As I poured the wine, I saw Josephine and her husband walking up the path. They entered, and we greeted them.

  “Mom, do you need any help downstairs?” asked Josephine.

  My mother didn’t respond, but my sister and I obediently followed after her.

  “Did you hear Matthew wants to study music?” I whispered to Josephine.

  She stopped and rolled her eyes. “I already heard the whole story,” she said. “Maria want
s him to be premed.”

  “Premed? Maria has officially turned into Mommy.”

  From the basement, my mother shouted at us. “Here, take the pasta!”

  Josephine took the bowl from my mother. “We need more wineglasses.”

  “Frank, use the glasses in the china closet,” ordered my mother.

  “Fancy,” said Josephine, placing the bowl on the table. “Frank, have you told Chad the story about the china closet?”

  “No,” I replied. “You tell him.”

  Chad sat up and smiled, eagerly waiting to hear my sister tell her tale. Josephine pulled out her chair and sat down next to him. “You’re gonna love this,” she began. “Apparently, when my parents got married, they were given a complete set of china and crystal by their parents. So when my mother got to New York, she told my father that he needed to buy her a china closet to put them in.” Josephine pressed her hand on Chad’s to emphasize her next point. “You may not know this, but Italians rarely use anything they keep in their china closet. It’s completely for show.”

  Chad laughed.

  My mother walked in and said, “Don’t listen to them, Chad. My kids love to make fun of me.”

  “Let Josephine finish her story,” urged my brother-in-law.

  “Thank you,” said Josephine. “Anyway, my mother got her china closet, and she was so proud of it because it’s special. Why, you ask, was it special? I’ll tell you.” Then Josephine stood up next to me, and we gestured in unison like Vanna White. “My mother’s china closet is special because it has Beverly glass.”

  Chad stared at us, waiting for a punch line. “That’s it?”

  Josephine glanced over at me and winked. “Yes, Chad, that’s it. You don’t think a china closet with Beverly glass is special?”

  “I don’t know what Beverly glass is.”