by Cathy Lamb
The dead body of Johnny’s mother and the other women helped, in the sense that the jury knew that Peter was one sick son of a gun.
But still.
The prosecutor, a woman named Zoe Benedict was a compet-itive, cold, manipulative woman and tried to make mincemeat of Betsy when she took the stand. That Betsy had had a “premonition” of Peter killing Johnny was excellent cannon fodder for Zoe.
“Tell us about your premonitions,” Zoe asked, believing that the jury would think that Betsy was crazy, probably violent.
Definitely mentally ill.
“Objection,” Betsy’s attorney said.
“Overruled,” the judge said. “Let’s hear them.”
“Recess, please,” Betsy’s attorney shouted.
“No,” Betsy said. “No recess. I’ll tell the truth.”
“No recess granted,” the judge said. “Let’s hear about the premonitions.”
“I have premonitions, now and then, about people.” Betsy closed her eyes, then opened them and spoke to the prosecutor.
“You’re going to go home early today and your teenage daugh-
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ter is going to be in bed with her boyfriend. In about a month she’s going to realize she’s pregnant.”
The prosecutor laughed but looked stunned. “My daughter is only fifteen. She’s in school today, then she has soccer practice.
But nice try. Can we get back to the case?”
Betsy stared back at her, unblinking, then turned to the judge.
“Your wife is planning a surprise party for you. It’s tonight.”
The judge’s mouth opened. “She is?”
“Yes. Your brother is flying in.”
“My brother is?” His face broke out in a smile, briefly, then he told himself to stop it, to show no emotion, be professional.
A judge couldn’t believe in premonitions!
“And to this juror,” she turned to a woman, about seventy.
Smartly dressed. “You should say yes to the proposal you get tonight. He’s a good man and you’ll be happy.” She didn’t tell the woman that her soon-to-be husband would die in two years.
It wouldn’t help. The man had an incurable cancer. They had to enjoy the time they had left. Fear and treatments would do no good.
The woman smiled. She believed in premonitions. Why, her sister had them now and then, too. They were Irish, so it made sense. The woman nodded.
“And to this juror,” Betsy said, nodding to a man with dreadlocks, “You know that fishing trip you and your brother have planned for next weekend?” The man’s eyes flared open. “Your brother is going to call tonight to cancel. His wife is pregnant.
You’ll go to their house to celebrate.”
“Objection!” Zoe the mean prosecutor finally sputtered, still reeling from the lies Betsy had said about her daughter. “Objection, objection!”
“Objection overruled,” the judge said, still thinking how fun it would be to see his brother. “You were the one who brought this up.”
“But I object now!” the prissy prosecutor said, quaking in her $600 shoes.
“Too bad,” he said. “Sit down.”
“And to this juror.” Betsy pointed at a young woman. “Your
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brother is going to get in a car accident tonight. He’ll be okay.
But go to the hospital.” She paused, then stared hard at her.
“Mend things with your brother. Don’t let anything get between you two again.” The juror cried.
The prosecutor stood again, her designer suit straining as she breathed hard, already wanting to hit Betsy for lying about her daughter. She had seen her daughter . . . she had talked with her daughter . . . she had spent time with her daughter . . . well, she couldn’t remember when they’d last talked, or spent time together, but she’d been busy with this trial! And when she did have time, she needed to get her hair and nails done and go to the spa. Appearances brought on promotions and pictures of herself in the newspaper.
But her daughter, Cassandra, she was not having sex with a boy. She liked playing the violin! She was a child. She envisioned her in kindergarten. She envisioned her on Saturday morning.
She still liked to wear those fluffy, blue, footed pajamas. She was not having sex!
Prosecutor Zoe thought that Betsy talking about her premonitions would make her look like a lunatic, but it didn’t, she could tell. The jurors were eating it up. She was so angry she wanted to slam her fists into the table.
“That’s all I know,” Betsy said. She had never, in her whole life, had premonitions about a group of people. They always came to her one at a time, one person at a time. The only reason, she figured, that she had had multiple premonitions at once was because she was so stressed, so scared, and so broken. She had no strength left. That allowed the premonitions to break in altogether, as fractured pieces into her fractured mind. That had to be why. She turned to the judge. “Have fun tonight.”
It was silent in that courtroom.
“You want the jury here, Betsy,” Zoe said, trying to collect herself, trying to control her temper, “these smart men and women, to believe that you knew what was going to happen that day when you killed Peter Kandinsky? That you envisioned it, it came to you like a bolt of lightning to your head and you knew it would happen?” She made a scoffing sound in her throat.
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She would demolish this stupid woman for what she said about her daughter in open court.
“Yes. I saw it after I got off work as a waitress. It was clear as day. I ran to his house and I heard them arguing about Johnny’s mother, with Johnny accusing his father of killing her. Peter was raving, I’ve never seen anyone that angry. He hit Johnny in the face, twice. Johnny would be dead had I not done what I did.
Peter was going to shoot him. Johnny’s head was going to be split open like a cracked melon.”
“How did you know?”
“Because I knew that Peter was going to turn to the gun cabinet.”
“So you saw Johnny’s father going for the gun in the gun cabinet?” she sneered at Betsy.
“No, I saw it in my premonition.”
“In your crystal ball?”
“There is no crystal ball.”
“You never saw him turn, that day, in real life, for the gun?”
“No.”
“Then there was no threat to your life,” the prosecutor snapped. “Peter Kandinsky did not have a gun.”
“There was a threat to Johnny’s life,” Betsy said. “He was going to be shot and killed by his father because Peter was in-censed that Johnny was accusing him of killing Gabriella, Johnny’s mother. Peter was afraid that Johnny would go to the police and he would go to jail, so he was going to kill his own son.”
“Without a gun?” The prosecutor tried to look puzzled. “So you stabbed him. You defended Johnny from a gun that was still in the gun cabinet when the police arrived.”
Betsy’s attorney said, with a semi-shout, “Fifteen minutes with my client, please.”
“Granted.” The judge hit the gavel. He was already looking forward to his party.
The next day, the seventy-year-old woman told her new friends on the jury that she had received a proposal, to her surprise, the
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night before and she had said yes. The jury clapped for her. Love comes to all ages!
The juror with the dreadlocks was thrilled! The fishing trip was canceled, but that’s because his brother and his wife were four months pregnant. They had not announced it until now because they had already had three miscarriages. Every time, the family grieved. This time his brother and his wife didn’t say anything until they were past the danger point. His brother was going to name their child after him. The man with the dreadlocks cried, he was so happy.
The young juror with the brother in the car accident hadn’t slept. She’d been up all night with her brother at the hospital.
They had made up. They had talked and laughed and cried. “I can’t believe it. My brother and I haven’t talked for a year, and now we’re best friends again.” She cried, too.
The prosecutor, Zoe, looked ill. Yes, her teenage daughter, her sweetheart, her baby, had been having sex for at least six months with her boyfriend. They were going to make her take a pregnancy test tonight.
And the judge. Well, the party had been a ton of fun. Even his law school buddies had flown in for it. That Margie! What a wife! She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Best decision he ever made was to propose to her. She knew how to keep a secret. His brother was staying for a week! He would call in sick as soon as this stupid trial was over.
The jury, stunned about the premonitions, had listened to Tilly tell her story about how her father had turned toward the gun cabinet to get the gun to kill Johnny and probably Betsy, other witnesses, blah blah blah, then closing arguments.
They went into deliberations.
Their thoughts? It was clearly self-defense. Peter was going for the gun. Tilly had said so. That Betsy hadn’t actually seen Peter going for the gun cabinet was a nagging, irritating detail, but eh. Johnny hadn’t seen it because he’d been punched in the face twice and was too dizzy to see it. Probably. Yes, that was it.
They were mostly sure of it.
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They decided to, legally speaking, disregard that teeny tiny detail. They couldn’t quite find Betsy innocent because of the premonitions—that wasn’t scientific enough, it wasn’t credible evidence, it wasn’t, well, admissible, so to speak. Can’t use that as a reason to let her out of prison, could they?
But wasn’t it remarkable what Betsy knew about them? . . .
They again talked about the proposal, the car crash, the new baby. The judge looked tired but happy. Must have had fun at the party. And the prosecutor, well, she looked exhausted and worried. Teenagers can be so much work and so much trouble.
Also, the jury knew that Peter was a serial killer. The prosecutor had fought like a hellfire dragon not to have that brought up, but the judge overruled her. It was relevant. It showed Peter’s character and what he was capable of. Peter deserved to be killed. Too bad he wasn’t killed sooner, that psychopath.
Johnny and Tilly had been beaten repeatedly by their father.
A father should protect his children, not hurt them, so if there were some lingering questions about the knife and Betsy running in, well, whatever. A child abuser should die, like a psychopath should!
The jury filed in. They sat down. Yes, judge, they had their verdict.
Everyone sat forward in their seats. The courtroom was packed. Zoe was exhausted and worried. She, her husband, and their daughter had finally talked after she finished yelling at her. Her daughter was always lonely, always alone, she told her parents. Her boyfriend was the only one who paid her attention. He was kind to her, funny. “You and Dad always work.
Why did you even have me? You don’t want me.”
Zoe was crushed, as was her husband. They were lousy parents. Was their sweet daughter pregnant?
“What say you?” the judge asked.
“Not guilty,” the jury forewoman intoned, then smiled at Betsy.
The courtroom exploded. Clapping, cheering, the press calling the results in to their respective newspapers.
“You are free to go,” the judge said to Betsy. He was befud-
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dled by the whole premonition thing. He didn’t believe in premonitions. He didn’t believe in magic. He didn’t believe in curses. He didn’t believe in God. So what the hell happened with this woman? How did Betsy know about the party? He went home early that day, he was so tired from being up late with his brother.
Betsy cried. Johnny walked around the defense table, pulled her up and hugged her close as the cameras clicked, news reporters shouted out questions, and everyone else in the court room clapped and cheered.
“Ready to be farmers?” he asked her, overwhelmed, grateful.
Sobbing, she said yes.
Tilly joined them, wrapping her arms around her brother and his brother’s girlfriend, who she always thought of as a sister.
They were a family. The three of them. Forever.
Tilly had found the transcripts of the first trial interesting.
Neither Johnny nor Betsy had seen Peter turn toward the gun cabinet. That had been an enormous legal problem for both of them, Tilly knew. If they hadn’t seen him turn to get a gun, there wasn’t much of a self-defense defense.
Tilly hadn’t seen her apoplectic, raving father turn toward the gun cabinet, either.
But she believed Betsy’s premonition. She believed that her father would have turned toward the gun cabinet had Betsy not stabbed him with the knife first.
Tilly loved Betsy and Johnny.
She wanted her family back. She wanted to live on a farm.
She chose love . . . and a tiny lie.
For the next two months Johnny, Tilly, and Betsy lived together in a small two-bedroom apartment near Tilly’s high school on the east side of Portland. Johnny had received the money for rent from an organization that helped out ex-convicts.
There was laughter and barrels of tears in that apartment, small but warm and clean, and certainly much better than jail.
They cried for the years lost when they weren’t together, for
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what Johnny and Betsy had endured in jail, for what Tilly had gone through in a lonely foster care/mental health institution existence until her final kind and loving foster parents.
All of them were traumatized by their experiences, but one had to survive, and they started talking the second night about what to do to make money.
Johnny got a job at a lumber supply shop in two days. The business was fading rapidly. The widowed, childless owner was seventy-five years old and had Parkinson’s, but this was his baby, his business. Johnny told Marvin the truth. Marvin knew about the case and he took Johnny on anyhow. Johnny worked sixty hours a week. The business started to turn around.
Betsy was hired at a big-box store after she sent out a hundred applications and was rejected for all. It was the only place that would hire her. Betsy worked full-time. She eventually went from pulling in carts and custodial work, including cleaning the bathrooms, to checker, to assistant shift manager, to the manager on shift, to assistant manager, to the manager of the whole store.
Within three months, Betsy and Johnny were married. It was just the two of them in front of a minister, a friend of Marvin’s, plus Tilly and Marvin. Their honeymoon was to the beach for a weekend. They splurged by going out to dinner and eating clam chowder. Betsy did not change her last name. If their daughter was ever allowed to access the adoption paperwork in the future, if the laws changed, she wanted Rose to be able to find her.
They saved every penny. After Tilly graduated, they moved to the country, thirty minutes away from their jobs but worth it.
The three of them craved peace and nature. The owner of their rental home was an elderly friend of Marvin’s. He was going to live with his daughter in Fresno, but he needed someone to care for his six beloved horses, his three dogs, and his chickens and to keep an eye on his property. His home was white, two-story, rambling, and built a hundred years ago. The rent was cheap.
Johnny, Betsy, and Tilly moved in, pampered the animals, fixed things that were broken or worn down or rusty, cleaned the windows, scrubbed the rest of it, painted walls, and planted
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a huge garden. They all found gardening therapeutic, and it helped to cut down on the food bill. As they planned, years ago, they started selling their vegetables at the farmers’ market on Saturdays along with apples, blackberries, and blueberries that were already growing on the property.
Johnny made a wooden stall and a sign that said ROSE’S
MARKET. They worked their day jobs during the week, the ma
rket on Saturday, and were together on Sunday. They saved every penny so they could hire an attorney and get their Rose back—or at least get visitation. They wanted to know she was okay. They wanted her to know they loved her. They longed to hug her.
When Johnny and Betsy had enough money saved from their jobs and Rose’s Market, they talked to an attorney named Frieda Yann and told their story. Frieda was already familiar with it. They had been falsely imprisoned. It was self-defense.
They had been declared innocent. They deserved to have their daughter back. Frieda could whip almost any other attorney’s butt and eagerly took the case. Under the hatchet she held in one hand, a legal brief in the other, she did have a compassionate side. But she had an ulterior motive, too: She knew this would be an epic legal case, egged on by Frieda.
The state fought back. They had taken baby Rose, as Johnny and Betsy were in prison and could not parent. It would be disruptive to the child’s life to return the girl to them. It would tear her from the people she believed were her parents. The girl doesn’t even know she was adopted. It was tragic, the state said, but the child must remain where she is for her own sake.
The press loved the story: Johnny Kandinsky and Betsy Baturra, the woman who had premonitions, had spent ten years in jail and lost their daughter. Now they were married and they wanted their love child back! Both were photogenic, articulate, likable.
The arguments raged on TV, in talk shows, in newspapers.
Should Baby Rose go back to her biological parents? Yes, said some. They had been declared innocent. They never should have served time. Rose is their daughter. Wouldn’t you want your daughter back?
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No, said others. Too disruptive to the girl. It would ruin her life to be ripped from the arms of the only parents she knows.
What about visitation? Surely Johnny and Betsy deserved visitation with their daughter. Yes, said some. No, said others.
On and on.
The judge paid no mind to the circus outside his courtroom doors. He had six kids. He couldn’t imagine losing any of them, but he ruled for keeping Rose with her adoptive parents. “This is a tragedy for everyone,” he intoned.