Shatter My Rock (14 page)

I
take a seat and try to feign interest in my defense, despite the specter of
defeat that has settled over me. “So what’s next?” I ask no one in particular.

The
assistant is the one to respond. “Your arraignment’s tomorrow,” he tells me,
without an introduction or even a glance my way, his eyes glued to a legal pad.
I wonder if he’s a paralegal or maybe a junior lawyer from Zoe’s office, his
diminutive stature and quirky, retro style more suited to a behind-the-scenes
role than the public stage of a courtroom.

“What’s
that mean?” There are so many legal proceedings to deal with that I am
struggling to keep them straight.

“You’ll
enter a plea,” Rudy says.

I
consider confessing to my lawyers and maybe even the police. A trial is an
unnecessary burden, first on Tim and Ally but also on my legal team and the
State. Yet if such a charade resolves in my favor, I could repair the damage I’ve
done to my family. Otherwise, I will gladly pay the debt of suffering I owe my
sweet, dead Owen.

“How
long before trial?” I ask.

Zoe
tucks an errant strand of fire-red hair behind her ear and repositions her
cat’s-eye glasses. “It’ll take the State a while to build a case, especially
considering the lack of motive we have here. I’ve seen it take as long as
eighteen months for a case like this to go to trial.”

My
lips form the words
eighteen months,
but my voice refuses to make them
audible. Instead, I say, “Do I have to testify?”

Rudy
shakes his head. “You never have to, but you may want to. You have no criminal
record; you’re a successful professional; you have the support of a loving
family; and, from what we’ve been able to uncover, you have no real enemies.”

Except
Eric Blair,
I think. He is not only my enemy but the key to my motive and my undoing. Rumor
is, he ran off to California to launch a tech startup, but I have been unable
to substantiate this. And until now, I didn’t much care.

“What
about Tim?” I ask. “And Ally?”

Zoe
winces, shoots a stifling glance at her still-nameless assistant. “They’ll be
subpoenaed. Everyone who was on the boat that night will be.”

Tim,
Ally, Jenna and Carson: my first-string defensive line. Of course, Tim and Ally
will do no harm, and Jenna will protect me. But Carson is a wild card; his
testimony could go either way. At the very least, he has the propensity to
paint me as a careless, neglectful drunk.

I
ponder my next question for a few extra moments. “What about the autopsy and
the DNA?”

Rudy
sucks in a concerned breath and looks me straight in the eyes. “That’s what we
need to talk to you about.”

The
jail is too close to the Genesis County Superior Court, a truth that solidifies
the morning of my arraignment.

A
middle-aged sheriff’s deputy, the beginning of a pot belly tugging at the buttons
of his uniform, chains me to two of my fellow prisoners and, with the
assistance of his female counterpart, herds us outside and into the back of a
transport van.

I
want to be mad about this humiliation, curse how we prisoners have been reduced
to animals—or worse. But what I feel instead is a surge of happiness as the van’s
engine roars to life. Because now we are in motion, cutting through the air and
between the trees, the sweet musk of pine saturating our lungs.

In
my soul I am free, and for five glorious minutes, this is all that matters.

Then
the van jerks to a stop and shuts down. Half a minute passes and the doors
swing open at the rear steps of the courthouse.

The
prisoner to my left, a squirrely guy with a lopsided buzz cut to match his
asymmetrical eyes, makes a move for the sunlight. But he can’t get far without
me, our fates bound by two feet of chain links. He yanks, but I am frozen by
what awaits: a virtual swarm of reporters and cameramen; a full-tilt media
circus. And all on my account.

I
tuck my head to my shoulder and flop my hair over my face. It’s the best cover
I can improvise, so it’ll have to do. If I’m lucky, the sole image to make the
evening news will be my frizzy, graying mop and ill-fitting, prison-orange jumpsuit.

The
deputies hurry us along, past the crush of cameras and into the bosom of the
law. Irrationally, I feel safe here. Protected. As if, instead of destroying
me, this place aims to make me whole.

I
am first to be arraigned, my hired gun, Zoe Blanchette, speaking on my behalf
as the judge explains the charges.

Of
all the court holds me culpable for, eight words leap into my consciousness:
depraved
indifference to the value of human life.
The syllables roll off the judge’s
tongue as if they are devoid of meaning, but to me they amount to nothing short
of heresy. I took Owen not out of indifference but in protection of his life,
to preserve the beauty of the brief window granted him by a power higher than
me. I killed him because I love him.

As
Zoe and I have practiced, I utter my line. “Not guilty, Your Honor.” Then I
blank out, disappear inside myself while my fellow prisoners take their turns
at bat, swing and connect, accept their lumps and move on.

Incoming
mail is opened, inspected, and sometimes read by jail personnel before it ever
lands in the hands of an expectant prisoner. The exception to this is legal
correspondence, which must be opened in the presence of the inmate to whom it is
addressed and generally remains private in respect of the attorney-client
privilege. I have received both personal and legal mail during my stay here,
the former a blessing from God and the latter a devilish, stress-inducing
distraction.

But
today is a good day, because as soon as I set eyes on those graceful cursive
letters, I know Ally has, in her own hand, gifted me her love.

Gently,
I flatten the sheets across my lap and soak in her words, careful to let her
voice breathe life into the pages. In neon-purple ink, there is news of an
impending Harry Potter-themed slumber party. Then there is a mild rant about
Tim’s overzealous protectiveness since I’ve gone. And finally I learn of the
new addition to our household: Muffin and Daisy’s pup, which Ally has aptly named
Cupcake. She has promised me a photo of the little guy once he’s weaned from
his mother and settled in with Muffin at home.

In
jail we are allowed but five photographs at any given time, and none larger
than a four-by-six snapshot. Thus far, I’ve amassed a candid wedding photo of
me and Tim, our faces flush with joy and anticipation; a shot of Tim and Ally huddled
around their first snowman, Ally’s soaked mittens dangling at her sides; and an
innocent snap of Tim, Ally, Owen and me at Tim’s parents’ anniversary party, taken
barely an hour before I spotted that first myoclonic jerk.

I
wait for Brandy to finish with the phone, then slip in behind her and grasp the
receiver. I’ve committed my Telephone ID Number to memory, as it’s not only my
key to the outside world but my portal to the commissary, from which I may purchase
such luxuries as toothpaste and shampoo.

I
navigate my way through the phone prompts, and finally I am blessed to hear
that glorious ringing. “Hello?” Tim says.

“Hi.”

It’s
a good thing we have money, at least for the moment, because these calls are
pricey. Eight dollars is the minimum balance required in one’s inmate account
to even dial the phone.

“How
are you?”

I
always assert that I’m well, and this time is no exception. “Good,” I say. “How
are things at home?” These trivialities seem pointless, especially in the face
of our fifteen-minute time limit, but we have yet to devise a better way to
ease into conversation.

Tim
sighs, struggles with guilt over burdening me with troubles beyond my control. Still,
he tells me, “Hazelton United stopped payment on your check this week.”

This
news slaps me harder than it should. “They can’t do that.”

“Well,
they did.”

“I
have
weeks
of time left. They owe me…”

“We
might as well get used to it,” he says with resignation. “It’s only going to
get worse from here on out.”

His
beaten-down tone cuts me to the quick. “There’s four-hundred thousand in my
401(k). We can tap into that if we have to.”

“How
soon can we get it?”

I
hate everything about this conversation. For all we’ve done to secure a bright future
for our family, our efforts have gone to ruin. “Four to six weeks,” I say, “but
there’ll be a big tax bite.” When all is said and done, we’ll be lucky to see
fifty percent.

“I
know.”

“What
about the D.O.T.?” I ask, even though I cringe at putting him on the spot.

“There’s
a hiring freeze.”

“Oh.”

Our
mortgage payment is four-thousand dollars per month, and that’s the tip of the
iceberg as far as our financial obligations go. My attorneys’ fees alone could
swallow the entirety of the 401(k) payout.

Tentatively,
Tim says, “I’m thinking of calling Monica.”

Monica
Wilkes is Tim’s cousin and a realtor. If we were to sell our home, she’d be the
one to represent us. I don’t want to agree to this, but it may be the only way
to keep Tim and Ally afloat until my case resolves. “When?”

“In
a few days.”

“The
market’s pretty bad,” I say. Then again,
pretty bad
is relative,
considering the severity of the troubles we now confront.

“At
least if we could pay the mortgage off,” Tim says, with a bit more hope in his
voice, “
that
wouldn’t be hanging over our heads anymore.”

Too
many threats are poised to squash us,
I think.
Far too many.
I try a
change of subject. “What about Ally? How’s she doing?”

Tim
waits too long to answer, which tells me something is wrong. “I think she needs
to see someone.”

“Like
who?”

“A
psychiatrist, maybe.”

“Why?”
I ask, even though I know.

“There
was some…” he pauses, weighs his words, “…
teasing
before school let out.
I thought she would improve over the summer, but she’s getting worse.”

“What
do you mean?”

“She’s
wetting the bed.”

This
shocks me. “Wetting the bed?”

“Yeah.”

I
think of the slumber party, about which Ally wrote with such enthusiasm. “Are
you sure?”

He
huffs a little. “What else could it be?”

“You’re
right.”

“I
should make an appointment, before we lose the insurance.”

“Good
idea,” I say, but in the back of my mind, I realize we may have already lost
it—or we will have by the time Ally cozies up on a psychiatrist’s couch anyway.

For
a moment I consider letting him in on this information, but he halts me by
saying, “Can I ask you something, Claire?”

There
is tension in his voice, sharp inquisitiveness that takes my breath away.
“What?”

“Who’s
Eric Blair?”

Before
I can craft an answer, an automated voice interrupts, warns that our call is
nearing its end. I curl my fingers into a fist, absently rub my thumb against
my wedding band, one of the precious few things I was allowed to retain upon
intake. “Who?” I say, because there is not enough time to explain. If I’m able
to work up the nerve, I may tell him next time. Or maybe I won’t.

In
so many words, Zoe has advised me to change my story. She now suggests I say Owen
was co-sleeping with me and Tim and accidentally suffocated. This explanation
still leaves me open to prosecution—and perhaps Tim too—but the charges would
be far less severe: felony neglect. With my pristine background, there’s a fair
chance I could walk with a slap on the wrist—assuming, of course, that my
lawyer can convince the State to bite on such an easy out.

Zoe’s
note-taking assistant, whose name I now know to be Paul, uncrosses his legs and
recrosses them to the other side. “Juries want things to make sense,” he tells
me. “They want to know why something happened.”

This
seems so plain I suspect he may need to return to law school for some remedial
training, and yet I grasp why he would say such a thing. Once a jury lays eyes
on that autopsy report, there’s no way I can continue to claim that Owen
drowned. And if I do, it will be at my peril.

“But
I already told them…”

“That
will
be an issue,” Zoe says. “It goes to credibility. But it’s quite
believable—and common, actually—for suspects to initially make less than
forthcoming statements, only to recant them later and tell the truth.”

She
has me convinced. “What about Tim? Won’t they charge him if I say…?”

Paul
scolds, “This isn’t about Tim; it’s about you.”

“There’s
something else we need to deal with,” Zoe says, her patience with Paul’s
lecture as thin as mine. “Owen’s medical records.”

I
shrug, unsure where she’s headed.

She
rifles through a gigantic accordion files until she locates a neatly clamped
stack of documents, which she withdraws. She flips a few pages and stops. “You
made an appointment for Owen with Dr. Lasky in March? Why?”

“Tim
wanted to,” I say. “He thought the baby was having muscle spasms.” I know this
will be in the records, so I might as well come out with it now.

“What
did you think?”

“I
don’t know. Maybe he was a little jumpy, but I figured he’d grow out of it.”
With this explanation, at least my version of events will match Tim’s.

“You
didn’t think it might’ve been a complication of group B strep, such as
meningitis?”

The
shock in my expression is genuine and lengthy. “No. I didn’t even…”

“The
State may seize on this, cast you as a slipshod parent for failing to
investigate the possibility.”

What
if Owen didn’t have Dukate Disease?
I wonder, a knot of discomfort worming
its way through my gut.
What does that make me then?

“The
hospital never said anything,” I tell her weakly. “They just checked him out and
sent him home.”

“It
didn’t take much digging to put two and two together,” Zoe says, as if she
finds me neglectful too. “Once Paul spotted the infection in the hospital
records and the note about muscle spasms in Dr. Lasky’s file, a simple Internet
search turned up the likelihood of meningitis, caused by group B strep.”

This
information flattens me. “Well, I didn’t even… I never…” There is nothing for
me to say.

I
drop my head in my hands, and Zoe moves on. “What about this Eric Blair?”

That
name is like a bad penny; no matter how many times I try to kick it through a
sewer grate, it always ends up stuck to the bottom of my shoe. I squint. “What
about him?”

“His
name’s come up in several interviews that Rudy’s conducted in Rhode Island.
People seem to think the two of you were having an affair.”

Is
this
what Rudy has told Tim?
I attempt to stifle a sarcastic laugh but fail.
“People are wrong.”

Somehow
Paul finds this an opportune time to interject. “Who is he then?”

“He
worked in IT. He had a reputation.”

Zoe
straightens up. “For what?”

“Hitting
on people. Sleeping around. Your average scumbag repertoire.”

Paul
asks, “Did he ever hit on you?”

I’m
done with this line of questioning. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Zoe
pats my arm. “I know this is hard, but we have to do just as much digging as
the prosecution. More, really.”

What
I crave beyond anything is unconditional loyalty. “Fine,” I say. “What else do
you need to know?”

Even
if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell Tim about Eric Blair, on the chance my words
may come back to bite me. There is no guarantee that what I say on the phone or
during a visit will not be recorded and bashed over my head in court.

This
time when the door to the visitation area slides open, Tim enters without Ally,
the stress of our situation visibly wearing on him. My once clean-cut,
laid-back, GQ cover-worthy husband has morphed into a tense, shaggy-haired
semi-stranger with a five o’clock shadow and the stink of a pack-a-day habit.

He
settles in across from me, and I pin my gaze to the table between us, where it
stays until he mutters, “We need to talk.”

I
thought that taking Owen would soften the blow of Dukate Disease—on him and on
us—but I was wrong. Instead, Tim, Ally and I are awash in a different kind of
misery.

I
lift my eyes to meet his. “I know.”

“I
can’t do this anymore,” he tells me with a wave of his hand between us. “It’s
too…” He sighs and absently taps his fist on the table, as if he’s trying to
knock a cigarette loose of an invisible pack.

I
didn’t mean to do this,
I think.
Shatter my rock.
“I’m sorry. I wish
I could…”

Tim
averts his eyes. “I called Monica. The house is up for sale. And Ally’s at my
parents’ for the rest of the summer. Maybe longer.”

He
pauses but continues to avoid my gaze, a touch of mercy I don’t deserve. “Oh.”

“I’m
gonna rent a place in Providence while my credit’s still good,” he says. “Hit
the pavement and scrounge up a job.”

I
once would have found this line of thought overly dramatic, but now nothing
seems implausible. If we default on too many of our debts, the aftershocks will
crash through our lives like a financial tsunami. “Do you have any leads?” I
ask. A job would not only provide a foundation of stability for our family but
would distract Tim from the reality of what’s to come.

“Not
for anything in engineering.”

“What
then?”

He
shifts in his seat. “Toll collector.”

This
is the wrong job for Tim, but not because it’s beneath him. My husband is every
bit an engineer, a creative, problem-solving inventor down to his DNA. The only
other vocation to suit him is that of father. “Doesn’t Kirk have something?” I
ask. Out of college, Tim and Kirk Lawson, one of Tim’s buddies from Boston
University, launched an engineering firm that still exists today, albeit in an
altered form. Long ago, Tim cashed out his ownership stake.