Mazie Baby (32 page)

His gaze was a laser focused on
each juror in turn. He’d burn the truth into them. He wouldn’t let Mazie take
the stand to testify. He’d let her journal and the pictures testify for her.

“This is a case of provocation. A moment
of passion. Of justifiable homicide. I ask you to open your minds to what Mazie
has endured. What would you do to escape? What would you do to save your own
daughter from the same fate?” He nodded and made eye contact with each juror.
“The same thing, I’d bet.”

Her life was under a microscope, being
examined by a courtroom full of strangers. They dissected her motives for
staying silent, for hiding her truth. Not of the murder, but of the abuse. Why
she didn’t confide in one living soul all those years.

How could she? He’d have killed
her. Was that so hard to understand?

She sat through it all, a spectator
in the audience at the blockbuster hit that was her life. The prosecution had
shared the confession she’d left on Cullen’s body. Norman shared her journal. He
showed the pictures she’d taken of the bruises, the hand prints, the physical
damage, each snapshot imprisoned in plastic, each still stained with her
fingerprints in his blood, all projected on a large screen at the front of the
courtroom and on private screens in the jury box. The look on their faces when
they witnessed those photos foretold her potential fate. Recoil. Disgust.
Alarm. And maybe, just maybe, a tinge of understanding and sympathy.

Norman saved the most damning of
those shots for last. The series of raw handprints on her choked neck. The
black eyes. The broken wrist. He read from her journal — dates, times, events.
He made them see that it wasn’t a typical diary, not full of hopes and dreams,
emotions and plans for the future. Just the facts, ma’am. The brutal realities
of a life played out on autopilot. Of a woman who tried to survive each day
without dying at the hands of the man who’d purported to love her and keep her
from harm.

Rachel and George each took the
stand and told of what they’d witnessed, of years of Cullen yelling, of thuds they
knew were his fists on walls, or Mazie’s body being thrown down the stairs. How
they’d known what was going on but could not prove a damn thing. Until the day
the cops and ambulance arrived. It confirmed their suspicions, but they were
still powerless to save Mazie.

She wouldn’t let them.

~~~~~~~~

“Doctor Scott, why would a woman
who is being abused by her spouse, who is being beaten on a regular basis … why
would she stay with him?”

The woman on the stand sat tall and
straight, her black, fitted business suit punctuated by a crimson scarf tied
snugly around her neck. “Mr. Day, women who suffer from long-term abuse
experience isolation, shame, humiliation.”

“But can’t she still leave?”

“It is often very difficult. Many
abused women are not employed outside the home. They don’t own property, often
have no access to cash or bank accounts. They fear being a single parent
without the means to support their child. And in most abusive relationships,
there are periods of calm. Times when the abuser is contrite and makes up for
their bad behaviour with gifts and kindness that lull the victim into thinking
that there is hope. And there is always the fear that if they do leave, their
abuser will stalk them, come after them, maybe kill them or harm their children.”

“And are those fears reasonable?”

“Definitely. About twelve percent
of all violent crime in Canada is domestic. And that is only what is reported.
As has been made clear in this trial, much of it goes unreported. Most shelters
for victims of domestic violence are full and turn women and children away
daily. In eighty-five percent of spousal homicides, the victims are women. One
woman is killed by her spouse or partner every six days. That is just in
Canada.”

“Thank you, Doctor Scott.” Norman
sat down.

“Cross?”

The prosecutor stood. “Doctor Scott,
do all abuse victims kill their abusers?”

“No, of course not.” The doctor
tugged on her scarf and let it fall to her lap. A white scar snaked
horizontally from under her left ear, across her neck, and disappeared under
her blouse. “But I do understand why it happens.”

Mazie touched her neck and
swallowed against the lump in her throat. She eyed the jury. Three of the women
were in tears, and one of the younger men had one hand clasped over his mouth.

~~~~~~~~

“Your honour,” Norman gripped the
sides of the podium with both hands, “I call Miss Ariel Reynolds to the stand.”

The entire room filled with the shuffle
of butts squirming in chairs and swishing of necks in collars, craning for a
look. The gallery murmured and pointed at Mazie’s beautiful little girl, now a
full-fledged woman with her mother’s hair and her mother’s eyes and her
mother’s breasts. Ariel strode to the stand, held up her hand and swore to God
to tell the whole truth. Her truth. The only truth that mattered.

Norman straightened his robe. He
smiled at Ariel and gave a slight nod. “Ariel, can you please tell me about the
time the police came to your house?”

Ariel nodded and bit her lip.

They’d practiced this moment, she
and Norman. Mazie imagined his gentle manner easing her daughter’s nerves.
Making sure she told only the facts as she remembered them, no embellishments,
no fibs. Just the honest truth, so help her God.

Mazie held her breath and clenched
her stomach to ease the lurching in her gut. No version of her life that she’d
ever dreamed or imagined included her daughter testifying in her murder trial.

“My father was angry that I got a
low grade in math. Mom defended me. All my other grades were good. He sent me
to my room. I could hear him yelling at her.”

Mazie exhaled and closed her eyes
against building tears. The tremble in Ariel’s voice broke her heart.

“Just him?”

“Yes. Mom didn’t yell. Then there
were loud thuds. I knew he was punching her. He kept screaming how he hated her
and she was a,” she turned to the judge, “pardon me, a stupid fucking bitch. I
couldn’t hear Mom anymore. I knew he’d hurt her before, I could see the
bruises, see how she was with him, always so quiet, always doing everything he
wanted. Even though it was never good enough.” She shifted in her seat. “So I
called nine-one-one.”

“And what happened?”

“When the police came I went
downstairs.” She wiped her cheek. “Mom was lying on the floor, blood all over
her face and on her shirt. She was unconscious. Dad was in handcuffs, his hands
all bloody. There was even blood on his face, like it was spit on or
something.”

“Did you go to the hospital with
your mother?”

“Yes. She was a mess, broken ribs
and her face all bruised and cut.”

“According to the police, his
conditions of release included staying away from you and your mother until
after his court appearance. When did your father come home?”

“The day after they released him.
Mom told him he couldn’t. That he’d be arrested. But he apologized. He cried.
Next time he came he brought presents. After a little while, she gave in and he
moved back home.”

“Why do you think she let him come
home again?”

“Probably because he would have
killed her otherwise.”

The prosecutor stood.

“Do you have an objection?” the
judge asked.

“Yes, your honour. Calls for speculation.”

“Sustained. Miss Reynolds, only
answer what you know, not what you think might be.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The women on the jury and two of
the men looked shaken. The implication was obvious — Ariel’s father was an
abuser and a manipulator who had no respect for the law, for his wife. For his
daughter.

“Now, Ariel,” Norman swept his gaze
across the jury. “Did your father ever hurt you?”

The courtroom went silent.

“Yes.”

“And what did he do?”

Ariel ran her hands over her skirt.
Mazie could see them trembling from her seat in the prisoner’s dock.

“He was mad because I didn’t go to
bed the second I was told, I wanted to finish watching my show. There was only
a few minutes left. He grabbed my arms, left bruises on them in the shape of
his hands.”

“And what did your mother do?”

She looked at Mazie. “She stepped
in between us, got me upstairs.” She smiled. “She saved me from him.”

Mazie smiled at her daughter.

“And then what happened?”

Ariel looked at the jury. “He
backhanded her across her face.” She looked at her lap. “He turned to me and I
ran upstairs. I left her there with him.” She wiped a tear from her cheek and
looked at the jury. “I could see him punch her in the stomach from the landing.”
Several of the jurors looked aghast. “But she came and tucked me in anyway.
That’s the kind of mother she is.”

“Ariel, did you feel safe in your
home?”

“Sometimes. When he was nice. But
no, not normally.” She wiped her nose. “I never knew when he’d explode. It
happened more and more often. And for the littlest things.” She looked at her
lap. “Mom didn’t know how much I’d seen. Not until after.”

Mazie shut her eyes and hung her
head.

“Thank you, Ariel.” Norman turned
to the judge. “Nothing further, your honour.”

The prosecutor stood at the podium,
sifted through some papers.

“Now, Miss Reynolds. I only have a
couple of questions for you.”

Ariel nodded.

“Did you love your father?”

Ariel hesitated. “Yes.”

“Are you sad that he’s gone?”

She scanned the room. “I don’t
know.”

“You don’t know how you feel?”

“It’s complicated. I miss how he
was when he wasn’t drunk. When he wasn’t mean. When he didn’t hit me or hurt my
mother.” Tears streamed down her face. “I don’t miss the rest. And that’s who
he really was, isn’t it? The awful, drunk, angry, abusive bastard.” Ariel wiped
her nose with a Kleenex that she had balled up in her fist.

The prosecutor checked his notes.
“Miss Reynolds, did your mother kill your father?”

Ariel squared her shoulders. “Yes,”
she said, her voice a near-whisper.

“And when you learned of this, were
you afraid?”

She glanced at Mazie. “Yes.”

“You were afraid of your mother.”

Ariel’s face contorted. “Of course
not.” Her voice filled the court.

“Your Honour I have no more
questions.” The prosecutor turned his back on Ariel.

She sat taller in the seat. “My
mother wouldn’t hurt anyone,” she shouted. She turned to the jury, her brows
furrowed. “I was afraid she’d be caught. That they’d take her away. Afraid of
being alone.” Tears streaked her cheeks.

“Miss Reynolds,” the judge said.
“That’s enough. Mr. Day, redirect?”

Norman stood. “Ariel, has your
mother ever spanked you?”

Ariel shook her head. “Never.”

“Ever harmed you in any way?”

She sat taller. “Never.”

“Thank you, Ariel.”

The judge nodded. “You may step
down, Miss Reynolds. Thank you for your testimony.”

“I love you, Mom,” Ariel called out
across the courtroom.

Mazie burst into tears. “I love you
too,” she said through choked sobs.

~~~~~~~~

Each piece of testimony about Cullen’s
good nature was a punch in Mazie’s gut. Each photo passed around, each diary
entry read aloud, each secret of pain and humiliation she’d suffered at his
hands told in that courtroom, that forum of public judgement, was another
beating, another broken rib, another sink-side rape.

For two interminable weeks she sat on
display in that box, her life laid bare. She got to know the jury well, but not
in the ‘hi, how are ya’ kind of way. She studied their faces, their reactions
to the evidence, to the witnesses. To the truth. The gruff man who left the
courtroom each night and probably went home to beat on his own wife. He’d vote
guilty. The three women who looked at her like she was a bloody idiot for not
leaving sooner. They’d never have stayed, never allowed any man to beat,
demean, control them. She’d get no pity from them.

It was the others she was counting
on. The ones who cried when they saw the Polaroids, bloody fingerprints and all.
The ones who looked at her with such sympathy. Nodded at her and wiped their
snotty noses. They would convince the others of her innocence. They would be
her salvation. At least, that’s what Norman said.

The morning after closing
arguments, the judge read instructions to the jury before sending them off to
deliberate. They had four choices. Guilty of murder in the first degree. Guilty
of the murder in the second degree. Guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter.
Or not guilty.

Mazie squeezed her eyes shut and
rocked back and forth. Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty.