Shatter My Rock (20 page)

Tim
turns away from the jury and draws into himself. “Six or eight beers? I wasn’t
counting.”

“Were
you drunk?”

“I
don’t think so.”

“Were
you buzzed?”

“Probably.”

“How
much alcohol did the defendant consume on the night of May 27, 2011?”

“I
have no idea.”

“But
you witnessed her drinking alcohol, didn’t you?”

He
nods. “Yeah.”

“What
kind?”

“Some
type of liquor. Carson was practically pouring the stuff down her throat.”

Charlotte
Tupper grins. “So she drank quite a lot?”

“A
lot for her.”

“Would
you say your wife was drunk?”

“Objection,
Your Honor!” shouts Zoe. “Speculative.”

Judge
Parsons has, for the most part, been silent enough that his presence escapes me.
I notice him anew as his gaze jumps from Zoe to Charlotte. “Sustained.” His
brows clench in a scowl. “Unless you have a breathalyzer result to share with
us, Ms. Tupper, this line of questioning is fruitless. Get on with it.”

“Moving
along,” the prosecutor says with a nod to the judge. “Who cared for Owen the
night of May 27, 2011, while all of this drinking was going on?”

“He
was nine months old,” says Tim. “He went to bed at seven o’clock.”

In
a pleading tone, Ms. Tupper says, “
Judge?
”

Judge
Parsons shakes his head. “Please answer the question, Mr. Fowler.”

“I
took care of him, I guess. I was a stay-at-home dad. We were used to it that
way.”

“And
what about the morning of May 28, 2011? Who tended to Owen then?”

Tim’s
eyes widen. He gulps. “I don’t know. I never saw him again until…”

“Until
when?”

“They
had me identify him after the divers...”

Ms.
Tupper’s posture softens. “I’m sorry.” She leans in and slides a box of tissues
Tim’s way.

“Sure
you are.”

The
prosecutor takes a step backwards and asks, “How did you discover that Owen was
missing?”

“Claire
woke me.”

“What
did she say when she woke you?”

Tim
ponders the floor. “She was upset,” he says. “Shaking. I knew something was wrong
before she even opened her mouth.”

With
a nod, the prosecutor says, “Please continue.”

He
draws a deep breath. “She told me the baby had fallen overboard.”

“What
time was it when she told you this?”

“Between
seven-thirty and eight.”

“Did
the defendant say
when
Owen had gone overboard?”

“I
don’t think so.”

“How
did you react to the news that your son was missing?”

“I
lost it,” Tim says bluntly. “Totally lost it.”

Ms.
Tupper studies the jurors’ reactions. “Did you call the police?”

“Yes,
I did.”

“The
defendant hadn’t contacted them already?”

“No.”

“Do
you know why not?”

“You’d
have to ask her. I assume she panicked.”

The
prosecutor should object to anything that paints me in a favorable light, but
Tim is her witness and she permits his kindness to slip by. Still, she slaps
him with a doozy of a question next. “How do you believe your son, Owen, died?”

Tim
pauses a long while before settling on an answer. “That’s not for me to say.”

“That
wasn’t the question, Mr. Fowler. I’m asking what
you
believe to be the
cause of your son’s death.”

Matter-of-factly,
Tim replies, “My son drowned.”

“That’s
what you believe?”

“Yes.”

Charlotte
Tupper crosses her arms over her belly. “Do you know a man by the name of Eric
Blair?”

Tim
grits his teeth; a vein along his temple pulsates. “No, I don’t.”

“Have
you ever heard the name Eric Blair?”

“I’ve
heard it.”

“In
what context?”

I
grab Zoe’s pen, furiously scribble:
STOP THIS!!!
  on her pad. But all
she can do is frown.

“Like
I said, I don’t know the guy. I guess he’s some coworker of Claire’s from
Hazelton United.”

“Are
you aware that Eric Blair claims to have had an affair with the defendant, your
wife?”

“People
claim lots of things.”

“Mr.
Blair also claims to be Owen’s biological father. Are you aware of that?”

Tim
purses his lips. “There’s no proof of that. It’s ridiculous to even…”

Ms.
Tupper slinks over to the prosecution table, where her deputy passes off another
sleeve with a sheet of paper inside. “State’s exhibit twelve,” she says, waving
the sheet in the air. Judge Parsons okays the evidence, and the prosecutor
presses it into Tim’s reluctant hand. “Please read the highlighted text for the
court,” she requests.

Tim’s
features lock as he skims the words. Mechanically, he mumbles, “Fowler, Owen
Richard; blood type: AB.”

“What
is your blood type, Mr. Fowler?”

“Type
A.”

“Do
you know the defendant’s blood type?”

“Really?
You’re going to…?” Tim makes a fist, rubs it over his temple.  “My son is
dead.
”

The
prosecutor repeats, “Do you know your wife’s blood type?”

Maybe
most husbands wouldn’t, but Tim does. “She’s type A,” he says with venom. “My
wife’s blood is type A.” He glances at me briefly, desperate sorrow in his
eyes.

“If
I remember my high school biology correctly,” Ms. Tupper says, with less
gravity than the situation demands, “two parents of blood type A cannot produce
a child with blood type AB. Did you learn that in high school too, Mr. Fowler?”

Tim’s
face contorts with rage. “Screw you! Screw you and…”

Judge
Parsons frantically bangs his gavel, but a rumble of shocked gasps continues to
ripple through the courtroom. Ms. Tupper hustles back to the prosecution table and
awaits an opening.

“There’s
no place for that kind of outburst in this court, Mr. Fowler,” Judge Parsons
admonishes once he has regained control of the room. “And I
will not
tolerate it. Another step out of line, and I will hold you in contempt of
court. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,”
Tim mutters, his shoulders slack and a glazed look in his eyes.

“Ms.
Tupper,” the judge says with a sigh, “proceed.”

The
prosecutor simply takes her chair. “Nothing further.”

Zoe
doesn’t even bother standing when she says, “I have no questions for this
witness, Your Honor.” And with that, my husband is mercifully dismissed.

The
circus came to Calvary two weeks after Ricky’s seventh birthday. By then, my
brother passed his waking hours in a wheelchair, blinked to communicate in lieu
of speaking. The bit of vision he retained was like a rabbit-eared TV in a
storm, or so I imagined: fuzzy, intermittent, unreliable. Yet this didn’t stop
our parents—both of them, this time—from deciding our family should pass a rare
Friday evening together under the big top.

The
only good thing about Dukate Disease, as far as I could figure, was the
preferential treatment Ricky got with the wheelchair. He was “disabled,” as
people termed it back then, blissfully unaware of the doctrine of political
correctness they were violating.

Because
of Ricky’s disability, our family garnered front row seats to
The Greatest
Show on Earth,
a fact that spawned the most brutal exchange, or lack
thereof, I have ever witnessed.

The
circus got under way with the usual procession of trained elephants, barely
clad acrobats, and—in a top hat and tails—the rotund ringmaster. Then a clown
car zigged and zagged onto the scene, gloved hands jutting out one side to wave
at the crowd, a limp polka-dotted leg and giant red shoe dangling from the
opposite window.  Ten feet in front of us, the car bumped to an uneven stop,
and out tumbled a dozen tiny people, made to look bigger with poufy hats and
rainbow-colored wigs, billowy trousers and double-sized overalls.

Behind
us in the stands, maybe five rows back, some loudmouth started heckling the
clowns, trying to draw them our way. At the time, I thought this guy was a
plant, placed in the audience to propel the act forward. But when two of the
clowns scuttled in our direction, they zeroed in on Ricky instead of the
heckler, made silly faces and squirted each other with fake flowers, pulled
extended lengths of colorful handkerchiefs from their pockets and played
tug-of-war over them. But nothing disturbed Ricky’s glassy-eyed stare, a string
of fresh drool pooling at the corner of his gaping mouth.

I
searched our parents’ faces, hoping they would thwart the spectacle of humiliation
befalling their dying son, but they did nothing. And though I wanted to salvage
the last bit of Ricky’s dignity, I didn’t know how. So while hundreds of
spectators bore holes into my brother with their tense gazes and hopeful smiles
he was helpless to return, I simply held my breath, stared into the distance, and
tried to reach the faraway place where Ricky’s soul now dwelled.

The
State rests its case against me the second Wednesday of July, then my lawyer
gets her shot. As Zoe promised in her opening statement, she picks the prosecutor’s
theories apart, witness for witness and fact for fact, until I’m sure I will
walk away from this ordeal scathed but intact.

The
problem is, I
can’t
walk away. Not without setting the record straight
about Eric Blair, and, in the process, Owen. Not without imparting to the world
that I did not betray Tim—at least not willingly. If I betrayed Owen, it should
be known that I acted out of love and mercy, hope and fear. Of course, Zoe has
no idea what I intend to say on the stand, or she’d never let me make such a foolhardy
move. But it’s not up to her.

When
Charlotte Tupper wobbles into the courtroom, I notice that, today of all days,
she appears distracted and aloof, a crucial element of her countenance having
dulled and weakened. She nods at Zoe and, as usual, rolls her overloaded file
cart to a jittery stop beside the prosecution table.

I
can’t stop smiling, which spooks a few of the jurors as they settle for yet
another lengthy day of testimony. “Are you all right?” Zoe asks, noticing the
giddy way the secrets I hold prepare to burst free.

I
am better than all right, the weight of not only Eric Blair and Owen but even
Ricky and, oddly, our mother and father beginning to lift. “Sure,” I say. “I’m
fine.”

“You
look a little off.”

I
shrug. “Nervous, I guess,” I claim, though I feel so unnervingly calm I could
be dead.

I
glance around the courtroom, my gaze sweeping the benches behind me and then
the jury box, where I search the faces of my confessors. Through some twist of
happenstance, these are the folks to whom I will bare my soul.

Judge
Parsons brings the court to order, and then Zoe calls me to the stand. I
proceed in tiny, controlled steps, as if the floor is a sheet of ice I wish not
to disturb. As I lower myself into the witness chair, my consciousness diverges
from my being, hovers somewhere overhead, invisible and beyond reach.

Zoe
starts with a series of questions designed to portray me as a conscientious and
loving mother, an admired, respected professional, the kind of woman little girls
are encouraged to become.

It’s
hard to know if my answers hit the mark, though, because all I can focus on is
the sea of eyes digging into me. “That’s right,” I say, in response to a
question about my tenure at Hazelton United.

“In
2009, did a man by the name of Eric Blair begin working there?”

“Yes,
he did.”

“And
you know this because…?”

“I
was vice president of human resources. Every new-hire crossed my desk.”

“Did
Eric Blair simply ‘cross your desk,’ or were you familiar with him more personally,
so to speak?”

This
is where I am supposed to focus on the reptile’s infamy as a lecherous
womanizer. “I met him briefly when Bob Evans, the VP of IT, hired him. And I
crossed paths with him here and there, in the hallways and the cafeteria.”

“But
you didn’t work with him directly?”

“No.”

“Did
there come a time, in December of 2009, when Bob Evans, Eric Blair’s boss,
became ill?”

I
nod eagerly. “He got salmonella.”

“During
this time, was Bob Evans due to attend a conference in Cincinnati, where he was
scheduled as a presenter?”

“Yes,”
I say. “Hazelton United had developed a new point-of-sale system to track
customers’ buying habits and market to them on a micro level, thereby
increasing sales.”

Zoe
tilts her head. “Okay. So Bob Evans was going to speak about this system in
Cincinnati?”

“Yes.”

“But
then he got sick with salmonella?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then
what happened?”

“The
president of Hazelton United, Charles Denton Jr., asked me to attend the
conference in Bob’s place.”

“And
you agreed to do so?”

“I’d
never turned him down before,” I say, “and I wasn’t about to start.”

“Were
you to attend this conference alone, or was someone to accompany you?”

I
ready my lips to speak his name. “Eric Blair,” I say with as much evenness as I
can muster. “He designed the system. He knew it from the inside out. Bob wanted
him to copilot.”    

“So
you and Eric went to Cincinnati together, at the request of your superiors?”

“That’s
correct.”

“And
you stayed at a hotel?”

“Yes.”

“In
separate rooms?”

I
look at the jurors. “Absolutely.”

Zoe
comes closer. “Did you have anything other than a professional relationship
with Eric Blair, prior to this Cincinnati trip?”

Emphatically,
I say, “No, I didn’t.”

“Had
you kissed him? Or had sex with him? Or asked him to impregnate you, as he
testified in this case?”

The
answer is simple. “No.”

“Was
Eric Blair ever in your hotel room?”

I
stare straight ahead. “Yes, he was.”

“Did
you invite him there?”

“No.
He had the company credit card and the room keys. He let himself in.”

“
When
was Eric Blair in your hotel room?”

“Twice
that I know of,” I say. “Once when we first got to the hotel, right after
check-in. And then the following night, while I was asleep.”

“You
didn’t invite him inside either time?”

“No,
I didn’t.”

Zoe
cocks her head. “How did Eric Blair enter your room while you were sleeping?”

I
shrug. “I have no idea. Maybe he got an extra key from the front desk. Like I
said, he had the company credit card, and the reservations were in his name.”

“The
first time Eric Blair entered your hotel room uninvited, how long did he stay?”

“Not
long,” I say. “Two or three minutes.”

“What
about the second time, the following night? How long did he stay then?”

Again,
I say, “I don’t know. I went to bed early with a migraine. When I woke up, he
was there.”

“You
didn’t hear him enter?”

“No.”

“What
happened when you awoke and unexpectedly found him in your room?”

“I
was confused. I still had a migraine, and I was a little disoriented. I just
wanted him to leave.”

“Did
he leave?”

“Not
immediately.”

“What
did he do instead?”

“He
sat on the bed with me, asked how I was feeling.”

“What
happened next?”

“He
said he had a muscle relaxer I could take for my headache.”

“A
pill?”

“Yes.”

“Where
did he get this pill from?”

“It
was in his pocket.”

“He
just happened to have it with him?”

“I
guess so.”

“And
he gave it to you?”

I
nod. “Yeah.”

“Then
what happened?”

“I
walked him to the door, and he left.”

“What
did you do then?”

“I
took the pill and went back to bed.”

“Do
you know what time it was when you took the pill?”

“Just
after midnight.”

“When
did you next see Eric Blair?”

I
glance at Charlotte Tupper, who twirls her pen restlessly, as if she can’t wait
for her shot at me. “I don’t remember seeing him again until breakfast the
following day.”

“Did
you speak to him about entering your room without permission?”

“He
was very standoffish. It seemed like he was avoiding me,” I say. “So, no, I
didn’t bring it up.”

“When
you returned to work in Rhode Island, did Eric Blair’s ‘standoffish’ behavior
continue?”

“We
didn’t work that closely, so it wasn’t an issue. But, yeah, he kept his
distance, walked the other way when he saw me coming.”

“Did
that bother you?”

“Not
at all. I mean, it was sort of strange, but, in a way, it was a relief.”

“How
so?”

“He
gave me the creeps. I felt uncomfortable around him. I was glad he was leaving
me alone.”

Zoe
draws an audible breath. “Mrs. Fowler, do you believe Eric Blair fathered your
son, Owen?”

A
chill scurries down my spine. “Yes,” I admit, “I do.”

“But
you never had sex with him, did you?”

I
shake my head. “Not willingly, and not that I remember.”

“Yet
you believe Eric Blair was Owen’s biological father?”

I
give her a shallow nod and murmur, “Yes.”

“What
led you to believe this?”

“The
first thing was that vile picture,” I say. “He was flaunting it around work,
like it was a badge of honor. People were saying it was me. At first, I
thought,
no way.
But then he showed it to me, and I recognized the
wallpaper.”

“Eric
Blair showed you a photograph of a naked woman, the same photograph the
prosecutor submitted as evidence in this case?”

I
hang my head. “Yes, he did.”

“And
you recognized something about this photograph?”

“I
already knew it must’ve looked like me, from the rumors at the office. But I
thought he’d just put my head on someone else’s body, as a sick joke or
something. But the wallpaper in the background was the same blue and gold
paisley from the hotel in Cincinnati.”

“And
this led you to believe what?”

With
conviction, I say, “Eric Blair took that picture of me in Cincinnati, after he
drugged me. While he was raping me.”

There
is a long, drawn-out pause, during which the air in the courtroom seems to
solidify. Eventually, Zoe clears her throat and continues. “What makes you
believe Eric Blair drugged you?”

“He
gave me that pill,” I reiterate, “then he wrote a note in my welcome back to
work card and signed it, ‘Kisses, Roofie.’ That’s the street name for Rohypnol,
the date-rape drug.”

“Is
there anything else that led you to believe Eric Blair raped you?”

“He
claims that he had sex with me, but I don’t remember it. And I
never
would
have done that to Tim.” I hesitate a moment before saying, “Then there’s Owen.”