With Love from the Inside (20 page)

“What do you mean? You said you think she's innocent. We may be able to finally prove she didn't kill my brother.”

“I stayed up all last night after I received your phone call, scanning through years of documents for the one hundredth time. Your mom's first attorney did a terrible job, but I worry it's not bad enough to get your mom a new trial.”

“They didn't know,” Sophie said. “They had no idea at the time about
this disease my brother may have had. No one did. My doctor said they didn't have any diagnostic tests back then.”

Sophie dumped the rest of the contents of the box Ben had brought out on the middle of the table as if to prove to herself and to Ben that there was something in there that would clear her mother's name.

Ben shuffled through dated legal pads while Sophie looked through the pile of stamped papers for anything official from the coroner's office.

“When did your dad die again?” he asked while shuffling through some dated pages.

“End of November.” Sophie set her stack of papers on her lap and massaged the corners of her eyelids. “My dad died sometime after I went to bed on November twenty-eighth. My senior year in high school.”

Ben put down one legal pad and quickly picked up another. “Thursday, November twenty-eighth.” His finger ran down the page. “I think I may have found something.”

Sophie stopped rubbing and scooted her chair closer to his. “Where? What'd you find?”

“Friday, November thirtieth,” he read before looking up. “Dr. H. Robinson. Your dad was supposed to call a Dr. H. Robinson?”

Did you know the day you were born there were twenty-six babies in the nursery? You were number twenty-seven. Our number twenty-seven. We watched you from the window after they took you back. Daddy held his arms up in V for Victory and I glanced around the hallway to see if any other mothers were experiencing this incredible feeling of amazement.

Most of the babies were crying, but not you, Sophie—you were perfectly content. No matter what was happening around you, you were at peace. All bundled up in a pink-and-white blanket. Your boppy, you later called it.

I wish you could have seen your daddy. He had his thumbs hooked through his belt loops and his chest puffed out. “Out of all the babies in here, how'd we make the very best one?”

If you only knew how much those little moments mattered to me.

xoxoxo

December 24, Enjoy Shrimp Lo Mein and Spring Rolls from your favorite Chinese takeout while you wrap those last-minute holiday presents.

Would I have been better off never being born? I've asked myself that question more often than I probably should share. I keep replaying the minutes leading up to William's death. My squirmy baby full of explosive giggles, then drained of it all, right before my helpless eyes. Maybe if I'd been a better mother, a more intuitive one, a more attentive one, I would have known the right thing to do. If only I'd taken him to the doctor one more time . . .

I don't understand his death. I guess I never will. Why he started refusing my breast and sucked only from the bottle. Why when I fed him his bottle he became deathly ill and threw up his food, his tiny chest struggling to rise and fall. The doctor said not to worry, he'd be fine and that he'd gained some weight. He promised me William's sleepy eyes would wake up and his giggles would return.

My actions, or inactions, were not intentional. A mother could never love a child more than I loved William. But my love wasn't enough. My inadequacies failed him, failed you and Paul, too.

Carmen noticed my pleasant demeanor and told me to cheer up. She yelled, “You're not dead yet,” when I walked to the dayroom. She and Jada were sitting at the table opening Ziploc bags of items sent in from the outside. Sample-size Close-Up toothpaste, Pert shampoo, and Jergens hand lotion, along with peanut-butter crackers and a bag of Skittles, lie within the clear packaging. A red bow adorned the top.

“I guess these church ladies didn't get the memo about the toothbrushes,” Carmen said, referring to the regular-size toothbrushes that had been confiscated and were now lying on the officer's desk. “Maybe now he'll brush his teeth”—she raised her voice so he'd hear her.

Every year we received a package from the women at Lake Terrace Lutheran Church. I imagined them sitting around and stuffing the bags.
“Walmart had a sale on peanut-butter crackers and shampoo. Great deals on everything.”

Carmen threw my bag at me. “You must be special. You got a handwritten note this year.”

I still haven't said a word to her since she faked the fight with Roni. I know, I should remember my own advice to Sophie: choose love and forgiveness.

Instead, I sat at a different table with my back toward her.

“You don't blame me for what happened to Roni, do you, Grace?”

Her sharp words startled me and I had to respond. I think it scared Jada because she scurried to the other side of the room.

“You lied.” I tried to keep my voice calm and low, but I refused to back down.

Carmen started to come toward me. “You bitch!” Her pencil-thin lips flattened.

I stood and realized my legs finally felt free.

“Call me whatever you want, but take some responsibility. You lied, and because of you Roni may never get to meet her dad.”

“I didn't hear Sister Grace tell any truths,” she spewed back. We were so close I could see her tongue. She'd been eating orange Skittles. “Holier-than-thou baby-killer kept her judgmental mouth shut.”

Jada cleared her throat. The officer by the door watched us with one hand on the side of his belt.

“You're right. I'm as guilty as you.”

Carmen tossed her head back and claimed victory.

“We both owe Roni an apology,” I said.

The officer made his way over. “Sit down, ladies, or return to your cells.”

Carmen grunted at me and then at him. We all sat down at different tables. I put on hand lotion. Carmen ate more Skittles.

Choose love and forgiveness.
Sometimes I hated Paul's sermons.

No one would tell me if Roni survived. The officers refused to answer when I asked, and Ms. Liz had not been back to visit.

I watched the local news report a break-in at the Motel 6 located right outside the gates and a car-jacking that happened late last night involving an elderly woman pumping gas—but no mention of a twenty-five-year-old woman who'd attempted suicide all because she wanted to meet her biological father for the first time this Christmas.

I'm praying Roni's okay. That she's lying in a hospital bed outside these confined walls watching reruns of
Friends
and dreaming of a better life. That maybe, just maybe, a kind nurse will take pity on her, notify her next of kin, and sneak her father in for a visit. His hand rubbing her hair. “It'll be okay now, Daddy's here. I'll figure a way to get you out of this mess.”

—

I
CAN MAKE ONE CALL
on Christmas. My attorney's office won't be open, but I might call anyway. If only to hear the phone ring.

I twist the top off the last peanut-butter cracker before I open the note left for me by some faceless woman who'd taken the time to remember. My name is written in calligraphy on the folded white envelope stuffed inside.

I wanted you to know that you are not alone this holiday season. Or at least not in spirit . . . I've been praying for you since I read the denial of your latest appeal in the newspaper. Don't give up hope. The same God who was with you then is with you now.

I reread that last sentence at least three times before I folded the note and stuck it between the pages of my Bible. A book I no longer felt worthy to hold in my hands.

“God, if you can hear me at all—please help Roni.”

And then I begged him to watch over Sophie.

Sophie found herself sitting in baggage claim of an airport located forty-five minutes outside of Brookfield on Christmas Eve. Ben left to get her a decaf coffee and came back with two sugar cookies and a chocolate double-fudge brownie.

“You're eating for two,” he said as he held up the choices.

I bet he's a good dad,
Sophie thought as she grabbed one cookie and half the brownie. “Guess I'm a little hungry.”

A few hours earlier, he'd listened to Sophie go over in detail the conversation she'd had with Jack. “It may be nothing or may be everything,” he said after she finished. He punched the number her dad had written under Dr. H. Robinson's name in his cell phone. After the first ring, an automated voice said, “The number you have dialed has been disconnected. If you think you have reached this number in error, please hang up and dial again.”

“Thought that might happen,” Sophie said.

“Let me put a call in to a detective I know in the police department. If Dr. H. Robinson is still kickin', this guy will find him.”

Within minutes, Ben had a new cell phone number for a gentleman from Seattle, who may or may not have run a lab on this side of the country seventeen years ago. “Pray this is the guy,” he said to Sophie as he dialed.

“I already have.” She held her clasped hands up for him to see.

“This is Henry.” Ben put the phone on speaker.

“My name is Ben Taylor. I'm looking for a Dr. H. Robinson.”

“This is he, but I just go by Henry now. I've been retired for the last five years.”

“Can I ask you if you ever knew anyone by the name of Paul or Grace Bradshaw?”

“Bradshaw?” he asked. “That name sounds familiar. Who'd you say is calling?”

“Ben Taylor. I'm an attorney who represents Grace Bradshaw. She's on death row, convicted of poisoning her infant son.”

“Oh, a long time ago. South Carolina case. I remember now. Her husband, uh, what'd you say his name was again?”

“Paul,” Ben repeated. “Paul Bradshaw.”

“Oh, yes, tall guy with glasses. He asked me to run some independent lab tests. I had the results, but I never heard from him.”

“What lab tests?” Ben tapped his fingers on the outside of the phone. “Do you remember anything about them?”

“You bet your reindeer I do.” Ben rolled his eyes and shot Sophie an “I hope this guy isn't crazy” look. “Ethylene glycol. I tested the baby's bottle.”

Ben gave Sophie a thumbs-up. “How soon can I interview you? In person, I mean?”

Dr. Robinson sighed and clicked his tongue into the phone. “I'll be back in a few weeks. Flying my Cessna to Florida to see family for the holidays.”

“I'm afraid we can't wait that long,” Ben said. “Grace's execution is scheduled for February.”

Sophie could hear the doctor muttering something to someone in the background.
On Christmas Eve?
a female voice shrieked.

“I'm headed out tonight. I'll need to stop and refuel somewhere.”
Tell them we have plans!
“How close is the nearest airport?”

When Ben told him, Dr. Robinson said, “Can you meet me around eight?”

—

B
EN DUNKED HIS COOKIE
in his coffee while Sophie flipped through a Chamber of Commerce pamphlet on “Brookfield's Top Attractions.” A glossy magazine's way of making the run-down covered bridge located on the outskirts of town sound like a must-see.

Ben stood to stretch and checked his watch: 8:27 p.m.

“Thanks for canceling your plans,” Sophie said to him. She thought about asking him how his kids had taken the news, but that might make him ask her about Thomas. For that question, she didn't have an answer.

“Thank you for giving me a good reason to.” Sophie could tell by his sincerity that he truly cared for her mother.

“Mr. Taylor?” A man with a silver-trimmed beard and a tucked-in green-and-white-striped golf shirt approached them from behind. “Sorry I'm late. The wind's a little stronger coming in this direction. I'm Henry Robinson.”

“Ben Taylor.” He held out his hand to shake. “This is Sophie, Grace's daughter.”

“Nice to meet you both,” he said. “I brought all the notes I could find, but as I told you on the phone—this was a long time ago.”

“Anything you can give us is appreciated.” Sophie noticed the Augusta National logo on the polo he was wearing. “The Masters?” she asked.

“We go every year,” he said. “You play golf?”

“My husband does. We've been a couple times.” She and Thomas might have stood next to him at Amen Corner.

“I tried to get in touch with your dad to go over the results, but he didn't return my calls.”

“He passed away,” Sophie said. “From a heart attack. Ben found your name on some of his notes.”

“That explains it, then,” Dr. Robinson said. He opened his briefcase and pulled out a file.

“He didn't know?” Sophie asked him after reading the summary confirming her dad's suspicions.
No evidence of ethylene glycol (the active ingredient found in antifreeze) was present in the bottle.

“He didn't know,” Dr. Robinson said.

Sophie's dad had never wavered in his belief his wife was innocent. He didn't need a piece of paper to prove otherwise.

“I sent the results to the DA's office, but no one ever called me. After a while, I just stopped trying.”

“Grace hired me after Paul died to handle her appeals,” Ben explained. “I have a copy of the tests the prosecutor's office had done. It showed trace amounts of ethylene glycol in every bottle tested—the police found the windshield-wiper fluid under the sink in the Bradshaws' kitchen.”

Sophie didn't know where he was going with this, but he continued. “The autopsy on William's brain concurred. The experts testified to it and it's what pointed to murder.”

Sophie tried to get the picture of William's open skull and dissected brain out of her head. This all sounded so convincing. Had her mom poisoned William?

Ben saw her clench her fists. “I'm playing devil's advocate here, but we need another explanation.”

“I tested the same bottle the prosecutors did. I can promise you there was no trace of windshield-wiper fluid.” He handed a second report to Ben.

“I looked at the court transcripts your father gave me. Your mom's defense attorney did a terrible job. The test the hospital lab performed on
William's blood”—Henry pulled another piece of paper from his file—“was totally unacceptable.”

He shook his head while Ben studied the findings. “Hell,” Dr. Robinson said, “what you see and what you find depends a great deal on what side you're standing on. You could find antifreeze in my cup of coffee if you used these outdated chromatographic techniques. I'd have retested William's blood if I'd had any, brought in another medical examiner—something to point the jury in another direction.”

Sophie closed her eyes and took a couple deep breaths to calm herself.

She wanted to hit something or blame someone. No matter how she spun it—all fingers pointed back to her. She shouldn't have given up on her mom. She should've finished what her dad had started.

“I should've looked through my father's papers more carefully.” She pushed the rest of the words out. “Maybe I could have found your number and gotten in touch with you much sooner. My mom went through seventeen years of hell. This is all my fault.”

Ben tried to comfort her before turning on himself. “You were a kid. For that matter, I should've investigated this.”

Sophie stared at Ben and then shrugged. Easier to forgive someone else than it is to forgive yourself. No time for what-ifs or “Why'd we stop?” now.

“My mom needs us now.”

“You're right,” Ben said to her. “We have to be strong for your mom and strong for her grandbaby.”

Sophie nodded and put her hand over her stomach. “Dr. Robinson, do you think my brother could've died because of a metabolic disorder?”

“A metabolic disorder?” The lines that crossed his forehead thickened. “I hadn't thought of that possibility, but it makes sense.” He put his hand over Sophie's hand. “I may know a way to find out.”