Invisible Boy (42 page)

Underhill pushed her pink cardigan sleeve back along her right forearm, up toward her elbow. “Here.”

“And after that, did you ever try to protect your son again?”

Underhill looked away, over all of our heads, toward the distant wall of the courtroom behind us.

“Ms. Underhill?” asked Bost. “Was that the last time you tried to intervene, to stop your boyfriend from hurting your son,
Teddy?”

“Yeah. The last time.”

“And is Mr. Williams the father of the child you’re carrying now?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have any worries that he might hurt the child you’re carrying now, after it’s born?”

Angela’s hands rose to the high sides of her belly again. Her right hand moved slowly, stroking the mound of flesh as though
offering reassurance to the being inside it. Or herself.

“Albert wouldn’t do that,” she said, shaking her head once from side to side. “Hurt his
own
baby.”

“But you had no problem with Albert Williams hurting a little boy who
wasn’t
his, Ms. Underhill? Even though that child was your son?”

“Albert work hard. He took good care of me and Teddy. Buy us food, pay the rent.”

“Albert took good care of you and your son until he killed Teddy, isn’t that right, Ms. Underhill? And you did nothing to
stop him?”

“Objection,” said Hetzler. “Argumentative.”

The judge nodded. “Sustained. The jury will disregard that last question.”

How could anyone disregard it? It was the reason all of us were sitting here in this room.

“Ms. Underhill,” said Bost, “on the afternoon of April fourteenth, can you tell us where you were?”

“In my room. At that motel by the airport.”

“And who was with you?”

“Teddy. And Albert.”

“And did your son do something that day that upset Mr. Williams?”

“
You
know,” she said.

“I’d like you to tell us all anyway. What did Teddy do?”

“He wouldn’t listen.”

“Listen to what?” asked Bost.

“Albert say he should go to sleep. Take his nap.”

“And did he take his nap?”

“No. Wouldn’t lie down and be quiet.”

“What were you doing?” asked Bost.

“Watching TV.”

“What did Mr. Williams do when Teddy wouldn’t settle down?”

“Yell at him, first. But Teddy didn’t listen to that.”

“Why not?”

“Said he’s thirsty.”

“What happened then?”

“Albert get angry.”

“What did Mr. Williams do after he got angry?”

“Hit Teddy.”

“With his fist?”

“Yeah.”

“
Where
did he hit him?”

“Here,” said Underhill, patting her breastbone with her right hand.

“How many times?”

“I don’t know.”

“More than once?”

“Yeah.”

“Five times?”

“Yeah.”

“More than that?” asked Bost.

Angela looked away, but she nodded.

“Teddy was very small, wasn’t he, Ms. Underhill?”

His mother shrugged.

“Did he get knocked down?”

“The first time.”

“But Mr. Williams kept hitting him, didn’t he, even though Teddy was already down on the floor?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you see how many times Teddy got punched?” asked Bost.

“Albert in front of him, then, but I seen his arm come up.”

“How many times?”

Angela mumbled something.

“Can you speak up, Ms. Underhill?”

“Twelve,” she said.

“Twelve times?”

Angela nodded.

“Answer the question, please,” said the judge.

“Yeah. Twelve.”

Bost leaned in closer. “And what happened after Albert Williams punched your son in the chest twelve times, Ms. Underhill?”

“Albert sit on the bed with me.”

“What did the two of you do then?”

“Watch TV.”

“For how long?”

“Until the end of the show.”

Bost let that answer hang in the air.

I looked over at the jurors. The church ladies were pissed.

Good for them.

Bost waited one more beat, then asked, “You didn’t check on your son?”

“He quiet, then.”

“Teddy wasn’t just quiet, Ms. Underhill. He was dead, wasn’t he?”

“I didn’t know.”

“But you didn’t check, did you? After watching a grown man punch your three-year-old son full force in the chest a dozen times,
you didn’t check to see if the boy was all right? If he might need medical attention?”

Underhill started stroking her belly, again.

“Please answer the question,” said Bost.

“I didn’t check.”

“And when you discovered that your son had been beaten to death by your boyfriend, what did you do?”

“Nothing,” said Underhill.

“What happened to his body?”

“Albert take care of it.”

“What did Mr. Williams do with your son’s body? Did he take Teddy to the cemetery?”

“Later.”

“So what did he do with Teddy’s body that afternoon?” asked Bost.

Underhill mumbled again.

“Please speak up, Ms. Underhill. We can’t hear you.”

She leaned in closer to the microphone. “Put him in the mini-fridge.”

Bost walked two steps closer to the stand. “Teddy’s body fit
inside
the refrigerator in your motel room?”

“He small,” said Angela, nodding to herself, eyes not focused on anything in the room.

“How long did you and Mr. Williams keep your son’s body in that refrigerator, Ms. Underhill?”

“A week.”

T
he immediate response to Angela Underhill’s admission that she’d left her son’s body in a motel-room refrigerator for a week
was not uproar, but a sudden
absence
of sound. Like that final hush of menace before you get slammed by a hurricane, or a tsunami: no birdsong, no breath of wind,
just the turncoat hiss of tidewater sluicing away from the beach beneath your feet.

And then the room burst into noise and motion. No one yelled or even said any specific words loudly enough to be intelligible—we
just all had to jostle around in our seats, muttering and sighing, desperate to shake that hideous picture out of our heads.

The judge called us to order.

Bost waited a moment before she spoke again. “Ms. Underhill, what did you do during that week?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice broken and slight.

“Did you and your boyfriend talk about what to do with Teddy’s body?”

“Don’t know.”

Bost tilted her head to the side. “You don’t remember?”

Underhill hunched forward, dropping her eyes to the floor. “We

got high.”

“Did you tell anyone what had happened?”

“Didn’t leave that room.”

“You and Mr. Williams stayed inside the room for a week?”

Underhill said, “Just me,” then muttered something else that sounded like “baby dead.”

“Was it your idea to hide Teddy’s body at the cemetery?” asked Bost.

“Don’t know.”

“The cemetery’s in your old neighborhood, isn’t it?”

Underhill shrugged.

“Where your grandmother raised you?” asked Bost.

No response.

Bost stepped closer. “Your grandmother’s apartment is only a few blocks away from Prospect Cemetery, Ms. Underhill. You walked
by it every morning on your way to school, and every afternoon when you came home.”

“Objection,” said Hetzler, more quiet than strident, for once. “I’m not hearing any question here, just a lecture.”

Bost turned to the judge. “I’ll withdraw it.”

His Honor nodded.

Bost looked back at Underhill. “Who took your son’s body out of the refrigerator?”

“Albert.”

“What happened then?”

“Put Teddy in a gym bag.”

“Albert did this?”

“Yeah.”

“And after that?”

“Took him. Went away.”

“To the cemetery?”

“I said, ‘Don’t tell me. Just you treat my baby decent.’ ”

“And do you think he did?” asked Bost.

“Did what?”

“Do you think Albert Williams treated your son’s body with

decency?”

Underhill dropped her eyes again, mumbling.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Underhill, I couldn’t hear you,” said Bost.

“He lie about it.”

“About what?”

Underhill looked up, straight at Bost. “Say it was a proper grave, where Teddy laid to rest.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“My baby dead and Albert leave him on the ground. Wouldn’t even dig no hole.”

“And that upset you?” asked Bost.

Underhill nodded, perhaps expecting sympathy.

Bost played at giving her some. “In fact you’re
angry
about that, Ms. Underhill, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Angry that Albert Williams just dumped your son’s little body in the bushes after beating him to death, without any attempt
at a proper burial?”

“Yes.”

“I’d say that’s made a lot of people in this room angry, too,” said Bost. “But there’s one thing I’m still confused about,
Ms. Underhill. Maybe you can clear it up for me?”

“What?”

“Are you angry because Albert’s treatment of your son’s body showed his utter lack of respect for the life of your child,
or because dumping Teddy in the bushes like a sack of garbage was so damn sloppy that the two of you got caught?”

Hetzler shot to his feet, shrieking,
“Objection!”

“Withdrawn.”

Bost waited for quiet. “I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”

A
fter lunch, it was Galloway’s turn at bat.

“Ms. Underhill,” she began.

I had moved up to a middle row in the gallery, near the right wall, for a better view of the jury.

Galloway paused and looked toward them too, as though to emphasize further her distance from the familiarity of Hetzler’s
“Angela.”

She turned back toward the witness box. “What you’ve
already
said here today is very different from what you first told the police, isn’t it?”

Underhill made no response to that.

“In fact,” Galloway continued, “you lied to the police—and your grandmother—about your son’s death, didn’t you?”

“Because of Albert,” said Underhill. “What he might do.”

“You were frightened of Albert Williams?”

“Yeah,” said Underhill.

“And that’s why you blamed your son’s disappearance on him, when you
did
finally file a report with the police? Because you were so
frightened
of Albert Williams?”

“No, I just…” She stopped, giving a little head shake.

“Can you remind us how long you waited before you went to the police at all, Ms. Underhill?”

“I don’t exactly know. After what happened.”

“And why was that, Ms. Underhill?”

“I was so shook up.”

“Were you shook up, or just
high
?” asked Galloway.

“I was…” Underhill’s voice trailed off again.

“You remember what day your son died, though, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What was the date?”

“April.”

Galloway stepped to the defense table and picked up a sheaf of papers, then turned back to face the stand. “Which day in April?”

“Fourteenth.”

“And why is that date easy for you to remember?”

Underhill made that tiny head shake again.

Galloway stepped closer. “April fourteenth is more than just the day your son died, isn’t it?”

“His birthday.”

“
His
birthday?” asked Galloway.

No answer, just a small nod.

“Speak up, Ms. Underhill.”

Another nod, and Teddy’s mother lifted her hands to the sides of her swollen belly.

Galloway zeroed in. “Tell us
whose
birthday fell on April the fourteenth.”

Angela slid her arms up over the top of her belly and hugged them to herself—balled-up hands crossed, protecting her collarbone.
“Teddy’s.”

There was a rustle of movement from the jury box, muttered exhalations and creaking seats. They were looking at Galloway now,
eyes averted from Underhill.

“Your son, Teddy, turned three years old that day, didn’t he?”

Underhill’s chin dropped into the vee of her wrists. “Yeah.”