Shatter My Rock (18 page)

“Are
you one-hundred percent sure Owen Fowler’s death was a homicide?”

“Of
course not.”

“Are
you fifty percent sure Owen Fowler’s death was a homicide?”

“I
don’t know.”

Charlotte
Tupper creeps to the edge of her seat as if she’s preparing another objection.

“Isn’t
it true that, generally speaking, determinations of
cause
,
manner,
and
time
of death are not objective facts, but are conclusions based on
interpretations
of facts?”

“That’s
right. They are expert interpretations of the forensic facts of a case.”

“And
different experts could reach different conclusions in the same case, couldn’t
they?”

“Yes,
they could.”

“No
further questions.”

Owen’s
pediatrician, Dr. Elmore Lasky, has been subpoenaed all the way from Calvary to
speak against me. As he settles in the witness box, I think back to the day Tim
and I flipped through the phone book, scanned the yellow pages with giddy
optimism for a doctor for Ally. Unlike my parents, we weren’t bound to
specialists and university hospitals, researchers and experimental models.
Because we’d assured our daughter’s health beforehand, we were liberated to
employ more pedestrian means of decision-making, choosing Dr. Lasky’s office based
on its proximity to our home. When we met the good doctor in person, I was struck
by the incongruity between his gaunt, pock-marked face and the vigorous,
airbrushed image that had stared out at us from that full-page, glossy ad. 

For
the benefit of the jury, Dr. Lasky begins with a simplified explanation of group
B strep infection and its consequences in pregnant women and newborns. Then Ms.
Tupper asks, “From the hospital records, do you know if Claire Fowler was
colonized with group B strep, and, if so, whether she was treated with
antibiotics during labor?”

“Yes
to both. She was colonized and she was treated.”

“Again,
based on the hospital records, do you know if Owen Fowler was evaluated for
group B strep?”

Dr.
Lasky nods. “He was.”

“And
what was the result of that evaluation?”

“He
exhibited no signs.”

“Does
that mean the defendant’s group B strep infection had no effect on her son’s
health?”

“There
are two distinct forms of group B strep in infants,” the doctor says. “Early-onset,
the signs of which appear within hours of delivery, and late-onset, the signs of
which may not be evident for weeks or even months after birth. It’s possible
that, if Owen Fowler was infected with group B strep, he had the late-onset
type.”

“What
are the signs of late-onset group B strep?”

The
doctor pauses a moment. “Fever, lethargy,” he lists, “difficulty feeding, sometimes
cough and congestion, and, in cases of group B strep-related meningitis,
seizures.”

Charlotte
Tupper clasps her hands over her belly. “Did you note any of these signs during
the time you cared for Owen Fowler?”

“No,
I didn’t. The only thing in my records that might suggest group B strep
infection is a mention of muscle spasms, which I was due to evaluate on June 3,
2011.”

“Did
you ever observe these ‘muscle spasms’?”

The
doctor shakes his head. “No. They were reported by the father, Tim Fowler, over
the phone. I never witnessed them myself.”

“Isn’t
it true that you were scheduled to see Owen Fowler on May 20, 2011, to evaluate
these ‘muscle spasms’?”

“Yes,”
he says with an extended look in my direction. “There was an appointment, but
Mrs. Fowler left my waiting room before I had a chance to…”

Zoe
rises a few inches off her chair but drops back down without objecting.

The
prosecutor squints. “So Owen Fowler was in your office on May 20, 2011, eight
days before his death, to be evaluated for ‘muscle spasms,’ but the defendant
fled with him before you were able to have a look?”

“That’s
right.”

“Did
she explain why she’d behaved this way?”

“There
was a note on the intake form that said someone was sick.”

“Who
was sick?”

“The
note wasn’t specific.”

“So
she left without explanation?”

“With
vague explanation, I’d say.”

“Is
that unusual in your experience? A mother bringing her child in for an
appointment and then suddenly fleeing?”

Zoe
squawks an objection, which Judge Parsons sustains with a weak groan. “Move on,
Ms. Tupper.”

The
prosecutor doesn’t miss a beat. “Is it possible, Dr. Lasky, that baby Owen was
stricken with late-onset group B strep?”

“It’s
possible.”

“Is
it also possible that the ‘muscle spasms’ reported by Owen’s father could have
resulted from this infection?”

“If
Owen Fowler had group B strep-related meningitis, those ‘spasms’ could have
been meningococcal seizures.”

“If
that were the case, would it have been imperative for Owen Fowler to be seen by
a physician, such as yourself, as soon as possible?”

“Absolutely.”

“Yet
the defendant cancelled Owen’s appointment, didn’t she?”

“Yes,
she did.”

“Given
the circumstances, couldn’t that have been a dangerous course of action?”

“It
certainly could have.”

“Nothing
further.”

Charlotte
Tupper takes her seat, and Zoe strides toward the witness stand. “Just a few
questions, Doctor.”

Dr.
Lasky nods, politely smiles.

“Are
you telling this court that Owen Fowler was infected with group B strep?”

“No.”

“Because,
the truth is, you don’t know if Owen Fowler had group B strep, do you?”

“That’s
right.”

“But
your testimony is that he
could have
had it, right?”

“Yes,
he could have. Based on the hospital records…”

“Thank
you, Doctor. Isn’t it also true that
I
could have group B strep right
now? Or that
you
could have it? Or that every single member of this jury
could be infected?”

“That
would be very unlikely,” the doctor says with a grimace. “And in healthy
adults, it wouldn’t matter anyway, because the bacterium seldom causes
symptoms.”

“But
it’s possible?”

“The
odds against that being the case are astronomical.”

“It’s
a yes or no question, Mr. Lasky. Isn’t it possible that everyone in this
courtroom could be infected with group B strep?”

“It’s
not
im
possible.”

“How
concerned were you, prior to Owen Fowler’s death, that he may have been
infected with group B strep?”

The
doctor casts his gaze downward. “Not all that concerned,” he softly admits.

“Is
that why Owen’s father had to beg your receptionist for an appointment to get
his son seen?”

The
doctor shrugs. “I don’t know anything about…”

Zoe
goes in for the kill. “You didn’t think Owen Fowler had group B strep-related
meningitis, did you?”

“No.”

“Nothing
further.”

Our
father was weak and sensitive, distanced himself from Ricky first by
withholding affection, then by long stretches of physical absence, time our
mother spent wringing her hands and guzzling chardonnay.

Then
one hot Saturday in August of nineteen seventy-six, for no discernible reason
whatsoever, our father did an about-face, abruptly became worthy of the hero-worship
Ricky felt for him—if only for a fragile moment. 

Despite
the record warmth, the carriage house was cool enough, its stone exterior and
abundant windows—not to mention the grove of elms surrounding it—ample protection
from the midday sun. I was in my room (a space that, in another life, belonged
to nannies and maids) listening to Linda Ronstadt 45s on the orange Palladium
turntable my parents had picked up in Paris, when our father’s voice boomed,
“Ricky! Claire! Get down here!”

My
mind immediately shot to the worst case: our mother having overdosed on some
insane concoction of pills and alcohol, leaving us on the cusp of orphanhood.
But then our father called again, this time more jubilantly, “Claire! Ricky!”

I
wandered into the hallway, creaked my brother’s bedroom door open. “Dad wants
us downstairs,” I told him, although it was clear by the way he was struggling
to his feet that he’d already heard.

When
we got to the landing, Ricky limp and me winded from carrying him, our father
flashed us one of the sparkling smiles we seldom witnessed anymore, the kind
reserved for impromptu photo-ops and glossy campaign ads. “We’re goin’
fishin’,” he announced, his foot balanced on a giant tackle box, a cluster of
newly bought rods gripped in his Incredible Hulk-sized fist.

Would
Ricky’s hands have gotten that big?
I wondered, knowing my brother would not
survive long enough to squelch my curiosity in the matter.

The
ride to Calvary Pond was eventful in two respects: First, Ricky was so excited
at the prospect of an adventure with our father that he worked himself into a
string of seizures that didn’t subside until we propped him in the grass at the
edge of the pond, a scraggly oak supporting his back. The second noteworthy
occurrence was a conversation our father initiated about Mexico, how he
pontificated on the lushness of its farmland, raved over the tranquility of its
beaches, seemed utterly taken by its local color. I thought then that he was
recalling a trip he’d made without us, during one of his “mental vacations,” as
our mother referred to them—and maybe he was—but I have since come to believe
he was also plotting, subconsciously or not, for the day he would leave us all
behind.

The
prosecution’s first witness today is the last person I expect: Tim’s and my
insurance agent. Tim hired the guy to underwrite our life insurance policy, a
duty squarely within my husband’s purview as the stay-at-home parent and
financial planner of our family.

I
am not so thick as to wonder why this man has been called, but what Charlotte
Tupper aims to prove sickens me. “Good morning,” she says in a sugary tone.
“Could you please state your name and tell the court how you are employed?”

With
morbid fascination, I watch as the man’s plump, purplish lips part. “Lonnie B.
Abrams,” he says. “I’m a licensed insurance agent, ma’am.”

“And
what type of insurance do you specialize in, primarily?”

Lonnie
straightens his checkered tie and sucks in a wheezy breath. “I do quite a few
homeowners policies,” he says, “but mostly I’m in the life insurance business.”

“Are
you familiar with the defendant in this case, Claire Fowler?”

He
shakes his head. “Only by name.”

“How
do you know her name?”

“She
has a policy with us, ma’am.”

“A
life insurance policy?”

“Yep,”
he says with a smile and a nod.

“And
who is covered by this policy?”

“Well,”
he says thoughtfully, “the whole Fowler family.”

“That
would’ve included Owen Fowler before his death, correct?”

“That’s
right.”

“How
much was Owen Fowler’s life insured for?”

“A
quarter of a million dollars.”

A
quarter of a million dollars?
This figure sounds outlandish, even to
me.

“Is
that a typical amount of life insurance for a parent to carry on a child?”

“I
wouldn’t say it’s typical.”

“What
would
you say is typical?”

Lonnie
glances skyward, as if he’s performing a mental calculation. “Ten-thousand?
Just enough to cover the funeral expenses and maybe start a scholarship in the
kid’s name.”

“But
Claire Fowler requested
twenty-five times
that amount of insurance on
her son, baby Owen, didn’t she?”

On
this question, he thinks longer. “I suppose she did.”

I
nudge Zoe’s arm and shake my head. On the legal pad before us, I scribble:
Tim
bought the policy, not me.

Zoe
simply smiles.

By
the detached look on Judge Parsons’ jowled face, I assume he is thoroughly
bored. “Ms. Blanchette?” he mumbles, without as much as a glance away from the
swath of papers strewn about his desk.

Zoe
takes her time getting to her feet, thumbs through her notes as she sidles up
to the witness stand. “Mr. Abrams, you told the court that you know my client
‘only by name,’ isn’t that right?”

“Yes,
ma’am.”

“Before
today, have you ever seen my client in person?”

“No,
ma’am.”

“Have
you ever spoken with her by telephone or exchanged any sort of written
correspondence—for example, an email or text message?”

He
pauses. “Uh-uh.”

“Yes
or no answer, please, Mr. Abrams.”

“No,
I haven’t.”

“But
my client, Claire Fowler, has a life insurance policy with your company,
doesn’t she?”

“Yes,
she does.”

“And
who purchased that policy, Mr. Abrams?”

“Her
husband,” he says. “Tim Fowler.”

“So
my client was not the one who purchased the policy?”

“No.”

“Nor
was she the one who requested coverage for the children, right?”

“I
don’t believe so.”

“You
testified that two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars is not a typical amount
of life insurance for a parent to carry on a child, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And
why do you think that is?”

“Objection!”
Ms. Tupper calls out. “Speculative.”

“Sustained.”

Zoe
plows ahead. “In what year was the life insurance policy covering Owen Fowler
begun?”

Lonnie
frowns. “Nineteen ninety-eight, I think.”

“And
Owen Fowler was added to the policy as of August 23, 2010, the date of his
birth, correct?”

“That’s
right.”

“So
the policy we’re referring to had been in effect for twelve years, give or take,
before Owen Fowler was even born, right?”

“Thereabouts,
ma’am.”

“Has
my client or her husband collected any of the proceeds of this policy since the
death of their son?”

“No.”

“Why
not?”

“The
claim is under review.”

“Why?”

“Because
of…well, because of
this,
” he says, waving his arm to indicate the court
proceedings.

“If
my client were to be convicted in this case, your company would be off the hook
for the quarter of a million dollar claim for Owen Fowler’s death, wouldn’t
it?”

“It’s
not payable for deliberate acts,” Lonnie says, “like suicide, or homicide by a
beneficiary.”

“So
if my client were convicted, your company would keep the quarter of a million
dollars?”

“Yes,
ma’am.”

Zoe
chirps, “That’s all, Your Honor.”

If
any doubt of Eric Blair’s wickedness remains, it’s about to shrivel like an
errant worm in the August sun. And depending on what he reveals, the doubt of
my guilt may collapse right along with it.

A
look of premature triumph colors Charlotte Tupper’s face as she glides toward
the witness stand, her pregnant form more graceful than seems fair.

Once
Eric has introduced himself to the court, the prosecutor asks, “Are you
familiar with the defendant in this case, Claire Fowler?”

There
is not a cell in my body that desires the sight of this man, yet I must look. When
he stares back, I glimpse the first thing since Owen’s death to bring me
pleasure: Eric Blair’s revulsion. This aged, battered version of me clearly
turns his stomach. “I know her,” he says.

The
prosecutor makes him point me out before asking, “How do you know the
defendant?”

“She’s
the mother of my child.”

It’s
as if the courtroom has been cast in stone. Even the stenographer’s nimble
fingers lay still, the absence of the stenotype’s low clack as jarring as the
bomb Eric Blair has dropped.

What
seems like minutes later, Ms. Tupper, with an obvious note of surprise in her
voice, says, “
She’s the mother of your child?
”      

“She
was,
” he says. “Owen was my son.”

A
number of the jurors gasp, and Judge Parsons raps his gavel. “Order! This court
will come to order!”

When
the courtroom settles, Ms. Tupper incredulously asks, “
Owen Fowler was your
son?
”

“Yes.”

The
prosecutor shakes her head. “Let’s back up. How did you
first
come to
know the defendant?”

Eric
unbuttons his suit jacket and relaxes in the witness chair. “We were coworkers
at Hazelton United.”

“Only
coworkers?”

“Not
for long.” He grins. “Claire is very assertive, sexually speaking.”

At
the sound of my name on his lips, my guts begin to wrench.

“So
the defendant approached you for a sexual relationship?”

“Absolutely.”

“When?”

“July
of 2009,” he claims. “About a month after I started working there.”

“What
did the defendant do or say to let you know she was interested in you sexually?”

“She
called me into her office late one afternoon. Technically, she was my boss, so
I didn’t think much of it. I thought she had a project for our department.”

“Then
what happened?”

“She
kissed me.”

“Just
like that?”

“After
she had me shut the door, she unbuttoned her blouse so I could get an eyeful of
her goodies,” he says with straight-faced conviction. “Then she asked if I’d ‘care
to sample the fruit.’ When I didn’t object, she lunged at me.”

“That’s
when she kissed you?”

“Yeah.”

“And
what did you take it to mean when she asked if you’d ‘care to sample the
fruit’?”

“I
didn’t have time to think about it, because she unbelted my pants and shoved
her hand inside.”

“How
did you react to that?”

“I
pushed her skirt up.”

“So
you reciprocated her sexual advances?”

“I
had no reason not to.” He shrugs. “She wanted me.”

“What
happened next?”

He
looks at me and smiles. “We had sex.”

“You
had sex with the defendant in her office in July of 2009?”

“Yes.”

“Did
the relationship continue after that?”

“She
couldn’t get enough of me,” he says in a cocky tone that suggests he believes
the lie himself. “In the office. In my car.
Her
car. Once in the
bathroom of a Chili’s.”

“Was
this strictly a sexual relationship, or was there more to it?”

Again,
he looks at me. “She wanted to get married,” he says. “Have a kid. The whole
enchilada. But I wasn’t into wrecking a marriage and all that.”

“So
you broke it off with her?”

“Not
right away. I played along for a while. It was good, and I had nothing better
going on at the time. Plus, the thing about the kid kind of got to me. I
thought maybe I wanted one, and she seemed like a good mother.”

“Then
what happened?”

“There
was a conference in Cincinnati for work. She set it up so we could go together—sort
of a romantic getaway. But when we got there, I found out what she really
wanted.”

“And
what was that?”

“Sperm,”
he says with a sneaky grin. “She was ovulating, and she wanted me to get her
pregnant.”

I
scrawl a desperate plea to Zoe, who shakes her head and pats my arm. In reply, she
scribbles:
We’ll get the bastard!