The Second Trial (2 page)

The dog exploded into his room and leapt onto the bed. Then he jumped to the floor, barking at Danny, his head lowered and haunches raised. Just as suddenly, he turned and darted away. Danny threw off the covers and scrambled after him, but he paused in his doorway. A shattered lamp lay outside his parents' bedroom, its shade buckled and cracked. He stepped around the glass shards and stopped dead at the top of the landing. He wasn't prepared for what he saw at the bottom: his mother lying motionless, her nightgown twisted around her thighs, and her face covered by a snarl of hair. Two fingers of crimson blood oozed from her scalp and seeped into the carpet. Buddy paced alongside her, making deep-throated sounds and gently nuzzling her body.

Mom didn't move. Danny sped down the stairs and hurtled over her body. He landed well past the spreading stain and sprinted for the kitchen phone. He dialed 9-1-1, but when the operator answered, his pounding heart swept away his breath, and all he could do was cry.

They'd spent that Christmas after the assault with his mother's parents, Grandma and Grandpa Wilson. Mom's arm was still in a cast, and because of her broken ribs, she slept sitting under a patchwork quilt in a recliner by the fire. Her pain was like an unwelcome guest at a party – unmentionable, but unforgettable. Grandma and Grandpa had gone all out. They burned cookie-scented candles, played Christmas carols, and Grandma baked the special Scottish shortbread Danny loved. Everyone helped decorate the tree, and Danny had to admit it was a good Christmas, even without his dad.

But by Easter, Mom's injuries had healed and his memory of her pain faded. When she tried to get him to decorate Easter eggs with his sister, he scoffed and said he was too old. He started fighting with both of them. Just about anything could spark him to anger. Most of the time Mom wouldn't yell back. He couldn't understand why she didn't seem to feel as alone without her husband as he felt without his father. He wanted Dad back. He wanted things to be just the way they used to be. One night, while his mother was on the phone, he tiptoed into his parents' bedroom. Most everything was as it should be, except that their wedding photo above the dresser was gone.

He circled the foot of the bed. A floor-to-ceiling closet with mirrored doors was built into the opposite wall. The right side was his mom's and the left side was his dad's. He slid open the left side. Dad's suits and shirts hung in the closet, dry-cleaning plastic still covering some of them. His dress shoes were lined up, clean and shiny, just the way he liked them. Italian silk neckties hung from a rack at the end of the closet. Danny reached over and stroked Dad's McMillan silk hunting tie, the modern tartan – yellow and red stripes over green, blue, and purple plaid. It was identical to the one hanging in his own closet. Everything was in order. Mom hadn't actually thrown him completely away. It was a sure sign Dad would be back in Danny's life.

Then Mom started seeing a lawyer. A couple of times he found her at the kitchen table filling out forms, and he could guess what they were about. She had tried to talk to him one night, but he scowled and stalked off to the TV room to watch some reality show. He didn't even like the show much, but with Buddy's warm head resting in his lap, he could lose himself in the lives of people whose troubles seemed larger than his own. When Mom nagged him, he turned up the volume.

Danny hated the idea of a divorce. He'd been furious with his mother for wanting it, furious with his dad for causing it, and furious with the world and everything in it. People called them broken homes, didn't they? But there was nothing broken about his home, except that his dad just happened to be in jail for a bit. Broken homes happened to other people. In broken homes, parents fought about visiting rights and money. Kids from broken homes had two frantic Christmases spent elbowing for space and attention with half brothers and stepsisters. Some people called them single-parent families as if they were special, but Danny knew he had two parents and he wanted them both. Together. At the same time. When Dad got out everything would be okay again.

After the arrest, some kids at school had said crude things about his dad being a criminal and how his mom must have deserved it. Danny cut them off. Soon, turning his back on people became a habit, and even his friends walked away. He refused to join any teams or after-school activities. Life became just one tedious day after another.

Until the trial.

Chapter 3

Monday

The wide courtroom doors shut behind them. Danny and his mom found seats on a long bench. His mouth tasted bitter, and he longed to have his mom wrap him in her arms and tell him, “
Don't worry, Danny-boy, everything's going to be okay
.” But she just sat beside him, her back rigid. He relaxed his fists and tried to slide his hands under his knees, but the cold sweat on his palms stuck to the wood. His hands lurched forward, jarring his arms like the time Dad had let him drive the SUV and he'd released the clutch too fast. Dad had laughed as the vehicle jumped forward. “
Take it easy, son, relax, don't lose your head, just
relax and it'll come.
”

Danny pressed his palms onto the scratchy black trousers he wore for school band performances. He let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

They sat to the right of a carpeted aisle that divided the courtroom. The teak benches, the color of autumn leaves, reminded him of church. Earlier that morning, Mom had introduced him to Sandra Johnson, the prosecutor. The prosecutor had shown him the courtroom to acquaint him with the setup. He knew His Honor Alexander Cunningham would sit in this windowless room and preside over the unraveling of Danny's family.

Danny's eyes moved across the courtroom. There it stood – the prisoner's box.
Prisoner. Prisoner
. Danny tried to keep his hands loose and his breathing regular, just the way Dad had taught him to relax before a soccer game.
Pris-on-er. Pris-on-er.
His heart beat out the rhythm of the word. His father in the prisoner's box, his father in jail, his father a convicted criminal, his own father now in the final play of this…game?
Was
it a game? Which side was he on? Which side
should
he be on? Maybe it didn't matter. How could it matter, when there weren't any rules, and the game could end only in a loss?

People started filing in. His mom slid a little closer to Danny, as if she'd just remembered she was his mother and that mothers need to take care of their sons. She glanced at him sitting there awkwardly in his long-sleeved white shirt. He was dressed up – dressed for a school Christmas concert, for church, or for a funeral. Today, at age thirteen, Danny wanted her protection, but she'd said he was now a young man and she could not protect him – no longer wanted to protect him – from the truth.

The door behind the prisoner's box swung open. A guard with a holstered gun slung from her wide black belt loomed in the doorway. Dad came out wearing his tailored gunmetal blue suit. He'd buttoned down the starched collar of his white shirt over a navy and black silk tie. Although Danny couldn't see them, he knew his father's leather shoes were polished as black as ravens. Dad
looked
normal: sharply dressed, his head up, stepping politely past the guard. He looked just the way he did every morning on his way to work.

But nothing was normal.

Mr. Miller, Dad's defense lawyer, approached his client and spoke too softly for anyone to overhear. But it wouldn't have mattered if he had shouted across the courtroom. Danny couldn't have listened even if he'd wanted to, couldn't have talked if he'd needed to. He was unable to move, his eyes frozen on his dad.

“Order in court! All rise!” called the clerk, startling Danny into action. He leapt to his feet, his throat as dry as ashes. The judge entered briskly and took his place behind the raised bench.

“Good morning, counsel, ladies and gentlemen. You may be seated.” The judge settled a pair of reading glasses low on his nose and sorted through some papers. He glanced up, and Danny could see his thick eyebrows arch above the black frames. “We're here to sentence Paul Frederick McMillan for his vicious assault on his wife,” he said. “This is his third conviction.”

Third conviction?

“I'll hear from the prosecutor first,” the judge said.

Sandra stood before the judge. “Your Honor, Mr. McMillan is a dangerous man. He's been convicted three times for assaulting his wife, and either he can't, or he won't, change. He's a threat to his wife, a threat so serious, that for
her
the verdict in this case means life or death. Your Honor, this court must declare this man a dangerous offender and put him behind bars for
at least
seven years. He is a vicious man with hatred smoldering in his heart. He's beaten his wife and burned her; he's broken her bones and torn out her hair. Even though her physical wounds have healed, she still suffers serious injuries that linger on. These are not flesh-and-blood injuries that can be measured by X-rays, or by healing time, or by the lengths of scars. They are blows to self-esteem and confidence, damage to dignity and personal security, destruction of morals and values. These are the injuries that don't heal. These are the hurts that are never forgotten. Fear. Unending, crippling, and ulcerating fear. This is the legacy of the sickness that is domestic violence.”

Sandra paused before turning from the judge to call her first witness to the stand. The elderly man rested his cane against the witness box and then sat in the black swivel chair. He laid a coil-bound report on the table in front of him.

The clerk swore him in, and Sandra walked toward the witness box. “Dr. Hamilton,” she said, “please tell us about yourself.”

“I am a forensic psychiatrist, and I work with violent offenders. I assess them on behalf of the court. I evaluate the level of threat in violent, high-risk relationships. I work with a team of experts: police, prosecutors, lawyers, and community services such as women's shelters. We try to prevent crimes such as stalking, assault…and murder.”

Danny felt as if he'd been slapped.

“How do you do that?” the prosecutor asked.

“I create a risk profile. I look at the offender's history, attitudes, mental health, family, social circumstances, and so on. I classify the offender's threat level.”

“You examined Mr. McMillan?”

“Yes.”

“As a result of your work, what did you find?”

“Mr. McMillan is a violent bully bent on attacking his wife.”

The word
bully
catapulted Danny's mind back into Grade 2, when James had flattened him with a punch. Two other kids had knelt on his back, ground their knees into his ribs, and pinned him down while the schoolyard bully forced a handful of dirt into his mouth. The sudden pain had made him cry out, and the dirt had crept back into his throat and made him gag. The boys' laughter floated above him as the soil worked its way into his eyes, his tears unable to wash away the sting of dirt and disgrace. Today in the courtroom, Danny blinked –
his dad was like James?

The psychiatrist was still talking. “Mr. McMillan isn't your usual schoolyard bully. Those types of bullies use physical strength to stay on top and get what they want from their victims. They want to impress other people and obtain social standing amongst peers and even teachers.”

“What type of bully is he?”

“He's a
selective
bully. He targets only his wife. The more she cowers, the better he feels. Over time, she becomes more easily scared. This makes him feel even better about himself, and the situation just keeps spiraling down. It gets easier and easier to make her afraid, and soon a mere stare is enough.”

Danny remembered one time when Dad had stared at Mom at the dinner table. Danny's plate was heaped with pot roast and mashed potatoes awash in gravy, and he was outlining the Grade 4 science project on water systems he was working on.

“Is Brian going to be your partner?” Mom asked. “You worked together so well last time and –”

“Would you like to see the new water treatment plant?” Dad interrupted.

Danny's eyes went wide. “Could I really?”

“I don't see why not. I'm out there every couple of days anyway.”

“Well, it can't be during school hours,” Mom said.

“Why not?” challenged Dad, giving her a long, hard look.

Her head dropped. “I just don't think he should miss school, that's all.”

Dad snorted. “Then we'll take the whole class. Simple as that.”

Danny was delighted. “Really? Wow, that'd be great!”

“Sure. We'll do it.” Dad had turned to Mom. “Why don't you call his teacher tomorrow? I'm sure even you can figure out a way to set it up.”

Danny turned to his mother. “Pleeeease? Could you?”

“I'll see what I can do,” she mumbled.

“Yes!” Danny pumped his arm. “Wait 'till the kids find out!”

Mom had made the arrangements. Two weeks later, a yellow school bus buzzing with students bumped its way to the plant. Dad's broad grin greeted the children, and Danny flushed with pride. His classmates giggled and shrieked as they strapped on fluorescent-orange safety helmets that constantly slumped over their eyes. Dad didn't scold the boys when they ran around bonking the girls' helmets in a noisy game of tag. The students learned about viruses, bacteria, protozoa, and the new ultraviolet technology that zapped them all. Danny stood close by his dad throughout the tour.

Back at school, the students made a giant thank you card. Everyone signed it. Danny wrote “
THANKS DAD
!” in bold letters across the top.

It had been a great day. But nobody had thanked his mom. She hadn't even been invited to come along.

Danny's attention was brought back to the courtroom as the prosecutor walked back and forth behind the counsel table. “Dr. Hamilton, to anyone looking at the McMillan family from the outside, let's say through the living room window, it seems like a solid, respectable, and happy family. How can a family appear so normal on the outside and be so rotten on the inside?”