The Second Trial (4 page)

“Yes, he said those things.”

“Thank you, Dr. Hamilton. Those are all my questions.” Mr. Miller returned to his seat.

“Any redirect, Ms. Johnson?” asked Judge Cunningham.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Sandra replied as she stood. “Dr. Hamilton, what do you think of Mr. McMillan's parenting skills?”

“Mr. McMillan thinks of himself as a model father, but he doesn't understand what he does to his wife also affects his children. He's not a good parent.” The psychiatrist looked at Danny. “In fact, I would say he is no better than a child abuser.”

Danny's face flushed, and he wished he could sink into the ground and hide from view. The prosecutor continued her questioning.

“Is it unusual for an abuser to show remorse after an assault?”

“Not at all. In fact, it's part of the standard cycle of domestic violence. Violent men express a lot of sadness and remorse afterwards. It's one of the ways they lure their victims into staying, or coming back into the relationship if they've already left. Then, the cycle starts again.”

“Now, you said you know there's a restraining order, a gun prohibition, and a divorce. In your experience, do any of these things make any difference to an abuser's behavior after release?”

“If anything, they can make the behavior worse. The most dangerous time for a woman is immediately after a separation. It doesn't matter what any paperwork says. In fact, going to court can anger the abuser even more. If Mr. McMillan were released today, this would be the most dangerous time for his wife – the time he is most likely to seek her out and hurt her again. He's like a…like a spider. He spins a web and lures his victim into it. The spider's silk is thin, almost invisible, but incredibly strong. The prey becomes ensnared, and in the isolation of the web – the privacy of the home – the spider encases the victim in silk, wraps the silk tighter and tighter, and then injects her with poisonous venom. Eventually he consumes her.”

“Dr. Hamilton, in your forty years of experience in forensic psychiatry, how would you rate Mr. McMillan's threat to his wife?”

Dr. Hamilton stared hard at Paul. “My gut tells me that Mr. McMillan is one of the most dangerous men I have ever met.”

Chapter 5

Monday

“Madam Prosecutor, I understand you have additional evidence.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Over the last few months, Mrs. McMillan has written a victim impact statement.” She pulled a sheaf of handwritten pages from a folder. “She's here today, sir, to read her statement.”

Justice Cunningham replaced his reading glasses and examined his copy. “Madam Clerk, please mark the victim impact statement as Exhibit 8.”

“Exhibit 8,” repeated the clerk, thumping her rubber stamp across the corner.

“Go ahead,” the judge instructed.

“The Crown calls Catherine McMillan.”

Catherine stood, squared her shoulders, and patted Danny's knee as she left her seat and walked to the witness box. The clerk swore her in.

“Mrs. McMillan, you may be seated,” the judge said.

“I prefer to stand.”

“Very well. Ms. Johnson, please proceed.”

“Mrs. McMillan, you wrote a statement about the effect this assault and the previous assaults have had on you and your family. Is that statement in front of you?”

“Yes.”

“When you're ready, would you please read it to the Court?”

Catherine took the first page in trembling hands. She swallowed and started reading.

“My name is Catherine Marie McMillan. I married Paul McMillan on August 17th, 1986, almost sixteen years ago. When I married Paul, I thought we'd be just a normal couple. We'd raise a family and enjoy our careers. We'd share the good times and support each other in the bad times. We'd grow old together and still hold hands when we were seventy.”

Her voice gathered strength. She looked up at Paul. “When we married, I didn't know Paul had something else in mind when he said ‘Until death do us part.' ”

Paul pursed his lips and shook his head.

“For the first year or even longer, Paul was the charming, generous, kind man I married. I used to think of him as my knight in shining armor. We had good times. We had friends, we visited with family, and we had fun. We didn't have a lot of money, yet some of my happiest memories are of our camping vacations. We'd sit around the campfire at night with a cup of hot, sweet wine under the brilliant starry sky.”

Catherine looked at the judge. “I am trying to be completely honest. I won't say Paul was always a bad man, because he wasn't. Not at first.

“In 1987, Paul started his own insurance business,” she read. “He spent long hours at the office. He worked very hard to make it a success. Paul was always a hard worker.

“But he changed. He'd come home tired and short-tempered. He started criticizing me. Little things, at first – how I wore my hair, how I cooked dinner, how much time I spent on the phone with my family. I'd never had anyone say such things to me, criticize me for things that seemed so unimportant.” She shrugged her shoulders. “And they
were
little things. I thought it was just because he was stressed, working too hard. So I tried to change the things he mentioned, to make adjustments, to please him. I thought doing those things would turn the clock back and I'd have the charming man I married – the man I loved. I didn't say anything to anyone, because I thought it was just a phase he was going through.

“But no matter what I did, it was never enough. The verbal abuse went on and on for months, getting worse instead of better. And when I got pregnant with Danny in the late fall of 1988, the abuse became physical.”

Catherine took a sip of water and turned the page. “He'd pinch me or push me and then make light of it. If I reacted, if I told him I didn't like it, he'd say I was just being stupid, or too sensitive, and he'd lay off for a while. But soon pushes became slaps and criticisms became threats.

“I didn't understand what was happening. Even though we both wanted children, Paul blamed me for getting pregnant while his business was still struggling. Sometimes money was tight. It wasn't the easiest pregnancy, but I thought if I stayed at my job as long as I could, we'd be better off financially when I took maternity leave, and that would reduce some of the stress.

“That wasn't enough either. I bought things for the baby, and he said they were too expensive. So I went to the secondhand store, and that made him furious. He said that no kid of his would ever wear someone else's abandoned clothes.”

She looked up at Sandra. “It didn't matter what I did. It was never right.

“Danny was born on June 13, 1989. Paul was so happy that it was a boy. I arranged for six months' maternity leave. I was happy, Paul was happy, and Danny…” She looked at her son. “Danny was a wonderful baby.

“Still, it didn't take long before I started getting mixed signals. In one breath he said it was good that I stayed home to take care of his son, and in the next he'd nag that I was spending too much. He cut down on the amount he gave me for groceries. I thought I'd better get back to work even before my maternity leave ended, and I started making child care arrangements. That didn't please him either. Somehow, he wanted me to stay home and take care of Danny,
and
he wanted me to work and earn money – all at the same time.

“He was impossible to please. And from then on, things only got worse.”

Danny didn't want to hear any more, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from his mother and didn't dare glance at his father for fear of what he would see – that every word was true. He was unable to get up and leave the courtroom. All he could do was sit and listen as his mom continued.

Catherine looked down and brushed her fingertips along the edge of the witness box. “February 29, 1992. Leap year,” she said, looking up at Paul and tilting her head. “Funny. I remember the day it happened, but I don't remember
why
it happened.”

Her eyes returned to the paper. “Danny was almost three. He wasn't with me just then, he was playing somewhere in the house. Paul lost his temper and hit me twice in the face – with a closed fist. I had bruises and a black eye, and I couldn't hide them like I'd hidden everything else. He was arrested and convicted of assault.”

She shifted her weight and looked again at her husband. “That first blow – that's when I knew Paul would never be the same. I could never, ever turn back that clock. That blow – it turned him into a stranger.

“He told me how sorry he was. He promised and promised it would never happen again. He went to all his anger management counseling. Looking back on it, I realize that was my opportunity to leave him, but it didn't look that way at the time. He had already started to isolate me from my friends and family. Now I had something tangible – bruises – to hide. So I began withdrawing. I felt responsible for it all. I'd already hidden so much from everyone that it seemed impossible to confess.”

Catherine looked at her son. “And I had Danny to consider,” she said, a catch in her voice. “He was just a toddler. I still thought, then, that Paul was a good father. Besides, he'd made all those promises and I desperately wanted to believe him.” She looked at Paul. “I insisted on marriage counseling. He cooperated. We finished the sessions and everything seemed better. He settled down, and we had a normal, even happy, family life. At least that's what I talked myself into believing.”

Catherine returned to her notes. “Jennifer was born the next year – September 1, 1993. Paul was disappointed she was not another boy. It made him cross with me, as if I'd had a choice. Right from the start, he wasn't as involved with Jen as he'd been with Danny. He treated her indifferently, more like a stranger's child than his own. When it came time for me to go back to work, he started in on me again. He didn't want me to work. He didn't like the people I worked with. It was no good having both our kids in day care. By then I'd had the same job for three years, and I liked it. His business was going well and financially things were fine. For me, it wasn't about the money. Work was a place where I felt productive and safe. I felt confident in my own abilities. So I tried reminding Paul that he'd agreed from the beginning we'd both have careers, but it was like trying to reason with a rock. The night before I was supposed to return to work, he told me – no, he threatened me – that if anything happened to the children, it would all be my fault. Then he hit me again.

“We repeated the same cycle over and over. The good times between bad times kept shrinking. Soon there weren't any good times anymore, just times when I pretended life was good. He started hitting me every couple of weeks. He was careful to cover his tracks. He hit me in places where people wouldn't see the bruises. He always beat me at home, always at night, always out of sight. The bruises from one blow would just start to fade when he'd hit me again.

“I was careful to cover his tracks, too. No one understood why I wouldn't wear shorts in the summer, or why I always preferred long-sleeved shirts – even a turtleneck, one time, when he choked me and left thumbprint-shaped bruises. No one knew I had nightmares, or understood why I was always tired.” She lifted her left hand and traced her right forefinger along the discolored, thickened line that ran along the edge of her palm up to the wrist. “One time he pushed me into the stove. My hand hit the burner, and Paul laughed and told me to be careful not to burn myself because it would hurt.

“I knew the marriage was broken, but I still thought I could fix it. I kept hoping that as the kids got older and he saw they were fine in day care, he'd stop criticizing me for working.” She gave a slight, puzzled shake of her head and looked at the judge. His chair was turned toward Catherine, and he was listening intently, tapping the arm of his reading glasses against his lips.

“It must seem crazy to you,” she told him. “Now, it seems crazy to me too. It was as if I saw myself reflected in one of those fun-house mirrors. Somehow
I
had become the horrible person he kept telling me I was.
He
really cared about the kids.
I
was the failure. I told him a thousand times that I was sorry, because it was all my fault.” Catherine turned to confront Paul. “But now I know. I know that he'd started using the children as ammunition against me.”

Danny ran his fingers through his hair.
Ammunition
?
Dad
would do that?

Catherine's lower lip began to tremble, and she blinked rapidly as she looked back at her notes. She hesitated, and then plunged ahead.

“November 20, 1996. Danny was in second grade. Jennifer was just three. I was late from work. I rushed through the door and asked him to fetch the children from the day care. He snapped. He screamed at me for being late. He swore and said there was no way he would get the kids. It was my responsibility. It was the price I had to pay for my idiotic, selfish decision to work. He started saying things. The violence of his language matched the violence of his blows.” She couldn't control the tremor in her voice. Her eyes filled with tears.

The judge leaned forward. “Mrs. McMillan, would you like a short adjournment?”

She lifted her chin and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

“No thank you. I have to finish what I've started.”

“Take your time, then. Take your time.”

She smoothed the paper with the palm of her burnt hand. “He called me such horrible names, and then he stopped swearing. He looked at me like he never had before – with a murderous look in his eyes. What he said next scared me to the bone. I remember every word. ‘
If I can't count on you to take care of my kids, I might as
well get rid of you. I ought to get my gun right now. You're a piece of
shit.'”