The Second Trial (5 page)

Catherine swallowed. “I tried to run away, but Paul caught me by the hair and pulled me back. I screamed when he pulled a patch of hair right off my scalp. He put his hands on my shoulders… spun me around…and spit in my face.

“We were in the living room. He shoved me backward onto the floor. I must have put out my hand behind me because it hit the coffee table. The table flipped over, and the glass bowl shattered. When I tried to get up I cut my palm on the broken glass, but I couldn't even push myself up because my wrist was broken.

“I thought he was going to start kicking me, so I used my feet to push myself along the carpet away from him. But he just left without saying another word. I waited a minute or two, because I was afraid he might come back. I sat with my hand in my lap because…because I didn't want to stain the carpet with blood. But I knew this time I had to call for help. The police came and took me to the hospital.

“The police laid charges, and the hospital social worker urged me to leave Paul. She talked to me for a long time. She offered to take the children and me to the women's shelter. She promised we'd be safe there, and I could take some time to clear my head. The doctor gave me some medicine that was supposed to calm me down, but there isn't a medicine in the world strong enough to dull the shame and humiliation of being beaten by your own husband. All I wanted was to get Danny and Jennifer and go home. By the time I walked out of the hospital, I'd made up the escalator story and called the day care. By the time I got there, I'd made up an excuse about Paul having to take an emergency business trip.

“By then, lying was what I did best. I lied to the children every day that Paul was in jail. I quit my job because I couldn't face my boss or my co-workers. My broken wrist was a convenient excuse – I couldn't write or type, I told my boss. But I didn't let my children know I'd quit. I just told them I'd go back to work when my wrist healed. I repeated the escalator story so many times that I started to believe it myself. It was easier than facing up to the truth of my hidden life.”

Catherine looked at Danny. “Since December, 1996, I have raised my children on deceit.

“When their father came back from his ‘business trip' he was the old Paul, the one I married. He was nice to us. I blindly hoped we could put the past behind us and move on. I stayed home with Jen and Danny until March. And then the cycle started again. Those ‘changes' had just been a smoke screen for the violent man behind it. My new job got me out of the house, and those few hours of routine a day were all that kept me from succumbing to a life of endless beatings, threats, and intimidation.

“More and more, he terrorized me with guns. He started threatening to hurt other people – my parents, the children, even the dog. He said he'd kill them and bury them where no one would find their bodies. He said he'd been studying medical textbooks and he knew how to break my neck and make it look like an accident.

“For a long time, I've cried every day – in the shower, so no one would see, no one would hear, and no one would notice. I'm sorry it's come to this, but I now understand that it's not my fault. I could have told someone and left him sooner. But I was brainwashed and beaten, abused, and oppressed – caught in the trap of domestic violence.”

Catherine stood tall. “But I'm not dead yet.

“Since Christmas, with the help of my family and friends, I have faced reality. I've started divorce proceedings. I'm ready to break free from my past. I want a new life for my children and me – one in which I will forget to be afraid.

“I know Paul will do everything in his power to stop me. If he's released, he'll try to make me reconcile with him. When I don't, I sincerely believe he will kill me. I know this truth. Paul has taken away my health, my job, my happiness, my self-esteem. Please don't let him take my life.”

Chapter 6

Monday

Catherine clutched the wrinkled witness statement in her hand. When her eyes caught her son's, she managed a brave smile.

“Mrs. McMillan, thank you for your statement,” the judge said. “Now, I'm sure Mr. Miller has some questions for you.” Judge Cunningham lifted his pen. “Mr. Miller?”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” He smiled sympathetically at Catherine. “Mrs. McMillan, any time you need a break, just say so.

“Ma'am, in your statement, you claimed your husband physically assaulted you many times throughout your marriage. Is that correct?”

“Well, not during the first couple of years, but since then, yes.”

“Can you estimate how many times?”

“I didn't keep count.”

“My apologies, I didn't mean to imply that you should have. I just would like an idea – dozens of times?”

“
Many
dozens of times.”

“A hundred times?”

“More.”

“Ma'am, other than the three criminal convictions, did you tell the police about any of the other incidents?”

“No.”

“Did you tell friends?”

“No.”

“Family?”

“No.”

“Co-workers, neighbors?”

“No.”

“Doctors, counselors, psychologists?”

“I might have told the marriage counselor, but that was a long time ago.”

“Did you seek any medical treatment for any of these unreported assaults?”

“I couldn't very well do that and still keep them secret, could I?”

“I'm sorry Ma'am, I don't mean to offend. I just need to know what happened.”

“I've told you what happened.”

“Yes, well, thank you very much. Your Honor, those are all my questions.”

Catherine blinked. “That's it?” she asked, looking around for help. Judge Cunningham put down his pen. “Madam Prosecutor, anything arising?”

“No, sir,” she replied.

“Very well.” The judge turned to Catherine. “Thank you for your evidence today, Mrs. McMillan. You are excused.”

Catherine didn't move. “May I add one more thing to my statement?” she asked the judge.

He looked at both lawyers, who nodded their agreement.

“Go ahead.”

She took a deep breath. “Just because I didn't report the abuse, doesn't mean it didn't happen. Paul
wants
me to look like a liar, and I
was
one. His treachery and abuse turned me into a…a
champion
liar. But I'm
not
lying any more.”

She looked at Paul. “What about me?” she asked, shaking the impact statement at Paul. “Do I still have to be his victim? Here he's done it again, hasn't he? He pleaded not guilty when he
knew
he was guilty.”

Her arm swept across the courtroom. “This whole legal process he's put me through – for him, it's just a way to grind me down again.”

She looked directly at the judge.

“And he's never going to stop.”

Chapter 7

Monday

Danny and Catherine followed Sandra to the courthouse cafeteria. Sandra bought Danny a burger, but when it was time to return to the courtroom, Danny dropped his tray on the conveyor belt where his untouched food inched out of sight.

Judge Cunningham started the afternoon session precisely at 2 p.m. “On June 21st, 2002,” he recited, “this Court found Paul Frederick McMillan guilty of aggravated assault and uttering threats against his wife. I've heard evidence for sentencing from both sides. Now I'll hear legal argument. Ms. Johnson?”

“Your Honor,” the prosecutor said as she picked up a copy of the
Criminal Code of Canada,
which bristled with yellow stickies. “Today, you must apply the law to the evidence you've heard and formulate a just sentence for Mr. McMillan.” She held both her hands out in front of her at waist height, palms up. “All of that evidence, taken together,” she said, as she cupped her palms into a vessel, “brands him as a dangerous man – a
very
dangerous man.” Stepping toward a podium, she grasped its sides and leaned forward. “He's been convicted three times for seriously injuring his wife. There is a pattern of escalating violence. So… what happens next?”

With measured slowness, Sandra turned until she faced Paul, who continued to sit politely and attentively, his face neutral. “We know what happens next. He's said so himself.” A pregnant pause. “He's going to kill her. And he's going to do it with a gun.”

Danny's heart sat like a stone in his chest. Grandma and Grandpa had arrived quickly on that long December night. One of the officers had tried to question Danny, but her words blurred together in Danny's head and he couldn't answer her. The officer stretched a towel over the bloodstain at the base of the stairs and said she'd come back in the morning. Eventually, all the others left, and the house fell silent.

Danny let Grandpa lead him up the stairs and tuck him into bed. Grandpa stroked his grandson's forehead.
Everything's going to
be all right. We'll take care of you; don't worry.
After a while Danny's jaw relaxed and he noticed how much his teeth ached. Grandpa stayed with him until he dozed off.

But deep sleep wouldn't come. His father's voice rang in his head like an intruder.
I've got my gun. I've got it right here, under
the bed. You know I've got my gun, don't you. Wanna see it? I'll shoot
you right here. Right now.

Buddy lay unmoving at the foot of Danny's bed, his head down, eyes open, on watchful guard. Danny pulled back the covers and slid out. “It's okay, Buddy,” he whispered. He crept into the hallway, skirted around the spot where the lamp broke over his mother's head, and tiptoed into his parents' bedroom.

The moon shone through the open curtain and illuminated the carpet. He stepped beside the bed, dropped to his knees, and lifted the edge of the tasseled bedspread. A long, dark shape stretched underneath. The end caught a glint of moonlight as he reached for the object. When he grasped it, it felt familiar. He knew for certain what it was.

The summer after he'd turned ten, he and Dad had gone to fish the Elk River, just the two of them. The sky was brilliant with morning sunshine as the SUV bumped along beside a canola crop that bloomed the color of ripe lemons. They parked as near to the river as they could and fished all morning, catching six rainbow trout – enough for the whole family. Dad gutted the fish, and Danny slid them into a plastic bag and placed them gently into the cooler amid the ice packs and beer cans. Dad lifted the cooler into the back of the truck and reached under a blanket to lift out a narrow, brown, padded bag with two loose strap handles. Resting the bag on the bumper, Dad unzipped it and pulled out the rifle.

“Wanna give it a try? Think you can be a deadeye like your old man?”

Danny was thrilled. He scrambled down the rocky riverbank after his father. The rifle was already loaded. Dad clicked off the safety catch.

“You can just shoot along the water up into the embankment there, where the river turns.” He placed the loaded gun in Danny's arms. “Stand in front of me, like this,” Dad said, grasping Danny's shoulders and maneuvering him into position. He felt his father's athletic torso braced behind his own small frame.

“Hold the barrel in your left hand – here – underneath. Put the stock against your right shoulder. Move your right foot back and turn your toes out a bit. Use your right hand to grasp the bottom of the stock, and put your finger on the trigger.”

The directions came fast and Danny struggled to hold the gun steady. It was heavier than he expected, and the barrel bobbed up and down as he pointed the rifle upriver.

“Now lift up the gun so you can look through the sight, and aim at the middle of the embankment. When you're ready, squeeze the trigger gently.”

Danny closed his left eye and squinted down the swaying barrel with his right. He felt his father's arms under his own, his father's head lowered beside his. The acrid smell of gun oil filled his nostrils as he held his breath and pulled the trigger.

He didn't know which startled him more, the loud
crack!
that vibrated through his whole body, or the sudden assault of the gun butt on his shoulder that knocked him back into his father. Stones sprayed from the embankment as the bullet hit, and a flock of starlings lifted off from the trees behind them, squawking indignantly.

“Great shot, Danny.” Dad sucker-punched him on the arm. “You're a natural.”

In the moonlit bedroom, Danny had pulled the rifle the rest of the way from under the bed. He was kneeling. The rifle lay before him. Then he noticed a white tag, the sort usually used as a price tag, attached to the trigger by a short piece of string. He turned it over and stared.

It read, ‘For Catherine.'

The prosecutor motioned toward Catherine, who sat straight-backed and rigid beside Danny. Her body was as taut as a stretched rubber band, and her mouth a tense line over clenched teeth.

“Sir,” Sandra continued, “you've heard Mrs. McMillan speak of her fear, and no one can doubt it is real. Dr. Hamilton testified that the most dangerous time is immediately right after the separation. And you've heard him describe Mr. McMillan as one of the most dangerous men he's ever met.

“What does experience tell us?” she asked. “It tells us that battering is the most common way North American women are injured every year. We know most murderers already have criminal records, including a violent offence. We know one-quarter of all murderers use guns.

“It is a continuing failure of our criminal justice system that Mrs. McMillan's situation isn't unique. But today this Court can right that injustice.

“Your Honor, our society owes it to Mrs. McMillan to protect her. Our society owes it to the people close to her – her family and her children – to protect
them
from harm. No one should have to endure the constant fear she will live with every day if her husband goes free. No victim of domestic violence should have to worry for the safety of her children at the hands of their own father.