Authors: Allison Leotta
Cooper took pictures, as Anna walked around, looking at
everything. A baseball bat. Some pots and pans. The pillowcases and blankets that had been on Jody’s bed. The washing machine, kitchen sink, pipes, and toilets sat on the concrete floor. The remnants of a life that had gone up in flames.
“Was the coach’s blood found in or on any of these?” she asked Rob.
“You’ll get a full report,” he said. “But the short answer is: no. Not a trace.”
Thank God.
“I did get a report on the bedsheets,” Anna said, “and no semen or hair from the coach was found on the those, right?”
“Yup.”
She got to a part of the table that held Jody’s sports trophies. Twenty-three in total. For a short time, Jody had been a promising runner and one of the best high jumpers in the state. This accomplishment had been important enough to Jody that she’d kept these awards from ten years ago, lugged them with her from apartment to apartment till she settled in her house. The golden girls were frozen atop faux wooden or marble stands.
“Any blood on these? Hair or fibers of note?”
“Nope.”
Anna remembered when Jody won some of these. There was third place in the hundred-meter dash in Northville, and a big silvery cup for the remarkable time that Jody, as a freshman, had placed sixth in the state at the high jump. But Anna didn’t see the trophy Jody treasured most, from the time in 2004 when she’d broken Anna’s school record for high jump, during a track meet in Flint. Anna looked once, then twice, and a third time just to be certain. It was not there.
“Is this everything?” Anna asked Rob.
“Yup. You looking for something else?”
“Nope.” She turned to Cooper. “I think we’re done here.”
He nodded and put the camera back in his pocket.
Rob walked them out. “You’ll see another report, too, in a couple days. They tested the old rape kits in the six sealed cases. Leap
frogged them right in front of older ones in the backlog. Amazing what a little publicity can do. Anyway, Coach Fowler’s semen was found in three of those kits. It wasn’t present in one. And in two, including Jody’s, the kit itself was so badly degraded, the swabs were unusable.”
“Unusable how?”
“You should see where they were stored. Water dripping from the roof, mold growing on the boxes. Plus the natural degradation of DNA over time. It’s a wonder they got a profile on three.”
Anna shook her head. “That is appalling.”
“It is. And let me tell you something,” Rob said. They reached the small, empty waiting area. “From here on out, it’ll only get harder for you. You poked a hornet’s nest. Look for when they come flying at you.”
“Is that a threat?” Cooper said, putting his hands on his hips.
“Furthest thing from it.” Rob brushed his thumb across his mustache. “Just some words of advice from someone who’s been in this little corner of the world longer than either of you. Watch your back, Anna.”
She searched Rob’s face and found no malevolence there. But Cooper took a step forward, fists clenched at his side. She put a hand on his arm and felt his muscles coiled with tension. She hoped Cooper wouldn’t have a PTSD episode here. She patted his arm gently, recalling the poking that Sparky did. Cooper looked at her, took a deep breath, and seemed to shake himself. His voice was low and controlled as he said, “I’ll be watching her back, too.”
Rob nodded. “Glad to hear it.”
45
W
hen I went to Screecher’s the second time, I tried a different tack. Instead of a push-up bra, I wore a minimizing one. I braided my hair into two long Heidi-like braids. I wore a tiny checkered skirt, a tight Holly Grove High School tank, and white Keds. My getup basically screamed “jailbait.”
This time, Coach’s eyes got a little rounder when I approached. His voice got a little huskier as we talked. His knee inched closer to mine, all on its own. Grady watched in disapproving silence. He wasn’t the only one. The other people at the bar were very interested. I felt them watching but ignored them. Coach did too, and he loved it.
At the end of the night, though, when I tried to close the deal, Coach dissed me again. Politely and all, in a way that let me know he enjoyed the attention. But he left me there at the bar. Just shook his head with a rueful smile when I whispered that I’d like to meet up with him a bit later, when everyone wasn’t watching. I watched him drive away in his Corvette.
It was definitely the power thing. No matter how I dressed, no matter how flat I smushed my boobs against my chest, I was twenty-five years old. I looked it. Most of all, I felt it—and the coach felt it too. I wasn’t awed by him, or scared. And so he wasn’t turned on.
I realized he was never inviting me into his Corvette again.
The next time I went to Screecher’s, a couple days later, I brought a Visine bottle full of GHB with me. I chose GHB because there were multiple reasons for it to be in his blood. Everyone knew that Coach Fowler was obsessed with keeping in shape as he got older. And, in addition to being the date-rape drug of choice for high school boys,
GHB is used by bodybuilders to grow muscle. As you saw, it was plausible that the coach was using it himself.
Cooking the GHB was the easy part. You can get the recipe on the Internet. The ingredients are legal industrial solvents, available for purchase from specialty stores. The hard part was getting it into Coach Fowler.
By that third night in Screecher’s, he greeted me like an old friend. I sat on the stool next to him, talked football, and waited for my chance. It wasn’t easy. He liked to hold his tumbler of whiskey as he spoke, his fingers tracing the rim. He liked to take the final sip from each glass before he went to the bathroom.
When the coach’s fourth whiskey came, I asked if he would show me his trophies. His eyes shone; he said he would love to. As he got up and turned his back to me, I leaned over the bar, like I was going to get a napkin, and I squirted the GHB into his tumbler. My heart pounded, but I was pretty sure no one saw. I grabbed a napkin for cover, then followed Coach to the case, where I provided the proper
oohs
and
aahs
to each of the trophies.
When we sat back down, he took a nice long swig of his drink. Then he held up the glass to the light and studied the golden liquid. I almost panicked, worrying that he noticed the taste. But he was several drinks in at that point. If he did notice anything, he ignored it. He just kept going.
Ten minutes later, he was slurring his words. Ten minutes after that, his eyes were fluttering shut, and his head was drooping onto the bar.
“Coach,” Grady said. “Coach, you okay?’
Coach mumbled something about wanting to go home. Grady said he’d call a car.
“No, that’s okay,” I said, helpfully. “I’ll take him home. I’m fine to drive.”
Grady scowled—I’m pretty sure
he
wanted to be the one I took home—but helped me take Coach to the car. It’s a good thing he did, because Coach was heavy, and his own legs weren’t doing much in the way of holding him up. We fished the keys out of his pocket and
got him buckled into the passenger seat. Then I went around to the other side. I slid into the car and took a deep breath as I got behind the wheel.
The purr of the motor took me back ten years. I shut the door and sat there for a moment. I looked over at Coach, whose head was bobbing forward. It was the same car where he raped me, ten years earlier. But I was finally the one in the driver’s seat.
Grady was still standing on the sidewalk as I pulled the Corvette out of the parking lot. I rolled down the window and waved into the warm night. “Bye! Thanks!”
Then we were out on the road, just me and the coach, driving into the darkness. Coach’s head knocked quietly against the side window with each bump in the road. He was fully passed out. We approached the high school, empty and dark, then passed it. I kept driving: through the remnants of downtown, then through the burbs, and finally onto the empty stretch of highway. Soon, the road was surrounded by trees.
I drove to Lake Huron. The coach’s summer “cottage” was lit up like a stone and log palace on the edge of the water. He’d been living there ever since he and Wendy split up. She was living with their daughter in their house in town.
“Here we are, Coach Fowler,” I said, pulling the car into the long driveway, past the thick stand of trees that hid the house from view. His right cheek was pressed flat against the window, which puckered his lips and made drool run down the side of his chin. I no longer had to hide the hate in my voice.
“Welcome home, asshole.”
46
T
he first day of Jody’s trial dawned on a freezing February morning. The cold of Michigan in winter was inescapable. Anna drove the Yukon over icy roads to the courthouse, shivering although the heat was on full blast. The problem was that the windows were all open, and the icy air sliced through the interior of the truck. She glanced at Cooper, who sat in the passenger seat. His hand gripped the door handle so tightly it looked like he was trying to strangle it. “You okay?” Anna asked.
He nodded. “I can do this.”
It was too cold for him to ride his motorcycle, but he insisted on coming to Jody’s trial. With the windows open, the doors unlocked, and some deep breathing exercises, he might just make it through the car ride. Sweat beaded his forehead. He was ready to jump out at any moment. She understood the massive effort this cost him. She put a hand on his leg and hoped he would make it.
The woman who faced life in prison sat in the backseat, cradling her round stomach and looking placidly out the window.
The world was buried beneath a skein of white. Icicles hung from every building, reflecting the stark winter sun like rows of knives. Bare branches clawed against the pale gray sky. The world was silent except for the crunch of tires on salt.
When they approached Holly Grove’s downtown, Anna could hear a low roar, like an ocean from far away. As they got closer, the noise resolved into the sound of a crowd: hundreds of voices shouting. And when they turned into the courthouse square, she had to brake.
“Holy crap,” Jody said.
The square was full of people. Shoulder to shoulder, packing the park in front of the courthouse and streaming in from the streets surrounding it. A smattering of protesters had come for the hearings and legal miscellanea that preceded the trial. But today, for opening statements, they were fully a mob. It was astounding, in this cold weather, that anyone had come out, much less a crowd that filled several city blocks. They were bundled in winter jackets, hats, snow boots, and scarves covering their mouths. Some huddled around barrels lit with fires. Half the people wore white Guy Fawkes masks over their faces. Clouds of breath rose from the mouth holes. They looked like a field of grinning, malevolent puppets.
Many people spilled onto the icy streets, and Anna had to slow to avoid hitting them. Someone in the crowd recognized them and yelled, “Jody!”
Soon, several people were chanting. “Jody! Jody! Jody!” They crowded near the car, not to obstruct, but to show their support. They held up their fists and signs in the air.
Anna loved her sister.
She
would stand in the cold for her. That a crowd of strangers would do so was awing.
Press vans were parked throughout the square. There were national outlets, not just the local stations. They wanted to talk to Jody. Luckily, Anna had been given permission to park in the structure beneath the courthouse during the trial. They took the elevator straight up into the courthouse.
Inside the courtroom, they took their positions. They had discussed the setup beforehand. Anna and Jody sat at the table by themselves. The more alone and helpless Jody appeared to the jurors, the better. Cooper sat in the front row, behind them. Anna could consult with him or have him make phone calls if necessary. He was also there for the sisters’ safety. The courthouse had security, but Anna knew there were chinks in every system. Both she and Jody had gotten death threats.
Jody wore minimal makeup: just enough to cover blemishes and bring out the pink in her cheeks. Anna wanted her looking fresh-faced and innocent. Jody’s hair was cut into a chin-length
bob, which she wore neat and straight. It was attractive but not sexy. Female jurors did not like sexy. Plus, Jody was eight months pregnant. They decided to play up that fact instead of trying to hide it under shapeless clothes. Jody wore a dove-gray maternity dress with a pink ribbon tied in a bow over her belly, accentuating its roundness. She looked angelic, glowing with maternal energy, which was perfect.
Anna and Desiree wore similar black pantsuits. Anna wore a pink blouse under hers, while Desiree wore blue. The women nodded at each other and unpacked their files. They moved in synchronicity, except that Anna’s hands shook as she straightened her papers. She’d handled plenty of trials, but never one with such personal stakes.
Her phone buzzed with an incoming text:
Good luck, sweetheart.
It was from Jack. Her heart hiccuped. She lowered her phone and hoped Cooper hadn’t seen. She hadn’t heard from Jack in a few weeks. While she appreciated his good wishes, his use of the word
sweetheart
rankled. She wasn’t his sweetheart anymore. She texted back:
Thanks.
She powered off her phone. She looked at Cooper, surprised to realize how important he had become to her.
At precisely nine o’clock, Judge Upperthwaite took the bench. His clerk, the stenographer, and a CSO took their places. The audience quieted before the judge said a word. He just had that effect. Anna guessed it had something to do with his flowing silver hair.
“Are both parties ready to begin?” the judge asked. His voice was deep and grandfatherly. Anna and Desiree both stood and said, “Yes, Your Honor,” in stereo.
The jury was led in. They sat down looking fresh, interested,
and eager to hear the story. It was the first day of trial; they hadn’t yet experienced the interminable waits, the annoying objections, the long sidebars with the husher on. For the moment, they basked in the perceived honor of being selected to decide the biggest criminal trial Holly Grove had ever seen.