Authors: Julie Frayn
“I don’t know the ins and outs. But
I bet your cute lawyer dude does. Or he can find out.” She leaned toward the
glass. “When it sells, if you want to, you can pay us back out of the equity.
Then you’ll have money for Ariel for university. Or for a down-payment on a
house of your own when you’re exonerated. Which you will be. I just know it.”
Mazie wiped tears from her cheeks.
“Damn it, Rachel. What would I do without you?”
“I don’t know, be bored? My time is
up, sorry. Talk to Norman. He’ll figure this out.”
~~~~~~~~
Time had marched on outside the
halls of Canadian justice. Ariel was in her first semester of grade nine. She’d
grown a good three inches, was taller still with her new high-heeled shoes of
choice. The nose piercing wasn’t alone anymore. Gold earrings gleamed from the
lobes of each ear, and she begged to get a ring through her eyebrow. But none
of her friends in Calgary had mothers who stabbed holes in young girls’ flesh
for free. She needed parental permission until she turned sixteen. And Mazie
wasn’t ready for that much maturity.
She witnessed the morphing of her
child into a woman from behind a wall of glass, only heard her daughter’s voice
through the receiver of a tinny phone line. She was right there, inches away. But
utterly untouchable.
Inside the judicial system, time
stood still. Three-hundred-eighty-nine days had passed between Mazie’s
incarceration and trial. Another year spent in a different prison.
Murmured voices bounced around the
courtroom. Onlookers dotted the public seats, rubberneckers there to steal a
peek at her car-wreck of a life. Scattered among the curious, the occasional
reporter, tablets and recording devices at the ready. No one she recognized.
Not one sign of familiarity to support her. Her daughter and friends were all
witnesses for the defence, and they weren’t allowed to watch the trial until
after they testified, Norman had made sure of that. Their testimony could be
tainted, influenced by others. He only wanted the truth. The truth would set
her free, he said.
He was corny and lame like that, and
she loved him for it. Yes, she loved him. And it didn’t scare her anymore.
She sat motionless and alone in the
prisoner’s dock, a touch of makeup daubed on her face, air conditioning cooling
her bare neck. She’d left her scarves behind. Left her long, blonde hair on
the concrete floor, victim to the prison barber’s honed blade. All her
camouflage fell away. Charlie was gone for good. She was Mazie. Just plain Mazie.
She glanced up at the sheriff. He
smiled at her and winked, a human chink in his stiff, at-attention stance. He’d
stand guard every moment of the trial, would watch over her with his eagle eyes.
Just in case she broke free of her shackles and made a run for it.
Been there. Done that. Epic fail.
The crown prosecutor stood to
deliver his opening argument, pointed his finger at her, sliced his hand
through the air to prove to the jury just how many times she had stabbed her
bastard husband until he died. Twenty-three he said.
She hadn’t kept count.
“Now, you’ll hear evidence that Mr.
Reynolds hit his wife. We won’t try to disprove it. There are pictures. There
is his arrest for spousal abuse on the record. But being hit now and again,
though vile behaviour, does not give Mrs. Reynolds the right to kill. Does not
give her the right to strap him down, torture him for hours, and slice his body
to pieces until he dies. You may think she’s the victim in all of this, but she
stole a father from an innocent child. That shows a level of heartlessness that
belies her victim façade.”
Mazie rubbed her hands to steady
the tremors, but nothing stopped the shaking. Not closing her eyes, not
blocking out the sound of that man’s accusatory voice, not taking deep breaths
like Norman suggested. All that did was fill her nostrils with the stink of
stranger’s sweat mingled with dozens of perfumes and colognes battling for
attention amid the stale, cooled air.
The drama of the prosecutor’s murderous
mime during his opening argument was the climax of his emotional outbursts. Facts
of her guilt were presented with cool detachment. The confession in her
handwriting, left with callous disregard atop his dead body, was exhibit A. Her
fingerprints in Cullen’s blood all over the house. Crime scene pictures of the
damage she’d done, to her husband, to her home, were handed around like so many
family snapshots. Some jurors turned grey. More than one turned away. A few
glared at her from across the courtroom.
Through it all, Mazie sat mute. She
knew what she’d done. She’d seen it first hand, live and in three-D with smellovision
and surround sound.
Cullen’s friends took turns testifying
to what a good ol’ boy he was. On cross-examination, Norman confronted each of
them about the drinking, about the other women. Had them relay all of the awful
things, all the lies, he’d told them about his frigid bitch of a wife.
Pete told the prosecutor what a nice
guy Cullen was, first to offer help when Pete’s own wife kicked him out, first
to lend him money. Norman made him confess to Cullen’s constant references to
Mazie as a fat slob who was totally unfuckable, how he’d hit on the waitresses at
the cigar bar and had more than one backroom tryst.
Mazie dropped her head. Tears
dripped onto her lap and left dark drops on her simple, gray pencil-skirt. Onlookers
might think she was sad to learn her abusive husband had been unfaithful. The
truth was she was sickened to finally know what she’d suspected for so long.
That she’d been just another backroom fuck. That she’d allowed that moment,
that lapse in judgement, to define her future. Define her daughter’s future.
Next up was Jerry, a.k.a. J-Dawg. The
guy Cullen preferred to take to football games over his own daughter. The one
who texted him while Mazie stood over Cullen’s dead body. He regaled the court
with stories of fishing and football and friendship. Then Norman stood, cleared
his throat, and made him admit that the cabin trips were just parties and
affairs with chicks who were good to go. Jerry’s glance flitted around the
courtroom, but never once landed on Mazie.
Chicken shit.
Next day, the prosecutor stood. “Your
Honour, I call Mrs. Hazel McClellan.”
Mazie craned her neck for a look at
Cullen’s dead aunt. The witness Norman tried to have excluded. But that motion,
like all of his pre-trial motions, was rejected.
An elderly woman, as wide as she
was tall, waddled to the stand, held up her hand and swore on a bible to tell
the truth.
“Mrs. McClellan,” the prosecutor
said. “Please tell us your relation to the deceased, Mr. Cullen Reynolds.”
“He was my nephew. I raised him
after my brother and his wife were killed in a car accident when he was just a
boy.” She put a Kleenex to her dry eyes. “I loved him like a son.”
The hair on the nape of Mazie’s
neck bristled. She gawked at the lying bitch, wanted to scream,
Don’t
believe her. She’s as big a faker as her nephew
. But all she could manage
was a squeak and a furrowed brow.
“And what did your nephew tell you
about his wife?” The prosecutor gestured toward the prisoners dock.
“That she cheated on him. Probably
had a big life insurance policy out on him. He knew she was planning to kill
him.” Hazel glared at Mazie.
She struggled for breath, as if a
scarf were being pulled tight against her throat. One hand flew to her neck,
but all she found was her exposed skin. She dropped her hand and returned
Hazel’s glare.
“And how did he know this?”
Hazel crossed her arms and smirked.
“Internet search history. She’d been Googling how to kill your husband.”
Mazie’s cheeks burned. She wasn’t
even allowed to use the internet. Where did this woman get this bullshit? Mazie
looked at Norman, cocked her head and raised an eyebrow.
He winked at her.
“No further questions.”
Norman stood and referred to a page
of notes. “Mrs. McClellan, you currently reside in Saskatchewan?”
“Yes.”
“You are living off social
assistance, correct?”
She turned to the judge. “Is that
any of his damn business?”
“Answer the question, please.”
Hazel grunted. “Yeah, that’s
right.”
“So, to obtain your testimony, the
court is paying your travel and hotel costs, plus a reasonable allowance for
meals. Is that right?”
“Yeah. So? I’m entitled.”
“You’ve been married how many
times?”
“Five.”
“And your third husband was Jacob
Hunter?”
Hazel counted on her fingers.
“That’s right.”
“You were married to Hunter when
your nephew, Cullen, lived with you as a teenager?”
“Yes.”
“And was Hunter abusive to Cullen?”
Hazel scanned the courtroom. “Well,
I’m not sure about that.”
“He beat Cullen on a regular
basis?”
“I said I’m not sure.”
“And when Cullen was eighteen,
Hunter beat him so severely he ended up in the hospital with his jaw wired shut?”
Hazel slumped in her seat. “Yeah.
That happened.”
“Mrs. McClellan,” Norman said.
“When was the last time you were in contact with your nephew?”
“Oh, I don’t know. A year ago I
suppose.”
“I see.” He raised one eyebrow.
“Isn’t it true, Mrs. McClellan, that you haven’t seen nor heard from him since he
was released from that hospital?”
Hazel squirmed. “I. I … I can’t
remember.”
“So you remember him telling you
lies about my client, but you don’t remember whether or not he visited, called,
or wrote to you? Which is it Mrs. McClellan?”
Hazel turned three shades of red
and broke out into a sweat.
“And the only reason you agreed to
testify today is to get a free trip to Calgary to visit a specialist about,” he
flipped a page, “a possible tumour in your left kidney?” Norman looked up at
Hazel. “A trip you could not otherwise afford to make?”
“Well what am I supposed to do?”
She leaned forward, spittle flying from her mouth with each word. “Stupid
doctor in butt-fuck Saskatchewan can’t get his head of out of his ass long
enough to treat me. I need a real cancer doctor.”
“Mrs. McClellan,” the judge said.
“Are you admitting to falsifying your testimony for a few hundred dollars in
travel expenses?”
Real tears dripped down Hazel’s
cheeks. She stared up at the judge but didn’t say a word.
The judge rolled her eyes. “Mrs.
McClellan, step down.” The judge turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, given
that the witness has admitted her testimony is false, you are advised to be
cautious on what, if any, of it you use in your deliberations. I’d suggest
none.”
~~~~~~~~
“Ms. Bailey, is there an insurance
policy on Mr. Reynolds’ life?” The prosecutor gripped both sides of the podium.
“Yes.”
“And who is the beneficiary of that
policy?”
“Mazie Louise Reynolds.”
“How much is Mrs. Reynolds entitled
to claim?”
“Well, she murdered him, so
nothing.”
Norman stood.
The judge nodded at him. “Do you
have an objection?”
“Yes, your honour. Mrs. Reynolds
guilt has not been established.”
“Sustained.” The judge turned to
the jury. “Please disregard Ms. Bailey’s last statement.”
The prosecutor cleared his throat.
“What, Ms. Bailey, is the value of the insurance?”
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
“Thank you. No more questions.”
Norman stood and tugged on his
robe. “Ms. Bailey, did Mrs. Reynolds purchase this insurance? Is she the owner
of the policy?”
“No. It’s a standard group
insurance policy through Mr. Reynolds’ employer.”
“And who determines the value?”
“It’s a formula, a multiplier of annual
salary.”
“Are all employees entitled to the
same coverage?”
“All permanent, full-time
employees, yes.”
“I see. Has Mrs. Reynolds made any
attempt to claim against the insurance policy?”
“No. There is no record of a
claim.”
“Thank you. No further questions.”
Norman picked at the testimony of
every witness the prosecution brought to the stand. Scratched at the wounds of
their words until the scabs bled. Then it was his turn to tell the other half
of the story. The one the prosecution failed to mention. Tales of the abuse. Of
a life lived in fear. A life not really lived at all.
He stepped up to the podium between
the defence and prosecution table, shifted his robe, and cleared his throat. He
turned toward the jury. Eye contact, that was the key.
“There is no dispute that Mazie
Reynolds killed her husband. It’s all right there,” he gestured to the evidence
table, “in the pictures, in the confession. But guilt isn’t always about deeds
and actions. Sometimes innocent people pay a price for the brutality of others.
The brutality of those who’d promised to love and cherish them. Sometimes
innocent people must defend themselves. For Mazie Reynolds, it was kill or be
killed. Classic self-defence. Mazie’s act of self-preservation came after years
of torment. Daily abuse, physical and emotional. Manipulation and control. He choked
her during sex. It was the only way he could get,” Norman eyed the jury,
“satisfaction. The evidence is right there on her neck.” He pointed at Mazie.
“A permanent reminder. And worse yet, he threatened to move on to their
daughter. Bored with Mazie, he’d told her. Time for someone younger, someone
prettier, he’d said. His own child, that’s who he wanted, in a way no man
should want any young girl. Let alone his own flesh and blood.”