Authors: Greta Nelsen
“In
Cincinnati, the defendant asked you to have sex, for the purpose of
impregnating her?”
He
shrugs. “Her husband couldn’t get the job done, so…”
“Is
that a yes, Mr. Blair?”
“Yeah.
She wanted a kid. And I agreed, as long as she didn’t bug me about it later. I
didn’t want to play daddy or be responsible financially, you know.”
“Did
you have sex with her then?”
“Yes.”
“And
did you later discover that she was pregnant?”
“She
said she was.”
“Did
she say the baby was yours?”
“Yeah.
Like I said, she wasn’t having any luck at home, so she came to me.”
“Were
you involved in the pregnancy?”
“That
wasn’t the deal.”
“What
was the deal?”
“She
was going to pretend like the kid was her husband’s, let him think he’d made it
happen.”
“Is
that what she did?”
“As
far as I know.”
“Did
you continue your relationship with the defendant after the Cincinnati trip?”
“Only
for about six weeks,” he says.
“Then
what happened?”
“A
cute blonde from the health club started in on me, and I just didn’t have time
for Claire-bear anymore.”
“So
you broke off your relationship with her in order to date someone else?”
“That’s
right.”
“What
about the baby, Owen? Did you ever see him?”
“She
wanted me to a couple of times, but I made up excuses. She hadn’t handled the
breakup too well, and I didn’t want to encourage her.”
Ms.
Tupper drapes her fingers over the rail of the witness box. “What do you mean
by ‘she hadn’t handled the breakup too well?’”
“She
was stalking me. Showing up before and after work in the parking lot. She got
so mad once that she pushed me and broke my leg. Ask her about
that,
” he
says with a glare in my direction.
The
prosecutor lets the remark pass without inquiry. “Did the defendant ever say
anything about Owen that you interpreted as a threat to his wellbeing?”
“She
said he looked like me, which she hated. She also said he was a mistake, that
she regretted having him.”
“
She
regretted having him?
”
“That’s
what she said.”
“Did
the defendant say if she was planning to remedy this ‘mistake’?”
A
hush falls over the courtroom as he mulls the question. “No,” he finally
replies. “She never said anything like that—to me, at least.”
Zoe
charges for the witness stand like a Doberman on the scent of a blood-soaked T-bone.
“Mr. Blair, you claim that you had sex with my client in her car?”
Eric
cocks his head and sneers. “Yeah.”
“On
what date?”
He
grins, shrugs. “I didn’t mark it on my calendar.”
“What
kind of car does my client drive?”
“Some
small foreign thing,” he says. “Smashed my knees on the dashboard the whole
time.”
“What
color is my client’s vehicle?”
“Forest
green?”
“Is
that a guess, Mr. Blair?”
“We
didn’t do it in broad daylight. We’re not animals.”
“But
you claim that you had a sexual affair with my client for at least six months,
is that correct?”
“That’s
right.”
“And
in that time you never noted the color of my client’s vehicle?”
“No.”
“You
also claim to have had sex with my client in the bathroom of a Chili’s
restaurant?”
He
nods. “Yup.”
“The
men’s or women’s room?”
He
pauses only briefly. “Men’s.”
“Which
Chili’s?”
This
question stumps him longer. “The one in Smithfield, I think,” he says with faux
tentativeness.
“Smithfield,
Rhode Island?”
“Yeah.”
“And
when did this alleged encounter occur?”
“Like
I said, I didn’t mark it on my calendar.”
“Can
you narrow it down to a month and year?”
“Objection!”
Ms. Tupper calls. “Asked and answered.”
Judge
Parsons mutters, “Overruled. Answer the question, Mr. Blair.”
“You
know, I’m pretty sure it was September.”
“September
of 2009?”
“Yeah.”
“What
if I told you that my client was out of the country during the month of September,
2009? Would that change your answer?”
He
shifts in his seat. “It could have been October.”
“So
you don’t know when this alleged sexual encounter took place between you and my
client?”
“Not
really.”
“Mr.
Blair, you claim that my client asked you to impregnate her, correct?”
“That’s
what I said.”
“Do
you have any evidence to support this claim—for example, a text message, email
or voice mail message?”
“We
were careful,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “There’s no trail.”
“You
also claim to be the biological father of the deceased, Owen Fowler?”
He
directs a gloomy, forlorn look my way that seems more a ploy for sympathy than
a legitimate expression of sadness. “That’s right. Owen was my son.”
“Do
you have any evidence of this supposed fact—for example, a DNA test supporting
your claim?”
He
huffs impatiently. “No.”
“So
at this point, it’s basically your word against my client’s?”
“I
guess.”
“Is
it possible that Owen Fowler was not your biological child?”
“Anything’s
possible.”
Zoe
lets this response hang in the air for a while and then asks a few more pointed
questions that, in my mind, expose Eric for the sociopath he is.
When
my lawyer is done, Charlotte Tupper says, “Redirect, Your Honor?”
“Proceed.”
“Just
to be clear,” the prosecutor says, “the defendant did ask you to impregnate
her, correct?”
The
reptile appears impatient. “Yes.”
“And
you did have sex with her for that purpose, correct?”
“Correct.”
“And
she did, in fact, become pregnant, right?”
“That’s
right.”
“And
she told you that you were baby Owen’s father, correct?”
“Yes,
she did.”
“Do
you have any doubt that you fathered baby Owen?”
“No.”
Charlotte
Tupper shakes her head. “Nothing further, Your Honor.”
It’s
obvious that the fallout from Eric Blair’s testimony will be seismic, if only
for the fact that I am permitted an impromptu powwow with my attorneys in the
now-familiar conference cell.
“Un-
fuckin’
-believable,”
Rudy spouts as his wingtips stub against the base of a chair, nearly tripping
him. “Can you say
perjury?
”
“You
couldn’t pry the truth out of that bastard with a vial of sodium pentothal and
a crowbar,” Zoe says. With a vigorous shake of her head, she asks, “What did
you do to piss him off anyway?”
I
shrug. “Turned him down?”
“He
must’ve really wanted you,” Paul says with bare skepticism.
I
let loose a bout of jerky laughter. “You don’t know the half of it,” I say. “I
didn’t always look like this, you know.”
Out
of the corner of my eye, I catch a tender exchange between Zoe and Rudy: his
hand draped gingerly over her shoulder; her head tilted, features softened, an
open smile at her lips.
The
beauty of this interaction jabs a raw nerve. If I don’t come out ahead of this
murder charge and extend my betrayal of Owen, the moments of perfection that
lie before Tim and me will vanish on the wind.
I
wait through a lull in the conversation, tap my fingers on the table and think.
But there really is no choice. “I’m going to testify,” I say. “I can’t just let
him…” My lawyers have prepared me for much of what Charlotte Tupper has
deployed against me, but not the deep-rooted pathos of Eric Blair.
“Smart
girl,” Zoe says with an approving nod. “If there was another way, I might
advise against it. But in this case, the only thing that will erase such
damning accusations is the real story, in your own words.” She stares me hard
in the eyes. “What
is
the real story, Claire?”
A
female deputy lopes by the cell; I hold my answer until she has gone. “He raped
me,” I whisper, the words harder to speak than I’d imagined.
Rudy
echoes, “
He raped you?
”
I
don’t want to say it again. Instead, I force a nod.
“
He
raped you?
” Zoe repeats, a perplexed scowl hijacking her face.
I’m
not sure why this notion seems unable to penetrate their minds, which leaves me
at a loss to explain further. “He’s a psychopath,” I say. “Ask anyone.”
“We
have,” Paul says. “Obviously, he’s a womanizer. We figured he was going to
claim an affair. But this stuff about Owen…”
“Was
the baby his?” Rudy asks outright. I cannot tell how much of Eric’s story he
may be buying.
If
I admit to this detail, I will be obliged to tell them everything. I draw a breath
and let it seep out, stare at a chipped spot of paint on the cinderblock wall.
“He raped me in Cincinnati,” I say, “and I ended up pregnant.”
“Holy
shit,” Rudy says. He reaches across the table and strokes my hand. “Are you
okay?”
“No,”
I mutter. “I’m not.” I pull my hand from his, curl it to my chin and shut my
eyes. Now that the secret is free, I am mired in a pit of exhaustion.
“Does
Tim know?” asks Zoe.
My
mouth goes dry. I lick my lips, my eyes still closed, and say, “I’ll tell him
tomorrow.”
Tim’s
parents’ phone rings four times, then five. By ring number three, I realize
that, if anyone bothers to answer, the voice I hear won’t be Ally’s.
“Hello?”
It’s Ellen, Tim’s mother.
“Hi,”
I whisper, embarrassed to be speaking to her from jail. “Is Ally…there?” I can’t
bring myself to ask if my daughter is
home
for fear of having to admit that
she is.
A
long, vacant pause follows, sends moments I can ill afford to lose into
oblivion. “She’d rather not talk to you right now,” Ellen says in a gruff tone.
“I’m sorry.”
I
am at once dumbstruck and numb. Nothing I can say will fix this.
“She’s
just a little girl,” Ellen continues, “and this whole thing has been hell on
earth for her.
Hell on earth.
”
I
stare at the side of the pay phone where the flexible metal cord attaches and
try to fight off a prickly shiver of goose bumps. “I…”
“We’ve
tried, Claire. Lord knows we have. But people’ve got their limits. They can
only take so much before…”
“I
know.” My supporters started falling off even before Eric Blair’s testimony,
but now a mass exodus is on the horizon.
“Tim
is about worn out too,” she tells me. “He went off the road Sunday morning, on
the way home from work.”
“Is
he okay?” I ask, without care for whether she thinks I deserve the answer.
She
sighs. “Physically, he’s fine, except for a gash to the forehead that took a
dozen stitches—and a twisted knee. It’s
mentally
he’s broken, Claire. He
can’t bear much more. He misses that baby
so much.
” She sniffles a
little, and in the background, I hear the unmistakable sound of my daughter’s
fingers dancing over piano keys.
“I’ll
send Ally something,” I say, “to cheer her up." What I can do from here
won’t be much, but I’ll find a way to soothe my child.
“Don’t
bother,” Ellen says, her voice bearing the weight of her seventy-five years.
“We stopped giving her your letters weeks ago. It was too traumatic.”
“But
she’s still…” I say, realizing Ally has been writing me, even though she thinks
I’ve abandoned her. And she’s been sneaking to do so.
There
is a rustling sound on Ellen’s end of the line, then a man’s voice nearly as
familiar as Tim’s says, “Claire?” It’s my father-in-law, James.
“Yes?”
“I
hate to do it, but we’ve gotta cut ties with you,” he says. I hear what sounds
like a chair dragging across the floor, as if he’s sitting down. “There’s a
shit storm here you can’t possibly imagine.”
I
have nothing to say.
“We’ve
got a bushel of hate mail. Ellen can’t even get through the grocery store
without someone jumping her and picking a fight,” he tells me. “There’s
protestors and reporters up and down the street. Two neighborhood kids chucked
rocks at Ally while she was waiting for the ice cream truck the other day, gave
her a knot the size of a tangerine on the back of her head. It’s gotten out of
hand.”
I
draw a shallow breath. “I understand.”
“It’s
not personal. I’ve got nothin’ but respect for you—how you stood up through all
this, how you busted your ass all those years takin’ care of your family.”
I’m
glad to hear that someone finds me redeemable. “Thanks,” I mutter, “for taking
care of Ally. I’m sorry you’ve had to… Tell Ellen I’m
very
sorry.”
“She
knows.”
My
eyes tear up. “I’m sorry,” I say again, because somehow I can’t stop.
“Ally’ll
be okay,” James says. “It’ll just take time.”
My
daughter is so strong that I have no doubt of this. “Thank you,” I say one last
time. Before he can reply, I drop the receiver into the cradle, wipe my damp
cheeks with my fingertips, and clear the way for the inmate who has been lingering
behind me for the last few moments in wait of the phone.
The
morning of Tim’s testimony, I am dismayed to find that the number of protestors
on the courthouse lawn has ballooned by a multiple of three, at least. Inside
the courtroom, my supporters have dwindled to nil. But my legal team is in full
attendance, primed for whatever the day may bring. For my part, I wish to slip
into an altered state of consciousness, from which I will emerge only when this
whole ugly thing is done.
The
jurors file in, and for the first time, I really look at them. They are six men
and six women, an even split. Zoe wanted the gender balance to favor
testosterone, since, as she put it, “The mothers will eat you alive.” But
that’s not how it shook out. Five of the six women who made the cut have one
thing in common, though: They’re postmenopausal. My age or older. That’s one
thing that went Zoe’s—and my—way: a single woman of childbearing age in the bunch.
The men are trickier to figure, but Zoe tried to stack them in reverse: load up
on working dads with young kids who long for simpler times and freedom. It’s
sick to put it that way, but that’s what she wanted. And, for the most part,
she got it.
I
crane my neck to study Tim as he enters the courtroom, the bulky double doors easing
shut behind him.
Do I recognize the gash on his forehead Ellen spoke of?
I
do.
Is he limping on that twisted knee?
Perhaps, but the slight swaying I
think I see could just as well be my imagination. What is clearer is that my
husband—my lover of more than half a lifetime—can’t muster the will to even
look my way, my existence now an affront to everything we once cherished.
Charlotte
Tupper spends an extra moment eyeing her notes while Tim is sworn in, then
enthusiastically begins. “Good day, Mr. Fowler.”
Tim
nods. Barely.
The
prosecutor asks a few perfunctory questions, which Tim answers with brevity and
resignation, before shifting to the crux of her case. “At what point in your
wife’s pregnancy did you learn she was carrying Owen?”
“I
don’t remember.”
“Did
she tell you right away, as soon as she knew?”
He
considers this for a moment. “We didn’t specifically discuss that. There was a
false test.”
“When?”
He
dips his head toward his shoulder, squints a bit. “The middle of December?”
“Of
2009?”
“Yeah.”
“So,
as of that time, you didn’t believe the defendant was pregnant?”
“That’s
right.”
“But
then you discovered that she was?”
“Yes,”
he says with an unmistakable glance at the prosecutor’s belly, a look that
lingers a bit too long.
“Isn’t
it true that the defendant, your wife, didn’t inform you of her pregnancy until
she was almost four months along?”
His
hesitation is deeper and broader than I expect. “Three and a half months,
maybe. Somewhere in the first part of March. But I think she’d just found out.”
“But
you’re not sure?”
“No.”
“When
in the pregnancy did your wife begin seeing a physician?”
“The
embryo transfer was in November,” Tim says.
“But
that was
before
the pregnancy was established, correct?”
He
shrugs. “I guess so.”
“Between
November and March, did the defendant seek prenatal care?”
“Not
that I know of.”
“What
spurred her to finally see a physician in March?”
“There
was some bleeding,” he says with a sigh. “She’d never had that before. We were
worried about the baby.”
“So
by then you were aware of the pregnancy?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s
fast-forward to after the baby was born,” the prosecutor says. “How would you
describe the defendant’s attitude toward Owen in the first few months of his
life?”
“I’m
not sure what you mean.”
“Well,
for example, would you characterize her as a loving mother?”
“Yes,
I would.”
“Attentive?”
“Claire
is a
great
mother,” Tim declares, his chin quivering. “You can’t take that
away from her.”
The
prosecutor forges ahead. “Did there ever come a time when you thought the
defendant didn’t show enough attentiveness to Owen’s care?”
Tim
clenches his teeth, grips the arms of the witness chair. “Owen was having some
muscle spasms. I thought she could have been more diligent about getting to the
bottom of things. Then again, it was probably more my job than hers.”
“When
did you notice these ‘muscle spasms’?”
“Some
time in February?” Tim runs a hand through his bushy, gray hair. “I don’t
remember exactly.”
“February
of 2011?”
“Yes.”
“And
the defendant was aware of these ‘muscle spasms’ too?”
“I
already said…”
“At
some point, was an appointment made with Dr. Lasky to have Owen’s ‘muscle
spasms’ evaluated?”
“Yes.”
“Who
made that appointment?”
“I
did,” Tim says with a groan.
“And
what was the result of that evaluation?”
Tim
freezes, as if he’s the one who has been caught in a wrongdoing.
“Mr.
Fowler,” the judge says, “please answer the question.”
“There
was no evaluation.”
“Why
not?”
Weakly,
Tim says, “Owen died before…”
The
prosecutor switches gears. “How much alcohol did you drink on the night of May
27, 2011, aboard the yacht,
Lucy in the Sky
?”
“I
don’t know.”
“Can
you give the court a ballpark figure?”