Countdown to Killing Kurtis Page 8

  Mother’s genius of a baby-lawyer tries to create doubt that the “alleged” conversation between Mrs. Monaghan and me ever happened, by asking, “Why on earth, if this girl had made such an ‘unforgettable’ cry for help, as you say she did, didn’t you take any action at all to help her or her mother?” But instead, contrary to the stupid lawyer’s presumable intentions, all this question does is open the door for Mrs. Monaghan to say, “I keep asking myself the same question. If only I’d done something— anything at all—to help this poor girl, maybe she wouldn’t be without a mother now, and without a soul in the world to watch over her. I keep thinking if I’d done something different, maybe I could have prevented Charlene’s mother from killing that man.”

  Well, turn out the lights. I can’t even look at the jury right now—I don’t trust my face.

  Mother’s fool attorney is apparently as shocked as everyone else in the courtroom right now, because he doesn’t even move to strike any portion of it. Has that boy even gone to law school—or, jeez, at least read a single true-crime book? I swear, that boy is as smart as a soup sandwich.

  I’m not sure why the Prosecutor even needs to call any more witnesses, but she does, anyway.

  “The State calls Officer Ronald Frampton,” she says.

  Officer Frampton ambles to the witness stand. He’s so large, it’d be easier to go over the top of him than around him.

  “You were the first law enforcement officer on the scene, correct?” the prosecutor asks.

  “That’s correct.”

  “And what did you observe as the initial responder on the scene?”

  Officer Frampton describes the same scene already painted by Detective Carter, except that in Officer Frampton’s version of events, I was draped over Jeb’s body, crying like a newborn, when he arrived.

  “And where was the defendant during this time?”

  “Passed out drunk in a bedroom in the back.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about her?”

  Officer Frampton answers that, yes, when he first saw Mother, he noticed two things: One, she’d soiled herself; and, two, she had a particularly nasty bruise on her cheek. When the prosecutor asks for more details about Mother’s bruise, Officer Frampton says it looked to him like it had been inflicted fairly recently.

  Officer Frampton identifies various photos from the scene of the crime, including pictures of Mother taken on The Horrible Night of Jeb’s Murder. In all the pictures, Mother looks battered and bruised and as wasted as a wino in a back alley.

  While Officer Frampton is talking, I notice the jury looking carefully at the photos of Mother, and I can plainly see them comparing the human pile of rubble in those pictures to the cleaned-up version of Mother sitting at the defense table in a cheap suit. As they look back and forth between the sorry-ass pictures and the edited version sitting in the courtroom, I can hear their innermost thoughts as surely as if they were screaming them into a megaphone: “You can’t fool me, lady. I know what you did.”

  The prosecutor looks awfully confident right now, like she thinks she’s got this thing all wrapped up. The woman’s not gifted with E.S.P. or anything, though—anyone with a half a brain can see the way the jury’s glaring at Mother like she’s a calf at the rodeo.

  “Your honor,” the prosecutor says, “the State rests its case.”

  The entire courtroom exhales.

  “All right then,” the judge says, “does the Defense plan to put on a case?”

  All eyes are on Mother’s pre-pubescent lawyer.

  The fool stands and clears his throat. “Yes, thank you. Your honor, the Defense calls Dr. Irma Rodriguez to the stand.”

  “Battered Woman Syndrome is a physical and psychological condition that sometimes occurs when a woman suffers persistent emotional, physical, or sexual abuse from another person, usually her spouse or significant other,” Dr. Rodriguez says, looking at the jury like she’s teaching a class.

  I can’t believe it, but Boy Wonder has actually called Dr. Rodriguez to the stand to explain the phenomenon of Battered Woman Syndrome to the jury. By doing that, isn’t that dumb lawyer basically admitting the fact that Jeb abused Mother? And that Mother killed him for it?

  “The unique etiology of this syndrome explains why an abused woman might stay with her abuser, may not seek assistance from others or fight her abuser, or leave the abusive situation,” Dr. Rodriguez continues, obviously enjoying how she gets to teach us all a thing or two. “It’s very common for sufferers to have low self-esteem and believe that the abuse is their fault.”

  “Is it common for a sufferer of this syndrome to believe the only way out of her predicament is to kill her attacker?” Boy Genius asks.

  “Why, yes,” Dr. Rodriguez confirms. “That’s a commonly-held thought process. Sometimes, that thought process will lead a victim to killing her abuser in what she perceives to be her only means of self defense against future attacks.”

  I can’t believe this. If I understand the situation correctly, Mr. Baby Lawyer is admitting Mother’s the one who took that rat poison from under Mr. Oglethorpe’s steps and baked that poison into a chocolate cake. Good lord, Baby Lawyer’s not trying to convince the jury Mother’s innocent, he’s trying to convince them that, even though Mother did the deed, she shouldn’t fry for it. Lord have mercy, that lawyer couldn’t pour rain out of a boot with a hole in the toe and directions on the heel.

  On cross-examination, the prosecutor tears Dr. Rodriguez a new one, getting her to admit “there’s absolutely no consensus in the medical profession that abuse results in a mental condition severe enough to excuse a killing.”

  At this point, the judge admonishes the jury, “Ladies and gentlemen, I will instruct you on the law pertaining to the Battered Person’s Defense at the close of evidence. At that time—and only after I’ve instructed you on all applicable laws—you’ll decide whether the evidence you’ve heard supports a claim of self defense. Or not.”

  Maybe I’m imagining it, but it sure sounds like the judge was giving that jury a secret winky-winky code when she said the word “not.” And, frankly, I don’t blame the judge for having doubts about what Mother’s lawyer is selling here—I reckon it’d be pretty hard for anyone to bake a rat-poison-cake in “self defense.”

  “The Defense calls Wanda Doshinsky to the stand.”

  “Yes, I’ve known Carrie Ann for years,” Wanda Doshinsky confirms to Mother’s baby-lawyer. “We’ve worked together at Uncle Jimmy’s Diner, over on Route 271, for years.” Wanda goes on to say that, yes, she’s seen Mother covered with bruises throughout the entire time she’s known her. “Yeah, for years and years, from way back, ever since I’ve known her.”

  “And what about during the time period when she was with Jeb Watson?”

  “Yes, then, too. Carrie Ann’s always had bruises. During the time with Jeb, mostly on her face.”

  Well, I’ll be damned. Who knew all those times Mother accidentally got whacked in the face by that damned closet door would come back to bite Momma in the ass? I reckon she was right to yell at me so much about it, after all.

  Of course, I was counting on the jury figuring Jeb had beaten Mother like a no-count fool—because, according to my true crime books, juries always want a motive for murder, even if the prosecution’s not technically required to prove one. But I didn’t expect Mother’s lawyer to jumble everything up and use the motive as an excuse. If brains were leather, that lawyer couldn’t saddle a flea.

  After what seems like a month of Sundays, the day I’ve been simultaneously dreading and waiting for finally arrives.

  “The Defense calls Charlene McEntire to the stand.”

  You could hear a pin drop in the courtroom.

  Mrs. Clements from the group home squeezes my hand and quickly releases it. I rise from my seat in the court gallery and make my way, shakily, to the witness stand, my pulse pounding in my ears.

  Chapter 12

  16 Years Old

  1,5
83 Days Before Killing Kurtis

  “Charlene Ann... McEntire,” I say into the microphone when Mother’s adolescent attorney asks me to state my full name. Dang it, I hate saying anything other than Charlene Wilber, but I reckon I’ve got no choice in the matter.

  I inhale and exhale deeply, trying to calm my jangling nerves. I glance over at the jury. Every single one of them is sitting on the edge of their seat, their eyes fixed on me.

  “Can you tell us what happened on the evening of October tenth?”

  I nod, but then, yet again, need to take a few deep breaths in and out before speaking. “Well, I... I was reading a book over on the big rocks in our trailer park, like I always do—well, like I always used to do.” I look down at my hands for a moment. Life sure can surprise you. All those years living alone with Momma in the trailer, I thought I had it so bad, and now, all of a sudden, with the way things have been for me lately, I suddenly miss those days something awful.

  “Charlene?” Baby Lawyer prompts me. “Can you tell us what happened next?”

  “Yes, sir. Well, after a while,” I continue, “I started to get hungry, so I decided to go back home to our trailer...”

  “And what happened next?” Mother’s baby-lawyer asks me.

  “I... I came inside the trailer... and I saw Jeb lying on the ground. He was, you know, on the ground, shaking and thrashing around.” I don’t use the word “convulsing” because I reckon the phrase “shaking and thrashing around” sounds more natural.

  “And what else did you notice?”

  “There was a cake on the table, a half-eaten cake.” A picture of Jeb smiling just before he bit into that cake pops into my mind and I begin to cry.

  The judge hands me a box of tissues. “Do you need to take a break, dear?”

  I nod, and squeak out, “Yes, please, ma’am—if y’all don’t mind.”

  I sit with Mrs. Clements on a wooden bench in the hallway. Mrs. Clements puts her arm around my shoulder and I lean into her and let her stroke my hair. She’s saying something or other to me, trying to soothe me, but I’m not listening. I’m lost in my thoughts.

  It wasn’t hard to get Mother back on the sauce. All I had to do was head down to the 7-Eleven with Jeb’s emergency-cash in my pocket, and the very first drunkard I encountered in front of the store was more than willing to buy me a big bottle of whiskey, just as long as I gave him double the money so he could buy his own bottle, too. It was just that simple.

  Despite Mother’s thirty days of sobriety and her newly discovered lease on life, Mother just couldn’t resist that damned bottle sitting on the counter calling her name. “Just one sip,” I heard Mother whisper to herself, just before she dove headfirst into the bottle. By the time Jeb came home to my welcome-home cake on the table, Mother was practically drowning in whiskey in the back room, blitzed out of her mind and pissing her pants—as worthless as a steering wheel on a mule.

  “You ready to resume?” the judge asks when I’m back on the witness stand.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer.

  Mother’s dumbass attorney looks down at his notepad for a minute before asking his next question. “When you entered the trailer, what else did you notice besides Mr. Watson on the ground?”

  “Well, um, I saw a half-eaten cake, and Jeb had all sorts of gross stuff coming out his mouth and down his shirt.” I wipe at my eyes with a tissue. I don’t like remembering how Jeb looked right after he ate that rat-poison cake. I’ve only just stopped having nightmares about that horrible twisted look on his face and I don’t like reminding myself about it.

  “Anything else?”

  I look pointedly at Mother, like I’m afraid she’ll be mad at me if I say anything more. I reckon it’s probably best to let the prosecutor pull this part out of me on cross-examination. I shake my head. “No, sir.”

  Baby Lawyer moves on. “Did you ever see Jeb Watson physically hit your mother?”

  I look again at Mother. She’s glaring at me like I’m the devil herself. I look at the judge, my eyes wide. “Do I have to answer these questions, ma’am?”

  “Yes, you do. And, remember, you’re under oath.”

  I nod at the judge. “Yes, ma’am.” I turn back to Boy Genius. “Yes,” I whisper into the microphone. “Many times.” Again, I start to cry. It’s not hard to do. Saying a mean-spirited lie about poor Jeb is harder than I thought it’d be. But I’m taking comfort in the compassionate expressions on the jurors’ faces. Each one of them wants to leap out of their chairs to hug me. It feels like flying with a jetpack to hold an audience in the palm of my hand like this.

  “Did Jeb hit your mother on October tenth?”

  “I don’t know—I was outside reading my book on the big rock. I only know what my mother told me after I came into the trailer.”

  Baby Lawyer shifts his weight uncomfortably. Apparently, he’s not sure what I’m going to say here. Should he ask the question or shouldn’t he? Oh my, that boy couldn’t find his butt with a flashlight in each hand. “What did your mother say to you then?” Boy Genius finally asks, barreling ahead with a blindfold on. I reckon he’s decided a daughter wouldn’t ever say anything to send her momma up the river.

  “Hearsay,” the prosecutor objects.

  “Your honor, it goes to the defendant’s state of mind,” Baby Lawyer says.

  “I’ll allow it,” the judge says matter-of-factly. She turns to me. “Go ahead and answer the question.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answer. I clear my throat. “Well, when I came into the trailer, Jeb was on the ground, like I said, and Mother was standing there in the kitchenette, and she had a big ol’ bruise on her face, on her cheek...”

  I close my eyes, remembering how, that morning, Mother looked like she’d fallen facedown in a cactus grove (and then got trampled by a herd of cattle), thanks to an unfortunate closet door left open the night before. I reckon a certain set of dumbbells placed strategically on the floor didn’t help poor, drunk Momma avoid that dang closet door in the dark, either.

  “What did your mother say to you then?” Boy Genius asks.

  I look at the judge, as if I’m hoping she’ll excuse me from answering this particular question.

  “Answer the question,” the judge instructs me.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I clear my throat. “She looked right at me and she said...” Tears have started squirting out of my eyes and I wipe them with a tissue. I shift in my seat and steal a glance at the jury. They’re enraptured. “She said...” I pause again. I can feel their attention on me and it makes my skin sizzle and pop, even as my stomach twists and somersaults at the whopper of a lie I’m about to tell. “She said, ‘That motherfucker just hit me for the very last time.’”

  The courtroom collectively gasps.

  The prosecutor smirks, like she wasn’t expecting that answer at all, but she’s damned glad to hear it.

  Mother, who’d been looking down at the table during my testimony, suddenly snaps her head up and looks me right in the eye. For just a split-second, the thought crosses my mind that she’s about to leap up, point her finger at me, and holler, “It was Charlene!” and my stomach clenches. But then, when I see the look in Mother’s eyes, like the life is draining out of her as surely as it whooshed out of poor Jeb, I know Mother’s not going to do any such thing.

  I feel a pang right now, a horrible pang in my chest, to tell you the truth. I didn’t expect to feel quite this bad about this whole situation.

  Before this very minute, I reckon Mother held out the slightest doubt about the truth. She’d probably created all sorts of cockamamie scenarios in her mind to explain how Mr. Oglethorpe’s box of rat poison made its way into a cake and then into Jeb’s mouth. But now, Momma knows the truth—she knows what I did to poor Jeb—and I suddenly realize I can’t stand her knowing.

  Tears begin filling Mother’s horror-stricken eyes as water simultaneously starts gushing out of mine, too, and then Mother hangs her head down low and begins weeping like she’s
standing at my grave—or, more to the point, I reckon, her own.

  Baby Lawyer sputters and stutters, clearly at a loss about what to do with this newest bit of information. Have I helped his client or hurt her? He clears his throat and looks around at the jury, at me, at the judge—and by the time he looks back at Mother sitting behind him, she’s already got her head down on the table, her shoulders shuddering with violent sobs.

  From my perch on the witness stand, I glance at the top of Mother’s head, her face buried in her arms, praying she’ll look back up at me. I need her to look at me, dang it, so that my eyes can tell her I had no choice. I was only doing what Daddy would have demanded—I was only doing what I had to do. But Momma doesn’t even glance back up. She just keeps sobbing on the table, her face covered by her arms. I keep on staring at Mother’s head, anyway, silently begging her to look at me. I can feel my insides twisting and curling and straining, aching for her to understand. I had no choice. But Mother still won’t look at me.

  I’ve got a storm raging inside me. I only did what had to be done. Daddy was coming back any day, I was sure of it, and God only knows what he would have done if he discovered Jeb taking over his family and making Mother into Suzy Bright Eyes and me into his daughter. He told me he loved me like his daughter! He said he was gonna send me to school! And, worst of all, he made my heart ache and pang for him when he left, almost as much as it did when Daddy left so long ago.

  And, anyway, it was only a matter of time before Jeb was gonna leave us. Why doesn’t Momma understand that part? Jeb wasn’t gonna stick around forever, no matter what he said. No matter how much we might have enjoyed having him around.

  I can’t stop the tears from squirting out my eyes and gushing down my face.

  The judge says something about a five-minute recess, but I don’t leave my chair. I keep staring at the top of Momma’s head through my tears, waiting for my chance. Momma’s attorney grabs her by the arm and pulls her to standing like she’s a rag doll.