Solomon spoke before Mrs. Crosby could answer. “Your Honor, the defense is willing to concede that the witness observed Evelyn Shepherd on numerous occasions in the hopes that it will expedite the process and allow the prosecution to attempt to present some substantive evidence.”
“Noted, Mr. Solomon. Mr. Grainger,” Judge Ackerley said, “let’s move along, shall we?” The judge’s face remained impassive. Hunter had always felt Judge Ackerley could see right through her.
Judge Ackerley seemed able to see through everything.
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Although the words were carefully chosen, Hunter detected the strain in Grainger’s voice. A cautious glance at her own attorney told her nothing. His gaze was downward, his eyes focused on the noted in front of him.
Grainger reached for the glass of water in front of him as he skimmed his notes, flipped a page, took a drink, set the glass down, made a note with his pen and reshuffled his papers.
Solomon had thrown him off his rhythm.
“Mrs. Crosby, as Evelyn Shepherd’s English teacher, would it be fair to say you’ve read a number of assignments she’s written?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Crosby nudged her glasses up on her nose, but she was as emotionless as she had been when she first took the stand.
“And is this,” Grainger stood up, a sheaf of papers in his hand, “one of those assignments?”
He walked over to the witness stand and handed Mrs. Crosby the document. As Grainger stepped back, Hunter noted he was wearing one of his best suits, the black pinstripe. It suited his trim body and offset his youthful appearance, definitely making him look a few years older and more mature.
Mrs. Crosby glanced through the papers and nodded. “Yes. My notes are on the pages, and her grading sheet is attached to the back.”
“Evelyn Shepherd completed this piece of writing for one of your classes? Can you tell the court what the assignment was?”
“It was part of an ongoing memoir project. Students were to write about something from their childhood.”
“They were to make something up?”
“No, Mr. Grainger. The contents were to be true. Students could take some liberties with interpretation of the events, but they were to write about things that actually happened.”
“I see. So this is an actual account of events from Evelyn Shepherd’s childhood?”
“Yes.”
“Can you read the assignment for the court, Mrs. Crosby?”
The teacher opened her mouth, but the voice the court heard was from Hunter’s attorney.
“Your Honor, I must object. What is the relevance of this school assignment?”
“Your Honor, surely Evelyn Shepherd’s state of mind is relevant for the purposes of these proceedings.”
“But Your Honor, the prosecution has established the writing is about childhood events from years ago. What bearing does that have on Evelyn Shepherd’s state of mind on the day of the shooting, which is the focus of this trial?”
“Your Honor, Evelyn Shepherd is not here today to testify herself. We must use the means available to us to show this court what may have contributed to the events October 11. It would be prejudicial for the jury to view her only as a troubled teenager, and it would bias the outcome of these proceedings.”
“Your Honor-” Solomon said.
Judge Ackerley raised her hand. “I’m going to allow some latitude, Mr. Grainger, but do not abuse my leniency.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.” Grainger strode to his desk and sat down. "Mrs. Crosby, what were your impressions of Evelyn's writing?"
“Evelyn had an interesting writing style, more mature than most of her classmates.”
“Isn't the assignment written in third person?”
“Yes.”
“What does that tell you about her?”
“Again, it made her stand out from her peers. Most could only approach the assignment writing in the first person. By writing in third person it’s almost as though Evelyn stepped outside herself and presented her own actions as if she was viewing them.”
“Did you consider that there might be a psychological issue that caused her to do that?”
Solomon rose to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. The prosecution has not established that the witness is qualified to make a psychological determination based off these writings, or anything else.”
“Your Honor-” Grainger began.
“Sustained. Mr. Grainger, I have been clear about the terms of my leniency.”
Grainger cleared his throat.
Hunter wondered if this ruling was good for her or not, and scribbled her own question on the notepaper in front of her. If we could say she was unstable back then, wouldn’t that create reasonable doubt?
Solomon glanced at her question, held up a finger, and didn’t answer as Grainger asked Mrs. Crosby to read the assignment to the court..
For the first time since taking the stand, some of the color seeped out of Mrs. Crosby’s face and she cast a quick glance at Hunter before she reached for her own glass of water.
Solomon tipped his legal pad at Hunter. Have you seen this? The question was scrawled across the top of the page.
She gave a slight shake of her head as Mrs. Crosby cleared her throat and began to read.
***
Vinny’s family drove home in silence.
It wasn’t one of those nice quiets, though. It was the kind of quiet where you dreaded the end of it, because you knew there would be yelling and tears.
She hated going to these parties. Whenever her mother started talking about how Vinny was going to see all her friends – and started listing off their names – Vinny’s stomach would twist in knots. These weren’t her friends. They weren’t even nice kids.
She’d tried to tell her, once, but her mother refused to listen. And the more Vinny argued, the angrier her mother got. “They all tell their mothers how much they like playing with you, Evelyn. You don’t even try to be nice to them, so you should be happy they like you.”
Vinny guessed these events were supposed to be fun for her parents. Otherwise, why go? Why spend all the time shopping for stupid new dresses and primping Vinny’s hair and polishing shoes if you aren’t going to have a good time?
Maybe her mother just had fun making her dress up. No, it couldn’t be that. Her mother complained too much to enjoy that. She wasn’t sure why her mother did all that fussing if she didn’t like doing it.
But then it seemed to Vinny that adults spent a lot of time doing things they didn’t like. Whenever she complained about something she had to do her mother would say that when Vinny was an adult she could do whatever she wanted, but Vinny didn’t believe her. Grandma was always telling Mother what to do. It seemed to Vinny that the only way to escape was to move far, far away and not have a telephone so her mother couldn’t bug her.
Vinny rested her cheek against the window. They’d left East Gwilimbury but they were still on the big road, the highway. That meant they weren’t close to home.
She wasn’t even sure where they’d been. There were a lot of adults there, obviously, and then the kids, who’d been left to play with a few teenagers watching them. That was the second-worst thing about going to these parties. First she had to endure hours of being fussed over by her mother to look nice. Then she got dumped with all the kids. That part wasn’t the problem. The problem was all their parents let them wear normal clothes, but there was Vinny, in a poofy, frilly, stupid dress with shoes that pinched her toes and her hair tied up in a bow. It was bad enough that she was always wriggling and itching; what was unbearable was having the other kids laugh at her.
These were kids she only saw at these events. She guessed it had something to do with her dad’s job, because all of them had a parent who was a police officer too.
The teasing had started early.
“Look at the little princess.”
“She looks like a ballerina.”
“She’s not a ballerina. Look
how she stomps her feet.”
“She looks like a bowl of icing, with all that pink and white.”
Vinny was standing at the snack table, cheeks burning. She picked up a cupcake and turned as a boy walked up to her.
“I didn’t know this was supposed to be a costume party,” he said. The boy, whose name was Dylan, was surrounded by his friends – Doug, Paul and Connor. They were two years older than her, and always bugging her.
Paul had curly red hair and freckles to match. He reminded Vinny of a clown. Connor looked normal, with short brown hair. Doug looked like Barney Rubble. His body seemed to have decided to grow wide instead of tall.
They all followed Dylan. He was a big boy, with thick arms and braces. Vinny didn’t like Metal Mouth.
She raised her hand and stuffed the cupcake up his nose.
His friends all laughed, which wasn’t a good thing. They were in the basement of some building, with a large kitchen at one end and a big, open room they were supposed to stay in. There were a couple smaller rooms, and they weren’t supposed to go in them, but of course they did. The last time Vinny had been there they’d gone exploring, and found a bathroom off the kitchen with a bathtub.
Dylan and his friends dragged Vinny to the kitchen. It was at the far end from where the teenagers were sitting, and they weren’t paying attention. They never paid attention. Dylan cleaned the icing from his nose while the three boys held her.
“What are we going to do with her?” the boy holding her right arm, Connor, asked.
“Are you sure it is a her?” the one holding her left arm, Doug, said.
“Whaddya mean?” Paul’s voice, but he wasn’t holding on to her. Vinny couldn’t see him.
Dylan grinned. “Well, its name is Vinny. So maybe it’s a boy.”
“What’s with the frilly dress then?” Paul asked.
Dylan shrugged. “Maybe its parents can’t decide.”
“Or maybe he likes dressing up like a girl,” Doug said.
They all laughed and said, “Ew” and made jokes about that. Something about the way they were talking made her feel really icky.
Vinny remembered once when a boy had called another kid a transvestite at school. Her teacher had said he shouldn’t use those words if he didn’t know what they meant.
He’d said he did know, and then explained it. It was when a boy liked dressing like a girl and acting like a girl, or when a girl liked dressing like a boy and acting like a boy. She knew the boy was right because of the look on the teacher’s face.
The teacher didn’t think he should know what that word meant. It didn’t seem like such a big deal to Vinny, but when she’d gone home she’d asked her mother if she was a transvestite because she liked wearing jeans, and that had been a big mistake.
Her mother had made her tell where she heard the word. Then Mother had called the teacher at school, and spoken to the principal. Her mother had told her to go play in her room before she’d made the phone call. Vinny only heard because she was listening at her door. Mother had said she thought the word was inappropriate and that this wasn’t what her seven-year-old daughter should be learning in class.
Whatever the principal had said must have annoyed Mother, because she’d gotten that tone in her voice, the one that made it clear she was angry, and said, “Well, it’s your responsibility to monitor the children, not let them run around like wild animals and say and do whatever they want. Perhaps I should stop by the school and take it up with the boy’s mother.”
All she really knew was that something about the word and her mother’s reaction to it made her feel like she was bad, like she’d been caught doing something naughty.
The way Dylan and his friends were teasing her made her cheeks burn and she wanted to run and hide, but she couldn’t explain why.
“What do you think? Is it a boy or is it a girl?” Paul asked.
“I know how we can find out.”
Dylan took a step toward Vinny. She didn’t like the look on his face. He had a mean smile. When he took another step she kicked him between the legs.
He yelped, grabbed his crotch and moaned for a moment. Then he said, “That little bitch.”
The next thing she knew there were hands around her ankles, from behind. She tried to pull her legs and arms free, but she couldn’t.
She still didn’t like the look on Dylan’s face, although it was different. It wasn’t a mean smile, it was just mean.
“I’m a girl, you big dummy. Vinny is just a nickname for Evelyn.”
“Yeah? We’ll see.”
The boys holding her arms yanked up her skirt and Dylan pulled her stockings and underwear down. Vinny couldn’t help it; she started to cry.
“Whines like a girl,” Doug said. They all laughed.
“Maybe we should really give her something to cry about,” Paul said.
Vinny didn’t know what he meant by that until she felt him touch her, in her private place between her legs.
“S-s-stop it.” She choked the words out. She didn’t like what Paul was doing, and it was bad. Her mother said girls who let boys touch them in their private place were very bad girls.
“You heard her, Paul. She doesn’t like it.”
Paul stopped grabbing at her with his fingers as Dylan stepped forward and laughed. He had a mean look in his eye. He poked into her with his fingers.
Vinny swung her legs back wildly, putting all her weight on her arms. Paul had let go of at least one ankle. It still wasn’t easy to kick. Her underwear and stockings were wrapped around her feet, but she tried anyway. Doug and Connor fought to hold on to her.
“Stupid freckle-faced freak!” she yelled. Her foot connected with something, and she heard Paul start to cry as someone clamped a hand over her mouth so she couldn’t yell any more.
“Take her to the bathroom.”
They all seemed to like that idea, because they tightened their grip on her and said, “Yeah,” and “Come on.” Vinny kicked and pulled as hard as she could, but her arms were getting sore.
“Now we’re going to teach you a lesson,” Dylan said.
The next thing Vinny knew she was in the bathtub, and they’d turned on the shower. They’d had to let go of her mouth to put her in, and this time she screamed.
They realized their mistake too late and tried to cover her mouth again, but she was wet and it made it harder for them to hold on to her. The sound of shoes clomping on the tile floor got closer and then she heard a voice.
“Stop right now!”
Vinny didn’t really notice what happened to the boys. She stood there, water dripping off her, the frilly dress clinging to her body and cried.
The teenagers wrapped her in a towel, stuck a book in her hands, and made her sit by them on a hard bench.
She could see three of the boys across the room, pestering other kids now. They didn’t even look at her. And when their parents came and asked how they’d been the babysitters said, “Good.” One by one she watched them leave. Dylan gave her a mean, metal-mouthed grin. Connor laughed at her. Doug mouthed words that looked like, “Next time.”
Paul was the only one who didn’t smile. He glared at her, still holding a pack of ice against his forehead.
“Bumped himself playing a game,” the babysitter explained to his parents. Paul mumbled something about being more careful next time and stared at the floor as he followed them out.
All of this was confusing for Vinny. The teenagers were lying to the parents about what had happened. The boys hadn’t gotten in trouble at all.
Which meant it must be Vinny’s fault. Somebody was always the bad kid. If it wasn’t the boys it had to be her.
She didn’t feel bad, exactly. She felt guilty. Vinny knew that what happened in the kitchen shouldn’t have happened. She hadn’t wanted it to happen… But it was still her fault. The babysitters were saying so when they told the boys’ parents they’d all been good.
Her mother was going to be so angry. That was nothi
ng new, though.
But Daddy would be upset with her.
He arrived first. Vinny saw him right away, when he stepped inside the room. He was looking at the groups of kids still waiting to be picked up.
Then he turned his head and saw her on the bench. Vinny looked down at her flattened dress and felt hot tears in her eyes.
“What the hell happened?”
Vinny didn’t need to look up to know her mother had arrived. She could hear the teenagers talking, and her mother talking back, and wasn’t really sure what they were saying. Vinny didn’t want to know, but when she looked up she heard the babysitter say, “They got a little carried away with a game and put her in the shower. You know how boys are.”
Daddy came over to her and held out her coat. “Come on, Vinny. Let’s get you home.”
She looked up at him. The tallest man in the world, who could lift her on his shoulders with ease, who’d play catch with her and when she got dirt on her jeans would wipe it off and say, “Shhh. Don’t tell your mother.”
He wasn’t looking at her. His face was very serious, but not exactly angry. He seemed sad and mad… and maybe ashamed. Was he that upset with her?
Vinny stood up slowly, set the book and towel down on the bench and wriggled her arms into her coat. Instead of reaching for her hand her dad put his hand on her shoulder and steered her toward the door.
Her mother had her arms folded and was staring down at Vinny with a look on her face that Vinny was pretty familiar with. It was the look of disappointment her mother gave her every day. Probably more like every hour. Or at least, every hour when Vinny was at home.
Vinny snuck another peek at her dad, but he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking at her mother, either, but he still had that look on his face.
They’d walked to the car without talking, and now they were still on the highway. Vinny knew it was going to be really bad when they got home. Her mother never sat quietly in the car this long when Vinny was bad. She always started telling Vinny how upset she was, and telling Vinny’s dad how his daughter had embarrassed her, how Vinny didn’t even have basic common sense and just did whatever the other kids told her to do. She didn’t think for herself.
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