by Julie Frayn
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 wor
d. “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.”
His gaze was a laser focused on each juror in turn. He’d burn the truth into them. He wouldn’t let Mazie take the stand to testify. He’d let her journal and the pictures testify for her.
“This is a case of provocation. A moment of passion. Of justifiable homicide. I ask you to open your minds to what Mazie has endured. What would you do to escape? What would you do to save your own daughter from the same fate?” He nodded and made eye contact with each juror. “The same thing, I’d bet.”
Her life was under a microscope, being examined by a courtroom full of strangers. They dissected her motives for staying silent, for hiding her truth. Not of the murder, but of the abuse. Why she didn’t confide in one living soul all those years.
How could she? He’d have killed her. Was that so hard to understand?
She sat through it all, a spectator in the audience at the blockbuster hit that was her life. The prosecution had shared the confession she’d left on Cullen’s body. Norman shared her journal. He showed the pictures she’d taken of the bruises, the hand prints, the physical damage, each snapshot imprisoned in plastic, each still stained with her fingerprints in his blood, all projected on a large screen at the front of the courtroom and on private screens in the jury box. The look on their faces when they witnessed those photos foretold her potential fate. Recoil. Disgust. Alarm. And maybe, just maybe, a tinge of understanding and sympathy.
Norman saved the most damning of those shots for last. The series of raw handprints on her choked neck. The black eyes. The broken wrist. He read from her journal — dates, times, events. He made them see that it wasn’t a typical diary, not full of hopes and dreams, emotions and plans for the future. Just the facts, ma’am. The brutal realities of a life played out on autopilot. Of a woman who tried to survive each day without dying at the hands of the man who’d purported to love her and keep her from harm.
Rachel and George each took the stand and told of what they’d witnessed, of years of Cullen yelling, of thuds they knew were his fists on walls, or Mazie’s body being thrown down the stairs. How they’d known what was going on but could not prove a damn thing. Until the day the cops and ambulance arrived. It confirmed their suspicions, but they were still powerless to save Mazie.
She wouldn’t let them.
~~~~~~~~
“Doctor Scott, why would a woman who is being abused by her spouse, who is being beaten on a regular basis … why would she stay with him?”
The woman on the stand sat tall and straight, her black, fitted business suit punctuated by a crimson scarf tied snugly around her neck. “Mr. Day, women who suffer from long-term abuse experience isolation, shame, humiliation.”
“But can’t she still leave?”
“It is often very difficult. Many abused women are not employed outside the home. They don’t own property, often have no access to cash or bank accounts. They fear being a single parent without the means to support their child. And in most abusive relationships, there are periods of calm. Times when the abuser is contrite and makes up for their bad behaviour with gifts and kindness that lull the victim into thinking that there is hope. And there is always the fear that if they do leave, their abuser will stalk them, come after them, maybe kill them or harm their children.”
“And are those fears reasonable?”
“Definitely. About twelve percent of all violent crime in Canada is domestic. And that is only what is reported. As has been made clear in this trial, much of it goes unreported. Most shelters for victims of domestic violence are full and turn women and children away daily. In eighty-five percent of spousal homicides, the victims are women. One woman is killed by her spouse or partner every six days. That is just in Canada.”
“Thank you, Doctor Scott.” Norman sat down.
“Cross?”
The prosecutor stood. “Doctor Scott, do all abuse victims kill their abusers?”
“No, of course not.” The doctor tugged on her scarf and let it fall to her lap. A white scar snaked horizontally from under her left ear, across her neck, and disappeared under her blouse. “But I do understand why it happens.”
Mazie touched her neck and swallowed against the lump in her throat. She eyed the jury. Three of the women were in tears, and one of the younger men had one hand clasped over his mouth.
~~~~~~~~
“Your honour,” Norman gripped the sides of the podium with both h
ands, “I call Miss Ariel Reynolds to the stand.”
The entire room filled with the shuffle of butts squirming in chairs and swishing of necks in collars, craning for a look. The gallery murmured and pointed at Mazie’s beautiful little girl, now a full-fledged woman with her mother’s hair and her mother’s eyes and her mother’s breasts. Ariel strode to the stand, held up her hand and swore to God to tell the whole truth. Her truth. The only truth that mattered.
Norman straightened his robe. He smiled at Ariel and gave a slight nod. “Ariel, can you please tell me about the time the police came to your house?”
Ariel nodded and bit her lip.
They’d practiced this moment, she and Norman. Mazie imagined his gentle manner easing her daughter’s nerves. Making sure she told only the facts as she remembered them, no embellishments, no fibs. Just the honest truth, so help her God.
Mazie held her breath and clenched her stomach to ease the lurching in her gut. No version of her life that she’d ever dreamed or imagined included her daughter testifying in her murder trial.
“My father was angry that I got a low grade in math. Mom defended me. All my other grades were good. He sent me to my room. I could hear him yelling at her.”
Mazie exhaled and closed her eyes against building tears. The tremble in Ariel’s voice broke her heart.
“Just him?”
“Yes. Mom didn’t yell. Then there were loud thuds. I knew he was punching her. He kept screaming how he hated her and she was a,” she turned to the judge, “pardon me, a stupid fucking bitch. I couldn’t hear Mom anymore. I knew he’d hurt her before, I could see the bruises, see how she was with him, always so quiet, always doing everything he wanted. Even though it was never good enough.” She shifted in her seat. “So I called nine-one-one.”
