Mazie Baby
Page 24
“And what happened?”
“When the police came I went downstairs.” She wiped her cheek. “Mom was lying on the floor, blood all over her face and on her shirt. She was unconscious. Dad was in handcuffs, his hands all bloody. There was even blood on his face, like it was spit on or something.”
“Did you go to the hospital with your mother?”
“Yes. She was a mess, broken ribs and her face all bruised and cut.”
“According to the police, his conditions of release included staying away from you and your mother until after his court appearance. When did your father come home?”
“The day after they released him. Mom told him he couldn’t. That he’d be arrested. But he apologized. He cried. Next time he came he brought presents. After a little while, she gave in and he moved back home.”
“Why do you think she let him come home again?”
“Probably because he would have killed her otherwise.”
The prosecutor stood.
“Do you have an objection?” the judge asked.
“Yes, your honour. Calls for speculation.”
“Sustained. Miss Reynolds, only answer what you know, not what you think might be.”
“Yes ma’am.”
The women on the jury and two of the men looked shaken. The implication was obvious — Ariel’s father was an abuser and a manipulator who had no respect for the law, for his wife. For his daughter.
“Now, Ariel,” Norman swept his gaze across the jury. “Did your father ever hurt you?”
The courtroom went silent.
“Yes.”
“And what did he do?”
Ariel ran her hands over her skirt. Mazie could see them trembling from her seat in the prisoner’s dock.
“He was mad because I didn’t go to bed the second I was told, I wanted to finish watching my show. There was only a few minutes left. He grabbed my arms, left bruises on them in the shape of his hands.”
“And what did your mother do?”
She looked at Mazie. “She stepped in between us, got me upstairs.” She smiled. “She saved me from him.”
Mazie smiled at her daughter.
“And then what happened?”
Ariel looked at the jury. “He backhanded her across her face.” She looked at her lap. “He turned to me and I ran upstairs. I left her there with him.” She wiped a tear from her cheek and looked at the jury. “I could see him punch her in the stomach from the landing.” Several of the jurors looked aghast. “But she came and tucked me in anyway. That’s the kind of mother she is.”
“Ariel, did you feel safe in your home?”
“Sometimes. When he was nice. But no, not normally.” She wiped her nose. “I never knew when he’d explode. It happened more and more often. And for the littlest things.” She looked at her lap. “Mom didn’t know how much I’d seen. Not until after.”
Mazie shut her eyes and hung her head.
“Thank you, Ariel.” Norman turned to the judge. “Nothing further, your honour.”
The prosecutor stood at the podium, sifted through some papers.
“Now, Miss Reynolds. I only have a couple of questions for you.”
Ariel nodded.
“Did you love your father?”
Ariel hesitated. “Yes.”
“Are you sad that he’s gone?”
She scanned the room. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know how you feel?”
“It’s complicated. I miss how he was when he wasn’t drunk. When he wasn’t mean. When he didn’t hit me or hurt my mother.” Tears streamed down her face. “I don’t miss the rest. And that’s who he really was, isn’t it? The awful, drunk, angry, abusive bastard.” Ariel wiped her nose with a Kleenex that she had balled up in her fist.
The prosecutor checked his notes. “Miss Reynolds, did your mother kill your father?”
Ariel squared her shoulders. “Yes,” she said, her voice a near-whisper.
“And when you learned of this, were you afraid?”
She glanced at Mazie. “Yes.”
“You were afraid of your mother.”
Ariel’s face contorted. “Of course not.” Her voice filled the court.
“Your Honour I have no more questions.” The prosecutor turned his back on Ariel.
She sat taller in the seat. “My mother wouldn’t hurt anyone,” she shouted. She turned to the jury, her brows furrowed. “I was afraid she’d be caught. That they’d take her away. Afraid of being alone.” Tears streaked her cheeks.
“Miss Reynolds,” the judge said. “That’s enough. Mr. Day, redirect?”
Norman stood. “Ariel, has your mother ever spanked you?”
Ariel shook her head. “Never.”
“Ever harmed you in any way?”
She sat taller. “Never.”
“Thank you, Ariel.”
The judge nodded. “You may step down, Miss Reynolds. Thank you for your testimony.”
“I love you, Mom,” Ariel called out across the courtroom.
Mazie burst into tears. “I love you too,” she said through choked sobs.
~~~~~~~~
Each piece of testimony about Cullen’s good nature was a punch in Mazie’s gut. Each photo passed around, each diary entry read aloud, each secret of pain and humiliation she’d suffered at his hands told in that courtroom, that forum of public judgement, was another beating, another broken rib, another sink-side rape.
For two interminable weeks she sat on display in that box, her life laid bare. She got to know the jury well, but not in the ‘hi, how are ya’ kind of way. She studied their faces, their reactions to the evidence, to the witnesses. To the truth. The gruff man who left the courtroom each night and probably went home to beat on his own wife. He’d vote guilty. The three women who looked at her like she was a bloody idiot for not leaving sooner. They’d never have stayed, never allowed any man to beat, demean, control them. She’d get no pity from them.
It was the others she was counting on. The ones who cried when they saw the Polaroids, bloody fingerprints and all. The ones who looked at her with such sympathy. Nodded at her and wiped their snotty noses. They would convince the others of her innocence. They would be her salvation. At least, that’s what Norman said.
The morning after closing arguments, the judge read instructions to the jury before sending them off to deliberate. They had four choices. Guilty of murder in the first degree. Guilty of the murder in the second degree. Guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter. Or not guilty.
Mazie squeezed her eyes shut and rocked back and forth. Not guilty, not guilty, not guilty.
The sheriff led her from the courtroom and placed her in a holding cell. “If it goes into tomorrow, we’ll take you back to remand,” he said. The same sheriff each day. Sweet. Kind. Respectful.
“Can I have some water?”
“Of course. You hungry?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
Norman stood outside the cell. The sheriff allowed him in as he exited.
“I called Rachel. They’re standing by at her house. I’ll text them when there’s a verdict. Ariel wants to be here.”
“What do you think will happen?”
“Impossible to predict.”
Two hours passed as slowly as glacial ice melts. The sandwich and coffee the sheriff had brought sat like dead weight in her gut.
“What time is it?” Mazie couldn’t keep her knees from bouncing up and down.
Norman checked his watch. “Four minutes later than last time you asked.” He rested one hand on her knee and squeezed. “It might not happen today. Be prepared for that.”
“How long does it usually take?” She stared at his hand on her nylons, his long fingers breaching the hem of her skirt. A slight tremor in his palm exposed his collected manner for what it was — a cover. He was just as afraid as she was.
“All depends. Sometimes it’s quick. That could mean they sympathize and see your innocence.”
“Or it could mean that guilt is so obvious they don’t need to deliberate for long.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’d hope for a moderate length. A couple of days, max.”
She leaned back in her chair and emptied her lungs, pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes.
Two more days.
It may as well be a lifetime.
~~~~~~~~
Mazie sat in the box in the same damn chair she’d endured throughout the trial. The ache in her sacrum crawled up her spine and shot shards of pain across her shoulder blades. Public opinion hummed in the seats behind Norman. Strangers had already made their judgements. She was at their mercy. Control over her life was out of arms reach.
Just another normal day.
The faintest hint of strawberries floated by. She twisted in her chair and found black hair and emerald eyes. Since they’d returned to Calgary, Ariel had let her hair grow out. Quit dying it outrageous colours. Except for the fact she’d become a woman, she was back to her old self.
Ariel waved and smiled at her, mouthed ‘I love you.’
“All rise.” The court clerk’s voice echoed off the walls and brought her out of a small fantasy of her and Ariel together, shopping for a graduation dress, having coffee. Just being together.
The judge took her place and the jury filed in. Mazie made eye contact with the ones who were willing to look her direction. Most of them looked away, two of the women held her gaze. She had no idea what that meant.
“Have you reached a verdict?”
The court clerk’s words were muffled by the pounding of Mazie’s heart in her ears. The periphery blurred, and she trained her eyes on the jury.
“If so, please reply by your foreperson.”
One woman stood, glanced at Mazie and shifted her feet. “We have.”
“On the charge of first degree murder, how do you find?”
Mazie’s entire future, written on one tiny slip of paper.
He cleared his throat. “On the charge of murder in the first degree, how do you find?”
Mazie closed her eyes and held her breath.
“Not guilty.”
Her eyes flung open. The entire courtroom erupted in a buzz of voices and cries.
“But guilty of manslaughter.”
The room spun around her and her knees weakened. She fell back into her chair, both hands on the armrests to steady herself.
“No, no, no!” Ariel’s voice broke free from the din.
“Settle down, people.” The judge jerked her head at the spectators and a hush overcame the room except for the whimpering and sniffing of a broken-hearted girl.
~~~~~~~~
“I am a victim. But not the victim of the woman you have in jail. Not a victim of my mother.” Ariel focused on the single piece of lined paper in her hand.
Mazie blinked back tears and stared at the purple-inked lines of her daughter’s tidy, vertical cursive, barely visible from the prisoner’s box.
“I am the victim of my father’s anger and abuse. Even with him dead, I remain a victim. I struggle to trust. I have difficulty sleeping.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “If my mother hadn’t done what she did, she would be dead. And I’d be living with a monster who would continue to heap abuse on me.” She turned and gazed at Mazie. “With my mother in prison, I am a victim once again. An orphan, really. I need her presence in my life. Need her guidance and her love.” She scrunched the paper into a ball and looked up at the judge. “Your honour, I am pleading for her life. Pleading for mercy. She isn’t a monster. She’d never harm me or anyone else. She acted in self-defence and in my defence and I love her for it. I thank her for it.” She bowed her head. “Thank you,” she whispered, and stepped away from the podium.
The public seats were almost empty, the circus that had witnessed Mazie’s trial had pulled up stakes and moved on. Two months waiting for sentencing, waiting to hear her fate, had gone a long way to cool the attention. Newer cases had arisen. Worse offenders took centre stage. They could have it. She wanted to slip into anonymity and live out her life in whatever manner the judge foisted upon her.
The judge looked out at the court. “After careful consideration of submissions made, evidence presented, and Miss Reynolds’ statement, I have made a decision regarding sentencing.” The judge eyed Mazie over green reading glasses.
The hair on her neck bristled.
“Manslaughter is a serious offence. I believe that you had not planned to kill your husband, and that the jury made the right decision. But it is impossible to ignore the fact that you did plan to harm him.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, I know that he hurt you. Consistently. Horribly. For years on end. For that I wish the Crown had been given an opportunity to try and convict him. But we will never have that opportunity. The justice system cannot punish a dead offender.
“Despite your victimization at his hands, you went too far, and so the charge of manslaughter is appropriate. Having said that, I don’t believe it is in the best interests of any party to this affair to lock you up for any extended period. I don’t believe you pose any threat to the general public.” The judge referred to her papers, stripped off her glasses, and tossed them on the bench. “Mazie Louise Reynolds, please stand.”
A blur of scattered voices buzzed in Mazie’s ears, half-muted by her heart, pounding and thumping like so many limbs tumbling down the stairs. She gripped the edge of the prisoner’s dock and stood.
“You are hereby sentenced to time served. You will remain on probation for a period of three years from today’s date.”
Mazie stared at the judge. Three years. She could do that. Probation. Wait, what?
She found Norman’s face, alight with a toothy smile. He looked like he might vault the pony wall between them. Behind him, Ariel’s eyes were squeezed shut and her shoulders shook.
“Mrs. Reynolds, do you understand this sentence?”
Mazie faced the judge. “Yes, your honour.” No, not really.
“Sheriff, please remove Mrs. Reynolds’ shackles.”
The sheriff opened the door of the prisoner’s dock and unlocked her handcuffs. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Way to go, Mazie,” he said under his breath as he guided her free of the box.
She was free? Why wouldn’t her feet move?
“Mazie?”
She turned to find the judge smiling.
“You’re free to go.”
Norman pushed through the gate that separated the public from the court officials, took Ariel by the hand and jogged to Mazie. Ariel fell into her mother’s arms.
Mazie’s head spun with the smell of strawberries and the feel of Ariel’s sweet tears soaking into her blouse.
“Mazie?” Norman put one arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. “Come on, baby. Let’s get out of here.”
Mazie closed her eyes to find Cullen looming behind the lids. She opened them to Norman’s kind, smiling face. Her new reality. She touched his cheek. “I love you,” she whispered. “But don’t ever call me baby.”
**END**
Thank you for taking the time to read Mazie Baby. If you enjoyed it, please consider telling your friends or posting a short review. Word of mouth is an author’s best advertising tool.
Acknowledgements
Nothing I do is possible without the love and support of my children. Thank you, Brynn and Charlie, for being so wonderful, so funny, so sarcastic. And for cooking me dinner and bringing me beer when I am locked in my writing cave (a.k.a, a dark corner of my bedroom).
A million thanks to my dear systir, Carolyn Frayn, for the gorgeous and very personal cover for Mazie Baby. She found the strength to create beauty while enduring the pain of chemotherapy, and used my own baby girl, Brynn, as a model for Mazie. This will always be my favourite cover. ♥
Many thanks to my brother, John Frayn, for his insights to all things police-related and for reading an advance copy. To Britta Kristensen,
Crown Prosecutor, for educating me on the nuances of murder trials and ensuring the courtroom details of this story rang true (especially since the first draft stank of my obsession with American crime drama). And thanks to Kelly Killick-Smit for introducing me to Britta! Thanks to Tracy Todd for her enviable eagle eye and enduring sweet ways, and to Shauna Cooper for her first-hand recollections of trials in Calgary.
Countless thanks to my wonderful editor, Scott Morgan, for not one, but two full edits. He makes me a better writer, and I’m glad I found him.
About the Author
Bean counter by day, novelist by night - Julie Frayn is the author of Mazie Baby, Suicide City (a Love Story) (winner of double gold medals in the Authorsdb.com 2013 cover contest), It Isn't Cheating if He's Dead (winner of the BigAl’s Books and Pals 2014 Readers’ Choice Award for women’s fiction), and A Trilogy of Unrelated Shorts (always free on Smashwords.com).
Julie's fourth novel will tell the fictionalized story of her parents’ love affair. The Orphan and the Rose will hit the virtual shelves in 2015.
Julie pens short stories and writes for her blog, www.juliefrayn.com, as mental floss between novels. She is mother to two wonderful adults, and keeps a roof over their heads by working as Chief Financial Officer for the largest living history museum in Canada.
Praise for Julie Frayn’s fiction
It Isn’t Cheating if He’s Dead:
“Jemima, struggling to understand how she lost her fiancé and trying to make sense of her life after his death, is so utterly human that she blooms off the page.” ~ Laurie Boris
“Jemima Stone, Jem for short, is one those characters I found myself caring about almost immediately. She isn’t without faults (who among us is?), but she also has a way of taking a negative and turning it positive, which is a quality we could all emulate.” ~ BigAl’s Books & Pals
Suicide City, a Love Story:
“Suicide City is gritty, unrelenting, tragic, desperate, sad, heart-warming, heart-breaking, and gut-wrenching.” ~ Sean P. Farley
“Hands down, the best ending line of any book I've read in the thirty-one years I've been a reader. Please, do not miss this exceptional novel!” ~ Amber Jerome Norrgard