The bailiff said, “The court calls Stephen Doss Michaels.”
I stood.
Judge Ferguson looked at me, chewed on his lip then spit whatever it was off the end of his tongue and out across his bench. Nervy leaned forward. “He do that sometime when he be thinkin’.”
I tried to find my voice. “Yes, sir.”
He leaned back, his chair squeaking, and rocked a minute. “Looks like they finally caught up with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Must be hard to outrun the television. What with all the helicopters.” I made no response. He tapped himself in the chest. “I, like most every other person in this country, have been following your story. CNN. Fox. All the biggies.” He paused. “Where’d they catch you?”
Good question. “At the end, sir.”
“You being smart with me?”
I shook my head. “Sir?”
He frowned. “Do you understand the charges made against you?”
“I’m sorry, sir?”
“Do you understand why you’re standing in my courtroom on a beautiful Sunday morning while six-foot swells spill gently across North Jax Beach?”
Nervy nodded, legs bouncing. “Oh, he be pissed now.”
The judge reached behind him and clicked on an oscillating fan that circulated out across the room. I suppose it was his way of fending off the smell of us. Mr. Windsor Knot–no-shoe-wet-pants had started to hiccup. He gagged once and we all heard it coming. He leaned forward, hiccuped one last time and blew last night’s party all over the judge’s floor. The judge shook his head and motioned to one of the four officers sitting in the courtroom. While the man wiped his face with his tie, something he’d done repeatedly over the last few hours, the officer led him from the courtroom.
The fan blew gently, wafted the fragrance under my nose and carried me to the court reporter. She was maybe mid-fifties, her fingers tapping almost as fast as Nervy’s legs.
I stared at the reporter, but my mind sitting on a bench in Central Park and asking, What is the name of that perfume?
Judge Ferguson pounded his gavel, and raising his voice, said, “Excuse me, Mr. Michaels. Am I keeping you from something?” He sat back, eyes narrowing. “We’ll just wait until you’re ready.”
Nervy sat back and scooted away from me. “Oh, you don’ did it. He be really pissed now.”
The cuff on my left hand was tight, and my fingers tingled. My hand felt stiff from the caked blood. The edge of the cuff was rubbing off red flakes embedded in my wrist. I opened my hand and stared at the four busted blisters. He pounded his gavel again.
“I’m sorry, sir.”
What is the name of that perfume?
He took a deep breath. “Do you understand the charges made against you?”
I shook my head. Nervy scooted a few more inches away. “Nope. Don’ do that neither. He ’spect you to speak when spoke to. When he aks, you ansuh.”
I looked at the judge. “Not…not really, sir.”
The judge raised an eyebrow and spoke mostly to himself, “What is it with me, northeasters and idiots?” He leaned forward. “Mr. Michaels, you are being charged with…” He eyed the stack of papers on his desk. “Kidnapping. Breaking and entering. Tresspassing. Larceny. Grand Larceny. Possession of a controlled substance. Resisting arrest. Assault. Battery of an officer. Illegal administration of a drug. And last but not least, first degree murder.” He tapped the desk with his index finger. “Down here, Mr. Michaels, ‘euthanasia’ is just a sophisticated name for murder. And a premeditated one at that.”
Nervy nodded and looked up and down the row of men next to us. “He good.”
I swallowed. The judge continued, “Do you understand these charges as I’ve read them to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you plead?”
“Well, I mean…”
“Mr. Michaels.” Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down the ridge of his nose. “The charges made against you are either true…or not. Yes? Can we at least agree on that?”
The fan made a ticking noise as it turned. The name of the perfume hung on the tip of my tongue.
“Son.” The judge waved at me. “Are you guilty or not guilty?”
I turned to the recorder. “Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am?” She stopped tapping long enough to look up. “What is the name of your perfume?”
The judge stood and slammed his gavel on the desk. “Mr. Michaels! I will find you in contempt of this court if you do not answer my question. Now”—his forehead was starting to glisten—“while there’s still an ocean to surf in. Guilty or not guilty?”
The tape of the last two weeks ran across the backs of my eyes. Sorrow, laughter, deep-down hurt and a touch I could not reach tumbled together. Raindrops in the river. I stared at the judge—my mind miles from his oaken courtroom. “Sir, I didn’t kill my wife. Least not intentionally.”
“There are some people in very high places who believe otherwise.” He scribbled something on the desk in front of him. “I’ll take that as ‘no contest.’”
“Sir, you can take it however you want, but—” He held out his hand, but I spoke over him, “I’d do it again.”
He shook his head and sat down. “Mr. Michaels, do you have counsel?”
“Sir?”
“Do you have an attorney?” I shook my head. “Can you afford one?”
“I don’t think so.”
He studied me. “Given your popularity over the last two weeks, I doubt you’ll have trouble finding one. And do you know that I have personally received calls from both the governor and senator this morning—neither of which like you very much.” He turned to the bailiff and was about to open his mouth when the senator stormed through the doors. “Your Honor, may I see you in chambers?” He didn’t wait for a reply but walked through the swinging wooden half-door and around the bench, where he and the judge disappeared through the judge’s office door. We waited while the whispers grew louder up and down the bench.
The judge reappeared by himself, sat, swung his gavel and said, “Set bail at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Nervy whispered beneath his breath. “He def’ny don’ like you.”
I sat down, my nose bobbing in the air.
The tape rewound. Two years. Then three. Ten. Fifteen. I walked back through the moments. Some good. Some not. All hurt. I looked around and found myself flying somewhere between Central Park, the Battery and Cedar Point.
50
THE THIRD DAY
Two days had passed. They’d moved me to the Duval County jail while I awaited trial. Because most of my “crimes” occurred on the border between Florida and Georgia, and because Florida has a death penalty and is pretty good at using it, the senator pushed for Florida to retain jurisdiction. Which it did.
Jesse was the guard assigned to cell block E. Mine. We didn’t cause him too much trouble. Sometimes, late at night, he’d slip past the cameras and he’d tell me of his wife and kids. He was about six foot two, weighed probably two-twenty, and, I think, got a job working in the penitentiary when his college football days ran out and the pro scouts didn’t come calling. He’s never told me, but my guess is that he was too slow. Beneath his muscles—of which he had many—was a man who sketched animals on cafeteria napkins. Maybe he figured I was safe.
Spend any time at all down here and you learn to differentiate people by the sound of their walk—the weight of their step, the length of their gait, the type of shoe they wear. Jesse tapped on the door with his stick, but that’s only because he’d seen it done in movies. A hand grenade wouldn’t knock that door off its hinges. He nodded to the guard behind the glass at the end of the hall, who punched a button numbered “217” and my door slid open. Jesse motioned with his stick. “Picasso, some people here to see you. Come on. You got twenty minutes.”
The senator walked in first, followed by three men in suits. Attorneys, I guessed. They set a tape recorder on the table. He spoke
without looking at me. “I’m going to ask you some questions and you’re going to answer. If you don’t, you can go to hell.”
“You really think that matters to me?”
He laid a single-page printout on the table. “That’s my daughter’s toxicology report. There was enough narcotic in Abigail Grace’s blood system to kill each man in this room. Based on that alone, I can build a prison on top of you.”
“I happen to agree with you.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“You walked in here with your mind made up. I can’t change that. You’re a pollster politician. Unlike you, Abbie never paid attention to the polls.”
“I’m suggesting they lead with the euthanasia charge.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Senator.”
He pointed at the recorder. “You could expedite this entire process by making a statement.”
“You mean a confession?”
“If that’s what you choose to call it.”
“I don’t really expect you to understand, but let me put it this way…For four years, I watched my Abbie shrink, grow, lose her hair, grow hair, get sick, vomit, bleed from her gums, bloat and gain fifty pounds on steroids, then vomit it all off. I saw her get stuck with more needles than I care to think about. And half of those needle pricks came under my hand. I watched more poison drip into her veins than any one person should have to endure. So, bring your threats and your lawyers. You could bury me under this place and it wouldn’t touch the hurt I feel inside.” The pain comes in waves. It, too, is tidal. I turned my wedding band around my finger.
A long silence.
“Cancer can do a lot. It can wreck your life, steal that which you hold dear, shatter dreams, crack your confidence, sever your soul and leave you wasted and wrung out. It can rob you of hope, whisper lies you learn to believe and dim the lights along the river. It’ll rob your voice, your health and your image of yourself. It’ll feed you with nausea, and cause you to know the difference between tired and fatigued. And when you think you can’t cope, and can’t think, it pours despair in like a blanket. Soon, it covers and colors everything. It’s an absolute bona fide hell. But—” I found myself standing, pounding on the table.
I sat down and spoke softly, “Hopelessness is a disease, more powerful than the one that stole Abbie’s life. Because it affects the heart…There is no vaccine, no one is immune. And only one weapon can battle it.” He looked up at me. “It is the weapon that says I will walk through hell with you—no matter what.” My echo settled across the room. “In the end, cancer only steals what you give it. I may die right here or in some prison not too far away, but I’ll die knowing this: I never gave it Abbie. And I never gave it us. Senator, there are worse things than dying.”
He laughed, the anger palpable. “Like what!”
“Like…living dead.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shook my head. “Abbie didn’t die knowing her pain alone. The seat beside her was never empty. You may be angry at me for taking her away. Tough. Your loss. I’d do it again.” I met him eye to eye. I had said enough. I was finished talking.
He stood up and walked out.
TWO DAYS LATER, he returned. This time alone. No tape recorder, no tie, a blue sport coat unbuttoned and a PVC tube tucked under his arm.
He sat down, slowly folding, unfolding and refolding his handkerchief. Finally, he spoke. A painful admission. “I’ve doubted you for a long time. The…” He shrugged. “The discovery at Mayo…cemented in my mind your betrayal of Abigail Grace.”
“Sir, her name is Abbie. And no matter how it looked when you walked in, I never betrayed her.”
He nodded slowly. “Your friend, the flying priest, came to see me. Shared with me your confession.”
“Is that what he called it?”
“He did.”
“Whatever happened to confidentiality?”
“He said that since he’d been defrocked, that no longer pertained to him.”
“Funny, he didn’t say that to me.”
He tapped the table with his fingers. “I thought I could make…Abbie…see, but she knew you better than me.”
He set the tube on the table. “We found your canoe. This was wedged beneath the seat.” He unscrewed the cap and rolled the canvas across the table. He stared at the drawing several seconds. “I always thought she’d beat it.” He let go and it curled itself into a loose scroll. He shook his head. “No man is good enough for another man’s daughter.” Staring at the ceiling, a single tear cascaded off his cheek. “After I lost her mother, I decided no man would ever be. Then she met you. And you were…” He laughed, shrugging. “Not what I had in mind.”
“Sir, may I ask you a question?” He raised an eyebrow. “What’d I ever do to you? I mean, just what did I do to hack you off?”
He wiped his eyes. “You gave Abbie what I never did. You gave her yourself.”
“Yes, sir. Every day.” For the first time ever, I saw him as a man. Even a father. “Sir, with all due respect, the fact that her second transplant didn’t take had nothing to do with you. You did what you could.”
He glanced at me and almost nodded. Flipping open his cell phone, he dialed a number from memory and waited until somebody picked up on the other end. He cleared his throat and said, “You sign it?” He nodded, waiting. “I’d be obliged if you faxed it to me at this number.” He gave the number and hung up. A few minutes later, a guard walked in, laid a single sheet in his hands and walked out. The senator read it, placed it on the table and stood. “The murder charges have been dropped. I can’t do much about the narcotics charges, but if you plead guilty, we can get your sentence reduced to probation. Maybe some community service. Like…teaching old, stubborn politicians how to paint.” He stood—his back to me—pulled a wrinkled letter from his coat pocket and laid it gently on the table. His fingertips slowly skimmed the surface of the letter like a blind man reading braille. He swallowed, managing a whisper. “You’re free to go.”
He walked out, slowly, almost limping. I unfolded the letter. Her New York perfume flowered into the room and laid across me like a blanket.
May 30th
Dear Dad,
It’s late and my morphine is wearing off, which is both good and bad. Hospice is downstairs, shuffling around. Doss is up in the crow’s nest. I can hear it creaking under his weight.
In the last several years, I’ve learned to listen to my body. Right now, it’s telling me that by the time you get this, I’ll be gone. Whatever cancer is going to do to me, it’s done it. New treatments, specialists, opinions, and medications along with all the power of the Senate won’t change that. Only one thing remains. Don’t cry. Pressed between the memory of Mom and now the thought of me, I can see those big broad shoulders beginning to shake. Crocodile tears welling up. Dad, don’t hold it back. Even senators cry. As for me—I’m a big girl now. Of course, it’s not my choosing. If I had anything to do with it, I’d stick around another fifty or sixty years, learn to cook like Rosalia and run my fingers through Doss’s handsome gray hair. I’d like to have seen that. I think he will age well.
If you’re thinking Doss stole me away, don’t. He didn’t. Few respect you more than he. This trip is my idea. I have one thing left to give him and I need the river to do this. Please understand. He is gifted unlike any I’ve ever known and I don’t want that gift to die with me. So please leave us to the river. Remember this when you get mad, hire lawyers and start scheming. Just let it go. Doss didn’t kill me. Cancer did. Blame it. Sending Doss to prison won’t bring me—or Mom—back. I have lived well. Now let me die well.
When I was a little girl, you held my hand and walked me down to the Dock Street on the opening night of Annie. I was so scared. But once in the theater, you pulled me aside, knelt and pushed the hair out of my eyes. You said, “Abigail Grace, you weren’t made to sit in those seats.” Then you pointed my eyes at the stage and the spotlights. “You
were made to stand up there…under them. Go take your place.” Dad, Doss is a lot like me. Remember that. He’s worth it, he needs you and we all need him. Trust me on this one.
I’m leaving you a present. But there’s a catch. It’s held for safekeeping in the chest of my husband. Unwrap him, and you’ll find me. I gave him my heart a long time ago and I don’t need it where I’m going. If you swallow your pride long enough to see past your own private pain, you’ll find that you two are more alike than you think. And that you can learn from him.
I know this will be hard for you to hear. If you read this letter and think I’m just trying to have the last word, don’t. I’d gladly trade it.
I love you.
Yours,
Abigail Grace
AFTERWARD
I went home, climbed up into my studio, unrolled my scroll and started at the beginning. My life with Abbie. I let the tape roll, walking down each sidewalk of pain—each anchor line—and when the hurt got to be too much, I stopped the tape and dove in—sketching that one single frame. I’ve cried more in one year than the rest of my life combined.
Tears on the canvas.
The only difference now is that I no longer paint the world I wish I lived in. I paint this one.
THE SENATOR STARTED coming to see me on the weekends. At first, he just followed his toes around my studio. We didn’t talk much. But slowly the words came. He’d ask questions about style, form, process. Good questions, too. I think in another life, he might have had an artistic bent. Finally, I set up an easel for him and taught him how to work with charcoal. Not too bad, either. Surprisingly, the senator had a soft side. He hated the Yankees but after a few weeks, he ran his fingers along the frame of my Nat Fein print. He shook his head and said, “I suppose it’s coming for all of us.” I reached into my closet, pulled out my dusty attempt at Babe’s face and handed it to him. While the photo evokes emotions of sadness few words can create, my picture shows Babe, eyes staring up through baggy eyelids, cheeks fallen, staring out across the house he built. Yet beneath the shell of the skin he once trotted around the bases, he’s smiling. He’s still Babe. The senator liked that. I handed both to him. “Please. They’re yours.”