The Second Trial (7 page)

The judge addressed Paul. “Society calls it domestic violence or family violence, but it's really
criminal
violence that happens in a home. Mr. McMillan, you have battered and threatened your wife. You did this in a place where she had every right to be safe. You took advantage of her vulnerability and you betrayed her trust.”

Paul hung his head.

“You targeted your wife,” the judge continued. “Her victim impact statement was a cry of pain and fear, the pain of all the past hurts and the fear of all the future ones. Her world was shattered by your humiliation, intimidation, and violence. The solid ground she thought her marriage was built on became sand under her feet. Fear replaced love. Misery replaced happiness. Shame replaced confidence. I have no doubt your wife genuinely fears you will kill her if you do not stay in jail.

“And how did your crime affect others?” the judge asked. “Your lawyer says you were involved with your children, you supported them, and you enriched their lives by providing them with activities and vacations. Your lawyer suggests you always did your best for your children, that you were a good father.

“Mr. McMillan, I utterly reject that suggestion. It is disgusting to me. How can you possibly believe that beating your wife and threatening to kill her is consistent with good parenting? Suppose your wife's fall down the stairs had turned out differently. Suppose the blow to her head had killed her instead of knocking her unconscious. You would be here today being sentenced for murder, and you
would
be in jail for many, many years.” The judge paused, his eyes narrowed, and his voice hardened. “Had that happened, Mr. McMillan, your children would be no better than orphans.”

Paul looked up, and his eyes widened. Clearly, he hadn't expected this.

Danny froze. He had never imagined the past might have unfolded differently. He had never considered things could have gone even more wrong than they already had.
What the judge said
is true – it is possible. Mom could have died and then Jen and I would
be orphans. Alone.

The judge was still talking. “…reckless, unconscionable, self-serving…” The words hung in the air. For a moment this new truth –
Mom could have died
– seemed more real than the ones Mr. Miller put forward, the ones Danny wanted to believe.

But it didn't happen. You can't sentence Dad for something that
didn't happen. Dad would never let that happen. He said he'd never
do it again. Please don't take him away from me forever.

Catherine straightened, and her hopeful face fastened on the judge.

“…grandparents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles,” the judge continued. “The misery of domestic violence seeps through a family like a stain.

“I've heard Mr. McMillan's public apology. He s
eemed
to take responsibility for and regret his behavior. He said it would never happen again. But promises are easy to make and hard to keep. As Dr. Hamilton testified, being sorry but then going on to repeat the crime even more viciously is part of an abuser's usual pattern. Genuine remorse may be one step on the journey to reformation, but it is no guarantee he will ever reach that destination.

“In fact, nothing so far has propelled him to action. Putting him in jail after the second conviction didn't work. The counseling didn't work. So far, Mr. McMillan, not one of your actions has convinced me that you can or will take the initiative to change.

“What punishment suits this crime?” The judge pinched his nose and then replaced his glasses. “This is the most difficult sentencing decision of my career,” he said. “In making this decision, I am mindful of the worrisome statistics about murder by family members. I am mindful of the lives that will be directly and indirectly affected by my decision. But justice demands that I not try to please anyone or take any side in a case. I must apply the law fairly and impartially, to the best of my ability.

“And the rules of evidence tip the scales in my decision. First, the Crown had no compelling evidence Mr. McMillan is
incapable
of change. Maybe an intensive course of therapy will enable him to make changes. We don't know because it hasn't been tried.”

Judge Cunningham turned and addressed Catherine. “The second problem is with the victim impact statement.
If
I could take into account the many assaults and threats you told me about, then there would be enough evidence to prove your husband is a dangerous offender. As Mr. Miller said, courts operate by rules of evidence, not gut feelings. Those rules safeguard the rights of every accused person before the court. They ensure convictions for only those persons whose guilt is proved on proper evidence beyond a reasonable doubt.

“Ma'am, I know it's too late to prosecute your husband for all those other things he did to you, all the other crimes he may have committed against you. I understand you felt trapped and unable to tell the world what was going on, but your years of silence mean that your husband has never had the opportunity to refute your allegations in court.

“That means I must ignore everything you said except about the three convictions. And I find those three assaults aren't enough to prove that Mr. McMillan is a dangerous offender. That application is dismissed.”

Judge Cunningham turned to the prisoner's box. “I will now pass sentence. Stand up, Mr. McMillan.” Paul stood and adjusted his tie. His lawyer moved to stand beside him.

“Mr. McMillan, I sentence you to jail for thirty months. I will take into account the eight months you have already spent in custody, and I give you two months' credit for each month served. I also prohibit you from possessing a firearm for the next five years.”

Judge Cunningham lifted off his glasses and placed them on the bench. Staring hard at Paul, he said, “Mr. McMillan, your conduct has been reprehensible. Make no mistake. If you come before this Court again, convicted of a similar offence, you may well spend the rest of your life behind bars.”

Paul lowered his head and mumbled something Danny couldn't hear.

Mr. Miller bowed to the judge and said, “Thank you, sir.”

Danny looked at his father, who stood without expression. His mother's head turned slowly toward the prisoner's box, as if gravity were dragging her eyes across the courtroom. Danny saw Dad's eyes lock with hers. A sneer pressed his lips into a thin line. In a second, his face was transformed – like an open hand into a fist.

Chapter 11

Monday

Catherine sped past her son and fled the courtroom. In the tight silence, all eyes turned to Danny. Sgt. Sandhu moved protectively beside him, a signal to the others to look away and busy themselves with adjustments to clothes and briefcases.

“Hi, Danny,” he said. “I think your mom needs a bit of time alone just now. Why don't you come with me?” He tilted his head toward the door, touched Danny's shoulder, and steered him into the lobby.

“What're you doing here?” Danny asked his soccer coach.

“I've been helping your mom,” he replied.

“With what? What's there to help with?” Sgt. Sandhu had been in the courtroom. He'd heard the sentence.
Sure, Mom is
upset, but after all it was the right outcome, wasn't it? Even the judge
said he was trying to be just and fair….

“Sandra and I need to talk to you about your dad's sentence. She and your mom will be back in a minute.”

Danny moved away and looked out the window. Beyond the tinted glass, the sun softened the pavement. A summer breeze blew across the faces of ordinary people going about their ordinary business on an ordinary day. His mom returned and stood beside him.

Sandra broke the silence. “The sentence was two and a half years – thirty months. The judge gave Paul sixteen months' credit for the time he's already spent in jail. Generally speaking, prisoners serve only a portion of their sentence in jail. Then they're released, under supervision, into the community. Paul's already served over half his sentence. That means he could be released…soon.”

“How soon?” Catherine asked.

“Very soon. As soon as the paperwork's complete.”

“Your best guess?”

Sandra stepped forward and put both hands on Catherine's shoulders. “One week.”

Catherine threw her hands into the air. “I counted on the judicial system to protect us!”

“I know it seems like a failure to you, but –”

“But what?! Am I invisible? He's worked the system and he's won! Where's the justice in that?”

“Domestic violence is a complex problem, and our judicial system is too blunt a tool to fix it. I wish it were different….”

Catherine scoffed. “It's no tool at all. It's a pitiful little stick and Paul just snapped it in half. Now that I'm telling the truth, now that I finally get to tell
my
story, it's like it doesn't even matter. There's no justice for
me
.” She looked at Danny. “No justice for
us
.”

They all stood awkwardly as Catherine's anger turned into despair.

“Can't we appeal?” she asked.

“A trial judge gets to see the evidence and hear the witnesses firsthand. It isn't likely an appeal court would interfere with a trial judge's verdict.”

Catherine's face hardened. “So that's it then. It's over. He's won.”

“It's true that the legal part is over. But that doesn't mean he's won. It's time to take the next step.” Sandra touched Catherine's elbow and led her to the elevators.

The police officer turned to Danny. “We need to talk some more,” he said, “but right now, it's time to go with your mom to your grandparents' house.”

Danny shrugged. “Whatever,” he said.

Grandma and Grandpa owned a cozy white stucco house tucked into a U-shaped crescent. The garage driveway doubled as the front sidewalk. A pocket-sized wedge of tended grass blended seamlessly with the neighbors' lush yards. Grandpa had never much liked grass, but he cultivated the little patch of Kentucky Blue to keep peace in the neighborhood.

Catherine's green sedan pulled in the driveway. She and Danny hadn't talked on the way from the courthouse. She pretended she hadn't been crying, and he pretended he hadn't noticed.

Danny walked up the driveway. Grandma and Grandpa had been hovering around the front window, watching. The screen door swung wide even before he'd reached the steps. Grandma kept her salt-and-pepper hair cut straight and short. She wore her favorite gardening blouse, but today its pink water lilies looked wrong below her pinched face. Worry lines spread from the corners of her hazel eyes.

“Hello, Danny-boy. Catherine. Come in,” she said, her bright voice not fooling anyone. Grandpa stood behind her. Danny slumped under awkward hugs from both of them. His mother began to sob. The tears she'd spared him in the car now flowed freely.

Grandpa's gentle touch directed him toward the back door. “There's somebody outside waiting to see you,” he said.

Danny retreated. The moment his hand touched the door handle, Buddy streaked over, his white-tipped tail waving as he squirmed his nose into the crack to hurry the door open. Danny crouched and gathered the dog into his arms. Buddy's head ploughed into Danny's chest and his muzzle lifted to lick the boy's face.

“Hey, Bud, hey Buddy, hiya Buddy, how ya bin,” Danny crooned. His fingers dug into Buddy's fur and soaked up the dog's love.

Buddy pulled away and dashed back to the birch tree. He retrieved his Frisbee and dropped it in front of the boy. Buddy backed up two steps and tucked his nose to the ground between his white forepaws. His haunches were raised and his tail flew back and forth in an invitation to play.

Danny heard Grandpa's voice behind him. “Why don't you take Buddy to the park for a while?”

“Okay, sure,” he mumbled.

“Do you want to get rid of those clothes and change into shorts?”

Danny shuddered at the thought of reentering the house. He'd already seen his mother cry a lifetime of tears. “Nah,” he said, not trusting himself to say more.

“Okay. Take some time. If you're back in 'bout half an hour or so, supper should be ready.”

Danny nodded, picked up the Frisbee, and followed Buddy to the back gate.

A wide park ringed the elementary school his mother had attended. A sand-filled rectangle was crammed with kids swinging from monkey bars and darting through a jungle gym. He could already hear the children playing with summer holiday intensity.

Fields and baseball diamonds stretched behind the school. A boys' soccer team was sharpening their ball-handling skills. Two young women called out names and instructions as players snaked through rows of orange pylons on the newly-mown grass.

Buddy tore into the field, crouched low, and then rocketed after the Frisbee. Danny watched him, but his eyes strayed to the soccer players. Their sweat-stained T-shirts were tucked into black shorts. Danny still wore his dress pants and white shirt. He felt like an idiot. He turned his back, picked up the slobbery Frisbee, and flung it in the opposite direction. It glided through the air, slicing a long, thin line between earth and sky, only to be snatched from its course by the border collie's flashing teeth. Danny threw the Frisbee over and over until Buddy's pink tongue dangled limply over the side of his mouth and his chest heaved. “Hey, Bud, let's go get you a drink,” he said finally, scooping up the Frisbee. He left without another glance at the team.

On the walk back, Buddy stayed at the boy's side. Danny felt a little more at ease. There were still adjustments to make, yes, but surely the worst was over.

Buddy pushed past Danny and barked at his empty water dish. “No water, Bud?” Danny said. “Just a minute, I'll get you some.”

The tap protruded from the stucco wall between the back door and the kitchen window. The window was open, and the smell of Grandma's herbed roast beef wafted into the backyard. He
loved
this dinner: potatoes mashed with extra cream, carrots glazed in sweet butter, new peas fresh from the farmer's market, and puffy Yorkshire puddings in country gravy. His mouth watered. He could hear his mom and Grandma talking. The words made him pause.