Missing Mom (16 page)

Yes. I attended the preliminary hearing in the Chautauqua County Courthouse on June 1, 2004, where the murderer of Gwendolyn Eaton, an individual named Ward Lynch, twenty-nine years old, of no fixed address but with family ties to Erie, Pennsylvania, was officially remanded for trial—“To be determined at a later date.”

It was at this hearing that I saw my mother’s murderer for the first time. I swallowed hard, I stared. I felt a terrible weakness in the pit of my stomach. Beside me Clare was rocking in her seat and making a low whimpering noise like a dog in pain and though we’d been instructed not to stare at the man, not to risk making eye contact with him, we stared, we blinked and stared and could not look away for the first several minutes of the hearing.

“Oh! He’s so ordinary.”

This was me, whispering in Clare’s ear.

“So—nothing.
Oh
.”

I was groping for Clare’s hand. My frantic fingers closed about hers that were icy-cold, in a tight grip.

Ward Lynch was brought into the courtroom walking in stiff baby steps because his legs were shackled at the ankles. His arms were shackled at the wrists. He was a tall bony-faced man with pitted skin, ropy-greasy dark hair straggling between his shoulder blades, haggard eyes. The corners of his thin-lipped mouth were downturned into a smirk. He had a bumpy receding forehead and a narrow receding chin and his chest looked caved-in.
Wasted
was the druggie word.
Strung out, burnt out, meth-head.
The kind of guy who isn’t young any longer but isn’t grown up, either. Drives a motorcycle when he has the money for it, works at a gas station or with a lawn crew. You’d see him having a smoke outside the 7-Eleven. You’d see him hanging out at the mall, eyeing girls half his age. Hiking along the interstate in the rain. You’d see his sulky face in a
WANTED BY F.B.I
. notice in the post office.

You wouldn’t want to see that face confronting you on a deserted stretch of city sidewalk. As you climb out of your car in a darkened parking lot, or in your own garage.

Much was made of the fact that Ward Lynch had served three and a half years of a five-year sentence at Red Bank State Prison Facility for Men, on a charge of auto theft, burglary, and check-forging. That he’d been paroled for “good behavior.” That he’d lived in halfway houses, in homeless shelters in Buffalo and Rochester, he’d been enrolled in the Christian Fellowship Out-Reach Program and it was in this program that he’d initially met Gwendolyn Eaton.

“Oh. I hate him. Oh, Nikki.”

Clare was squeezing my fingers so hard, I expected to hear a sudden crack.

Ward Lynch was a murderer and yet: he’d been gotten up in a bright orange clown suit. A child might laugh at him, missing the expression in his face. In a public place, he’d have been the center of attention. In this courtroom that was predominantly men and every man wore a suit, dress shirt, necktie, Lynch was wearing an oversized orange jumpsuit like TV footage. Like the Oklahoma bomber Timothy McVeigh. On both the front and back of Lynch’s uniform was
CHAUTAUQUA COUNTY MENS DETENTION
in black letters.

What wasn’t ordinary about Lynch was what he’d done. The use he’d made of his hands.

You would expect to see monster-hands. Oversized brutal hands. But these were ordinary hands, though with bony knuckles. I saw discolorations on the backs of both hands like deep bruises.

Lynch’s face was flushed. He’d been made to look foolish in public. Shuffling to a seat at the front of the courtroom, every eye on him. He’d lurched, and sat clumsily. His mouth that looked like a rubber band pulled thin quivered.

Beside Lynch, a harried-looking man in his forties, Lynch’s public-defender attorney, murmured into his ear as Lynch stared into space. The prosecutor who was trying the case had told us that Lynch’s attorney had been reluctant to accept him as a client, but had had no choice. Very likely, the attorney would advise Lynch to plead guilty in exchange for a sentence of life in prison without parole, sparing Lynch the likelihood of a death sentence, and sparing us all a trial.

Clare had objected to this, initially. She’d been tearful, vehement: Mom’s murderer deserved to be executed.

After she’d had time to think it over, after Rob and I had reasoned with her, Clare agreed. Let him plead guilty, let the state put him away for the rest of his life.

I hoped this would happen. I didn’t believe in capital punishment.

I didn’t want to hate Ward Lynch. It was hard for me to hate, the way Clare hated. I didn’t want to hate anyone. Our mother had taught us to see the “good” in people and while I doubted that there was much “good” in Ward Lynch, I knew that Mom would not have hated him, her very murderer.

Probably, knowing Mom, she’d have figured out a way to “forgive” him.

Beside me, Clare leaned around to stare at Ward Lynch. I’d stopped looking at him, I’d seen enough. I held Clare’s left hand while Rob, seated on her other side, held her right hand. She was quivering, trembling. In Clare, hatred was a force like a geyser. I could feel it building up, aching to discharge. Of the two of us, I had always been the “emotional” one but that was only on the surface.

People had told Clare to avoid the hearing, her presence wasn’t necessary. Of course, she’d had to attend. I’d been told that, as soon as my testimony was over, I might leave. But I would not.

The hearing began twenty minutes late, and passed in a buzzing blur. There was nothing exciting or dramatic about it. A calm recitation of facts. As the “witness” who had found Gwendolyn Eaton’s body, I was required to testify under oath. I had told my pathetic story a dozen times to various official parties and each time my words had been taped and yet, here I was testifying again. Yes: I’d entered my mother’s house at 43 Deer Creek Drive on the early evening of May 11, 2004. Yes I’d entered the house through the kitchen door, that was unlocked. Yes I’d seen signs of “intrusion and upset” inside the house. Yes I’d entered the garage and yes, I saw—on the cement floor of the garage, I saw—

I began coughing. I could not stop coughing. Tears leaked from my eyes though I wasn’t crying. Out of the buzzing blur someone, a man, a man whose name I had forgotten, handed me a glass of water. I was called
Ms. Eaton
. I was told to
take my time
, to
speak clearly
. I saw that everyone in the courtroom was observing me, listening to me. The judge, an older man seated at a slightly raised desk to my right, wearing an ordinary dark suit and not judicial robes, appeared to be listening sympathetically. I continued my testimony, gripping my hands in my lap. I’d memorized these words as a tightrope walker might memorize each inch of the high wire she must cross, and cross again, and again re-cross without daring to glance down. I’d been coached by the prosecutor and was looking toward him as I spoke, I did not want to glance at Clare, or at Rob, or at anyone in the courtroom whose face was familiar to me; above all, I did not want to glance over at the defendant sitting slump-shouldered in his bright orange jumpsuit who was staring at me.

“Thank you, Ms. Eaton. You may step down.”

In that instant, as I was released from my ordeal, I lifted my eyes to glance in Ward Lynch’s direction, and for a fraction of an instant before I looked away our eyes locked.

I stumbled back to my seat, to Clare. I had seen in Ward Lynch’s eyes nothing but glassy belligerent emptiness.

The prosecution attorneys had warned me not to look at Lynch, and Wally had warned me. Look at the attorney who is questioning you, look at the judge. But not the defendant. Don’t make eye contact!

Now I was frightened, my heart was beating hard. Until this moment I had not thought
If he could, he would hurt me. He is a murderer, he would hurt me, too
.

“Nikki! I love you.”

Clare gripped my hand tight to pull me close beside her. Clare slid her arm around my shoulders to comfort me, for I seemed to be crying after all. I was shaking, I was so frightened. Why had I glanced at Ward Lynch, when I’d been warned not to! Somewhere at the rear of the courtroom my lover Wally Szalla was seated, he’d insisted upon coming to the hearing for he was concerned for me, why hadn’t I looked for him!

I was shaking, I was so frightened. How naive it seemed to me now, how childish, to think of “forgiving” Ward Lynch—as if the man wanted to be forgiven, and by me.

As if I had the power to make him repent. As if anyone had the power.

I was made to realize: if I’d returned home while Lynch was still in the house, if I’d walked into the house or the garage, having seen my mother’s car in the driveway and calling
Mom
?
It’s me, Nikki
as I’d done a thousand times, Lynch would have killed me, too.

Of course. This was so obvious.

I must have known, and yet I had not wished to comprehend. I had wanted to think that, now the murderer had been arrested, and would stand trial, it was in my power to “forgive” him. At any rate, not to press for his execution.

Of the witnesses for the prosecution who followed me, the plainclothed Mt. Ephraim detective Ross Strabane gave the most detailed testimony. Strabane had spoken with me on the phone several times about the upcoming hearing, but I had not seen him in weeks. I had forgotten what he looked like. His skin was olive-dark, swarthy. His eyes were earnest. He was edgy in the courtroom, aware of the judge’s frowning scrutiny: he had a maddening habit of squinching up his face in the way of an edgy teenager, and he cleared his throat compulsively. His clothes! Earnest, off-the-rack. A stone-colored suit with oddly wide lapels, white nylon shirt and braided necktie in smudged-aqua. (Braided neckties? Where did men find these? Somehow, Dad owned several, and persisted in wearing them often. His brothers Herman and Fred favored braided ties, too.) Strabane was sitting square in the witness seat as he spoke, leaning slightly forward out of nervousness. Or maybe he was excited. I was touched to see that he wore mismatched socks: both were dark but one was just perceptibly striped and the other not.

Reaches in a drawer, he’s in a hurry, distracted. Puts on his socks not noticing they’re a mismatch.

Or, seeing they are, he’s got more important things on his mind and what the hell.

Strabane was describing the “events” of May 11, 2004: the actions of the defendant Ward W. Lynch from approximately 10
A
.
M
. onward. In his nasal accent describing Lynch’s behavior after he had “abducted” Gwendolyn Eaton who’d given him a ride in her car, until police arrested the defendant in Erie, Pennsylvania, on May 13, at the home of his maternal grandmother Mrs. Ethel Makepeace.

I found it difficult to listen to the detective’s testimony. I found it difficult to continue to watch him. I thought
I don’t have to hear this!
I felt a strong impulse to lower my head, my forehead against my knees, I was very tired suddenly, frightened. It was the sensation I’d sometimes had as a girl, at the end of a diving board.
I don’t have to do this, I can turn back
.
I don’t have to be here
.

…the discovery of Gwendolyn Eaton’s 2001 Honda, and her Visa credit card, emptied wallet in a barn on the Makepeace property. The discovery of the “murder weapon”: a Swiss Army knife bearing traces of Gwendolyn Eaton’s blood, as identified by DNA testing, and covered in Ward Lynch’s fingerprints.

The buzzing in the courtroom grew louder. I was gripping Clare’s hand that was cold and sweaty as my own. My eyes had begun to hurt. I was frightened of what the detective would say, I was frightened of his knowledge. I could not bear listening to him. Yet I understood,
He is a good man
.
He is helping us
. I was having trouble concentrating for I yearned to be somewhere else. I was smiling, I was already somewhere else. Mom would comfort me, if I could find her. But Smoky would comfort me, too. I knew where to find Smoky. He was waiting to rub against my ankles when I returned to the apartment. He would purr loudly. If a cat can purr anxiously, Smoky would purr anxiously. He would purr aggressively. He would purr seductively. He would purr percussively. He would purr like a jealous lover. A mildly deranged lover. Oh, I smiled to think how I would discover in my bedspread, a quilted spread of squares, triangles, and pineapple figures that Mom had sewn for me, the warm imprint of Smoky’s burly body, and a scattering of silvery cat hairs.

“…may step down, Detective. Thank you.”

Was it over? Strabane’s testimony? I opened my eyes, disoriented. Strabane was looking grim, yet elated. He’d spoken well, he’d been forceful and persuasive. He’d presented “facts” as a narrative of what-had-happened. He was a professional, the rest of us were amateurs.

Especially Clare and me. “Daughters of.”

Amateurs in grief.

Afterward I would remember: Detective Ross Strabane passing close by us. He was feeling good about himself, was he! A homely man made impressive, on the witness stand. Except his stone-colored suit fit him oddly in the legs, the trousers slightly too short. And the smudged-aqua braided tie, a fashion blunder. His dark-lashed eyes slid onto mine. His mouth wished to twitch in a smile.

I am your friend, trust me!

I looked quickly away.

In all, the hearing lasted three hours, forty minutes.

Like squeezing out your blood drop by drop. Those three hours, forty minutes.

“Prosecution” witnesses. Called to the witness stand, sworn to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help you God.” Uniformed police officers, plainclothed officers, forensics specialists, the proprietor of Tiger Mart on Route 33, garage attendants, store cashiers, a county sanitation worker who’d discovered, in a Dumpster behind Hal’s Mobile Service at the intersection of Routes 33 and 39, a plastic bag crammed with bloodied men’s clothing to be identified as belonging to Ward Lynch. During some of this testimony, Lynch squirmed and shifted in his chair like a restless teenager. He scratched at his caved-in chest, he shivered. But during some of the testimony, his face was slack as unbaked bread dough. His narrow jaw drooped, his mouth twisted suddenly into a yawn he didn’t trouble to hide with his hand.