Punishment (27 page)

She slipped her coat off, grasped my hand briefly, then stood. “You look after this,” she said. And I followed her into the courtroom, carrying the coat, feeling grateful for the intimacy of the gesture.

I was surprised by the sparseness of the crowd. Neil was sitting in the last row watching intently as Caddy walked to the witness stand. I felt a strong surge of affection as she went. She was elegant in a simple black dress and mauve cardigan, sleeves shoved up almost to her elbows. The boots she bought in Detroit, and that, one lovely evening, I had helped her to remove, gave her added height and an air of confidence. But when she sat she seemed frail and her face showed the strain of worrying about what lay ahead.

Neil slid along the row of empty chairs until he was beside me. “That’s one gorgeous woman up there,” he whispered. “I don’t know what’s holding you back.” He nudged my arm. But
by then I was trying to get a sense of Strickland, though I could only see the back of his head, could only imagine what was going through his mind.

The judge leaned forward, chin resting on his fist as Jones, the prosecutor, gently introduced the witness, Mrs. Stewart, grandmother of the victim, one of the last people to see her alive. His tone was almost parental as he led Caddy through Maymie’s short but obviously active life, the excellence in school, the musical talent, the angelic personality. Both Sullivan and Strickland were intently taking notes as Caddy spoke.

“Now, Mrs. Stewart,” Jones said, “I’m going to ask a few questions that might seem a bit insensitive but they’re important and I want you to take your time.” Caddy sat up straighter, put her hands together, interlaced her fingers. Beside me Neil leaned forward, elbows resting on the chair in front of him.

“Take us back to the last time you saw Maymie, before she left the house. How would you describe her mood?”

“Normal, I would say.”

“Normal. She was normally in good spirits I believe.”

“Yes. Normally. Though she was a teenager and they can be moody. And she was still suffering occasional depression since the death of her father … I should say my husband.”

“She was close to your husband.”

“Yes she was.”

“When you say she was depressed, was there any particular diagnosis or prescription?”

“No. I was speaking generally.”

“So the last time you saw her, there was nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I’d say that.”

The judge peered down at her, “Yes or no, Mrs. Stewart.”

“No,” she said.

Jones turned and walked a few steps away from her, rubbing his cheek, stopped and peered at some papers on his table, then straightened up and faced her again.

“Now, Mrs. Stewart, there’s been evidence that Maymie had consumed a large quantity of a drug called oxycodone that night. You know the drug I’m referring to. Oxycodone.”

“I’ve heard of it,” she said. “It’s been in the news a lot.”

“Do you have any idea where Maymie could have got that drug?”

“I’m assuming from …” and she looked straight at Strickland, but before she could finish the sentence, Sullivan was on his feet. “Hang on,” he said wearily.

The judge removed his glasses and said to Caddy: “We mustn’t assume anything, Mrs. Stewart. If the answer is no, just say no.”

“I’m sorry,” Caddy said.

Jones said, “So I take your answer to be that you don’t know where she got the drugs?”

“I’d only be guessing,” Caddy said.

“So that’s a yes,” the judge said, smiling at her.

“Yes,” said Caddy.

Jones continued. “How would you describe Maymie’s mood on the evening of … last time you saw her.”

“She seemed fine.”

“Not … down.”

She shrugged, looked directly at Strickland. “I wouldn’t say so. No.”

“There was nothing out of the ordinary, last time you saw her.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Did anything in your daughter—correction—your granddaughter’s behaviour ever give you cause to worry that she was using drugs of any kind.”

“No. She cared too much about herself. And me.”

“That’s all for now, Mrs. Stewart. Thank you. I know this isn’t easy for you.”

For what seemed like a long time Sullivan just sat there, face propped by one cupped hand, staring at the yellow writing pad on the table in front of him, plucking at his mustache.

“Watch this,” Neil whispered.

Finally Sullivan shoved his chair back and stood, but remained where he was, leaning on the table. “Your granddaughter was quite the young lady, Mrs. Stewart. Lovely, bright, talented. The loss of such a bright light is nothing short of tragic. I offer my sincere condolences.” He walked slowly around to the front of the table.

“But the question we have to answer here is why a young woman with everything to live for would risk it all just to improve the way she felt emotionally.”

“I can’t help you there,” said Caddy. “But she wouldn’t be the first.”

“Exactly the point,” said Sullivan. “Young people respond to the normal pressures of a complex world by getting high. And sometimes, for complex reasons, they put themselves at risk.”

“Or people take advantage of them.”

He didn’t object, just fell silent, nodding sadly.

“You said that she was very close to your husband who, I understand, died suddenly.”

“Yes.”

“I’m assuming that she took it hard.”

“Yes, she did.”

“She was what? Fifteen at the time?”

“Yes.” Caddy pulled a tissue from her sleeve, crumpled it in her fist.

“I think we all know from personal experience that people that age have a particularly hard time with raw emotions like grief, loss.”

“I suppose.”

“I’m sure we can all remember some event in our own experience as children that left us quite at a loss as to how to respond. We just lacked the emotional conditioning, I suppose, that would provide some appropriate response. And so, sometimes, the responses are … inappropriate.”

“She wasn’t like that.”

Sullivan turned away, nodding, then stopped in front of Strickland. “You must have known Dwayne Strickland as he grew up.”

“I knew who he was. Mostly by reputation.”

“Ah. Reputation,” said Sullivan. “Yes. A reputation for inappropriate behaviour, acting out. Getting himself into trouble.”

“That’s for sure.”

“A boy, an outsider adopted into a community—and I call this a great virtue of the place—a community with strong traditions,
close-knit, clan-based families. A little boy taken in by an older, childless couple, good people, undoubtedly. But I would put it to you, an environment that might have lacked a certain warmth, the kind of nurturing that prepares us for the larger challenges of growing up. Would you agree with me on that?”

“They were lovely people, salt of the earth.”

“I’m not saying otherwise. Just that fate, destiny if you will, offered Dwayne Strickland something short of the ideal circumstances for a normal life.”

Caddy’s face was very pale. She said nothing.

“Just for the record, your granddaughter—Mary Alice—was born in 1985 to your daughter, Rosalie.”

“Yes, but I’m not sure …”

“And because Rosalie was quite young at the time, just a teenager, you and your husband raised Mary Alice as though she were your own. Is this correct?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Stewart … can I assume that Mary Alice, Maymie, knew that you and your husband were her grandparents?”

“It was never an issue.”

“And did Mary Alice know who her biological parents were?”

“She knew who her mother was.”

The judge had his glasses off. “I’m not sure of the value of this line of questioning. Why don’t we move on to something relevant?”

“I’m interested in knowing if there was conflict or distress relating to the circumstances of the victim’s … early life, Your Honour.” Then Sullivan said to Caddy, “You don’t have to respond. I’m just making an observation here.”

“Life has unpleasant surprises for almost everybody,” Caddy said, glaring at him. “We all have to cope.”

“Exactly my point,” said Sullivan.

“But nobody has the right …” she started, voice quavering, but Sullivan stopped her with a raised hand, and asked her sharply: “Mrs. Stewart, are you familiar with the word ‘scapegoat’?”

“Prick,” Neil murmured loudly enough to cause several people seated nearby to turn toward us.

During the recess Caddy stood alone, arms folded, studying the floor. “I don’t want to talk,” she said when I approached her.

“You’re doing great,” I said.

“He’s twisting everything around.”

“It’s what they do,” I said. “The judge understands that.”

She shook her head. “It’s not right. Trying to make it sound like it was her own fault.” She raised a hand to shield her eyes.

Caddy was back on the stand. My shoulders ached, my mouth was dry. I longed for it to be over.

“Mrs. Stewart, I want you to think back very carefully, to the months after your husband’s death,” Sullivan said. “Do you recall significant changes in demeanor, mood, behaviour of your granddaughter?”

“She was obviously grieving. I thought it was normal and even healthy.”

It was probably Sullivan’s fifth attempt to corner Caddy.

“I put it to you with genuine regret and sympathy that this young woman for reasons that are tragically common these days, at a time of personal stress, turned to drug use. Perhaps serious drug use, even before Dwayne Strickland showed up in the community, while he was still living in Ontario.”

“No,” Caddy said. “I mean she wasn’t like that. She was just sad.”

“You aren’t suggesting that drugs only became available in the community after Dwayne showed up.”

“I don’t know,” Caddy said. “I don’t know about drugs.”

“Well let me tell you a little bit,” he said. And he turned to the table and picked up a sheaf of papers. “August 1999, three young local men arrested near the convenience store, charged with selling marijuana. Did you know about that?”

“There was talk.”

“Mrs. Stewart, it was in the local newspaper. But anyway. December 2001, a young man home from Fort McMurray, arrested at a local dance in possession of a large amount of crack cocaine. Summer 2002, just past—marijuana grow op discovered on the Mountain Road. You didn’t know about any of this? And what about this, Mrs. Stewart—a young man, Jimmy MacLennan, charged with trafficking a year ago after he sold OxyContin pills to an undercover police officer. I think Jimmy was a friend of Maymie’s, was he not?”

“Jimmy was long gone when Maymie …”

“Ah yes, when Maymie passed away, but the point I’m making is that your granddaughter, if she was a drug user, wouldn’t have found it necessary to turn to a stranger, an older man like Dwayne Strickland, to buy drugs. She could easily
have got drugs … just about any kind of drugs … from people she knew, people in her own circle of friends. Wouldn’t you agree with that?”

“She wasn’t a drug user,” Caddy said softly, wearily. “She was a good girl. And she knew who he was.” She was staring, nodding at Strickland. “She knew all about him.”

“Yes,” said Sullivan. “I was going to get to that. In fact, she met Mr. Strickland once before the night she died. And you found out about that. And didn’t it become a source of tension, maybe even conflict?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Caddy wiped her nose with the tissue.

“See, with all respect, I’m going to suggest to you that before she left your house that night, the young woman, Maymie …”

“She was just a girl, for God’s sake,” Caddy, said. “Stop calling her a woman.”

Sullivan paused, crossed his arms, studied the floor. Let silence hang in all the empty spaces.

“I want you to remember very carefully. Because I want to suggest to you that there was something bothering her that night,” he continued quietly. “She was what I might describe as ‘down.’ She seemed … depressed. And when you pressed her, and suggested that she should stay home there was an argument. And she was angry when she left …”

“There was no argument,” Caddy said wearily. “I just didn’t want her going to his place. I knew about his reputation.”

“Ah. There’s that word again. ‘Reputation.’ And in your opinion, what was that reputation based on, Mrs. Stewart?”

Caddy was silent.

“Had there ever been a drug bust at Strickland’s place?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Well, I’ll tell you. The answer is no. In fact, Mrs. Stewart, there’s nothing in Mr. Strickland’s background to give you any reason whatsoever to be concerned about drugs at his place. Only gossip. A young man living alone, a young man with a troubled background, unemployed. An easy target for local gossip and speculation. A scapegoat …”

The judge interrupted. “Mr. Sullivan …”

“I’m sorry, Your Honour. But I just want to acknowledge that the accused, Dwayne Strickland, has never claimed to be a saint. But he’s also experienced the very human tendency by a small community to form a collective opinion about someone who is, shall I say, different. Or someone who through a few bad choices and a lot of bad luck gets himself identified as a magnet for trouble. And I want to suggest to you, Mrs. Stewart, that this young man, Dwayne Strickland, learned important lessons from his mistakes and went to some lengths to share those lessons with people like your granddaughter.”

“For fuck sake.” Neil was on his feet, face enflamed. I wasn’t sure how many heard him but as he bolted for the door the judge stopped him. “You!”

Neil faced him.

“Another peep out of you and I will bar you from this courtroom. Do you understand me?”

Neil nodded, turned and opened the door, closed it gently behind him.

Sullivan seemed distracted for a moment, studying the yellow writing pad. Then he turned back to Caddy, spoke gently. “It’s
understandable that something like this tragedy creates distress in a place. A peaceful, civil place. We have a deep need for answers. Why? What happened, what caused this aberration, this … contradiction? But not just any answers—we need
reassuring
answers. It isn’t good enough to find an answer that raises larger questions—about the state of our society, of our community, of our families.”