Criminal by Proxy, page 2
She played with wisps of her hair, still holding her head down, eyes looking above Christine. June crossed a line. She overshared. The emotions were too much for any rational person to give. Yet Christine listened, absorbing all the details. June had to say what she felt, form words. Had to let love out. That’s what Christine figured. Someone would have to remember to care.
“It’s ’cause I love her. I’m in prison ’cause of love.” June said.
June told Christine about their long drives. The couple would take off and go for miles, almost bottoming out over bumps on rolling country roads. With the windows rolled down on the car, they barely heard each other through the whistle, but it was pleasant. They had planned to retire to one of the towns they passed by.
“We always said we’d stop at hole-in-the-wall spots, but once we got there, we didn’t want to stop,” she said. “We were scared the town wouldn’t quite be as we wanted it to be. So we drove through and imagined a bookstore and a café. The places we might own and work at. It didn’t matter, to tell the truth. We had so many more years until retirement. And dreaming was so much more fun.”
Christine scribbled notes with a telling smirk that grew in the corners of her mouth. This wasn’t law school material. Her research interview amounted to a pile of garbage, useless and unfounded.
With June working as a psychiatrist, they would have had a comfortable life with the money she’d made. She talked about the time they had spent together on vacation up the coast. The time off had given them both fresh sea air. Finally, they’d held hands and sat together, thighs touching on the park bench.
Christine turned to mush and melted in her words. June wanted her words to turn hearts of stone to warm, vibrant, beating souls. That’s what she asked Rose’s heart to do. Christine had hope for her relationship, which needed more help by the minute.
“I know you’re a lesbian. No one else would care. That’s why I’m telling you, ’cause you are,” June quipped. “Not that I care. I’ve taken much worse risks. What else could they do to me in here?”
“I am,” Christine cooed. “I’m in love, actually. Well, we’re going to move in together full-time next month. She’s so particular. I hope we don’t fight over what to watch on TV on weekday nights or organization of the refrigerator.” Christine fidgeted with her pencil and picked at the eraser.
June lifted her head and laughed. “Yeah, sounds like you’re in love.”
“Well, it’s strange, considering there’s Amy, my ex. I guess I love her too. They’re not the best of friends, I guess. But I’m working at it with them both.” She played with her thumbs. She’d relayed too much. Any indication she was a professional, a serious student, was now lost, muddled.
“You’ll have to write me some more letters and tell me about them. I’m kind of good at helping to sort out love. Analyzing is my specialty. I like to get letters. Will you send some? I’ve told you about my love, what love means to me. I’ve told you it all—freely. Tell me about your experience with love, and I’ll meet with you again.”
“Of course.” Christine submitted to the lonely woman in prison.
They would be friends. If anything, this woman was willing to listen. She was a psychiatrist, after all, and everyone needed a pint of therapy. She would do trivial things for her, write her letters, even if the effort was wrapped in a lie, until she revealed the secret she couldn’t yet tell.
“June, if I come back, can we go over the details of the case: what happened, how you saw it? You know the points you felt swayed the jury?” Christine asked.
“Oh my, of course. But we went over the details. We did today. That’s what we’ve been talking about, right? Oh, but of course, of course. We’ll go over the details some more,” June chimed.
June’s final words stayed with Christine. She was up for early release. She might have a shot.
“I’d as soon die in here. It’s a different world. I wouldn’t know where to begin,” June said. As she spoke the words, she wrung her hands. Her veins twisted with her skin.
If she tested the limits much more, they’d have a mess to clean up. The interview would be a crime scene.
Christine stewed on what to say to June about her potential release. Whatever Christine issued, June’s anxiety wouldn’t have lowered. Her cherished free thoughts were in some kind of hell.
Christine left as swiftly as she came, trying not to draw attention, head down the entire time. Her excursion to the prison was over, but she didn’t quite have as many answers as she wanted. And now she had a strange soft spot forming in her heart for this woman in prison for life.
This newfound affection must’ve been sprouting from her personal life, she conjectured. On the outside, Christine was in love with two women. Amy, whom she had since broken up with, and her current girlfriend, Terrie. She understood that she loved each in their own way but could not decide on her place in both of their lives.
Christine was finishing her master’s in information technology. She wasn’t in law school, as the application for the interview time detailed. She expressed the same thing in the handful of letters she sent to June. Each one had a unique and colorful stamp.
The bold-faced lie she used to get into the prison was that she was a law student, and her project involved retracing a closed case, June’s case, which had gone the wrong way. This meeting was her opportunity to study what happened, rulings, and extraneous factors. That was what June would hear. The information she gathered from the interviews would make her imaginary project so much stronger.
The rock-solid prison grew smaller out of the rear window. June’s figure faded from Christine’s mind. More questions formed. Still, so many were unanswered. June hadn’t responded to any of her queries about facts, and she hadn’t cared. Christine was not in charge. She was not an interviewer. Apparently, their meeting was of no consequence to June, locked in that place. Christine understood her commands didn’t carry weight. June could do whatever she wanted, no repercussion. It couldn’t get worse. Christine scanned the entrance one more time in her rearview mirror. June had only ever seen the front door once.
Chapter Two
Before — 1968
ROSE AND JUNE had fought several nights before about Dr. O’Malley and if they should be together. This night, they fought for the sake of fighting. They both felt unwanted, unloved. Rose didn’t think June still loved her. It made June feel emotionally abandoned. The incident, the blood bath of words, was an emotion-filled boilover. There was yelling and tears, conflicted feelings. They slapped June in the face. She let all the words bubble and shake the lid.
Of course, they would be together. It didn’t matter what others discussed on their own time. June loved her. She solidly claimed all the words she sometimes held bottled up.
That night, June’s words were powerful: “Don’t think about us not being together” and “Maybe, we should take a break. I should go out. You can’t keep screaming like this.” She was trying to shake reason into Rose. If simply saying “I love you” didn’t work, like the words hadn’t worked the night before, she would trick her into knowing her intent.
She sobbed low and broken from all the fighting. June stood in the living room of the modest apartment and stared down on the couch at Rose sitting. She had the money for a much better place. With her job, June had broader options. But the apartment lobby’s coffered ceiling kept her there, and the large living room window wouldn’t let her go. And Rose had lost her job. Living was going to get a bit more expensive. The absence of extra spending cash would be noticeable.
THE SINGLE SHOT clapped, and June rushed over and stood motionless at the door. She didn’t dare turn the knob as all the scenarios flooded in, and blood rushed to her head. Rose caused the ruckus; without a doubt, the shooter was her. June realized this as she thought back to the moment Rose left the room. The glint in Rose’s eyes as she left, her smirk, in the shared room June was standing in, was embossed onto the plaster walls. June’s eyes strained, watching a ghost, focusing on the details, making sure it was true. The outline of the gun in her hand, which she held tightly, awkwardly in her loose pocket as she left, barely concealed, pulsed. The item didn’t draw her attention at the time because if it did June would’ve screamed or thrown herself in front of the door. But as she remembered what happened—Rose saying, “Be right back,” and turning to leave, with the outline of the bulge—she gasped. The thing in her pocket could’ve been a surprise for their weekend drive or a present for one of an uncountable number of anniversaries. No, it was a gun.
The pause at the door, hand on the doorknob, was thirty seconds, forty seconds at best. Darting into the hallway, June banged on the doors. A man in his bathrobe entered the hallway and gawked at June, ranting she belonged up the road in an insane asylum.
“What the hell are you doing?” the man shouted out. “I’m calling the cops. What the hell is happening?” He turned and looked back at his wife inside the apartment.
June swayed as if drunk. She stumbled and, in a garbled voice, muttered, “No.” Her lips trembled, barely coherent, not fully awake, spitting nonsensical utterings.
“Did you shoot someone?” He darted at June. “What’s your name?”
“Yes,” she said. The words were all that was articulated as she continued wavering down the hallway to impending doom.
June meandered farther through the corridor and stopped at the stairwell door. Going down would mean she’d find out what happened. Rose’s inconceivable act was irreparable. The truth would surface. She stopped still and rested her head on the door. She filled with grief but decided to descend.
When she got to the apartment, June waited at the entrance for her body to calm down. The scene only triggered more emotion. As soon as she saw Rose, her eyes filled with tears, and she could not control her shaking body.
Rose opened the door before June could enter. She came to meet June but only bowed her head and relaxed onto the floor speechless. Her spine rested against the doorjamb of Dr. O’Malley’s apartment, and she sat there a mess of unsettled emotions and collapsed frustrations. Her eyes rose up, and then she stood.
June hugged June. “Oh, my god. What have you done?” The blood transferred onto June’s body. “You didn’t really? How could you? It’s impossible.” She rocked with gentle sways even though Rose’s body resisted.
“He reached for the gun. I brought it with me to scare him.” She wiped tears from June’s face. “I went to talk to him to scare him. But he got the gun. He pointed the gun at me, but he got shot. He pointed it at me, but he’s dead.” Her sobs heaved.
June drew back her head with realization and understanding. “How could you?”
Rose’s sobs didn’t faze June. The evening, the murderous event, ruined everything for the rest of their lives.
“You’re so stupid. Why did you do it?”
“I told you. He almost shot me.” Rose stopped crying. “He deserved it.”
“Our life is ruined—in one fell swoop. You don’t even know.” Standing over Rose, June slowly relayed the impact to their lives. Her anger and accusations bellowed. These words came in heat, tension, confusion, misunderstanding, and panic. Rose’s bullet had left someone dead. Neither of them thought about running. June distanced herself more and more from Rose, stepping away in even steps.
“Why? How could you?” June asked.
In the heat of the moment, Rose spat, “I did it for you.” Her bitterness bubbled to the surface.
It was something June had never wanted, never conceived. June understood it for what it was, a lie breaking the silence in a moment of passion. Her feeling and meaning came out as a distorted utterance. The words injured. June was the only witness. Their lives separated forever.
“How could you be so stupid? How could you do this?” June’s choppy words were deafening.
Rose winced and jerked her head, sneering at her.
The police arrived, and there were four people in the hallway. “Hands up,” an officer in a crisply ironed uniform shouted.
June and Rose both raised their arms.
No one else had emerged from their apartments. Rose and June scanned the cleared area. The officer on the scene pushed June away from Rose, shuttered their voices.
June was first. She was the most subdued, an easy arrest. June even turned as one of them moved toward her. She didn’t want a struggle. What they did to lesbians in lockup was horrible. They taught them a lesson. But this, murder, was on different terms. And, even though June wasn’t the murderer, she turned for the officer. Fear drove her to it.
“What happened here?” He scolded them and sized up June for restraint before slapping cuffs on her. He waited for her to run. He didn’t wait for an explanation.
June and Rose were innocent, or they were part of an accident. They were two women, weak, standing still, confused, until Rose spoke.
“I don’t know. One thing after another happened. She told me to do it, officer. She told me to. I had to,” Rose said, covered in blood, crying. She moved her head from side to side as she struggled with slight jerks but didn’t look in June’s direction.
They cuffed Rose second. Rose cursed at the air, at June, as they put handcuffs on her. The cold countenance of a killer crossed her face and stayed there. June watched Rose move with an officer down the hallway. She didn’t turn around or catch one last glance as they separated. Rose wanted nothing more of her. The distance grew by miles as she left out the door.
In the parking lot, Rose was shoved into a car. How could Rose say the murder was her fault? How could she not be responsible for what she had done? Trapped in the same chain of events as Rose, June bobbed her head and rocked, ashamed and nervous. In a minute, she’d be ducked into a car, too, no matter how many times she turned and stuttered out she hadn’t done anything. She wasn’t even in the room. They hadn’t even asked. Despite her anger at Rose’s words, Rose’s implication of her, she pitied Rose. More than anything, June wanted her to be okay when she got downtown.
Chapter Three
Terrie
CHRISTINE STRODE ACROSS the university’s central courtyard on the way to the student center to sign the Class of 2015 banner. She tended to walk with purpose, blind to anyone directly in front of her. Friends would stop to talk to her in class or at a restaurant or coffee shop. They would tell her she blew right past them as if on a mission. They went unnoticed, despite their waves or casual hellos.
Christine thought a lot. Although usually social, at times, she found herself in a mist of foggy contemplation and emotions, going down what-if corridors and I-wish-I-wouldn’t-have hallways in her mind. She overthought her partner all the time. She called her a “girlfriend,” but she wished she were ten years older so “partner” or “lover” sounded easy. Their classification sounded immature. When a couple says “partner,” they are taken more seriously. Saying “girlfriend” puts you on the same level as high school students.
Christine and Terrie had exchanged “I love you.” The short phrase had come out a few months ago. To Christine, the words meant she was settling down. More so, when she said “love,” it reminded her of the investment as she said it. The more she tried to say “I love you” and move on with life, the more she evaluated her sensibilities.
Terrie failed to see the point of marriage though. They went their own way most days, in her opinion, even though they had been dating for about eight months. Terrie and Christine had become more serious two months before when the semester changed. Yet Terrie didn’t carry all her furniture up those stairs. She still paid for her old apartment, and Christine covered the cost for her place, but Terrie spent the night, every other night. Some noticed the convenience.
Yesterday at about the same time, they’d had coffee but off-campus. The library coffee shop was too typical for a coffee date. They tried to find time to date in general, time to bond, keep the romance alive, more than stare at each other. Minigolf, movies, and restaurants let them feel like they weren’t shifting into Netflix-movie-night romance status. It was the posed face-to-face encounters Christine craved.
Terrie was more of a surpriser. That’s how she showed her affection. She would bring flowers and arrange them in the apartment. Christine insisted she loathed flowers. Terrie brought them anyway. Someone looking in on their relationship might say Christine wasn’t femme enough or was somehow averse to receiving flowers. Somewhere, deep down, Terrie liked that they were there, arranged in the corner, sometimes with an unopened, unmentioned card addressed to Christine. That was how Terrie showed her love, silently, in a way open to interpretation.
Terrie sipped from her large mug, held with both hands. Christine didn’t question her strength. Terrie, wiry overall, still held characteristics that made people aware of her power. Her muscles bulged slightly on her lean frame. She carried books or furniture or whatever up to their third-story apartment. Her friends often took advantage of this talent.
The ridges and divots of Terrie’s face, caring wrinkles around the eyes, and soft smiles warmed the room when they were together. Angles jutted across her face, creating an overall masculine mask. Gentle feminine dips and smooth skin were present as well. Christine searched for softness and curves along her chin. She gave everything to Terrie. She wanted more emotion in return.
Terrie’s ragged short hair says “I’ve got fire and spunk.” Her eyes, though laser blue, would only penetrate one when pushed to the brink. She snapped sometimes, and that caused a rift in their relationship. A few times, Terrie had yelled at Christine until she cried. They always got over it, at least the less frequent occurrences, but at a certain point, Terrie took anger over the edge and did unforgettable things. Her crimson face and her anger stuck in Christine’s memory more than the words. When she remembered those moments, while having a firm discussion, she still tiptoed around the rest of the conversation. She didn’t want Terrie to yell, and she wanted to go slowly in the relationship.
