Ann-Marie MacDonald - Way the Crow Flies

“Place the prisoner in the prisoner’s box,” says his Lordship, the judge. His bench is flanked by two flags: the Union Jack and the Canadian Ensign. On the wall above his head, a portrait of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. Elizabeth Regina . Rick’s adversary.

Rick is led in in his new blue suit and handcuffs. His wrists protrude, bare and bony, from the sleeves — he has had a growth spurt in prison. The bailiff removes the handcuffs. Rick sits down.

The registrar says, “Will the accused please stand?” Rick stands up.

There is a scratch on his cheek and a speck of dried blood on his chin — the razor they gave him this morning had been used already by several inmates, the water was cold, his nerves did the rest. This has been duly noted in his file, because every injury must be accounted for. Mr. and Mrs. Froelich are seated behind him, with Colleen.

A few rows behind them sits Jack in his summer uniform. He has taken a day of leave in order to attend the first day of the trial. Leave is precious, but Mimi will understand. He leans back against the hard bench. He feels relieved already. It’s almost over. The past couple of months have been calm, but not reassuring— becalmed is the word. The sun has shone, there has been nothing visibly askew — except that the boy across the street is gone. School ended a few days ago and he took the kids for ice cream. They have gone shopping, he has cut the lawn, set up the wading pool, he has barbecued — and he has made love to his wife.

But when he looks back on the last two months, the Froelich situation permeates everything — arcs like the sky over Centralia, the blue overlaid with a faint grey film that makes it a little harder to breathe, a little harder to move. Traps time. Time has passed around Jack and he has engaged in the motions but, like a man in a bucket brigade, he has not moved from his spot. He has even had a birthday but that was just a page on a calendar, candles on Daddy’s cake. Inside, he knows he is no older than he was two months ago. Which is not the same as feeling young. He has been waiting for time to begin again. Today.

“You stand indicted by the name of Richard Plymouth Froelich,” the registrar reads from a clipboard, “that Richard Plymouth Froelich on or about the tenth day of April 1963, at the Township of Stephen, in the County of Huron, did unlawfully murder Claire McCarroll, contrary to the Criminal Code of Canada. Upon this indictment, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”

The press is here — a row of sweltering men in crumpled suits at the back — but they are not permitted to report anything until it’s over. There are no photographers — they have been banned from within fifty feet of the courthouse, unlike the public. Jack saw the police car pull up to the steps this morning but his view of Rick was blocked by the surge of a small crowd. He heard snatches, hurled insults. “There he is!” “You bastard!” “Burn in hell!” A reminder that, despite sympathetic editorials by journalists outraged that in a civilized country like Canada a fifteen-year-old could be tried in adult court, most people who have never met Rick have no reason to doubt the police. The boy is not from around here, not even an air force kid, he’s adopted — that came out at the hearing — he is not really white. He is Métis. A “half-breed.”

Jack was disgusted by the scene. And surprised — he is so accustomed to thinking of Ricky Froelich as the boy next door, it hadn’t occurred to him that some might see the kid as a reassuring culprit. A stranger in their midst.

Across the aisle sits Inspector Bradley. Next to him are the McCarrolls.

“Not guilty,” says Rick.

“You are appearing, Mr. Waller?” asks the judge.

A man in the black silk robes of a QC rises from the defence table next to Rick. “I am, my lord.”

The registrar asks, “Are you ready for your trial?”

Rick replies, “Yes.”

The jury is sworn. Jack is struck by the contrast between the formal — even theatrical — language, and the monotone voices. Most of these people have gone through these motions hundreds of times. For Rick it is a debut. And for the jury. There are no women among the twelve. There seems to be no one under fifty. He’s hanged —the words obtrude upon his mind but Jack dismisses them, almost offended — perfectly decent hard-working men from the community. Each and every one of them reminds him of his father: tight view of a tiny world. And he dismisses that thought too.

The registrar says, “Would the accused stand, please?” Rick stands again. The registrar continues, “Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner and hearken to his charge.”

Jack keeps his eyes on the registrar. Across the aisle, Sharon McCarroll folds her hands and looks down. As though she were in church. She is wearing a pale yellow twin-set that she got in Denver when Claire was alive. Everything about their lives up until two months ago can be summed up like that: “when Claire was alive.” They have yet to say, “when Claire died.” Because she did not die, she was killed, but who can imagine saying, “when Claire was killed”? People are killed in car accidents and floods. Claire was murdered. And there will never come a time when her parents can say, “when Claire was murdered.” What they will say instead is, “when we lost Claire.”

“… Upon this indictment he hath been arraigned, upon his arraignment he hath pleaded not guilty and for his trial has put himself upon his country, which country you are.”

Sharon tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She will testify today, then she will return to Virginia. Today is like the last day of school before the summer holidays. First there will be a quiz. She will describe precisely what she put in her daughter’s lunchbox and she will describe the clothes her child was wearing. She will tell the story of Claire’s last day: “Claire came in and asked me to pack a snack and I said, don’t you want to help me make an apple pie for the Brownies? She asked if she could go for a bike-hike instead and I said, sure, but don’t forget you have to change into your Brownie uniform before supper, and she said, ‘I won’t forget, Momma.’” Thinking of this brings a smile to Sharon’s face. Claire is still here, in this courtroom. Along with her clothes and her Frankie and Annette lunchbox, exhibit number 23. And her charm bracelet. Blair puts an arm around his wife and bends to look into her face.

“Now, gentlemen of the petit jury,” says the judge, “you have been sworn in this case and are therefore now seized with it. This young lad that we are about to try is charged with murder, which is the most serious offence known to our law….”

A pathologist from Stratford is here. He will testify as to the medical evidence indicating that she died in the spot where she was found, and he will testify as to time of death. He sent the jar of stomach contents to the office of the Ontario Attorney General, where members of the biological analysis staff re-created Claire’s snack, including the cupcake, which they baked according to a recipe provided by Mrs. McCarroll. They ate it, along with a piece of Babybel cheese, and apple slices, then vomited in order to compare it to the victim’s stomach contents.

“… and if you have heard any gossip about this case, as I am sure you have,” says the judge, “I don’t suppose it is possible to have lived in Huron County in the last two or three months without hearing something about it….”

A few rows in front of Jack, Henry Froelich’s head is bowed — he is wiping his brow. Jack sees the back of Karen Froelich’s head. Straight fly-away hair. Mousy, even. Then she turns, he glimpses her profile and something jumps just below his sternum. Some women have mouths that are actually better defined without lipstick. The faint line bracketing the corner of her mouth — lips parted, close to her husband’s ear, whispering comfort.