Chapter 11 Bald Eagle
Eleven
Bald Eagle
Haliaeetus leucocephalus. Bald eagles mate for life unless one of the two dies. Their courtship rituals are spectacular, with the birds locking talons,
then flipping, spinning, and twirling through the air in a maneuver called a cartwheel display. They break apart at the last
moment, just before hitting the ground. Eagles are serious parents: A pair raises one to three chicks each year in a huge
messy nest, the largest nest built by any North American bird. Males and females care for the babies equally. Bald eagles
have a wingspan of up to seven feet and, if standing on the ground next to an average-sized human, the bird’s head would reach
about to the height of the person’s hip. The female is larger and typically more aggressive. The bald eagle is a traditional
symbol of justice, freedom, and the rule of law.
The first morning of the trial, I dressed carefully.
It was all I could do. When I went to meet some hotshot designer or movie star, my luxe clothing was my only armor.
Someone always complimented me “Oh, you made that old brooch into a necklace with a ribbon.” It was my ritual, my preps, like things that ER doctors do when they know an ambulance is coming—deep breathing, handwashing, knee bends, eye drops, strong coffee.
I power walked in place until I was breathless, then blow-dried my irascible slippery hair into amiable smoothness, then put on my all-white uniform of SiBelle wide-leg trousers and a plain silk shirt covered with a light long-sleeved navy linen duster I’d borrowed from my mother, only a month after giving it to her.
I would use this as protective coloration, to fit in with the prevailing press look, which was urban shabby.
Like an old-style gambler, I rolled up my sleeves and cinched them with garters to avoid the dreaded ink mark.
In the hall outside the courtroom, the first person I met up with was Sally Zankow, in a black skirt with black tennies and
a black sweatshirt, her yellow mane freshly colored. She spotted the garters first thing. “That’s a good trick,” she said.
“I don’t know how many blouses I’ve destroyed with pen marks. Are those like wedding garters?”
“Exactly that,” I said.
Then without further small talk, Sally asked, “Do you think she was really sick?”
“Felicity?”
“I wonder about that. I wonder if it was just a defense move to derail the process.”
I was about to say that I knew for a fact that she was sick but instead took a neutral path. “She’s here now, I guess.”
The next person I passed was Suzanne Church, who covered her eyes with one hand. The third person I passed was my mother.
I did a real double take, seeing her, walking past her, then recognizing her.
“What?” I said.
“I’m interested,” she said.
“Are you going to come to the whole thing?”
“I’m not sure. I took some time off. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s a public courtroom,” I said, but then I reached out and took her hand.
Not only did I not mind, but I was also pitifully grateful for her presence, for the opportunity to talk this over with someone so much more experienced than I was, or ever hoped to be, with such awful things.
That touch of hands also said, I know how overwhelmed you are; I will help you and never offend your fragile, young dignity.
It said also, Something else is wrong, but I won’t ask.
When my mother let go, she stared past me, and I turned just in time to see Sally Zankow throw her arms around Miranda, with
more genuine feeling than I would have thought she was capable of. “McClatchey!” Sally shrieked. “Did you decide to come back
from the dark side?”
“Nah, I like the dark side. I like the devil’s money. But, Sally, you haven’t aged one single day!”
Sally wouldn’t be distracted. She asked, “Come on, Miranda, what are you doing here?”
“Just observing for a few days. This thing, this case . . . You know, Felicity Wild grew up in my neighborhood. I knew her
very well when she was a kid,” my mom said. “And, of course, this young woman here is my daughter.”
Sally didn’t know that, and reactions, from a puzzled crinkle to a wide-eyed smirk, galloped across her seasoned face. “Apple,
tree, huh?” she said. My mom shrugged prettily.
Then the doors opened, and as we filed into the courtroom, the other press and I heading toward the front, the spectators
settling themselves near the back, the first thing I noticed was the strippers.
A cluster of poppies in a hayfield, they were a row of women dressed not exactly inappropriately but as if they’d wandered into a municipal building in the belief that it was a nightclub.
There were Dovey and Archangel and a handful of others I had only seen in passing, Rochelle and Marianna and Cheryl, who came from the East Coast and whom everyone called “Boston,” in skirts and blazers of bright daffodil and peacock blue, shiny thigh-high boots with impossibly high heels, black taffeta palazzo pants and black silk cowl-neck blouses with decks of gold chains, some hung with a crucifix.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was the worst possible retinue of attendants for Felicity’s image as the demure young scholar she had once been, but it was the sweetest possible display of solidarity for a sister in a jam.
Shoulder to shoulder, they took quick glances, like sips, at everything around them.
Then the bailiff said, “Please, all rise for the Honorable Judge Deborah Martin . . .” and an older woman, slight, neat, bespectacled,
wearing a Ruth Bader Ginsburg lace collar at the throat of her judicial robes, took her seat, inviting everyone else present
to do the same.
Into the room came Felicity, shockingly thin, her cheekbones sharp, even more hauntingly beautiful, the green dress with the
gathered details hanging loose from her frail shoulders. Only when I studied her closely did I notice that her eyes were as
frantic as fish in a bowl, darting from her defense attorney to the jury box, where sat twelve upright people who would decide
if she walked out of this place to go home or if she walked out of it to get into a van that would convey her to prison for
the rest of her life, or at least for the rest of the best part of it, to a place that would make the Dane County jail look
quaint, a place where many of the women would be rough and desperate and even crazy, who would try to befriend her or romance
her or destroy her. Felicity was strong and smart, but now she was beaten down. I could not see how she would survive that.
Sam, my beautiful and beloved, pulled her chair out for her, settling her between him and an attractive older woman in a light gray suit.
The case called, the counsel introduced, Judge Martin said, “Good day. I need a preliminary word. It has not escaped my attention that this is a high-profile murder trial with some very unusual elements, to say the least. Still, it is an event of the utmost seriousness, with the highest stakes for the families of the men who died, and the fate of a young woman to be decided. This is my courtroom. I will have no shenanigans. Anyone who speaks out of turn or otherwise acts up will be out of here so fast it will make your head spin. I will eject you on the spot and ask questions later. I hope that this is understood. Let’s begin. ”
Since I knew I could obtain the transcripts to make sure that I could quote with absolute accuracy what the participants said,
when I took out my dark pink notebook, it was to take down only general observations of the trial’s progress, but even more
to describe the scene, the behaviors, the temperature of the emotions that transcripts could not convey.
I studied the room as everyone got settled.
The jury was like a photo negative of the strippers, an opposite: eight plain women and four plain men, dressed in the kinds
of clothing that would not have been out of place at the Starbright Ministry. Sam said he’d sought out women in jury selection
for the exact opposite reason that the prosecution did. The district attorney believed that righteous women would be stern
critics of Felicity’s life, while Sam and his mother gambled that any woman, no matter how conservative, would have endured
and resented criticism from men. Every one of the jurors appeared apprehensive, even frightened, whether of the surroundings,
the process, the strippers, or of Felicity, I couldn’t say. My mom caught my eye and gave the briefest ghost of a nod: You’re good, it said. It helped me, and, for an instant, I caught myself wishing that Felicity, guilty or innocent, with much more to
lose, had her own mother in her court.
The prosecutor stood. He buttoned his suit jacket as if buckling on his battle shield and said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I am Israel Ronson, and I am the district attorney here in Dane County. Often, an assistant district attorney would be prosecuting a serious case such as this one, although I would pay very close attention to its progress. However, as the Honorable Judge Martin has stated, this is an unusual and a controversial case. I am pleased to meet all of you, but this is not a day I looked forward to. On this most beautiful day, a summer morning in the beautiful state of Wisconsin, in the beautiful city where we live and are privileged to live, we are here to do a duty that no one wants to do but that is right and necessary and in all our interest. And that is to seek justice for two people who are here today only in the memories of those who loved them, their wives, their children, their beloved relatives, two men who worked hard and served their communities and loved their families and made people proud to know them.”
He raised his hands as though to welcome the jury into a friendly hug. “They weren’t movie stars or politicians or athletes.
They were just ordinary people, people you wouldn’t necessarily remember if you saw them passing you on the street, except