Chapter 11
Helena felt like she was on her own, but she was not alone.
She was the first witness of the morning session. Helena was represented by an excellent lawyer in Patricia Dubrow, but a
grand jury witness had no right to have a lawyer in the room with her. Patricia was on the other side of the locked door,
waiting in the hallway.
The grand jury room was exactly as Patricia had described it to her. It was inside the courthouse, but it seemed more like
a library than a courtroom. There was no judicial bench and, of course, no judge. The room had no windows, so no one could
see inside, and it had only one door—a door so heavy that no sound would travel beyond the four walls. Helena was seated not
in a witness stand per se, but at a table in the middle of the room. Off to her side was a court reporter with her fingers
resting on the stenographer keys, ready to take down every word, verbatim. Facing Helena, seated auditorium-style, were twenty-three
grand jurors, each with a pen and a notepad to record their own version of events if they wished. An assistant state attorney
was seated at the table to Helena’s left. Julianna Weller, the lead prosecutor, stood before her. Helena swore the familiar
oath—administered by the prosecutor—and then Weller began her questioning on a cordial note.
“Mrs. Pollard, I want to express my deepest condolences to you and your son for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“Before we begin, I will read into the record a sworn affidavit that we obtained voluntarily from a witness named Justin Arnold. Mr. Arnold was one of Mr. Pollard’s closest friends at Miami Senior High School. Very close friends, were they not, Mrs. Pollard?”
Helena was taken off guard, even though Patricia had explained beforehand that testifying before a grand jury was nothing
like a courtroom trial. The prosecutor could offer hearsay testimony, ask about documents or testimony not yet in evidence,
use leading questions—the formal rules of evidence were out the window, had there been a window.
“Owen and Justin were teammates on the high school football team, as I understand it,” said Helena.
“Thank you. I will offer the written affidavit into evidence, but I want to read it aloud for the benefit of the grand jury,
and for the benefit of the witness, as well. Please listen closely Mrs. Pollard.”
Helena had met Justin at Owen’s thirtieth high school reunion. The affidavit was Justin’s recounting of a conversation at
that event. As the prosecutor read Justin’s testimony into the record, Helena tried to listen. But, much in the way her attention
had lagged watching two old high school football jocks recall their glory days, Helena’s mind began to wander. She was focused
not on Owen’s conversation with Justin at the reunion, but her own conversation with Owen in his office, when the old football
jock had lashed out at his son the ballet dancer for the last time. It had been the proverbial straw to break the camel’s
back. Austen had endured enough. A week later, after Owen had left for work, Helena had taken matters into her own hands.
In her mind’s eye, as the prosecutor continued to read aloud, she was back in Austen’s bedroom. It was morning—on the day
of Owen’s death.
“Austen, honey, wake up.”
His eyes flittered open. “What time is it?”
“Six thirty.”
He groaned. “Mom, I don’t have school today.”
“You’re not going to school.”
Another groan. “Can’t I have just one day off from dance?”
“Not dance either. We’re going away.”
“Away where?”
“Far away.”
Helena went to the closet and pulled a suitcase from the shelf. She placed it on the bed, unzipped it, and started to empty
drawers, packing Austen’s clothes.
He sat up, confused. “Why are we leaving?”
She glanced at the poster on the wall over Austen’s bed. Mikhail Baryshnikov.
“Who’s your favorite dancer?” she asked.
“You know who.”
“Baryshnikov was Latvian.”
“Yes, I know. He danced in the Kirov Ballet in Leningrad. Like your grandmother.”
“His family spoke Russian, like my grandmother.”
“Do you speak Russian?”
“Some. There is a word in Russian that refers to people who run: bezhentsy. This applies to people who are running from bullets, from bombs, from dictators. There are people who run more gracefully
than others, and who run for their own reasons, for their freedom to express themselves. Like the man you are named for. Your
middle name: Mikhail.”
“Baryshnikov was a runner?”
“Bezhentsy. He ran halfway around the world in 1974. To Canada.”
“Why?”
She kissed him on the forehead, answering in a whisper. “We all run from something, from somebody.”
Owen was suddenly standing in the doorway. Helena started, nearly letting out a shriek.
“You scared me,” she said, collecting herself. “I saw you leave for work.”
“I came back. I forgot my laptop,” he said, and then he noticed the suitcase. His tone became harsh: “What’s going on here?”
“Mrs. Pollard,” said the prosecutor, bringing her back to the grand jury room. “Do you recall the conversation between your
husband and his high school friend Justin Arnold?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Which conversation?”
“The one described in Mr. Arnold’s affidavit. I just read it to you.”
“Um, yes. I was there at the reunion when they spoke.”
“Do you recall what sparked their conversation—specifically, how they came to talk about the subject of suicide?”
It was coming back to her, even if she hadn’t focused on a single word of the prosecutor’s reading of the affidavit. “As I
recall, the captain of the football team took his own life. It happened at some point between the twentieth and thirtieth
reunion. Owen and Justin were discussing how tragic it was. Such a waste of a life.”
“Does your memory of that conversation comport with that of Mr. Arnold?” the prosecutor asked.
“In what way, exactly?”
The prosecutor read the key words from the affidavit. “Mr. Pollard said he—quote—‘would never commit suicide,’ end quote.
That it was—quote—‘a cowardly thing to do.’”
“I believe Owen said it was ‘a coward’s way out.’”
“And that he would never do it, correct?”
“Yes. He said that.”
“Mrs. Pollard, your husband was not a coward, was he?”
“I don’t think suicide has anything to do with bravery or cowardice. Some people lose their way.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. But let me rephrase the question. Did you ever hear your husband describe himself as a coward?”
“Owen? No. Never.”
“In fact, on his social media posts, he often described himself as a ‘sheepdog,’ did he not?”
“He did. We even have a sheepdog as our family pet.”
“A sheepdog is a special kind of animal, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I think they are. For Owen, definitely.”
“Your husband called himself a sheepdog because he thought of himself as a protector, am I right? The same way a sheepdog
protects the flock, Owen protected his neighbors. His friends. And most of all, his family.”
Helena had never told anyone about her decision to take Austen and leave Owen. She answered the prosecutor’s question truthfully.
“He saw himself that way, yes.”
“A sheepdog doesn’t just pick up a shotgun one day and check out, does he?”
Helena didn’t appreciate the sarcasm. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“That’s fine,” said the prosecutor. “Let’s move on to something else.”
The junior prosecutor handed up an exhibit. Weller placed it on the table before the witness and continued.
“Mrs. Pollard, I’m showing you what has been previously marked as exhibit twenty-seven. I will remind the grand jurors that
this exhibit was offered into evidence through the testimony of Miami-Dade detective John Osborne, who told us that his team
found this handwritten list in your kitchen on the night Owen’s body was recovered.”
Helena stared at the list but said nothing.
Weller asked, “Do you see the handwriting across the top where it says, ‘Things Stressing Me Out’?”
She lifted her gaze and looked the prosecutor in the eye. “I see it.”
“And below that is a list of items numbered one through seventeen, correct?”
“Yes.”
“On the night the police came to your house, Detective Osborne showed you this list, did he not?”
“Yes.”
“We know from Detective Osborne’s report—and from his testimony here at the grand jury—that he asked you about the handwriting. According to his report, you answered, ‘Yes, it looks like Owen’s.’”
“That’s my recollection.”
“I want to ask about the circumstances surrounding that exchange with Detective Osborne. First of all, it must have been a
very stressful time. Your husband had suffered a grievous head wound. The police were in the next room with the body. Your
house was a crime scene. I could go on and on.”
“It was extremely stressful,” said Helena.
“On top of all that, you and Owen had been under stress. You told Detective Osborne that you were staying at your mother’s
house. You only found the body because Owen called and begged you to come back home. True?”
She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, feeling a few judgmental glares from the grand jurors. “Yes, that’s true.”
“So, you were stressed. Your marriage had been under stress. The situation could not have been more stressful. And that’s
when Detective Osborne stepped out of the kitchen and showed you the handwritten list. Correct?”
“That’s right.”
“By this point, it was what time—after midnight?”
“Yes.”
“On top of the stress, you must have been tired.”
“I suppose I was.”
“So, you’re sleepy, tired, and stressed, and Detective Osborne hands you the list to examine it?”
“Well, no. He wouldn’t let me handle the list.”
“Ah,” said the prosecutor, as if to underscore the point for the grand jurors. “He wouldn’t let you hold the note closer to
take a good look, is that what you’re saying?”
“He held it for me.”
“Detective Osborne held it at a distance that he felt comfortable with. Not that you felt comfortable with. And just to paint the entire picture, this was not in the bright light of the kitchen, correct? You
were in the living room with what—maybe a lamp on?”
“I believe so.”
“Let’s be honest, Mrs. Pollard. You may have told Detective Osborne that this handwriting looked like your husband’s. But
you didn’t really get a very good look at it, did you?”
“I—I did the best I could.”
“The best you could under very difficult conditions.”
“I gave him my honest opinion.”
“But you weren’t under oath at the time, were you?”
“No. Of course not.”
“You understand that you are under oath now, do you not?”
“Yes. I do.”
The prosecutor took a step closer. “I want you to take a good look at that handwritten list now, Mrs. Pollard. Look very closely.”
Helena did so, then looked up.
The prosecutor tightened her gaze. “I don’t think that’s your husband’s handwriting,” she said, and then her voice became
more forceful. “You agree with me, don’t you, Mrs. Pollard? That is not your husband’s handwriting.”
Helena swallowed hard. “I honestly can’t say that it’s not.”
The prosecutor snatched the exhibit away, her voice rising. “Well, is it your handwriting?”
Helena suddenly was on the defensive, which seemed to have been the prosecutor’s intent.
“No, of course it’s not my handwriting. Why would I create a list that says over and over again that I was the source of all
my husband’s stress? That I was the reason Owen shot himself?”
The prosecutor changed her tone, her voice softening. “I agree. We all know it’s not your handwriting. You can testify to
that under oath with one hundred percent certainty, right?”
“Yes.”
“Can you say with equal certainty that the handwriting belongs to your husband?”
It felt like a trick question, unfair to say the least. But there was only one way to answer it. “No. I can’t say it with
one hundred percent certainty.”
It seemed to be all the prosecutor wanted the grand jurors to hear.
“Thank you,” said Weller. “I have no further questions.”