Janet: devastated.
Chapter Thirty
Janet Herbert was devastated by the news…
Janet Herbert was devastated by the news that Jean had been arrested in the Isaacs child’s disappearance. Taken into custody, assisting with inquiries, the newspaper said.
There was a long silence on the phone, with Janet gripping the set with enough force to practically crush it, and Molly hanging on in hopes of finding something to say that might help ease the pain. She felt responsible for this turn of affairs.
If only she hadn’t pushed so hard. A fantasy ideal of romance was coming back to haunt her. How could she have known the guy would turn out to be a stinker? Deep down in her woman’s heart of hearts, she accepted the truth, which was that all men were stinkers. Her own husband was a case in point, albeit a carefully-kept secret, and not all that often, really...
“I’m so sorry, Janet.” She said it softly, in a kind of inner pain of her own.
“Oh, God. Does he have a lawyer? What’s going to happen to him? They don’t even know what’s happened to her.”
Molly didn’t want to raise false hopes, but everyone in town was saying Jean did it, and she had no information that would tend to contradict it. With Jean’s mysterious disappearance the other day, what was anyone supposed to think?
Where there’s smoke there’s fire…right?
“There have been successful prosecutions without a body.” Molly was pretty miserable.
Oh, God, what have I done?
A recent case she had read about stood out in her mind. A man’s wife had disappeared, and in the trunk of his vehicle they found traces of blood and hair.
The police searched and searched, woodlot after woodlot, ravine after ravine, but had never found the body.
Public opinion was a factor in the decision to prosecute. When the man was convicted of the murder of his wife, there was no one to object, no nay-sayers. Public opinion could be murder sometimes, she knew that. Suddenly the tone of the conversation changed.
“Damn it all, I don’t think Jean did it. He’s just not like that.” Something had snapped inside of Janet.
Molly was all too familiar from her reading of the tabloid press, about how a certain kind of woman would marry just about anybody, including convicts on death row. Janet had never impressed her that way. She was also aware that certain types of sex crimes were usually, or at least often, done by someone familiar to the household. Was Gagnon trying to get close to Janet’s kids? She kept her mouth shut about that.
“I guess you have two choices. You can give up on the guy, and cut your losses, and chalk it up to experience…”
Perhaps that would be best under the circumstances.
“Or?”
"You can fight for your man."
“You can fight for your man.” Molly had a strong romantic streak in her, one that she suspected was shared by her friend.
She hoped she was doing the right thing for Janet. There was a long moment of silence.
“So the question is, do I still believe in Jean?” Janet’s voice trailed off in misery.
There was a very long silence.
“How much is the bail going to be?”
“According to the paper, a million dollars.” Janet’s despair was apparent in her voice.
With no assets, Janet’s signature would be worthless. Molly had no doubt that she would have done it.
“You know, that house of his is supposed to be worth a lot of money.” Moll was thinking out loud, filling up those awful silences.
The bail hearing was set for three days hence.
“I have to go now. I think I have to make a few phone calls.”
After a quick goodbye, Molly was left wondering what new chain of events had been set in motion.
***
Scott and Jasmine Boisvert-Schiller were holding forth at Shirley’s place, unusually busy with daily traffic. In Shirley’s experience, the doughnut shop was a clearing house for local news, opinion, gossip, or just everyday speculation. Her weekly receipts were up a good ten or fifteen percent since the rape, torture and ritual dismemberment of the Isaacs child. The news was spreading like wildfire. It was now common knowledge all over town.
“The thought of that sicko raping an innocent little kid like Caitlynn just makes my blood boil.” Scott pontificated. “Just give me five minutes alone with him in his cell, just me and my hunting knife.”
Scott: five minutes alone with him...
Self-righteousness is the most addictive drug of all.
His courageous words were greeted with nods and murmurs from the assembled jurors, people like Pastor Ron Beltley, who ran a small non-denominational but clearly not-Catholic church on the outskirts of town. Business apparently wasn’t too good in the God-bothering trade lately. Rumor had it he had been seen at the employment bureau looking at the jobs available. Word was, he might be willing to travel.
“May God have mercy on his soul.” The Pastor wiped a tear from his eyes.
“They should bring back the death penalty for guys like that. And there should be no appeal. Just convict ‘em, lead ‘em out and stone ‘em to death. I’d throw the first one.”
This with a nod to the Pastor, who blenched slightly but kept his mouth closed.
“Yes, everyone in town could throw one.” This was Danny McWarren, a retired cop, who had settled here in God’s country after taking early retirement from a small town in southwestern Ontario.
No one could remember exactly where he was from. As long as he paid his bills, no one cared.
“Honey.” Jasmine was tired after a tough morning of shopping for new drapes for their thirty-five hundred square foot home in the prestigious Deer Run development on the northwest, or upwind side of town.
Scott frowned and she shut up.
“Well, jeez.” Amy Northcliffe wanted to talk now. “The man is entitled to a fair trial.”
“Then he should be shot.” Her husband Dick was rewarded with grins all around.
“Oh, you. But seriously. If he’s as mentally ill as they say he is, he may not be criminally responsible.”
Many in the audience shook their heads at this. In their opinion, people should take responsibility for their crimes. People should be punished for what they did, and Quebec was not too popular around here these days. The mill across the river in Sainte-Joan had not closed down, while the one in Scudmore had. While the two towns were separated by five kilometres, they were also separated by the Ottawa River, with no bridge in either direction for many kilometres. And Gagnon was French.
The official reason was that the trees in Ontario were all too small to make lumbering economically viable, while in Quebec there was still an estimated three-year supply. Yet there were plenty of big trees available in the nearby Algonquin Park. An eighth of one per cent of old-growth forest still remained in the Park, enough to keep Scudmore’s smug prosperity going forever. And Mister Jean Gagnon was so very, very French.
Gagnon was becoming the focus or locus of all their little resentments.
“The thoughts of that bastard sitting on top of half a million bucks.” Recently Scott’s investment portfolio had taken a real nose-dive, due to his earnest belief that U.S. investment banking could never fail to provide rich dividends.
The Pastor Beltley went into a dreamy reverie. God was talking to him, and he needed to concentrate to hear His word and to understand it. What inspiration. He sat up a little straighter.
“We’re having a prayer vigil for Caitlynn on Sunday. We’ll pass the hat around, and take up a collection for the family.”
The Pastor Beltley.
END
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