Criminal by Proxy

Chapter One

Dear Rose

I LOVED HER… That’s what I tell myself at least, June uttered. Her exertion, her plea, resonated. I told her that…yelled across the courtroom…in 1968, the day I went to prison, and I’ve said it a thousand times since.

June had been a psychiatrist years ago, but Christine was the one listening now, decades later.

Christine was pretending to be a law student to get information, clarity on historical facts about the actions of her great-aunt Rose from the time she was in a mental hospital in the late 1950s. Her aunt, who was in her seventies, was not in Christine’s direct blood line but rather the child of her grandmother’s sister. She’d lived with Christine’s aunts and uncles and family from a young age, nonetheless. Christine had gathered scattered details in bits and pieces all her life. Every other family holiday or so, some new bit of information would surface. But she never asked. It was something everyone quietly avoided to begin with.

June had been Rose’s psychiatrist at one point while she was in a mental hospital. Sometime after she was released, she’d moved in with June, and they had developed a relationship. Rose had ended up shooting and killing a man, but Christine was confused about the chain of events and who was to blame. June was in prison, and Rose had been free since 1972.

Several letters followed the initial blunt hello letter to June. In those, they discussed basic things Christine got wrong and developed a loose friendship. After about four letters, Christine suggested a meeting. June recommended an interview room since she was a student, and Christine went about finding out if it was possible.

In an act of indiscretion, she set up an appointment to see the infamous June, someone she had recently found out to be Aunt Rose’s ex-lover. This interview, her time in the room with a prisoner who held a life sentence, was dedicated to asking questions to elucidate events from decades ago, that her aunt Rose never discussed.

Christine attempted to gauge if June was telling the truth. She needed to know if the legal decision was warranted. She was sure if she listened very carefully, she could figure out if June actually did love Aunt Rose and if the correct decision had been made in the courtroom in 1968. All this, Christine attempted to assess with a conversation. She would have an answer by the end of the conversation. It was her only objective.

June wasn’t the same person she had been years ago—when June had loved Aunt Rose and Aunt Rose had presumably loved her. That fact stuck out. Christine’s initial assessment was any flame June still held for Aunt Rose was one-sided.

June only half faced her, sitting sideways on the chair, the corner of which stuck out between her legs. June glanced over her shoulder. She held a waning seventy years in her limbs, but she still glowed with energy. Christine didn’t mind she threw a sneer down across her nose. Christine pried and chipped at information at first, but the conversation soon flowed more smoothly.

Christine had first heard about June from her great-aunt, who kicked up old memories and dropped them right away. Christine let her get away with her excuses—she didn’t remember. June was her aunt’s ex-lover. She mentioned she was in prison. That was everything her aunt would tell her. Christine had found out June was labeled a criminal by the media. She was a prisoner with a life sentence. Aunt Rose had fired the gun, but they’d given the slot in prison to June. Christine imagined her day, filled with bitter resentment for her free ex-lover. The lover who didn’t contact her. There had to be bad blood. Christine eyed her goal at this point—information. She needed to know what had happened. Christine was interrogating her, asking her to relive it for a law school report, what she thought about the case so many years later. Unfairly picking at issues June wasn’t ready to answer, she continued the questions.

June went on, describing everything in bits and pieces. She would pause and continue, restart with irrelevant comments, diverting the conversation. It was different all that time ago. All the hoopla over something agreed to be truth. If someone thought you were a lesbian and if they caught you, arms were up in the air—sirens roared. It was a travesty, and something was done about it. June continued on about the past, how people thought of her and talked about her.

She spoke about the past as if events weren’t real, as if life were a story she was reading to children, the grim side of a fairy tale. Off and on, June would shift, indicating her tongue had taken her too far. She shouldn’t have let the full story go. Her knowledge was an out-of-body reflection, too real. The trauma showed through.

Christine’s life of rumors, her life, seemed trivial. Three close friends gossiped about Christine and the woman she’d slept with last summer, Amy. Her friends told her to move on, but she wouldn’t let the friendship go. They said, She’ll mess you up. It was still the same shameful behavior: whispered gossip, stern talks, and scandalous goings-on. Her reality was different from June’s in that Christine didn’t have the same amount to lose. Nothing was a malicious, life-ruining assault.

We were taking risks. Real risks. Higher stakes than today. I didn’t want to change the world or loosen people’s opinions. I wanted love. She gave me that. So, what else was I supposed to do? June said. She grabbed at short tufts of hair at the base of her head.

What people were doing was so important. I don’t want to say it wasn’t. We had love, and we wanted to keep it. We fought that battle every day from our apartment, from our place of work. In a way, very quietly, but we fought. We certainly didn’t change the minds of the world when the murder happened. We acknowledged how strong our love was before the murder. It was so well bonded that I still love her now, after all these years. Her words softened and rounded as she spoke again about her love. She dipped her head as if the frown that extended cheek to cheek were pulling it down.

Wrinkles emerged in the corners of June’s eyes as Christine tapped her pencil. Christine stopped to cease any errant irritation. When Christine tried to bring June back and force her to be present, talk about the case, June’s vocal qualities changed.

The soft voice June spoke with when talking about the past and love disappeared into one of an aged woman when she spoke about what was going on in her life now. You see. They all believe me in here now. I love her. My friends in prison. It’s okay to be gay, even though it definitely wasn’t when they locked me up.

Christine sat stiffly as a board in the chair listening to June, catching every word. As she performed the gesture, she committed to brushing off immature and unserious actions, those not indicative of a law student. She was already in a precarious balance with June, a relaxed new friend facing a studious law student—both skeptical of masked lies, strangers in an unfamiliar room. Christine’s great-aunt Rose was dying. Who was this woman she kept speaking of?

Aunt Rose was younger than June. Yet, even ten years ago, her limbs, as Christine remembered them, hadn’t been as vivacious, and her energy hadn’t sprouted from her eyes quite as much as June’s. June had a staccato bite to her words. She quickened the pace every time she answered Christine. Offended, at times, she looked off into the distance. Christine relied on the fact she must have relished talking to someone.

Christine had hit a deeper nerve. Now, she scrambled to put all the pieces together. She went after the question of love before putting together the details. Tell me what happened. I need as many details as possible for my law class project, Christine said. She put the tape recorder on the desk and flipped the switch. It had been fifteen minutes of the hour-long interview time slot.

They say I killed that man with psychological powers. She waved her hands in the air. They said I made Rose do it, held an invisible gun to her head. Well, I didn’t, unless it’s a matter of love. Then, I did.

June wasn’t going to introduce any more facts. In her letters, Christine had mentioned a few details about the case she had read in newspaper articles, asked to tape-record, and offered anything she could do in return. June denied any money or gifts with short, choppy responses and was willing, as she commented, only for the reason she treasured a change in scenery—No matter how stale. She squeaked out she was too proud for money. June was up for early release again, but her case, in all the years, had never gone through.

With a sigh, June spoke. Oh, I loved her hair. It shined so much. Fistfuls thick and gorgeous. I wonder if it still is?

She switched right into talking about how much she loved Aunt Rose. June veered off course from any conversation Christine prompted. It was as if she was toying with Christine, keeping what she wanted to know at bay. Was there deception in her evasive language, her imploring attempts at sympathy?

The pushback she was getting from June had to be the result of her lying. Christine only gathered she deserved this much, a liar herself. As much as Christine tapped her pencil and asked for the facts, June would drift off or talk about things that happened in prison, the social climate in the sixties, or what seclusion was like. She was uninterested in going over the details, telling her side of the story. Christine needed a basis for events. She had to put together the details, the hazy parts; after that, she would listen to everything else. It was as if Christine’s opinion didn’t matter. The one point Christine got was June loved Rose.

When I first got here—so many years ago now—they put me with the most violent woman in the place. They tried to break me ’cause they assumed I wasn’t tough. When you have love in your heart, pushing the feelings out for toughness’s sake is difficult, June said.

Weakening, Christine said, It must have been difficult at first. She hoped she wasn’t leading her down the wrong path. It was no use fighting June’s tense emotions. June appeared to not hear her.

Christine hoped to find out more about this person—Dr. June Ashmore. Christine was sure there was some reason to it all. The story had truth. Aunt Rose had mentioned her several times before, but they never got into all the minute details. This woman, June, was still something to Aunt Rose. The case confounded and perplexed her. She would pound her fist later. She had to know more.

Christine tried to keep curiosity and empathy at bay. She lifted her pencil and slanted her clipboard with the fresh legal pad held tight in the clip. Bowing her left eye into the paper, she attempted to scribble some notes. They loved each other after all, she told herself. Her mind wandered as she considered whether she should doodle. She filled her mouth with a grin and drew a mini heart. This was a project in a way—a project for Aunt Rose.

So, for my assignment, Christine said, situating her clipboard over her lap and crossing her arms. Let’s talk about Dr. O’Malley. You didn’t kill him, but you’re in prison for his murder. Can we talk about your relationship with him, first and foremost?

Look at your suit. To a T. Except for a few wrinkles, you pass for a real lawyer, June said.

What Christine wanted to know wasn’t worth her breath. Christine leaned away and let out two grumbling coughs with lips closed tightly. She would get what information June would give her. She would listen.

First, I’ll tell you why I loved Rose. You can see my case log if you want to know what happened. The report details the charges, what the cops decided, so it must be true, June said, wetness forming in her eyes. You put this in your project—genuine love in human nature weighs more than the power of any law. It supersedes it.

Christine didn’t know for sure, but she imagined this statement wouldn’t get her an A. Nonetheless, she reflected on the perspective, the power in June’s voice. They repeated this argument over and over again. Christine understood a bit about love. As serious as possible, June buckled her up, and Christine had better listen.

June reached into her bra and produced a small triangle. The creased and folded item resembled those footballs kids made with paper in elementary school. The note was beginning to yellow from age and oils and from hands and repeated opening and closing. She unfolded the scrap carefully, crease by crease. She flattened the paper again by making broad sweeps with the back of her hand. The lines were deep and wide from folding and refolding. She read it aloud.

Dearest Rose,

I’m trying you again. It’s the two-hundred-fiftieth time. They say I’m up for release again. I’ve been recommended for release over fifteen times. It probably won’t happen, but I wanted you to know. Maybe you’ll move out of town. Ha. Maybe you’ll remember me and want to see me. Just know I want to see you and talk.

I could save this all for when we meet, but I might as well say it here in case we never do. I knew I loved you when you first came to me and told me you needed a place to stay. I knew I loved you before, of course. When they released you, the tears rolled down your face. You were so happy you were finally free—maybe, maybe, the world didn’t hate you on the grounds you were a lesbian. You had this light inside you that went on. Our beacon. You might have been on the same footing as everyone else. No one would be able to limit you. And of course, you were a beacon. Everyone talked; you didn’t care who knew you were the person you were. It mattered, though. It mattered to the people who hated you and the people who loved you. I always loved you for your virtue; you were a fighter. We made teeny efforts, didn’t we? We made sexuality normal. We fought homophobia. We stood up for our friends. All this in micro steps. Making simple comments to other doctors was one way. We lent Mary money when she lost her job. Remember? I pushed the belief homosexuality was normal, carefully, in my work as a psychiatrist. Even though I could’ve been barred from practicing psychiatry, it was more important to show other people our love. It was ours, and no one could take that away. No one could limit it—we wouldn’t let them.

I hope I helped you be yourself. When I was your doctor, I tried to tell you what everyone else said was wrong. I wanted to build you up and let you be a person. Remember this always: I prevented the electroshock treatments and recommended your release. I risked my job. I did it for you. It was when we were finally together—when you finally moved in, I swore we would always be together. That was me showing my love—my testament.

I still think about you—all the time. You’re with me in this wretched place. I eat my meals alone and read books, but it’s you I think about and write to so often. If I do get out this time, I might call. Maybe we can get coffee? After all these years, we can get coffee. Please, you can’t still hate me.

Love Always,

June

Tears formed in June’s eyes. As her low voice subsided, she drew in muffled, jerking breaths, her head held down. She sniffed in sharply as though tears had never come, and they weren’t still there.

I sent a few of them…in the beginning. They were love letters, of course. Rose never responded. Now, I write them and keep them piled up near my bed. The guards threw most of them away last year in a cleaning spree, June remarked. I should burn them all. All that is left. They don’t let prisoners have fire. It’s a shame for that very reason. The corners of her mouth rose. I don’t know why I leave the conversation with Rose open-ended. They shut this case a very long time ago.

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,