Chapter 13
The following day, Jim Radcliffe was back in the courtroom, as the second day of the trial began.
The room was just as packed as it had been the previous day, with the reporters standing in the back behind the public benches, notebooks and tablets in hand.
Proceedings were already well underway, and at that moment, Dr Cabell was on the stand.
"Mr Cabell," said Ron Sheldon, the Bush's lawyer, "can you please tell us the official cause of death of Louise Belcher?"
"Yes, it was a combination of dehydration and hypothermia," said Cabell.
"Dehydration, right. And you were giving her water, weren't you?"
"Yes; sugared water."
"Any particular reason why you gave her sugar water?" Sheldon paced slightly up and down in front of the witness box. As his back was turned to the audience, he couldn't see many of the members of the public, including Gretchen, Mickey, and Nat, shaking their heads in disgust. They knew exactly where he was going with this.
"Well, sugar water would prevent dehydration and keep her energy levels up."
"Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but throughout the rescue process, you were very insistent about only giving this little girl trapped eighty feet underground a very small amount of sugar water, is that right? Why is that?" he continued when Cabell had confirmed this.
"On that first evening when I arrived, she'd been in the well for about five hours, everyone believed the digging would be done soon, and she would be out before the next morning. There was no way for us to tell what injuries she had, specifically internal injuries. I decided against giving her water that first night because I thought if she does have internal injuries, then her drinking could cause damage and there would be no way to help her. It was also in case she needed any kind of emergency surgery; liquids in her stomach could dangerously complicate the procedure. The following day, I was concerned about dehydration, so I gave her six ounces of sugar water in a baby bottle, which she drank."
"And as the days passed, you gave her less and less water, is that right? Why would you do that, considering she was, by all accounts, getting weaker?"
"Yes, I gave her less. I had to make a professional decision; giving her any amount of water was very risky, but if we didn't give her water, she would die. Therefore, I decided to give her small amounts little and often."
"Dr Cabell," Ron Sheldon lifted his chin, raised an eyebrow, and began slowly pacing again, "you claimed to give Louise Belcher small amounts of water throughout those five days, am I right? Then please explain how this child died of dehydration? Because it seems that if she was constantly being given water, she would have lived."
"She lost too many fluids," explained Cabell. "She was young, she was scared and thirsty; she didn't understand she had to ration the water – as soon as we lowered it down to her, she would drink it all, even after we told her to make it last."
"When was the last time she drank?"
"It was about four or five o'clock on Monday evening. We filled the bottle with around three ounces of sugar water, and she drank it all, but it took a while. That was when I started getting really concerned because I could tell that her energy levels had dropped, and she was breathing rapidly. She'd stopped being bossy, and I told the fire chief that I was worried about dehydration and hypothermia."
"But she had drank not that long ago, so why were you worried?"
"Because I could tell she was losing fluids, because of how tired she sounded, and she kept telling us she was thirsty and cold. I told them they had to get her out in the next twenty-four hours, as I didn't know how much longer she could maintain her body temperature."
Pursing his lips, Sheldon nodded, stopped pacing, and walked back up to Cabell. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn it seemed like the lawyer was trying to intimidate him. Sheldon was trying to make out like it was Cabell's fault, which made him silently fume. He knew that he had done everything he possibly could for that little girl, and there was nothing he could have done differently that would have helped. The room was silent, save for the jury's scribbling of their collective notes.
"To bring it back to my point, Dr Cabell," said Sheldon, "how did this child die when she had plenty of water?"
"She cried a lot," said Cabell shortly. If Sheldon wasn't going to listen, he was going to have to be blunt and extremely to the point. "So she lost a lot of fluids through that. We lose water when we exhale. Her dress and underwear were both stained with urine, so that's how she lost more fluids. I worked closely with the mortician who performed Louise's autopsy, and he told me that several of the open wounds on her back had become infected, and we have come to the conclusion that the resulting infection, coupled with her fear and shortness of breath, caused her to sweat profusely; a cold sweat. As she hadn't eaten for five days, we believe that she also suffered some form of hypoglycaemia. She hadn't drank a drop since Monday evening, so she went almost forty hours without liquids; that's more than enough time to dehydrate an already injured child."
When he had finished, the courtroom was silent. Quite a few people had their mouths open in shock, and those who had known Louise personally looked horrified.
"Dr Cabell, can you please tell the court the injuries that Louise had, both internal and external?"
Taking a deep breath, Cabell, describing everything in as professional a manner as he could. He kept his gaze fixed on Sheldon as he revealed Louise's broken ankle and fractured tail bone, her grade three pressure wounds, and weight loss. He reiterated the fact that she had suffered from hypothermia, and dehydration so severe that it had caused her kidneys to start shutting down, along with septicaemia, and potential circulation problems in her limbs. "Dr Cabell, do you know what time Louise died?"
"We estimated it at between 8 and 8:30 on the morning of the 27th."
"The drillers managed to reach her at 11am, am I correct?" Sheldon asked, nodding when Cabell confirmed this. "And do you believe she would have survived all these injuries if the diggers had got there in time?"
"I believe she would have," said Cabell honestly. "Her injuries were severe, but treatable. It's likely she wouldn't have had any lasting problems. Her ankle and back would have healed, and we would have put her on dialysis to treat her kidneys. Everything could have been treated."
"It's possible that all these injuries could have contributed to her death, right? They would have made her weaker?"
Cabell had to agree to this. It was true, after all; it wasn't easy for the human body to fight off blood poisoning, let alone a trapped child who was already injured and weakened. But the longer she was in there, the slimmer her chances of survival were; the ankle and tail bone were the least of her worries – it was everything else that had happened to her that was the problem. "Then, why, please tell me, why is Mr Bush being blamed for this? You have said yourself the fall didn't kill her; it was the amount of time she was in there. The tunnel wasn't able to be dug any quicker, so is this not just a tragic accident?"
"I think Mr Bush is to blame because he didn't tell anybody about what had happened, and because he's the one who pushed her. If he had told someone, help would have arrived quicker, instead of four hours late. I mean, there might have still been a delay in the initial drilling of the tunnel, but starting the digging earlier might have saved her life. Louise wasn't discovered for over half an hour after she was pushed, and it was only because two teenage girls were walking through the park by chance. But Logan didn't tell anyone, and that decision was fatal."
"But this is all conjecture, isn't it, Dr Cabell? Because if my calculations are correct, if Mr Bush had alerted the authorities or anyone straight away, there may still have been a few hours before the drilling rig arrived, right? I don't want to sound harsh, but an hour or two's delay wouldn't have made any difference."
Everybody in the room was immensely glad the Belchers weren't here to witness this. Many people had their mouths open wide in shock, unable to believe what they were hearing. Nat was cracking her knuckles, grinding her teeth, while Mickey was staring at Sheldon, pure hatred written all over his face. He hoped, for Sheldon's sake, that the lawyer had some kind of bodyguard.
"You're right; it is conjecture," Cabell agreed. "But Logan should have done the right thing and told someone what he did. I can't say for sure if things would have turned out differently. But the fact is that if he had told someone earlier, the drills and diggers and everything would have arrived quicker. I can't say for sure what would have happened, but the digging would have started sooner, and that might have been what could have saved her life."
"No further questions, Your Honour." Sheldon turned smartly and walked back to his table, his professional veneer hiding his annoyance.
A few hours later, Mort was on the stand, with Jim Radcliffe standing next to him, him in turn standing adjacent to a large canvas, a remote control in his hand. The press had been ushered out, and now had to wait outside the room. Mort looked a little nervous; he didn't want the jury to accuse him of being biased. The only reason he was there was because he had performed Louise's autopsy, he was a professional, and therefore, had to remain neutral. But he was doing this for Louise.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the following images are going to be extremely upsetting. To any members of the public who are sensitive to this sort of information, please step outside now."
He waited, but no one got up, not even those acquainted with Louise. Nat didn't particularly want to see these pictures, but she couldn't seem to move. She angled her head downwards, looking up at the corner of her eye, ready to look away in an instant should she need to. She could see Mickey's leg bouncing nervously, and she felt Gretchen grab her hand desperately.
Radcliffe cleared his throat and pressed the power button; he pressed another one, and brought up the first picture.
Hearing only confused whispering, Nat lifted her eyes and looked at the screen, unable to help herself. It was a picture of some small sausages, burnt so badly they were black, residing against a dark blue background. "Mr Kindler, can you tell us what this is a photo of?" asked Radcliffe, and both he and Mort braced themselves for the reaction.
"Yes; that's a picture of Louise's fingers."
Nat brought a hand to her mouth as tears filled her eyes. It about broke her heart to see just how much Louise had suffered. More whispers arose from around her; she didn't look at those behind her, but chanced a glance up at the jury. Many of them had tears in their eyes, as well, adjusting their notepads. Some of them were writing so that they didn't have to look at the picture for too long.
"Can you please explain why her fingers looked like this?"
"Yes, sir. Because Louise was trapped under rubble for so long, the circulation to her arms and legs was cut off, and because there was reduced blood flow, they turned black and swollen from lack of oxygen." Mort was careful to go into detail, much as it pained him. He'd done this several times before; a mortician is always useful at this kind of trial. But this wasn't any old autopsy he had to describe; this was the autopsy of the youngest child of some of his closest friends. He'd known Louise her entire life, and although he hoped he would never have to see these photos again, this was something that he needed to do.
He remembered to keep referring to her by name; a long-time fan of crime shows, he knew that by calling her 'Louise', instead of 'she' or 'her', would help the jury remember that she was a real person, that she wasn't just a news story.
As Radcliffe pulled up the next picture, Mort had to confirm that what looked like a black stick of wood was indeed Louise's leg, and yes, that was her bruised back, covered in severe discoloured, deep pressure wounds. He had to describe the potential gangrene on her blackened limbs, and what that would have meant for her. He couldn't say for sure whether or not she would have needed amputations, but both he and Dr Cabell had discovered that portions of the skin on Louise's back, arms, legs, hands, and feet had died, so, yes, she might have needed them. "That's her dress," he revealed at the next photo, looking at the dirty, damp, misshapen piece of fabric. "The smudges are all the dirt from the bricks."
He waited until the next photo had appeared. "And that's the back of her dress; you can see the tears. That happened while she was falling; her back kept scraping against the well. That's how she got the pressure wounds, and how they got exposed to all the bacteria in the well. The bottom half looks like a darker shade of material, but it isn't; it's urine."
"This is how she contracted the septicaemia?" asked Radcliffe, and Mort confirmed this. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I would now like to show you some footage of Louise." He pressed another button, and a video appeared on the screen. Another press of a button, and it began to play.
The jury watched silently as black-and-white footage, slightly better quality than that of the CCTV, revealed the tops of Louise's bunny ears, moving slightly as the girl looked around her, as if searching for something. After a few moments, she looked up, and they caught sight of her face. She looked healthy enough but irritated, and they could just make out some shadows on her face that could only be bruises.
"This is taking forever!" came her voice, taking many by surprise. 90% of the people in the courtroom had never heard her speak; even though Olsen Benner had been filming non-stop, the noise from the drilling machine had overpowered all the yelling Louise had done, let alone regular talking.
The officer talking to Louise responded to her, his voice faint and crackly through the little speaker, but Louise was clearly able to understand him, as she answered didn't sound tired or weak in any way, and Mort explained that this footage was from the morning of the 23rd, too soon for her to be feeling any ill effects from her injuries."But I don't wanna wait any more! I wanna get out now! No, you're taking too long!" She cried, looking down and ducking her head. She continued to talk and complain and order the policemen about, and Nat smiled a bit in spite of herself, as did a few others. There was the feisty, fierce girl they had known, or read about.
Another clip was played of Louise looking to her left, where the drilling was happening, as if expecting the breakthrough, although it wouldn't happen for a few days yet.
The one that really tugged at their heartstrings was another clip, one of Louise crying. They couldn't see her face, but they could hear her, and the shaking of her shoulders made it plain what was happening.
Static voices came through the speaker next to her, telling her jokes, though the audience in court couldn't make anything out, and Louise looked up, her cheeks streaked with tears. She didn't say anything, and only continued to sob, the camera faintly picking up her flushed face and her trembling jaw. A member of the jury wiped a tear from her eye, and Nat heard someone sniffling behind her.
The next clip, which had been recorded the following day, showed Louise hitting her head against the wall of the well in frustration.
"Objection, Your Honour!" Ron Sheldon stood up. "I believe that Louise hitting her head repeatedly could have caused head injuries which may have contributed to her death."
Judge Winstead frowned slightly.
"And what exactly are you objecting to, Mr Sheldon?"
"My opponent believes that if the men had reached Louise sooner, she would have lived. But, she may be hitting her head harder than it appears, and this might have killed her. Therefore, it wouldn't matter what time the diggers reached her."
"Do you have anything to say regarding this?" Winstead turned to Radcliffe.
"Yes, Your Honour." Radcliffe quickly crossed over to his desk, and opened his briefcase. When he had found what he was looking for, he held up ten sheets of paper stapled together. "This is Louise Belcher's autopsy report. In it, it clearly states that there are no head or facial injuries whatsoever, apart from minor bruising on her face." He walked over to the judge, and handed him the report.
Judge Winstead quickly skimmed the sheets, flipping the papers over, before putting them down.
"Overruled," he said simply, banging his gavel.
Mort sighed in relief; he really didn't want Radcliffe to show those photos he'd had to take to prove that Louise had no head injuries, internal or external. The images never left his head; he didn't need to see those photos again.
Returning to the screen, Radcliffe played the last clip; one of Louise with her head resting on her shoulder. In response to a question, she made a faint, breathy, croaky sound that made many people want to cry.
"This was around seven or eight o'clock on Tuesday night," said Mort. "She had not a lot of energy left; she could barely lift her head."
One thing he and Radcliffe had absolutely decided against was playing the clip of Louise saying her goodbyes to her family; it was just too horrific to play someone's last words in a courtroom. That sort of thing should remain private.
"Mr Kindler, in your opinion -"
A loud sniffle caused Radcliffe to stop talking and he, along with everyone else turned toward the source of the sound. Logan was still sat at the table, his elbows resting upon it, and his face buried in his hands. Cynthia and Tom stood up and leaned forward, trying to comfort him.
"Mr Bush?" asked Judge Winstead. Logan only shook his head, the sniffling giving way to crying. "Mr Bush, do you need a quick break?" he asked, and Logan shook his head again.
"I'm sorry!" he gasped, looking up, his face red and blotchy. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
Cynthia walked through the gate and approached the table. She put her arm around his shaking shoulder, but Logan didn't acknowledge it. "I really didn't mean it. I never meant for her to die; I didn't want all this! I'm sorry."
Everyone was staring at him, wondering whether or not this was a last-minute desperate plea, or if he was being genuine. All of the jury were eyeing him; if he was faking it, then he was a damn fine actor, but his tears did not sway Nat, Mickey, or Gretchen. They hoped the jury wouldn't give him a lesser punishment.
Tom and Cynthia hugged him, and the judge ordered a five minute break so that they could collect themselves, to which they did.
Logan was escorted back into the courtroom by his parents and a bailiff, his face clean and dry, but with puffy eyes. He sat back down on his chair, and took a few deep breaths.
"Are we ready to continue?" asked the judge, and the clerk nodded.
After many more hours of questioning from both sides, it was time for the verdict to be revealed. The Belchers, along with Teddy, had shown up for this part, though Gene, Tina, and Gayle remained at home.
"Before we announce the verdict, the deceased's father would like to read a statement," said the judge. Bob stood up, looking broken. He unfolded a crumpled piece of paper, his hands shaking slightly.
"I know many of you don't have kids, but I want you to hear this anyway," he began. "A few months ago, my whole world was torn out from under me. I lost my youngest child, and not only that, we lost her in the blink of an eye. That's what it felt like; one minute, we were so happy, and the next.. we were given the most devastating news ever.
None of us got to say goodbye to her, and nothing can ever make up for that. I'd give all I have and more to go back in time and stop all this." He paused. "I.. am never going to see my daughter again, and that tears me apart. You can't imagine the pain we're going through." There was more he had to say, but he couldn't do it, and quickly sat down, bowing his head. Linda put her arm around him, as did Big Bob.
Judge Winstead waited for the room to quieten before speaking.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he turned to them, "have you decided on a verdict?"
"We have, Your Honour," said the head juror as he stood. He held up a folded piece of paper, left the box, and handed it to the judge, before returning to his seat.
Bob looked up, his face taut. He gripped Linda's hand tightly, and the six of them stared at the judge, practically holding their breath.
"Logan Bush," he fixed his eyes on the teen, who had risen, looking pale. Every single person in the courtroom seemed to lean forward. "You have been found guilty of unlawful act manslaughter. You have been found guilty of attempted assault of a minor, and actual assault of a minor. I sentence you to ten years in prison, which is the maximum punishment in this state, and you are also ordered to pay $150,000 compensation."
He ignored the horrified shriek of Cynthia, and the gasping of the other people in the room.
"No!" Bob and Linda's jaws had dropped in utter shock, as had most everyone else's. Ten years? That was it?
A bailiff approached a faint looking Logan, and Bob stood, not realising what he was doing. He turned to the judge. "Is that all my daughter's life is worth to you? Ten years? That's longer than she was alive! What happened to a life for a life?" Bob ranted. "I want him locked up for good!"
Judge Winstead put down the paper, and looked at Bob; his professional, neutral expression had dropped slightly, and he looked almost sad.
"By law, I cannot sentence him for any longer than ten years," he said solemnly. "I have faith and confidence in my jurors, and I know they voted based on the evidence they heard."
"That's not good enough!" snapped Bob. "My daughter is dead because of him!" Though he gestured in the vague direction of Logan, Bob did not look at him, because there was nothing that was going to stop him from pummelling Logan to within an inch of his life.
"Sir, the sentencing for unlawful act manslaughter is ten years," the judge repeated, while a bailiff moved closer to Bob, just in case. "It wasn't premeditated, and so we gave him the maximum sentence."
"It was premeditated!" Bob cried. "He wanted to hurt her! What's wrong with you all?!"
"Sir, I'm sorry, but there's nothing else I can do." Judge Winstead rose, and gave them a look that said he truly was sorry before retreating to his chambers. Bob stared after him, all kinds of emotions flooding through him, before he was embraced in a group hug that he barely noticed. Teddy, Nat, Gretchen, Mickey, Mike, and a few friends Bob was unable to place were standing nearby, along with some of the police- and firemen, all of them looking either furious or shocked.
"I can't believe it," his voice was hollow. "Ten years? It's a joke."
"I know," said Big Bob, as they all broke apart. What else could he say? It was a joke; everyone knew it. But, realistically, what could they do? Drag Logan to a different State where another judge would give him life? Big Bob raised an eyebrow; it was tempting. But he knew it wouldn't work – not that it made him feel better.
Linda covered her face with her hands, and Bob hugged her tightly. He took a few deep breaths, trying to fully digest what had just happened.
"It's not fair," she muttered into him.
"No, it's not," was all Bob could say. Linda looked over his shoulder and her gaze fell upon Cynthia and Logan, and she stared at them, pure hatred in her eyes. "Lin?" Bob felt her stiffen; he released her and turned to see what she was looking at, and one by one, the rest of the Belchers glared at the Bushes
To them, it felt like everyone else in the room had all but vanished; they could see nothing except the people that had caused them so much heartbreak. The other people in the room; their friends, the strangers, the media were moving around, talking, interviewing, but it was like the Belcher family couldn't even see them.
Cynthia and Tom gave Logan one last, long hug before he was handcuffed and led out of the room, his head down. When the door had closed, they could only stare at it, wondering just what they were going to do now. Cynthia began to shake her head; this couldn't be happening.
"Oh, my God," she whispered. "He's going to jail."
"I know," Tom was still looking at the door. "I guess we should be glad he didn't get life," he said slowly. He couldn't help but feel devastated; that was his son.
"Logan's not going to get out of prison until he's 26!" Cynthia cried.
"At least you get to see your child again."
Cynthia and Tom turned around to see Linda right in front of them. Cynthia was rather taken aback at her appearance; she couldn't help but stare at Linda's limp hair, her dulled eyes, her slumped posture, at how much bigger her enemy looked. Linda held her chin up, not taking her eyes off Cynthia as Bob approached. He didn't say anything, but if looks could kill...
Tom now felt incredibly guilty; sure, their son was going to spend his next decade of life behind bars, but at least he was alive. Despite how he or Cynthia would want to dress it up, Logan was the reason that the Belchers no longer had their youngest child. An unpleasant jolt went through his chest as he pictured him and his wife burying their child, like Bob and Linda had had to. It made him feel a deep horror that he couldn't describe, and he hoped to never experience it in real life.
Cynthia stared after them helplessly as Bob led his wife out of the room.
"Come on, let's go." Tom took her arm and they slowly walked out of the room. Well, they tried; a police officer guided them back through the courtroom and into the back, where they were snuck out through a side door.
They were ushered into the back of an unmarked police car with blacked-out windows, and they said nothing as they were driven away. Luckily, the press and the crowd were still at the front, and so the drive home was uneventful.
"Do you think Logan's back in his cell by now?" asked Cynthia once they were back in the living-room of their safe house.
"I don't know." Tom sat beside her on the second-hand sofa. The emergency accommodation apartment just outside of Seymour's Bay that they had been placed in was a far cry from the luxurious three-storey home they had both worked so hard for, but it was safe. Nobody (apart from a few police officers) knew where they were, so they were able to live without fear of vandals.
"Listen, I don't know how much longer we're allowed to stay here; we should probably start looking for somewhere to live," Cynthia said, and Tom nodded.
"Good idea."
They sat in silence, not even putting on the small television. Cynthia brought a hand to her face and began to chew on her nails, her eyes on her knees. Tom glanced at her; he still hadn't got used to seeing Cynthia without her false nails, but she must be upset if she was biting them. He made up his mind to treat her to a new set very soon; he knew it would make her feel better.
"I just can't believe this happened," she said quietly, bringing her hand down. "How did it all go so wrong?"
"Well," Tom began slowly, "I think the vandals got out of hand -"
"Not that. I mean..." Cynthia took a deep breath and crossed one leg over the other. She looked around at the tiny, barely furnished room. "Our son's in jail, and," she drew a deep, shuddering breath, "it's our fault." The look on her face made it clear that it had clearly taken a huge effort to say that. Tom straightened up and put his arm around her shoulder.
"It is," he admitted. Actually, he was quite shocked at Cynthia saying this out loud; he always knew she would get there, but not so soon. Her doing that made him feel better, because now he knew they were both on the same page; they were terrible parents. They'dignored the warning signs of Logan's bullying and aggression for years, and by the time they'd tried to do something about it, Logan was too old for their punishments to have any effect. All Tom had felt he could do at the time was hope that Logan would grow out of it, but he just got worse, and it wasn't like they could follow him around; they didn't know what he got up to outside the house. They were too lax, and too ignorant and it ended up causing a child's death.
"I feel terrible. I've been feeling like this for a while." Cynthia began to swing her foot. "It just – seeing those pictures of her body; that was terrible. And Logan actually cried. But it was what Linda said, and she's right – we can go and see Logan everyday; they have to visit her grave. Their daughter is dead. Nothing we do is going to change that. And.. I'm so ashamed. I can't imagine never seeing Logan again."
"We got some serious thinking to do," said Tom. "Right now, all I can say is I hope Logan's learned his lesson, and all we can do is let him know that we still love and support him."
"Right. I think I'll visit him tomorrow." Cynthia pulled out her phone, and started typing. They had stuff to do; find a new home, one that would allow them to be close enough to Logan to visit, but away from Seymour's Bay. Tom might need to look for a new job; Cynthia herself might need to get a job. They were going to have to change their whole lifestyle.
Tom was in complete shock; in all the years he'd known Cynthia, he had never heard her admit to being wrong, or to be at fault in any way. Despite this, he loved her, but it could get exhausting at times.
Perhaps, in some way, this whole event was going to be the start of her becoming a better person. He hoped that was the case, although it was a shame that this had to happen for that change to come about.
~ X ~
And another chapter done.
Did – did Cynthia just make some progress? I think she did!
Again, I took many liberties with the court scene (I imagine a real court case wouldn't be very interesting to read), but hopefully, it turned out okay.
I'd love to know your thoughts :)