Split Black /#Wattys 2021

Chapter Thirty-four

The commonwealth's attorney stalked in front of him. "She actually said that to you, Detective Robin? 'I knew I might end up in big trouble. I decided to do it anyway.'"

John glanced at Donna, who sat almost directly in front of him, deflating like a saggy balloon. "That is what she said."

"No further questions."

Donna's attorney, a short, middle aged, graying brunette woman, asked for a brief recess to read notes. When court reconvened, she approached the witness stand with a pointed look at John's notebook. "It appears you took some rather copious notes, there, Detective."

"I generally do," John rasped. He sounded better today, but not much.

"Do you have anything written there about what Ms. Greenhouse said about her exhaustive search to find help for her father?"

John turned a page back. "Ms. Greenhouse stated that she made an appointment with her father's neurologist to tell him what she had observed. She stated that he referred her to a psychologist for counseling. She stated that her father refused to go. She then stated that she misrepresented the nature of the specialist Dr. Greenhouse was going to see, and when she got him there, he read 'Counseling' on the door, wouldn't go in, and caused a scene in the parking lot. She also stated that she had called Richmond Behavioral Health Authority."

"Thank you, Detective Robin. No further questions."

The judge said, "Thank you very much, Detective Robin. You are dismissed."

John stepped down off the stand and made his way to the double doors at the back of the courtroom. But when he heard, "The defense calls Donna Greenhouse," something pulled him onto the last bench to stay and listen.

Donna walked to the front and was sworn in. Her attorney studied her for a long moment.

"Ms. Greenhouse, could you describe your father's behavior for the court, prior to this incident?"

"Well ..." Donna looked down and twisted her hands in her lap. "It's hard to know where to start. It's crazy, it never made any sense." She glanced off to her right, where her father sat, with a guilty look on her face.

"He'd be fine sometimes, like nothing was wrong. Except he'd be forgetful of things, because of his stroke. And then all of a sudden he'd fly into a rage over nothing. Except he always did that, the rage part. That part was nothing new. And it would be a bad rage. He'd throw things, he'd yell at me, break dishes—we have no cereal bowls left. He tried to throw my dog off the balcony once. I gave my dog to my ex-boyfriend after that.

"Dad felt really badly that he wasn't working anymore and that he was going through all of his savings. It was like, he was angry and then ashamed of himself and then angry and then ashamed of himself. And then he'd think I was running him down to other people. I'd get off the phone with my aunt and he'd get so crazy I thought he was going to hit me." Donna's voice wavered and her eyes watered. "And she only wanted to know how we were doing."

She looked around the courtroom and told the story John had already heard, about the pink socks and the cuts on her father's feet.

"And what was the worst part of all this for you, Ms. Greenhouse?"

"The worst? Knowing that my father was just in this acute state of suffering all the time. 'Cause he could put a good face on it for other people, but when you lived with him twenty-four-seven, you knew. Eaten up about his job, on and on and on. Angry and yelling at me and picking apart everything I did. On and on and on. You couldn't live with a person like that and not know that he was in a lot of distress. It's just really hard to watch."

"And you were in a great deal of emotional distress yourself as a result of all this?"

"Yes. I mean, I felt really bad being on the receiving end of it, but I felt really bad for my dad, too."

"And what did you do, Ms. Greenhouse?"

Donna's voice sounded tiny, like a child's. "I looked for ways to get him into help. It was like I told the detective assigned to our case. I tried like heck to get him to go voluntarily, but he wouldn't go. I called my mom and my brother for help, but they wouldn't get involved."

"And when you called Behavioral Health, what did they tell you?"

"I found out there was no way to force him to get help unless he was a danger to himself or other people."

"And then what happened?"

"And then ..." Donna shrugged. "And then I thought of this. It wasn't like, 'Oh, yeah, I'll do this.' It was more like, 'Christ, what am I going to have to do, stage a fake shooting or something?' And then ..." She shrugged again. "And then I thought about it."

"For the record, Ms. Greenhouse. You were aware that something might go horribly wrong. You were aware that you, or your father, or a neighbor or some innocent bystander, could end up hurt or killed?"

"Well, I thought of that, see?" said Donna, leaning forward earnestly. "I used the Nutrasweet. I knew the gun wouldn't fire. And the police, well, they're professionals, and they don't want to shoot some guy who's suicidal unless they really, really have to. And I was standing there. I was prepared to scream, 'It isn't loaded,' if I had to. It's just that—"

"What, Ms. Greenhouse?"

Donna stopped and drew a deep, shuddering breath. "It's just that the pain we were going through was so bad, and there was no help. And my dad, he's been this way as long as I can remember, only not quite this bad. Yeah, it was a risky thing, but I didn't think anybody getting shot was the most likely outcome. And considering the pain he was in, weighing this against that, things were bad enough that it really was reasonable to try as a last resort. To me."

"And now you're charged with a crime."

"I don't care. If it's this and my dad has a shot at help, than it's this and my dad has a shot at help. You see—" She finally started to break down, her freckled face reddening and tears spilling down. "I knew my dad could get better."

Donna's attorney leaned over her. John got the impression this was a line she hadn't heard yet.

"Donna, how did you know this?"

The prosecutor cut in. "Objection. Speculation."

The judge held up his hand. "The court wants to hear more about this before sentencing. Overruled. But don't take all day, Ms. Greenhouse. Get to the point, please."

Donna drew a deep, ragged breath and sniffled. "I had told my aunt some things that were going on, on my cell phone while I was at the grocery store. And she must have told my grandmother, because when they came to visit, my grandmother had an old Bible with her. And she took me back in my father's guest room where I was staying, and she showed me a piece of paper that was folded up in it. It was a letter from my dad, from years ago when we were little and he was abusing my brother and me. He had written it to God—" Donna started crying again. "Asking for help, and because he couldn't stop on his own, and that was when I knew." She wiped tears from her cheeks. She hadn't brought a tissue.

"That was when I knew my dad really loved us, in spite of all the stuff he did," she cried. "And at least part of the time, he knew he was sick and he really wanted to get well, and that was why I did what I did. Because I knew from what I was reading, that he really couldn't stop on his own. He really did need help to stop, and he had asked for the help and it's just no one knew anything about it at the time. Borderline personality, I mean."

John stayed until the trial was over. It ended with a nolle prosse on the false police report and a guilty verdict on the charge of elder abuse. Donna got a plea agreement with suspended jail time and forty hours of community service.