John Rockwood’s life had become a train wreck. Everything he worked for and had accomplished over half a century, vanished, like a baseball lost in the sun. He sat alone with his head bent over, thumb and index finger squeezing the inside corners of his eyes. Inwardly, he saw an empty brightness. He squeezed harder. Tiny bubbles floated within the blank vastness, moving irregularly, disappearing, only to be replaced by countless others. Where did they go? Where did they come from? Rockwood’s world was, well, rocked. He released his fingers and stared straight up, again looking at nothing. Mechanically, he removed the clean white Swiss cotton handkerchief from his pocket, crushed it, and rested it against the side of his head. The word, GUILTY, simulating an unforgiving auger, continued pounding away at his temples. To the other inmates and prison guards, Rockwood was a beast, an unworthy creature to be shunned, dealt with, and forgotten.
Three months earlier, John Rockwood was a confident, successful businessman, running daily operations as he had since the late 1950’s, at The Rockwood Insurance Agency. Sherry Rockwood, always proud of her husband’s philanthropy and commitment, sorely missed his morning routine. She’d hear him shower, shave, and then watch as he selected one of his lightly starched monogrammed dress shirts, stylish tie, and a conservative pinstripe suit. Sherry’s favorite part of the morning ritual, however, occurred when Rockwood grabbed his leather briefcase and kissed her on the cheek before heading out to insure the world. It was their, ‘Donna Reed Show’ morning routine. That was then. Now helpless and confused, she moved through their suburban home in a stupor. As if things weren’t bad enough, she felt incapable of quenching the insatiable appetites exhibited by the vultures; the throngs of unrelenting reporters and photographers who refused to leave her alone. The once popular twin girls, Arlie and Allie, had become outcasts in the neighborhood. Sherry, Arlie and Allie, like the strange rounded objects within Rockwood’s clenched eyes, bounced aimlessly and arbitrarily through each day.
In another week, the man would learn his fate; death or life in prison. Rockwood tossed the options around in his confused and weary mind. Both had their obvious downsides, but each, thought Rockwood surprisingly, had their benefits. Death would put an end to his mortification. There would be no more soul searching, no trying to figure out what happened, no more utterly helpless, depressing feelings and endless days. Quick and easy, thought Rockwood, an abrupt end to the ordeal. Never, dammit, he convinced himself! He was innocent, for Chrissake. Living mattered! He wanted to see his daughters grow up. No one would deny him that. And, he’d get even with all those people he once knew. How could they, his supposed friends, sitting in the courtroom, keeping their distance and whispering with twisted, hateful lips? Bastards. He knew. He’d seen them throughout the trial. No way would he accept a death penalty. “Screw ‘em all,” he thought to himself. For now, though, Rockwood waited, in a cell, alone, scared.
Deanna Oh, savagely murdered. Rockwood had hired her six months earlier, fresh out of college. Not a bad looker, she stood out from the mediocre bunch he had interviewed. And, besides, he liked her funky eyeglasses. Never, in his wildest dreams, could he have imagined her luckless fate. He mentally replayed the events that led to his current predicament. They were the last two to leave the office after a typical day. Dottie, Rockwood shamefully did not know her last name, waved to them and watched them leave as she began her nightly janitorial chores. When they exited the elevator, Rockwood went his way. Ms. Oh said something about going to the ladies’ room before heading out to the bus stop. She was reaching into her handbag for something as she disappeared behind closed doors. Semi-circling within the revolving door, John Rockwood’s thoughts were of vodka and olives and dinner. As his polished wingtips hit the street, he was unaware that a number of lives, his own included, would never be the same.
Walter Diplock, Rockwood’s family attorney for over three decades, puffed gently on the little bent black encrusted pipe handed down to him from his grandfather. He had seen much in the too numerous courtrooms during his career, but nothing as eerie and incomprehensible as Rockwood’s predicament. “Damning evidence, that’s for damn sure,” he murmured. “Your blood, John, your DNA, under her fingernails. Hell, I’d have convicted you myself on that evidence.” Rockwood, with nerves shot, fired back. “How many times do we have to go over this? I don’t know. I never, ever touched her. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know.” Rockwood shivered at the thought of Ms. Oh’s struggle with the killer. She had fought back and tried to defend herself, but she was no match. If only Dottie had heard something while cleaning nearby and been in time to prevent the horror. Instead, rather than savior, poor Dottie was left to discover Ms. Oh’s mutilated corpse not long after the brutal incident. Distraught, she repressed most of the details, but distinctly recalled, “Mr. Rockwood, Sir” as she called him, and “the nice young lady” exiting together.
