Post Mortem

My friend, Joanna Madonna, is in jail. She's accused of killing her husband. I can think of little else.

She's easy to like; I felt an instant rapport when I met her. We haven't been talk-on-the-phone-everyday friends, more like go-out-for-coffee-sometimes friends, text and facebook friends, warm hugs coming and going, and plenty of laughter, punctuated with AHA! revelation friends.

I found the news story of her husband's death first, and felt my heart sink. He was friendly, expansive, chatty with me on the occassions that I saw him. He helped me unload the car. He offered me food and drink. He told me sadly about the death of his adult son. We were both of the Viet Nam generation, he a combat vet, I a college student at the time, both with a generational viewpoint. The article said he was found by the lake. Oh no. Suicide, I thought.

The next story on the website had her mugshot and an account of her arrest. I stared at the face of this woman I know and my hands shook, my heart thumped wildly. How was that even possible? Arrested for murder? Murder is on tv, not here. Murder is other people, not my people. Not someone who advocates fiercely for her autistic child, whose older daughters are beautiful and going places in life, who lives in a house I wish I could afford, who sings with a band and creates jewelry and rescues dogs and listens when you need to talk. That's not someone who kills.

Did she do it? Did she do what they say she did? It is an act that is so far at odds with how I experience her, that it's nearly impossible to believe. It's always the spouse, is the common wisdom. And far too often, that's true. But surely not this time. It has to be a mistake.

I attended her first court appearance. Reality set in when she shuffled into the courtroom in the black and white jumpsuit, head bowed, hands bound, never looking up except at the judge. Reality fell like a blow at the jurist's words. First Degree Murder. Capitol Crime. Death Penalty or Life Imprisonment without parole. Public Defender. Television words, applied to someone I know and care for. Someone real.

I sit right now in my favorite spot, out on the deck in the morning. Birds chatter and dart about, grubbing up their breakfast. A sprinkle of rain falls from heavy, gray clouds and the earth gives up its damp, fertile smell. The dogs play at tug-o-war with a towel Nanalu snitched from Jill's tool chest. They posture and growl, sounding like fierce, wild beasts. The gardenias, though fading, release their cloying scent, which wafts onto the deck on a breeze you can nearly take a bite of, it's so heavy with summer smells and humidity.

All I can think is that neither of them will ever experience something like this again. My heart aches for Joanna and Jose.