Page 169 of Edge of Unbroken

“Okay.” Ronan’s body and voice are as tense as they were before the hour-long break. It’s clear he didn’t get a chance to rest, to ground himself or calm his anxiety, because the word exhausted doesn’t even begin to describe how he looks. He’s fatigued—emotionally and physically—from the hours of painful testimony, from the constant barrage of triggering questions, from having to recall trauma after trauma, from being in his mother’s presence.

“Ronan, earlier this morning you testified that your mother would sometimes reset your bones or relocate your joints, is that right?”

Ronan nods. “Yeah.” His beautiful face is ashen and worn as he fights against the panic, the anxiety that’s triggered with the recollection.

“When was the last time your mother set or relocated one of your bones or joints?”

He thinks for a moment, and I’m sure I know his response. “Last July or August. I can’t remember exactly. She reset my right shoulder.”

I remember Steve telling me he had seen the surveillance footage of this particular incident. It happened the day Adam stalked me to New York, after Ronan protected me and kicked Adam’s ass, but not without sustaining his own injuries, including a split lip and a black eye.

“Ronan are you aware that your father had installed a video and audio surveillance system in your home?”

Ronan exhales sharply. “Yes, but I didn’t know it was actually recording stuff until recently,” he says, apprehension on his face. A dark terror seizes Ronan. He knows as well as the rest of us that the jury is about to see with their own eyes what violence Ronan was subjected to during the last twelve months before the cataclysmic end of the abuse.

Like he did when he played Zack’s footage, Darren Cooley moves to the computer and asks for the curtains to be drawn, darkening the courtroom before he turns off the light over the audience, leaving the lights illuminating the judge’s bench and witness stand on.

“Ronan, if I told you that the incident in which your mother dislocated your shoulder occurred on Friday, August 13thlast year, would you have any reason to doubt that this date is correct?”

“Not really,” Ronan says. “That sounds right.” He lifts his eyes, letting his gaze roam the audience for a second until he finds me.

Every nerve in my body is wound tightly with the urge to get up and run to him, to hold him, comfort him, and I hold his gaze and he mine until the attorney redirects Ronan’s attention to the surveillance footage.

Mr. Cooley turns back to his computer screen and selects the August 13thfootage already expertly cut and visually enhanced. I hold my breath as Mr. Cooley hits start. I don’t know what to expect. Watching Zack’s video rattled me, and that only showed the last moments of what Rica was doing to Ronan and in a shaky way to boot.

I watch, my gaze flitting between the large screen and Ronan as Rica appears on screen. She’s standing in the kitchen, the camera angle showing her from behind as she stands by the sink, apparently rinsing dishes. It takes only a minute before Ronan enters the kitchen from the garage to the right of the screen. He’s wearing jeans, his black, long-sleeve Murphy’s shirt, and his black ball cap. Rica turns her head toward Ronan, and they’re silent for a moment before Rica speaks first.

“I thought you were working,” Rica says. Then, “What happened to your face, Ronan?” She moves away from the sink and toward her son, already posturing. “Did you get in a fight? God damn it, Ronan.”

“So what if I did,” Ronan says, and I quietly applaud him for pushing back on her.

It immediately becomes clear that Ronan’s retort only angered her.

She berates him as she moves toward him, her voice becoming louder, her tone shrill as she loses her temper. She shoves Ronan. I’m surprised to see this small-framed person have such an impact on Ronan’s solid body. But that’s what fear does, and Ronan has always been vulnerable to her. There was no way he could withstand her or fight back; he was conditioned to be her victim, even though he could have probably overwhelmed her effortlessly, kicked her ass just like he did Adam’s, who had at least twenty pounds on Ronan. But Ronan knew the pain that would result from fighting back would be a thousand times worse.

“So, are you telling me you enjoy getting the shit beat out of you? Because that’s what I’m hearing right now, Ronan! That you’re asking for it.” She keeps pushing him backward toward the open garage door.

“Why do you hate me so much,” he yells back.

Rica spews toxic, venomous words at her youngest son. “Because you’re a fucking piece of shit, Ronan. Because you’re a waste of space, a fucking worthless, no-good screwup who should never have been born.” She punches him exactly where I know Adam had already injured him. I flinch, the sound of Rica’s hit audible through the speakers in the courtroom.

“Fuck,” Steve whimpers next to me.

I hold my breath when Rica pushes Ronan again and he falls down the stairs to the garage. The vantage point changes to the garage, Ronan on the concrete floor, a steel utility shelf tipped over next to him. He’s grabbing his right shoulder while getting up from the ground, his mother trying to get his attention by calling his name.

“I need a second, Mom, please,” Ronan groans in the video, clearly in pain—his teeth gritted, jaw tight as he tries to get his bearings, and he walks back into the house. The vantage point changes back to the kitchen as Ronan moves through it, then to the living room. Rica asks to examine his injury, and although Ronan tells her not to touch him, she does so nonetheless, then decides that Ronan’s shoulder is dislocated and she’ll relocate it.

The panic in Ronan’s face is obvious as he jerks out of her reach, but Rica’s tone—so sharp, so angry, so violent before—is suddenly warm and soft. She urges her youngest son—who is injured and so vulnerable in this moment—to allow her to relieve his pain. It messes with my mind. I can’t imagine what it must have done to Ronan growing up. Being abused, then having to seek help and relief from your abuser. God, it would mess with anyone’s head. Ronan finally relents, though the fear in his eyes is obvious when Rica positions herself to relocate Ronan’s shoulder.

“I’m going to count to three,” she says, but instead violently relocates Ronan’s shoulder after counting only to one. The loud crack of his right shoulder joint relocating is clearly audible, and I swear I see a smile on her face when she tells Ronan that nothing is worse than the anticipation of pain. That woman knew exactly what she was doing to him, her warfare psychological as much as it was physical, and unfiltered rage boils in my chest.

It's dead quiet in the courtroom while Darren Cooley continues to play the footage showing Ronan making his way to his room, changing shirts, then walking back into the kitchen where his mother acts like nothing happened. I’m incredulous at her apology and dumbfounded when she nonchalantly asks Ronan to take out the trash.

The attorney stops the footage, and I return my gaze to Ronan. His elbows are on the tabletop in front of him and his face is buried in his hands.

“Ronan, do you recall this particular incident?” Mr. Cooley asks.

Ronan lifts his head, and there is so much pain in his face when he answers the question in the affirmative.

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