Miscarriage Of Justice Read online

  Not being much of a snake charmer, an impatient but cautious Ethan, grasped the bottom of the box and dumped the slithering reptiles out. Then, careful to keep the bin between the snakes and his body, he quickly pulled out the box and slammed the trunk lid down.

  Trying not to appear guilty, he glanced around the parking lot again. Still, not a soul paid him any mind. Casually replacing the box in his car, he closed the trunk and slid back into the driver’s seat.

  “That should rattle her nerves a bit,” he chuckled as he sped away.

  Rather than put the snakes in the front, where she could’ve spotted them before opening the door and possibly avoid the whole chaotic scene, he’d chosen the trunk. It may take a bit longer for her to discover them, but when she did, they would be more than a little angry!

  His heart was still beating a mile a minute. He didn’t really like snakes himself. He laughed again. But they did serve a purpose and came in handy for certain occasions.

  Waiting until seven that night, figuring she’d had plenty of time to get home, Ethan again dialed Mariana’s number. The D.A. answered on the second ring.

  At last, he spoke directly to the woman who’d sent him to Granite Hills sixteen years before. “So, was condemning an innocent man to prison, all for the sake of your precious career really worth it?” he sneered in the best sinister voice he could muster.

  A few tense seconds of silence followed before Mariana found her voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh really?” Ethan shot back. “So why do you put up with all of this?”

  He could almost hear the wheels turning in her head as she hesitated. Finally, the nervous D.A. responded in a tight-lipped tone. “Why do you keep calling me?”

  Why do you keep answering? Ethan wondered. But before he had a chance to say anything, the line went dead. She’d hung up on him! Obviously, she hadn’t yet discovered the snakes, or she’d have mentioned it.

  Ethan pulled a crinkled piece of paper from his pocket. He’d conned Mariana’s secretary, or receptionist, he wasn’t sure what she was called, into giving him the cell phone number of the D.A. weeks ago. The most amusing part of it was, Miss Gooten had not a clue she’d even given it out. Punching in the number, he merrily hummed a tune, waiting for the woman to answer. She wouldn’t be expecting it to be him this time, that was for sure.

  “Hello,” came the same voice in a much more confident and friendly manner.

  “You shouldn’t hang up on people, it’s rude.” Ethan sternly admonished.

  “How did you get this number?” a clearly upset Mariana demanded

  Ethan chuckled, taunting her. “You’d be surprised by what all I have, and the things I know. For instance, I know that you were well aware I was innocent when you sent me off to prison.”

  “You can’t prove that,” Mariana challenged.

  Ethan sighed, she was probably right. He did have proof, but it wouldn’t be enough to convince those who mattered. Mariana was the only person in the world who would be interested in the thirty pictures he had tucked away. Pausing briefly, he wondered if she were trying to determine if he actually did have the photos as he’d alluded in the first letter he had sent. “I don’t have to prove it,” he said. “I learned sixteen years ago not to depend on the Court for any kind of justice. But I do have a nice set of pictures should anyone care. Pictures of a girl. A dead girl. She’s all dressed up.”

  Mariana swallowed hard. Okay, so maybe he did have copies, but what difference did it make if he wasn’t going to show them to the Court?

  “I also have some other pictures; snapshots,” he continued. “Half a dozen photographs of a certain young D.A., alone in a room, looking at something in front of a big grandfather clock, and there is one of her stuffing an envelope inside her jacket. A blue denim jacket, with embroidered white stars,” he finished. That ought to be enough to let her know he wasn’t bluffing.

  Mariana’s heart sank. She hadn’t known for sure if any pictures were in his possession, but what he’d described was the scene at the Wyman house, the Sunday she’d gone to investigate. The mention of the blue jacket erased all doubt, he definitely wasn’t bluffing. He had at least seen some pictures; and apparently more photos than she had, it stood to reason they were likely still in his possession.

  Biting her lip, Mariana asked tersely, “So what do you want from me? An apology? Money? How much will it take for you to stop harassing me?”

  “I don’t want your money,” Ethan said flatly. “In fact, I don’t want anything from you.”

  “Then why don’t you leave me alone?” snapped the exasperated D.A. “Stop calling. Stop sending me things in the mail and stop breaking into my house. Just leave me alone!”

  “No, I can’t do that,” Ethan answered in a calm, almost tranquil tone. “You deserve to be harassed. I’m going to continue this for the rest of your life.”

  There was no answer from her and then once more, the line went dead. She’d hung up on him—again. With an amused chuckle, he slipped the phone into his pocket. He’d call again tomorrow. For now, it was on to more of the little things that added a sparkle to his otherwise dull existence.

  Fall was setting in and the days were rapidly getting shorter. Soon Mariana would be driving home from work in the dark. And that presented a golden opportunity for Ethan.

  Leaving home the next afternoon, he once more made the drive to Cedar Springs. Pulling to the curb two blocks away from the lot where Mariana’s vehicle was parked, he waited patiently for the D.A. to appear. At a quarter after six, his pulse quickened as he caught sight of her unlocking the car door. When the Corvette pulled from the lot, he slowly started driving forward, staying well behind her car. Then, as she rolled through the last light, he sped up, closing the gap.

  Darkness had come quickly and he knew all she could see were his headlights. He kept them on bright, following at no more than a single car length. Halfway to her house, Mariana started to pull over to encourage him to go around. When he nosed his car in behind her, she apparently thought better of it and took off in a cloud of dust.

  As the two of them reached her drive, Ethan wasn’t at all surprised when she kept going. “She must have a pretty good idea it’s me,” he laughed.

  Reaching the freeway, Mariana turned back toward town. Figuring he’d had enough fun for one night, Ethan turned in the opposite direction.

  The ride back to Fulton seemed to rob him of the small satisfaction the night had brought. This revenge thing was not nearly as gratifying as he’d thought it would be. An hour and a half later, he was still scowling as he rode the elevator up to his room. Still, he refused to give it up. If he stopped, she would win.

  With Jessi gone, Ethan was free to come and go as he pleased during the day, And he did, making sure to always leave some evidence that he’d been there. He’d turned off the gas, the electric, and the water, set a couple dozen field mice loose in the house—something different every day.

  At night, he continued to follow Mariana’s car. He’d wait at different points along the route, so she never knew when he would show up. And, as had become his pattern of behavior, he kept up the phone calls, one or two every few days. She still answered but usually hung up on him, although not before begging him to stop.

  After only a couple of weeks, growing tired of the headlight routine and figuring it had lost its effectiveness, Ethan turned his night runs into a new opportunity; to further antagonize Mariana. The first night, he flattened all four tires on her Corvette, and removed the sparkplug wires the next. Then, feeling a little braver, the following night, he drilled a small hole in her gas tank, creating a slow leak. All this was made easier by the numerous floodlights she so thoughtfully left on for him. One night, he’d even painted the entire front side of her house—black of course.

  He understood that some would see his antics as petty and juvenile; he sort of felt that way himself. Others, he knew, would consider his pranks criminal mis
chief. Neither of these views concerned him. His only interest was how Mariana reacted and, petty or not, the constant disruptions were bound to have the desired effect. So, he kept it up, even amid his own tendency to become disinterested with the whole matter. His behavior didn’t require rhyme or reason, as long as it provided a means for him to be a constant source of frustration to the D.A., he didn’t care that it may be trivial or even criminal.

  Knowing that soon, Mariana would have someone, cops no doubt, stationed at her house, Ethan abandoned his nightly visits after only a few days. He waited a full week before returning.

  Arriving just after three in the afternoon, he cruised past the D.A.’s house and was pleased to see no cars in the drive. Continuing up the road about a half-mile, he drove down a narrow dirt lane and ditched the car behind some overgrown lilac bushes. Locking the doors, he set out on foot back to Mariana’s house. Remembering the two sheds on her property, he hoped to hole up out of sight in one of them as he waited for Mariana’s arrival from work.

  Prying open the flimsy door on the nearest building, he slipped inside, crossed the concrete floor, and made himself comfortable, or as comfortable as possible sitting on a stack of tires. Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes, catnapping as the sun sank below the horizon.

  He didn’t wait long.

  Mariana’s Corvette noisily roused him as the D.A. raced up the drive. Instantly, he was on his feet, squinting through a small crack in the boards. He watched as the car rolled to a stop not more than ten feet away.

  Careful to stand perfectly still, so he didn’t knock anything over in the dark and announce his presence, Ethan saw Mariana get out. The car door closed with a dull thud and she slowly made her way to the house and into the kitchen. Biding his time, he patiently held his ground as she fixed supper, sat down to eat, cleared the table, and then washed the dishes. Eventually, the woman disappeared into what he assumed was the den that served as her home office.

  Seizing his chance, Ethan stole from the shed, quietly crept past the Corvette and up to the house, hiding directly below the kitchen window. Now that he’d made it to the shrubs next to the house, he was virtually invisible.

  Inside, the TV was blaring, and easing up on the toes of his shoes, he caught a glimpse of Mariana curled up on the couch. As his heart beat faster, he thought how easily he could walk in and wipe the arrogant look from her face—or just kill her and be done with it. She was a sitting duck. So vulnerable. In the blink of an eye, one quick moment, this could all be over.

  Resisting the temptation, easing back down on the soles of his feet, Ethan grumbled to himself. “No, that would be too good for her.”

  He wanted her to suffer, more than she had. To strike a deep fear in her; make her afraid to be alone, afraid to stay home, and afraid to leave. He wanted to drive her totally insane.

  That’s what she deserved. To be taken to the brink of insanity, and then given a little nudge. It wouldn’t come close to the pain he’d endured, or the loss he’d suffered, but it would do. Turnabout is fair play. Justice, whether doled out by a court or privately, must be served. And since it was fairly obvious the courts weren’t going to lend a hand, it was up to him.

  Still crouching in the bushes below the kitchen window, Ethan heard footsteps inside, and then the floor creaked as the unsuspecting woman made her way to the bedroom. Cautiously, he peered through the windowpane and saw the woman’s shadowy figure as she undressed. Then she disappeared through a doorway and he caught the faint but distinct sound of water pipes rattling and popping. She was taking a shower! Or maybe running bath water. Either way, she’d be unable to hear anything for the next few minutes.

  Stifling a shout of joy, he quickly stepped from the shadows, walking directly to the front door. Trying the knob, he grumbled his disgust. It was locked. Pulling a pocketknife from his front pocket, he set to work on the lock. In seconds the latch popped and the door swung free. Slowly, and silently, he slipped into the house.

  Before closing the door, Ethan paused listening again for running water. His lip turned up into a sneer as he heard the shower and he made a beeline for the kitchen. He had to act fast. His sole purpose in being there was to instill a little more fear in the woman, by making it plainly obvious that someone had been in the house; that she hadn’t been alone. She should be smart enough to figure out exactly who it was that had paid her a visit.

  Spotting a teakettle on the stove, he lifted it to see if anything were inside. It was empty. Rather than run the faucet, which may cause the water pressure or temperature in the shower to change alerting Mariana to his presence, Ethan poured a pitcher of lemonade into the pot, filling it halfway. Setting the kettle back on the burner, he turned the switch to high.

  Silently searching through the kitchen cabinets until he found a box of matches, he lit the candle that decorated the middle of the table. Knowing he had precious little time before the shrill whistling of the teapot sent out its alarm, Ethan quickly turned off the kitchen lights.

  Scampering across the floor, back to the living room, he shut out the light there as well, sending the house into an unnatural darkness. The eerie glow of a single candle’s flickering flame provided the only illumination. The sight would be doubly effective when it was unexpected. Stepping out the door, Ethan took the extra few seconds to lock it, just to make it harder to figure out how he had gotten inside or at least make her wonder.

  Though he would have loved to see the shock as Mariana discovered his prank, he didn’t wait around for the show, hightailing it directly across the field to where he’d left his car. The walk took only twenty minutes, and revving the engine, he turned the car around and raced down the road to the freeway, smirking to himself in the mirror. A foolish, half evil grin. By now Mariana would have discovered she’d had a prowler. She was probably loudly cursing him this very minute!

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mariana was indeed cursing Ethan. She’d had it! “I’m going to kill that crazy fool.” Gone was any rational thought or regard for common sense. “He’s a dead man!”

  She was however, still sane enough to realize she couldn’t actually do it. Not personally anyway, but Jessi’s half joking suggestion of hiring someone to knock off Ethan was becoming more appealing the longer this sorry saga continued. The more she considered it, the more sense it made. The idea had been persistently nagging her, tempting and enticing, massaging her sense of right and wrong, ever since Jessi first mentioned it. No, the man hadn’t actually harmed her—physically—but the constant harassment did threaten to drive her into the loony bin.

  Coming out of the shower to a screeching teapot on the stove and a dark house offset by the flickering candle had been the last straw. The man had been in her house for crying out loud! This time, while she’d been home! And in the shower on top of it all! She felt so vulnerable, so helpless and exposed, so violated.

  The deed wasn’t necessarily dangerous. She didn’t feel scared or worried for her safety, as she’d repeatedly pointed out to Jessi, if Ethan actually wanted to kill her he’d had more than ample opportunity on numerous occasions, not the least of which had been his visit tonight. Obviously, his only intent was to agitate her, to rattle her, in some twisted spiteful scheme of revenge. He simply wanted to get under her skin. And in that, he had succeeded, because she was livid.

  Mariana looked thoughtfully at the phone, thinking of calling Jessi. But, knowing what her friend’s reaction would be, namely that she leave the house first, and then turn herself in, she decided against it. Now that the possibility of hiring someone to remove Ethan from her life was being considered, it might not be a bad idea to just hold off talking to Jessi at all for a while. If any rumors of what she had in mind were to surface later, the knowledge would make her friend guilty of accessory to murder. This was another case of valuable information that was best kept to herself.

  With the hit man notion firmly cemented in her mind, Mariana mulled over the various possibilities o
f turning it into a reality, preferably without being caught. However, crucial as that may be, it was secondary to the main purpose, which was to get rid of her number one source of frustration, Ethan Rafferty.

  Still furious over the man’s recent intrusion into her home, a hostile invasion in her view, she faced the situation with a grim and calculating determination. The years she’d spent as a District Attorney, prosecuting, investigating, and otherwise associating with various elements of the criminal underworld, had oddly formed a strange alliance with the very people she worked against. The nature of her business left her with a wealth of connections, a pool from which she now could draw. Most of the connections however, were through other attorneys, and negotiating something of this sort, via a second party, wasn’t particularly appealing; especially if that second party would be able to use the information against her in the future. She had little doubt that any lawyer would be bound by a sense of loyalty or held in check by some inherent trait of integrity. She knew the caliber of individual, which comprised most attorneys. Underhanded tactics such as extortion and blackmail were not uncommon in the least. They were all such an unscrupulous bunch.

  Tapping her pencil lightly on the desk, Mariana chewed her lip, thinking. Lawyers were definitely out. She refused to open herself up to attack or purposely place her career and reputation in jeopardy. And she didn’t trust most of the criminals she knew. That left only one solution. Frankie Arimante. A local “businessman” with ties to organized crime.

  A few months previous, she had cut a deal with the man. A deal that just may prove personally beneficial now. In exchange for his cooperation and testimony in the prosecution of a smuggling operation, she’d agreed to overlook his part in the alleged drug ring. Implicit in their agreement was also an understanding that if she needed information or assistance in the future, Mr. Arimante would be obligated to provide that as well. The arrangement bore all the earmarks of a deal made with the devil, though some dispute did exist as to which of the two had played the role of the pitchfork wielding character.