Miscarriage Of Justice Page 2

  Ethan made the most of it. While possessing the uncanny ability to earn the respect of others and forge friendships with people in general, he found it particularly rewarding to befriend the guards. It had a negligible impact on his relations with other inmates, but the rapport he built with the guards made life easier in more ways than one.

  He wasn’t a big man; weighing in at one hundred fifty-five pounds—soaking wet! So, he needed all the help he could get. Prison isn’t a place where the “little guy” thrives. In light of this truth, he never missed a chance to talk with guards or other personnel, asking about their families, their weekend, or simply to offer a sympathetic ear while they vented their frustrations. He listened attentively as if he were genuinely interested in their troubles. He made it a point to do what was asked and expected of him, never balking and without complaint. His exemplary behavior engendered a respect from most of the guards. The day before his release, they, along with the Warden and other staff members, threw a going away party for him. An unprecedented event!

  He’d been duly impressed and even felt a twinge of remorse at the idea of leaving. He managed to get over that rather quickly. While they may have treated him fairly, in no way did that make up for his loss of freedom, the long nights of being alone and afraid, the sheer psychological torture, the grossly inhumane conditions, or the indignity he’d suffered, usually at the hands of other inmates.

  The good behavior routine was partly a product of his amicable nature, and partly due to design. Mostly, by design. With the passage of time, his cordial temperament had gradually faded; still, he forced himself to remain friendly and cheerful. This was a key element to his long-range scheme. The idea was simple; he wanted everyone at Granite Hills to remember a kind, soft-spoken, likable individual. A passive individual.

  Later, when he’d begun to execute his vendetta against a certain well-deserving District Attorney, should anyone in law enforcement come snooping around asking questions, the personnel at Granite Hills would feel compelled to portray him as an easy-going, even-tempered guy. Certainly not a violent or raucous man. He’d seen too many cases where a former inmate wound up as a person of interest in a new crime and years after their prison stay had ended, the feds questioned past cellmates and others who had done time with their suspect. Typically, they found out more than they needed to know to build a strong case.

  So, he never spoke a word of his frustration and innate anger at being falsely accused. Never mentioned the abject furor of being railroaded by a malevolent prosecutor. He told no one of his plans, not even Shag his cellmate for over half the fifteen years. No one knew of his consuming rage. He gave no indication of his future intentions, or what lay in store for the mendacious D.A. These things were kept locked away in a hidden corner of his mind. The plaguing thoughts of vengeance played privately in his head. While the world saw a good-natured, mild-mannered man, seemingly without bitterness, Ethan quietly plotted his revenge.

  He liked to pretend his plan was some grandiose scheme, years in the making that had been masterfully formulated and steeped to perfection through careful consideration of all facets of the situation. While it had consumed many years of his life, the truth was the planning consisted of nothing more than brainstorming and dreaming up various ways he could torment, antagonize and otherwise wreak havoc in the life of the District Attorney. He had constantly revised his plans as new ideas surfaced. When the time came to implement his scheme, he wanted a long list of potential activities and deeds ready to go.

  That time was almost here. Ethan pushed open the heavy glass doors to the Spencer Hotel, and confidently strode through the lobby, approaching the desk. The hotel was old and dark, but appeared to be clean.

  “Anything available?” he asked the thin, frail, elderly man behind the counter.

  The crotchety old-timer seemed perturbed at being interrupted, though there were no signs of him having been engaged in any sort of activity. The TV wasn’t on. Ditto the radio and the guy hadn’t been on the phone.

  Maybe he was asleep, Ethan surmised. But then again, perhaps the man was simply lazy, or didn’t like his job. That seemed a more likely possibility.

  In a slow-motion shuffle, the clerk wandered over to the counter. Peering through wire rimmed glasses, he stared hard at Ethan and growled, “I’ve got a room, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “How much?” Ethan asked.

  “Depends,” the man replied. “How long you want it?”

  Ethan shrugged. “Couple of weeks. Maybe more.”

  The aged clerk eyed him suspiciously. “You just get out of prison?”

  Ethan wondered how the grouchy old codger knew. Do I have I sign on my forehead? The guy couldn’t have seen him get out of the van as the people at the restaurant had. Yeah, he’d been in prison, but why should it matter? His first impulse was to deny it, but something stopped him. Obviously, the old man knew or he wouldn’t have posed the question. Slowly, Ethan nodded, making it a point to look the man directly in the eye. “Yes,” he said. “This morning.”

  “Figured so,” grunted the clerk. Gesturing to Ethan’s clothes he added, “Standard issue ‘regular’ civilian garb. You might want to think about getting something else to wear. Everyone in this town knows them clothes.”

  “Okay,” a subdued Ethan replied. Now he understood why the folks in the restaurant had kept staring at him. Maybe they hadn’t seen him get out of the van after all. Regardless of the old geezer’s sour disposition, it actually was a good idea, he conceded. No sense in advertising the fact he was an ex-con. Besides, he’d need more than one change of clothes soon anyway.

  “The room will run you two hundred dollars a week or five hundred a month,” the clerk continued in the same surly tone. “No phone, no pool, no pets, just like the song says.” The old man cackled at his own joke, without smiling.

  Ethan was thinking that the song said rooms were fifty cents too, but wisely held his tongue. Pulling out his wallet, he slipped five crisp one hundred dollar bills across the counter. “I’ll take it.”

  The old man had anticipated Ethan’s decision. The paperwork was nearly completed before the money had exchanged hands. “Name?” he asked without looking up.

  “Ethan Rafferty.”

  Scratching a near illegible scribble on the registration, the clerk tore a copy from the bottom and handed it to Ethan. Then he slid a key across the counter. “Room one thirty-six, top floor, last door on the right,” he intoned.

  Ethan nodded.

  “There’s a list of rules hanging on the door. Read ’em. Don’t bother anyone, and no one will bother you.” Without waiting for a reply, the clerk shuffled back to his chair.

  Pocketing the receipt and room key, Ethan thanked the man. As expected, the clerk gave no response.

  Taking the ancient, turn-of-the-century elevator, he slowly rode to the tenth floor. Walking down the hall, he paused outside room one thirty-six. Fishing in his pocket for the key, Ethan took a long breath and then unlocked the door to his room. The place wasn’t much, but for now, it was home. His home.

  Far below, he heard the whistle of a passing train. He grinned wryly. Somehow, the wail didn’t sound nearly as lonesome or mournful anymore.

  CHAPTER TWO

  With a crystal-clear clarity, Ethan vividly remembered the fateful day his dreadful saga had begun. He’d relived it every day for fifteen years. The tortuous details were permanently seared into his memory. Recalling the outrageous events always left him worked up, seething with a bitter rage. Even now, with his long-awaited freedom a reality, he couldn’t forget. The frustration and anger, fueled by an utter resentment for the laughable justice system, constantly ate away at him, cutting right down to the core of his soul. He knew the events well, and still had a difficult time understanding and accepting the way things had turned out.

  The year was 1987. At the age of twenty-five, in the prime of his life, fate had stepped in wielding its cruel hand. Married to a good-looking a
nd charming woman, Jenna, his high school sweetheart, with two sons, Austin and Cody, ages three and five, the self-employed electrical contractor had all he’d ever dreamed of. He couldn’t have asked for more. Then his perfect life had been severely altered in an instant, as destiny ruthlessly invaded his sanguine world of tranquility. In the space of one night, he’d gone from a loving husband and father to an alleged criminal, accused of a crime he hadn’t committed. The crime of murder.

  The story was a tragic one, made worse by the events, which had unfolded in the ensuing investigation. Nearly sixteen years ago now, in his hometown of Cedar Springs, a twelve-year-old girl, Natasha Wyman, had been found strangled to death in her home. The scene of the crime was on the edge of town, a mere two blocks from Ethan’s house. Thanks to his ever-present execrable luck and an irresistible urge to go for a late evening walk that night, he found himself the prime suspect in the investigation. His walk had taken him directly past the victim’s home, where he was seen and later identified by two separate “reliable” witnesses. Over the course of the next few weeks he learned that not only was he the prime suspect, he was the sole suspect.

  Initially, he’d only been slightly alarmed, almost amused, confident he’d quickly be cleared of suspicion, after all, he hadn’t done it. Sadly, he learned the court system doesn’t operate on common sense. As the weeks passed, he remained the focal point of the investigation. Little worries crept in then, and he began to have doubts that justice would prevail. Doubts, which as it turned out, were well founded.

  The overzealous District Attorney, Miss Clark, on the job for less than six months and eager to hit a grand slam on her first major case, further complicated matters. Firing both barrels, the D.A., who was not at all concerned with the truth, only what she could make sound believable, convinced the jury that Ethan was the killer. At the time, he hadn’t known she was keenly aware he wasn’t guilty.

  The entire fiasco shouldn’t have come as a surprise. His whole life had been mired in a pattern of false accusations and wrongful allegations. Since early childhood, he’d been inundated with such charges; blamed for things he hadn’t done. Being the constant recipient of misplaced blame irked him, but like a broken record, it played on and on. The finger of suspicion always seemed to point his way, or as had been the case in his first such experience at seven years of age, sometimes he was framed with planted evidence.

  He’d been in the second grade. Just a kid. Although, not exactly innocent.

  Walking outside the school cafeteria one morning, between classes, he absentmindedly dragged his finger along the brick building, something he did quite frequently. Call it a habit, a security reflexive action, or just a kid being fidgety; any time he walked, he felt a compulsory need to physically touch things as he passed. The feel of the rough texture sliding on his fingertips was strangely soothing; walls, ledges, and railings, almost anything, he just liked the sensation.

  As he casually strolled along the row of classrooms that day, his right index finger trailed along the building, across the bricks, up over the window ledges, and along the sills. Suddenly, the rough texture changed. Instantly, he was aware of something wet and soft. Looking down, he saw a dark gray substance that appeared to be clay, and it went all the way around the edge of the glass. Fresh putty!

  Hoping he hadn’t been seen, he nervously looked around, and then peered into the darkened classroom. No one was watching! Digging his fingers into the putty, he quickly scooped out a small lump. Then, smoothing out the gouge, he hurried on down the walk, eager to show the find to his friends.

  “Look at this,” he whispered when he caught up to them. Proudly he presented his trophy. His friends were duly impressed.

  Wrinkling his nose and squinting through thick glasses, Skip, the chubby one, asked, “What is it?”

  “It’s clay,” Ethan said. “You can make stuff with it.”

  “Where’d you get it?” the other boy, Mike, wanted to know.

  “From a window ’round back.”

  “I want some,” came the predictable response from his friends.

  “Go get some,” Ethan urged. “I’ll let you know if somebody comes.”

  The two boys made a mad dash around the building while Ethan bravely stood guard. In minutes they returned, each carrying a huge lump of the clay.

  Ethan’s eyes widened. “You can’t take it all!” he exclaimed. “The window will fall out and we’ll be in trouble!”

  “How are they gonna know who did it?” Skip asked.

  The young Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess they won’t. But don’t take anymore and don’t tell anybody else.”

  His words of caution were futile. Later that day, at recess, Ethan saw the principle talking to several teachers and then they all disappeared behind the school. Knowing something was up; he flung the super ball sized lump of now hardening putty into the bushes and went to warn his friends. Both got rid of their putty just as the bell sounded.

  On the way back to class, Ethan took a detour past the window. His mouth fell open at the sight and he stared in disbelief. Every bit of the putty was gone! Someone had scraped it clean!

  As the children were seated, the teacher, Mrs. Meavis, addressed the class. “Boys and girls, it’s been discovered that someone removed the cement from the new window on Mrs. Shupe’s first grade classroom. Would whoever is responsible for this vandalism please raise their hand?”

  Ethan sat perfectly still, not daring to breathe, yet trying to appear unconcerned. He steadfastly resisted the urge to look at Mike and Skip, but he hoped they were smart enough to keep their mouths shut, and their hands down. No one would ever know a thing if they all kept quiet!

  Mrs. Meavis was apparently in no mood for waiting. “Since no one wants to admit it, we’ll conduct a search of our desks.”

  Like that’ll prove anything, Ethan thought.

  I’m going to start in the front and walk by each of your desks,” she continued. “When I come past, have your desk lid raised so I can see inside.”

  Most of the students, eager to prove their innocence, opened their desks immediately and waited for the teacher to smile her approval as she walked by. Ethan, cocky and arrogant as always, smugly sat watching, his desk closed. As Mrs. Meavis approached, he confidently, and with a bit of flair, lifted the lid.

  He spotted the softball-sized mass of dried putty at the same instant the teacher saw it. His heart pounding wildly, he swallowed hard. How had that gotten there?

  “Well class,” Mrs. Meavis said in a reproving tone, “I guess we know who is to blame for this little exercise, don’t we?”

  “I didn’t put that in there!” Ethan loudly protested. But it was no use. Though he hadn’t been directly responsible for the ball of hardened clay in his desk, deep down he knew he was guilty, and couldn’t argue the point. He had started this whole mess, though the dried ball of evidence that his teacher now held in her hand had been planted. He’d been framed! And he wasn’t the only one. As Mrs. Meavis continued her impromptu inspection, the search revealed his friends had also been set up!

  A short ten minutes later, Ethan was seated between the two of them in the Principal’s office, at a large circular wooden table. Mr. Newton, the Principal, abruptly entered the room, glaring at the three of them like they’d committed the crime of the century. For a full agonizing minute, the man said nothing, staring down each of his little felons. Ethan met his gaze and defiantly returned a stare of his own.

  Then suddenly, Mr. Newton slammed his fist loudly to the table and exploded in a fit of fury. “Why did you do this?” he demanded, looking right at Ethan.

  The seven-year-old was scared but determined not to let it show. He stared back impudently, offering no answer.

  This served only to further infuriate the already irate principal. Visibly enraged, eyes spitting fire, red-faced and breathing hard, he launched into a verbal onslaught of expletives.

  Okay, so the guy’s mad, Ethan thought. But what
can he do about it? Nothing, ’cause he can’t prove I did anything. Looking the foul-mouthed principal directly in the eye, he finally stated, “I’m not the one who took all the putty from the window.” The statement was true. He hadn’t taken all the putty.

  Mr. Newton’s face reddened even more, turning almost a purple hue. Angrily, he snatched up one of the dried gray balls. “This,” he shouted, “was found in your desk.”

  “I didn’t put it there,” Ethan reasserted.

  “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

  Ethan shrugged, continuing the game. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. It’s the truth whether you believe it or not. Somebody else put it in my desk.”

  After several more unsuccessful attempts to intimidate the boys into admitting their guilt, the principal finally stood to his feet. Again pounding his fist to the table he said, “That window cost one hundred dollars and the three of you are going to pay for it to be replaced. I’ll be sending a letter, along with a bill to each of your parents.”

  Thinking quickly, and ever willing to argue the finer points of logic, Ethan spoke up again. “It won’t cost a hundred dollars to have the window fixed.”

  “That’s what it cost us today,” the principle returned.

  Ethan didn’t give up. “But that was the whole window. The glass and everything, and to take the old one out. All you need now is the putty.”

  Mr. Newton didn’t appreciate being given the pesky little facts, especially by a second grader. “Go back to class,” he ordered.

  Remembering the incident from his childhood brought a smile to Ethan’s face. As promised, three days later, Mr. Newton’s letter had arrived with the bill attached. And that evening, fidgeting and squirming uncomfortably, the seven-year-old had related the entire story to his father. He’d been completely honest, and for some reason, a reason that he’d never understood and still couldn’t explain, his dad had believed him.

  His mind snapping back to the present, Ethan’s smile faded as suddenly he wondered if his parents had ever paid the bill for the window. He couldn’t recall anything else ever being said about it one way or the other.