Miscarriage Of Justice Page 3

  “If they did, I guess I owe my dad some money,” he mused. That is, if his father ever spoke to him again. Like everyone else, the moment the fifteen-year prison sentence had been handed down, his dad had all but disowned him.

  Thinking of that final day in court instantly brought a cloud of depression. Not one person had stood by him to offer support. Even his wife, unable to cope with her husband being labeled a criminal, had almost immediately filed for divorce. She’d moved across the country taking their two young sons with her. He hadn’t heard from or seen any of his family since the day he’d left for prison. In fact, in all his years in Granite Hills, the only visitor who had ever come to see him was his attorney, Daniel Young.

  The cold-shoulder treatment didn’t come as much of a shock. It was just another event in a long line of undeserved conflict. The episode with the window had been among the first, but there were many such instances, too many. These incidents had played a crucial role in the forming of his psyche and mindset. Some, had been rather significant, others less so, but all were pivotal in his psychological makeup. As a child, then as a teen, he’d learned to laugh them off. Most of the ridiculous accusations and allegations were simply due to misunderstandings and were more or less inconsequential. Eventually, things worked out in the end. Usually.

  The charge of murder however, was not something he could laugh off. Neither had it worked itself out or gone away. And it certainly hadn’t been without consequence. This misunderstanding had a far-reaching impact. Fifteen years of impact. It couldn’t simply be forgotten.

  Though he held the D.A. personally responsible for his wrongful conviction, ultimately he’d been a victim of his own compulsive nature. That uncontrollable need to touch things or drag a finger along buildings or railings, as he passed. Still very much a habit even in his twenties, the night of the twelve-year-old girl’s murder, as he walked past the house where the crime had occurred, he’d trailed his finger along the fence rails, over the posts and across the gate. That had been his downfall; the thing, which had solidified the state’s case and eventually resulted in a conviction.

  Thanks to a tiny sliver from the fence, pricking his finger, crime scene investigators had recovered his DNA from the few traces of blood on the gate leading to the girl’s home. The District Attorney had readily capitalized on the single piece of incriminating evidence. It quickly became the central issue and key part of the trial.

  “What other explanation could there possibly be for the defendant’s DNA being on the gate of the victim’s home?” she’d asked the jury.

  That had sealed his fate.

  Ethan knew precisely how his DNA had wound up on the gate, but his explanation was weak at best, and came off sounding contrived, phony, and far-fetched. Certainly, it hadn’t been the caliber of explanation needed in court.

  His lawyer, Daniel Young, had argued admirably, but to no avail. Not a shred of his client’s DNA or blood had been discovered inside the house, at the actual scene of the crime, he’d pointed out in court. And there were no fingerprints at all, either inside or outside the house. The man had regrettably relied on the truth to prevail and exonerate his client.

  The truth however, was a losing argument. The D.A. needed a conviction, and a gullible jury, swayed by the mounting circumstantial evidence, erroneous though it was, had been more than happy to give it to her. A few days later, Ethan had stood listening as Judge Bingham sentenced him to fifteen years in Granite Hills Correctional Facility, located just outside the town of Fulton, eighty-five miles away.

  The first week in prison, he’d been treated to the news media’s daily account of his case. Radio, newspapers and TV station personalities were seemingly of a singular opinion; vociferously outraged that Ethan had received such a light sentence.

  “Rafferty Guilty, But Gets Off Easy,” “Getting Away With Murder,” and “Only Fifteen Years For Child Murderer,” read the headlines in the papers the morning after the trial had ended.

  Ethan had read the papers and scowled, spitting on the floor of his cell in disgust. “Let one of them face spending fifteen years locked away in a cold dark cell and see if they still refer to it as only fifteen years.”

  Reflecting on it now, he had to admit he’d had it better than some, better than most actually. His preferential treatment by the guards doubtlessly had helped to ease the misery. Still, the experience was a test of endurance and lost time from his life. Time stolen from him and from his family. His sons were now grown. The lost time for them translated to fifteen years without their dad; fifteen summers of not camping, fishing or hunting; fifteen winters of not sledding, snowmobiling or making a snowman with him. Year after year, Christmas and birthdays had been missed. He’d never had a chance to help them with their homework, see a school play, or just watch them grow and learn. He didn’t get to teach them to drive, how to build or repair things, in fact, he hadn’t taught them much of anything. They’d done it all on their own, without him.

  Jenna, his wife, had suffered too, and though he was hurt that she’d left him, he didn’t hold it against her. He understood her reasons, and realized the strain and stress of it all had just been too much for her to handle. The feeling of betrayal, the shame associated with being married to a felon, a murderer, had pushed her to the limit. The trial and related chaos couldn’t have been easy for the woman. She’d done nothing to deserve the shame or humiliation. In light of this realization, he couldn’t blame her for leaving.

  But the idea that she’d not believed in him, and that she’d never attempted to contact him in the years since, still hurt. The constant dull ache in his gut stubbornly refused to go away.

  For the first few months, he’d been hopeful she would reconsider, and accept his fate along with him. Following that vein of hope, he’d written letters, sent cards, and tried to call numerous times. The mail was returned unopened and the phone calls continually went unanswered.

  Through his lawyer he’d learned that Jenna was suing for divorce—the same way he found out she planned to move. That final rejection was hard to take, and he had never really gotten over it. Even now that he was out of prison, the pain still lingered. He knew things would never be the way they were before the trial had started. Knew it, but the knowledge didn’t make it any easier, he was still powerless to do anything about it.

  Resisting the urge to write yet another letter, to tell Jenna of his release, he turned out the light in the tiny hotel room. The chances of ever seeing Austin and Cody or his wife again were slim, next to zero. The same went for the rest of his family, along with everyone else he had known.

  There was however, one person from his past with whom he did plan to become reacquainted. A woman. A certain District Attorney. Closing his eyes, he wondered if Mariana would remember him after all this time, or if he would maybe have to jog her memory.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mariana Clark sat at the large oak desk, in the den of her spacious suburban home, wearily sorting through mountainous piles of mail from the last several days. As a successful career woman, the District Attorney of Lincoln County, time was one commodity of which she never seemed to have enough. Due to her obsessive dedication of devoting every waking moment solely to her career, many things in her day to day life were continually put off, and quite often left undone altogether.

  Scooping up another envelope, she glanced at the clock. The hour was late. Mindlessly, she pressed on through the stack of letters, bills, and junk mail. Deciding twenty minutes later to finish the dreaded chore the next day, she pushed the whole mess to the back of the desk. Ready to turn out the lamp, her eye suddenly caught one of the envelopes. On the front, the familiar logo and address of the State Department of Corrections begged her attention. She frowned slightly. Another perp she’d put away was apparently being released. Curious, as to which of the deviants it was this time, she tore open the envelope.

  The notice was not unusual. By state law, and as a matter of professional courtesy, the De
partment of Corrections, routinely notified all persons involved in criminal cases, of an inmate’s impending release.

  Quite understandably, the purpose was to inform or remind judges, prosecutors, and key witnesses of the potential dangers, which could arise from the convict’s discharge. The notice was intended to prepare those who the ex-con may blame for his ill-fated luck, to warn them of possible retaliation. The idea was not entirely inconceivable. That such a person may have a festering grudge against the entire judicial system was quite possible. The state felt obligated to issue a caution to those most likely to be at risk.

  That was the official mumbo-jumbo way of saying the guys being released may have a score to settle with anyone responsible for sending them to prison. Although most did not, some did.

  Having been the District Attorney for nearly sixteen years, Mariana received the notices quite often and had grown used to them. The worry she’d experienced with the first few had abated, and usually, after quickly looking over the information, she’d toss them into the trash, promptly forgetting the matter. In all the sixteen years, there had never been a case where any of them had presented a threat.

  This one however, was different.

  Pulling the single sheet of paper from the envelope, Mariana’s eyes darted back and forth, searching for the name. And then she saw it. Ethan Rafferty! Recognizing it immediately, she gave an involuntary gasp. He was getting out? Had it been that long? Instantly, she was wide-awake, the sleepiness she’d felt only moments ago having oddly vanished.

  Sitting back down, she stared at the name. She’d known this day would come, and still she wasn’t prepared for it. Closing her eyes, Mariana leaned back in the chair as the past came flooding back. She distinctly remembered the case, recalling every detail as if the events had occurred just days ago, instead of years.

  The trial had been her first big case as the D.A. Feeling the intense political pressure to produce a conviction, she’d ardently pursued her only suspect. At the outset of the proceedings, she’d firmly believed Ethan Rafferty, to be guilty. The evidence, though admittedly circumstantial, in her mind was overwhelming, pointing to the defendant as the culprit. After all, his DNA had been found on the gate. That was the most compelling evidence of the case, and by itself would have been enough to sway any reasonably cautious and skeptical jury. But, she had more. Two eyewitnesses. Witnesses who had seen the defendant on the night in question. Both had independently placed Mr. Rafferty in the area only minutes after the coroners estimated time of death. Ethan himself had admitted he hadn’t been home, a fact substantiated by his somewhat less than cooperative wife. Then, there was the credit card receipt showing a purchase made by Ethan at a convenience store only a few blocks away. Security cameras confirmed his identity. The timestamp on the receipt was less than half an hour after the murder had occurred.

  With the defendant having no alibi, two witnesses, DNA evidence, and the rest of her material, Mariana was convinced she had her man. The only thing missing from an otherwise airtight case was a motive. She’d never been able to undeniably establish why he’d done it—or, even proffer a feasible guess. Ethan hadn’t stood to gain anything from the girl’s death. There had been no quarrel or dispute between the families. In fact, investigators could discover no connection at all. Daniel Young, the defense attorney, had constantly, but unsuccessfully, hammered these facts to the jury. Mariana had finally chalked it up to a random killing of wanton violence, something like a teenager on a joyride. Fortunately, the jury had bought it.

  The trial had progressed quickly and smoothly—like clockwork. Mariana expertly laid out the case, presented the evidence, questioned the witnesses, and then waited with bemused glee while the defense tried to poke holes in her case. One by one, she skillfully countered the attorney’s arguments until, at a dead end, the defense rested. The result had been a textbook example of how to effectively prosecute a case in a court of law. Mariana couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity for her first major case as the D.A.

  Then it all began to unravel.

  On Saturday night, two days before the defense was to present closing arguments, Mariana received a strange telephone call.

  The caller, who had identified himself only as Mitch, spoke in a low voice and measured tone. “Mr. Rafferty is not the man you want. He didn’t kill Natasha Wyman,” the man claimed.

  Assuming the call to be a reckless ploy made by one of the defendant’s friends, in a desperate attempt to derail her case, perhaps even a ruse arranged by the defense attorney, Mariana didn’t give much credence to the caller’s statements. “The evidence suggests he is the right man as I’m sure the jury will soon agree,” she said rather rudely. The Lincoln County D.A. simply had no tolerance for this kind of stunt.

  “Your evidence is wrong,” came the voice on the line.

  “And what makes you so sure of that?” Mariana demanded, still annoyed, though slightly intrigued by the call.

  “Because I killed her,” the man announced bluntly.

  Mariana had no immediate answer. The way the guy said it; the quiet, almost seductive tone sent a chill up her spine. He wasn’t arrogant or boisterous. He simply stated it as a fact.

  Still, she wasn’t falling for it. If this were some kind of harebrained idea designed to inspire doubt or throw her off her game, she was determined to not let it work. More than likely, the confession was a lame attempt by a sick and twisted individual, who wanted some kind of notoriety and thought this was the best way to get it. Obviously, the caller needed serious psychological help.

  “And why should I believe you?” she asked patronizingly.

  Again, the man spoke without feeling in his placid monotone, betraying no emotion. “Did you notice the grandfather clock in the room where the body was found?”

  “Yes.” Mariana replied hesitantly. She did vaguely remember seeing an old antique clock standing against the far wall, though she was at a loss trying to figure out what significance the ancient timepiece held to her case. “Why?”

  “Check inside, under the bottom panel,” the voice droned. “It lifts out. You’ll find your proof there.”

  “You do realize we’re talking more than six months ago don’t you?” She suddenly was thinking there might be something to the call after all. “The family no longer lives in the same house, so the clock has been moved—if they still even have it.”

  The guy on the phone seemed to know a lot about this case. How could he not be aware the family had relocated, she wondered?

  There was an audible sigh on the line. “I’m sure you know where they live,” the man answered. “And I’m quite certain they still have the clock. People don’t usually part with family heirlooms that easily.”

  Mariana was quickly becoming more than a little suspicious. The man’s words seemed to indicate he had some knowledge of the family’s details. “Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “My name is Mitch,” the caller repeated. “That’s all you need to know. I just didn’t want to see an innocent man sent to prison. Check the clock.”

  The line went dead, leaving a confounded Mariana with more questions than answers. Who was this Mitch? Was he really the killer? If so, why did he kill the girl? And why would he call? What possible proof could the old clock contain?

  Slowly, she replaced the receiver. This certainly complicated matters. Whether she chose to believe the stranger on the phone or not, common sense and her legal training dictated that she check out his story. To examine the clock would be simple. The family, she was sure, would be most cooperative. But what if the caller, Mitch, actually was telling the truth? What would happen to her credibility? How would it affect her case, and most importantly, her reputation? Reliable evidence, if there were any, which proved the guy who she’d presented to the court as the killer was in fact innocent, would destroy everything she had built and worked so hard to achieve. Not just the case, which had been six months in progress, but her w
hole career.

  For the time being, she decided to keep the information to herself. Still, she did want to check out his story. Grimacing, she knew that meant finding a way inside the Wyman’s house, unofficially of course, and undetected. Easier said than done, but she had to have a look at that clock!

  Waiting impatiently, until the following morning, Mariana drove to the nearby suburb of Trevois, where the Wyman family now lived. Through a close association with the girl’s parents over the past few months, she knew they regularly attended church on Sunday mornings. Pulling her car to the curb two blocks from the house, she waited to see if they left. Sure enough, a few minutes before nine o’clock, their gray four-door sedan began backing out of the driveway. Both Mr. Wyman and his wife were in the vehicle. Slowly, the car disappeared down the street.

  Smiling an evil and wicked grin, the D.A. calmly turned the key in the ignition of her own car. The engine roared to life and she tentatively drove forward, half expecting to see the gray sedan coming back.

  Realizing the edginess was a symptom of an overactive imagination, and due in part to a guilty conscience, the young attorney pushed the doubts to the back of her mind and turned the car into the driveway. With an audacious step, as if she had a legitimate purpose for being there, Mariana walked right up to the front door. Knocking loudly, and receiving no answer, she tried the doorknob. It was locked. So much for the easy way in!

  Glancing nervously toward the street, she saw no one in sight, though that didn’t account for the possible prying eyes of a neighbor, watching from the cover of their home. Shrugging with cold indifference, Mariana turned her attention back to the house. It was now or never. Stepping boldly from the porch, she moved around the house, eyes scanning the exterior, searching for any point of access. Knowing it could attract unwanted attention to physically try the windows, the D.A. continued walking around to the back. Much to her disappointment, she quickly discovered that entrance too, was locked.