Miscarriage Of Justice Page 6

  Mariana, of course, hadn’t let them know why she was interested in Ethan, saying only that his name had surfaced in connection with a recent case. The two deputies still believed they were acting on official county business.

  Entering her office, the D.A. was immediately informed by Rachel Gooten, her secretary, that Judge Bingham wanted to see her. “He’s called three times already,” the woman added.

  The arrogant look and confident composure instantly vanished from Mariana’s face. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “No,” Rachel shook her head. “I told him I’d send you over as soon as you got in.”

  “Thanks,” Mariana acknowledged. Her mind was racing as she headed back out the door. Of all the judges in the county, why did the one who had presided over the Rafferty case want to see her? Did it have something to do with Ethan?

  By the time she reached the judge’s office, the anxious woman had regained her composure. This was nothing unusual, she told herself. Judges requested “conferences” with her quite often. “I am the District Attorney.” Still, Mariana was a bit leery as she pushed through the door.

  Half expecting to see Ethan seated in the outer office, she breathed a little easier when a quick glance revealed it was empty. The only one present was the judge, who motioned to her through the open door of his office.

  “You wanted to see me?” she asked.

  “Yes, come on in.” the man invited.

  Did he seem a little too friendly? Mariana wondered. No, she decided. It was just her nerves. She was definitely too paranoid.

  “I’ve recently received some new information on a past case,” Judge Bingham began, rifling through the papers on his desk.

  Mariana’s heart skipped a beat, and she could feel her blood pressure sharply rise. Trying desperately to maintain her poise, she asked, “Which case?”

  “The Olsen case,” the judge said handing her the folder. “You may want to consider filing new charges.”

  Nodding and taking the folder from him, not even thinking to ask how the judge had come by the new information, Mariana hoped the intense relief wasn’t too obvious on her face. “Okay,” she said numbly. “I’ll let you know what I think after I’ve had a chance to review it.”

  Cursing herself all the way back to her office, the D.A. shook her head in disgust. She had to learn not to be so jumpy. If she weren’t careful, her own insecure behavior would be her undoing. Fifteen years ago, things had gone off without a hitch. Now, all of a sudden, Ethan’s release had her spooked. Is this what she had to look forward to and expect from now on? Constantly worrying that the truth of a trial from long ago would resurface and come back to haunt her?

  “I know how to take care of that,” she mumbled, walking into her office for the second time that morning.

  “Take care of what?” asked Miss Gooten.

  “Oh nothing,” Mariana said, dismissing it with a wave of her hand. And I’ve got to stop talking to myself.

  By the day’s end, she’d once more convinced herself she was fretting over nothing. Ethan wouldn’t go to the Court with his complaint, she reasoned. He had no proof. Besides, he probably blamed the whole system, judge and jury included, for his ill-fated luck, not just her. The man would be far more likely to act on his own than to trust the Court, which had perpetrated this injustice on him in the first place, Mariana thought. At least that sounded reasonable and logical. In addition, the fact she hadn’t heard from him in over a month, suggested he simply did not have the will to initiate any sort of revenge. Yet, for some reason, she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling of impending doom.

  Returning home after work, the beleaguered D.A. considered calling Jessi, her former college roommate. They’d kept in touch after graduation and still talked quite frequently. Both had turned out to be successful in their careers, Mariana with her legal profession and Jessi as a registered nurse. The two had remained friends for over twenty years, sharing personal experiences and life’s ups and downs, though Mariana had never spoken a word of any of this to her.

  Almost immediately, she decided against calling. With her current mindset, and Ethan prominent on her mind, she would probably end up confessing the whole story. She’d managed to keep it a secret for sixteen years, no sense in spilling it now.

  Instead, she fixed a quick supper and then wandered into the den. For several days now, she’d been tempted to open the envelope of pictures that had lain untouched in the bottom drawer of filing cabinet for close to two decades. Until now, she had steadfastly resisted the urge, not wanting to bring back the emotional turmoil. She wanted no reminders of the disturbing fact, that she’d let the real killer, the one who had murdered the girl in the photos, go free.

  Unable to free her troubled mind, and again feeling a strange compulsion to examine the pictures, she gave in to the temptation. Sliding open the drawer, it took only a few seconds to find the bulky packet. The tape she’d used to ensure the envelope stayed sealed was discolored but it was still together. Slitting the end of the package with a letter opener, Mariana dumped out the white envelope she had found in the grandfather clock.

  Sliding out the photos, the gruesome scene they depicted brought a abhorrent look to her face. She’d viewed them all before, but the murder scene still turned her stomach. How could someone do this to an innocent girl? Or to anyone? The knowledge that she herself had willfully allowed the man who committed the crime to go free brought a flicker of guilt, which she tried to ignore. Ultimately, the man had died in prison, she told herself. Did it really matter that she hadn’t been the one who’d put him there?

  Flipping through the stack of pictures, she focused on one particular photograph. Something about it was odd, but she couldn’t quite figure out what it could be.

  Taking a moment to study the picture intently, she was ready to dismiss it as a trick of her mind when suddenly she saw it. Blinking a couple of times, she looked closer, staring wide-eyed. The clock! Not the grandfather clock, a digital clock! The time read four minutes after ten! Quickly, she examined the rest of the photos again. The clock was pictured in just the one. But one was enough. In shocked dismay, Mariana dropped the snapshots to the desk. Just what she didn’t need, more proof, Ethan Rafferty, the man she’d prosecuted, was innocent.

  The D.A. couldn’t help thinking what a mess she’d be in if anyone ever got a hold of the photographs, particularly if they could prove the pictures had been in her possession, either presently or prior to the end of the trial. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out the rest of it.

  “I really should get rid of these,” Mariana mused thoughtfully. The photos with their incriminating evidence should have been burned years ago. Some mysterious force, exactly what she didn’t know, had compelled her to keep them, and for some equally inexplicably reason, she had. Like the Grandfather clock she’d purchase shortly after the end of the trial, the pictures served as small mementos of her dubious achievement, a sentimental trophy of her so-called success.

  So, while she knew destroying the pictures was the smartest thing to do, the urge to hang on to the one thing that could potentially end her career, and her life, was too strong. Shrugging, Mariana shoved the pictures back into the envelope, and replaced them in the filing cabinet. The photos had been safe there for years, and it seemed like a good place to keep them.

  “Maybe I’ll show them to someone someday,” she said closing the door.

  The D.A. was well aware that keeping the pictures was a perfect recipe for disaster; like playing with fire, and wondering if she’d get burned, or an escalated version of Russian Roulette. Maybe it was the risk that she loved. That euphoric feeling of continuing to beat the system, even though she herself was a part of that system. Perhaps, in some maniacal or sadistic way, she derived a certain pleasure from knowing that Ethan would give anything to have those snapshots.

  Ethan! Mariana shook her head. There he was in her thoughts again. The guy was quickly becoming a nuisance. She found herse
lf wishing he would actually show up, just so she could have him arrested. Chuckling, she turned out the light in the den. “They say history repeats itself, maybe I could send him back to prison. Then I wouldn’t have anything to worry about.”

  Growing serious once more, the amusement faded and the corners of her mouth turned down into a frown. It would be nice to do that; eliminate any possible future retaliations, but Mariana knew she couldn’t. Not that she felt any qualms over the idea. If it were a viable possibility, she’d have Ethan eliminated in a heartbeat. But it wasn’t. The questions, which would be raised as a result of any hearing, were questions, and answers, she could definitely do without!

  Shrugging indifferently, she walked back to the living room and turned on the TV. This was crazy! The whole idea of being worried over an ex-con was insane. The guy couldn’t do anything if he wanted to. At the worst, he could try complaining, but to whom would he complain? Who would listen? Who would take him seriously? Anyone? The man had no proof, just frivolous accusations. He’d been tried and convicted in a court of law, all legal and just. Sort of. But, like everyone else in America, if he thought the trial had been unfair, he could have filed an appeal. That was his right. Yet, he hadn’t. So, why would anyone believe him now? It would be his word against hers. The word of a convicted criminal, a murderer no less, against that of a well-respected and trusted District Attorney. The Court would obviously side with her in any such dispute—of that, she was certain.

  She knew the possibility still existed that Ethan would target her in some maniacal way, but she doubted it. The guy wasn’t stupid. He knew who she was, the position she held, and knew firsthand what she could do. More than likely, he didn’t want to go another round with her.

  Mariana relaxed a little then, remembering that Ethan, though acutely aware that he hadn’t committed murder, didn’t know the full scope of the role she’d played in his conviction. That she had known of his innocence, sixteen years ago, and had heartlessly let him go to prison anyway.

  Feeling a little smug, she watched a few re-runs of a favorite old sitcom, and then got ready for bed. “It’s great to be the District Attorney,” she snickered. “The benefits are incalculable.” Laughing, she added, “And apparently, in this game of life we’re playing, I hold all the cards. So let the man come.” Turning down the covers on the king sized bed, her boisterous fuming continued. “I’ll show him how this D.A. responds to threats. He’ll wish he’d never heard of Mariana Clark!”

  Turning out the light, she climbed into bed. She’d barely dozed off when she heard it. A scratching sound that instantly jarred her back to consciousness, and it was coming from right outside her window! As her eyes fluttered open, through the sheer fabric of the curtains she caught sight of a shadowy figure as it moved past.

  All the boisterous and flamboyant confidence she’d felt only moments ago was suddenly gone. Just one thought filled her mind. Ethan! Lying motionless on the bed, she couldn’t decide whether to get up and move to another part of the house or stay there hidden in the darkness. Then, as the shadow reappeared, Mariana heard a faint meow.

  Relief, mixed with anger, suddenly swept over her. “It’s that stupid cat!” she screamed. Leaping out of bed, the crazed woman ran to the window. Unlocking the latch, she forcefully slid it open.

  The neighbors, who lived a good quarter mile down the road in the posh rural suburb, let their cat, Whitey, roam free. Invariably, the skunk colored feline chose to use Mariana’s house, specifically, her lawn, as a litter box.

  Spotting the offending creature slinking low and cowering in the nearby rose bush, Mariana shrieked loudly, throwing her shoe at it with as much force as she could muster. She missed. But, the harmless attempt did serve to scare the cat away. With a high-pitched meow, Whitey darted out of the path of the high-heeled missile, and sprang across the yard. Leaping the fence in one bound, the annoying creature headed for home.

  “I’m going to kill that cat!” Mariana growled. She’d always despised the pesky excuse for a pet. The way it came slinking over the fence to do its business in her yard, continually climbing on her car, prowling around her house and poking into her garbage, combined for a constant source of animus. She wondered why the little varmint didn’t just stay home. Several times, she’d threatened to serve the feline a large bowl of antifreeze. Cats, she’d heard, unlike dogs, were stupid enough to drink it.

  Being the good neighbor she was, she’d never done it. Usually, before the next day had rolled around, the furry pest and its antics had been forgotten. This time however, the cat had been more than a mere nuisance. Slamming down the window, with a jarring crash, Mariana repeated her threat, softer this time. “I’m going to kill that cat.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I really need a car,” Ethan grumbled to himself.

  He’d just walked over a mile from the library to the hotel and the stark realization had been increasingly driven home with every step. The idea rolling around in his head did present a unique dilemma. Sure, he could afford a car, he had plenty of cash so, money wouldn’t be a problem—at the moment. The issue would be driving, legally anyway.

  The forty-year-old was fairly confident he hadn’t lost the basic skills of operating a motor vehicle while he’d been locked away but, having nowhere to go, inmates are not typically granted a driver’s license. And getting one now might be rather complicated since he had no wheels. He could always drive without a license, people did it all the time but, if he were ever pulled over, that would mean extra scrutiny. And scrutiny, he certainly didn’t need. So, he definitely would be getting a license, despite the catch-22 of how to get a car to the DMV without a license, and how to obtain a license without a car.

  Buying a paper from the desk clerk, who took the dollar bill without commenting, Ethan wandered up to his room.

  The thought of borrowing a vehicle did cross his mind—just long enough to be considered and then dismissed. Who would he ask to borrow a car? Who would let him? He had no family close by, no friends, and his acquaintances could be counted on one hand—even if he were missing some fingers. The only people in town that he knew were Melanie, the waitress at The Wagon Wheel Grill, and the crotchety desk clerk downstairs. He didn’t even know the man’s name. That was it. Two people. The extent of his list of friends. Mere acquaintances, that’s all. Neither one was likely to loan him a car. He didn’t even plan to ask.

  Ethan shook his head in disgust. Without a car, a private means of transportation, what he had planned would be a tad difficult. But, it looked like the only way to get one would be to buy it and drive to the DMV. With any luck, he’d make it without having an accident or being pulled over by the ever-so-vigilant police officers.

  Looking through the classifieds, he saw they were full of used cars. Not being particular, he chose the first reasonably priced vehicle on the list.

  Not yet consumed by the cell phone craze, which had seemingly smitten everyone else on the planet while he’d been locked away, Ethan used the payphone downstairs in the lobby. An hour and a half later, after walking the three miles to look at the car, he parted with a thousand hard-earned dollars—in exchange for a set of keys. The keys, of course, came with a reliable car—or so the salesman had claimed. The vehicle was nothing fancy; a plain sedan that he hoped would blend in and not be readily noticed.

  On the way to the DMV, he drove as if he were already taking his test, careful to observe all the rules of the road, signaling well in advance of each turn, making sure to come to a full and complete stop at each red light and stop sign, while keeping a constant eye on his speed. The trip took half an hour—twice as long as it should have. Breathing a sigh of relief, he finally pulled into a parking stall, and went inside—to wait, as he soon discovered. Apparently, the DMV service hadn’t improved in his time away.

  Three hours later, having breezed through both the written and driving tests, Ethan Rafferty was once more a licensed driver. It felt good, in more ways than one. With the
dreaded chore behind him, he could turn his attention to the task at hand, to make the worthless Mariana Clark pay a little restitution. He’d waited long enough.

  Stopping at the store on his way home, he purchased three items; stationery, pens, and envelopes. That was all he needed—for now.

  Later that evening, seated in the flimsy wooden chair at the wobbly card table in his hotel room, Ethan retrieved the list of jurors he had made at the library. Opening the new package of stationery, he began to write. He’d barely written a single sentence when the moving of the table, back and forth with each stroke of his pen, made him stop. Sighing, he again propped up the broken leg on what passed for a dinette set. Then, resuming his mission, he sat back down, pen in hand.

  Gerald Duncan, the man who had so conveniently been killed in the car wreck, and juror number four, was the subject of his letter. He tried to include all the necessary information and make it sound believable. That turned out to be more time consuming than he’d first imagined. And more difficult.

  Reading over what he had written, Ethan frowned. It was awful. It made him sound like an idiot. He could do better. He wanted everything, each word of every sentence, to provide a maximum effect. Rewriting and rewording, several times, he finally penned out a final draft.

  “Much better,” he said aloud to himself as he studied it.

  The fact it was written in his own handwriting didn’t give him much pause. If Mariana chose to pursue legal action, it would doubtlessly help convict him, but he remained quite confident the D.A. would not be inclined to get the courts involved. Not after she learned what he knew, and of the pictures, which of course, he still had. Besides, the personal touch of a handwritten letter would lend a certain dark aura of foreboding mystique. If all went well, the letter would kindle at least a small amount of fear in Miss Mariana Clark when she read it and that was the idea.