Miscarriage Of Justice (8 page)

“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 herself 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.

Darkness had arrived by now and straining to see in the dimly lit hotel room, Ethan proofread the letter a final time.

To the Dishonorable Lincoln County District Attorney;

As I’m sure you are well aware by now, juror number four is no longer with us. The automobile “accident” was such a tragedy! But it just goes to show, you never know what could be waiting around the next corner, or what is lurking in the dark. No one is ever sure when their time will come, but it does make you wonder who will be next, doesn’t it?

In case you missed the recent news, while you were busy prosecuting more innocent defendants—or suppressing evidence, such as crime scene photos—enclosed is the newspaper article, which tells the story. It would be terrible if something similar were to happen to—well, you know.

P.S. Speaking of crime scene photos, I have some remarkable pictures I’d be happy to share—in case you lost your set
.

Satisfied, Ethan left the letter unsigned. The D.A. would know beyond any doubt, who had sent it. Folding the paper ever so perfectly, he placed it in an envelope, copying Mariana’s address on the front. He wrote in a dramatic long and flowing script, another rather useless skill he’d acquired in prison. Placing the letter on the nightstand, Ethan finally climbed into bed, at one-thirty in the morning.

Sleeping only a few hours, Ethan woke before daylight. Surprisingly, he felt well rested and was raring to go. He found it amazing how invigorating a little revenge could be!

Skipping breakfast, he stopped at a convenience store for a book of stamps. Peeling one off, he stuck it on the envelope and turned the car south, heading for Cedar Springs. Home! Or, what used to be his home, before Miss Mariana Clark, the friendly hometown D.A., had so conveniently arranged accommodations for his extended stay at Gray Rock.

The eighty-five miles passed quickly, and as he neared the outskirts of town, Ethan noticed himself growing more tense. His knuckles were white from subconsciously gripping the steering wheel tighter with each passing minute. Sweating profusely, his stomach was in knots.

Topping the last little rise, the city broke into view. With the rhythm of his heart keeping double time, and his breathing becoming more labored, he tried to relax. Then, a strange sensation flooded over him, a feeling of euphoric apprehension, or uneasy jubilation. He wasn’t sure how to describe it. “A grown man shouldn’t feel this much anxiety,” he grumbled.

He hadn’t anticipated his homecoming affecting him quite so dramatically. A flood of emotions were released by merely seeing the place where he’d once led a happy, normal life. It had been a contented life, first as a boy growing up, and then as a husband and father. Looking out across the city now brought back a lot of long forgotten memories, some warm and comforting, others heartbreaking and painful. Driving the streets, where he used to take his boys when they went on errands with dad, where he and his wife had fallen in love, and where they had made their life together, was both exhilarating and deeply depressing.

There, directly in front of him, was the roller rink where he and Jenna had met when they were both six years old. A smile formed on his face. Who would’ve guessed those two snot-nosed, freckled-faced kids would grow up to be married?