Miscarriage Of Justice (10 page)

Finally, her body’s sheer exhaustion won out over the fear in her mind, and she sank into a peaceful land where things don’t go bump in the night.

The D.A.’s blissful solitude of sleep was short lived. The piercing ring of the telephone violently jarred her awake. Blinking, she strained to see the clock. 5:00 a.m.! Yawning and rubbing her eyes, she sat up and in a groggy voice answered the phone.

And heard nothing.

“Hello?” she repeated.

Still nothing. Just silence on the other end.

Who was calling her this early in the morning anyway? she wondered. Ethan? Then, she heard an audible click and the line went dead. Slowly, she replaced the receiver.

For sanity’s sake, she decided it must have been a wrong number. It had to be. Her number was unlisted and unpublished. So, it couldn’t have been Ethan, he would have had no way of finding it. On the other hand, the guy had managed to discover the identity of at least one juror. It wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine he could find her telephone number, especially if he knew how to use a computer.

Wide-awake now, Mariana climbed out of bed and started getting dressed. Pouring a bowl of cereal, she sat down at the table to eat a simple breakfast while waiting for the cobwebs to clear from her mind, and wondering. Wondering why she hadn’t listened when the guy from the phone company tried to convince her to get caller ID. Until now, she’d never seen a need for caller ID. “Why should I pay more money? I have the original caller ID. The phone rings, I answer and the caller identifies himself. Caller ID is just another useless expense,” she had claimed. “Besides, there’s always *69.”

Taking her third bite, she suddenly dropped the spoon. The spoon missed the bowl, clattering loudly to the table, and then bouncing onto the floor. Mariana didn’t notice. Jumping from her chair she scampered to the phone and dialed *69, wondering why she hadn’t thought of it sooner.

“Modern technology is a lifesaver,” she breathed, waiting for the call to go through.

On the phone, a computer-generated voice said, “The last number that called your line...”

Scrambling to find a pen and something on which to write, Mariana subconsciously tensed. Waiting.

“...is not known.”

Letting out a disappointed sigh, the uptight woman replaced the phone on the wall. “Well, it was worth a shot,” she lamented.

Sitting back down to her breakfast, she tried to breathe deeply to settle her nerves. This was maddening. Ethan, whether he’d been the caller or not, was going to drive her crazy.

Clearing the table of two day’s worth of dirty dishes, Mariana piled them in the sink. Something was going to have to be done about Ethan, but she wasn’t sure what that would be. One thing was certain, she wasn’t going to sit idly by, wondering every morning, noon, and night if this was the day he would try to kill her. Though she was an understanding and forgiving person up to a point, she was not a tolerant woman. Ultimately, her passion and obsessive nature took precedence. Her job demanded it. This outlook was what formed the basis of her character and the reason she had chosen her legal profession. And now, the helpless feeling and inability to respond to Ethan’s antagonistic behavior only increased her anger.

Sundays were usually spent working, researching and preparing herself for upcoming trial dates, reading legal briefs, or catching up on the volumous amount of paperwork required of her. Since Monday was normally her busiest day in court, she liked to be well prepared. But today, it was a chore to even think straight. Still seething, over the letter and the jitters it had caused, the only thing on which she could focus, was Ethan. How could she eliminate the problem he posed?

With a disgusted cry, Mariana tossed the sheaf of papers back into her briefcase, letting the cover slam shut.

Snatching her car keys from the table she mumbled, “I’m going for a drive.”

Some of her most productive moments of inspirational thinking had come behind the wheel. She hoped a cure-all solution would magically occur to her as she raced her red Corvette through the county roads. Pausing in thought at the end of her long driveway, she glanced in the mirror at the house. “What if Ethan comes while I’m gone? What if he’s hiding somewhere right now, watching and waiting for me to leave? He could be inside the house when I return and I wouldn’t even know it!”

Grimly, she realized how easy it would be for him, or anyone for that matter, to do just that. The old farmhouse wasn’t equipped with a burglar alarm, and she knew too well how simple it was to get in, having locked herself out on more than one occasion. She didn’t even have a motion detector light outside, and though the realtor had strongly suggested replacing all exterior locks, she’d continually put it off until she eventually forgot about it. The old dilapidated locks, which now hardly worked without a bit of coaxing, were still in use on the doors.

With a newfound energy, spurred into action by the thought-provoking possibility of an uninvited houseguest, Mariana quickly turned the car toward town. In dire need of a security makeover, she drove to the closest discount hardware store hoping to not run into anyone who knew her. Spur-of-the-moment explanations sometimes led to more questions, usually unwanted questions, the kind she didn’t look forward to answering.

Intending to purchase only an inexpensive alarm and new locks for the front and back doors, Mariana’s impulsive shopping habits took over the moment she entered the store. Eagerly, she latched onto every gizmo and gadget, filling her cart with enough electronics to safeguard a bank.

At the checkout counter, three hours later, the staggering price on the register left her stunned. Quickly recovering from the sticker shock, she smiled at the cashier. “I guess it’s only too much until you need it, huh?”

“That’s what they say,” the young man nodded apathetically.

Outside, Mariana loaded her car and drove home. Checking the answering machine, she discovered two calls had been missed that afternoon. Pushing the button, she heard only silence. Ethan? The next message was the same. Shaking her head, Mariana mumbled, “If he wants to tell me something, or threaten me, why doesn’t he say anything?” Now she was even more relieved that she’d purchased the security devices.

With a lot to be done and only one day of the weekend left, she wasted no time. Backing the car up to the door, she unloaded the trunk and immediately set to work.

The manager of the hardware store had insisted the alarm was very simple to install. “Anyone can do it,” he’d claimed.

That statement was a bit of a stretch Mariana found. Mechanical skills were not her strong suit. She was an attorney, not an electrician or a carpenter. Struggling through the poorly written instructions with their utterly useless diagrams, she worked tirelessly until mid-afternoon. Finally, though it didn’t look like much, she had a working alarm—complete with motion detectors, glass breakage sensors and equipped with floodlights. She’d even managed to install an earsplitting siren. Whether it was wired properly she didn’t know, but it worked! The system also featured a built-in device to call the police when the security was breached but considering the circumstances, she passed on the option.

Feeling more confident in her carpentry abilities, Mariana next tackled the locks, first on the front door, and then the back. Finally, she fitted each of the thirteen windows with the new hardware. The renovations were nowhere near complete but, it was getting late. Her aching body was tired and sore. Gathering up the rest of her paraphernalia; floodlights and fixtures, security bars for the basement windows, and a few other items she had purchased, Mariana piled it all in the spare bedroom. Carrying her tools to the same room, she closed the door. The rest of the projects would have to wait until another day.

Taking a much-deserved break, an exhausted Mariana settled into her rocking chair in the living room, looking around admiring her handiwork. “Let Ethan try to get in now,” she smiled smugly. Then, the smile faded a bit. Being a prosecutor, she knew that if the guy really wanted to get in, he’d find a way. Still, she felt safer. The work she’d done may not prevent him from entering, but it would certainly make it more difficult, and should provide her with at least a little warning. Enough warning to allow her time to grab a baseball bat or something and beat the man senseless.

That may be a bit drastic, she thought. But at least the guy would know what had killed him. She smiled cynically. “No one wants to die without knowing it.” Then she laughed out loud, “Come to think of it, no one really wants to know they’re dying either, I guess.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

An insipid holdover from the routine of prison life, Ethan was up bright and early Monday morning. As had become his daily ritual, he dialed Mariana Clark’s number. Disposable cell phones, which he’d discovered at the mall, made it nearly impossible to trace the call back to him, but he blocked the number anyway. By now the D.A. surely knew who was calling every morning and night. But she couldn’t prove it—couldn’t be one hundred percent positive. And not giving her the opportunity, he thought, exploited that small, nagging fear of the unknown she must be experiencing.

Silently listening, Ethan could almost feel the angst and ire of the woman on the line, as she tried in vain to get him to talk. He smirked, still saying nothing. The outrage a simple phone call could evoke was literally amazing. A woman’s psyche is so penetrable, so vulnerable. It was remarkably easy to instantly elicit a wild emotional response, to strike fear in the female mind, almost with no effort. The most trivial things can thrust them into an emotional state of panic. He laughed. It should be illegal. Okay, so it was illegal, he allowed, but he considered that of mere insignificance to an otherwise pleasurable activity. The fact the woman in this instance was the District Attorney, who’d blatantly stolen his life, made it all the more gratifying. As the frantic voice on the phone demanded, for the fourth time, that he identify himself, Ethan hung up.

Now that the high and mighty Little Miss D.A. had been duly initiated and introduced to the petrifying theater of the mind, it was time to move on to more exciting ventures. By this time, he’d forgotten the idea that anyone was watching or cared what he was up to, and for the past week, Ethan had been busy. Busy making daily trips to the library. The Internet, fabulous invention that it was, provided a ready source of interesting and useful material. The best thing about a computer though, was that it didn’t argue with him. It never asked questions or complained, and though technically, the files and hard drive could be subpoenaed, it probably wasn’t going to testify against him in court. The machine simply followed orders, obeying his every command. He’d copied, pasted, and printed until his fingers were sore. But that was a small price to pay for the better than one hundred documents he’d acquired.

The documents consisted of anything he could find that mentioned his favorite District Attorney, whether by name or title. He’d printed each one and taken them all home. There, he divided the news clippings into two separate stacks, those that made only a reference to Mariana Clark, and the ones that mentioned specific cases. The next day, Ethan was again back at the library searching for articles regarding the death of any D.A., active or retired. It didn’t matter; he wanted them all. The cause of death and other details, were also unimportant. What he was keenly interested in was the headline; audacious, glaring, and bold. The very sight of the printed words should add a little more suspense and fervor to the mix.

Back in his hotel room that evening, Ethan sorted, clipped and arranged the various articles, forming eight groups. Then, he inserted the papers into separate manila envelopes and carefully printed Mariana’s address on the front of each one, just the way he’d done on the letter.

For the next two weeks, he made the hour’s drive to Cedar Springs, every other day, mailing a package on each trip. He could have just as easily used the post office in Fulton, or the mailbox right down in the hotel lobby, but he wanted to give Mariana that special feeling of knowing that someone she knew and “loved” was close by.

The first package contained the articles, which casually made mention of Mariana, as did the following one. The next two held a newspaper’s extensive account of the D.A.’s personal case history; trials won and lost. With the next mailing came the articles he’d so ardently and meticulously prepared, a detailed documentation of his own case.

There was nothing particularly sinister or threatening in any of the mailings. Ethan was just playing mind games. Mariana was already rattled, and though the packages posed no explicit threat, the mere fact that she received one every couple days would remind her, ever so affectionately, she hadn’t been forgotten. It was known as psychological torture. The most innocent occurrences, if treated right and given the proper setting could work astonishing wonders on a person’s mind, particularly an already agitated female mind.

More importantly, there was a method to the seeming madness of the man. He wanted to draw the woman’s attention and focus it on the plain white envelopes with the fancy writing. She’d soon learn to recognize them and either be lulled into a false sense of security or grow extremely frustrated. Either way, she’d be curious, wondering what he’d sent with the arrival of each new package. It was only natural, she was human and humans are driven by curiosity. To further exploit the trait, he’d added a little twist to every package, making each more personal and increasingly relevant. He wanted to keep her interest growing.

Two days later, his ambitions were closer to becoming a reality as he dropped off the next installment. The envelope contained a dozen headline stories from various newspapers describing the death of District Attorneys. If the other packages had sparked Mariana’s interest, this one ought to be anticipated and opened immediately. The underlying theme should be easily recognized. Ethan sent a total of three such envelopes, each containing more accounts of the unfortunate demise of one of Mariana’s colleagues. And he kept up the phone calls, regularly dialing her number every morning and every evening, never uttering a word. Silently, he listened as the exasperated D.A. exploded into a fit of fury with each call. The fact she kept answering was mystifying to Ethan, but as long as she did, he planned to take full advantage of it.