Miscarriage Of Justice (31 page)

“Denied,” came the ruling from the bench. “The Prosecution’s motion will take precedence.” Then addressing the defendant, Judge Bingham continued. “In light of new and substantial evidence offered to this court by the Prosecution, I have no choice but to grant the Prosecution’s request for dismissal.

Muffled gasps filled the courtroom, as the judge’s words resonated through the gallery of spectators and they realized the trial was over. Then the whispered murmurings began.

From the bench, the gavel banged several times, commanding silence. Judge Bingham looked toward the jury. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your time.” Then, the judge spoke to the defendant. “Mr. Rafferty, you are free to go. Please accept this Court’s apologies. Case dismissed.” The gavel fell sharply one final time, signaling that court had come to an end.

Feeling as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Mariana let out a huge sigh. Glancing around the courtroom, she saw the open-mouthed stares as everyone digested the surprising outcome. The shock and disbelief, especially on the faces of the jurors caused her to smile. Apparently, they had been set to render a guilty verdict. Her arguments must have been pretty convincing. Too bad they were so erroneous.

Then she grimaced. Everyone was sure to have a heyday with this, from her colleagues to the news media, and all at her expense. She could just imagine the headlines in the papers that afternoon. Shrugging, her eyes moved on, swinging to her left, to the scene at the defendant’s table.

And a festive scene it was! The radiant relief on Ethan’s face was priceless. His attorney was there basking in the moment, as if he’d had a hand in the whole thing. Over the man’s head, Ethan caught Mariana’s eye and gave her a heartfelt look of gratitude. It was plain he knew who had saved his skin.

Suddenly, Ethan’s wife appeared out of nowhere, hugging and kissing him, a big grin plastered on both of their faces. Mariana paused just for an instant, taking it all in. Despite the political and peer pressure, she’d done the right thing—and it felt good!

Her self-congratulatory moment was broken by a questioning female voice from behind. “What happened?”

Whirling, Mariana saw her friend Jessi, whom she’d invited down for the trial, giving her a worried look. Returning a weak shrug, she said simply, “We had the wrong guy.”

Jessi shot back a puzzled frown. “When you called Friday, you said it was a slam dunk. I think your exact words were, ‘The fat lady isn’t singing yet, but the music is playing.’ Remember?”

“Yeah, I know,” Mariana answered. Stuffing some papers into her briefcase, she looked up. “I’ll tell you about it over lunch.”

“Works for me,” Jessi said. “Let’s go.”

Looking to the back of the courtroom again, Mariana added, “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll invite my parents too. They’re probably just as confused as you are. That way I’ll only have to explain it once.”

Jessi nodded. “Okay.”

On the way outside, Mariana noticed the hoard of reporters gathered around Ethan and his attorney. They were like an angry mob; shouting, asking questions, and snapping photographs. Thankful it was him, and not her, Mariana moved on as Ethan was saying how he’d almost lost hope that justice would prevail. Ruefully, she knew it wouldn’t be long before they had squeezed every bit of the story’s life out of the former defendant, and then they would descend on her like maggots on meat. She sighed, thinking she’d better get used to it. “It goes with the territory.”

Close to an hour later, she was seated with her parents and Jessi at the restaurant. After the waitress had brought their drinks, Mr. Clark, Mariana’s father said, “So, how did you go from having this guy all but convicted to dropping all charges?”

“Yeah,” chimed in Jessi. “Explain, please.”

Mariana’s mother said nothing, but sat there expectantly in her typical quiet fashion, waiting to hear the story.

Taking another drink of water, Mariana related the entire saga for the second time that day. She ended on the happy note that they now had Mitch Evans behind bars.

“So, you have to start all over?” Jessi asked. “Seems like a hassle to me.”

Mariana nodded.

“At least you won’t be sending an innocent man to prison,” her dad said.

“Yeah,” she agreed.

Jessi was slowly shaking her head. “You had the case won. You could’ve just not said anything, and no one would have ever known.”

“I could have, and believe me, I thought about it,” Mariana admitted. “In fact,” she suddenly cringed. Her parents were sitting right there beside her and here she was about to own up to a serious character flaw. Taking another deep breath, she sheepishly finished her thought. “I’d planned to do just that, and never tell a soul, but last night I had the strangest dream…

The End

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About The Author

Bruce A. Borders was born in 1967 in Cape Girardeau, MO. Bruce’s childhood years were spent in a number of states, including Missouri, Oregon, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

During his high school years, he was a member of the football, basketball and track teams, involved in various non-athletic activities such as school yearbook production and photography, and won numerous awards for his artistic creations. Bruce graduated Valedictorian in 1984.

While in school, Bruce held three part-time jobs; a store clerk, a janitor, and a dental technician, working about 60-70 hours per week. After graduation he became employed full time as a dental technician. Other jobs have included restaurant manager, carpenter and grocery store cashier. For the past sixteen years, he has worked as a commercial truck driver, logging more than two million miles.

At the age of fifteen, Bruce decided to become a writer. He began by writing songs, news articles and short stories. Eventually, books were added to the list. Over the years, he continued to write and currently has a catalog of more than 500 songs, numerous short stories and over a dozen completed books. He writes on a variety of subjects such as the Bible and politics, as well as fictional novels of legal issues and westerns.

For more information, visit his websites at:
bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com
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Bruce also writes a weekly blog of short, sometimes humorous stories, read it at:
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Other Books by Bruce A. Borders
Over My Dead Body
The Journey
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#1 Mistaken Identity
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#3 Remote Control
#4 Judicial Review
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#7 Dark Day

Preview of Over My Dead Body
by Bruce A. Borders

Thwack! The bullet bit into the side of the wooden doorframe, inches from the man’s head, spraying splinters into his face. The initial shock lasted only briefly, as survival instinct took over, compelling the man to action. Diving back into the house, he kicked the door shut and crawled to the kitchen.

“Get in the basement,” he shouted to his wife.

Outside, an authoritative and commanding voice blasted orders through a megaphone. The eerie sound echoed through the walls of the house.

“And what are you going to do?” the worried woman asked nervously. “You can’t stop them all. Those are cops!”

“Don’t worry about what I’m going to do,” he replied tersely. “Just take Ashley and go to the basement.”

His wife scooped up their three-year-old daughter. Half running, half falling, she stumbled down the stairs. Reaching the bottom, she heard the door above her slam. In a daze, she scrambled to the far corner, crouching under her husband’s workbench, huddling with her daughter.

After they were safely out of sight, her husband moved swiftly to the bedroom. In grim determination, he retrieved a key from his desk. His jaw set with a resolute purpose, he strode to the gun cabinet in the den.

* * * * *

The June day had begun like any other, a typical Monday morning. Jeff Blake left for work at the usual six-thirty a.m. Arriving at the investment brokerage firm of Avian Financial Services downtown Fairfield, where he worked as an investment advisor, he sauntered into the office shortly before eight o’clock. In the distance, a factory whistle blew, proclaiming the beginning of the workweek.

Deeply immersed in paperwork, Jeff hardly noticed as his secretary, twenty-three year old Janet Dempson, came in to announce his nine o’clock appointment with a potential new client, Mr. Clint Parkens. Shuffling through mountainous piles of files, heaped on the desk, he looked up as she ushered the man in. Smiling politely, Jeff invited his visitor to have a seat. With a slight nod, the man sat down.

Pushing the paperwork aside, Jeff asked, “What can we do for you today?”

“I want to make some investments,” the well-dressed man answered curtly. “But I don’t want to lose any money.”

Again, Jeff smiled. The edgy wariness was a quite common attribute among first time investors. In a calm, reassuring and soothing tone, he explained the investment process. Unlike many advisors, he always made it a point to stress the fact there were no guarantees in this business.

“Investing doesn’t have to be a losing proposition,” he began. “There are several safeguards available, but it
is
still a gamble. The greater the risk, the more you stand to gain on the investment. Of course,” he added, “if you’re not willing to take a major risk, we have a number of options which generally provide modest returns. It’s really up to each individual, according to their own comfort level. But unfortunately,” he repeated, “there are no guarantees.”

Across the desk, the man seated in the posh corner office said nothing, staring straight at Jeff; he remained lost in thought, contemplating what he’d been told.

Jeff had seen it before; the uncertain look, the reluctance to commit. With the expertise of a seasoned salesman, he gently prodded the hesitant client.

“We could start small,” he suggested. “That would provide an opportunity to become familiar with the process and a chance to build some confidence as you learn the business of investing. Then when you’re comfortable, you can increase the investment capital as you see fit.”