Miscarriage Of Justice (7 page)

Most of the details appeared in article form, giving a short background, describing the trial in general terms, and then a brief rundown on the outcome. More essential particulars—dates, places, and other interesting facts followed the general text. What came next was more intriguing, and his reason for visiting the site, an extensive list of names and how each related to the case. Ethan read the article, and swore under his breath. It made him sound like a criminal. Then he relaxed. That was understandable. He had been convicted of murder and whoever had compiled and written these articles didn’t know he wasn’t guilty.

Scrolling down, he scanned the names; Judge John Bingham, Mariana Clark - Lincoln County D.A., Daniel Young - Defense Attorney. Ethan was intimately familiar with these names. Reading further, he saw the lead investigator listed, along with a dozen or so other police officers and what each had contributed to the case. Various lab techs and other specialists followed. Then, there were the names of the two witnesses with a summary of their testimony. Finally, he reached the part he wanted. Taking a deep breath, he read the subheading, Jurors. There, printed on the screen in front of him were the full names of the twelve honest and upstanding citizens who had convicted him. A dozen of his peers. That’s what the Court had claimed. Yet, even at the time, he’d known they were as far removed from his lifestyle as could be. None were his peers, by any definition of the word.

Reaching for a pen and paper from his pocket, he quickly scribbled down the twelve names, taking care to print legibly. He didn’t want to be forced to make another visit, just because he couldn’t read his own handwriting.

Scrawling the final name on his paper, Robert A. Behren, he noticed an asterisk on the screen. With a puzzled frown, he quickly scrolled down. “What’s that mean?” he muttered to himself.

Continuing to the bottom of the page, he read, “Deceased,” next to the symbol.

“Interesting,” he thought. When? No date was given, but to the right he saw a notice that read, “For more information, click on the small blue box next to the name.”

Immediately, he scrolled back up and clicked on the pale blue box to the right of the man’s last name on the list of jurors. A small window opened, giving a short bio on Mr. Behren. He discovered the man had died from heart related complications, more than nine years prior.

“That one’s out,” he frowned, closing the window.

Clicking on the box by the next name on the list, Ethan was pleasantly amazed. Not only did the information window give a brief history of the juror, but the small color photo was a shock to see, and brought back vivid memories of the trial.

Curious now as to what more he could learn, Ethan clicked on another name and then the next. Not all of them had a picture, in fact, only three, but he took his time, reading the short history it gave for each one. He didn’t learn much aside from who each of them were with respect to the community. With a sigh, he closed the window, and typed Cedar Springs Daily Tribune into the search engine box. Clicking on the link, the website of his hometown newspaper opened. Using the site search to explore the archives, he entered the first name from his list of now eleven jurors.

“Sorry. No results were found matching your search,” was the message that appeared on the screen.

Disappointed, Ethan tried the next name. Nothing. Not giving up, he continued. Of the eleven, he found recent articles on only four. One by one, he pulled up the stories. The first two were a rather mundane mention of the names in connection with fund-raising efforts for the American Cancer Society. As businessmen, both had donated to the cause and were being lauded by the paper for their generous support.

The third yielded a bit more information. Sandra Lovell, an elderly woman, after an extended absence, had recently returned to the area where she’d grown up and had a noteworthy impact. “The Lovell Hospice, which bears her name, was started by Mrs. Lovell after her late husband passed away in the early nineties.” The article ended by stating the woman now resided in Canyon Creek, a posh suburb of Cedar Springs, that Ethan knew well. Some friends owned a home there, or used to. He’d been away for a while and hadn’t heard from them. Like everyone else, they too had deserted him. He made a note beside the lady’s name on his paper. The information could perhaps prove useful in the future.

With an audible sigh, he clicked on the link to the story on the last juror, Gerald Duncan. What he saw made him instantly sit up straight, and then brought an mischievousness grin to his face. The article that appeared was an obituary column! And it was dated just three days after his release from prison.

“Perfect,” he whispered. It was exactly what he had hoped to find. And the timing couldn’t have been better.

Clicking on the “Related Story” tab, he began to read the small news article. The column stated that Mr. Duncan had been killed in an automobile accident, during the early-morning hours on the eleventh of April. The cause of the multi-vehicle crash, which led to the untimely death of Duncan, it said, was unknown. The story further stated that the matter was currently under investigation.

Ethan was elated. He’d planned to write down any information he found, not wanting to leave an online trail of his activities, but this was too good to pass up.

Quickly, using the state of the art printer the library made available, he printed the obit column and short article and then closed the browser. Gathering up his papers, he shook his head, still not believing his good fortune at finding the story. It was almost as if he’d had a hand in the man’s fate himself. He was betting Mariana Clark would think the same thing. Banking on it, in fact.

“Perfect,” he mumbled again, walking to the exit. “Perfect.”

CHAPTER FIVE

One dreadful fact was patently obvious, Mariana thought as she left for work one early May morning. The worry and anxiety she’d felt recently over the release of Ethan Rafferty, had all been for nothing. A month had now passed and she’d neither heard from, nor seen the man. Turning the car down the street to the county parking lot, a short two blocks from her office, she laughed carelessly. Arrogantly. The poor fool didn’t have enough guts to do anything to her, or even attempt a move against her. “I guess fifteen years in Granite Hills was enough for him,” she snickered.

The cocky self-confidence and newfound bravado came quite easily now. Through the aid of a couple of Lincoln County deputies, whom she had enlisted to determine Ethan’s whereabouts, she’d learned he was living in a hotel downtown Fulton. After tailing him for three days, the officers’ report had concluded the former convict had no designs on anything that could land him back in prison. The man had even applied for a job, they told her. Quite a few of them, in fact.

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.