Miscarriage Of Justice (30 page)

He felt no remorse or sadness at what he’d done. No guilt. Though neither did he feel particularly overjoyed. Just a numb realization that it was finally over. She’d gotten what she deserved. Better than what she deserved. It was no worse than what she’d done to him. Far better in his opinion.

Slowly, he lowered the gun and stuffed it back into his belt. Mariana’s body convulsed once and then lay still. For a moment, he watched in irreverent silence, before slowly heading for the door.

Hearing the mournful wail of a siren in the distance, he instinctively wondered if they were coming for him. Immediately, he knew they weren’t. No one knew what he had done—not yet. Eventually, there would be an investigation. And with Mariana being the District Attorney, sooner or later, someone would most likely figure it out. Then they would come. It was inevitable. The house always wins.

Though things had come to a tragic end, it seemed as if a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders. At last, he was actually free, and it felt good. Maybe now he could settle down to a normal life. For some reason, he suddenly thought of Lacy, and then he frowned. It would never work. There could never be anything between them. Not a lasting relationship anyway, with Lacy or any other woman. As soon as they discovered what he had done, that would be the end of it. He shrugged. Such was life.

Stepping into the cool night air, Ethan pulled the door shut behind him, leaving Mariana’s slumped body lying awkwardly on the floor, spilling her blood onto the carpet. “Let them come,” he muttered, walking to his car. “Let them send me back to prison. At least this time, I’ll be guilty of something.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“All rise,” droned the bailiff’s voice. “Court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Bingham presiding.”

Outside, the town square clock was sounding its alarm, announcing the time was half past eleven as the judge appeared from a side door and strode to the bench. “Be seated,” he intoned with an authoritative air. Pausing a moment, waiting for the noisy din of those present settling into their seats to subside, he asked, “Is the Defense ready to proceed with closing arguments?”

Before the Defense Attorney could respond, Mariana Clark solemnly stood to her feet. “Your Honor, the Prosecution requests to re-open its case.”

“Objection,” called Daniel Young from the defendant’s side of the room. “Your Honor, might I remind the Court, and Miss Clark, the Prosecution rested its case last week and we’ve already heard their closing arguments. The Defense should be allowed to continue without interruption from the Prosecution who just remembered some irrelevant point she wanted to make.”

Judge Bingham seemed inclined to agree with the Defense as he stared down hard at Mariana. “Miss Clark, you’ve already wasted several hours of the Court’s time this morning by phoning in your rather unorthodox request for a recess. I granted the recess as a matter of professional courtesy, but unless you have some sort of new evidence, I see no reason to allow a re-opening of the State’s case.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mariana acknowledged, and then quickly continued. “If the Court would be so kind as to grant me just a few moments, I can explain. There is in fact, new evidence in this case, which…”

The young D.A. was interrupted by the Defense Attorney, who again vociferously made his objection known.

“I believe it would be worth his while for opposing counsel to indulge me on this request, Your Honor,” Mariana countered.

The Judge finally gave his answer. “The objection is overruled.” Looking toward the District Attorney he said, “I’ll allow you to re-open your case, provided you get right to the point. This had better be good.”

“Thank you,” Mariana voiced her appreciation. Taking a deep breath, she held the judge’s gaze. “The Prosecution would like to make a motion for dismissal. Due to new evidence, which has recently surfaced, the State is prepared to drop all charges against Mr. Rafferty.”

An instant hush fell over the courtroom. Everyone, including Judge Bingham was caught off-guard by the unexpected move of an obviously very inexperienced District Attorney. The unnatural silence continued to engulf the room as all eyes were trained on Mariana. Then, as if controlled by an unknown common power, their attention diverted to the man behind the bench, waiting for his response.

Briefly gazing around the courtroom to the scene of spectators and jurors, Mariana saw her parents, Thomas and Julian Clark, seated in the back row. Her father sat with a stunned expression, sharing the shock with the rest of those present in court. Mariana gave him a wry smile, and then once more focused her attention on the man at the bench.

The judge’s reaction was quick in coming. “I’ll see counsel in my chambers.” It was apparent the man wasn’t too happy with the turn of events.

Amid the stares of the entire room, Mariana pulled a small white envelope from her briefcase and followed a bewildered Daniel Young, through a side door.

Judge Bingham was already in the room, pacing the floor. “What are you trying to pull?” he demanded as Mariana closed the door. “After six months, you’ve suddenly discovered new evidence? Evidence so relevant that it now becomes necessary for you to abandon your whole case and throw away everything you and the state have invested in this trial?”

Mariana meekly waited as Judge Bingham lambasted her, patiently holding her peace. When he was finished, there would be an opportunity for her to speak.

The room grew quiet, as the judge, at a temporary loss for words, sighed and softened his stance. “What sort of evidence do you have?”

Here goes, Mariana thought. She’d known the judge wouldn’t be pleased; after all, she had wasted several months of his time it seemed. Assuming her professional posture, she held up the envelope. “I have some pictures of the crime scene.”

“We’ve already viewed the crime scene photos,” Judge Bingham snapped. “They were introduced as evidence by you, months ago.”

Nodding, Mariana continued, unaffected by the man’s condescending attitude. “These were not taken by crime scene investigators.” Pulling the pictures from the envelope, she handed them to the judge.

“I don’t see anything here much different than the other pictures,” he said, thumbing through the stack.

“I’ll show you what’s different,” Mariana said, careful to not sound patronizing with her remarks. “And why I believe the evidence suggests the defendant did not commit this crime.”

Daniel Young had, until this point, wisely remained quiet. If the D.A. felt she had reason to call for a dismissal, he certainly wasn’t going to argue with her about it. Still, he was dying to get his own look at the pictures.

Mariana noticed the way he edged closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the photos and invited both men to have a seat at the small table. Taking the pictures from the judge, she spread them out in a half circle. “See how each of these shows a different pose?” Gesturing to the pictures one by one, she waited for the two of them to indicate they were following her. “Whoever took these, had to take time between each shot to re-position the subject, including brushing the victim’s hair and straightening her clothes. There are twenty-four pictures here, none are the same as the official crime scene photos.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Judge Bingham replied, still with a hint of disgust. “What I don’t see is how any of that proves the defendant is not guilty.”

Undaunted, Mariana went right on. “The coroner placed the time of death between 9:05 and 9:25,” she said. “Assuming it was the earliest possible time of 9:05, and allowing just two minutes per shot, would place the killer leaving the scene no earlier than 9:53. Actually, 9:55 considering he had to arrange just one more pose, the one investigators found. Anyway, the defendant was seen outside the house at 9:30 and 9:33, according to the witnesses. He purchased his coffee at 9:36, and made the phone call from his home at 9:45, a call that lasted for thirty-seven minutes, which was verified by the phone company.”

Judge Bingham wasn’t buying any of it. “He could easily have come back to finish the job later; after the phone call. He would’ve had all the time in the world to take as many photographs as he wanted then.”

“No,” the D.A. shook her head. “There’s more.” Pointing to one of the photos she said, “See the clock in this picture?”

Both men squinted, trying to make out the time, and then the judge read it aloud, “10:04.” He frowned, not saying anything. He knew the defendant would’ve been on the phone at that point.

Mariana though, wasn’t finished. “I know, he could have simply changed the time on the clock before taking his pictures, and then put it back after he was done.” Seeing the surprise on Judge Bingham’s face, she realized the man hadn’t thought of the possibility. He seemed relieved she was addressing it for him. Directing their attention to another of the photos she said, “In this picture, you can see a faint reflection of the photographer in the grandfather clock.”

Studying the pictures intently, Judge Bingham, a little more congenial by now, nodded. “Yes, I see it.”

“It’s not the defendant,” Mariana said with a bit of flair.

The judge frowned and slowly nodded his agreement again. The figure shown in the glass was definitely not the man sitting out in the defendant’s seat in his courtroom. This was beginning to add up to a lot of problems for the state’s case. He couldn’t help but come to the same conclusion the D.A. had. Still, he wasn’t ready to acquiesce completely. Just because the defendant wasn’t solely responsible, he still may have had a hand in it. But the more he thought about it, that didn’t make a lot of sense. Sighing, the judge finally admitted it, Ethan Rafferty, more than likely wasn’t guilty of anything to do with Natasha Wyman’s murder. The Defense Attorney’s explanation concerning how his client’s DNA had wound up on the gatepost, which had sounded rather ridiculous, was beginning to seem a bit more plausible.

Daniel Young could contain himself no longer. Breaking his silence he asked, “Where did you get these photos?”

“That’s a good question,” the judge agreed.

Mariana took another deep breath and started talking. Explaining she’d received a mysterious phone call the previous Saturday, from a guy who claimed to be the murderer, she told the whole story. “This morning when I showed the pictures to Mr. And Mrs. Wyman, they instantly identified the man as Mitch Evans, Sara Wyman’s uncle. Apparently, the guy made a failed attempt at murdering Natasha, ten years ago, believing he was told by God to set her soul free. He’s been locked away in a mental institute for that crime for several years—that is, until recently. Seven months ago, twenty-six days before the murder, he was released. The Wyman’s claim they were not aware Mitch was out, and that’s why they never mentioned any of this to the police.” Giving them a sarcastic look, she added, “I know, sometimes people are just plain stupid.”

“How did the pictures get into the clock?” the defense attorney wanted to know.

“I’m guessing Mitch had them developed and then, knowing the family and being familiar with the house, he waited until no one was home to hide them,” the D.A. said. “Which brings up another point, just in case there’s still any doubt. The defendant would’ve had no opportunity to place the pictures anywhere, let alone in the clock, because he didn’t have time to get them developed, and no chance to return to the scene of the crime. We checked and he was in custody before any of the photo shops opened.”

Judge Bingham sighed. It looked like his court had spent the last six months trying this case for nothing. Looking at the D.A., he started to speak and then fell silent.

Anticipating what the judge was thinking, Mariana hurriedly continued her story. “I’ve been up since five o’clock this morning, checking out every angle. After visiting the Wyman’s, I drove to every photo center in town. Meanwhile, my office was working to verify the story on Mitch Evans and then trying to locate him. The reason I asked for the recess this morning is we believed we had found the man, and indeed, we had. Lincoln County Sheriff’s deputies picked him up shortly before eleven, and he is currently in custody at the jail, waiting to be charged with the murder of Natasha Wyman.”

“And do you actually think you can make a case against him?” Judge Bingham asked with more than a hint of skepticism. “Convincing a jury of his guilt will be doubly difficult after the fiasco you’ve made of this trial so far.”

Ignoring the comment, Mariana kept her cool, forcing herself to remain calm. She’d expected the judge to be peeved, and knew he probably would have preferred that she overlook the evidence and gone ahead with the trial. The Court would have found Ethan guilty, sentenced him, and gone on to the next case. That was the standard operating procedure; the way things were typically done. The fact the defendant wasn’t guilty would have been of no concern. No one in her position was supposed to switch horses in the middle of the stream, especially when the case was already sewn up. Judges didn’t like it when their court produced no results.

Suddenly remembering the judge had asked her a question, regarding whether or not she could produce a victory in the new trial, she looked the big man in the eye and confidently replied, “Yes. I believe I can.”

Disgusted though he was, Judge Bingham had to admire her spunk. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”

The conference between the three had taken no more than ten minutes, but it could’ve lasted an hour and not affected the mood in the courtroom. Curious and alive with anticipation, no one had moved from their seat.

The judge resumed his place on the bench and once more, the bailiff announced the proceedings had begun and that court was in session.

Eager to share the limelight and get in on the action, Daniel Young immediately jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, the Defense makes a motion for dismissal.” The judge was sure to deny the motion, but seeing the reporters busily scratching away on the pads, he smiled to himself. Maybe he’d receive a little credit for his client’s exoneration in the newspapers anyway.