The Coffee Shoppe Killer

by Rod Kackley

  Patrica fantasized about this being the last day she’d walk into the St. Isidore County Courthouse while she drove through what passed for morning rush hour traffic in St. Isidore.

  The courthouse, next to a ridiculous looking city/county building, where you had to take two different elevators to get to her office, was a testament to the mental midgets who couldn’t see any reason to live anywhere else. Built in 1963, with the same kind of cinder blocks that were used to create elementary schools back in the Cold War days, the building usually smelled like her third-grade classroom. Maybe it was the pencil shavings left behind by decades of civil servants. Maybe it was the courthouse cafeteria. But it felt like a school.

  However, the building did have the advantage of having lots of windows to let in as much sunshine as possible in a town often covered by clouds bringing rain to St. Isidore if it wasn’t snowing or sleeting.

  “Since a lot of people are here for a divorce, a trial, or sentencing; the architect figured we needed lots of windows to take advantage of any sunshine possible,” Patrica had been told on her first day.

  It is such a tiny community pretending to be major, Patricia thought more than once during the past ten years she’d lived in St. Isidore. Home to three minor league teams—hockey, basketball, and baseball—several radio stations staffed by people either on their way up or on their way down the career ladder of broadcasting success; St. Isidore screamed average, as far as Patricia was concerned.

  Born and raised in the white-collar suburbs of Detroit, Patricia thought of herself as one of those on her way up and out of Swinging Izzy. She certainly never considered herself to be a lifelong resident of this town. And, it would never be her home.

  However, if Judge Leopold sentenced Mary Eileen to anything less than life without parole, or God forbid if the jury came back with a not guilty because of insanity verdict; it would be “Welcome to Walmart” time for Patricia Fry.

  Patricia had never taken defeat well. Of course, no one likes to lose. Everyone wants to win. But Patricia was different. She had to win. It’s not that her parents drove her unmercifully. It’s not that she was sent to bed without dinner for bringing home less than a perfect report card.

  It was simply that something inside of Patricia would not allow her to be less than perfect, or even worse, to be defeated.

  “Patricia, you have the drive to win, I can’t fault you for that,” her high school debate coach, Richard Worth told her while they were traveling to the state championship tournament.

  Patricia had only nodded. She’d heard about half of what Mr. Worth said. Most of her mind was focused on her team and making sure they didn’t stumble. Everything Patricia wanted — doing her undergrad work at Stanford then getting her law degree from Yale or maybe Harvard — was riding on this debate championship.

  “But you need to relax,” Mr. Worth said. “Winning isn’t everything.”

  God, what tripe, Patricia thought. But she looked at her coach with a very practiced attitude of submission. Of course, you are right; her eyes told adults or anyone who criticized her quest for victory and glory. How foolish of me not to see the truth of what you are saying.

  But in her mind, Patricia was screaming, “Why can’t these morons just stay out of my way?”

  “Patricia, you are not only driven to succeed,” a psychiatrist had told her of what was politely called her “nervous breakdown” following a miserable debate team practice.

  “You are more than driven, Patricia. You are pathological about winning. You not only ignore the effect you are having on others most of the time; the sliver of time when you do recognize your impact, you simply don’t care.”

  Patricia remembered looking up at Dr. Julianne French with her much-practiced gaze that said, “Gee whiz, how could I have missed that,” as the psychiatrist sat on the witness stand. When Patricia started her cross-examination of the good doctor, she could see French had no memory of their time together. As a result, Patricia was driven even more to make the doctor look foolish.

  “If you think I was pathological about winning the state high school debate tournament, Dr. French, you should try to read my mind now,” Patricia had said to her bathroom mirror while practicing for her day in court.

  She was no longer a teenager dreaming of sugar plum fairies with job offers from the largest law firms in America dancing through her head. Patricia Fry focused on Washington. She would pick up Hillary’s torch if only she could win this trial.

  But, she’d fumbled the opening statement. While Michael Morris was brilliant, eloquent, and dramatic; Patricia had been dreary, drab, and redundant. Her speech had been utterly forgettable. Even Judge Leopold had caught her breath a couple of times and seemed to be pulling for her when Patricia started mumbling words rather than enunciating her thoughts.

  “You’re trying too hard,” Patricia had told herself. “Slow down. Stop if you have too. Give the jury a chance to catch up.” However, when she did force herself to stop, Patricia only looked confused.

  But she had recovered. Patricia had to admit to herself that she had been nearly magnificent with her witnesses. She had picked Dr. French to pieces. Patricia had attacked the psychiatrist's diagnosis, using the Socratic method of questioning to trap French with her own psychobabble.

  The way she laid the case out, there could be no doubt in any juror’s mind that Mary Eileen Sullivan knew what she was doing when she’d killed Hans Mueller and David Van Holt. They heard surviving friends and relatives cry on the witness stand. They saw the forensic evidence, the chopped up body parts encased in cement. It was all textbook.

  But Patricia also knew that while she had done everything a law professor might want, she’d been talking to herself as much, maybe more, than the jury. She knew she had missed the mark. But fortunately for Patricia, Mary Eileen Sullivan had confessed. She was a killer. And paradoxically, all Patricia had to do was to prove the woman was not crazy.

  Her boss, Prosecutor Logan, had slipped her a note reading, “You’re batting .500...bottom of the ninth..bases loaded...Knock this bitch out of the park.”

  Patricia smirked but fought back an urge to look back at Logan. She never liked the military and sports metaphors that her boss threw around to inspire his troops, as Logan put it. There was no need to “knock this bitch out of the park.”

  Raising an objection to Morris’ last question of Mary Eileen had been a mistake. Patricia had been too quick on the trigger and she knew it as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Fortunately, Judge Leopold had overruled her.

  Mary Eileen had already dug her own grave. Now, Patricia only had to let Mary Eileen bury herself. She could hardly wait to hear this double-murderer explain to a jury of her peers why killing her ex-husband and then her boyfriend were the acts of a rational woman.

  Forty

  Staying out of prison wasn’t Mary Eileen’s prime motivation as she turned the question over in her mind. Were the killings of Hans and David deliberate acts? Were the murders the act of a rational woman? Of course, Mary Eileen wanted to stay out of prison. Her morning sickness that day had been a reminder of her baby, the child that Mary Eileen wanted to raise. Nothing was more important than the love of a mother and daughter. It was a love that Mary Eileen had known as a child. Now it was time to pass that gift on to a child of her own.

  Having Sean by her side would have been ideal. But Mary Eileen was raised by a single mother. There was no reason she couldn’t do the same thing with her daughter. Mary Eileen wanted Sean. She needed Sean. But Mary Eileen also knew that she rarely got what she wanted. She had always been able to move on. She could do it again.

  So, yeah, staying out of prison, having an average life with a child, a dog, a white picket fence and her own business was the goal. But first, Mary Eileen had another task at hand. She had to show these people why they were wrong about her. They needed to understand that she had only done what needed to be done.

  “Of course it was rational,” Mary
Eileen said, dragging out the last word of her declaration. Like a firefly in June; a thought so ugly it was beautiful flickered in her mind just as it did when she began thinking about doing away with David. But this time, she didn’t hold on to it. She didn’t savor it. Mary Eileen Sullivan left it go.

  Rather than launch into a tirade against her attorney, Mary Eileen spoke to the jury, calmly and confidently.

  “I said already that David refused to leave, that I wanted to get on with my life,” Mary Eileen began. “Of course, there was more. It wasn’t just that he was sitting at my dining room table, using my computer, to do his work for the St. Isidore Chronicle.” Mary Eileen shot a wicked glance at the press booth. Hastily constructed against the west wall of the courtroom, it held at least ten video cameras from networks around the world, as well as fifty reporters. Even with the journalists packed laptop-to-tablet, Mary Eileen was able to pick out Amanda and Joy. She glared directly into their eyes before she continued.

  After shifting her glance to the jury forewoman, Sally Randall, Mary Eileen lowered her voice to a whisper and said, “You know he was a man. And you know that being a man, he was going to get what he thought he deserved.” Sally blinked and nodded slightly before Mary Eileen shifted her gaze from one to another of all six women in the jury box.

  “What else was I supposed to do?” Mary Eileen said as she turned back to Michael Morris. “He was taking advantage of me. I killed him, yes. Did I want to kill him? No, absolutely not, but David left me no alternative, did he?”

  “You didn’t have a lawyer to represent you in divorce court?” Morris asked.

  “Of course, I did. And look at all the good it did me,” Mary Eileen nearly shouted. “You attorneys, up on your podiums, smarter than everyone else, making more money than anyone else, and look what good you do us all.”

  She swung her gaze back to the jury box, moving her attention from one juror to another, taking her time to make eye contact with the full dozen.

  “David was taking advantage of me,” Mary Eileen said, concentrating and seemingly enjoying each syllable of the sentence. “My attorney was no help. So the police wouldn’t get involved. Therefore I had no other choice. I ended his life because I wanted to be free to live mine.”

  “And you cut up his body with a chain saw, using cement to hide his arms, legs, torso, and head in your cellar.”

  Mary Eileen shrugged. “What was done, was done. Again, what choice did I have?”

  “You killed Hans Mueller. You shot him with the same gun used to kill David Van Holt, and then you cut up and hid the body parts in your cellar.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why? Was he taking advantage of you too?”

  Mary Eileen paused, they were beginning to understand, she could feel it.

  As she relaxed in the oak chair, she crossed her legs and her arms before saying, “Hans Mueller was even worse. Yes, he was taking advantage of me. He would spend all night with his whores and then come back to my bed.”

  “His whores?”

  “Yes, his whores. Hans Mueller slept with at least ten women in this town, and I can prove it.”

  “Why didn’t you just divorce him?”

  “Oh, right,” Mary Eileen said. “Look at all the good that did me the last time.”

  “So, rather than getting a lawyer and filing for divorce, you just killed Hans Mueller. You cut up his body, mixed the cement and carted his body parts down to the cellar under the Coffee Shoppe.”

  “Again, what choice did I have?” Mary Eileen was sitting up straight now, nearly standing, as Judge Leopold made eye contact with the three court bailiffs to ensure they were ready if the defendant sprang at her attorney.

  “He was fucking around on me!”

  Judge Leopold slammed the gavel down on her desk. “Mr. Morris, please instruct your client to watch her language. One more outburst like that and I will hold her in contempt of court.”

  It took Mary Eileen a couple of minutes to bring her breathing back under control.

  “He was sleeping around,” Mary Eileen said, sneaking a sarcastic look at the judge. “He was sleeping around with every woman who would have him, and bringing those diseases, those STDs, back into my house.”

  “How could you be sure...”

  “I was sure damn, it!” Mary Eileen stood up in the witness booth. Michael Morris recoiled, Patricia jumped to her feet, and the three court bailiffs acted immediately. As they were leading Mary Eileen out of the courtroom, she screamed, “He brought disease into my house. Hans left me no choice. He had to die!”

  Patricia trembled as she sat back in her chair. She’d seen drunks lash out in anger in night court, but nothing like Mary Eileen Sullivan’s rage. At least a dozen people in the courtroom were standing, reporters pushed and shoved to get by them as they raced for the hallway and the limited bandwidth available for their phones. Video cameramen panted like lustful patrons getting lap dances at the St. Isidore XXX Nightclub. Judge Leopold looked like a blacksmith as she slammed her gavel down, again and again, demanding order in the courtroom.

  Patricia looked at Michael Morris, and he at her. As their eyes met, their attention moved to the jury box.

  Two of the jurors were crying. Several were standing; others were trembling.

  Patricia and Michael didn’t speak, but they shared a thought.

  Mary Eileen Sullivan had scared the hell out of this jury. She had buried herself.

  Forty One

  Amanda and Joy decided to eat lunch in shifts after Judge Leopold issued her instructions to the jury and sequestered the twelve St. Isidore citizens who would decide the fate of Mary Eileen Sullivan.

  Always the martyr, Joy said, “You eat first. I’ll stay here and guard our seats.”

  Now, she was starving in her martyrdom. But her sacrifice also made sense.

  There were easily more than one-hundred reporters in the courtroom listening to Leopold talk to the jury about the difference between finding Mary Eileen guilty of first-degree murder and deciding that she should be considered not guilty because of insanity.

  “Remember,” Judge Leopold said after she had read the text of the law to the jury, “finding the defendant ‘not guilty because of insanity’ is not the same as finding her ‘innocent.’ You can decide that even though Mary Eileen Sullivan has confessed to the murders of David Van Holt and Hans Mueller, and then hiding their bodies, in effect concealing evidence; you can still decide that she was not guilty because she was temporarily insane.”

  Sally Randall did her best not to wring her hands or show any emotion even though the weight of this civic responsibility rested heavily on her shoulders, while her stomach rumbled, begging for lunch.

  The judge’s instructions had lasted most of the morning. As Sally and her fellow jury members hung on every word, Judge Leopold also told them that if they came back with a guilty verdict, she would have no choice, under Michigan law, but to sentence Mary Eileen to life in prison with no possibility of parole.

  “If they come back with a not guilty verdict, God only knows what my sentence will be,” Patricia told Allyson during the long, sleepless night that led to this fateful day.

  “If the verdict is ‘not guilty by reason of temporary insanity,’” Judge Leopold told the jury, “I will have more discretion in sentencing. My options include sentencing the defendant to a mental health facility of the state’s choosing until she is deemed cured, or I could set her free. There is also a full range of possibilities within those parameters.”

  And if you come back with a simple ‘not guilty’ verdict, a plethora of opportunities will open for me, Michael Morris thought to himself as he slumped in his wooden chair at the defense table. He was doing his best to look as relaxed as possible. Michael wanted the jury to see that he was supremely certain of victory, even though Mary Eileen seemed anything but confident.

  She sat ramrod straight in her chair to the left of Michael, staring straight ahead, her eyes fixed o
n the clock over Judge Leopold’s head. Mary Eileen seemed to be giving the judge her undivided attention. But her mind was far away. It might be Mary Eileen was imagining what life in prison would be like, or perhaps thinking about the possibility of a complete victory, walking away from this courtroom, and back to her life in St. Isidore, or wherever she chose. Mary Eileen knew that if she walked out of the courtroom a free woman, even if she went to a hospital, book and movie deals were waiting.

  However, none of that entered her mind.

  Instead, she thought only of Sean and their baby.

  Mary Eileen was in their backyard, in her mind, playing with their daughter on a swing set, while Sean, wearing cargo shorts, sandals and bare-chested, mowed the lawn. She could see the beads of sweat running down his broad, tanned back as Sean walked away from her and then the smile on his sweaty face as he approached, pushing the power mower.

  Their child giggled on the swing, begging her to push her higher and higher, Mary Eileen, barefoot, wearing a light yellow sundress, imagined herself laughing and pretending to push harder and higher.

  She looked back over her shoulder, searching for Sean as she heard a loud bang, an explosion perhaps, or maybe a gunshot. Sean was lying face down in the grass. Mary Eileen let go of the swing. She looked down. Their daughter had disappeared.

  She heard a second loud bang, followed by a third.

  “Jurors, you will now go to the jury room to begin deliberations. The court is recessed until your return,” Judge Leopold said as she brought her gavel down the fourth time.

  Half an hour later, in the press box, Joy was thinking about her immediate future. Her stomach complained loudly about the lack of food, as she counted down the minutes of Amanda’s thirty-minute lunch break. Surely she would be back soon. And she was. Amanda pushed her way through the people standing in the marble-floored hallway and squeezed into the nearly empty courtroom. Ah, Joy thought, finally. But her vision of a Clyde’s Diner Big ‘C’ Burger & Fries in front of her at the restaurant next to the courthouse was dashed when a court bailiff walked to the front of the courtroom and announced, “The jury has reached a verdict."