Moral Hazard (Southern Fraud Thriller)

by J W Becton

  “We are here,” Judge Preece began, “to hear the court’s decision regarding Ms. Jackson’s admission and the effect of her actions on the state’s current case against accused rapist Clayton Leslie Slidell.”

  The occupants of the room nodded.

  “The purpose of today’s gathering is to decide the admissibility of the DNA evidence against Mr. Slidell and for the court to recommend a response to Ms. Jackson’s actions. Though I understand that new charges have been filed against Mr. Slidell, we will restrict ourselves to the aforementioned subjects.”

  Judge Preece turned to face Kay Lanyon and added, “But I trust you will look into the other matter, making sure to see to the safety of the minor in question.”

  The prosecuting attorney nodded. “Yes, Your Honor. Certainly.”

  “Now,” the judge said. “Does anyone have anything further to say before I render my decision?”

  To my surprise, Henry Martling III cleared his throat and said, “Yes, Your Honor. I recently had the opportunity to speak with Tricia Jackson, the victim of the alleged rape, and though she is far too traumatized to be here today, she wanted to make her voice heard.”

  My heart sped up, and my mouth fell open as I stared at Martling.

  My sister had said that? That didn’t sound like her at all.

  “Ms. Jackson composed this letter,” he said, carefully unfolding a sheet of paper from his coat pocket, “and with your permission, I would like to read it aloud.”

  “Your Honor,” Nora Hild, Slidell’s attorney, interjected, “I don’t see how this is relevant to the matter at hand.”

  “Surely you aren’t attempting to deny the alleged victim a voice, Ms. Hild?” Martling purred.

  “Certainly not,” she rejoined, “but we are not here to try Mr. Slidell. We are here to discuss evidence admissibility. Surely she can have nothing to say on that subject.”

  Martling smiled at her, and his next words somehow managed to mix sarcasm and affability. “No, she can have nothing to say about the character of her sister, whom she knows intimately. She can also have no opinion on the outcome of this meeting. Of those touched by Judge Preece’s decision, Tricia Jackson will certainly be the most affected. After all, she may never see justice done.”

  The judge held up a hand, ending the back and forth between lawyers.

  “Far be it from me to deny the victim a voice. Proceed.”

  I turned, riveted to Martling as he read my sister’s words.

  Honorable Judge Preece,

  Before anything else, you should know that I never wanted to write this letter. I never planned to get involved.

  In all the years that have passed since I was attacked, I’ve heard my father, my sister, and my friends talk about justice and the need to punish the man who raped me. How I need to confront him in order to get closure. No matter how much they try to explain it to me, I still do not understand them at all. No court or judge or prison sentence can undo what happened to me that day, and no punishment can ever equate to what he did.

  So I do not write this letter because I suddenly believe everything will be made right if my attacker is convicted.

  I do not care what happens to the man who attacked me.

  But I do care about my sister, Julia. Of all the people who preached to me about justice, she was the loudest. Her whole life has been about pursuing it. She never gave up on finding my attacker, and she never gave up on me either, even when I deserved it.

  I won’t give up on her now that she’s in trouble. I am certain that everything Julia did was to ensure justice. She couldn’t do anything else. She just isn’t wired for lying or deceit. Mr. Martling informed me that my belief in the goodness of Julia’s character cannot persuade you not to punish her. Maybe according to the letter of the law, she did do wrong. Perhaps in your view, taking a sample of the evidence was a crime. But I do not understand how anyone could look at a situation in which the law itself was failing and refuse to do something about it.

  The failure of the legal system is the true crime here. Releasing a rapist on a technicality is irresponsible, not to mention potentially dangerous.

  Julia refused to the let the law fail me, and now her freedom and career are at stake.

  I refuse to fail her.

  I contacted the police, participated in a lineup, and identified the monster who attacked me. Even after seventeen years, I can state without doubt that Clayton Leslie Slidell raped me. Therefore, the evidence—fingerprints, DNA, and my own eyes—prove his guilt. My sister’s sample removal does not change that fact. Perhaps some legal loophole will prevent this monster from being tried and punished for what he did to me, but my sister’s actions do not meet your law’s definition of evidence tampering. Because of her actions, my rapist was caught.

  So if there is such a thing as justice, then you will show mercy to my sister, the investigator who did everything in its name and whose actions resulted in the capture of a guilty man.

  Patricia Jackson

  When Henry Martling’s voice faded, the room went silent. I froze in my seat, fingers clenched on the armrest, and tried to keep my tears at bay. I was more or less successful in that I didn’t end up bursting into sobs in the judge’s chambers. I did finally pry my fingers from the chair in order to wipe a tear from my cheek.

  More than one, maybe.

  Henry Martling passed the letter to Judge Preece.

  “I also have a report from the lineup,” he said, displaying it and then handing it to the judge as well.

  Martling returned to his seat, and I focused watery eyes on the judge, who seemed to be considering the development carefully before speaking.

  All this time I thought I had to be the one to save Tricia, but she might end up being the one to save herself.

  And me.

  I blinked again. Hard.

  Tricia was trying to save us both.

  My sister acknowledged what had happened, and she had spoken out in the best way she could, probably the only way she was capable of.

  Maybe it hadn’t been the way I had hoped—in a court of law with a jury and judge there to sentence Slidell to jail—but Tricia had gone public about her ordeal for the first time, and I had to believe it was a step toward healing herself.

  Nora Hild’s voice interrupted my musings.

  “Well timed as this letter was, it changes nothing,” Hild said. “The DNA evidence is tainted, and nothing, not fingerprints or a lineup, can take its place. The statute of limitations is not some ‘legal loophole.’ It protects defendants, something the law is bound to do in equal proportion to victims.”

  Judge Preece silently removed her reading glasses and looked at the defense attorney and then at me. I managed to straighten under her scrutiny.

  “Ms. Jackson, you have admitted to breaking the chain of evidence, but you maintain that you did so only in order to correct what you viewed as a weakness in the justice system. The court understands your personal motivations, and it acknowledges that the criminal justice system has flaws that ought to be addressed. However, you—an officer of the law, who is charged with upholding this law—cannot arbitrarily choose to ignore statutes even for what you perceive as the greater good.”

  The judge leaned forward, and I mimicked her behavior, which seemed to block out the people in the room around us.

  “The court cannot do so, either, even though it believes that you had no intent to convict anyone wrongly or to damage the potential case against the rapist. Though no prosecutable crime was committed here, this court cannot overlook the fact that the chain of evidence was still broken. Therefore, the DNA evidence must be considered tainted in the eyes of the court and deemed inadmissible, thus requiring that the state’s current case against Clayton Leslie Slidell be dismissed.”

  The judge leaned back and addressed the whole room again.

  “As you are all well aware, the chain of evidence laws ensure the preservation of physical evidence and help make it possible for e
veryone to receive a fair trial. Despite the evidence cited in Ms. Jackson’s letter, the law remains unchanged, and this court must uphold that standard. However,” she said, looking pointedly at Kay Lanyon, “we must also examine carefully our treatment of such ‘cold cases’ and ensure that we are, in fact, doing everything in our power to solve them.”

  I blinked, unsure of what to think.

  The judge understood my motivations but had to uphold the chain of evidence law. She also said that my evidence theft was not “prosecutable.”

  Did that mean I wasn’t going to be charged with a crime at all?

  I sat in confused silence until we were dismissed, and that’s when I got my answer.

  Kay Lanyon appeared before me, blocking my exit from the judge’s chambers, and Henry Martling gently grasped my elbow to let me know he was there.

  “You wasted a lot of taxpayer money, not to mention my time. The GBI will continue looking into your history, Ms. Jackson,” Lanyon said, emphasizing my lack of job title and apparently believing it would hurt me.

  Strangely, it did. More than I expected.

  “You may have convinced Judge Preece not to recommend punishment for your actions, and you may even have done no wrong in this instance, but where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And I put out fires.”

  My face hardened.

  “If you are so intent on wasting the state’s resources, which you claim are valuable to you, Ms. Lanyon, then do so,” Henry Martling said. “My client welcomes the investigation and will be available to answer your questions. You have heard her admit to one deed in particular, but you will find no evidence of further indiscretions because she has committed none. You will simply be harassing a valued member of the law enforcement community for no good reason.”

  “We shall see, Mr. Martling,” Kay Lanyon said, spinning on her spiky heel, her shirt coming untucked in the process of her violent movement.

  I nodded my thanks to Henry as he escorted me out of the room.

  “We’re not out of the woods yet,” he told me, “but we’ll get there.”

  Thirty-nine

  Still reeling from Judge Preece’s decision, I shook hands with Henry Martling III, and he disappeared somewhere into the bowels of the courthouse.

  At that moment, I felt too off balance to worry about Kay Lanyon and her threat of future criminal charges. I could think of nothing but Tricia.

  After taking a quick glance down the long corridor, I hurried out a side door, thankfully not setting off a security alarm in the process. I turned my cell phone back on, waited impatiently as it slogged to life, and finally dialed my sister.

  She answered on the first ring with a soft, “Hey.”

  I tried to respond with the same greeting, but I choked up and managed only a strangled-sounding, “Heh….”

  “Today was your meeting with the judge, right?” Tricia asked, her voice concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “Nooo,” I sobbed, drawing out the word in an embarrassingly high-pitched moan. Thank God I’d decided to step outside.

  “What happened?” she asked, sounding alarmed. “Didn’t my letter help?”

  “It helped. It did. Thank you, Tricia,” I managed to say. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, I did. I wanted to help you if I could. So what happened?”

  “The judge believed that I didn’t commit a crime—”

  “Thank God,” Tricia whispered.

  “—but she still threw out the evidence and the state’s case against Slidell. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh,” Tricia said, sounding more disappointed than I expected. Then, she seemed to regroup. “But you will be okay, right? You won’t go to jail for trying to help me.”

  I considered hiding the truth from her, but then I thought the better of it. I was done keeping secrets from my sister.

  “No, not for taking that piece of evidence,” I said. “But the DA and the GBI will continue investigating me.”

  “Why? If the judge believes you…?”

  “The prosecutor thinks it might be a pattern, but it isn’t.”

  “Of course it isn’t!”

  There was more to tell—losing my job and having my law enforcement certification put in jeopardy—but it didn’t seem so important now. In the most lopsided way possible, my life’s goal had been accomplished today. It didn’t look quite the way I’d pictured it. Dreams fulfilled almost never look how we imagine them, but the reality can be so much better.

  Tricia had done what she vowed she’d never do, and she’d done it to try to save me.

  “What happens to Slidell?” Tricia asked, her tone even and steady. “Is he getting out of jail?”

  “No,” I said. “Thanks to Kaitlyn Jacobs, Slidell will remain right where he is.”

  “You mean…?”

  “She spoke out against him. New charges have been filed. He’ll go to prison for a long time.”

  The line remained silent for a moment, and then Tricia sniffled. “Kaitlyn’s braver than me. I should have done something sooner, but I was so scared.”

  “You did what you could. We didn’t know who Slidell was until a few months ago. It was my fault that the case got thrown out. Helping me was beyond brave.” I shook my head and let the tears fall freely down my cheeks. “You saved me.”

  “No,” Tricia said. “You saved me.”

  My throat constricted. After all I’d done wrong and after all the years of mutual misunderstanding, Tricia and I seemed to have come together.

  “Then, let’s call it a draw. We saved each other,” I suggested.

  “I like that.” Tricia laughed lightly and then sobered. “I love you, Sissy.”

  “Love you too, Tricia.”

  I powered down my phone and went back inside the courthouse, so delighted with the shift in my relationship with my sister that I felt lightheaded. I floated down the hall until I saw Mark Vincent looming above the crowd. His eyes met mine, and the intensity I saw there stopped me mid-stride, my breath hitching in my throat.

  He wove through the traffic in the corridor, his gaze locked to mine.

  “I ran into Martling on my way in,” Vincent said when he was finally before me. “He said I was right. You’re not going to prison.”

  “Although I doubt he used those words, you were right,” I agreed. “But if you tell anyone I admitted that, I’ll deny it.”

  “So what happened in there?” he asked, jerking his chin in the direction of the judge’s chambers.

  “Tricia saved my sorry butt, that’s what,” I said. “Of course, Kay Lanyon is still coming after me, there’s the law enforcement certification issue, and Ted fired me—”

  He glanced away and then met my eyes steadily.

  “You didn’t use Peters’s file?”

  I shook my head. “I tried, but blackmailing Ted just didn’t seem worth it.”

  I couldn’t quite read Vincent’s expression, but his actions told me everything I needed to know. He reached for my hand, his fingers tightening solidly on mine.

  “I hate watching you suffer for one misstep in the name of justice. Meanwhile, douche-bag politicians like Ted game the system and get nothing but success.”

  I shrugged.

  “I can’t control the world,” I said. “Sure, I could have used what I knew about Ted, but where would it get me? I might have kept my job, and maybe Ted would have gone a little easier on us, but eventually, he’d have come after me. I don’t want to live like that.”

  “So what are you going to do now?”

  His question sounded loaded, and I cocked my head to the side and tried to read its hidden meaning.

  “I don’t have much choice about that, do I?”

  “There’s always a choice.”

  “Well, I need another job, and I doubt it’ll be in law enforcement. Not with my reputation what it is, thanks to Jacob Dawe.”

  An image of Dawe flashed into my mind, and with it, an idea.

  “Wait,” I said,
holding up a hand as I considered the thought. “There is an opening in the Mercer PI market.”

  Vincent slanted a glance at me.

  “Private investigation?” he asked.

  I squinted at him.

  “Granted, I never thought much of the profession, and I think even less of it after tangling with that asshole Dawe. But with my soiled reputation, it seems kind of appropriate, don’t you think?”

  “You could forget Ted and his ilk,” he said thoughtfully. “Set up your own business.”

  “My own business?” I repeated, shaking my head at this new idea. Going out on my own was a possibility I’d never considered. The focus of my whole career had been on catching Tricia’s rapist, and to do that, I’d needed to be a police officer of one stripe or another. I’d needed a badge and the power that came with it.

  Now, that was over, and just when I’d come to realize how much I enjoyed my work, my career had been stripped from me. But maybe I could still investigate, only without the strictures of government or Ted’s asinine budgets to bind me.

  I realized Vincent was right. I could start my own business, be my own boss, set my own schedule, work with whomever I chose. I could continue to investigate insurance fraud if I wanted. Strangely enough, it sounded like a dream come true.

  I grinned up at him while simultaneously trying not to get excited. There was still one major problem to overcome.

  “I don’t think the state will grant me a PI license after all this.”

  “They’ll grant it,” Vincent said confidently as he turned, tucking my hand into the crook of his elbow.

  I tried to catch his eye, but he was focused ahead, already walking toward the courthouse exit.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because after a lifetime of saving people’s asses, you eventually save the right ass.”

  I stopped in the middle of the hallway, my hand on his arm forcing him to do the same. He faced me, and I regarded him steadily, narrowing my eyes and trying to look fierce and probably failing.

  “What does that mean?”