Yeah, Springman thought, big deal. Pratt will do eighteen months before making first parole. "No thanks."
"Why not? It's a fair deal."
"No. Cutting that son of a bitch’s balls off is a fair deal. Since they won't let me do it, I'm settling for a million years or as close to that as I can manage."
Burgoyne raised a condescending eyebrow. "Surely you don't mean that?"
"I mean every God damn word of it."
"I think you're taking this entirely too personally."
"Yeah, that's just what I'm doing. Taking it personally. I keep thinking that was my sister he murdered in the desert and my sister he kidnapped and it makes it real easy to keep it personal."
"I see you don't intent to be reasonable at all."
Springman grinned. "Nope. Not at all. See you in court."
~
Keith H. Bronson had lived in Sun City for eight years, ever since he and the misses, as he liked to call his wife Fay, had sold the family farm in Iowa and plowed the money into a spacious western ranch house situated beside a eighteen hole golf course. He had put the rest of the money into annuities, blue chip stocks and certificates of deposit.
For the most part Keith had been pleased with the decision to uproot himself, although he had felt a bit of a chill upon arriving in Sun City for good and hearing a resident remark that she just knew Keith and Fay would love it because it was as clean as Disneyland. The farmer in Keith told him that he could not be happy in an artificial place insulated from dirt and the real world. But it had been only a momentary chill. Fay certainly liked it enough, making new friends with ease, throwing herself into charity work and her garden.
Keith had acquired a taste for golf since relocating and in five and a half years was proud of the fact that he had never, not even on Christmas Day, missed his morning golf. His call to jury duty had been a welcome break in routine for him though he had been required to reduce his usual eighteen holes to a short nine, played just at dawn before driving into Phoenix.
He had assembled in the jury room along with the other two hundred odd potential jurors and waited for his name to be called. He loved Fay even, perhaps more appropriately especially, after forty-one years. She had been his only love, in fact, his only girl since the pair had first taken up when they were fourteen. Except for a whore in Rome during the war when he had been so scared of dying, he had never been unfaithful to her and he had given his fidelity without grudge. It had seemed only right for a woman as good and pure as Fay.
So a day or two in the city was a change for Keith but not entirely a welcome one if it made him miss golf. By lunch he had been told where to report along with twenty-nine other taxpayers. Damn funny day to start a trial he thought, filing out for the elevator. You'd think they could pick a better day than Friday.
His fondest hope now was that it be a quick trial so he wouldn't miss the weekend at home with Fay –though for the last eight years every day had been like a weekend. That's the trouble with retirement, he thought, it's not natural.
Jury selection proceeded routinely with each lawyer doing his best to weed out those who at glance would appear fundamentally biased against their case. By mid-afternoon the jury and three alternates were empaneled.
The only awkward part for Keith had been when the judge had asked him if he knew anything about the Jared Pratt’s case. My God, he had thought, that's the crazy kid who cut up that little girl and kidnapped the policewomen. Instead of voicing what he thought he had said, “No”, carefully explaining that the only papers he and the misses took were locals from Iowa and that he didn't like television news.
Keith had not liked lying. It went against his nature but he knew that with him on the jury there would be at least one guilty vote and with any luck at all he expected to be able to persuade a few others if necessary. What we need, he had thought, stepping down from the box, is some law and order.
All the legal formalities were completed by five. The jury selection was to no one's satisfaction but like all juries it made no difference for juries were so unpredictable, crucial cases often turning on the most inconsequential issues. Fifteen taxpayers; fourteen whites, one Mexican-American; eight women and seven men; the youngest twenty-two, the oldest, well... the oldest was Keith.
Once all was as it should be the jurors were sent home, ordered not to discuss the case and to report back Monday morning. Now that the trial itself had begun the time limits were at an end. Routine motions by Burgoyne to sequester the jury were just as routinely denied. And so at nine, Monday morning, February eighteenth, the trial of Jared Pratt began.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Keith found the trial a bore and a disappointment. Every night he went home, read the evening newspaper and watched the television account contrary to the instructions of the judge. His purpose was to catch a glance of himself on the tube and to find out what important evidence had been admitted.
During the day he couldn't seem to figure out the difference between what was important and what wasn't and on top of that everyone looked like they were telling the truth, except for the lawyers both of whom seemed to be lying all the time.
Keith found the whole experience a bore and hoped that he was never called to trial duty again. Every time the case got really good, the jury was led out and then marched back in with everybody standing around acting as though nothing important had happened while they were gone. Two or three times the judge had told the jurors to forget something that had been said as though any sane person could be expected to.
Well, Keith concluded, what the hell else can you expect from a bunch of lawyers. Keith was of the firm opinion that if all the jails were emptied and filled with all the lawyers, everybody would be a whole lot better off.
The only real excitement had come when at last a tape recording of the kidnapping was played. That had been exciting. For the life of him Keith could not understand why the police hadn't just shot the man dead on the spot. It was a question Killian asked himself from time to time. It was with some relieve that Keith filed into the jury room that final time on Wednesday to reach a verdict. The alternates had been dismissed and Keith sat, one of “twelve good men and true.” He glanced at his watch and decided that with a little luck they could have a verdict out by six.
~
Burgoyne hated the trial beginning to end as he had known he would. He sensed immediately that there was no chance of acquittal and very little of getting a hung jury and so he had been left with the unfortunate option of fighting the entire case with one eye, hell he admitted to himself, both eyes to the future appeals.
In fact Ferguson was drawing some of them up before the trial was over. Burgoyne had turned to the bottle increasingly as the case progressed to its inevitable ending. God how he hated appearing optimistic to the asshole's parents.
Springman saw the writing on the wall the first day and recognized Burgoyne's tactics for what they were. The prosecutor sought to soften their impact and meticulously built his case. He had called his witnesses; Killian, Colson, Ross and others and slowly constructed an airtight case. The Motion to Suppress had been the turning point. Once he had got the recording before a jury it was no contest. It was with considerable relief and anticipation that Springman watched the jury file out of the courtroom.
Keith listened with half an ear to the foreman and was not surprised at the first secret vote, nine for conviction, three for talking a little first. They took turns at it, Keith passing over his and at five-forty two they had reached a unanimous verdict.
At six-thirty one the jurors were back in the courtroom upsetting Keith's time schedule. "We, the jury, do find the defendant, Jared Pratt guilty on all counts."
Following the turmoil in court cause by Jared's father berating Burgoyne, the judge and jury, the case was assigned to the Adult Probation Department for presentencing investigation and report to be filed three working days prior to sentencing which was set for twenty-eight days hence.
Departmental proc
edure called for Worthington to prepare that report as he was the probation officer most knowledgeable concerning the defendant. Burgoyne moved for a different P.O. but Judge Mortenson dismissed it out of hand. He did not concern himself with the internal affairs of the Probation Department.
~
Worthington received the assignment slip Friday morning as he picked up his phone messages with only modest enthusiasm. Since Pratt had already been sentenced to prison on the revocation, it made the outcome of the pending case much easier. The judge would hardly place on probation someone already under prison commitment, though it was not completely unheard of. It was important that Worthington do the report correctly, avoid editorializing and present the facts in an orderly, precise and persuasive manner. Then, he thought glancing at the yellow assignment slip, I'll nail that son-of-a-bitch.
Killian saw the ending come to the Pratt’s trial with no any particular reaction except for mild relieve that the case had made it through the trial without being thrown out on a legal technicality. The detective’s only real concern, aside from an ineffectual prosecution, had been the danger that Pratt would be ruled incompetent and committed to the state hospital.
Fortunately that had not occurred.
Rachel's reaction to the entire ordeal alone gave Killian pause. She was practically living with him by that time and with their differing schedules, he saw less of her than he wished. Nevertheless, he sensed that the Pratt’s case had disturbed her more deeply than had first appeared. Killian made a mental note to talk with her the first opportunity that presented itself following the trial.
Work continued for him as always. Crime was a year round business in Phoenix what with the crooks who flocked along with the honest snowbirds each winter. Many stayed over in the summer as well. It was always a busy season for crooks who enjoyed the arid desert climate and for those who made their likelihood pursuing them.
Across the city, perhaps the length of a football field from the courtroom where earlier that day he had been decreed guilty, Jared lay upon his back, alone in an isolation cell, protected from the other inmates.
His mind dwelled on nothing, jumping helter skelter from image to image, his penis erect and pleasurable under his hand. It was quiet. Jared liked the quiet. No one bothered him much and he liked that too. He hated giving up his car but he had always used it more to escape his father than to find freedom. Now he lay on his back and masturbated, not really unhappy at being in jail.
~
Rachel Colson's shift ended at midnight and Killian made a special effort to be alert for her. Too often lately he had been asleep when she came to his apartment. Rachel entered at twelve-twenty still in uniform. It was the first time she had ever come to his place in uniform. Killian wondered what it meant. Since she usually stayed the night, it would not do to announce it to the world by wearing a uniform and having some uptight senior citizen call the chief to complain about her morals.
They ate, then talked a time, Rachel refusing to go to bed, taking a seat on the coach confronting Killian more than facing him across the room.
"You seem upset, Rachel. Not so upset I guess, as preoccupied. Want to talk?"
"It's Pratt. What happens now?" Her expression was grim, her mouth a thin, compressed line.
"He gets sentenced."
"I know that. I mean to what and for how long?"
"Hell, anything's possible, but the judge really has only one alternative since the guy is already under prison commitment. He'll go to prison. How long? That depends. The maximum for kidnapping, the most serious crime they convicted him of, is twenty."
Rachel laughed derisively. "Sure twenty. More like twenty months."
"I get your point. It really doesn't work out to that many years. Twenty. Eligible for parole in less than six, with credit for time served he'll probably be out in five and a half."
"What about the probation revocation prison time?"
"It'll probably be concurrent and not effect it. Even if the judge stacks it it'll only add eighteen months to the term. Seven years."
Rachel glared at Killian then shouted, "It's not fair! That animal kills a girl, kidnaps me, was within one second of slicing my breast off and would have if you haven't come through that door the instant you did. He threatens me and nearly kills me and in no more than seven, maybe only five and a half years he'll be out and do it all over again. He's not going to change. You said so yourself. He'll only get worse. So why'd I take the risk? For what? So Burgoyne could make money muddying the waters? To be embarrassed for doing my job? To get him off the streets for a couple of years? It's not fair!" She was screaming by the end.
"It's what we do, Rachel. We don't make the rules. They talk about locking them up but when it comes time to vote big tax dollars to build enough jails and prisons, nothing. They settle the dilemma by cutting everybody loose. The laws change so fast you can't keep up with them and always end up turning the criminals loose sooner because it's cheaper. The same with court decisions and administrative decisions within the Department of Corrections. Everything is designed to keep beds available in the joint. It costs money to lock people up and taxpayers just won't spend it."
"Why the lies? Why not just tell us the truth? Call twenty years seven like it really is and have him serve it."
"Because the way it's done is too easy, the other too honest. Legislatures pass laws with tough prison sentences to get re-elected then pass loopholes in the guise of reform and rehabilitation to keep the budgets down – also to get re-elected. Long sentences make the judges and the prosecutor look good. But short actual sentences save the budget, let the Department of Corrections look economical and claim reform and the inmates and defense lawyers all like it because it looks like their man got a break.
Everybody gains."
"Everybody but the victims... and the rest of us. It stinks."
Killian crossed the room to her and put his arms around her. "Are you O.K.?"
"As long as the trial was pending I was alright but today, it just all came down on me at once. I don't ever want to be in that position again... not ever."
Silence.
"Then what?" he asked.
By way of answer she turned her mouth to his. By dawn her rigid body was limp and she breathed steadily and deeply. The following day she moved the last of her belongings in and gave notice at her apartment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Worthington had taken the unusual precaution of handwriting his presentencing report in advance of dictation. Over the years he had grown accustomed to the formalized style of court reports and the fine lines he could brush in presenting his viewpoint to the extent that he was always able to dictate without notes. He could not remember the last time he had taken the time and trouble to handwrite a report first. But the P.O. wanted every nuance to come through clearly. He wanted every word to mean exactly what he intended. He wanted absolutely no mistakes.
But he was incapable of changing his stripes and so the report was riddled with sentences and statements that upon reading raised the hair on Burgoyne's neck. Drawing liberally on the psychiatric reports available to him and upon his own observations, carefully couching his personal statements with qualifiers, “opinion”, “seems”, “appears”, he drew a noose, figuratively, about Pratt’s neck. Upon completing it, Worthington only regret had been that the noose could not have been literal.
Burgoyne called it “the worse example of a presentencing report I have ever seen” while Springman termed it “excellent.” Judge Mortenson considered it a bit rash but kept his opinion to himself. One week after sentencing he handwrote a note to Worthington which read merely, “Thank you for a fine report.”
Sentencing had originally been scheduled for the third week in January but predictably Burgoyne delayed it. It was on April the twenty second that Jared at last stood before justice to be held as accountable for the death of Tracy Fremont as the law would allow, though her name had never once appeared in the legal proceed
ings.
Judge Mortenson felt particularly lighthearted that day, almost jovial, in fact, and had to fight down the urge to hum a tune as the clerk read off the legalities. When at last the time came a hundred sayings flashed in Mortenson's head but in the end he looked at the creature before him and simply pronounced the words the law demanded so that he could begin to serve “not less than nineteen nor more than twenty years in the Arizona State Prison.”
Viola and Herbert were visibly agitated but Burgoyne calmed them with promises of a meeting later.
Springman experienced no elation and wondered at it. He supposed it was the unpleasant prospect of three years of appeals ahead of him. As he left the courtroom he caught Killian's eye and met the detective in the hall.
"Got time for coffee?" he asked. Killian nodded and the two of them crossed over to Newberry's where they had met before.
"So he goes down," Killian commented casually.
"Yeah, for a while."
"I computed it the other day for Rachel and came up with seven years max."
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