"Did you get my fan mail from Carousel yet? The only thing I can imagine is some freaked out fan." He was grasping at straws, he knew. Whoever this person was, if such as person did indeed exist, he was certainly smart enough not to go through the publisher. Cary said as much to Macintosh.
"Maybe so, maybe not. One can never tell with the mentally unstable. But the idea is to cast suspicion away from you. If we give the jury reasonable doubt, then they can't possibly convict you."
"Can't they?" Cary asked vaguely. He had a feeling the jury could do whatever they wanted.
Macintosh didn't have an answer. Instead he said, "There are a couple of doozies in your fan mail, though. One from a convicted murderer in Fulsome who has written you several times, and another one that is unsigned. We haven't managed to wade through all of them yet, but I'll tell you, reading some of those letters will make you scared to go out at night."
"I wonder if Steve Prince gets letters like that?" Cary said, his voice fading. "I met him twice, you know." He was already starting to sound like a has-been, reliving his glory days.
Macintosh made a notation in his notebook and said, "Jury selection is tomorrow. After that we get our trail date."
Chapter 13
When Cary saw the prosecutor for the first time he nearly fell out of his chair.
It was none other than Cyrus Winesapp. The Cyrus Winesapp in the newspaper photo. Was he also the same Cyrus Winesapp from Old Scratch Press? Cary shook his head and moaned...the hallucinations were obviously starting again. He'd enjoyed months of respite and now--bam!
The newspaper Cyrus Winesapp was dead. This couldn't possibly be the same man. He certainly looked like him, though...he wore round, gold-wire rimmed glasses, had thinning sandy hair at the sides of his head, his doughy face was clean-shaven and he wore an impeccably tailor-made gray and mauve pin-stripe.
Cary's audible moan brought forth a look from the jury. They all turned their heads in unison, like a group of hungry wolves watching a juicy rabbit. Cary looked back, with his one fearful eye.
He had not been present for the jury selection, and he wondered what kinds of people these were. There were six men and six women. Were these his peers? They didn't seem as though they could possibly identify with him. There was a fat old man in the front who kept rearranging himself, and another who kept picking at invisible threads from his sweater with an artificial hand. Well, maybe he'll sympathize with me, Cary thought. Two of the women looked like jaded prostitutes; each of the six looked as though they hated all men, and Cary in particular.
Cary's heart began to thud with dread. He had the definite impression that things wouldn't go well. As if sensing his distress, his attorney put a hand on his arm and said, "It's okay. It's natural to be a little nervous. Hang in there." Cary took a deep breath and closed his eye.
He didn't want to look at anything. He heard the hushed buzz of the spectators behind him and heard the whirring and clicking of the press cameras and mobile devices. He picked out bits and pieces of reporters' voices whispering into their tape recorders.
The courthouse was old and its architecture was, Cary had to concede, breathtaking. The room they were in looked like an ancient Roman court, complete with gray and white marble-squared floors, sandstone walls and pillars, and an austere beauty that commanded respectful attention. Cary thought it was the consummate courtroom, but he wished he had seen it under different circumstances.
"Hear, hear. Court is now in session. All rise," said the bailiff in a booming voice. Cary jumped to attention and everyone else in the courtroom followed suit a split second later. "Honorable Judge Melvyn Stafleese presiding."
The door behind and just to the left of the judge's podium opened and out he strode, looking suitably regal in his rustling ebony robes. Although Cary could see he carried himself with the confidence and air of a king, he couldn't really tell what the man looked like. He saw the shape of his face, eyes, nose, mouth, but he couldn't get a fix on it. For a minute he thought the man looked like Joshua Ryan, then he seemed to resemble his father, Jean-Claude. Then, from putting too much strain on his one good eye, Cary began to have trouble focusing at all. The judge's face was just a blur.
The judge sat down, and said in a quiet but resonant voice, "You may be seated." The voice sounded vaguely familiar to Cary, but he couldn't recall if he had actually heard it before. The judge laid his large, bony hands out on the glossy wooden table top and looked around the room like a lion surveying his pride. His gavel was off to one side, and the brass plaque bearing his name in elegant engraved Helvetica print, Hon. M. Stafleese, glinted, reflecting the light back from the flash bulbs. A particularly bright glare came off of the M, forcing Cary to look away.
"Calling the case of the People vs. Cary Bouchard," boomed the bailiff.
"Prosecution's opening statement, please," said the judge.
Cyrus Winesapp stood, pausing to smile deferentially at the judge before moving on to the juror's box. He stood in front of them and shook his head slowly from side to side, as if he wasn't sure how to begin. Of course, he knew exactly what he was going to say. He'd been working on his speech for days, perfecting it and making certain he didn't leave out a single thing.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you have a very hard job ahead of you. The fate of that man"--he pointed at Cary in an accusing manner--"depends on you. He is lucky he has a jury. His victims did not have a jury to decide their fate. Cary Bouchard appointed himself judge, jury...and executioner.
"Have you read his book, The Brandie Killer? This man is obviously writing non-fiction only labeled as fiction. In his book, the serial murderer, Rudolf Bonfiglio, is handsome and charming, but is a wolf in sheep's clothing--the author's own words. Cary Bouchard looks harmless enough, doesn't he? But he has cruelly ended the lives of five people that we know of, possibly and probably more.
"The People suspect that Cary first vented his rage on his own parents when he was only eighteen years old. They died agonizing deaths in a deliberately set fire that burnt down the family home. Sadly, there is no evidence against Cary Bouchard in the deaths of his mother and father, only suspicion. But we do have ample evidence to present to you in the case you are about the hear.
"Today Cary Bouchard sits before you on trial for the murder of his employer, Mr. Joshua Brookhouse Ryan, a successful business man who left behind a loving wife and two small children. Mr. Ryan was savagely killed when Mr. Bouchard plunged a rapier sharp letter opener into his eye." He paused dramatically, letting the jury take a good look at Cary. "It looks as though some higher court as already doled out an ironic punishment for that crime." The court buzzed behind Cary, and he could hear the tape recorders humming like swarming locusts.
"Next, after writing his chilling autobiography under the title of The Brandie Killer, Mr. Bouchard murdered two prostitutes, possibly more. We will prove that he was in possession of photographs of three dead women, two of them identified as Corinna Stubbs and Terry Applegate, when he was picked up by Los Angeles police for suspicious behavior.
"He then went on to kill Marlisa Moon, the mother of his girlfriend, Diana Moon. Marlisa was a kind-hearted, charitable woman who baked for her church socials and tended a rose garden. She did not deserve to die, but Mr. Bouchard had his eye on her mansion, valued at over eight million dollars. He was planning on marrying Diana and inheriting that expensive property. But then Diana found out about his secret lover, and maybe even the real cause of her mother's death, which had been carelessly labeled as 'natural causes.'
"Diana Moon, a beautiful, intelligent young woman with everything to live for was brutally slain in her very own home. The People believe that Mr. Bouchard, in a murderous rage, followed Diana Moon to her apartment for the sole purpose of killing her after she announced that she was ending their relationship. He strangled Diana, then callously set about the task of disposing of her body. He stuffed her into one her very own suitcases--one that she had carried in her little hand when
she went to France and England as a teenager--then placed the suitcase into the trunk of his car and drove in the direction of Sherwood Heights, where Marlisa Moon once lived and where Diana Moon was born. Mr. Bouchard admits that he planned on burying his dead fiancée's body in the rose garden. Isn't that romantic?
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do not let this dangerous man back out into society. You must do your duty as citizens--as human beings--and find this man guilty of murder in the first degree on five counts."
Winesapp shook his head again, as though he himself could not believe the gravity of the crimes he had spoken of. "Thank you, Your Honor," he said as he passed the podium and made his way back to the long table at which he had been sitting amongst many files, a briefcase and a laptop computer.
"Defense's opening statement, please," said the judge, fixing a steely gaze upon Charles Macintosh III.
Macintosh shivered and stood. He walked to the front of the jury box without saying a word to the Honorable Melvyn Stafleese.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he began, his voice deep and clear, his posture straight and mien confident.
He has a much better speaking voice than Winesapp, Cary thought. The jury will listen to him.
"You must find Mr. Cary Bouchard innocent. He did not murder anyone. My client has no prior record, not even a parking ticket. How many of us can say that?" Someone on the jury giggled nervously. "Mr. Bouchard is a well-respected author and is a wealthy man in his own right. He had no motive to kill anyone. The defense will prove that these killings are the actions of an obsessed and deeply disturbed literary fanatic. Someone who read Mr. Bouchard's book and emulated the character, Rudolf Bonfiglio. Mr. Bouchard has undergone great psychological stress due to the taunts of this maniacal extremist. This person has stalked Mr. Bouchard across the country. This person knows where he lives. This person has somehow gotten into Mr. Bouchard's home... This stalker is the person you want, not Cary Bouchard.
"Cary Bouchard loved his parents very much. He was devastated when they burned in the fire, which, by the way, his own mother set--the Prosecution conveniently forgot to tell you that.
"When his employer was killed, Mr. Bouchard lost his job. He gained nothing from the death of Joshua Ryan.
"As for the infamous Insta-Pics of the two dead prostitutes, Corinna Stubbs and Terry Applegate, Mr. Bouchard was in possession of them only because they were given to him anonymously. Mr. Bouchard innocently thought the photos were only a sick gag, sent by this deranged fan.
"Cary Bouchard had no reason whatever to kill Marlisa Moon--the contention by the Prosecution that Mr. Bouchard murdered her for equity that he might one day inherit as Diana Moon's husband is preposterous! The couple were not even engaged," he snorted. "Furthermore, the supposed motive for killing Diana Moon is equally preposterous. Why would Mr. Bouchard murder her, because he had an alleged lover? The defense will show that Mr. Bouchard was not having an affair and has never even met the woman who claims to be his secret on the side.
"Why the conspiracy against this one man, you say? I don't know. Strange people do strange things. Mr. Cary Bouchard is a sane, healthy man with absolutely no motive to commit any of the crimes that he is charged with today. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, look for the physical evidence--not the circumstantial--and you will find that there is none. Cary Bouchard is innocent."
Cary felt like applauding when Macintosh thanked the jury and judge and made his way back to his seat. That was what he wanted to hear! All of his doubts about Charles Macintosh III disappeared. He had a real fighter on his side. He stole a glance over at Cyrus Winesapp, who sat very still, his hands clasped together in front of him on the table. Winesapp seemed to be thinking the same thing. That he had a real fight coming.
Cary smiled for the first time in months.
The Prosecution was ready to present its case. Cary hoped they wouldn't take too long. Macintosh warned him this would be the most difficult part of the trial and that the Prosecution was given free rein, more or less, to drag Cary's name through the dirt.
"What do you know about the other attorney, Cyrus Winesapp?" Cary had asked, his voice quavering with concern that perhaps Cyrus Winesapp wasn't even the attorney's name, that he'd only heard it as such.
Macintosh stretched his legs under the table and sighed. It was the morning after the arguments and he was drained. "Nothing, I'm afraid," he replied. "I've never seen him around before."
Maybe Winesapp wasn't such an uncommon name, and that newspaper photo was grainy. But the voice...he'd heard it before. "So, you have no idea what to expect from him." Cary took a deep breath and leaned forward. "Don't you think it's odd that this attorney you've never seen or heard of before has the exact same name as the attorney for Old Scratch Press? I'm beginning to think Old Scratch has been a part of the plot against me from the beginning."
"Well, Bouchard, that would blow the whole 'deranged fan' angle I've worked so hard on. How could you have had an obsessed fan before you even published a book?" Macintosh cleared his throat and waited for an answer. His paranoid client was beginning to unravel, and the trial had not even begun yet. How was he going to hold it all together?
His consultants had told him right from the beginning that they thought Cary was crazy as they come, but that if he, Macintosh, won a big media trial like this, it would make his career. They didn't mention what would happen to it if he lost.
Cary had no answer. But he knew it was true. Suddenly he felt as though he knew the root of his problems: Old Scratch Press. "What about the judge?" Cary asked. "Strange looking fellow, wouldn't you say?" Cary never had been able to hold an image of the man's face in his mind for more than a fleeting moment, and now he couldn't remember what he looked like at all. Was he tall, short, fat or thin? Was he handsome or ugly, old or young? Inexplicably, he was all of those things and yet none of them.
"Strange? No, I wouldn't say so," Macintosh said absently. "Bouchard, you've got to focus on your testimony, not the name of the prosecutor nor the face of the judge. The important thing is what you say on the witness stand. We have at least a couple of weeks before that happens, but you need to start focusing on it now. As the trial progresses, and as we learn more about what exactly the Prosecution has in mind, we will modify and update our strategy constantly. We must effectively refute everything the Prosecution brings out and better it."
Cary felt sick. "That won't be easy," he said softly. "Even I sometimes feel like I'm guilty."
Sarafina Rutledge had put on weight since Cary had seen her last. She looked good. She was visibly nervous as she was sworn in, but she sat poised in the witness box and listened attentively as Winesapp asked his first question.
"Ms. Rutledge, would you please tell the court what your relationship with Cary Bouchard was?"
"We were lovers," she replied matter-of-factly.
Cary could not believe his ears, but he listened, spellbound as everyone else.
"And how long did you know Mr. Bouchard before you began this intimate relationship?"
"About six months," she replied. "We were coworkers, so that's how we met. When Diana Moon broke up with Cary, he began to pursue me."
"Were his advances welcome?"
"Not at first, but he was very persistent and finally I agreed to go out with him just to get him off my back. I found him odd, yet fascinating. After our first date he took me back to his apartment. He asked me to read one of his manuscripts, which I did. It was fantastic. After that I had a completely new perspective on Cary Bouchard and we started seeing each other regularly." She uncrossed, then crossed her legs again, giving everyone more than just a glimpse of stocking.
"Was your relationship a sexual one?"
Sarafina blushed prettily. "Yes."
"Forgive me if I embarrass you, but was the sex between Mr. Bouchard and yourself something which would be termed 'normal'?" Winesapp smiled apologetically and looked at the jury as though he really didn't like to ask such questi
ons.
"I suppose not. I've always been a little kinky," she smiled self-consciously and lowered her eyes. "This isn't easy to say in front of all these people."
"No one is judging you," Winesapp said in a soft, coaxing voice. "Just take your time and start at the beginning."
Sarafina took a deep breath and said, "Okay. At first we did things normally, and I got more comfortable I began to introduce Cary to mild bondage and sexual asphyxia."
"Did Cary ever get too rough with you?"
"Yes. That's ultimately why I broke up with him. I thought he might kill me one day."
The murmurs from the observers grew to a fever pitch. The judge slammed his gavel down and demanded order. Cary could do nothing but stare in mute wonder. He had never even held Sarafina Rutledge's hand, let alone slept with her! He couldn't understand why she would fabricate such a story, but nothing much surprised him these days.
"All right, Ms. Rutledge, just a few more questions. What did Mr. Bouchard tell you about his feelings regarding Joshua Ryan?"
Macintosh stood and objected, citing hearsay.
"I'll allow it," said the Honorable Judge, turning his head toward Sarafina, indicating that she should answer the question.
"Once, Cary told me he wanted to kill Mr. Ryan."
Winesapp raised his eyebrows with alarm, looking as though he had never heard such a thing. "Why did he say that?" he asked breathlessly.
"Objection!" Macintosh said loudly. "How can she know what is in another person's mind?"
"Overruled," said the judge flatly. "You may answer, Ms. Rutledge."
"He said it was because Mr. Ryan had so much and he, Cary, didn't feel it was fair. He was very envious of Mr. Ryan, I think."
"Thank you, Ms. Rutledge," Winesapp said graciously as he stepped back. He turned to Macintosh and said smugly, "Your witness."
Macintosh stepped quickly and gracefully into center stage. "Ms. Rutledge, why are you lying here on the stand today? You never had any kind of relationship with Cary Bouchard, sexual or otherwise. You--"
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