Along Came December

by Jay Allisan

I exhale slowly. I can’t think about Carl’s defense. I can’t think about the law or about criminal responsibility because this man killed my husband, and his actions must be met with justice. Washington state has the death penalty. I think about that instead.

  The judge gives the prosecution the floor, and Robert Strum steps forward. His face is somber. Grieved. He clasps his hands in front of him and looks at every member of the jury.

  “Greater love has no man,” he says, “than he who would lay down his life for another.”

  A photo of Max goes up on the screen. He’s beaming at the camera, caught mid-laugh. I’m beside him, my arms around his neck as I plant a kiss on his cheek.

  We’re celebrating his last birthday.

  “On June first, 2012, the Briar Rose Police Department was in pursuit of a child abductor. The police had the abductor’s identity. They had his trail. But what he had was a scared little girl, and three pipe bombs.”

  A recording fills the room.

  “Dispatch, this is Detective Mordecai. I’ve got Carl Winters on the phone and he says he’s got a bomb.”

  I rest my head against the bench in front of me. Presley grips my hand.

  “Carl Winters,” Strum says. “He’s in the courtroom today. He’s sitting right there. He built a bomb, and he did it for one purpose: to kill explosives technician Sergeant Max Mordecai.

  “Over the coming weeks you’ll learn more about Carl and the extent of his horrific actions. You’ll learn how he meticulously arranged to abduct orphaned girls. How he abused his power as a police officer, and how he violated the trust this city put in him. You’ll learn about each of his victims. Young, innocent children, murdered. The police lieutenant taken by surprise and gunned down. But right now I’d like to introduce you to Sergeant Mordecai. Max. The man who first became aware of Carl’s kidnapping spree, and the man who gave his life to save a young girl from death.

  “Max spent two years with the explosives and arson unit,” Strum says. “Prior to that, he served as a homicide detective under the city’s foremost leader in closed cases. He graduated at the top of his academy class and was identified for early specialization. Max was smart, and he was good at his job. He responded successfully to more than 50 live calls during his career with the explosives unit. He was the youngest sergeant in the unit’s history.”

  Strum gestures to the photo onscreen. “Max was married. His wife is Detective Shirley Mordecai. You heard her just a few minutes ago, and in a few days you’ll hear from her again. Max and Shirley were together for eight years. A young couple, right on the verge of the next stage of life. It’s easy to imagine. Some of you may remember being there yourselves. What you can’t imagine are the circumstances choreographed by this man, Carl Winters, that tore them apart, leading to the loss of Max’s life. You can’t imagine the horror, or the helplessness, of a wife witnessing her husband’s final moments.”

  Strum pauses. “You can’t imagine,” he says again. “So let me tell you.

  “June first, 2012. Detective Mordecai is being released from the hospital. She had been ambushed by Carl Winters and sustained a gunshot wound. Her husband Max spent the night at her side, both of them under protection after Carl made threats against Max’s life. They’re being moved to a safe house, the same safe house where Carl’s intended victim, Maria Cunningham, is being kept. But Carl gets there first.

  “Carl flees with Maria. Detective Mordecai is in pursuit, Max not far behind. The police anticipate Carl’s route and close off the Highlands Bridge, trapping him in the middle. He’s got nowhere to go. That’s when he phones Detective Mordecai and tells her about the bomb.

  “The police evacuate the bridge but they can’t approach. They can’t get to Maria. The bomb’s on a timer, and support won’t make it in time. Carl knows this. He’s giving Max an ultimatum.”

  The speakers crackle.

  “Carl, you need to stop this, please! Stop the bomb!”

  My heart wrenches at the sound of Max’s voice, my blood chilling when Carl’s follows.

  “Sergeant Mordecai, is that you?”

  “Yes! Yes, my name is Max. Please, Carl, there’s still time to stop this. You have to stop the bomb!”

  “You stop the bomb. I surrender.”

  “Max runs out onto the bridge,” Strum says quietly. “He knows he is the only one who can save Maria’s life. He doesn’t have tools. He doesn’t have protective gear. He doesn’t have time. All he has is love.”

  I get up and leave the courtroom.

  PRESLEY FOLLOWS me to the hall, to the row of vending machines where I buy a can of Coke, to the bench where I put my head between my knees and the Coke on the back of my neck. He sits beside me.

  And it’s quiet.

  I hold the can against my forehead, then open it up and drink. I set the empty on the floor.

  “I can’t do this,” I whisper.

  “You don’t have to,” Presley says. “You only need to be here to testify. We can go.”

  “I can’t go.”

  “How about a walk? We have to wait for the recess anyway. Let’s get some fresh air.”

  We slip out a side exit into an alley. Presley scouts ahead, then motions for me to follow him. We climb a fence into a car dealership lot, sneak through the rows of luxury coups, and sprint across the highway before taking shelter beneath an overpass to assess our status. Nobody’s following us. Presley grins.

  “Now about that walk.”

  He takes my hand and sets off down a dingy side street leading east. The street is lined with weathered storefronts, the kind with flaking wood and boarded up windows. A mangy cat snuffles through the gutter and comes up with a condom. Presley keeps holding my hand and I’m grateful.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Do you want a drink?”

  “Fuck yes.”

  “I mean like another soda.”

  “Never mind.”

  We walk on. Presley says, “If you want to talk, I’m listening.”

  “All I want is a needle in Carl’s arm.”

  After a couple more blocks I realize where we’re going. The Orchard Hotel comes into view and Presley’s pace quickens. In spite of everything else I’m amused.

  “Take it easy, kid,” I say. He’s practically dragging me along. “I don’t think Robin’s going anywhere.”

  “Let’s surprise him,” Presley says. “He isn’t expecting me yet.”

  We’re beneath the canopied entrance. I pull my hand from Presley’s grip. “You go ahead. I’ll wait out here.”

  “It’s cold out here.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Presley studies me. “Five minutes,” he says, and then he’s gone.

  There’s a nip in the air but I embrace it. I count the cars that go past until I hear Presley say my name. Robin’s with him, bundled up like a little old lady. I crack a smile at his fuzzy hat.

  “Are you playing hooky?” I ask.

  A small crease appears between his eyes as he frowns. “I do not know how to play that game.”

  “You’re thinking of hockey,” Presley says. “Hooky is when you don’t go to work like you’re supposed to.”

  Robin’s confusion lifts and he smiles. “Oh. No, I do not play hooky. I worked extra this morning so I do not need to work now.”

  “I was explaining the trial to him last night,” Presley tells me quietly. “He wanted to come and support you.”

  “I hope it is okay,” Robin says. The crease reappears, along with a flush of color. “Presley says a trial is very difficult and I wish to help.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Robin,” I say. “But there’s not much you can do.”

  Presley whispers in his ear, and Robin marches right up to me and hugs me. “Presley says I can do this. That it will help.”

  I look at Presley over the top of Robin’s head, and he smiles. Robin’s still hugging me. It feels like a lifetime before I hug him back.


  “Thank you,” I whisper. “It does help.”

  Presley insists on stopping for lunch, and by the time we’re in a cab on the way back to the courthouse I feel bolstered. The mob is still there, still roaring like thunder, but I look at the cops and the snipers, and I put my arms around Presley and Robin, and it’s easier this time. Let them scream. Let them stare. Let everyone see my face and remember it when I get on the stand.

  The jury’s recessed, so we’re able to get into the courtroom, sitting precisely where we did before. Robin looks around in awe.

  “I have never seen a building like this,” he says. “It is so big.”

  “It’s about a hundred and fifty years old,” I tell him. “The man in the big chair at the front is the judge. He’s in charge. The box on the right is for the jury. They decide whether someone is innocent or guilty. The table on the right is for the prosecution. They’re the good guys. And the table on the left…”

  Carl sits still as a statue while his lawyers confer, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He’s less than thirty feet from me. I can see marks on his wrists from wearing restraints.

  Robin asks, “It is for the bad guys?”

  “Yes,” Presley answers. “The good guys talked this morning, and now it’s the bad guys’ turn. They’re going to say things that make it sound like the bad guy isn’t so bad after all.”

  “But he did a bad thing,” Robin says.

  “He did a terrible thing, but they’re going to try and convince the jury it wasn’t his fault, so he doesn’t get in trouble.”

  “That does not seem right.”

  “It’s not right,” I say coldly. “But it’s the law.”

  We wait. The jury files in. The judge asks the defense if they have an opening statement, and Colin Groad stands. He’s average height, average build. He’s a father. I can’t comprehend how he can represent someone like Carl.

  Unless he truly believes his defense.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.”

  Groad’s voice isn’t loud, or insistent. He’s close to the jury, addressing them intimately.

  “You are here today as champions of truth. You are here to learn the circumstances that led to the loss of so many lives last year. And you are here to understand that the first victim was Carl himself.”

  I go stiff as a board, my nails digging into the wooden bench. Presley slips his arm across my shoulders.

  “As the jury you represent the people of the state of Washington,” Groad says, “and what the state of Washington has asked of you is incredibly difficult. You have been asked to set aside your sympathies and your emotions—your natural, human responses—and look at the facts. Facts cannot be contested. The events of eighteen months ago are not being called into question, but those events are not the entire story. They are the consequences, not the intent. They are the result of a lifelong battle with mental illness.”

  Groad points to Carl. “The city of Briar Rose has failed this man. Carl Emmanuel Winters was left behind, left unprepared and unequipped for an illness beyond his control. Since he has been in custody, Mr. Winters has been seen by no less than sixteen medical professionals. Psychologists, psychiatrists, neuropsychologists, neuropsychiatrists, and they all agree. Mr. Winters suffers from a disease of the mind known as schizophrenia, which is exacerbated by a co-presentation of the developmental disorder known as autism spectrum disorder. You’ll hear from the experts on both of these conditions, but for now what you need to know is that both autism and schizophrenia have genetic components, and both are heavily influenced by early childhood environment. Just like anyone else, Mr. Winters had no control over inheriting an illness, and, as you’ll learn, his childhood was a far cry from healthy.

  “Mr. Winters has been receiving treatment while in custody,” Groad says. “His progress has been remarkable, so remarkable that, as one psychologist put it, the man who sits before you today is not the same man who acted those eighteen months ago. His response to the medication and therapy he has received is the equivalent of putting cancer into remission.”

  “Objection!” says Strum. “Lack of foundation.”

  The judge says, “Overruled.”

  Groad nods solemnly at the judge. I wrap my arms around my chest and fight to keep my breathing even.

  “Fact,” says Groad. “With proper interventions, autism can be managed. Fact: with proper medication and therapy, schizophrenia can be managed. Fact: when left untreated, mental illness can prevent the sufferer from discerning right from wrong. Fact.” Groad pauses. “Carl Winters is not criminally responsible for his actions.”

  I drop my head into my hands and squeeze my eyes shut. “It’s okay,” Presley whispers. “Just focus on your breathing.”

  I can’t focus. I can’t breathe. Groad is saying Carl experienced delusions when he took the girls and built the bomb. He’s saying Carl thought he was protecting them. He’s saying Carl never meant for the bomb to kill Max.

  Carl’s bomb killed Max.

  And I see it all again.

  The courtroom is silent. I’m on my knees, my throat raw, my eyes teary. Presley’s pulling me to my feet, pushing me into the aisle. Everyone’s looking at me. Presley tugs on my arm. “Let’s go.”

  Everyone’s looking at me.

  Carl’s looking at me.

  He smiles.

  I’m going to kill him.

  I’m past the first security guard before he can stand. I reach for my gun, and when it isn’t there I ball my hand into a fist. I’m going to kill him. Even if that’s all I’ve got, I’m going to kill him.

  I hit the gate at a full sprint and hurdle it. The second guard’s up now, but he’s behind Carl and I get there first, get my hands around Carl’s neck and drag him to the floor. I smash my fist into his nose and his face erupts with blood. Someone grabs me from behind and I hit them too, screaming at the top of my lungs. Then I drop like a stone, thrashing, writhing, convulsing with electricity. My arms are wrenched behind me and cuffed.

  “You son of a bitch!” I scream. “You killed him! You killed him!”

  The courtroom is clearing. Someone’s calling for paramedics. I struggle uselessly against the cuffs, crying until I’m facedown in a puddle. Nobody touches me. Nobody cares.

  Carl fucking Winters killed my husband, and nobody cares.

  8

  I DON’T lift my head when I hear the door open. I can’t look another cop in the eye after what I did. God knows what they’re saying about me now.

  The door closes. I hear footsteps, then the table creaks under the weight of my visitor. The scent of smoke is pungent in the holding room’s stale air.

  “Well,” says Paddy, “you sure fucked up this time. Jesus, you fucked up good.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. My face is pressed into the table and shielded by my arms, but he hears me anyway, and laughs.

  “Yeah, I bet you’re sorry. Sorry those bastards juiced you before you could finish the job.”

  Paddy pulls my arms away from my face and waits until I look at him. He’s got two day’s growth of beard on his chin and shadows beneath his eyes. I notice for the first time that he’s gained weight, that his hair is losing its color. He looks haggard. Old. I drop my gaze.

  “You wanna explain anything to me?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Anything at all.”

  “No.”

  “You sure? ‘Cause I’d really love to hear why the fuck you tried to strangle Carl Winters in the middle of a courtroom.”

  “He killed Max.”

  “I know he did. Everybody knows he did.”

  “He’s going to get off.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  My head snaps up and I jerk to my feet, but Paddy’s hands come down on my shoulders and I land hard in the chair. “He’s playing them!” I shout. “He’s putting on a big act to make people feel sorry for him!”

  “And you know this how?”

  “He smiled at me.�
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  “Jesus Christ, Mordecai. You mean you tried to kill him because he fucking smiled at you?”

  “He did it before,” I mutter. “On the bridge. He smiled at me.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Paddy leans back, grinding his teeth. “You got any idea how fucked up this is? Eighteen months the prosecution’s been building a case. Eighteen months you been waiting, and not just you. All of us. Every one of us who lost somebody to Carl, every one of us who’ve lived through this goddamn sideshow, waiting for the trial, waiting for closure, and what do you do? You fuck it up on day one. The judge declared a mistrial. It’ll be months before Carl has a court date again. Not to mention what you did to your status as a witness. You think anyone’s gonna believe anything you say now?”

  “Carl’s the one who’s lying.”

  “You don’t fucking know that!”

  Paddy gets up and paces the holding room, shaking his head, curling and uncurling his fingers.

  “You saw what he did,” I say. “You were there. He did it and he’s guilty, end of story. He deserves to die. That’s justice.”

  “No, that’s revenge. Justice is due process. Justice is a fair trial.”

  “He killed Max.”

  “Goddammit, do you think I don’t know that?! He was my best friend and I watched him get blown to bits! That doesn’t mean Carl’s not crazy. If what he did to those little girls isn’t insane then I don’t know what is.”

  “Who the fuck cares if he’s crazy?” I shout. “He murdered eleven people and he doesn’t just get to walk away!”

  Paddy grabs my chair and spins it around. He plants his hands on the table and boxes me in, his face inches from mine.

  “That’s not for you to decide,” he growls. “Whatever happens to Carl is gonna be by the book, and you’re gonna have to deal with it. And just so we’re clear, murder is not fucking dealing with it.”

  He straightens, folding his arms. “Presley called me. Told me you’ve been off your meds for weeks. Dixon’s trying to use that to get the assault charges reduced. Wouldn’t that be a piece of irony, you getting off on an insanity plea.”

  “I’m not insane.”