Justice Served: A Barkley and Parker Thriller

by Flowers, R. Barri

“Is she for real, or what?” Nina asked, shaking her head as they walked down the corridor.

  “Scary, isn’t she?” Ray said pensively. “Even scarier is the possibility that she may not be our killer. If she is, she sure is daring us to prove it. And I’ll be damned if we can even come close at this point.”

  Nina’s mouth dropped. “Makes you wonder just how many Laura Gleasons there are out there—male haters with a passion?”

  “I wouldn’t even want to venture a guess.” Ray scratched his head glumly.

  “Well I’d guess there might be as many as the Blake Wallaces and Roberto Martinezes in the country,” Nina ascertained with a hint of wryness in her voice. “And they’re probably every bit as dangerous in their own way.”

  “Yeah, certainly one is,” Ray hummed. “In her own unique way.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The defendant, Eddie Jackson, was a tall, thickly built African-American man in his mid forties. His receding hairline was a dull gray and hostile eyes were as dark as asphalt. He wore a snug-fitting navy suit. It was a shade darker than the one worn by his attorney, a woman named Stella Howard. She was petite next to Eddie, with a brownish curly bob, tea colored skin, ruby lips, and a petulant pout.

  Eddie Jackson, an auto mechanic, was on trial for assaulting and raping his girlfriend, Emilie Evans. He had stubbornly resisted a plea bargain, insisting he was merely defending himself from her attack and that there had been no rape. In the process he had broken her nose and knocked out most of her front teeth.

  The prosecutor was a grim-faced attorney named Alex Wright. He was white-haired, long nosed, red faced, and on the lean side in a craggy gray suit. He liked to look at his watch as if it contained the mysteries to the center of the universe.

  She watched him from her vantage point, in which she could see the entire courtroom. She waited impatiently as the lawyers went back and forth, presenting their cases, almost toying with the jury, daring them to convict or acquit.

  A tall, husky man wearing a cheap brown suit entered the courtroom and walked up to the prosecutor without missing a beat. He whispered something in his ear, causing Wright to wrinkle his nose as if he had just smelled a dead rat. Wright then got the attention of Stella Howard, who had seemed to be gaining points with the jury.

  The two lawyers conferred, as if no one else were present. They finally split up and Howard said something to her client. Jackson shook his head a couple of times, though he seemed to be miles away from understanding what was going on.

  The attorneys met with Judge Cranston and she listened with interest. She finally nodded with a look of disappointment on her face, and sent them back to their respective tables.

  Favoring the defendant, the judge said colorlessly: “Mr. Jackson, your attorney and the prosecutor have come to terms on a plea bargain. It will require that you pay a fine, undergo substance abuse treatment, counseling for batterers, and complete two hundred and fifty hours of community service. Is that agreeable to you?”

  Eddie Jackson scanned the court, as if he was looking for someone, faced his attorney, and then the judge. “Yeah, Your Honor,” he spoke huskily. “It’s agreeable.”

  Judge Cranston looked at him with serious reservations, glared at both lawyers, and back again. “The defendant is free to leave,” she said sternly. “Court’s adjourned.”

  The judge lowered her head as if in shame and took a deep breath to compose herself. She quietly escaped to her chambers amidst the commotion that followed.

  There was a mild spatter of surprise and murmurs in the courtroom as the defendant and his attorney left the room quickly, as if to escape a lynch mob.

  * * *

  Stella Howard declined to answer any questions from a few overzealous members of the press who seemed to live for these types of domestic violence cases. She also recommended that her client avoid drawing any further attention to himself. Anyone who followed the local news knew that a psychopath was on the prowl killing accused or convicted batterers who were set free or, according to some, escaped justice. The last thing she wanted was for Eddie Jackson to become another victim.

  As it was, she knew full well he was lucky to have gotten off with a relatively weak sentence and no jail time. This was the result of DNA tests that were inconclusive on the rape charge, implying that Emilie Evans could have had sex with another man. The prosecutor had suggested it might be best for all parties concerned if they accepted a plea bargain.

  Stella believed she had a good chance to win this case. But, given the recent climate with respect to domestic violence, she had advised her client this might be the best he could hope to come up with to avoid jail time.

  Now she regarded Eddie Jackson as she pulled up to the bungalow where he lived. He looked at her with a smug smile.

  “Thanks,” he said gratefully. “I owe you one.”

  Stella dismissed this, wanting no favors from the man. “You owe me nothing, Eddie. I only did what you paid me to do.”

  He grinned lasciviously. “And you were worth every penny, Counselor.”

  “I hope you take advantage of your freedom by staying away from Ms. Evans,” Stella warned him, noting she had been the prosecution’s star witness against him.

  “Don’t worry about that,” he said. “Far as I’m concerned that bitch and I are through! I just want to get on with my life and find someone who can appreciate me. Know what I mean?”

  Stella felt the weight of his menacing eyes ogling her. A trickle of fear ran through her veins. She had believed all along that he was guilty of beating up his girlfriend and had probably raped her as well. But as a criminal defense attorney, Stella also believed firmly that it was her duty to defend her clients to the best of her ability, even if it meant getting them off. Now she was starting to have second thoughts about that.

  She glared at him. “Don’t even think about it, Eddie,” she told him with a sharp edge to her voice. “I’m definitely not your type—”

  He got the message, displaying a cocky grin. “If you say so, Ms. Howard.”

  Stella watched for a moment as Eddie Jackson sauntered away confidently. She drove off, hoping she had not made a tragic mistake taking him on as a client and, in the process, possibly putting some other women at risk of bodily harm.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Eddie Jackson lumbered up his sidewalk, still watching as Stella drove away. He envisioned what it would be like to have a piece of that fine thing when she was without the lawyer clothes. Under other circumstances he might have taken what he wanted. But he wouldn’t press his luck with that frigid bitch. It wasn’t worth it.

  Eddie unlocked the front door and went inside the bungalow. It was dark and smelled of mildew, as though uninhabited and closed off for years. He cut on the light in the kitchen and got a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor out of the refrigerator.

  In the living room, he flopped down onto a well-worn recliner, opened the bottle, and guzzled down about half of it. He thought about Emilie. That bitch was a fighter. He gave her credit for that much, often giving as much as she took.

  But that night he had been the one doing the taking. He’d had it with her mouthing off to him and coming up with one lame assed excuse after another for not putting out. Finally he lost it and forced himself onto and into her after beating the bitch into submission.

  Even with that he had never expected Emilie to turn him in. To testify against him. To humiliate him. To damned near send him to prison.

  The stupid bitch had been seeing someone else all along. Eddie swallowed more malt liquor. At least that’s what the DNA tests of semen taken from her suggested. He wanted to hurt her badly for that. But his momma didn’t raise an idiot. Beating the hell out of Emilie again would only give him some mild satisfaction, but not nearly enough to risk going to prison.

  And there was something else...

  There was a killer out there going after guys like him. Taking batting practice on their heads like they were human baseballs
. Right now wasn’t a good time to be too visible. He had to be careful and keep his guard up. Lay low. He would be damned if some bat wielding bitch got the better of him!

  Just then Eddie Jackson heard a sound, almost like the drop of a pen on the stained brown carpeting. He thought he saw someone in the shadows.

  “Who the hell’s there?” he asked, his heart suddenly racing. He jumped to his feet, straining his eyes in the direction of the darkened dining room. But he could see nothing and decided he had let paranoia get the best of him.

  Get a grip, man! He sighed, angry with himself. Don’t let this broad mess with your mind.

  There was another sound. This one was heavier, as if something was being dragged. Eddie swiveled towards the kitchen. There was a tall, good-looking black woman standing there with long blonde locks and a fierce look in her eyes. She was holding a wooden bat and wearing dark clothes and gloves.

  For an instant Eddie felt as if he had seen her before. Where? Before he could digest this, much less decide how to deal with the threat; the bitch came at him with blinding speed, lifting the bat in the same motion. She swung at his head. He managed to get his arm up to catch the force of the bat. It shattered the bone in his elbow and he let out a howl that could wake the dead.

  “Did you really think you would get off that easily, Eddie asshole?” she asked in a chilling voice.

  “Who the hell are you?” he asked, trying to fight the pain and get away from this crazy woman.

  “I’m the last female you will ever see, you sick bastard,” she shrieked. “At least in this world. See you in hell. Or maybe not—”

  She swung the bat again. This time it went right through his limp arm and landed squarely on the side of his head. Eddie fell to his knees, his vision blurred, his head feeling as if it were about to explode.

  He was right as the next blow landed with such force it fractured bone and spewed tissue from his head. Another blow to the head and it splattered like a watermelon.

  “You knocked out practically all of poor Emilie’s teeth, asshole,” the woman screamed. She then proceeded to knock out most of his teeth. “How does it feel to have the tables turned on you? Then you raped her, you cocksucker!”

  She dug the bat into his groin and then pounded away at it mercilessly.

  “I hate men who beat and rape women to satisfy their depravities!” she blared.

  Remarkably the victim was still semiconscious and cognizant that he was about to die. The intense pain that ripped through Eddie Jackson like cancer made him want the end to come sooner than later.

  He got his wish.

  She rammed the bat flush into his face. It imploded and with it Eddie’s life ceased to exist.

  The woman was outraged. “Don’t you go out on me, asshole. I’m not through with you yet—”

  She proceeded to continue beating him to a pulp, till there was literally nothing left but blood, broken bones, and a distorted mass that had once been a human being.

  Satisfied that her mission had been accomplished, the woman dumped the bat on the messy pile of flesh and bones. She then quietly walked to the batterer’s bedroom. There she removed her gloves and clothing, putting them in the duffel bag. She slipped on a sweater, jeans, and running shoes.

  She went out the back door and into the alley where her car was waiting. After putting the duffel bag in the trunk, she climbed into the front seat and drove off.

  For a millisecond she regretted what had happened just as she had with the other bastards she delivered straight to hell. But this misgiving was overcome by a sense of purpose and duty. She considered herself the avenging angel for all women who suffered at the hands of men. She couldn’t let them off the hook, even if the courts saw fit to, any more than they showed mercy on the women they beat and brutalized.

  She blended in with traffic and appeared to be merely another rush hour driver simply looking to get to the safety and comfort of home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Carole arrived home at five-thirty sharp. She was tired after a long, exhausting day, and looked forward to having a hot bath and a glass of wine. She kicked off her mules and began rummaging through the mail when the phone rang.

  “Hello,” she answered on the third ring.

  There was a grunting, gasping noise.

  “Hello—” she repeated.

  “Carole,” said the rushed voice, “this is Vivian Wolfe—”

  Carole sensed by her labored breathing that something was wrong. “What is it, Vivian?”

  “I think I’m having a miscarriage,” she slurred. “There’s blood and—”

  “Where’s Stuart?” asked Carole frantically.

  “I don’t know,” cried Vivian hysterically. “I tried to reach him at his office, but he wasn’t there. I didn’t know who else to call.”

  “It’s all right.” Carole tried to remain calm. “I’ll call 911.”

  “Can you come over?” pleaded Vivian. “I don’t want to go to the hospital alone.”

  “You won’t have to,” promised Carole. “I’ll be right there.” She paused. “What’s your address?”

  Without giving much thought to anything else, Carole quickly dialed 911 for an ambulance. She had no experience dealing with pregnant women, but knew enough to recognize that time was of the essence. Maybe it was not a miscarriage, she prayed, and the baby would be unharmed.

  Carole called a cab. With any luck, she would arrive at the house at the same time as the ambulance.

  She wondered where Stuart was at a time when his wife needed him most.

  * * *

  Carole felt a bit nervous as the cab pulled up to the residence. She had never been to Stuart’s house, which he’d purchased shortly after getting married. Though he and Vivian had invited her over, it somehow didn’t seem right, considering the nature of her previous relationship with Stuart. And wanting to get on with her life.

  Now none of that seemed to matter. All that was important was trying to save his unborn child’s life.

  Carole rode to the hospital with a frightened Vivian, holding her hand tightly along the way. “It’ll be all right,” she tried to console her.

  “Will it?” asked Vivian skeptically, sobbing. “If I lose the baby, Stuart will blame me. I know it!”

  “Don’t be silly,” Carole scoffed. “He can’t hold you responsible for something that’s not your fault any more than his.”

  Vivian’s lips trembled as she said: “This can’t be happening. Not now...not when things seemed like they were finally starting to come together in my life—”

  Carole wiped the perspiration from Vivian’s brow and tried to remain positive. She could only hope that Stuart would get the message they were at the hospital. She felt uncomfortable taking his place in this delicate situation.

  In the emergency room, doctors and nurses attended to Vivian like the trained professionals they were, while Carole paced in the waiting area. The ordeal made her wonder how she would deal with a similar situation. Could she ever get over losing a child? Would she ever be in a long term, loving relationship where having a child was even possible? Or was there no hope for that at this stage?

  Stuart came running into the corridor as if his pants were on fire. Carole met him halfway.

  “I came as soon as I got the message,” he told her, huffing heavily as if he had just completed a marathon. “Where is she?”

  Carole told him, watching the strain on his face deepen. “Vivian said she tried to reach you...”

  “I had to meet a client,” Stuart explained defensively. “I left word at the office where they could—”

  “It doesn’t really matter now,” Carole cut in, realizing he owed her no explanation. “What’s important is your wife needs you—”

  “I know,” he lamented, running his hand across his face. “I have to go to her...them!”

  Carole followed as Stuart raced down the corridor to the room where Vivian was being treated. A burly, dark-haired doctor
stepped out, blocking Stuart’s advance like a defensive lineman.

  “Are you the husband?”

  “Yes.” Stuart’s voice was gravelly. “How is she?”

  The doctor averted his eyes, instead meeting Carole’s. She could see by the sadness in his deeply tanned face that the news was not good.

  “I’m Doctor Sheppard,” he said, facing Stuart again bleakly. “Afraid I have bad news. Your wife lost the baby—”

  “No, dammit!” Stuart cursed, as if his whole world had suddenly fallen apart.

  “I’m truly sorry,” the doctor said. “She’s been sedated, but you can see her now.”

  Carole was at a loss for words. She knew Stuart was hurting and she could not put herself in his shoes. All she could do was hug him in support. He hugged her back, as if not wanting to let go.

  Then abruptly he did and dashed into the room to be with his wife. Carole was left alone with the doctor.

  “Will Vivian be all right?” she asked him hesitantly.

  “Physically, yes.” He frowned and his mouth hung open while waiting for the words to catch up. “Mentally, I don’t really know...”

  Carole sensed there was something else on his mind. “What is it?”

  He paused. “I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but it’s possible she may have helped herself to lose the baby—”

  Carole thought she might not have heard him correctly. “What—?”

  Suddenly Dr. Sheppard looked as if he regretted mentioning it. “This is strictly off the record and likely can’t even be proven,” he stressed, “but I’ve seen cases like this before where a mother who didn’t want a baby badly enough was able to virtually will it out of her.”

  This made no sense to Carole and she doubted its credibility. Still, as she looked through the door at Stuart comforting his wife, she couldn’t help but think about Vivian’s earlier reluctance to bring a child into this world.

  Was there even the remotest chance she made this happen?