Out of sight now, and hidden behind the large bushy evergreens lining the backyard, she searched in vain for a spare key. Looking first under the rubber doormat and then the flowerpots, she ran her fingers along the ledges above both the window and the door. She found nothing.
Sighing, Mariana looked toward the house. There had to be some way inside, though she sure wasn’t having much luck finding one. Then she saw it. The cellar door!
Hurrying over, she bent down and grabbed hold of the handle. Taking a deep breath, she pulled on the door with all her strength. The heavy door raised up and then suddenly fell backward, crashing against an old tree stump. With a muffled cry of satisfaction, Mariana started down the concrete steps to the rickety wooden door. To her delight, it was partially open.
“Now, if only there are stairs leading to the main level,” she whispered, pushing her way into the dark and damp, musty room.
Even without a light, she quickly found the staircase. Hurrying to the top, she crossed her fingers and tried the door. This time, luck was on her side. Cautiously, she stepped into the kitchen.
The only clock she saw was the digital display on the microwave. Moving quickly from room to room, it took only a few minutes to find the stately antique piece of furniture. Peering into the den, or maybe it was a library—it was hard to tell—she saw it. Entering the room, Mariana clearly heard the distinct ticking of the old clock.
Taking hold of the tiny metal handle, she gave it a firm tug, but the glass door didn’t budge. Seeing a keyhole, she instinctively began feeling for a key along the long the top of the cabinet. Almost instantly, her efforts were rewarded and in seconds, the door was swinging wide.
Dropping to her knees, Mariana meticulously examined the bottom panel. It did appear to be loose! Carefully sliding the end of the key into the crack, the thin board easily lifted out. Looking into the hole, she saw nothing at first, but turning over the board, the persistent woman discovered a long white envelope taped to the bottom. On the outside the words “She’s Dead,” were printed in block letters. Beneath that was a date. The date of the murder!
Eyes wide and her heart pounding, Mariana tore open the sealed envelope. Several photos slid into her hand and her heart skipped a beat when it became clear the pictures were of the victim. One by one, she examined the photographs. Halfway through the stack, the D.A. was struck by one glaring fact. In each picture, the girl’s body was in a different pose, yet oddly, none showed her in the position of the official crime scene photos taken by investigators.
The morbid sight was nauseating. Mariana felt like she was going to puke and looked away, trying to re-gain control of her stomach muscles. The different poses obviously represented a disturbed individual with a sick mind. Who would take the time and make such an effort to revel in the young girl’s tragic murder? Whoever it was, they would had to have been there before the crime scene had been processed. Grimly, Mariana realized the photographer was also most likely the killer. With a tingling down her spine, she wondered if the caller the night before had been telling the truth. Had she talked to the murderer?
Not necessarily, she decided. The photos didn’t prove Ethan Rafferty wasn’t guilty, and she wasn’t prepared to accept that. Then, thumbing through the pictures again, a chilling thought occurred to her. Arranging the body in the various positions would not have been easy. Working with all that limp weight would have required time. Lots of time. Quickly, she counted the photos. Twenty-four. A whole roll of film. Calculating in her head, she realized with dismay that it didn’t look good for her case. Even if the photographer had worked at a feverish pace, managing to snap the shutter every two minutes, the job would have taken at least forty-eight minutes. To accomplish each new pose in just two minutes though, was highly unlikely. In each photo, the girl’s hair was brushed and her clothes were not mussed; not even so much as a wrinkle.
It didn’t take a genius to figure it out, and though she wasn’t ready to admit it, Mariana knew what it all meant. The timeline, which she knew well, couldn’t be avoided. Dr. Setherman, the coroner, had placed the time of death at 9:15, allowing a ten-minute leeway in either direction. Natasha Wyman had been killed somewhere between 9:05 and 9:25 that night. The two witnesses had placed Ethan on the street at 9:30 and 9:33. The receipt from the convenience store, showing the suspect had purchased a cup of coffee and a doughnut at 9:36, corroborated this. Mr. Rafferty’s movements were well documented. What’s more, the man had placed a verified call from his home at exactly 9:45, a call that had lasted thirty-seven minutes.
Throughout the trial, Mariana had argued that Ethan could have theoretically committed the murder at any time in the given window, quite easily made it outside by 9:30, where he was seen by the two witnesses, had plenty of time to stop at the store, and still make it home in time to place his phone call. But in light of this new evidence and her own calculations, even assuming the crime had occurred at the earliest possible point of 9:05, she knew the killer couldn’t have left the scene until at least five minutes until ten, probably much later
The grim realization was beginning to sink in. Mariana absent-mindedly sorted through photos and then she noticed something else. Something she’d missed. In one of the pictures, a reflection could be seen in the glass of the grandfather clock. The reflection of a man holding a camera. The image was simply too faint to make any kind of ID, but it was obvious the man wasn’t Ethan!
She knew it then. The man she had in custody, the one she was prosecuting, wasn’t the killer. The cold hard truth was difficult to face. Six months of work and sweat she’d poured into this case, and now it appeared to have all been for nothing. The whole investigation and trial had been a complete waste of time and effort.
Or, had it? The trial was nearly over, with the consensus being she was only a day or two away from winning. The only thing that threatened a victory for the state was this collection of pictures. But what if no one was to ever see them?
Without hesitation, Mariana made her choice. Stuffing the glossy photos back into the envelope, she slipped it into the pocket of her blue denim jacket. Quickly replacing the panel, she locked the door and exited the house through the rear door. In a frenzied rush, the conniving officer of the court wasted no time in driving away.
Back home, mulling over the possible ramifications of her dilemma with a bowl of ice cream, she tried to ease her troubled mind with a careful step-by-step analysis. The pictures were definite proof that the defendant in her case was not guilty, but what should she do with them? Obviously, the ethical and moral answer was to present the new evidence to the judge and the defense attorney, and then bow out gracefully by making a motion for dismissal. She also knew that wasn’t going to happen. She’d look like a fool! The case was in the bag. With all the evidence she’d presented, the jury would have to be insane to return anything but a guilty verdict. Even the defense attorney knew it and had been urging his client to take a plea. So far, Ethan had vehemently refused, adamantly maintaining his innocence and now she knew why. If things continued as they were, Mariana Clark, Lincoln County District Attorney, would win her first significant case; decisively and convincingly, in rather grand fashion; an impressive success in her burgeoning career.
But allowing the case to proceed would mean sending an innocent man to prison. Could she live with that? She could, she decided. She’d have to. Making her final decision, Mariana abruptly slid the pack of photos into a larger Manila envelope. Pulling open the bottom drawer of the closest filing cabinet, she buried the evidence in the back. Then with a dramatic flair, she slammed the door shut. No one would ever need to know. Monday morning she’d show up in court and take the win. She deserved it. No small time murderer was going to jeopardize her career!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Reliving the events of sixteen years ago, Mariana was startled by the striking of her own grandfather clock, a guilt purchase acquired as a memento of the Rafferty case. Blinking her eyes, she smiled bleakly at the edginess
she felt. The nervousness was all so silly. She had nothing to worry about. The odds that Ethan would come directly to her house once he’d been released were about the same as her winning the lottery. Still, she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling.
Seeking some small sign of reassurance, Mariana looked back at the notice she still clutched in her fingers. The date of Ethan Rafferty’s release was the eighth. That had been two weeks ago. I really should check my mail more often, the D.A. thought, “Or not,” she mused aloud. She’d definitely felt a lot safer; not knowing the man was free.
However, now that she’d been made aware of it, she would definitely be watching over her shoulder. Call it paranoia, or just plain fear; the now thirty-nine-year-old woman didn’t relish the notion of being surprised by Ethan, in her home or anyplace else. Not that she was afraid of a confrontation with the man, but the potential outcome of such an encounter did raise some cause for concern.
“Never know what an ex-con will do,” she muttered, crumpling the notice and throwing it into the trash. She had never known even one of them to try anything, most were just glad to be out of prison, and more than happy to leave the past behind them. Why should this one be any different?
Yet, she knew why he would be different. He admittedly, was an innocent man. Railroaded and shafted by the system, he’d spent fifteen years in the custody of the state, thanks to her. She smiled wryly. “I guess I can’t blame him if he’s a little ticked off.”
She did take some solace in the fact that despite having been convicted of murder, Ethan Rafferty wasn’t a killer. All indications, from an in-depth background probe, made during the course of the trial, suggested he was a calm, and rational man. The prison reports she’d just read further substantiated that assessment stating he’d been a model prisoner, exhibiting exemplary behavior throughout his stay. Sure, he was no doubt angry and even a little outraged, but men who are passive by nature usually do not suddenly become murderers or stalkers.
Mariana continued to think about the man long after crawling into bed, telling herself Ethan represented no threat and his release brought no cause for concern. Eventually, the District Attorney convinced herself she was in no danger.
Yawning, the sleepy-eyed Mariana glanced again at the clock. It was almost two a.m.! Feeling confident she was safe, Mariana snuggled her head onto the pillow. Tomorrow would be another big day, preparing for another major case in court. As usual, things looked good for her and if all went well another defendant would soon be pronounced guilty and on his way to prison. In her typical strident manner, she’d again wrangled a decisive victory. An involuntary smirk formed on her face. Nearly sixteen years as a prosecutor and still winning hadn’t lost its thrill. The feeling was very much the same as she’d experienced the first time, in the Rafferty case. Well, not exactly. This time, the defendant was actually guilty, or so she believed.
CHAPTER FOUR
A prison, full of animosity, steeped in despair and ripe with rancor, is nothing if not a rumor mill. News travels fast, bad news faster. Particularly, news from the various departments of the judicial system. It’s been said the quickest way to find out what’s happening in law enforcement on the outside is to ask an inmate on the inside. Nowhere was this truer than at Granite Hills Correctional Facility.
Ethan had been incarcerated for a little more than a month when he heard the story. Word had it there’d been a confession in the murder, the murder of which he’d been convicted. Mitch Evans, the “killer,” was being held in jail in a neighboring county on unrelated charges. According to the reports, the man would soon be transferred to Granite Hills. Ethan’s spirits soared as a newfound hope flickered to life.
As fate would have it though, once it had been discovered the man had spent time in a mental institution, his confession had been summarily dismissed and ignored. The Court had a conviction in the murder of Natasha Wyman and wasn’t interested in complicating matters with a frivolous reopening of the case due to the crazed confession of a deranged lunatic. The official explanation was that a fair trial had been held, the defendant had been pronounced guilty and was serving his time. Case closed.
The mysterious Mitch Evans had indeed shown up at Granite Hills, but Ethan never had a chance to meet him. One night, about a month after the man’s arrival, he had been found dead in his cell. Complications from diabetes was listed as the cause of death.
The following day, Ethan had received a visit from Red Tesler, a fellow inmate and self-appointed prison gossip coordinator. The man, known as Big Red, made it his business to provide information. He had a message for Ethan.
“Mitch,” Big Red said, “left a letter for you.” The burly man added that the letter was in a book called Over My Dead Body in the prison library.
Ethan was intrigued by the news but he had his doubts. It all sounded a bit far-fetched. Nothing more than a rumor. Even if the man had left a letter, the odds of it still being there were slim.
Big Red sensed Ethan didn’t believe him. “My information is reliable,” he insisted.
Who else knows about this letter? Ethan questioned.
“Nobody. Strictly confidential.”
Ethan still wasn’t convinced. His face showed it even without saying a word.
“Look, if the man said it’s there, then it is.” Tesler’s tone suggested he was a little irritated. “Why don’t you just go down to the Library and have a look?”
Figuring he had nothing to lose and a lot to gain by not getting the big man upset, Ethan agreed to check it out. He still didn’t buy the man’s story, though.
Visiting the library later that afternoon, Ethan eventually located the book. As he pulled it from the shelf, he could see the bulge between the pages. It may or may not be his letter but there was definitely something inside the book. It took only seconds for the anxious Ethan to remove the envelope tucked inside the front cover. Ripping it open, he was shocked to discover it was more than a letter. Thirty 3 x 5 color photos, printed on both sides of plain copy paper. The pictures told quite a story. Some were of Natasha Wyman and the crime scene, and others showed the District Attorney, Mariana Clark, at someone’s house looking at what appeared to be more photos of the dead girl!
The letter stated that before Ethan’s conviction, Mitch had called the D.A. and offered her indisputable proof that her suspect was innocent. And that he, Mitch Evans had killed the girl. It went on to give the details of how Mitch had hidden a camera in the grandfather clock. The motion-activated camera, triggered by the removal of the bottom panel on the clock had taken four shots of Mariana as she studied the photographs.
Until that moment, Ethan had been reluctant to believe the rumors and had his doubts about Mitch’s claims as well, deeming it all nothing but a cruel joke, but he couldn’t explain the pictures. Besides, somebody had killed the girl and it certainly hadn’t been him! But, why wasn’t any of this mentioned at the trial? What possible reason could the D.A. have for purposefully ignoring such vital information?
The longer he thought about it and considered the possibility, the more sense it made that Mitch had told the truth. There had been a marked and noticeable change in the District Attorney’s demeanor the last few days of the trial. Ethan still didn’t understand why any of it had happened, but he was now inclined to think it was possible, even probable.
Still, there were many unanswered questions. How had Mitch been able to put the pictures, or camera for that matter, into the clock? Then, how had he retrieved the snapshots of Mariana? And perhaps the most perplexing question, how had the guy managed to get the pictures into Granite Hills?
These uncertainties only added to the anger and frustration Ethan felt at being locked up for something he hadn’t done. This Machiavellian D.A. had not only taken his freedom, but everything he possessed, both physically and emotionally, knowing all along she had the wrong guy! And for what? A feather in her cap? The respect and praise of her colleagues? Just so she could chalk up another victory? Didn’t the
truth matter at all? Or was the truth simply an annoying nuisance?
Through subsequent research, Ethan discovered his case wasn’t all that unusual. Similar circumstances happened quite frequently in fact. Perusing the limited resources in the prison library, he found a book, Guilty Or Not, Here They Come, which substantiated the practice. Written by an attorney, a former prosecutor; the volume exposed the reprehensible conduct and the sinister motives behind it. Ethan was astonished by the results of a poll in which eighty-five percent of District Attorneys questioned, readily admitted that the guilt or innocence of a defendant was not at all important. Their only concern in any trial was whether they could get a conviction. A positive win/loss ratio for their career being the bottom line.
In addition, the lack of ethics wasn’t limited to District Attorneys the book claimed; most other attorneys felt the same. The better their winning percentage, the more work they were able to procure and the more esteemed and lauded they became. Ultimately, this allowed them to charge higher rates for their services.
Though a District Attorney’s salary was set and paid by the county, via tax revenue, they routinely received kickbacks, bonuses and payoffs, along with many other perks. And as always, they were preparing for the day when they may no longer be in their current position. A good win/loss record then became a very valuable asset, increasing their net worth to potential clients. Money and power. That’s what it all boiled down to. Justice was somehow forgotten.
An even more appalling report revealed that sixty-three percent of District Attorneys in America would continue to prosecute a case, even knowing that the defendant was not guilty, if they were reasonably sure they could emerge with a victory. So much for truth and justice. Apparently, this was the new American way.
Miscarriage Of Justice Page 4