Miscarriage Of Justice

by Bruce A. Borders

  As he drove, nagging doubts and little worries began to set in, eventually leading to second thoughts. Had he considered everything? Would he able to get inside the house? Unseen? What if she had an alarm? Or worse, what if someone were home? He knew she lived alone, but there was always the chance she could have visitors.

  He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. There was no need to panic. A simple knock on the door would tell him if anyone was there. And an alarm wouldn’t present much of a problem. As an electrician, he’d installed enough of them—all makes and models. Disarming one shouldn’t be that difficult. The process would take time though, which was a critical factor. The more time he took, the greater the chance of being spotted—or caught.

  Traffic was uncharacteristically light and Ethan made good time, despite his determination not to speed. Turning down Griffen Road, he arrived at Mariana’s house a full fifteen minutes earlier than he had anticipated. He’d met only one car on the road from the freeway to the D.A.’s house. A single car driven by a teenager. That provided a little reassurance.

  Teens were notorious for not paying attention, and considering the way the young guy was dressed, and the loud head banging music resounding from the car—even with all the windows up, Ethan doubted the guy would remember being on the road himself, much less who he’d met. And as more time passed, it was even less likely the guy would be able to recall much of anything. Let a few days, or weeks, go by and he was betting the kid wouldn’t be able to provide any reliable information whatsoever. Betting on it with his life, literally.

  Pulling as far into the drive as possible, in hopes he could remain hidden, or at least not so conspicuous, Ethan boldly walked to the front door and knocked. Receiving no response, he rapped on the door again, louder this time. Still, there was no answer.

  Hearing no one milling about inside, he cautiously peered through the window. The house was dark and appeared empty. Breathing a little easier now, but needing to be sure he wouldn’t be barging in on anyone, he moved to the next window for a better angle. Careful to keep his body hidden from the lone neighbor’s house, which had an unobstructed view of Mariana’s place, he cupped his hands on the window to block out the blinding rays of the bright summer sun. Squinting, he tried to focus on the room’s interior. From the looks of things, no one was home.

  Then he saw it, just as he supposed it might be. The alarm’s control unit, mounted on the wall, right inside the front door. Immediately, he identified the model, and saw the mess of wires running to the windows and the door.

  “Typical,” he laughed. Wires strung carelessly across the wall was a sure sign of customer installation. She’d put it in herself, and recently too, judging by the kinks in the wires.

  Familiar with the make of the alarm, Ethan knew it came equipped with a battery backup. He also knew from experience, most people didn’t use the feature. They had good intentions, sometimes putting in batteries at first, but later neglected to replace them, some due to procrastination, others just figured the electricity wouldn’t go out.

  As one of his former customers had so eloquently put it, “What are the odds someone will try breaking in the house during the few minutes a year my electricity is out?”

  “Pretty good, right about now,” Ethan predicted, walking stridently to the meter box, located near the back corner of the house.

  As usually was the case, there was no lock on the gray box at the bottom of the weather mast. Snapping open the cover, he quickly shut off the switch. Instantly, he was aware of an eerie silence as the compressor on the central air stopped running. Hurrying back to the window, he again peered in through the glass. If the alarm system had switched over to operating on battery power, the red light indicator would be flashing. Straining to see into the living room, he smiled his satisfaction. The control box was dark!

  With the burglar alarm effectively disabled, Ethan slipped the small blade of his pocketknife into the crack between the door and the jam. A quick prying motion, back-and-forth, and the latch easily retracted. The deadbolt was not locked. Effortlessly, the door pushed open.

  Returning to his car, Ethan made four trips, carrying each of the mannequins, and then the rest of the materials into the house. Nervously, he glanced out the window, looking down the road, half expecting someone to come by and ruin everything. Relieved he saw no traffic, he quickly turned his attention back to the task at hand.

  Glancing at his watch, he saw the time was already eleven o’clock; that left only an hour to complete his job. Working steadily and efficiently, he cleared Mariana’s kitchen table, transferring empty cups, dirty dishes, and several stacks of papers to the counter. Then, moving the table to the living room, he spread the large piece of green felt over it.

  Standing the female mannequin against the table, he placed the male, the dealer, behind the table, in the corner. Opening the three packs of cards, he sorted through one deck, removing the five cards known as dead man’s hand. “The Ace of Clubs, Ace of Spades, Eight of Clubs, Eight of Spades and the Nine of Diamonds,” he mumbled to himself. Legend has it these were the cards Wild Bill Hickock held in his hand the day he was shot to death in Deadwood, South Dakota. Ethan taped the five cards to the woman’s hand. Shuffling the rest of the cards together, he arranged them on the table in front of the dealer.

  He’d purchased several packages of poker chips, and sliding them from the boxes, he piled two stacks of $100 chips on the table beside the woman. The rest he arranged according to color on the dealer’s side.

  Casting another furtive glance out the window and seeing nothing threatening, he continued working. Using the clear tape again, he wedged the toy pistol into the dealer’s outstretched hand. Opening the can of red paint he’d used for blood, he splattered a few drops over the lifelike figures, and then the rest of the props, covering the cards, poker chips, and the felt.

  Back in prison, when he had first thought of this hair brained idea; he’d planned a courtroom scene, somewhere in the living room, or maybe the den. But that would have required more mannequins and considerably more work. This was easier.

  The dummies would still serve no real purpose, other than to startle the D.A. as she entered her house—and scare the wits out of her if he was lucky. Shock value. He was betting the gambling scene with the “dead woman” would quite effectively get the woman’s attention. The extra care he’d taken on all the little details was sure to enhance the aura of fear and add to the mystique.

  He suddenly stopped, grumbling under his breath. All the painstaking preparations he’d made, and he’d forgotten one important detail. The note! It was still laying on the table back at the hotel. Agitated by his own incompetence, he glanced around the room, looking for a pen and something to write on. Seeing Mariana’s desk in the den, he strode through the open arched doorway. Choosing a pen and helping himself to the pink flowery stationery, he quickly wrote out his short message, again in the easily identifiable handwriting.

  Swaggering back to the living room, he dropped the note on the table and smirked, a cocky grin. Forgetting the note had turned out all right, better in fact. Using Mariana’s personal stationery added a certain evil charm to the scene.

  Standing back admiring his crafty creation, he realized something still was missing. Every gambler he’d ever seen had been nursing a drink. An adult beverage. Hurrying to the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator door hoping to find a beer or maybe some wine. He was disappointed. Apparently, Mariana had neither. Then his eye fell on a gallon jar of what looked like iced tea. Several tea bags floating near the top suggested his observation was correct. He frowned. What good was tea? Then he broke into a grin. It would still work!

  Finding a clear glass in the sink, he poured his gambler a stiff drink. Replacing the tea in the refrigerator, he carried the drink to the table, setting it beside the woman’s left hand. Even knowing it was only tea, he could hardly tell by looking.

  Just one thing remained to be done. Lifting the cov
er from the alarm control box, he quickly rewired zone number one. Mariana would never know it, but her front door would now be unprotected, allowing him to come and go freely in the future. “Never know when easy access might come in handy.”

  Replacing the cover and taking one last look to make sure each detail was perfect and everything was in place, Ethan read the note aloud to himself. “The house always wins.”

  It was true in Vegas, had held true in his trial, and now that the tables had turned, it was true here. Gathering his supplies, he threw them carelessly into the car. Quickly checking to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, he locked the front door on his way out. Taking a few extra seconds to turn the electricity back on, Ethan slid behind the wheel of his car.

  Leaving the scene of the “crime,” he glanced at his watch. “Two minutes ’til twelve.” Perfect timing!

  Turning away from town, he retraced the route back to the freeway, and finally allowed himself to relax. In a particularly lighthearted mood, he set the cruise control and eased back into the seat, envisioning Mariana’s arrival home that evening. He’d certainly outdone himself on this one, but it was far from being his grand finale. Miss Mariana Clark had not yet begun to experience the full scope of his wrath. By the time he was finished, she’d be begging for mercy—and no such reprieve would be coming. He laughed again. Revenge was so sweet! Though nothing he did would serve to vindicate him or his good name, a certain satisfaction was derived from getting even.

  Turning on the radio, Ethan continued driving, pulling off at the first exit in Fulton for a long overdue lunch. While downing a double cheeseburger and fries, he contemplated his next move. After the spectacular casino he’d created for Mariana, he’d have to work hard to maintain the same level of creativity while still producing as much fear as possible.

  Back in his small hotel room, he set the alarm for eight o’clock that evening. For over two weeks now, he hadn’t called Mariana. It was time for that change. By eight o’clock, the D.A. should have made it home and discovered her starring role in the off-Broadway production “Casino Death,” as he’d decided to call it. A well-timed phone call would dramatically intensify the effect. He laughed again. This was the most fun he’d had since, well, since going to prison.

  Watching TV, he calmly sipped a glass of soda, patiently waiting for the clock to make its rounds. But by fifteen after six, his anticipation got the best of him.

  “She’s got to be home by now,” he growled looking at the clock for the third time in as many minutes. Scooping up the phone, he mindlessly tapped his fingers on the table, waiting for the call to go through.

  After the fourth ring, he found himself growing edgy and exasperated. “Answer,” he silently commanded.

  Just as he was ready to hang up, Mariana’s voice, courtesy of the answering machine, came on the line, directing him to leave a message. For the first time, since starting the phone calls, Ethan spoke. “Looks like your luck is about to run out,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

  Leaving only the short message, he hung up. If given the chance, he was sure she’d have plenty to say to him, but if she weren’t answering her phone, he’d never be able to hear it. Maybe I’ll call again later, he thought, settling back in his recliner. “Or, I could take it easy for a while,” he mumbled to himself, “and wait until morning.” He grinned, a shameless and malicious thin smile. “While she worries the night away.” This was exactly what he’d waited for!

  And yet, he strangely felt as though something were missing, as if his life were incomplete. He’d thought when his long-awaited release from prison had arrived and he was able to execute his revenge on Mariana, things would somehow feel right again. So, why did he feel so down? It was all entertaining, even exciting, but part of the anticipated thrill was lacking. Perplexed by the persistent feeling, he found himself in a dismal mood.

  Pushing the nagging thoughts from his mind, Ethan scowled. Though his spirits were a little deflated, he most certainly wasn’t going to end his siege just because the full satisfaction he’d expected wasn’t there. This was a matter of right and wrong, a principled response to an egregious act—and of course, revenge.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Work, so they say, soothes the soul and ironically is both physically and mentally therapeutic. By that definition, Mariana should have been feeling extremely fit, because she definitely had plenty of work. Having been gone for over two weeks, there seemed to be no end to the phone calls, appointments, and mountainous piles of paperwork. She’d spent the entire first day studiously reorganizing her inbox and sorting through the messages she’d received. The next few days, had been devoted solely to preparing for the upcoming trial of a local rape case, a case she couldn’t afford to lose. Thursday morning, she spent in court. After a brief lunch recess, she’d returned to the courthouse, staying until four o’clock. It’d already been a long day but with the backlog of paperwork, she’d returned to the office, working steadily until well after six. Looking forward to a quiet evening, she was thankfully, now headed home.

  Jessi had called earlier that afternoon, leaving a brief message on Mariana’s cell phone. Still worried about her friend’s well being, the nurse had invited herself down for the next few days.

  Hoping she hadn’t waited too long, Mariana returned the call. When Jessi answered she said, “Sorry I didn’t call back sooner. I was in court all day and just got your message.”

  “That’s okay,” Jessi told her. “I figured you were busy, so I just decided to head that way. If you don’t want me to come, I guess I could turn around, but I’ll be there in less than an hour.”

  Insisting she was doing fine and didn’t need to be babysat, Mariana quickly added, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t come. I’d love to have you visit. How long are you staying?”

  “I’ll probably go home on Monday.”

  In high spirits, Mariana hung up the phone. Despite having recently spent two weeks at Jessi’s house, she was eager to see her friend again. Jessi was the one person she could talk to about her troubles. Just having someone around would help ease her nervous tension.

  But, if Jessi was coming down, that meant there was work to do. The house was a mess! No way was she letting her friend see it like that. So much for a night of relaxation.

  Steering her car up the drive, Mariana didn’t notice the smaller set of tracks in the dirt lane. Neither did she see the deep footprints of someone trampling through her flowerbeds beneath the windows. Had she noticed these things she wouldn’t have been nearly so eager to unlock the door and get into the house. But she was an attorney, not a detective, and not trained in the fine art of observation.

  Untrained, but not totally blind. The second she stepped through the doorway she was keenly aware of the two shadowy figures. Startled, she turned her full attention to the scene in the living room and let out an involuntary high-pitched shriek. Then, just as quickly she realized the two figures were nothing more than lifeless dummies. That knowledge did nothing to discourage her heart’s wild pounding. Neither did it mollify the worried angst she suddenly felt.

  Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to remain calm. Her main concern, at the present, was that Ethan had been in the house, and maybe he was still there, lying in wait somewhere inside. The advice of all the experts, advice she knew well, having sat through countless lectures on the subject, was that when a person found themself in a situation such as this, the safest and most sensible thing to do was to immediately get out of the house. Leave and call the police. She knew it, could recite the mantra in her sleep but foolishly chose to ignore it.

  With an angry scowl, she slowly shook her head. This was indeed scary and frightening, and although her first reaction was to go get a motel for the night, she stubbornly refused to give in to the idea. She wasn’t about to let this maniacally twisted criminal drive her out of her home! She’d already left once, this time she was staying. Crazy person or not!

  Defyin
g her own intuitive logic, she scooped up a fireplace poker and started a room-by-room search. If Ethan were still there, he was going to wish he’d never heard of Mariana Clark!

  Hurrying from through the house, she inspected every possible hiding place. Flinging open the closet door of the guest room, the last room to be searched, and finding no one, a slightly more confident Mariana returned to the living room. At least it used be the living room, it now more closely resembled a casino.

  Seeing the flashing light on her answering machine, the anxious woman paused long enough to push the button. She listened with growing apprehension as Ethan’s voice clearly cut through the silence. “Looks like your luck is about to run out.”

  Pushing the button again, she listened to the message once more. Hearing the tenor of his voice, she relaxed a little. This was all a big joke to him. Shaking her head in disgust, she erased the message.

  Standing in the doorway, between the living room and kitchen, studying the scene, she couldn’t help but wonder again what the purpose of all this was. She understood the foreboding implications, but why a casino? What relevance did a poker game have to Ethan’s unnatural fixation with tormenting her? And what possible reason could there be for taking the time to set it all up? Other than to prove himself insane and in dire need of psychiatric help, she could think of nothing.

  Moving a little closer, she finally saw the note Ethan had placed on the table. “The house always wins,” she read. Then she repeated the phrase. Shaking her head, she frowned and shrugged, still bewildered by it all.