Miscarriage Of Justice

by Bruce A. Borders

  Briefly gazing around the courtroom to the scene of spectators and jurors, Mariana saw her parents, Thomas and Julian Clark, seated in the back row. Her father sat with a stunned expression, sharing the shock with the rest of those present in court. Mariana gave him a wry smile, and then once more focused her attention on the man at the bench.

  The judge’s reaction was quick in coming. “I’ll see counsel in my chambers.” It was apparent the man wasn’t too happy with the turn of events.

  Amid the stares of the entire room, Mariana pulled a small white envelope from her briefcase and followed a bewildered Daniel Young, through a side door.

  Judge Bingham was already in the room, pacing the floor. “What are you trying to pull?” he demanded as Mariana closed the door. “After six months, you’ve suddenly discovered new evidence? Evidence so relevant that it now becomes necessary for you to abandon your whole case and throw away everything you and the state have invested in this trial?”

  Mariana meekly waited as Judge Bingham lambasted her, patiently holding her peace. When he was finished, there would be an opportunity for her to speak.

  The room grew quiet, as the judge, at a temporary loss for words, sighed and softened his stance. “What sort of evidence do you have?”

  Here goes, Mariana thought. She’d known the judge wouldn’t be pleased; after all, she had wasted several months of his time it seemed. Assuming her professional posture, she held up the envelope. “I have some pictures of the crime scene.”

  “We’ve already viewed the crime scene photos,” Judge Bingham snapped. “They were introduced as evidence by you, months ago.”

  Nodding, Mariana continued, unaffected by the man’s condescending attitude. “These were not taken by crime scene investigators.” Pulling the pictures from the envelope, she handed them to the judge.

  “I don’t see anything here much different than the other pictures,” he said, thumbing through the stack.

  “I’ll show you what’s different,” Mariana said, careful to not sound patronizing with her remarks. “And why I believe the evidence suggests the defendant did not commit this crime.”

  Daniel Young had, until this point, wisely remained quiet. If the D.A. felt she had reason to call for a dismissal, he certainly wasn’t going to argue with her about it. Still, he was dying to get his own look at the pictures.

  Mariana noticed the way he edged closer, trying to catch a glimpse of the photos and invited both men to have a seat at the small table. Taking the pictures from the judge, she spread them out in a half circle. “See how each of these shows a different pose?” Gesturing to the pictures one by one, she waited for the two of them to indicate they were following her. “Whoever took these, had to take time between each shot to re-position the subject, including brushing the victim’s hair and straightening her clothes. There are twenty-four pictures here, none are the same as the official crime scene photos.”

  “Yeah, I see that,” Judge Bingham replied, still with a hint of disgust. “What I don’t see is how any of that proves the defendant is not guilty.”

  Undaunted, Mariana went right on. “The coroner placed the time of death between 9:05 and 9:25,” she said. “Assuming it was the earliest possible time of 9:05, and allowing just two minutes per shot, would place the killer leaving the scene no earlier than 9:53. Actually, 9:55 considering he had to arrange just one more pose, the one investigators found. Anyway, the defendant was seen outside the house at 9:30 and 9:33, according to the witnesses. He purchased his coffee at 9:36, and made the phone call from his home at 9:45, a call that lasted for thirty-seven minutes, which was verified by the phone company.”

  Judge Bingham wasn’t buying any of it. “He could easily have come back to finish the job later; after the phone call. He would’ve had all the time in the world to take as many photographs as he wanted then.”

  “No,” the D.A. shook her head. “There’s more.” Pointing to one of the photos she said, “See the clock in this picture?”

  Both men squinted, trying to make out the time, and then the judge read it aloud, “10:04.” He frowned, not saying anything. He knew the defendant would’ve been on the phone at that point.

  Mariana though, wasn’t finished. “I know, he could have simply changed the time on the clock before taking his pictures, and then put it back after he was done.” Seeing the surprise on Judge Bingham’s face, she realized the man hadn’t thought of the possibility. He seemed relieved she was addressing it for him. Directing their attention to another of the photos she said, “In this picture, you can see a faint reflection of the photographer in the grandfather clock.”

  Studying the pictures intently, Judge Bingham, a little more congenial by now, nodded. “Yes, I see it.”

  “It’s not the defendant,” Mariana said with a bit of flair.

  The judge frowned and slowly nodded his agreement again. The figure shown in the glass was definitely not the man sitting out in the defendant’s seat in his courtroom. This was beginning to add up to a lot of problems for the state’s case. He couldn’t help but come to the same conclusion the D.A. had. Still, he wasn’t ready to acquiesce completely. Just because the defendant wasn’t solely responsible, he still may have had a hand in it. But the more he thought about it, that didn’t make a lot of sense. Sighing, the judge finally admitted it, Ethan Rafferty, more than likely wasn’t guilty of anything to do with Natasha Wyman’s murder. The Defense Attorney’s explanation concerning how his client’s DNA had wound up on the gatepost, which had sounded rather ridiculous, was beginning to seem a bit more plausible.

  Daniel Young could contain himself no longer. Breaking his silence he asked, “Where did you get these photos?”

  “That’s a good question,” the judge agreed.

  Mariana took another deep breath and started talking. Explaining she’d received a mysterious phone call the previous Saturday, from a guy who claimed to be the murderer, she told the whole story. “This morning when I showed the pictures to Mr. And Mrs. Wyman, they instantly identified the man as Mitch Evans, Sara Wyman’s uncle. Apparently, the guy made a failed attempt at murdering Natasha, ten years ago, believing he was told by God to set her soul free. He’s been locked away in a mental institute for that crime for several years—that is, until recently. Seven months ago, twenty-six days before the murder, he was released. The Wyman’s claim they were not aware Mitch was out, and that’s why they never mentioned any of this to the police.” Giving them a sarcastic look, she added, “I know, sometimes people are just plain stupid.”

  “How did the pictures get into the clock?” the defense attorney wanted to know.

  “I’m guessing Mitch had them developed and then, knowing the family and being familiar with the house, he waited until no one was home to hide them,” the D.A. said. “Which brings up another point, just in case there’s still any doubt. The defendant would’ve had no opportunity to place the pictures anywhere, let alone in the clock, because he didn’t have time to get them developed, and no chance to return to the scene of the crime. We checked and he was in custody before any of the photo shops opened.”

  Judge Bingham sighed. It looked like his court had spent the last six months trying this case for nothing. Looking at the D.A., he started to speak and then fell silent.

  Anticipating what the judge was thinking, Mariana hurriedly continued her story. “I’ve been up since five o’clock this morning, checking out every angle. After visiting the Wyman’s, I drove to every photo center in town. Meanwhile, my office was working to verify the story on Mitch Evans and then trying to locate him. The reason I asked for the recess this morning is we believed we had found the man, and indeed, we had. Lincoln County Sheriff’s deputies picked him up shortly before eleven, and he is currently in custody at the jail, waiting to be charged with the murder of Natasha Wyman.”

  “And do you actually think you can make a case against him?” Judge Bingham asked with more than a hint of skepticism. “Convincing a jury of his g
uilt will be doubly difficult after the fiasco you’ve made of this trial so far.”

  Ignoring the comment, Mariana kept her cool, forcing herself to remain calm. She’d expected the judge to be peeved, and knew he probably would have preferred that she overlook the evidence and gone ahead with the trial. The Court would have found Ethan guilty, sentenced him, and gone on to the next case. That was the standard operating procedure; the way things were typically done. The fact the defendant wasn’t guilty would have been of no concern. No one in her position was supposed to switch horses in the middle of the stream, especially when the case was already sewn up. Judges didn’t like it when their court produced no results.

  Suddenly remembering the judge had asked her a question, regarding whether or not she could produce a victory in the new trial, she looked the big man in the eye and confidently replied, “Yes. I believe I can.”

  Disgusted though he was, Judge Bingham had to admire her spunk. “Very well,” he said. “Let’s get on with it.”

  The conference between the three had taken no more than ten minutes, but it could’ve lasted an hour and not affected the mood in the courtroom. Curious and alive with anticipation, no one had moved from their seat.

  The judge resumed his place on the bench and once more, the bailiff announced the proceedings had begun and that court was in session.

  Eager to share the limelight and get in on the action, Daniel Young immediately jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, the Defense makes a motion for dismissal.” The judge was sure to deny the motion, but seeing the reporters busily scratching away on the pads, he smiled to himself. Maybe he’d receive a little credit for his client’s exoneration in the newspapers anyway.

  “Denied,” came the ruling from the bench. “The Prosecution’s motion will take precedence.” Then addressing the defendant, Judge Bingham continued. “In light of new and substantial evidence offered to this court by the Prosecution, I have no choice but to grant the Prosecution’s request for dismissal.

  Muffled gasps filled the courtroom, as the judge’s words resonated through the gallery of spectators and they realized the trial was over. Then the whispered murmurings began.

  From the bench, the gavel banged several times, commanding silence. Judge Bingham looked toward the jury. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your time.” Then, the judge spoke to the defendant. “Mr. Rafferty, you are free to go. Please accept this Court’s apologies. Case dismissed.” The gavel fell sharply one final time, signaling that court had come to an end.

  Feeling as if an enormous weight had been lifted from her shoulders, Mariana let out a huge sigh. Glancing around the courtroom, she saw the open-mouthed stares as everyone digested the surprising outcome. The shock and disbelief, especially on the faces of the jurors caused her to smile. Apparently, they had been set to render a guilty verdict. Her arguments must have been pretty convincing. Too bad they were so erroneous.

  Then she grimaced. Everyone was sure to have a heyday with this, from her colleagues to the news media, and all at her expense. She could just imagine the headlines in the papers that afternoon. Shrugging, her eyes moved on, swinging to her left, to the scene at the defendant’s table.

  And a festive scene it was! The radiant relief on Ethan’s face was priceless. His attorney was there basking in the moment, as if he’d had a hand in the whole thing. Over the man’s head, Ethan caught Mariana’s eye and gave her a heartfelt look of gratitude. It was plain he knew who had saved his skin.

  Suddenly, Ethan’s wife appeared out of nowhere, hugging and kissing him, a big grin plastered on both of their faces. Mariana paused just for an instant, taking it all in. Despite the political and peer pressure, she’d done the right thing—and it felt good!

  Her self-congratulatory moment was broken by a questioning female voice from behind. “What happened?”

  Whirling, Mariana saw her friend Jessi, whom she’d invited down for the trial, giving her a worried look. Returning a weak shrug, she said simply, “We had the wrong guy.”

  Jessi shot back a puzzled frown. “When you called Friday, you said it was a slam dunk. I think your exact words were, ‘The fat lady isn’t singing yet, but the music is playing.’ Remember?”

  “Yeah, I know,” Mariana answered. Stuffing some papers into her briefcase, she looked up. “I’ll tell you about it over lunch.”

  “Works for me,” Jessi said. “Let’s go.”

  Looking to the back of the courtroom again, Mariana added, “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll invite my parents too. They’re probably just as confused as you are. That way I’ll only have to explain it once.”

  Jessi nodded. “Okay.”

  On the way outside, Mariana noticed the hoard of reporters gathered around Ethan and his attorney. They were like an angry mob; shouting, asking questions, and snapping photographs. Thankful it was him, and not her, Mariana moved on as Ethan was saying how he’d almost lost hope that justice would prevail. Ruefully, she knew it wouldn’t be long before they had squeezed every bit of the story’s life out of the former defendant, and then they would descend on her like maggots on meat. She sighed, thinking she’d better get used to it. “It goes with the territory.”

  Close to an hour later, she was seated with her parents and Jessi at the restaurant. After the waitress had brought their drinks, Mr. Clark, Mariana’s father said, “So, how did you go from having this guy all but convicted to dropping all charges?”

  “Yeah,” chimed in Jessi. “Explain, please.”

  Mariana’s mother said nothing, but sat there expectantly in her typical quiet fashion, waiting to hear the story.

  Taking another drink of water, Mariana related the entire saga for the second time that day. She ended on the happy note that they now had Mitch Evans behind bars.

  “So, you have to start all over?” Jessi asked. “Seems like a hassle to me.”

  Mariana nodded.

  “At least you won’t be sending an innocent man to prison,” her dad said.

  “Yeah,” she agreed.

  Jessi was slowly shaking her head. “You had the case won. You could’ve just not said anything, and no one would have ever known.”

  “I could have, and believe me, I thought about it,” Mariana admitted. “In fact,” she suddenly cringed. Her parents were sitting right there beside her and here she was about to own up to a serious character flaw. Taking another deep breath, she sheepishly finished her thought. “I’d planned to do just that, and never tell a soul, but last night I had the strangest dream…

  The End

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  About The Author

  Bruce A. Borders was born in 1967 in Cape Girardeau, MO. Bruce’s childhood years were spent in a number of states, including Missouri, Oregon, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

  During his high school years, he was a member of the football, basketball and track teams, involved in various non-athletic activities such as school yearbook production and photography, and won numerous awards for his artistic creations. Bruce graduated Valedictorian in 1984.

  While in school, Bruce held three part-time jobs; a store clerk, a janitor, and a dental technician, working about 60-70 hours per week. After graduation he became employed full time as a dental technician. Other jobs have included restaurant manager, carpenter and grocery store cashier. For the past sixteen years, he has worked as a commercial truck driver, logging more than two million miles.

  At the age of fifteen, Bruce decided to become a writer. He began by writing songs, news articles and short stories. Eventual
ly, books were added to the list. Over the years, he continued to write and currently has a catalog of more than 500 songs, numerous short stories and over a dozen completed books. He writes on a variety of subjects such as the Bible and politics, as well as fictional novels of legal issues and westerns.

  For more information, visit his websites at:

  bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com.

  Bruce also writes a weekly blog of short, sometimes humorous stories, read it at:

  bruceabordersbooks.weebly.com/blog.html.

  Visit Bruce A. Borders’ Amazon Author Page

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  #2 Holy Terror

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  by Bruce A. Borders

  Thwack! The bullet bit into the side of the wooden doorframe, inches from the man’s head, spraying splinters into his face. The initial shock lasted only briefly, as survival instinct took over, compelling the man to action. Diving back into the house, he kicked the door shut and crawled to the kitchen.

  “Get in the basement,” he shouted to his wife.