"Well, I'm sure we'd all agree that those things certainly worked against the defendant," the judge said.
"Yes, but that doesn't mean he killed her," Valdez said. "If you're just looking solely at money as the motive, Baker wasn't exactly poor. His advertising firm is one of the most successful in the city. A million bucks was like a drop in the bucket for him. Not to mention he and his wife each had million dollar life insurance policies long before the crime occurred, which would seem to debunk that theory."
ADA Knight scoffed and stared at him in disbelief. "Were we in the same courtroom? As was presented into evidence, Thomas Baker's business was failing and he was deeply in debt. Collecting a million dollars while making sure his wife didn't divorce him would go a long way toward solving both of his problems."
"Come on," Valdez said. "Some of the witnesses we put on the stand testified that, if anything, Baker wanted out of the marriage as much if not more than his wife. So spare me with your obsessed, jealous husband motivation." The defense attorney downed the rest of his wine. "With respect to him being heavily in debt as a motive for murder, let's not forget that Baker had a business partner who had the same motivation for killing the victim, and then some. Need I remind you that Cassandra Baker was having an affair with John Horn, who testified to this effect as a hostile witness? Since he was married, too—never mind that his wife has since filed for divorce—and had no desire to give up his wife's money to prop up the business, Horn could have murdered his lover if she'd threatened to tell his wife what was going on, taking away his piggy bank. The man had access to the house and knew Baker's schedule as well as anyone if he'd wanted to set it up."
"But Horn had an alibi," ADA Knight said.
"Yeah, right," attorney Hamilton rolled her eyes. "Horn claimed he overslept in his car. Only no one could vouch for that, except a friendly neighbor who claimed he remembered seeing someone in the car."
"But Horn's prints weren't found on the murder weapon," ADA Knight countered.
Hamilton snickered. "Uh, excuse me, but have you ever heard of gloves? And let's not forget that Horn's fingerprints and DNA were found at the house, since he was Cassandra's lover and possible killer; as well as other prints and DNA that have not been identified, including the bloody shoe prints leading to the back door."
Prosecutor Penchant frowned. "I don't think we should make too much out of something that turned out to be a non issue at the end of the day. It's been established that most of the unidentifiable prints and DNA likely came from people who were cleared as suspects. As for the bloody shoe prints, our expert testified that the defendant could have deliberately dragged his feet in a manner to make the shoe prints seem half a size larger than the shoes he wore that night."
"I think we should agree to disagree on this one," attorney Hamilton said.
"Fair enough," Penchant said and finished off his drink.
Detective McDonald looked around the table. "I admit that I'm still intrigued over the possibility that Thomas Baker's lover, Stella Sabatini, got away with murder. She admitted that she wanted more than anything to become the new Mrs. Baker. And, with her shaky past, including drug addiction and stalking, who's to say that she didn't decide to go after Cassandra Baker herself?"
"And set up the lover she wanted to be with?" Judge Armstrong asked, shaking his head. "You'll have to do better than that."
"All right, so it's a stretch," McDonald admitted. "But maybe Stella got tired of waiting for Baker, who obviously had no intention of marrying her. You know what they say about a woman scorned. What better way to pay the bastard back than by killing his wife and setting him up to take the fall?"
The judge laughed. "You've been reading way too many novels, Detective."
"Hey, I'm just tossing out a hypothetical," he said. "We all know nothing's set in stone, even after a verdict has been handed down."
"You're preaching to the choir, McDonald," Prosecutor Penchant said. "Yeah, I'm sure our friends here will file the customary appeals and all the what-ifs can be bandied about by the press. But this time the public appears to be squarely on our side. Thomas Baker beat his wife to death, whatever his reasons, and now he's paying the price by spending the rest of his miserable life in prison. End of story."
"Not quite," said attorney Hamilton. "Sometimes the truth has a way of coming out, even long after the fact."
"Are you talking about the intruder theory you tried unsuccessfully to sell to the jury?" ADA Knight teased. "Uh, excuse me, but I'm afraid there's no one-armed man to come to your client's rescue."
"I wouldn't be too sure about that," Hamilton countered. "Thomas Baker deserved a better fate. Yeah, he was no angel by any stretch of the imagination. But he's not the vindictive, cold-blooded killer you made him out to be either."
"Sounds like you're a sore loser, Counselor," she said. "Get over it. You took your best shot and we still won the jury over. Better luck next time."
"And hopefully your luck won't be so damned good next time," attorney Valdez snorted.
Judge Armstrong slammed his fist onto the table as if it were a gavel. "Order in the court, friends. Everyone played the game fair and square and it's over." He sipped his drink. "As usual, we each put up twenty grand on how long it would take the jury to render a verdict. They did so in exactly five hours. ADA Knight, you predicted the time right on the money, so to speak. As such, the pot is yours. Congratulations!"
He lifted his glass in toast and the others did the same, echoing his congrats.
The judge slid the bowl containing one hundred and twenty thousand dollars to Deborah Knight.
"Sometimes one can be lucky and good," she said, scooping up the money and tucking it in her purse.
"I sense a first class trip to Hawaii or Jamaica," Lisa Hamilton said enviously.
"Close. Try the Cayman Islands."
"They all sound pretty damn good to me," said McDonald.
"I'll bet they do," quipped Penchant. "Maybe your day to win will come soon."
"One can only hope," McDonald said.
"That's why we're all here, isn't it?" Valdez asked. "We're all hoping to make our dreams come true with a little extra on the side."
"Absolutely," said Judge Armstrong. "Speaking of which, I think it's time to focus on our next case. Why don't you get us started, Detective?"
All eyes shifted to McDonald. He opened his briefcase.
* * *
"Our suspects are Frank and Gwendolyn Hawthorne," detective McDonald said, passing copies of their mug shots around the table. "They were arrested three weeks ago after a traffic violation revealed both were persons of interest in a string of rape/murders across the state. Nancy Majors, twenty-eight, left her job as a dental hygienist and never made it home. Her nude, battered body was found in a creek three weeks later. She'd been shot twice in the head." McDonald paused and studied his notes.
"Alexandria Dandridge, twenty-four, was abducted from a shopping mall," he continued. "Her remains were found near the side of the road that night; killed the same way. So was Connie Childress, a thirty-year-old mother of two last seen alive at a hair salon. Her body was discovered the following week in a vacant lot by runners two miles from her home. They were the first ones killed by the so-called Death Corridor Killers, but certainly not the last," he said. "We think we have the killers in custody."
"Our firm was retained by the Hawthornes," attorney Hamilton said, glancing at her partner, Scott Valdez. "We believe they're innocent, other than blowing through a stop sign. And even that will be challenged."
"The traffic violation is the least of your clients' problems," said Penchant. "As you've learned through discovery, Frank and Gwendolyn Hawthorne are in big trouble. The evidence links them to the brutal murders of at least seven local women that we know of. And I hesitate to think how many victims might be out there. At least we've saved future women from being raped and murdered by this modern day Gerald and Charlene Gallego, thanks to a head's up officer who was at t
he right place at the right time."
"That's pure speculation, Counselor," Valdez said tersely. "At best, you only have circumstantial evidence against our clients and no murder weapon. When you find it, you'll find the real killer or killers."
"We've already got them," insisted ADA Knight, "missing murder weapon notwithstanding. It's only a matter of going through the motions to prove it."
"And you'll get that opportunity in my courtroom," Judge Armstrong said. "Unless, of course, both sides work out a plea bargain."
"No way," Knight said. "We owe the victims' family members the full weight of the law being thrown at these two. That doesn't include being handed a soft sentence for cold-blooded serial murderers."
"We're definitely on the same page," Penchant concurred. "The DA's office isn't in the habit of tossing the defense a gift-wrapped plea to make their lives easier. Especially when it's a case we feel we can win hands down!"
"We'll see about that," said Hamilton. "And don't flatter yourself. We have no intention of depriving our clients their day in court. There will be no sacrificing Frank and Gwendolyn Hawthorne to spare the DA's office the embarrassment of trying to railroad an innocent couple."
"Then it looks like we understand each other," the judge said over his drink. "So be it. Now let's put our money where our mouths are. Unless anyone objects, the twenty thousand dollar ante stands. How long will it take the jury to reach a verdict? The person who guesses closest to the actual time wins. Ties are split. May the best man or woman walk away with the cash!"
There were no objections.
* * *
Judge Walter Armstrong showed his guests out, promising they would get together again soon.
He went back to the dining room, finished off his bourbon, and refilled the glass. He took it with him to his bedroom on the second floor.
Walter opened the closet door in his bedroom and grabbed a box off the top shelf. He lifted the lid and removed a plastic bag containing a pair of bloody shoes, gloves, and wooden bookend. Walter stared dolefully at the items, thinking back to that fateful day eleven months ago...
It was a quarter past ten on a Monday night when he arrived at the house. Her BMW was in the driveway. He walked past it to the back of the house, recognizing discretion was of utmost importance.
Wearing gloves, he knocked twice, but there was no answer. He twisted the knob and the door opened, inviting him to come in.
In the kitchen, there was a kettle heating on the stove. A cup and saucer sat on the table. He waited for a moment, expecting her to come in.
She did not.
He turned off the burner and made his way through the house to the sunken living room. She was sitting there watching television. He admired her beauty, something he had come to appreciate from the moment he first saw her.
It was then that Walter knew he had to have Cassandra Baker.
She must have heard his shoes on the wooden floor, as her head turned in his direction.
"How did you get in here?" she asked.
"Back door. I knocked, but there was no answer, so—"
"So you decided to invite yourself in?"
"Something like that."
She stood. Barefoot, she was nearly as tall as he was. She pulled her robe around her and tied it.
"I think you should leave," she said.
He stepped closer, expecting her to back away, but she did not. "I need to see you, Cass."
"Why?"
"I miss you."
She wet her lips. "We've already been over this. What happened between us shouldn't have."
"Don't say that." He would never forget the touch of her soft skin, the taste of her lips, and making love for hours on end.
"It was a mistake," she maintained. "I was trying to get back at Thomas and you just happened to be there. Let's just leave it at that."
"No, let's not!" He tried to keep his cool, but was failing. "Dammit, I love you, Cassandra! What we experienced was so beautiful. Don't turn it into something ugly."
"I don't mean to," she said. "But this can't go on. I'm involved with another man."
"Who?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Like hell it doesn't!"
She stiffened. "Look, I'm sorry I don't feel the same way you do. You need to get over it and forget about me."
His face darkened. "I can't do that."
"You don't have much choice. Either stop harassing me or..."
"Or what?"
Her eyes widened. "Or I'll get a restraining order against you. How will you explain that to your colleagues, Judge Armstrong?"
His nostrils flared. "You wouldn't?"
"Do you want to put that to the test?" She paused. "Yeah, I didn't think so. Do us both a favor and find some other lonely wife to seduce. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to have some tea—alone. Close the door on your way out."
He regarded her beneath knitted brows. "You bitch!"
"Well, I guess that makes you a bastard." She laughed. "And a pathetic one at that. Now get the hell out of my house and don't come back!"
The thought of never being with her again was more than he could bear in that moment. In a fit of rage, he grabbed a golf club leaning against the wall, raised it, and struck her across the head before she could react.
Blood immediately spurted from the wound. She looked at him with contempt and he struck her again and again as she crumpled to the floor in agony.
He wasn't sure how many times he swung the club. Only that by the time he was through, she was nothing but a bloody unrecognizable mass. He released the club, still embedded in his lover's head.
Now what did he do? Should he dispose of the body?
His entire life flashed before him, even as he felt satisfaction knowing that Cassandra would never humiliate him again. Or be with another lover who would never appreciate her as much as he could.
He heard a key in the front door. Looking at the bludgeoned remains beneath him, he panicked. If someone should find him there, his world would come crashing down around him. A sitting criminal court judge convicted of murder and sent to prison for the rest of his life, or worse, was something he could not imagine.
They would eat him up inside.
He leaned against the bookshelf, hidden from view as heavy steps came toward the living room.
Thomas Baker entered and saw his wife on the floor. "Cassandra!" he screeched, and immediately went to her aid.
Walter saw this as the answer to his predicament. Why not frame the man who had caused Cassandra so much misery? Given Thomas Baker's jealousy and quick temper, who wouldn't believe he'd done away with his wife?
Grabbing a thick, wooden bookend off the shelf, Walter crept up behind Thomas. By the time he heard a sound, it was too late.
Raising the bookend, Walter brought it down hard on the back of Thomas's head. He went out cold, falling flat on his face beside Cassandra's bloody remains.
Walter had to get the authorities there before Thomas came to. Spotting a cell phone on the coffee table, he grabbed it and dialed 911. When the operator answered, he said nothing; simply setting the phone on the floor near Cassandra's head.
Taking the bookend with him, Walter walked out of the room, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. He made sure the front door was unlocked and then exited out the back door, vacating the premises as if never there.
* * *
Judge Walter Armstrong looked at the bloody shoes, gloves, and bookend—pieces of evidence implicating him in the murder of Cassandra Baker. He hadn't been able to dispose of them since they were all he had left to remind him of Cass, albeit it in a hideous manner. If he couldn't have her, no one could. He had seen to that.
He put the box back on the closet shelf and closed the door. Finishing off his drink, he wondered who would win the next jackpot between him and his colleagues. Maybe it was his turn to play judge and jury. Again.
He salivated at the thought, his mind focused on the woman who was once his lov
er before all hell broke loose and the relationship was brought to an abrupt and bloody end.
# # #
The following is a bonus excerpt from the bestselling legal thriller novel
PERSUASIVE EVIDENCE
By R. Barri Flowers
CHAPTER ONE
The jurors listened intently as the female prosecutor delivered her dramatic closing arguments. She was stunningly attractive without fully appreciating it. Long, brown, wavy tresses with blonde highlights framed the fine bone structure of her caramel-colored face that was composed and focused. At five-nine, she was the picture of lean perfection in a gray suit, pink silk blouse, and low-heeled gray pumps. Her voice was clear and precise, and she pulled no punches assaulting the defendant with well-chosen words designed as much for their sting as their shock value.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said in a folksy way, "we are not talking about a Sunday school teacher here, but a ruthless killer who stalked his victims, raped them, and then bludgeoned them to death... The last victim was literally on the floor begging for her life"—in a theatrical and spontaneous performance, the prosecutor dropped to her knees and began flailing her arms into the air as if to ward off an attacker—"and doing everything humanly possible to prevent him from hurting her anymore.
"But you know what? He just didn't give a damn. In fact, this plea for mercy gave him even more pleasure as he raped her again, and then beat her to death..."
Springing back to her feet effortlessly, she hung on that last note while refusing to look at the defendant. Not yet anyway. She wanted to maximize the moment. She looked squarely at each member of the jury one by one, seeking to detect any signs of leniency for the monster on trial. There were five women and seven men in the box. Six of the jurors were white, four African American, and two Hispanic.
They would decide the fate of one Raymond Allen Wilson, a thirty-eight-year-old man who had been charged with killing seven prostitutes in Portland over a three-year period. The trial had lasted almost four months, and had now come down to the nitty-gritty. In spite of the overwhelming evidence against the defendant, the prosecutor knew full well that a conviction was no sure thing. Much less the death penalty. The defense attorney had done a masterful job, using the child abuse excuse in combination with a history of mental illness, to paint a picture of a sick and pitiful victim rather than a cold-blooded sexual serial killer.
Target of a Killer (A Crime Thriller Short) Page 3