And Justice for All

The judge instructed the jurors to consider all the evidence and review what they heard during the trial. He then dismissed them to another room for deliberation.

Throughout the entire trial, all three days of it, I had sat motionless, only speaking when asked to testify. Now, I sat frozen to the courtroom’s hard wooden bench, unable to move as people stood up and headed for the exits.

It hadn’t been a long trial, but the process of getting to this point had been. I don’t remember ever being told so many times to “be patient.” God, if I had a nickel for every time someone uttered that phrase I’d be rich. My face barely cracked a smile at my sarcastic joke.

It was time to move. I stood up and left the courtroom with the few stragglers. The first ones out were probably those who needed a smoke or a drink. All would be back, I knew, as soon as the jury reached its verdict.

The prosecuting attorney touched my elbow to get my attention. “Don’t worry,” he said, “we don’t expect the jury to take long to return a guilty verdict.”

I said nothing.

“The psychiatric profile was the clincher – and the insurance policy. He’s not insane. Just greedy.”

I only looked at him.

He nodded and left me alone to my thoughts. I prayed he was right. I prayed every night that once the verdict came back guilty my nightmares would stop.

The rubber soles of my clunky shoes made squeaky noises along the polished tile as I walked away from the courtroom and followed the last of the crowd to the cafeteria. At least, that’s what the sign indicated outside the door. After looking inside, I’m sure it was someone’s idea of a bad joke. The room contained a snack machine, a soda machine, and some tables with plastic chairs. Not much of a cafeteria in my book.

I plunked a few quarters in the soda machine and barely heard their tinny tumbling through the mechanics. Absently, I pressed a button and nearly jumped when the soda fell to the bottom with a loud “thunk.” I looked around the small room. I couldn’t stay here. The walls closed in. My heart pounding, I searched for an exit, my only conscious thought was to escape as quickly as possible.

I found it. A small patio at the rear of the room. I made my way through the scattered tables not glancing up until I was in front of the glass door. I pushed through and breathed deeply of the warm air of another Philadelphia summer.

Through my dark sunglasses I could see that the small patio only had one large round concrete table with three curved stone benches around it. One bench was already taken. The girl was small and young, looking all of eighteen. She glanced up as I turned to leave. With half a smile and a nod of her head, she said, “It’s ok, I don’t mind.”

“Thanks.” I carefully placed my can of soda on the table then sat my purse next to it. Checking for ants, I brushed a few stray leaves from the stone bench and sat.

Trying not to appear eager, I took out my cigarettes and lighter, fumbling as I did so. I didn’t have to look up to know that she was watching me. My first inhale was long. I sucked the hot smoke deep into my lungs. Only after I had taken my first puff, did I look up. Her shoulders thin, hunched. A haunted look about the eyes made me question my decision to sit.

Her voice was soft, yet hesitant. As if she wasn’t sure where to start, but knew she wanted to say something.

“Are you here for the trial?”

The trial? As if there were any other? “Yeah,” I said, “I’m here for the trial.”

“So am I.” She brushed her fingers at the bits of sand on the table top, then looked sideways at me through strands of long, blond hair. She didn’t push it out of her face; just let it hang.

Self-conscious, I patted the scarf that covered my hair. Yes, it was still in place. My armor against recognition.

“Can you tell me about it?” she asked, staring at my wrists.

“Hmmm?” Oh, shit. I knew the sleeves of my blouse weren’t long enough, yet I wore it anyway. I looked down at the part of my arm she was staring at. The scars glared white and angry in the sunlight. Even after six months, they still looked scary, even to me.

I put my hands back down and pulled at the sleeves, trying to make them cover my hands. “No.”

“Oh, I’m prying. I’m sorry.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

We sat in silence. Then her childish inquisitiveness overrode her attempt at maturity. “Why not?”

I couldn’t believe she asked me that. I looked up to see honest sympathy staring back at me from vaguely familiar blue eyes. Something inside of me made me change my mind. I’m not exactly certain of the reason, since I had already told this story so many times before. I started speaking, slowly at first, not sure how much to tell this stranger I had just met.

“It was six months ago. I had just gotten home from work.” I hurried to explain that it was late when I had gotten home. “I worked as a cashier on the third shift at the local Safeway.”

My table companion only nodded her head for me to continue. She kept blessedly quiet.

“Just as I opened my front door, I was hit from behind. I didn’t know what it was at first. I didn’t know anything until I heard the heavy breathing and felt the tight grip.”

“Oh my God. I would have freaked. Were you scared?”

“Terrified. I didn’t scream at first, but when I did, he smacked me hard on the side of the head. I thought I was going to be knocked out, but I didn’t faint.” I lit another cigarette and stared at the glowing tip. I didn’t say anything yet, and she kept silent.

It must have been difficult for her to stay quiet. But, she did. That was good. I didn’t think I could tell this any other way. I watched her face as I continued my story.

“The grocery bag I was carrying fell to the floor and everything inside scattered. Cans and stuff rolled every which way. The eggs broke. When I saw the yellow yolks running along the floor, something inside of me snapped. I grabbed for anything I could use to fight back. The first thing I grabbed was the vase on the counter. I smashed it upside his head.”

I noticed her only reaction was to smile faintly. I thought I saw a quick flash of satisfaction in her reaction, but then it was gone.

“He staggered back enough for me to get a better look. He was wearing black jeans, a black sweatshirt, and a black ski mask. I raced for the phone, but he beat me to it and shoved me aside. I fell. Hard. He fell on top of me. He took out a knife and pressed it against my side. I stopped struggling.”

“Is that when he tied your wrists?”

I had to give her credit. She was trying to hold back her curiosity. I held out my hands. The sleeves slid up from my wrists.

“Yes, he cut the phone cord and tied my hands and feet.” I gently touched the scars on my wrist. “The scars you see here are the same as the ones on my ankles.”

She nodded as if she understood, then motioned for me to continue; for the first time unable to speak.

Without realizing, I had settled into my story. Giving her more details than I had ever told anyone before. What is it about talking to a stranger that makes a personal story easier to tell?

“After he tied me with the phone cord he wandered around the apartment, smashing things randomly. Then he came back. I couldn’t understand why my husband didn’t come out of the bedroom to find out what the noise was about. I was sure it would have woken him up.”

My hands shook as I picked up my soda and swallowed deeply. The cold fizzy liquid felt good against my dry throat. I took another swallow, more to gather my thoughts than because I was thirsty. I steadied myself then asked her, “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Yes,” she said. “Please, continue.” She touched my hand briefly and then clasped her purse close to her chest. Embarrassed, she put her elbows on the table, folded her hands, and then sat her chin upon them. I took that as an indication she was ready to hear the rest of my story. I hoped so.

“He cut my uniform off with the knife. Each time he pushed the knife into my clothes he would pierce my skin. I could feel the sharp point of the knife enter my body and then he’d pull it back out. I screamed from the pain, but each time I did, he’d slap my face. Finally, he gagged me. I guess he didn’t want to draw a lot of attention with my screaming. Each time blood stained my shirt, he’d make this strange laughing noise.”

I closed my eyes, no longer sitting on the cold stone bench reciting my story once again to a stranger, but on the floor of my apartment watching as my lifeblood flowed from my body.

“With each cut, the knife went deeper, the cuts larger. I was laying in a pool of my own blood. I could see it everywhere. It was sticky. So thick. So warm. I was getting so cold. I think I passed out for a few minutes. He must have thought I was dead or close to it. I remember vaguely thinking that he must have killed my husband and had been waiting to ambush me. I know I wasn’t thinking very clearly. Or seeing clearly. Everything had a reddish haze to it, like I was swimming in blood.”

I opened my eyes to see how she would react to this gruesome recollection. She too, had her eyes closed.

We sat in silence. She opened her eyes and said, “I’m so sorry. Did you ever see the attacker?”

“Yeah.” I grimaced, shifting on the hard bench. “I lay motionless on the floor, he must have assumed I was dead. I watched his feet as they moved from the living room into the bedroom and back. When he came back, he was wearing different shoes. I noticed them right away. They were the ones I had bought my husband about a week before, you know, topsides. He wasn’t wearing the ski mask or the black jeans anymore, either. He was wearing khakis.”

I drew a shallow breath, still remembering the heavy smell of copper that had surrounded me on the floor. I coughed. “My gag tasted like blood. I kept my eyes as closed as I could and still see what he was doing. He knelt down, away from the blood, and pushed at me. Only God knows how I kept from screaming out from the pain. I wanted him to think I was dead. If he thought I was dead, maybe he’d leave. I prayed to God that he would just leave.”

I stopped to light another cigarette then continued. My hands no longer shook as I lit the tip of my cigarette. “Hmmf.” I grunted then smiled.

“What?” The girl blinked several times as if awakening from a sleep.

“Oh, nothing, I was just thinking that if he hadn’t forgotten his cigarettes I never would have seen his face.”

“So, what happened?”

“From where I was lying on the floor, I had a good view of the front door.”

“The door?”

“Yeah. All I saw was his back as he opened it to leave. Then, he stops and turns around.”

“What did he do?”

“He grabs the pack of cigarettes on the counter. My husband’s cigarettes. Then I see his face – it was my husband’s face.”

I heard her sigh then she whispered, “My father.”

“What?” I wasn’t sure I heard her right.

“Your husband. He was my father.”

“How? When?” It was my turn to ask questions. “He never said he’d been married before.” Now I know why her blue eyes looked so familiar. Just one more secret he’d kept from me.

“Of course he wouldn’t,” she said as if choking on bitter bile. “Why would he tell his new wife that he killed his previous one?”

“Killed? Whoa.” My breath chocked by a cold clamping vise. “Did the police know he did it?”

She asked me for a cigarette. While I handed it to her I thought about this new revelation. How could my loving and caring husband of two years become this cold blooded killer? What kind of monster had I gotten involved with? Why didn’t I know?

After I lit her cigarette she said, “I don’t know much. Only what my aunt – my mother’s sister – told me. And the little I’ve uncovered on my own.” She gripped her purse, her fingers digging into the imitation leather. “I was only two years old when it happened. It was in Colorado. My mother’s sister took me in and raised me. He didn’t want me. He refused to have any contact with me at all. He took all the insurance money and just left. It didn’t matter to me. I hated him.”

“You said he killed your mother – how?”

“I guess the same as he tried with you. He tied her up, cut her up, then left her for dead. He came back later, as if he had been out with his friends, and called the police. He acted the poor victim really well, according to my aunt. Too well for one detective, but they couldn’t get any evidence to convict him.”

Incredulous, all I could do was stare at her. How could this be happening? I stammered as I spoke, “When he came back – when I saw his face, he didn’t look at me. He just grabbed his cigarettes and walked out the door.” I slammed my fist on the table. “I prayed to God that I wouldn’t die so I could tell the police who did this to me.”

“Did he come back?”

“Yeah, he came back. But, it was too late. Apparently a neighbor had heard my screams and called the police. It was about thirty minutes before the police broke through the door.”

“How did they get him?”

“I spent two weeks in intensive care before I was allowed to speak to the police. He acted like nothing happened. I pretended I didn’t know while he was there. I was afraid he’d try to kill me again.”

“That’s when you told them?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess he used the same story?”

“Looks that way. After I told the police what happened, they searched his locker at work and found the knife. I don’t know why he kept it.”

I slammed my empty soda can down on the table unable to find the words to express my emotions. The girl jumped. I apologized then asked her, “Why did you come today?”

“I had to.”

“But, why? What made you sit through that whole trial and listen to everyone’s testimony then ask me to tell you my story?”

“I haven’t been here the whole time. I just got in town today. My aunt kept in touch with the other detective from my mother’s murder. He followed a few hunches when he heard about your case and put two and two together.”

“So, you didn’t really see the whole trial then?”

“No.”

“So, why talk to me?”

“I really wanted to talk to you.”

“But, you could have done that from anywhere, any time. Why did you want to talk to me now?”

She shook her head, making her hair fly about her face and thin shoulders. She opened her mouth but no words came out. “I needed to know… “ She swallowed hard. “I don’t really know. I had to see for myself. I had to see you.”

I reached across and touched her hand.

“I don’t remember my mother.” She looked away then looked back. “The detective said you looked a little like her.” She swiped at her face. “I needed to see for myself that he finally gets put away.”

I didn’t know what to say. We sat for a few moments in silence.

We were both startled when the glass doors opened and a man announced that the jury was back.

We gathered our belongings and threw our empty soda cans into the trash. Silently we walked back down the hall to the heavy double doors to the courtroom. A guard held one open for us to enter.

“Wait,” I stopped her with a light touch on the arm. “What’s your name?”

“Karen.”

“Karen. Pretty name.”

She half smiled.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

She shook her head, a sad frown on her face. “Maybe, you might let me write to you once in a while?

I nodded my head as we walked back into the courtroom.

The entire crowd sat silent and expectant watching the jury file back into their box and sit. Not one person on the jury would look anywhere except at the judge as he read from the jury’s notes and then gave the paper back to the bailiff.

“Mr. Foreman, has the jury reached a decision.”

The jury foreman stood. “Yes, your Honor.” He took the folded paper from the bailiff and held it in front of him.

“On the sole count of the indictment of attempted murder in the first degree, how does the jury find?”

The foreman cleared his throat, then said, “We find the defendant… guilty.”

Gasps echoed in waves across the room. Then clapping started until it resounded in applause. The judge banged his gavel for silence.

I silently clapped my hands together in a prayer of thanks, then I looked over at the young girl. She only sat quietly. Oblivious to the joyous celebration around her, tears streamed down her face.

My heart went out to her.

Confusion ensued. I realized she would soon be an orphan. I stood, trying to push my way through the crowd to get to her.

She stood. I tried to catch her eye. She didn’t look at me. She slipped past the other well-wishers, heading for the low rail that separated the crowd from the rest of the courtroom.

“Karen!” I called, but she didn’t hear me.

An object appeared in her hand. She held her arm out. I thought she was going to give something to her father. A loud crack resounded through the room.

My foot ached. A large man plowed into me as he raced for the exit. Screams echoed in my ears. I lost site of the small girl as several officers surrounded her and took the weapon from her limp hand.

“My God. Who is she?”

I turned to find the prosecuting attorney once again at my elbow. I stopped to answer his question.

“Someone who’s going to need a really good lawyer. Who would you recommend?”