Uncertain Justice

The policemen threaded their way through the cars, their badges reflecting the sunlight as they sauntered closer. They watched Miles carefully as they passed by on the other side of the Lexus. Satisfied there was no real threat, their hands fell from the holstered nine-millimeter semi-automatics on their polished equipment belts. They dismissed the two civilians from their minds. Whatever the yelling had been about, it didn't warrant their continued attention.

The younger cop began to tell the other of stopping a car full of high school cheerleaders last night. Their coarse laughter echoed through the parking lot, only to be cut off as they reached the doors and went inside. Satisfied his glasses had suffered no harm, Trenton adjusted them carefully over his eyes.

"Man, don't think of it that way," the attorney remarked. "Hell, it only takes one juror who thinks you didn't do it--just one who has the tiniest bit of doubt--to keep you a free man. We've got four of them in our pocket." Trenton had been well pleased with the outcome of the trial so far and he allowed his pique show.

"Screw that!" retorted Miles. "Damn it, you don't seem to understand something, Mr. P. Jonah Trenton." Miles pressed close again, speaking quietly but forcibly. His right index finger stabbed into the lawyer's chest for emphasis.

"I ... didn't ... do it!" He scowled into the attorney's eyes for a moment longer, hidden though they were behind the dark glasses. Dropping his hand to his side, a fist formed before he could relax it. He paused, too angry to say more. He shrugged; there was nothing to say anyway.

He wheeled and stalked toward the curb, looking around to orient himself. He had to find the five-year-old Taurus he'd put in a parking garage early this morning. He thought it was in the building across the street and a block to the west.

Behind him, Trenton pressed the button that would dial the number he'd keyed into the instrument and put the phone to his ear. He watched his client walk away. The troubled expression on the attorney's face cleared as the connection was made and another discussion begun. He turned to look at his reflection in the car window and made a tiny adjustment in the way his tie hung so that it was precisely centered in the v-shaped opening of his suit coat's lapels.

The flash of anger cooled before Miles reached the street corner. Hunched shoulders became level and tight muscles loosened. Removing his jacket and tie, he folded them carefully over his left arm as he walked. Slumping into a relaxed slouch, he weaved his way through a mixed group of tourists and office workers taking an early lunch. At the curb, he fixed his eyes on the pedestrian symbol on the post across the street to discourage conversation. He waited for the signal to change.

CHAPTER TWO

"Good evening. Today District Attorney Carl Brady announced a new trial date for former Army First Sergeant Miles Underwood. The new trial will begin on March 15. Underwood is accused of the rape and death of seventeen-year old Virginia Rodriguez last summer.

"Mr. Brady reaffirmed his intention to prosecute the case vigorously and request the maximum sentence possible for the former Army Non-Commissioned Officer. Underwood could receive a sentence of twenty years to life even if the jury finds Ms. Rodriguez's death was unintentional. Earlier this month, Judge Roy farmer declared a mistrial when a previous jury was deadlocked. Mr. Brady expressed confidence in Underwood's eventual conviction, stating he felt a verdict could be obtained easily 'if we can get the right jury' in the new trial."

KSAA Channel Nine

San Antonio Texas

"Evening News at Six"

February 15

§

The accused man in the lead story had already heard about the new trial date. That very morning, P. Jonah Trenton, Esquire and Attorney at Law, had granted Miles a few minutes to discuss the upcoming trial in his plush office. It had been an uncomfortable interview. Miles knew he should be grateful that Mr. Trenton was representing him pro bono, but sometimes Miles felt like a peasant, come with ragged cap in hand to speak to a peer of the realm. This morning's meeting hadn't been a very good one for Miles. It left him with a bad taste in his mouth.

The fact was, Trenton could not have cared less about Miles' guilt or innocence. Trenton had let drop a few weeks ago the fact that Brady had infuriated him many years ago and Trenton still wasn't over it. Miles couldn't fault Trenton for failing to provide an energetic defense in Miles' behalf, but Miles knew he was only a tool for Jonah to use in repaying the District Attorney for the grievance existing between the two. It left him flat and pessimistic.

§

The approaching storm was already visible through the wide glass patio doors. The black, low hanging clouds made for an early sunset; it was already dark in their shadow. Heavy lightning was almost continuous behind the roiling clouds, promising a dangerous electrical storm along with the forecasted heavy rain. He'd already made sure all the windows in the house were closed. The patio door was the only outlet still open to the cool evening breezes blowing down from the hill country.

He decided eating an early dinner would be a smart thing to do. In fact, a quick meal and preparing for a power outage would be two smart things. There was no telling if the electricity would be knocked out tonight, but it had happened before, and in lesser storms. Whatever ... it didn't hurt to be ready. He padded through the living room, barefoot in the deep pile carpeting. He straightened the painting over the couch as he passed.

In the kitchen, he pulled a couple of flashlights from the cabinet drawer where everything was stored that didn't have a special place of its own. He put one on the counter and the other on the top of the entertainment center. He lowered the volume on the TV to a whisper and adjusted the screen colors. Finished, he stood unmoving for a long while, watching a television screen he didn't see.

The popping noises of the two hamburger patties in the frying pan finally intruded enough for him to notice and he raced back to the kitchen, just managing to flip them over before the bottoms turned too crusty to eat.

He made himself keep busy as a means to avoid gloomy thoughts. A potato went into the microwave to bake. Done, it was replaced by a small bowl of mixed vegetables.

Examining the overdone meat, he poured a spicy barbeque sauce on the burgers to disguise the taste, or perhaps the purpose was to add some taste. He wasn't quite sure. He shrugged to himself; it didn't really matter.

Grabbing a diet Coke from the fridge and a loaf of bread from the cupboard, he slid them across the breakfast bar where they would be within convenient reach. Carrying the plate loaded with meat and vegetables into the dining room, he sat where he could watch the TV in the living room. His simple bachelor's meal was ready. Sighing, he began to shovel the almost burnt offerings into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed without enthusiasm. There was no problem with the quality of the food, or even the charcoaling of one side of the meat. It was just that nothing tasted good anymore.

With the dishes stowed safely in the dishwasher, he moved into the living room and got comfortable in the recliner to wait for the storm's arrival. The television was tuned to a station showing a documentary about a project to unearth and study the ancient mammoths. He turned up the sound to listen.

Apparently, DNA had been retrieved from another set of frozen remains in Siberia and scientists were planning to use it to reintroduce the particular species to the face of the earth. If there was an explanation of the expected benefit to mankind, Miles had already missed it.

The program didn't hold his attention and faded quickly into the background. The first breath of cold, damp air from the storm blew in through the patio door and he got up to close it before the rain could soak the carpet. He pulled the sliding glass door partially shut. He stopped and leaned against the doorframe to watch the first drops fall.

§

He almost hadn't gone to the party. He wasn't a party person and was uncomfortable at scheduled, organized parties. Unplanned, informal get-togethers were more his style. On the other hand, he'd been spending entirely too much time by himself. He'd told himself that wasn't healthy. He'd been the next thing to a hermit since he retired from the Army. Maybe the party would be fun. Anyway, his best friends left over from his military career were the hosts, so what the heck? He decided to go--to see if anything was happening. If there wasn't, he could make his excuses and leave.

When he got there, apprehensive but hopeful, he'd found attendance by the female portion of the race disappointingly slight. Many of the invited guests had canceled. That included, Lydia said, a woman she'd wanted him to meet. Relieved and disappointed at the same time, Miles accepted a beer from Lydia. Then she bustled off to greet a couple Miles didn't know.

Miles had known Lydia's husband, Phil, for more years than he could remember. By chance, their path had crossed at several duty stations in their military careers and they'd formed a deep friendship. A senior specialist in the personnel office on Fort Sam Houston, Phil was one of the most popular men on the post. His and Lydia's home was usually full of people who just dropped by for a visit. With both children already in college, Lydia mothered untold numbers of young soldiers who needed it and some who didn't.

Respecting only a barely decent interval after Miles' divorce four years before, Lydia had begun a campaign to set him up with women of her acquaintance that she evaluated as suitable for Miles. Lydia couldn't bring herself to accept the fact that he was quite happily divorced and very satisfied with his unattached status. However badly Lydia wanted to improve his condition, Miles found the concept of a deep relationship with another woman more than a little uncomfortable. Based on his experience, the predictable breakups were just too damn painful.

At thirty-nine years old, with twenty-two years of Army life behind him, he anticipated a lot of fun and relaxation in the coming years--two things that had been sadly lacking in his military career. After an extended middle age, and perhaps a mid-life crisis or two, he intended to find a rocking chair on a white painted porch somewhere and gently fade away as General MacArthur had promised Congress old soldiers do.

Miles didn't see a new wife and family fitting into that picture. On the other hand, that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the temporary company of an attractive woman whenever the opportunity presented itself.

He'd found a wall near the front door where he could be out of the way. He leaned comfortably against it to watch the flow of humanity across the ersatz stage in front of him. It was as good a floorshow as he was going to find tonight.

After several hours and a couple more beers, it was clear the party not going to get be his kind of social occasion. He made the decision to leave and stood to take the final empty bottle to the kitchen and wish Lydia and Phil a good evening. On the way, he was distracted enough to stop and watch a young woman behaving oddly.

The pretty girl had come to the party with an older woman but their relationship wasn't clear. They'd both made themselves at home to Lydia's ill concealed annoyance. He hadn't known anything about why Lydia didn't like them.

The girl had seemed impossibly young to Miles. As he neared the big "Four-Oh," all women younger than his own group looked underage to him. He'd quit trying to guess ages. This one, though, appeared to be well under the legal drinking age, though she'd been tossing back strong drinks with little visible effect. The baby-faced youngster had tried to take off her crop top blouse twice to 'prove they were real' to an admiring crowd of unattached males. Lydia scolded her on both occasions. The second time, Lydia had to be talked out of asking the girl to leave.

The young woman was quieter now and sitting alone on the couch. More sober than she had seemed earlier, there was a curious look of concentration on her face. For the past few minutes, she'd held a hand pressed tightly against her lower belly. What had attracted his attention was a distinct wince that distorted her features every once in a while.

She'd stood up and begun to make her way by Miles to the hall bathroom. As she passed, she clapped a hand to her belly and staggered, almost losing her balance. Miles had reached out to steady her as she slumped against him.

"You all right?" Miles had asked. The young girl had leaned hard against him for support and looked up at him, her face now lined and haggard from pain.

"He hurt me," she'd complained. "He hurt me."

"What? Who hurt you?" Confused, Miles had glanced at the other people standing nearby. "Y'all know what she's talking about?"

The half-dozen or so closest to him had shaken their heads, murmuring denials as they watched the byplay. Lydia had appeared suddenly, critically inspecting the girl.

"Lydia, I think she needs to lie down for a minute," Miles had said. He'd been uneasy with a woman he didn't know clinging so tightly and wanted to get her back out to arm's length as quickly as he could.

"Bring her in here." Lydia hadn't been happy with Miles' suggestion, but she didn't argue as she led him to the downstairs bedroom. The unfortunate young woman had been barely able to stumble along beside Miles. She'd moaned with each step, her legs accepting less and less of her weight until Miles was completely supporting her.

Miles had eased her down to a sitting position on the side of the bed and bent to remove her shoes. Supporting her shoulders with his right arm, he'd helped her lie flat. As her legs straightened, the girl had gasped with pain and Miles pulled her knees up. It seemed to help a little. He'd propped her knees together so the girl could hold the position without straining.

He'd accepted a cold, wet facecloth Lydia brought from the bathroom and put it over the young woman's eyes. She'd continued to grimace with pain in her lower abdomen, though. Miles had studied her, not sure she was getting any better. He'd caught sight of his hostess looking at the girl also.

"Lydia, someone came with her, right?" he'd asked. "Could you ask her to call this young lady's doctor? Then you go ahead and take care of your party. I'll watch her for a little bit," he'd assured his long-time friend.

Lydia had nodded shortly and left the room, closing the door behind her. She'd shooed everyone outside to the patio where a buffet waited.

Miles had heard the party continuing as he sat with the girl. He'd done his best to help her relax, frequently refreshing the facecloth with more cold water from the faucet. Gradually she'd quieted until she was resting easier, but she hadn't been very alert and that had bothered Miles, though he hadn't known what to do about it. Miles had begun to feel uncomfortable about his assumed responsibility for the girl.

He'd decided he'd go ask about the girl's doctor and get ready to leave the party. Before he did that, he'd gotten up to replenish the cold compress, soaking the washcloth under the water faucet and wringing it out. When he'd come back in the bedroom, the woman was crying and writhing in pain.

"OH GOD, I'M DYING," she'd screamed. She'd squirmed around on the bedcovers for a bit longer and then was still. Without warning, every muscle in her body had convulsed. Arching her back, she'd strained upward until only her feet and shoulders were still on the bed. Hands clasped to her lower belly, she'd screamed shrilly and collapsed back to the mattress. The door had burst open and several curious faces peered in.

"He hurt me ... he hurt me inside!" the girl had babbled, repeating her earlier accusation. Then she'd stopped talking in favor of high-pitched wailing--an inhuman shriek of agony. Shock had spread across the faces of the partygoers. Miles had bent over the girl, trying to hold her as she thrashed around the bed, but the girl had incredible strength. He'd been afraid if he didn't get control of her arms and legs she might hurt herself badly.

"Help me!" the girl had begged. Flustered, Miles had tried but he hadn't known what to do. She'd thrown her legs off the bed and made a move to get off the bed but Miles pressed her back down. His worried eyes had found Lydia's as she pushed into the room past the crowd of onlookers.

"Lydia, I think you better call 911 and get an ambulance," he'd said, his voice breaking and hesitant.

Lydia had turned and disappeared, wasting no time on comment.

Miles felt a sudden wetness as his hand slipped off the girl's left leg in a particularly violent heave. His head had snapped down to see his hand in a pool of scarlet arterial blood gushing from between the girl's legs.

"LYDIA!" he'd shouted. "She's bleeding ... she's bleeding bad! Tell them to get here as fast as they can." He'd been sure he heard an indistinct reply pressing the girl's legs together in an attempt to slow the flow of blood. The classes in first aid the Army offered hadn't prepared him for something like this. He'd been helpless.

He was trying to comfort the girl, holding her down to keep her from injuring herself more when two paramedics had burst in. Standing away from the bed, he'd watched them work a moment before he went to wash up. The sleeves on his jacket had been covered with the girl's blood. When he'd returned to the bedroom, they were rushing her out on a wheeled stretcher. He'd gone home, miserable and alone, wishing there'd been something he could have done for the young woman.

Just before Thanksgiving, after numerous demands by the local media and pressure from various citizen action groups, the police had been waiting for Miles when he got home from a late afternoon visit to the supermarket. In the glare of TV cameras from stations tipped off to the impending arrest, he'd been hauled roughly from his five-year old Taurus. Cuffs had been slapped on his wrists and he was hustled into the back of a patrol car. The groceries had been abandoned in the back seat of his car. The fresh vegetables and meat spoiled before he could arrange bail.

They'd grilled him for nineteen hours and a bit more in the first interrogation--an interview, they'd called it. He'd been told repeatedly they had all the evidence they needed to convict him. Witnesses, the detectives had said, had given them signed statements attesting to the fact that Miles was beating the girl when the guests broke into the room after hearing screams. They had DNA evidence, they said. He knew what that was, didn't he? It proved Miles raped the poor young girl. They already knew everything, they said.

They'd asked why Miles didn't make things easy on himself by admitting it. They knew he wanted to, they said. Get it off your chest; prove to everyone you're not a cold-hearted bastard. Just sign the confession and everything would be okay. They'd go to bat for him with the prosecutor if he cooperated. They knew he didn't mean to hurt her. Heck, it was an accident, right? He could go home, they'd said--get some sleep and then come back to take care of the problem if he would only sign. Tell them how it happened and they could make all this go away.

Near the end of the questioning, dizzy with fatigue and lack of sleep, disoriented by bright lights and rotating teams of accusers, he'd almost succumbed. He'd asked to see the laboratory report but he was put off. No, he couldn't see the witness statements either. That would all come later. Sign, or things would get worse, they'd said.