Guilty Until Proven Innocent Pt. 01

Mike told us that he managed to stumble into the clearing finding the sisters barely alive. He told us that Maisy couldn't crawl to him, so he had to gather her up. She told him how much she loved her sister and that she was sorry before she passed.

At the time, no one, not even myself, believed it. While the crime scene was examined, the storm that came through in the morning on the following day made it hard to find any evidence, yet there was enough for a conviction.

After the trial, I was ushered out of the room as a hero. I was taken for drinks; I smiled as I was congratulated by person after person. But still, Mike's eyes haunted me. I had heard his lawyer's snide remarks following the verdict. And while I could agree with the sentiment about the crime, I was not sure about Mike Other, and I could not abide by the unprofessional nature of his representation, despite what he had done. So. I straightened my clothes and my posture, determined to show Mike that despite the nature of his conviction, the results were professional, and the law needed to be seen as professional.

He was sobbing when I approached him, which is not uncommon for someone in his position. But I could see the tears of a broken man, not a psychopathic killer that could murder two innocent girls. It was at that moment that I felt something for him other than disgust as I put my hand on his shoulder. He flinched back, which I found interesting. But when he looked up at me, it took everything I had not to gasp.

Aside from letting him know I was not in favour of the wanton display of frivolity at his conviction. I wanted to see if I could do something, anything. When I asked him if there was a message for anyone, I saw so many emotions play across his face. His family, friends and everyone who was ever important to him were not more than a dozen paces behind him. I glanced their way, and they were part of the jubilant crowd celebrating his conviction. I understood his wife had been granted a divorce in the previous month. She had agreed to place half the marital assets in a trust account, meagre though they were if he signed papers allowing her new fiancé, a former close friend of his, to adopt his teenage children.

No. There was nothing for him back there, and he knew it.

As I played the final day of his verdict and conviction over in my mind while at a swanky bar with my professional colleagues. I recalled the paint spattering over him as his daughter screamed at him. Pain evident at his family's betrayal was written all over his face as he gave them the only look he had in weeks. Thinking now, hours later, I suddenly found the company I was keeping and the red wine I was drinking no longer sat well in my mouth. His family were scheduled to go on several morning shows over the next few weeks to tell their story again now that Mike Other was convicted and behind bars for life.

I felt disgusted. Dirty. And I wasn't related to them. Mike's ex-wife was practically foaming at the mouth seeing dollars signs in his conviction. Worse, his sons and daughters were obviously being led by the mob. Sooner or later they were going to be unintended victims of this case. Used and abused by adults with nothing better to do that to try cash in on someone else's misery.

I excused myself from the celebration party, citing weariness from the conclusion of the trial and headed home.

A little over half an hour later, I sighed entering my sub-penthouse apartment. I changed from my suit into a comfortable pair of pants and a singlet. I absently rubbed my back where my bra had been tight against my chest all day as I poured myself a glass of water, moving to a chair that had its permanent place by a window overlooking the amazing view over the streets below and out towards Kings Park. It was my place to think in the streetlight lit darkness offered living here in the city.

On the one hand, to date, today has been the highlight of my career. I had successfully convicted Murder Mike in front of the nation's major media outlets. As a Crown Prosecutor, I would now be the most sought-after attorney in Western Australia, possibly even Australia, for the next few years. If I played my cards right, that could lead to a Queens Council role or even a pathway to the Bench, and I was only in my thirties.

I took a long sip of the water in my hand. I outstretched my free hand and looked at my long fingers, my manicured nails, I knew I lived a privileged life, but that thought again moved me to think about Mike Other, who now, would not. As I looked out the window and caught my reflection, my brow was furrowed and once again I considered that I could not shake the haunted look in Mike's eyes.

Not for the first time, I wondered if he was innocent like he protested. I know that while I was doing my job I always felt a sense of contentment from locking the bad guys away. This time it was missing. To me, this victory felt hollow, without a real sense of justice.

Could we have gotten it wrong? And if we did, then not only had we imprisoned an innocent man and ruined his life, but the real murderer was still out there.

I sat in my thinking chair for over two hours, uncomfortable with that thought as I sipped my water and watched the late-night traffic lace through the streets below. The headlights of cars showed how they weaved through the streets, and I looked for a pattern of sanity. I reflected on myself as I stared out the window.

At thirty-five, I was a successful woman, a lawyer of repute, and well off financially. But that also came with the corresponding string of broken relationships. Almost married twice, but with guys that couldn't accept the professional track I was on. They enjoyed the fact that I was attractive, driven, and focused, but once I was in a serious relationship with them, they wanted to call the shots. Tell me what I should and shouldn't do. That didn't work for me.

I again studied my face in the reflection in the glass for a moment. I pull a face as I wasn't sure I wanted kids; sure, it might be nice. But I liked my fit and toned body. My ass held its shape like I was in my twenties and my breasts sat high and perky. My brown, shoulder-length hair shined with a lustre that most mothers couldn't afford the time for. No, kids and a husband would ruin that, and I had not met a man yet that would make me want to put myself through losing my hard-earned body and give up my lifestyle.

I sighed; with my life, it had been easier to seek relief through some casual relationships, and where that failed, the nice selection of toys in my bedside table could get the job done.

I snorted, a little disgusted at the thought. Usually, after a difficult case, I was randy. I would often go to a bar with my girlfriends, get drunk and enjoy a romp between the sheets finding someone whom I could use until I was satisfied. Sometimes it was only a night. A few times, it had become more for a period of time. But they all faded together, and none of those relationships was memorable.

I thought again of Mike Other as I again sipped my water and watched a car waiting at a traffic light. I surprised myself wondering if he was all right. If he was guilty of what we had convicted him of, he was in prison for life. If he was innocent, then it was the same fate for him, but I could only hope our justice system would treat him fairly on the inside.

No. Thinking of Mike Other, I had no desire for companionship, no drive to get drunk with friends. I felt empty; the devastation in his eyes was something I couldn't let go of.

[:::: Mike ::::]

Prison wasn't as bad as it was before my conviction.

No, now I had been pronounced guilty and given two consecutive life sentences. It was much, much worse.

Despite being kept away from the general population, I was regularly beaten. In the first three weeks, I was stabbed three times, and not all of those stabbing me were prisoners. The third time, the wound kept me in the prison infirmary for five days. They only gave me minimal pain relief, and when I begged them to end it, the staff and guards laughed, telling me I would be around for a long time. They told me someone like me doesn't get a quick exit. Now that I was committed to this jail, they all told me my 'relief' was going to be a long time coming.

The cell they kept me in stank. It was small, utterly stark of any colour other than a drab grey and I was pretty sure they let people urinate on the floor before they brought me in from my half-hour of exercise every day. The mattress they gave me was more like a sheet on a cold steel bed, and the light, that fucking flickering fluorescent light, hated me as much if not more than the rest of the country if the way it blinked on and off was any indication.

My meals were always smashed and kicked through my door. Most of the time, it looked like it had been stepped on, occasionally spat in. While I am sure they would have loved to see me eat with everyone else, they knew I wouldn't last five minutes with the general population, and they wanted me hurting for a long time.

After what felt like a month following my conviction, I had no real sense of time so I wasn't quite sure, they let up on me for a few days. The beatings stopped, and the black and yellow bruising that covered a good portion of my body began to fade.

I was further surprised, that one day when after exercise in the small courtyard they had for isolated prisoners, they led me back to a different cell. It was clean and even had a proper bed. I stared at the TV recessed into the wall and it felt luxurious to be in a room where the light didn't flicker. I was wary for the first hour, sitting on the bed, knees to my chest, waiting for a guard to come bursting in or an irate prisoner to try to do to me what Big Larry kept doing to me in the showers.

After a couple of hours, I relaxed just a little and picked up a book on the table beside me. 'How to adjust to prison life and rehabilitate yourself' was the title. I was glancing through the pages when the door to the cell opened, and the Warden walked in with a reporter and a camera crew.

I sat astounded as the warden proceeded to tell the reporter and the camera how despite my crimes how well I was being treated. He explained how he had high hopes that while I may be a lifetime inmate, the entire prison team wanted me to be a productive member of the prison community one day.

Never once, as the warden spouted his bullshit, did they ask me a question. The guard behind the cameraman looked at me menacingly. The one time I looked at him, he clenched his fists in an ominous way. I got the message and said nothing.

As the warden left, the guard sneered at me and threw a manila packet on the ground.

"Here Murder Mike," he said, laughing at my nickname as I said nothing. "Enjoy some reading..."

I heard him continue laughing as he shut the door. I sat for a few minutes, just staring at the package on the lino-covered ground. I knew whatever was contained within was not going to be happy thoughts from people that loved me. I doubted, from the way he laughed, that it was even just legal correspondence telling me that my appeal had been rejected. I had been told that an appeal would never be lodged, no matter how much I demanded my rights.

No, whatever was in there was meant to harm me. I looked up at the small camera in the corner above the door. The only place private in this cell was the bathroom, but I could guess that if I went there for more than thirty seconds, the guards would barge in and do something more depraved, requiring yet another trip to the infirmary.

I sighed and picked up the folder. It had a seal and a note that prison authorities had scanned it for contraband. I moved to the small metal table under the light. Taking one last look at the camera, I gave a small cough, shrugged and broke the seal.

If I had thought that my previous life had totally abandoned me, I was wrong. They hadn't abandoned me, but just as they had told me that day in the holding cell, they wanted to see me in as much pain as possible.

Inside the envelope was an assortment of items.

The first thing was the signed adoption certificate for each of my kids. All three of them. Leo, John and Matilda were now adopted by my former friend, Steve Johnston. It didn't matter that both Leo and John were now over eighteen. They made it a point to hurt me. Included was also a certificate of marriage between my ex-wife, Sandra and Steve.

The next envelope held photos of their wedding, happy shots of my parents, my siblings, and my kids along with Sandra and Steve. The last few pictures are of them giving me the finger and holding signs telling me to rot in hell.

I felt tears escape my eyes seeing those last few photos. I knew from the beatings at their hands and the scenes in the courtroom that I was hated, but for some reason, the photos of them smiling and sneering at me caused a deep dark hole to open in my soul and tear something away from me.

The next envelope held private photos of my ex-wife naked and being fucked by Steve, the photos were raw, and no, they didn't turn me on. They had done this to rub salt in my already open and grievous wounds, I quickly returned those photos to the packet.

The last envelope held a letter, handwritten in Sandra's distinctive handwriting.

Murderer,

I hope that your cell and your treatment is as painful as the warden has told us and that you are in a special type of hell for the rest of your days. In talking with him, we all put together this package for you to make you as miserable as possible.

I must admit I was relieved when your parents told me how proud they were of me for having a six-month affair with Steve before you were caught. At the time, I was wondering how I would break it off with Steve, but thanks to you, I didn't need to. I'm very happy to say that he's twice the lover you ever were, and it's great that your family endorse it.

As I write this, I am ashamed to say that I ever loved you, but it's a good thing that the loathing I now feel for you overcomes any sliver of that former feeling. You are disgusting, and I am so happy that each and every one of us hates you more than we ever cared for you.

Your former kids love their new dad, and we all enjoy playing darts with your face as the cover of the board; you would be so proud of John, with our encouragement, he can now get darts into your eye sockets on the board almost every time.

The only issue I have is that I had to leave that money in a trust for you. But since you'll never get to use it, I suppose it's okay. Steve has gotten a promotion and the money we earn from the media appearances where we get to talk about you more than makes up for it.

The warden tells me they are going to make sure you live a long time and you're in a lot of pain for what you did. That makes us all smile.

Well, I need to finish as Steve is ready to fuck my ass, something you never got to do, but I know you're getting to experience the same thing these days. At least I have lube.

Rot in hell, Murder Mike!

By the end of the letter, I was numb. I never even felt the beating from the guards as they came to take me back to my original cell.

My world was now as dark as the blackest night. My soul felt heavy, consumed in grief and agony. If there was a light at the end of the long dark tunnel, I am sure it would be something they would use to blind me. But they weren't going to let me die.

When I was thrown back in my piss-stinking, light flickering cell, they had made sure that even the bed sheets had been removed so I couldn't hang myself.

I had been defeated, undone, and now I chuckled mirthlessly as true insanity licked at my heels. I came to understand that there was nothing left for me but an unrelenting symphony of pain, misery and loss that only someone tossed aside like I had been, could understand.

As I took the beatings, abuse and everything else, I tried to hold onto the fact that I had been their only comfort when those two innocent girls had passed from this world, I had to be strong, for them. Burns, stab wounds and food that was not fit to be served to pigs could not make me lose that, could it?

[:::: Victoria ::::]

Exonerated!

Due to embarrassment, and the very likely legal shit storm that was likely to be brewing within every media outlet in the country, it was purposely positioned as a footnote story. Still, it was on every media network, TV, newspaper and online website around the world. Mike Other had been exonerated after the real killers, two of them, were captured.

A police patrol following up a posted lookout for their car had pulled over the Turner brothers as they got caught on the highway doing eight kilometres over the speed limit.

When the police heard the banging from the trunk of their dirty old Holden Commodore, a short chase, along with a brief shootout, not only rescued yet another victim of the brothers but had solved a number of unsolved murders over the past decade, including the murder of the Bustoff sisters.

I was following the behind-the-scenes forensics, and upon inspection, a bag found on the back seat of the car continued several blood-stained weapons, including the knife that had the blood and DNA of the Bustoff sisters.

In the proceeding police interview, which I observed from the other side of privacy glass, I watched as they laughed and admitted how much they loved Mike Other taking the rap for their killing of the sisters. These two were true psychopaths, depraved incestuous lovers. Yes, incestuous. Because they knew it was depraved, they both told of their loving each other in addition to other indecent acts they undertook with their victims. They described everything in detail, from how they took the girls, the clearing and how they delighted in their action. These bastards were proud of their wickedness. During the interviews more than one of us threw up, myself included.

The only silver lining I had to overhearing their demented confessions was that their stories lined up with Mike's, exonerating him.

They were delighted when they told us how Mike had discovered them, called out to them yelling if they needed help. They laughed talking about how they knocked him out before running, wiping their bloodied hands on his car seats and fleeing. They never figured that he would be framed, that the blood would be a distraction because their own DNA was on the seats as well. However no one looked that close, but the brothers explained they had cherished every minute of the circus they created.

The following day I was there when Mike was released. While the crowd including media, his family and a lot of the random public was waiting at the main and side entrances of the prison where Mike had been serving his sentence, Mike was discretely brought through another unknown building out to a waiting car.

I gasped as I saw him. While he was never a large man, after his time behind bars, he was almost skin and bones. He had only been eight months on the inside. I could see easily see the bruising and burns on his arms. His face also had scars that looked fresh but overlapped with others that looked like they had not been allowed to properly heal. He looked gaunt and entirely malnourished, abused and for lack of a better word, haunted.

As federal agents brought him out, he stopped for a few moments and started looking around. Suddenly our eyes met, and all feeling in my body, the sensation of sound diminished, my mouth became dry. It was almost like I could not breathe as we shared that moment.

Though we were standing within talking distance. I couldn't say anything, my shame at my part in this man's destruction too great. I struggled to take a breath. But after what felt like an eternity, I managed to swallow and mouth the words. "Found them."