Miscarriage Of Justice (2 page)

Ironically, it was his time in prison that taught him patience. Never, was there an occasion to hurry on the inside. Life, he’d astoundingly discovered, could be more fulfilling at a slower pace. With this new perspective came the realization that even outside the prison walls, aside from a rare emergency, there simply was no cause to rush or hurry. There is always tomorrow.

Finishing his cream cheese dessert, Ethan paid the check and asked the waitress if there was a hotel nearby. “Within walking distance,” he clarified.

Handing him his change, the girl nodded. “The Spencer is just a few blocks from here.” Then she hesitated, staring out the window. Turning back to Ethan she said, “It’s that way,” pointing up the street to her right.

“North?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess that’s north, ain’t it,” she grinned sheepishly. “It’s on the same side of the street we’re on.”

“And it’s hotel, not a motel, right?” Ethan said.

“I think so,” the young girl answered slowly, wrinkling up her nose. “What’s the difference?”

“Never mind,” Ethan said not bothering to explain. “Thanks.”

He carried no luggage. The few personal items he had acquired while on the inside fit easily into the pockets of the complementary change of clothes the prison commissary had delivered to his cell that morning. Stepping out the door, he looked north, the way the girl had pointed. He saw no hotel but, for some odd reason, he trusted her directions, and started walking. For the first time in years, someone had actually treated him like a human being, instead of like a criminal. He wasn’t about to complain if she wasn’t up on her sense of direction. Then he laughed, or if she didn’t know the difference in a motel and a hotel.

He’d walked no more than a block when he saw it. The trees had obscured the ten-story building, but now there was no mistaking it. The elegant architecture had the distinct look of a grand hotel. “That’s got to be it,” he reasoned, subconsciously picking up the pace.

The waitress hadn’t said if the place was expensive or not, but judging from the exterior it appeared to fall somewhere in the middle—just his style! After the dull decor of his prison cell, anything would have stood out as luxurious, but he didn’t want to recklessly throw his money away; money he’d earned working in the carpenter shop at Gray Rock.

While some inmates were allowed to participate in the state’s work program, to hold a job on the outside, and then report back to the prison at day’s end, the luxury was not given to those convicted of violent crimes such as murder. So, a prison job was Ethan’s only option.

Prison wages were low, ridiculously low—fifty cents an hour! And that had just been for the last three years. Before that, the hourly rate had stood at a paltry forty-five cents. Not a lot of money for the work, but then, inmates didn’t need much money. They were, after all, privileged guests of the state! As if they were being treated to an all expenses paid vacation, every need was supplied. The thing was though, most people just never realized how little was actually needed to survive.

He considered himself lucky. Through the prison grapevine, he’d heard that most other states charge inmates—for meals as well as room and board. And some states, he learned, do not pay prisoners for the jobs they work.

The barely profitable job did provide a mental release; a temporary escape from the cold reality of prison. As a model prisoner, Ethan had earned work privileges almost immediately. So, although the wages were but an abysmal penance, he’d been able to squirrel away a small fortune during his tenure at Granite Hills. For thirty hours a week—strictly regulated by the State Bureau of Prisons—he faithfully reported for duty in the various departments of the carpenter shop. At first, he’d been assigned cleanup duties, but had soon been moved to general carpentry, where they’d discovered his exceptional woodworking skills. Six months later, he’d been “promoted” to cabinetmaker, though still at the same meager wage.

Despite having every need met, he did find an occasional chance to spend some money; usually, in exchange for favors from other inmates or extra perks granted by the guards. Most of his money though, had been saved and upon his release, totaled a staggering $17,900! No small chunk of change for a man who had no bills.

Aside from the right to work and the coveted leisure time, his good behavior hadn’t earned him much else. True to his lifelong deplorable luck, under a new state law, his sentence had stipulated that he was not eligible for parole. “No early release,” the judge had ordered. So, a fifteen-year sentence meant a full fifteen years in prison.

Ethan made the most of it. While possessing the uncanny ability to earn the respect of others and forge friendships with people in general, he found it particularly rewarding to befriend the guards. It had a negligible impact on his relations with other inmates, but the rapport he built with the guards made life easier in more ways than one.

He wasn’t a big man; weighing in at one hundred fifty-five pounds—soaking wet! So, he needed all the help he could get. Prison isn’t a place where the “little guy” thrives. In light of this truth, he never missed a chance to talk with guards or other personnel, asking about their families, their weekend, or simply to offer a sympathetic ear while they vented their frustrations. He listened attentively as if he were genuinely interested in their troubles. He made it a point to do what was asked and expected of him, never balking and without complaint. His exemplary behavior engendered a respect from most of the guards. The day before his release, they, along with the Warden and other staff members, threw a going away party for him. An unprecedented event!

He’d been duly impressed and even felt a twinge of remorse at the idea of leaving. He managed to get over that rather quickly. While they may have treated him fairly, in no way did that make up for his loss of freedom, the long nights of being alone and afraid, the sheer psychological torture, the grossly inhumane conditions, or the indignity he’d suffered, usually at the hands of other inmates.

The good behavior routine was partly a product of his amicable nature, and partly due to design. Mostly, by design. With the passage of time, his cordial temperament had gradually faded; still, he forced himself to remain friendly and cheerful. This was a key element to his long-range scheme. The idea was simple; he wanted everyone at Granite Hills to remember a kind, soft-spoken, likable individual. A passive individual.

Later, when he’d begun to execute his vendetta against a certain well-deserving District Attorney, should anyone in law enforcement come snooping around asking questions, the personnel at Granite Hills would feel compelled to portray him as an easy-going, even-tempered guy. Certainly not a violent or raucous man. He’d seen too many cases where a former inmate wound up as a person of interest in a new crime and years after their prison stay had ended, the feds questioned past cellmates and others who had done time with their suspect. Typically, they found out more than they needed to know to build a strong case.

So, he never spoke a word of his frustration and innate anger at being falsely accused. Never mentioned the abject furor of being railroaded by a malevolent prosecutor. He told no one of his plans, not even Shag his cellmate for over half the fifteen years. No one knew of his consuming rage. He gave no indication of his future intentions, or what lay in store for the mendacious D.A. These things were kept locked away in a hidden corner of his mind. The plaguing thoughts of vengeance played privately in his head. While the world saw a good-natured, mild-mannered man, seemingly without bitterness, Ethan quietly plotted his revenge.

He liked to pretend his plan was some grandiose scheme, years in the making that had been masterfully formulated and steeped to perfection through careful consideration of all facets of the situation. While it
had
consumed many years of his life, the truth was the planning consisted of nothing more than brainstorming and dreaming up various ways he could torment, antagonize and otherwise wreak havoc in the life of the District Attorney. He had constantly revised his plans as new ideas surfaced. When the time came to implement his scheme, he wanted a long list of potential activities and deeds ready to go.

That time was almost here. Ethan pushed open the heavy glass doors to the Spencer Hotel, and confidently strode through the lobby, approaching the desk. The hotel was old and dark, but appeared to be clean.

“Anything available?” he asked the thin, frail, elderly man behind the counter.

The crotchety old-timer seemed perturbed at being interrupted, though there were no signs of him having been engaged in any sort of activity. The TV wasn’t on. Ditto the radio and the guy hadn’t been on the phone.

Maybe he was asleep, Ethan surmised. But then again, perhaps the man was simply lazy, or didn’t like his job. That seemed a more likely possibility.

In a slow-motion shuffle, the clerk wandered over to the counter. Peering through wire rimmed glasses, he stared hard at Ethan and growled, “I’ve got a room, if that’s what you’re after.”

“How much?” Ethan asked.

“Depends,” the man replied. “How long you want it?”

Ethan shrugged. “Couple of weeks. Maybe more.”

The aged clerk eyed him suspiciously. “You just get out of prison?”

Ethan wondered how the grouchy old codger knew.
Do I have I sign on my forehead?
The guy couldn’t have seen him get out of the van as the people at the restaurant had. Yeah, he’d been in prison, but why should it matter? His first impulse was to deny it, but something stopped him. Obviously, the old man knew or he wouldn’t have posed the question. Slowly, Ethan nodded, making it a point to look the man directly in the eye. “Yes,” he said. “This morning.”

“Figured so,” grunted the clerk. Gesturing to Ethan’s clothes he added, “Standard issue ‘regular’ civilian garb. You might want to think about getting something else to wear. Everyone in this town knows them clothes.”

“Okay,” a subdued Ethan replied. Now he understood why the folks in the restaurant had kept staring at him. Maybe they hadn’t seen him get out of the van after all. Regardless of the old geezer’s sour disposition, it actually was a good idea, he conceded. No sense in advertising the fact he was an ex-con. Besides, he’d need more than one change of clothes soon anyway.

“The room will run you two hundred dollars a week or five hundred a month,” the clerk continued in the same surly tone. “No phone, no pool, no pets, just like the song says.” The old man cackled at his own joke, without smiling.

Ethan was thinking that the song said rooms were fifty cents too, but wisely held his tongue. Pulling out his wallet, he slipped five crisp one hundred dollar bills across the counter. “I’ll take it.”

The old man had anticipated Ethan’s decision. The paperwork was nearly completed before the money had exchanged hands. “Name?” he asked without looking up.

“Ethan Rafferty.”

Scratching a near illegible scribble on the registration, the clerk tore a copy from the bottom and handed it to Ethan. Then he slid a key across the counter. “Room one thirty-six, top floor, last door on the right,” he intoned.

Ethan nodded.

“There’s a list of rules hanging on the door. Read ’em. Don’t bother anyone, and no one will bother you.” Without waiting for a reply, the clerk shuffled back to his chair.

Pocketing the receipt and room key, Ethan thanked the man. As expected, the clerk gave no response.

Taking the ancient, turn-of-the-century elevator, he slowly rode to the tenth floor. Walking down the hall, he paused outside room one thirty-six. Fishing in his pocket for the key, Ethan took a long breath and then unlocked the door to his room. The place wasn’t much, but for now, it was home. His home.

Far below, he heard the whistle of a passing train. He grinned wryly. Somehow, the wail didn’t sound nearly as lonesome or mournful anymore.

CHAPTER TWO

With a crystal-clear clarity, Ethan vividly remembered the fateful day his dreadful saga had begun. He’d relived it every day for fifteen years. The tortuous details were permanently seared into his memory. Recalling the outrageous events always left him worked up, seething with a bitter rage. Even now, with his long-awaited freedom a reality, he couldn’t forget. The frustration and anger, fueled by an utter resentment for the laughable justice system, constantly ate away at him, cutting right down to the core of his soul. He knew the events well, and still had a difficult time understanding and accepting the way things had turned out.

The year was 1987. At the age of twenty-five, in the prime of his life, fate had stepped in wielding its cruel hand. Married to a good-looking and charming woman, Jenna, his high school sweetheart, with two sons, Austin and Cody, ages three and five, the self-employed electrical contractor had all he’d ever dreamed of. He couldn’t have asked for more. Then his perfect life had been severely altered in an instant, as destiny ruthlessly invaded his sanguine world of tranquility. In the space of one night, he’d gone from a loving husband and father to an alleged criminal, accused of a crime he hadn’t committed. The crime of murder.

The story was a tragic one, made worse by the events, which had unfolded in the ensuing investigation. Nearly sixteen years ago now, in his hometown of Cedar Springs, a twelve-year-old girl, Natasha Wyman, had been found strangled to death in her home. The scene of the crime was on the edge of town, a mere two blocks from Ethan’s house. Thanks to his ever-present execrable luck and an irresistible urge to go for a late evening walk that night, he found himself the prime suspect in the investigation. His walk had taken him directly past the victim’s home, where he was seen and later identified by two separate “reliable” witnesses. Over the course of the next few weeks he learned that not only was he the prime suspect, he was the sole suspect.

Initially, he’d only been slightly alarmed, almost amused, confident he’d quickly be cleared of suspicion, after all, he hadn’t done it. Sadly, he learned the court system doesn’t operate on common sense. As the weeks passed, he remained the focal point of the investigation. Little worries crept in then, and he began to have doubts that justice would prevail. Doubts, which as it turned out, were well founded.