Miscarriage Of Justice (3 page)

The overzealous District Attorney, Miss Clark, on the job for less than six months and eager to hit a grand slam on her first major case, further complicated matters. Firing both barrels, the D.A., who was not at all concerned with the truth, only what she could make sound believable, convinced the jury that Ethan was the killer. At the time, he hadn’t known she was keenly aware he wasn’t guilty.

The entire fiasco shouldn’t have come as a surprise. His whole life had been mired in a pattern of false accusations and wrongful allegations. Since early childhood, he’d been inundated with such charges; blamed for things he hadn’t done. Being the constant recipient of misplaced blame irked him, but like a broken record, it played on and on. The finger of suspicion always seemed to point his way, or as had been the case in his first such experience at seven years of age, sometimes he was framed with planted evidence.

He’d been in the second grade. Just a kid. Although, not exactly innocent.

Walking outside the school cafeteria one morning, between classes, he absentmindedly dragged his finger along the brick building, something he did quite frequently. Call it a habit, a security reflexive action, or just a kid being fidgety; any time he walked, he felt a compulsory need to physically touch things as he passed. The feel of the rough texture sliding on his fingertips was strangely soothing; walls, ledges, and railings, almost anything, he just liked the sensation.

As he casually strolled along the row of classrooms that day, his right index finger trailed along the building, across the bricks, up over the window ledges, and along the sills. Suddenly, the rough texture changed. Instantly, he was aware of something wet and soft. Looking down, he saw a dark gray substance that appeared to be clay, and it went all the way around the edge of the glass. Fresh putty!

Hoping he hadn’t been seen, he nervously looked around, and then peered into the darkened classroom. No one was watching! Digging his fingers into the putty, he quickly scooped out a small lump. Then, smoothing out the gouge, he hurried on down the walk, eager to show the find to his friends.

“Look at this,” he whispered when he caught up to them. Proudly he presented his trophy. His friends were duly impressed.

Wrinkling his nose and squinting through thick glasses, Skip, the chubby one, asked, “What is it?”

“It’s clay,” Ethan said. “You can make stuff with it.”

“Where’d you get it?” the other boy, Mike, wanted to know.

“From a window ’round back.”

“I want some,” came the predictable response from his friends.

“Go get some,” Ethan urged. “I’ll let you know if somebody comes.”

The two boys made a mad dash around the building while Ethan bravely stood guard. In minutes they returned, each carrying a huge lump of the clay.

Ethan’s eyes widened. “You can’t take it all!” he exclaimed. “The window will fall out and we’ll be in trouble!”

“How are they gonna know who did it?” Skip asked.

The young Ethan shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess they won’t. But don’t take anymore and don’t tell anybody else.”

His words of caution were futile. Later that day, at recess, Ethan saw the principle talking to several teachers and then they all disappeared behind the school. Knowing something was up; he flung the super ball sized lump of now hardening putty into the bushes and went to warn his friends. Both got rid of their putty just as the bell sounded.

On the way back to class, Ethan took a detour past the window. His mouth fell open at the sight and he stared in disbelief. Every bit of the putty was gone! Someone had scraped it clean!

As the children were seated, the teacher, Mrs. Meavis, addressed the class. “Boys and girls, it’s been discovered that someone removed the cement from the new window on Mrs. Shupe’s first grade classroom. Would whoever is responsible for this vandalism please raise their hand?”

Ethan sat perfectly still, not daring to breathe, yet trying to appear unconcerned. He steadfastly resisted the urge to look at Mike and Skip, but he hoped they were smart enough to keep their mouths shut, and their hands down. No one would ever know a thing if they all kept quiet!

Mrs. Meavis was apparently in no mood for waiting. “Since no one wants to admit it, we’ll conduct a search of our desks.”

Like that’ll prove anything, Ethan thought.

I’m going to start in the front and walk by each of your desks,” she continued. “When I come past, have your desk lid raised so I can see inside.”

Most of the students, eager to prove their innocence, opened their desks immediately and waited for the teacher to smile her approval as she walked by. Ethan, cocky and arrogant as always, smugly sat watching, his desk closed. As Mrs. Meavis approached, he confidently, and with a bit of flair, lifted the lid.

He spotted the softball-sized mass of dried putty at the same instant the teacher saw it. His heart pounding wildly, he swallowed hard. How had that gotten there?

“Well class,” Mrs. Meavis said in a reproving tone, “I guess we know who is to blame for this little exercise, don’t we?”

“I didn’t put that in there!” Ethan loudly protested. But it was no use. Though he hadn’t been directly responsible for the ball of hardened clay in his desk, deep down he knew he was guilty, and couldn’t argue the point. He had started this whole mess, though the dried ball of evidence that his teacher now held in her hand had been planted. He’d been framed! And he wasn’t the only one. As Mrs. Meavis continued her impromptu inspection, the search revealed his friends had also been set up!

A short ten minutes later, Ethan was seated between the two of them in the Principal’s office, at a large circular wooden table. Mr. Newton, the Principal, abruptly entered the room, glaring at the three of them like they’d committed the crime of the century. For a full agonizing minute, the man said nothing, staring down each of his little felons. Ethan met his gaze and defiantly returned a stare of his own.

Then suddenly, Mr. Newton slammed his fist loudly to the table and exploded in a fit of fury. “Why did you do this?” he demanded, looking right at Ethan.

The seven-year-old was scared but determined not to let it show. He stared back impudently, offering no answer.

This served only to further infuriate the already irate principal. Visibly enraged, eyes spitting fire, red-faced and breathing hard, he launched into a verbal onslaught of expletives.

Okay, so the guy’s mad, Ethan thought. But what can he do about it? Nothing, ’cause he can’t prove I did anything. Looking the foul-mouthed principal directly in the eye, he finally stated, “I’m not the one who took all the putty from the window.” The statement was true. He hadn’t taken
all
the putty.

Mr. Newton’s face reddened even more, turning almost a purple hue. Angrily, he snatched up one of the dried gray balls. “This,” he shouted, “was found in your desk.”

“I didn’t put it there,” Ethan reasserted.

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

Ethan shrugged, continuing the game. “I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. It’s the truth whether you believe it or not. Somebody else put it in my desk.”

After several more unsuccessful attempts to intimidate the boys into admitting their guilt, the principal finally stood to his feet. Again pounding his fist to the table he said, “That window cost one hundred dollars and the three of you are going to pay for it to be replaced. I’ll be sending a letter, along with a bill to each of your parents.”

Thinking quickly, and ever willing to argue the finer points of logic, Ethan spoke up again. “It won’t cost a hundred dollars to have the window fixed.”

“That’s what it cost us today,” the principle returned.

Ethan didn’t give up. “But that was the whole window. The glass and everything, and to take the old one out. All you need now is the putty.”

Mr. Newton didn’t appreciate being given the pesky little facts, especially by a second grader. “Go back to class,” he ordered.

Remembering the incident from his childhood brought a smile to Ethan’s face. As promised, three days later, Mr. Newton’s letter had arrived with the bill attached. And that evening, fidgeting and squirming uncomfortably, the seven-year-old had related the entire story to his father. He’d been completely honest, and for some reason, a reason that he’d never understood and still couldn’t explain, his dad had believed him.

His mind snapping back to the present, Ethan’s smile faded as suddenly he wondered if his parents had ever paid the bill for the window. He couldn’t recall anything else ever being said about it one way or the other.

“If they did, I guess I owe my dad some money,” he mused. That is, if his father ever spoke to him again. Like everyone else, the moment the fifteen-year prison sentence had been handed down, his dad had all but disowned him.

Thinking of that final day in court instantly brought a cloud of depression. Not one person had stood by him to offer support. Even his wife, unable to cope with her husband being labeled a criminal, had almost immediately filed for divorce. She’d moved across the country taking their two young sons with her. He hadn’t heard from or seen any of his family since the day he’d left for prison. In fact, in all his years in Granite Hills, the only visitor who had ever come to see him was his attorney, Daniel Young.

The cold-shoulder treatment didn’t come as much of a shock. It was just another event in a long line of undeserved conflict. The episode with the window had been among the first, but there were many such instances, too many. These incidents had played a crucial role in the forming of his psyche and mindset. Some, had been rather significant, others less so, but all were pivotal in his psychological makeup. As a child, then as a teen, he’d learned to laugh them off. Most of the ridiculous accusations and allegations were simply due to misunderstandings and were more or less inconsequential. Eventually, things worked out in the end. Usually.

The charge of murder however, was not something he could laugh off. Neither had it worked itself out or gone away. And it certainly hadn’t been without consequence. This misunderstanding had a far-reaching impact. Fifteen years of impact. It couldn’t simply be forgotten.

Though he held the D.A. personally responsible for his wrongful conviction, ultimately he’d been a victim of his own compulsive nature. That uncontrollable need to touch things or drag a finger along buildings or railings, as he passed. Still very much a habit even in his twenties, the night of the twelve-year-old girl’s murder, as he walked past the house where the crime had occurred, he’d trailed his finger along the fence rails, over the posts and across the gate. That had been his downfall; the thing, which had solidified the state’s case and eventually resulted in a conviction.

Thanks to a tiny sliver from the fence, pricking his finger, crime scene investigators had recovered his DNA from the few traces of blood on the gate leading to the girl’s home. The District Attorney had readily capitalized on the single piece of incriminating evidence. It quickly became the central issue and key part of the trial.

“What other explanation could there possibly be for the defendant’s DNA being on the gate of the victim’s home?” she’d asked the jury.

That had sealed his fate.

Ethan knew precisely how his DNA had wound up on the gate, but his explanation was weak at best, and came off sounding contrived, phony, and far-fetched. Certainly, it hadn’t been the caliber of explanation needed in court.

His lawyer, Daniel Young, had argued admirably, but to no avail. Not a shred of his client’s DNA or blood had been discovered
inside
the house, at the actual scene of the crime, he’d pointed out in court. And there were no fingerprints at all, either inside or outside the house. The man had regrettably relied on the truth to prevail and exonerate his client.

The truth however, was a losing argument. The D.A. needed a conviction, and a gullible jury, swayed by the mounting circumstantial evidence, erroneous though it was, had been more than happy to give it to her. A few days later, Ethan had stood listening as Judge Bingham sentenced him to fifteen years in Granite Hills Correctional Facility, located just outside the town of Fulton, eighty-five miles away.

The first week in prison, he’d been treated to the news media’s daily account of his case. Radio, newspapers and TV station personalities were seemingly of a singular opinion; vociferously outraged that Ethan had received such a light sentence.

“Rafferty Guilty, But Gets Off Easy,” “Getting Away With Murder,” and “Only Fifteen Years For Child Murderer,” read the headlines in the papers the morning after the trial had ended.

Ethan had read the papers and scowled, spitting on the floor of his cell in disgust. “Let one of them face spending fifteen years locked away in a cold dark cell and see if they still refer to it as
only
fifteen years.”

Reflecting on it now, he had to admit he’d had it better than some, better than most actually. His preferential treatment by the guards doubtlessly had helped to ease the misery. Still, the experience was a test of endurance and lost time from his life. Time stolen from him and from his family. His sons were now grown. The lost time for them translated to fifteen years without their dad; fifteen summers of not camping, fishing or hunting; fifteen winters of not sledding, snowmobiling or making a snowman with him. Year after year, Christmas and birthdays had been missed. He’d never had a chance to help them with their homework, see a school play, or just watch them grow and learn. He didn’t get to teach them to drive, how to build or repair things, in fact, he hadn’t taught them much of anything. They’d done it all on their own, without him.

Jenna, his wife, had suffered too, and though he was hurt that she’d left him, he didn’t hold it against her. He understood her reasons, and realized the strain and stress of it all had just been too much for her to handle. The feeling of betrayal, the shame associated with being married to a felon, a murderer, had pushed her to the limit. The trial and related chaos couldn’t have been easy for the woman. She’d done nothing to deserve the shame or humiliation. In light of this realization, he couldn’t blame her for leaving.