Vigilare (25 page)

Heads of the jurors and observers in the courtroom swivel, each individual calculating their odds.

“Your rapist was murdered in the same alleyway in which he raped you, his neck slit from ear to ear,” Aubrey begins. “He’s one of the men Ms. DeLuca is accused of murdering, although no evidence of her DNA nor presence at the scene has been proven.”

Emily nods. “Death is too good for him. Too easy. One thing’s for certain though, whoever or
whatever
,” she pauses, a deliberate address to Gina’s Vigilare, “killed him, you can rest assured he deserved it, provoked it somehow.”

“Self-defense?” Aubrey leads.

“Without a doubt.” Emily’s gaze instinctively meets Mr. McVain’s, who appears as though he may object. “Save yourself the time,” she says. “I am neither impressed nor swayed by the defense to speculate anything. I assure you, I am no fan of Vanguard PD. And, I’m unclear as to whether I am willing to believe in a so-called Vigilare. I am on no one’s side, except my own. Frankly, I think the whole system sucks.” She looks to Judge Carter expecting a reprimand, which does not come. She shrugs, continuing, “All I know, someone’s finally delivering some justice in this town, be it vigilante or avenger style. I don’t care who it is, or their motivation. I say keep up the good work. In one month’s time, this person or group of people has done more for this city than the police department and the justice department combined. Hell, I might as well start paying taxes to them.”

“Are you through, Ms. Truly?” Judge Carter finally speaks, her tone laced with disapproval.

“It wasn’t my idea to testify,” Emily pipes, defensively.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Aubrey quickly interjects.

“Mr. McVain,” Judge Carter calls to him.

Mr. McVain looks to Dr. Ryan, sitting behind him. She shakes her head, her eyes trailing down. “Prosecution has no questions for this witness, Madam Judge,” he reports, disappointedly.

“Great,” Judge Carter replies. “Now for closing statements. Counselors, please bear in mind it has been a long few days. Say what you need to say, however, keep it relevant and concise.” She looks to Mr. McVain, his cue to begin.

Mr. McVain stands, pulling his suit coat off, laying it on the table. He pulls at his tie, loosening it a bit around his neck, going for a more casual, less intimidating look in his interaction with the jury. Fluffing his lavish hair yet again, he makes his way to the railing, acknowledging the twelve faces looking back at him. A mixture of men and women, some faces friendly, some ardently serious. Mr. McVain smiles at them graciously. “Thank you for your time and patience, and your incredibly important service to your community. You have been exposed to vast amounts of information over the past two days, some logical and proven, some speculative and unsupported. After we leave this courtroom today, it’s up to you to determine how you will process such information, and what conclusions you will draw.”

He paces from one end of the jury to the other, making sure to share eye contact with each and every member at some point in his delivery. “Regardless of whether you are inclined to believe in superhero theory, or only in those things which can be verified, one thing is for certain. The defendant, Gina DeLuca’s DNA, in the form of blood or skin was found at eight of the fifteen homicide scenes. The defense would have you focus on the remaining seven homicides where her DNA was not found. Are eight lives not enough? Would it be more agreeable to convict her for murdering fifteen men, rather than eight? The number is arbitrary. What needs to be heard, remembered, is that lives were taken. The lives of men who meant something to someone. Fathers, brothers, husbands, friends, neighbors...men. The defense would have you believe the lives of these men are expendable because of their character flaws, their mental illnesses. So, what? They deserved to die? What if one of those men was your brother?” he asks, eyeing a male juror in the front row. “Your son?” he continues, asking a female juror in the back. “Would you be so willing to believe their lives were worth nothing?”

He pauses for affect, standing still as he shifts his gaze from the courtroom at large, back to the jury, eyeing what emotional response, if any, he is successful in conjuring up. “The defense would also have you believe Ms. DeLuca murdered these men in self-defense. Plausible? Yes, one murder may happen in self-defense. Two murders, that’s pushing it. Eight murders, that’s absolutely ludicrous. Who, other than a soldier in combat, finds himself in the precarious position of having to kill numerous human beings in self-defense?” He throws his hands up in the air, letting them fall heavily against his thighs. “Even in giving her a huge benefit of a doubt, theorizing all eight murders, possibly fifteen were committed in self-defense. She went looking for these men, sought them out. Knew their patterns, exposed herself to them in order to provoke an action to which she already knew her reaction. That’s pre-meditation folks. Most murders in self-defense do not end in the victim strangling the attacker. Defendees do not go looking for a fight, they find themselves in one, and choose the quickest way out. Do you know how long it takes to strangle another human to death? Most experts report anywhere from three to seven minutes. That’s a lot of time to consider one’s actions. When does that action go from self-defense to intent to kill?”

Mr. McVain points to Gina sitting at the defendant table. “Superhero or not. Intent to murder or murder in self-defense, Gina DeLuca is responsible for the deaths of eight men, possibly fifteen. Will you let her go unpunished? A woman who believes she is above the law, above the average citizen, such as you or I. A woman who obviously believes in delivering justice on her own terms, an eye for an eye.” He drops his arm from her direction, turns toward the jury, dramatically delivering his final words. “She should be held accountable for her actions with the same ferocity she holds others accountable.” He quotes the Bible, Matthew 7:2, cleverly as a large percentage of the remaining jury members checked the box labeled
Christian
during their preliminary screenings for duty. “‘For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.’”

He saunters back to the prosecution table, flashing a flirtatious grin at Gina as he passes by. She nods, the corners of her mouth softening, acknowledging his well-played delivery.

Aubrey Raines stands, her nerves surfacing, doubt rearing its ugly head. Her inexperience, Mr. McVain’s eloquent closing, combined with the dreadful feeling that Gina’s fate now rests in her words, causes her to sit back down momentarily. Gina puts her hand over Aubrey’s and gives it a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s going to be alright,” Gina whispers, encouragingly, letting go of her hand and nodding her head in the jury’s direction.

Aubrey smiles vaguely as she stands from her chair, making her way to the railing separating the bench from the jury. “That was quite a moving delivery by Mr. McVain. May I point out, the biblical scripture he quoted about judgment is in reference to hypocrites, not the righteous. When we know the truth, we are commanded to judge in order to help others see the truth, have a clearer vision of right and wrong. Ms. DeLuca is no hypocrite. She has asked for no special treatment. In her testimony, she urged you to go with the evidence, go with your instinct. She has told the truth as she knows it to be true. Now, it is up to you to use your judgment, based on the information you obtained during the trial, to determine whether her actions were right or wrong, just or unjust.”

Aubrey walks the length of the railing, trailing her hand over the polished wood as she continues, making eye contact with the jurors, each and every one. “That’s the bottom line folks, right or wrong. Is it right to try and convict my client, Gina DeLuca, for murders she may have committed, in self-defense, as Vigilare? Mr. McVain wants to hammer home evidence, proof, fact. Ms. DeLuca passed a polygraph examination, not guilty of each and every homicide about which she was questioned. That’s proof, fact, evidence. If we could turn her into Vigilare and contain her for questioning,” Aubrey reasons, an alarmed grin surfacing, “maybe the polygraph results would differ. We’re so inclined to believe only what we can see. Superheroes don’t exist, so we are told since our childhood. It is clear to me, as it should be to you, this woman is a superhero of sorts, even though she may not know it yet.”

Aubrey looks to Tony in the back of the courtroom. “Detective Gronkowski witnessed her in action. What would he gain by making up such a story? If anything, he has probably sacrificed his own credibility in telling the truth. Mr. McVain would have you believe there is no way she killed eight men in self-defense. How do you kill eight different people, in eight different circumstances in self-defense, he asks. There’s your proof.” She extends her arm to Tony. “Detective Gronkowski testified Vigilare could’ve killed him, easily. She did not. The only men she is alleged to have killed were those with rap sheets of rape, pedophilia, other crimes. Patterns of some sort. Mr. McVain wants to portray Gina DeLuca as the predator, victimizing men with significant histories of destroying the lives of numerous women and children. When, exactly, did the predators become the victims? Not a single innocent individual was harmed in any of these instances. In fact, my life, my body, my sanity was saved by Vigilare, as was Tessa Ortiz’s.” She pauses, turning to the jury with intent. “Obviously, there is something in her that can sense just and unjust, right and wrong. The same as all of you in this very situation. You know what is right and what is wrong. Even though you may not know exactly what to make of Gina DeLuca...Vigilare, it’s relatively simple. Ask yourselves, do you feel safer with her guarding your streets, or locked behind bars where her gift would be wasted? If you were a victim of an attempted rape, would you want Vigilare to come to your rescue, or would you rather suffer at the hands of a true predator?”

Aubrey nods her head, her hands meeting in prayer fashion at the center of her chest, a gesture of thanks to the jury before returning to her chair beside Gina.

Judge Carter assesses both the prosecution and defense before turning her attention to the jury. “Jurors, it is your duty to make your decision based only on the facts presented and not on how you feel.” She turns back to the court at large, with a gentle tap of her gavel. “Court is now adjourned. We’ll return when a verdict has been reached.” Idle chatter rings through the large room with high ceilings, providing ample acoustic affect. Judge Carter motions for the guards to reclaim custody of Gina and for her bailiff to assist her to her chambers. Tony eyes the judge intently, and slips out the back of the courtroom.

Chapter 18

EARLY EVENING. VANGUARD County Jail. Unable to rest or lay still as her fate now rests in the judgment of the jury, Gina hangs from the top bunk in her cell. Her knees locked over the frame, her torso dangles toward the floor as she pulls herself up and down, repetitively working her abdominals. She alternates between sit-ups and push-ups, attempting to wear herself out physically, in hopes of dually inspiring mental exhaustion. Working hard to block out the accompanying sounds of the jail, her senses focus inward until the voices, clinks and clanks of doors, and the clatter of booking equipment become distant. The only thing prevalent at this time is the sound of her heart beating, her lungs forcefully grabbing at air, her pulse driving blood through her veins, the creaking of the metal frame on the bed with each flexion and extension of her body. She is in the zone. So much so, she is unaware of the visitor at her cell door.

“Shouldn’t you be resting for your big day tomorrow ?” Dr. Ryan’s voice carries through the cell bars.

Gina flips herself backward from the top bunk, a perfect landing to the floor beneath as she stands upright in the corner of her cell, now facing Dr. Ryan.

Dr. Ryan claps quietly, a smirk forming on her lips. Gina remains silent, assessing the situation. Emily Truly stands to the right and slightly behind the psychologist, her expression less than enthused.

“You must be curious as to my visit,” Dr. Ryan prods.

“I have far more pressing issues to prick my curiosity,” Gina dismisses, taking a seat on the dingy mattress. She rests her elbows on her knees, leaning forward in recuperation from her exertion.

Dr. Ryan chuckles. “Such animosity, when you should be thanking me.”

Gina looks up at Dr. Ryan skeptically, her curiosity beyond
pricked
. Emily Truly remains at her side, her arms folded insolently across her chest, eyeing Gina.

“I petitioned Judge Carter to release you into psychiatric care rather than incarceration,” Dr. Ryan continues, self-righteously.

Gina shrugs her shoulders. “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Maybe you should consider dropping your arrogant attitude and replace it with humility,” Emily accuses.

Gina stands, approaching the bars separating her from them. Her eyes meet Emily’s with reciprocal disdain. “The same could be said to you. What happened to that wounded, gracious young woman? In the alleyway of MLK?” Gina asks suspiciously, referencing the scene of Emily’s murdered rapist, when Emily took solace in her embrace.

Emily smiles haughtily. “I was such a good little victim, wasn’t I?” Her smirk dissipating, she wraps her hands around the bars, briskly shaking them, her teeth painfully gritting together. “I owe you nothing. You took from me what was mine.”

“Ladies,” Dr. Ryan interjects, gently coercing Emily’s fists from the cold steel. “We all could stand a little gratitude in our presentation.”

“Gratitude,” Gina scoffs, maintaining a searing glance toward Emily. “You can rest assured, whatever Dr. Ryan has done for me will ultimately benefit her. You may consider that fact, if you choose to keep such company.” Gina’s eyes are called to Emily’s neck, where a crucifix rests, bearing a striking resemblance to the crucifix in one of her visions. The same crucifix that dangled from the rail of her bed in the hospital.