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FRIDAY, JUNE 5TH, 2012
Mark Augustus Barrett did not love Lexi Hamilton. He liked her well enough, but not once did he consider leaving his wife for her. As far as he knew, Lexi didn’t expect him to either. She made no demands at all and said she was happy just to spend time with him. He showed up once or twice a week, did what unfaithful husbands do, and then went home to his wife. There was nothing wrong with that – as long as his wife, Holly, didn’t find out.
A technical engineer for a sophisticated website building company, his pay was above average. It just didn’t buy the kind of lifestyle he desired, so he was forever trying to come up with ways to earn a quick buck.
In the end, it was greed and a mistress that got him in so much trouble.
*
IT WAS WELL PAST TWO a.m. when Mark Barrett parked the car and walked down the deserted street. He wore all black, including an oversized jacket with deep pockets, black socks, and a black baseball cap. The only thing colorful, when he walked under the corner streetlight, was his favorite blue slip-on tennis shoes.
Anxious and a lot more frightened than he expected to be, Mark paused at the end of the walkway that led to the house on the corner, and gazed up at the second-floor windows. All the lights in the house were out, just as he was assured they would be, but that didn’t calm his nerves much. Half a dozen times that week, he had walked or driven past the house until he knew where every bush, every tree, and every perspective hiding place was... just in case. He even walked down the alley, where the old woman’s cleaning lady set the trashcans out each week.
According to the person who hired him, the housekeeper only came twice a week, and never stayed overnight. Indeed, he expected his intended target to be all alone in a house that was far too large for just one person. Yet, that was not what frightened the handsome father of two. This was the first time he had ever done anything even closely resembling a crime punishable by death. He was certainly not above committing a petty theft now and then, especially from cars left unlocked – but murder?
Still, ten thousand dollars for one night of work sounded very nice, and he knew just how he would spend it. Besides, the odds of not getting caught were in his favor. People got away with it all the time.
When the streetlight suddenly went out, Mark saw that as a good sign, and breathed a little easier. He gathered his courage, glanced around to make certain no one was watching him, and walked up to the front door. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, put it over the doorknob and turned it. The door was unlocked. As quietly as he could, he slipped inside and gently pushed the door until it was almost closed. He stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket, pulled his cellphone out and turned on the flashlight. In his other pocket, he withdrew a short-barrel revolver with a silencer already attached. It was then he noticed his hands were shaking, so he forced himself to calm down.
Using the light on his cellphone, he located the staircase, walked across the large living room, and slowly began to climb. His detailed instructions, which he committed to memory, advised him to avoid the creaking third and eighth steps in the staircase, and to stay near the left wall when he turned down the hallway. So far, he had not made a sound. Yet, by the time he stopped not far from her bedroom door, he was so edgy and frazzled that he couldn’t seem to hold the gun steady. Once more, he took a moment to remind himself of all that glorious money.
Mark Barrett was about to reach for the bedroom doorknob when he realized his cellphone light was still on and quickly turned it off. As far as he knew, only one person had the number, and although he wasn’t expecting a call, certainly not just now, he turned the volume off just in case someone dialed a wrong number. He put the phone in his jacket pocket and then waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark.
That’s when he made his first mistake.
The door was not completely closed, and when he used his index finger to open it a little wider, he forgot to use his handkerchief. His instructions were wrong too. The house was not completely dark. The old woman had a nightlight next to her bed, and it gave off enough of a dim glow to illuminate her face.
Mark had not counted on being able to see more than just the head of a figure lying in a bed. For a long moment, he stared at her. The small woman looked nearly all swallowed up in her king-size bed. She had white hair, a round face, and nothing about her resembled the wealthy, unyielding tyrant he imagined her to be. Instead, she looked gentle and sweet.
Still, all he had to do was pull the trigger and ten thousand dollars was his.
Mark Augustus Barrett added his left hand to his right to hold the gun steady, and crept closer and closer to the end of the bed. If he was going to do it, he wanted to make certain he did it right the first time...if he was going to do it.
*
IT WAS DARK IN HIS house too when Mark made his way up the stairs and quietly removed his clothing so his wife wouldn’t wake up. He was not successful.
As soon as he climbed into bed beside her, Holly asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just needed a drink of water.”
“What time is it?”
He looked at the illuminated digital clock on the table next to the bed. “Almost four. Go back to sleep.”
“Okay.” She started to curl up in his arms, but he was all sweaty. She raised up on her elbows and looked at him. “Mark, where have you been?”
“Right here. I just got too hot and needed a drink.”
She felt his forehead, but he didn’t have a fever. “Are you sick?”
“No, sweetheart, go back to sleep.”
Reluctantly, she turned over and settled back down. With two little ones to care for, Holly needed all the rest she could get. Even so, she couldn’t go back to sleep. Either Mark had a mistress, or something bad had happened, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know which. The last time he got that sweaty, he tried to steal a car and almost got caught. He promised not to do that again, but Mark was not very good at keeping his promises.
Lying on his back beside her, Mark was still sweating profusely, and his eyes were wide open. They remained open until his alarm went off at five thirty. He turned it off, got out of bed, and went to take a much needed shower.
On her side of the bed, Holly only pretended to be asleep and opened her eyes too. There were signs that he was being unfaithful, but life was hard enough living on a strict budget. Sometimes, she didn’t think they would make it to the next payday. Somehow they managed, but what would she do if she left her husband? She had no skills to speak of, no job to fall back on, and the cost of a babysitter for two small children was outrageous.
Holly knew the girls would be awake soon, so she threw the covers back and sat on the edge of the bed. That’s when she spotted the pile of dark clothing on the floor and it made her mad. She didn’t recognize them and they were certainly not the clothes he was wearing the previous morning when he left the house. It was just like him to charge them on a credit card that they couldn’t make the payments on. At length, she sighed, ignored the clothes, and when downstairs.
*
HE WAS STILL IN THE shower when Holly finished making his breakfast, and still there when she got her two toddler daughters dressed and in highchairs. She sat between her children, handed the oldest a piece of toast, and started feeding the six-month-old a small spoon full of baby cereal in milk. His bacon and eggs were getting cold, but she didn’t care. Nor did she care to accuse him of anything, especially the first thing in the morning. He would deny it and she was too tired to fight.
The Barrett home was a two-story tract house with an unfinished basement. It had the exact same floor plan as dozens of other houses in the neighborhood. Built on a small lot, every third house had a slightly different exterior, but the prefabricated stairs, walls, roofs, and even the plumbing was exactly the same. Someday, if they could ever afford it, Holly hoped to get rid of the mauve colored walls and trim that was in her kitchen. She thought it was a stupid, unwelcoming color for a kitchen. Still, it was better than the dull red in some of the other houses. It was of that she decided to think about, instead of her husband’s unfaithfulness.
When Mark finally came downstairs, he was dressed for work. As if he didn’t have a care in the world, he nonchalantly sat down at the table, started eating his cold bacon and eggs, and pretended to be in a happy mood. She could see right through his façade and wondered, as she often did, just how stupid he truly thought she was. His meaningless chatter was supposed to keep her from asking him about the night before. He needn’t have bothered.
In his shirt pocket, a cellphone rang.
Completely surprised, she asked, “You have a cellphone?”
The color seemed to drain out of his face, as he abruptly stood up and walked into the living room. Holly glanced at her oldest daughter, handed the youngest a crust of toast, and then crept closer to the doorway. When she peeked around the corner, her husband had his back to her. She moved to the center of the doorway and folded her arms.
“I couldn’t do it,” Mark whispered. “What?” After a long pause, he said, “Yes, I hear you.” He disconnected the call, put the phone back in his pocket, grabbed his briefcase, and walked to the front door. As though he just remembered he had a wife, he glanced back and smiled at her. “I’m off to work. Love you,” he said as he opened the front door and then closed it behind him.
“You forgot your breakfast,” she muttered. Holly hung her head for a moment and then went back to the table. “How are we supposed to pay for a cellphone?” Her two-year-old looked puzzled, and it made Holly smile in spite of the sick feeling she had in the pit of her stomach. She pulled Mark’s breakfast plate closer, picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite.
Mrs. Holly Barrett did not know it, yet, but paying for a cellphone service would soon be the least of her problems.
*
PORTLAND, OREGON HAD everything a big city should have. It was situated approximately halfway between Mt. Hood, a dormant volcano, and the Pacific Ocean. In 2012, it was the twenty-ninth most populated city in the United States. Built on both sides of the Willamette River, a tributary of the Columbia River, it was a sprawling metropolis that offered employment, and plenty of entertainment for the over two million residents. Portland featured annual celebrations such as the Rose Festival, Dragon Boat Races, the Blues Festival, a Beer festival and for those that preferred it, a Chamber Music Festival. The climate was normally moderate, the wealthy lived in the Pine Lakes area, and the state normally suffered only minor earthquakes.
They had their share of crime, but nothing captured their attention like the Pine Lakes murder of Mrs. Amelia Ann Lockhart in the early morning hours of June 9th.
*
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER.
Two dozen white marble steps between tall white pillars, led up to the four doors that allowed entry into Portland’s largest courthouse. It was an unusually busy day, with reporters vying to get seats inside, while others gathered outside hoping to seize an interview or a very telling photograph.
Inside the courthouse, two armed guards checked photo identifications, and then permitted visitors to pass through the metal detectors into the wide corridor. Next to three sets of tall, mahogany, double doors stood signs on stands designating which trial was to take place in each courtroom. The line of people hoping to get into the middle courtroom left little doubt as to which trial would take place in the largest.
Mark Barrett’s murder trial was about to begin.
The Harlan Detective Agency, of which Jackie Harlan was the owner, specialized in finding missing people. She and her team were the best of the best, and charged an enormous fee that only the wealthy could afford. Along with the fee came complete discretion and secrecy, which made what they did well worth the money. Their current case was what brought them to Portland, Oregon, and unless they were mistaken, the missing person they had been looking for was in that very courtroom.
A pretty woman with brown eyes and long auburn hair, Private Detective, Jackie Harlan, almost didn’t get in and had to settle for an aisle seat in the back row. The room had traditional wood panel walls that faintly smelled of furniture polish. A pole held an American flag on one side of the Great Seal behind the Judge’s bench, and another held the Oregon State flag. Aside from that, Jackie Harlan could see very little. Immaculately dressed in a white blouse, black business skirt and jacket, Jackie wore nylons, even though they had gone out of style, and black heels. She crossed her legs, took a pad and pen out of her purse, and got ready to take notes.
The people behind her that could not get in, moaned, when the doors were closed in their faces. Normally, seating for three hundred was more than enough, but for the biggest trial Portland had seen in a long time, five hundred seats would not have been enough. The murder of a wealthy woman known for her generosity to the arts was a very big deal indeed. According to the Portland, Oregon newspapers, all of which had covered the case extensively, the trial was expected to take less than two weeks.
Not counting Jackie, The Harlan Detective Agency’s employees numbered only two. The three member team called hotel suites their home, and restaurants their personal chefs, although they ordered in a lot more than they went out. Business came first, last and in-between, and netted them more money than any of them could conceivably spend in a lifetime. Therefore, what motivated them was accomplishing the impossible. Finding missing people who could not, or did not, want to be found was the ultimate challenge. The Harlan Detective Agency was not always successful, but when they were, there was no greater reward than a happy family reunion.
When Jackie needed someone to do the out-of- office legwork, Carl Kingsley was more than happy to accommodate her. A man of average height and build, he was just as good as she on a computer, but he was more of an outdoor kind of guy who had a fascination with hiding tracking devices, cameras, and microphones in obscure places. Carl was also their Learjet pilot, and in charge of keeping the plane ready to take off at a moment’s notice. Inside the jet was the corporation’s fully functional office, a change of clothing for each of them, maps, charts, and most importantly, boxes of flash drives containing copies of all their secret records. A second set, including personal records Jackie did not share with her team, was kept in a bank vault in Iowa.
Carl could fix anything – except his marriage. In the divorce settlement, he talked his wife into giving him the air crane they jointly owned in exchange for their small drug company. Even now, the thought of it made Carl smile. The drug company went broke, but the air crane lasted for years. In fact, when he and his high school friend, Jackie, first teamed up, they used the air crane as their basic mode of transportation.
Michael Sorenson had thick, brown hair, and wore gold-rim glasses. He was shorter than most men were, and claimed short men were not taken seriously. Therefore, he jumped at the chance to give up the corporate world and go to work for Jackie. A computer geek, hacker, and electronics nerd, Jackie constantly spoiled him with all the newest and most expensive equipment on the market. Michael was, or at least said he was, madly in love with Jackie. It was to no avail, for Jackie firmly refused to mix business with pleasure. That didn’t keep Michael from hoping that, someday she would accept his repeated marriage proposals.
She wondered what he would do if she ever accepted.
While Jackie sat in the courtroom waiting for the trial to begin, Michael and Carl sat on a sofa in the hotel room. Both had their legs propped up on the coffee table, were working on laptops, and had a good view of a closed circuit big screen TV that displayed three separate images. For their current case, it was important to have a good view of all that was happening in the courtroom. It was illegal, but Michael managed to hack into the courtroom’s closed circuit cameras. The camera, located in the front of the courtroom, provided the image on the right side of the TV, and the middle image was from the camera in the back.
The third image came from a tiny camera, complete with a microphone that Carl put in the dangling white rhinestone medallion Jackie wore around her neck. He also put a wireless headphone in an earpiece that looked like a hearing aid. Her hair aptly hid it from an inquisitive public, and right now, all they could see through her medallion was the back of the man seated in front of her.
Michael and Carl shared a two-bedroom suite, but the work was normally done in Jackie’s hotel room. Maids were rarely let in to clean and make beds, for fear their computers, printers, papers, books, graphs and charts spread out all over the place might be disturbed. When the dishes began to pile up, they set them outside the door with a generous tip, for someone to take back to the dining room. When a case was finished, they copied everything onto a flash drive, shredded the papers, and then moved on to the next location.
Their current case had taken six months and they were so close they could taste it. Every case was special, but this one was more urgent than most. It concerned the dying wish of a very famous person.
It was well past nine-thirty in the morning and still the courtroom had not been called to order. In soft tones, people talked, and more than once, the man sitting next to Jackie looked directly at her as though he hoped to start a conversation. His aftershave was a bit too strong, and he seemed nice enough, but she wasn’t interested.
To Michael, Jackie looked bored, so in an earpiece that allowed only her to hear, he said, “Here’s everything you ever wanted to know about courtrooms. One of those two doors in front leads to the judge’s chambers and the other one to the jury waiting room. The jury box is to your left, so I bet the jury is behind the left door. The judge gets to sit in that fancy black, tall back chair behind his sharp looking wood bench. He gets the best seat in the house. That’s not fair.”
Jackie looked at the front camera and held her composure in check. Not laughing at Michael’s antics was not going to be any easier this time, than it had been in the past. Hoping she had his attention, she put her hand over her ear.
“Too loud?” Michael asked. He watched as his employer slightly nodded, and then began to adjust the volume. “Okay, testing, testing, testing...” Again, she nodded, so he went back to reading the article. “It says here, some of the benches are bulletproof. I wonder if this one is. Most courtrooms are computerized these days, but it doesn’t look like the judge has a computer on his bench. Too bad, I’d be happy to help him out from time to time.”
He paused to look at the slight scowl on Jackie’s face. “Just kidding. In front of the bench, there are two desks, one for the clerk and one for the court reporter. The third table, which you probably can’t see, doesn’t have much on it, but it’s likely the evidence table. Hey, here’s something I didn’t know. There is an imaginary bar that runs right up the middle of the aisle to the bench. That’s why they call it the bar association. Don’t that beat all?
Naturally, the State has the most to prove, so the DA’s table is closest to the jury. The other side is for the defense. If you lean into the aisle a little, you can see that cute short fence behind the lawyer dude tables.” He paused and watched as Jackie leaned out a little. “That’s to keep you from choking the defense attorney, when you know darn well he is trying to get the bad guy off. Wait, I just saw something about the lectern. It sits right on the middle of the imaginary bar line, and guess what? Another imaginary line runs crosswise from the jury box to the opposite wall. No one, I mean, no one, is supposed to cross that line without permission. Whew, I never wanted to be a lawyer and now I know why. I’m exhausted just reading all the rules.”
As soon as a door to the left of the Judge’s bench opened, everyone quieted and watched as the Assistant District Attorney and the defense attorney entered. Each carried a briefcase and a laptop. They walked to their respective tables, sat down, and began to getting organized. Behind them walked two women – the court clerk and the court recorder. Both took their places facing the spectators at a table half as tall as the judge’s bench. A few minutes later, the defendant was brought in and escorted to the defense table by two uniformed bailiffs.
The pictures of Mark Barrett in the press did not do him justice. He was strikingly handsome, although he appeared several pounds thinner than when he was arrested. His dark suit highlighted his light blond hair, and when he smiled at someone in the row behind the defense table, his blue eyes oddly sparkled. Mark Barrett didn’t appear to be worried about his circumstances. In fact, before he took a seat, he glanced and smiled at all the spectators as though he thought himself a celebrity.
As soon as he was seated, the two bailiffs took up their assigned positions. One went to stand in front of a chair near the jury box, and the other opened the small gate in the fence that separated the spectators from the participants, and then walked to the door in the back of the courtroom. A third bailiff entered and took a seat in a chair against the wall that faced the defense table.
“Barrett looks pretty good for having been in jail for eighteen months,” Michael said in Jackie’s ear. “Mark Barrett is twenty-four, is married to Holly Gardner Barrett, his high school sweetheart, and has two children, Bethany age two, and Sarah, six months. He opted for a two year technical school instead of college, was well liked and made above average grades. Holly is that knockout blonde sitting right behind him. By the way, she didn’t smile when he came into the room, but he smiled at the two people sitting beside her, and then at her. I think his wife might be a shade miffed at having to be here.”
“All rise,” the bailiff standing beside the jury box said. “The Honorable Judge J. P. Blackwell, presiding.”
Just as the people were standing up, the judge entered through the door to the right of his bench. He wore the traditional black robe, and quickly sat down at his oversized, elevated bench.
“Judge J. P. Blackwell is short like me,” said Michael. “I like him already.” When he heard Jackie clear her throat a little, Michael rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay. Judge J. P. Blackwell is forty. He is young for a judge, but that’s what being brilliant will do for you. The Judge is married to Marcie C. Blackwell and has one child, a son named Jake. He has been on the bench for eight years and has an excellent reputation for never being overturned on appeal. They say his rulings are swift, detailed and concise, which saves the court a lot of time and trouble. Oh, the J. P. stands for John Patrick.”
Carl added, “The judge likes his cameras on at all times, even when he is not in the courtroom. If an appeal claims an error in the court reporter’s notes, he’s got the DVDs to clear it up.”
The Bailiff’s voice again filled the courtroom, “You may be seated.” He sat down as well.
Judge J. P. Blackwell put on a pair of glasses and appeared to be reading something on his desk. When he finished, the man with dark wavy hair softly tapped his gavel on the pad. “Court will come to order. Ladies and Gentlemen, cellphones are strictly forbidden in my courtroom. If your cellphone is not turned off, I suggest you do that now. If you receive a call, the bailiff will remove you and you will not be allowed back in for the duration of this trial.” He glanced at the spectators, saw several making sure their phones were turned off, and he waited until they all settled down. Next, he looked at the defense attorney and then at the District Attorney. “Gentlemen, are we ready to begin?”
Both attorneys stood up. “Yes, Your Honor,” they said at the same time.
“You may begin, Mr. Davis.”
“Thank you. Assistant District Attorney Braxton Davis representing the state, Your Honor. This is case number 6315487, the State of Oregon vs Mark Augustus Barrett. The charge is murder in the first degree and felony theft.” As soon as he was finished, the DA looked at his opponent and nodded.
“Stephen Livingston, for the Defense, Your Honor.”
“Thank you,” said the Judge. “Are there any pre-trial motions we need to get out of the way this morning?”
“Side bar, Your Honor?” Livingston asked. As soon as the judge nodded, both he and the DA approached the bench and began to speak in tones too soft for the spectators to hear.
As if it mattered, Michael whispered too. “Braxton Gunther Davis is the usual district attorney type. He hates letting criminals walk the streets of Portland and he is good at his job, or so the papers say. He is thirty-six, divorced, and has no children. You may have noticed that he has a slight limp. He broke a hip when a truck broadsided his car a few years ago.” Michael paused long enough to glance at the TV. The attorneys were still at the bench with their heads together. Michael motioned toward it and looked at Carl, but Carl couldn’t tell what they were talking about and only shrugged.
“Mark Barrett’s lawyer is Stephen Alex Livingston.” Michael continued. “If you have to have a public defender, Steve Livingston is the one to have. He was once a DA and switched sides about fifteen years ago. Like all defense attorneys, he is required to take his share of pro bono cases. He is thirty-eight, has three ex-wives, and he has gone up against Davis in several trials. Watch for him to schmooze with the jury. Livingston is a quick learner and he’s sharp. I don’t know if you can see it, but Barrett and his attorney have the same shade of blond hair. From the back, it might be hard to tell which is which.”
“Three ex-wives?” Carl muttered. “I thought one was bad enough.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Admit it; you still love your wife.”
“Love is overrated, Michael.”
Stephen Livingston did not look happy when he abruptly left the judge’s bench and walked to the lectern. He waited until the DA was seated, cleared his throat, and then began, “May it please the court. Your Honor, the defense requests the jury be sequestered. Considering the number of pretrial articles written about this case that are clearly prejudicial to my client, and considering the number that have been printed since the jury was sworn in on Friday, I believe it is not only necessary, but imperative. Several of the articles cite information, or I should say ‘supposed’ information, that you have ruled inadmissible. There is nothing we can do about the past, but we can prevent the jury from hearing any more of that nonsense.”
“Mr. Davis, do you have any objection?” Judge Blackwell asked.
“I do, Your Honor.” Davis looked in that direction, but it appeared Livingston was not about to give up his position behind the lectern, so Davis just stood at his table. “As you know, sequestering a jury is expensive. Furthermore, it removes people from their family and friends. Once you have instructed the jury, which you already have, not to read the papers, watch the news, stay off their computers, and refrain from talking to anyone else about the case, it doesn’t matter what is said on the outside. We are forced to trust the jury to do the right thing.”
“I tend to agree,” said the judge. “Sequestering a jury is expensive and the state would rather avoid that cost if possible. Motion denied. Anything else, gentlemen?”
Defeated, Livingston shook his head, gave up his positon at the lectern, and went to sit beside the defendant.
In no hurry, the DA took a turn at the lectern. “Your honor, for the record, and on behalf of the press, I once more petition the court to allow the trial to be televised.”
Looking fatigued by the subject, Judge Blackwell sighed. “Is this a new petition or the old one?”
“A new petition,” Davis answered.
The judge again sighed. “What is it this time?”
“It is on behalf of the public’s right to know, Your Honor.”
Already a little hot under the collar, Livingston quickly stood up. “Your honor, the public’s right to know is already well served by the dozen or so reporters I see present in the courtroom.”
“Motion denied,” said the judge. “Is that all, Mr. Davis?”
The DA ignored the way the judge looked at him over the top of his glasses. “Your Honor, I...”
“Your new request, which was much like all the old ones is denied,” the judge interrupted, “and I hope for the last time. Anything else, gentlemen?”
It was the DA’s turn to sigh. “I have nothing.”
Michael said, “The DA just glanced at the front camera to see if the little light was red or green. It’s green. Very curious, since the judge denied his request to let the world see what’s going on.”
Livingston waited for the DA to sit down before he said, “The defense has nothing further at this time.”
“Very well, Gentlemen,” Judge Blackwell said. “Bailiff, you may seat the jury.”
Everyone watched in silence as the bailiff opened the side door, let the jury file in and take their seats. Some of the jurors looked surprised to see such a crowded room, while others lowered their heads as if they didn’t particularly want the attention, or to be there at all, for that matter.
“According to the newspaper, it took four weeks to seat a jury that has not formed an opinion,” said Michael. “They are not supposed to know any of the people involved, including the attorneys, the defendant, or any of the witnesses. However, the victim was well known and many had at least an acquaintance with her. In the end, they seated twelve jurors and two alternates. They are an interesting mixture of race, sex, and age with nearly half over fifty. The moral is, if you don’t want to be on a jury, don’t live past fifty.”
Jackie wasn’t paying attention to Michael. She was thinking about the subject of their search – the one she hoped to reunite with a family that had never stopped searching, even after more than thirty years. The really awful thing about missing children, if they managed to stay alive, was the likelihood of abuse at the hands of their abductors. Learning those kinds of details was something Jackie avoided at all costs. Once reunited, she was quick to remove herself from the solved case before abuse could be discussed. Avoiding the subject meant survival...her survival. Still, she always wondered if an unthinkable childhood was written on a person’s face somehow. She looked from face to face in the elevated jury box, until her attention was drawn to juror number eleven. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and wasn’t making eye contact with any of the spectators. Was that a sign of abuse? He wore thick glasses, had no apparent scars, was well dressed, and he looked ready to pay attention to the proceedings. Perhaps it was not a sign. Perhaps he was just shy and uncomfortable with so many strangers watching him.
On the other hand, the woman in her forties seated next to him, had an ugly two inch scar on her cheek, which she tried unsuccessfully to hide with makeup. Plastic surgery would do wonders for her, but that was too expensive for a lot of people. The woman wore off-the-rack clothing, and no doubt did her own hair. Yet, she did not appear at all shy or uncomfortable – most likely because she was used to people staring at her scar.
Her attention was drawn back to the proceedings when the Bailiff walked to the center of the room. He waited, and as soon as the judge nodded, the Bailiff turned to face the people. “Hear Ye, Hear Ye! Court is now in session. The State of Oregon vs. Mr. Mark Augustus Barrett shall now commence.” The bailiff quickly went back to his seat and sat down.
“The Clerk may read the charges,” said the judge.
The older woman wearing a business pantsuit, scooted her chair back, picked up a piece of paper, stood up and cleared her throat a little. “Mr. Mark Augustus Barrett is charged with aggravated murder and theft in the first degree as described in ORS 163.118 and 163.125, criminal homicide.”
Judge Blackwell waited until she was seated and then turned to the jury. “Ladies and Gentlemen, in this trial, jurors shall not be allowed to take notes. Some people are good at taking notes and others are not, which can lead to needless arguments during deliberations. You are here to decide Mr. Barrett’s guilt or innocence according to the facts of this case. For the duration of the trial and up to the time you are asked to render a verdict, you are not to speak to anyone about what you hear and see in this courtroom – not your friends, families, or other members of the jury. Is that understood?” the judge watched until he was certain all of them either said yes or nodded. “Very well, you may begin, Mr. Davis.”
“Jackie,” said Michael, “the defendant smirked when the clerk read the charges and the jury noticed. I didn’t think anyone was that stupid. He’s guilty, no doubt about it. By the way, the four people sitting on the far end of the first pew behind the DA are Mrs. Lockhart’s children. There are two men and two women. I recognize them from the newspaper pictures. The brothers are Slone and Atticus Lockhart, and the sisters are Kaydence Lockhart Wilkinson, and Melissa Lockhart Dunlap. The court reporter,” Michael continued as Jackie leaned out a little to look at the woman seated at a computer below the Judge’s bench. “Now there’s an interesting looking woman. I’m thinking of asking her out.” Just as he expected, Jackie looked at the front camera and frowned. “Okay, so I’ll wait until after the trial to ask her out. Next up, opening statements. This is where a trial starts to get interesting.”
