The California high desert is no place for candy-asses. With summer days soaring to over a hundred and winter nights plunging into the twenties, even into the teens, people, plants, and animals must work at surviving. Nothing is guaranteed. Only the hardiest make it. The low rolling terrain is dotted with sage brush and volcanic rock, crisscrossed by dry washes and arroyos, and interrupted by thousand-foot piles of rock and cinder with lofty names such as Bristol, Granite, and Old Dad Mountains.
Old Route 66 runs east and west and bisects the desert. Once a major artery between LA and Chicago, it was now relegated to myth and history. The few towns that eked out an existence along its shoulders did so through mining, ranching, or becoming a railroad stop. After mining dwindled and Interstate 40 went in, the communities dried up like spilled water on an August day.
Mercer’s Corner, population 3,762, elevation 2,136 feet above sea level, and a hundred miles from anywhere, managed to stay on the map. Though the appearance of I-40 ultimately shrank the population by half, the town survived by becoming a mecca for the dune buggy and hiking crowd, as well as continuing to support several profitable mining operations.
Now, it was typically so calm and peaceful that it needed to be checked for a pulse. Six blocks by four blocks, it boasted only two big city conveniences--Starbucks Coffee and a world class gym, which sat side by side a block from the Sheriff’s Department. The town nestled between I-40 to the north and Route 66 to the south. Where as I-40 was modern and well maintained, Route 66 was tired and worn, Mother Nature having nipped and gnawed at it over the years. The scorching summers, bitter winters, torrential rains, and wind, always wind, had cracked, buckled, and pockmarked its surface. Still, locals preferred it for its easy access and slower pace.
Residents were simple people who lived quiet, bland lives, which is exactly the way they wanted it. Conversation usually revolved around the local high school sports’ teams, politics, and the weather.
Three weeks ago, when the Garrett trial began, that all changed. Mercer’s Corner became a feeding ground for every major news service and tabloid rag, along with a healthy sprinkling of nut cases.
Exiting the courthouse, Sam marched past the gathering out front, noting the media hounds had pinned Lisa to the wall. Better her than me, she thought. Besides, she had bestowed her words of wisdom on them earlier.
Sam knew how to handle the media when she didn’t want to answer their inane questions--plow straight ahead, make no eye contact, and never stop. Show no weakness or they will devour you like a troop of Army Ants, leaving only bones to bleach in the noonday sun.
Hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, head bowed forward, she headed toward the gym. One reporter approached, but she glared him away.
At the corner, Garrett’s Groupies, as she called them, held their daily vigil, passing out Satanic literature and making a general nuisance of themselves.
The teenagers, mostly girls, had come from Los Angeles the day the trial began to support Garrett, who none of them knew. They got lucky there. All the girls but one looked like sisters--dyed black hair, which had not seen a comb in months, black lipstick and eye shadow that gave them that heroin addict look, various facial piercings, and a black inverted pentagram either painted or tattooed on their foreheads. At least the ones that opted for paint might be employable after they outgrew Satan. The lone blonde in the group, who could also use a good scrubbing, was as beautiful as any fashion model Sam had ever seen.
She had to admit to a certain curiosity about the group, especially the blonde and a tall brunette, who appeared to be their leader. Whereas the others possessed empty, even angry expressions, these two offered captivating smiles along with the literature they handed out. She couldn’t help wondering how they ended up here, singing Garrett’s praises, instead of attending college or raising a family or pursuing a career.
At the moment, the blonde appeared to be enlightening a young male reporter who Sam figured probably had more than a story in mind.
Entering Ryker’s Gym, she bounced down the stairs and into the women’s locker room. After changing into knee length Spandex pants, sports bra, and a cropped tee shirt and tightening the tie around her ponytail, she charged through her work out. She completed a four-mile run on the rooftop track, a strenuous circuit training session, and now, using her teeth, pulled the laces tight on a pair of boxing gloves. Jimmy Ryker, gym owner and local boxing trainer, who had been the California Golden Gloves’ Middleweight Champion, tied the laces as she held her hands out, palms up.
“Let’s start with the heavy bag,” he said.
Sam positioned herself, then fired rights and lefts at the bag, while Jimmy leaned into it from behind, stabilizing it against her blows. Easy and rhythmic at first, her punches grew in intensity until she lashed at the ninety-pound bag with both fists.
The concussive sound of leather against canvas ripped through the air. Sweat poured from her face as the ferocity of her attack increased. Dropping her hands low, she torqued her body with each blow, slamming shots into the bag, until she stepped back, shaking fatigue from her arms.
“What are you pissed at today?” Jimmy asked, tossing her a towel.
“Just stressed. This damn trial is a killer.” She wiped sweat from her face.
“Maybe they should just lock you and Garrett in a room. Only one gets out alive.”
“I wish.”
“If you bring that fury into the ring in Las Vegas next month, I feel sorry for whoever they put in there with you.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Sam.”
She turned to see Nathan. “Mr. Klimek.”
“I told you, call me Nathan.”
“What do you want, Mr. Klimek?”
“Just watching your work-out. Impressive.”
“Thanks.”
“Good balance. Excellent pronation on your punches.”
“You know about boxing? Let me guess. You did a story on six-armed boxing Martians?”
He laughed and brushed his hair back off his forehead. “Actually, I boxed a little in high school and college. In fact, I was pretty good.”
“You don’t look the type.”
“What type is that?”
“Broken nose. Cauliflower ears.”
“I learned to duck.”
She sized him up. Five-eleven, about 170 pounds, trim, probably fit, with an engaging smile. A smile that likely opened most doors, corporate, bedroom, whatever. He appeared mostly harmless, but Sam knew otherwise. He had dogged her since the trial began for a story, a date, she wasn’t sure which. His flawless good looks unsettled her even if she wouldn’t admit it.
“You still sniffing around for an interview?”
“Of course,” he smiled.
“How badly do you want this chat, Mr. Klimek?”
“Why?”
“I don’t have anybody around here to spar with except Jimmy and I’m tired of beating on him.” She winked at Jimmy. “Go a couple of rounds and I’ll sit down with you.”
“Box? With you?”
“If you’re afraid, I’ll understand.”
He looked at her, her gloves, the ring, as if considering her proposition. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”
“Don’t worry. You won’t.”
“And if I do this, get in the ring, we have dinner tonight?”
“That’s the deal.”
He looked at Jimmy who shrugged.
“What’s it going to be?” Sam said. “Do I hit the shower or are you going to suit up?”
Ten minutes later, Nathan returned wearing a pair of shorts and tennis shoes Jimmy had rustled up. Jimmy laced a pair of gloves on him, slipped a padded head protector over his head, fastening it beneath his chin, and shoved a mouthpiece in place. Nathan climbed between the ropes into the ring.
He stretched and rotated his neck, shook his shoulders, slapped his gloves together. He bounced on his toes, forward, back, right, left, while throwing shadow punches. Sam was impressed with his footwork and hand speed.
“Ready?” Jimmy asked.
“Let’s do it,” Nathan said.
Jimmy, serving as referee, had them touch gloves in the middle of the ring, and then blew the whistle that hung from his neck, signaling the beginning of the three-minute round.
Sam danced to her left, circling him clockwise, while he plodded to his right to face her as she moved. She pawed a left hand at him, then another, then a lazy right off the top of his headgear. He slapped a left against her shoulder and she popped a right to his mid-section. For a minute and a half, they continued sparing, neither striking any major blows. Then, Nathan threw a wide right hook, catching her flush on the cheek, sending her to the canvas.
She immediately jumped to her feet. “Prison rules, huh?”
Nathan appeared surprised that he had hit her that hard and more surprised that she got up. The surprise disappeared when she slammed a left hook to his body, a right upper cut to his chin, and a left to his head. He staggered backwards against the ropes but quickly regained his balance. He fired a right and a left. Sam blocked one but the other caught her on the chin.
“Very good,” she mumbled around her mouthpiece.
They exchanged blows for the remainder of the round. Jimmy blew the whistle. They leaned on the ropes.
“Had enough?” Sam asked.
“Are you kidding? I forgot how much fun this was.”
“Want to kick it up a notch?”
“I thought that was kicked up,” Nathan said.
“Not by a long shot,” she said.
“Sure. Let’s get ready to rumble,” he said.
Jimmy blew the whistle and they squared off. Nathan released a three-punch combination, mostly deflected by Sam’s gloves. Sam responded with a hook to the head, then crouched and popped a low left hook to his ribs followed by another to his head. He spun and fell face down to the canvas, like a skydiver whose chute didn’t open.
Nathan groaned and rolled to his back, his glazed eyes searching for something to focus on, finding nothing. Shaking his head, he grabbed the bottom rope and hauled himself to a sitting position.
Sam knelt next to him, a gloved hand on his shoulder. “You OK?”
His eyes swept right, left, then clearing, focused on her. “I think so. I didn’t hurt you did I?”
She smiled. Despite being a night crawling worm, he did have his charm. “How about you?”
“I’ll be OK. Jesus, where did you learn to hit like that?”
“Misspent youth.”
“Sam.”
She looked up to see Lisa approaching. She wore green Spandex pants and halter top. Her skin glistened with perspiration, which she dabbed from her face with one end of the towel that draped around her neck. Sam stood. Nathan grasped the ropes and pulled himself up.
Lisa looked at Nathan, then Sam, then back to Nathan. “What’s going on here?”
“Deputy Cody was just showing me the price of an interview,” Nathan said.
“Welcome to Mercer’s Corner,” Lisa said. “Now you know why nobody, except Jimmy, will put on gloves with her.”
"Message received," Nathan smiled weakly.
“Sam,” Lisa continued, "just got a page. The jury has reached a decision. Judge Westbrooke will reconvene the court at 3 p.m."
*
The courtroom was filled by the time Sam took her front row seat, directly behind Lisa, the same seat she had occupied every day for the past three weeks. Hopefully, today would be the last time.
She watched as Hector Ramirez led Richard Earl Garrett to his seat next to Mark Levy behind the defense table. The chains that bound Garrett’s ankles rattled and scrapped as he crossed the room and the cuffs that secured his wrists clunked against the table when he sat down.
Lisa turned around, holding up crossed fingers, and said, "Let’s hope."
“Amen,” Sam agreed.
Everyone stood as Judge Westbrooke entered and took his place at the rostrum. He called the court to order, then brought in the jury.
Sam studied their faces as they shuffled down the two rows of six seats. They appeared drawn, tired. Yet, Sam sensed something else. Fear. Maybe fear was too strong, but at least they appeared tense, edgy. Their eyes darted around but their gaze remained low as if they feared eye contact with anyone.
An hour for lunch, two hours for deliberation, and they reached a decision. But, what decision? Could they sentence a man to death in two hours? This animal, maybe, but Sam couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that rose in her gut. Surely, a death sentence would have taken more time, more discussion.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Judge Westbrooke began, “the court has been informed that you have reached a decision regarding sentencing in this case.”
“That’s correct, your honor,” Roberto Sanchez, the new jury foreman said.
Sam flashed on Connie Beeson. It should be her standing in Roberto's place.
The silence in the courtroom was suffocating as if the air had been sucked out with the ambient noise, leaving behind a deep space like vacuum.
Judge Westbrooke cleared his throat, and then spoke. “Having found the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree with special circumstances on the first count of the indictment, the murder of Thomas Waters, how do you fix the punishment?”
Sam looked toward Harry and Noreen Waters, who sat stiffly, ghostly pale, breath held. It appeared as if the small part of their brains that continued to function homed on Roberto Sanchez, praying for the ointment a death sentence would apply to their wounds.
“We the jury fix the punishment of Richard Earl Garrett for the murder of Thomas Waters at death.”
A collective shout of joy arose, someone jeered “Kill the bastard” from the back of the room, and Mrs. Waters collapsed in tears against her husband’s shoulder. Sam noticed Nathan Klimek, leaning against the back wall, speaking into his hand, which concealed a cell phone from Judge Westbrooke’s view. Roll the presses.
Judge Westbrooke cracked his gavel down. “Order. Order in the courtroom.” Silence again fell. “If there are any further outbursts, I’ll clear the courtroom.” His eyes swept the room, narrowed as they settled on Nathan. “Mr. Klimek, either put away that phone or leave the courtroom.”
Nathan nodded sheepishly and stuffed the phone in his jacket pocket.
“You may continue, mister foreman,” Westbrooke said.
Similar verdicts were handed down on the other two counts for the murders of Lee Ann Hobert and Rachel Culbertson.
Judge Westbrooke peered over his half glasses at Garrett. “Will the defendant please rise.”
The scraping of the chair and the rattling of his chains as Garrett stood, cut through the tomb-like silence of the courtroom, causing several of the jurors to flinch. He faced Judge Westbrooke.
Sam, sitting only ten feet behind and to his right, eyed him as he stood, calmly, passively, as if waiting in line to buy a movie ticket. He in no way looked like a man just sentenced to death. The corners of his mouth twitched, curled upward slightly, but not enough to qualify as a smile.
“Mr. Garrett,” Westbrooke said, dropping his glasses on the rostrum before him, “Do you understand the jury’s recommendation?”
“I understand it perfectly.” His glare painted the jury, many of whom shifted in their seats as if they wanted to jump up and run through the oak double doors at the rear of the courtroom, into the streets, away from the monster that had strangled the tranquility, the security, the contentment from their lives. Run and never stop running until the memory of Richard Earl Garrett, the horror of the photos of the mangled children, and the stench of death could be leeched from their minds.
“Since it is two weeks before Christmas,” Westbrooke continued, “and I’m sure we would all like to finish this before the holiday, I will set formal sentencing on...” He replaced his glasses and shuffled through papers before him, finding the one he wanted. “December twenty-first at nine a.m.” He leaned forward, elbows on the rostrum, peered over his glasses at Garrett. “Mr. Garrett, I see no reason to change the jury’s recommendation and offer a lesser penalty. I will, however, consider motions from your attorney as well as from the prosecution, before making a final determination. Do you have anything to say to the court at this time?”
“The court? You call this confederacy of dunces a court? I answer to a court much higher than you can imagine. More powerful, more pure, more just than this,” he waved a hand toward the jury, “could ever attain.” His eyes bored into Westbrooke, who cleared his throat uncomfortably. “The members of the jury have already sealed their fate. Would you care to join them, your honor?” he sneered contemptuously.
“Mr. Garrett, I must point out that any attempt to intimidate this court will be unsuccessful.”
“Then you have likewise sealed your fate,” Garrett said. Turning, he faced the jury and spoke in a low voice. “Do you see them, my Prince? These twelve who seek to reproach your disciple, to condemn his act of faith, to break his bond with you. Yet even now they lie groveling and prostrate on yon lake of fire.”