Sunday, October 22, 2017
Cathleen Speidel had tried to keep busy in the weeks leading up to the trial before her days would consist of sitting in a courtroom and hearing violent, disturbing testimony.
The trial had placed a damper on her upcoming travel plans for the fall. A trip to Las Vegas had been arranged, just like every autumn for the last several years, but now the trip was postponed until the conclusion of the trial. As a former airline employee, her flight was easily rescheduled, but delaying her relaxing week at the casino made her miserable.
She knew she’d be selected to the jury as soon as she arrived the courthouse back in August. She’d served as a juror twice before, and that experience always made her an automatic favorite. The questionnaire she filled out upon arriving made her suspect she would be a prime target. While they didn’t ask directly, the questions strongly suggested they wanted jurors who had free time to spare, in anticipation of a lengthy trial. They also preferred candidates with minimal TV, technology, and social media exposure.
As a 65-year-old single woman, she checked all of these boxes. As suspected, she was asked into the courtroom, where the attorneys would question her further. She froze when she entered and saw the man who had killed all those people, sitting calmly beside his defense team dressed in a dark red jumpsuit.
This is for his trial?
All the worries about her trip vanished. She wanted this trial. It would be historic, and who wouldn’t want to be a part of history? Vegas wasn’t going anywhere. She immediately told the attorneys she had a wide open schedule and would have no issues committing to a longer trial. They projected three to four weeks, which really wasn’t that long. During her time in the courtroom, she looked out the corner of her eye toward Jeremy Heston. And while her glasses didn’t allow her a clear view from that angle, she could sense him staring back at her.
The attorneys grilled her with questions about her family’s history, digging for any sort of connection to mental illness. There were none, and after a couple hours Cathleen was informed that they would follow up should they choose her as a juror. This process was different than the common procedure where jurors were informed the same day, but she recalled seeing the number of jury summons had been record-breaking for this case.
As she thought back on all of these events, she felt a tingle of excitement knowing the trial would begin tomorrow. On this particular night, Cathleen had just returned from a trip to the grocery store. She liked to go at night time when there was less of a crowd and no lines.
A cool breeze blew her short, sandy brown hair in crazy waves when she stepped out of her car at home. A full moon lit up her block and she could hear a distant squeal of teenagers playing a game of hide-and-seek. Leaves rustled across her lawn as she stood behind her open trunk, examining which bags of groceries to take inside, and which to leave in her freezer in the garage. Boxes of frozen dinners had spilled out of their bags and all around the trunk.
Cathleen sighed as she collected the boxes; she didn’t hear the soft footsteps approaching from behind. The shuffling steps silenced directly behind her, and the dark figure watched as she gathered the groceries.
Cathleen felt eyes on her, but it wasn’t uncommon for a neighbor to be on a late-night stroll around the block.
When she turned, her heart leapt through her throat as she saw the hooded figure. The darkness provided camouflage too, along with the black clothing and the baggy hood over the head.
“Cathleen,” a steady man’s voice said from the pit of darkness where his face would be.
Cathleen’s throat locked and she couldn’t speak. Quickly, the man’s hand grasped her and clenched tightly around her neck. She sucked in air with short, panicked gasps. The man’s fingers felt soft, and she assumed he was wearing gloves. The glow from the garage light revealed the whites of the man’s eyes, staring at her as his grip loosened just enough for her to breathe normally.
“Ms. Speidel,” the man said, this time in a formal and articulate voice. “I know you’re on the Jeremy Heston jury. I need you to make sure he receives the verdict of not guilty by reason of insanity.”
He paused as if awaiting a response, but he still had her throat grasped, so as to not allow speech.
“Anything less will be very bad for you.”
A gust of wind howled and whistled, prompting the man to look behind him. She could feel his hand trembling beneath the glove and wondered if he was nervous.
“If he receives any sort of guilty verdict, I’ll be back. I know where your son lives and I’ll slit his throat faster than you can say ‘not guilty.’ All you have to do is become the jury foreman, and make sure to influence your peers to see things your way.”
Tears rolled down Cathleen’s face and adrenaline flowed through her veins. The lack of oxygen to her head made her eyeballs feel like they would explode out of their sockets.
“My instructions are simple: get him the insanity verdict, and I’ll leave you $100,000 cash as a thank you. I understand the risk you’re taking, so I want to make sure you’re taken care of. If he gets a guilty verdict, I’ll be paying a visit to Ironwood Street in San Diego.”
David. That was where Cathleen’s adult son lived. Whoever the hooded figure was, he was not bluffing.
The man released his grip and watched as she huffed and puffed for fresh air. He took a step back before speaking again.
“Make it happen, Cathleen. And if you speak of this confrontation to anyone, I will find out, and I’ll come back here. If I have to come back here for any other reason besides delivering the $100,000, it won’t be a pretty sight for you.”
The man pivoted around and broke into a sprint. His rapid footsteps faded away into silence within seconds.
Cathleen rubbed her throat, where the throbbing pain remained from the man’s fingers. Every inhale felt like sharp needles in her throat. She looked in the direction the man had run and saw nothing but darkness, street lights glowing softly over the deserted street.
What do I do? Call the cops right now?
She wanted nothing more than to do just that, but she resisted.
How could this man know if I contact the authorities?
Perhaps he knew someone within the court system, or even worked in the system himself. That would explain how he knew she was a juror in the case.
But why would he want to fix the trial to end this way?
He was surely a friend or relative of Jeremy’s. Who else would go to such an extreme measure?
Cathleen returned to taking her groceries inside as her mind raced. She looked over her shoulder every time she returned to her car, but she knew he was long gone and not coming back any time soon.
He could be bluffing.
If the man was bluffing, she could call the police and notify the judge without a worry. But what would she tell them? She didn’t even get a clear look at the man and had no way to describe him except for his approximate height and the tone of his voice.
And if he’s not bluffing?
The thought sent chills throughout her body, and she shivered underneath her sweater. If he meant everything he said, then she had no choice but to try and influence the verdict. She didn’t need his money, but she didn’t want to die from something out of her control. Or worse, have something happen to David.
I could run away.
Cathleen entertained the thought. She could finally get the condo she wanted in Las Vegas, or live on an island somewhere and drink fruity cocktails all day. With more years behind her than ahead, the idea wasn’t too shabby. Living the island life for the next ten to fifteen years could be relaxing. All she’d need to pack would be books and clothes. She could leave Denver behind forever and be a fugitive of the United States for fleeing from a trial.
Don’t be silly. You live here. Your life is here.
She’d wanted to work on this jury, looked forward to it, but now it was all tainted by the hooded man.
Cathleen poured a glass of wine to the brim, knowing sleep would be hopeless without a little help. She could still feel her body pulsing in anxiety at the violent encounter.
Once the wine kicked in, she felt she had the courage to do the right thing and took out her cell phone, punching in 9-1-1 on the number pad. She stared at the three numbers in her trembling hand, her thumb hovering over the green button to place the call.
He has David’s address.
Cathleen canceled the call and ran to the bathroom to vomit. She was about to be sucked into a conspiracy much worse than fleeing the country, and there was nothing she could do about it.