by Rich Foster
Despite repeated offers, Calley she refused to visit the girl. When Sarah, point blank challenged her mother, the first break in her armor occurred. Reluctantly, she agreed to accompany them on a visit.
On the way to Beaumont she was sullen. At the door of the room, she became sheepish. In the afternoon light Calley appeared to be a gawky adolescent, unsure of herself. Lucas gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze.
Sarah had burst into the room ahead of them and was sharing the small gifts and candies she brought her friend.
June sat upright in a chair. At her side on the hospital table were homework and textbooks from the home schooling program Lucas had arranged. She was behind in her class, yet making rapid progress. Physically she was also making gains; soon decisions would need to be made about where she should live. Lucas was considering a nearby boarding school.
June looked over to Lucas. Surprise on her face as she said, “Hello Mrs. Haskell.” Calley managed to utter a weak, reply. She was tormented on the inside by the easy manner the children put the past behind. Did she really want them to suffer? Did she wish ill for a mere child? A current of shame flowed through her. After all, what was there to forgive June for? Did she kill anyone? Wasn’t Jason to blame for her suffering? Was it possible that a good man could be guilty of evil? And if that was so, wasn’t it possible that an evil man might posses some good?
If Calley expected recriminations, she received none from June, but the braces on June’s legs silently spoke to her. Was not she partially to blame? Did she ever tell Jason to not use the bus unless it was fixed? Did she speak up when Goodman sued the church and say he was wronged? Questions streamed through her mind. Many of the answers were unpleasant. She attempted to push the thoughts aside, distracting herself with small talk and watching the girls play.
Lucas did not ask her what she felt with June. Calley was glad for that. The only comment he made was, “There’s freedom in forgiveness.”
The first snow fell in early November. It accumulated in parking lots. Snowplows made mounds along the streets. By the 15th it was gritty and blackened from sanding trucks, plows and auto exhaust. The world seemed determined to reflect the dirt and grime playing out at the courthouse.
The room was packed for Robert Goodman’s sentencing. People crowded in the hallway after the courtroom was filled. Cameras carried a live feed to an adjoining room and the outside world. The morning was set aside for sentencing comments from the victims and their families. If many in the crowd had their way, the afternoon would be the time for a lynching.
Earl Langston took the stand.
“Words fail me. My beautiful daughter is gone! And for what?” The grief in his voice was tangible. “I hope you die slow. I hope they miss the damn vein. I want you to suffer a slow death like my wife and I are suffering.”
Kevin Daniels spoke next. “I ask the State sentence him to death. It won’t change anything, but he is a cancer that society should cut out. A life sentence would give him years to think about what he did, but ultimately oblivion would come, eradicating his suffering. So let him die now.”
Lucas was called. “Personally, I think the death penalty will effect nothing. Theologically, I think we need all the time God may give us to repent. But I am a minister, not a judge. I do know that you killed some fine and decent people; people who left this world better for their having lived. I can’t say the same of you Mr. Goodman. I leave you to the judgment of God.”
From the courtroom a whispered voice audibly said, “Burn in hell, Goodman.”
Calley was the last to speak. She looked straight at Goodman, for the first time that morning Goodman looked back. He and she were connected; he knew it. The suffering of one was the suffering of the other. Love and hate were twins. If Calley hated him, Robert loved her for it.
“You destroyed something incredibly beautiful. You took away the future and left with pain. How can you let an accident lead to this? If you had gotten money would you have been sated? Did my girl die simply because you weren’t paid? What was your daughter worth to you, ten thousand dollars, a hundred thousand? What was she worth Mr. Goodman? What would you have traded for her life?” She paused, wiping away tears from her cheeks and attempting to regain emotional control. “There is no amount you could pay me to stop hating you. I would do nothing to save your life; in fact I would pull the switch. I want you to die.”
The audience was restive. “Three to one,” one voice said. People talked. Judge Mannering called for order.
“Robert Goodman do you have any statement before I sentence you?”
Goodman rose. “Yes your Honor I do.” His voice was loud and belligerent. There was no chance of his words being unheard or lost. “These people are a bunch of goddamn hypocrites. Who put that rotten death trap on the road? The church. They are all killers every last one of them. Where was their anger when my wife and daughter died? Where was their call for justice, when I went to court? They’re cheats and liars. If he existed, you would give God a bad name. Go ahead and kill me. I’m sick of living on the same planet as you. What I did is nothing worse than what the church did. This isn’t about what is right; this is about power. I showed you I had it. For a while, you crawled to my tune. I failed to execute final judgment on the whole church. Now it’s my turn to pay the piper. Do your best lady, I don’t give a damn.”
Goodman dropped into his seat.
“Rise to be sentenced Mr. Goodman.”
“Fuck you, bitch!”
Mannering wanted it over. She accepted the insult and sentenced him seated.
“Having been found guilty by a jury of your peers, I sentence you to death. This sentence is to be carried out at the Harmon State Correctional facility by means of lethal injection.”
Her gavel came down and it was over.
Harding’s column in the Clarion read,
Insolent to the end, Robert Goodman was given a death sentence today. Family members of the victim’s asked for death, with the exception of local new comer Lucas James.
An unrepentant Goodman described his accusers as hypocrites who were complicit in his wife and daughter’s death. He accused the New Life Redemption Church members of crying out for justice when they were harmed but denying the same justice to him.
Judge Elizabeth Mannering set January 22 of next year as the execution date.
Anti death penalty groups immediately criticized the sentence. Defense Counsel Brent Carlson promised an appeal. Given the length of time, an average appeal consumes, it is more likely Mr. Goodman will die of old age while incarcerated than from the application of the death penalty.
*
After sentencing, Goodman was transferred upstate. A semblance of normalcy returned to Mason Forks. The residents were relieved to not see the case in the paper every day.
In retrospect, Lucas believed her murder attempt on Goodman proved to be Calley’s “hitting bottom.” Afterward, she began regular therapy. Gradually, she seemed more interested in living. Lucas noted that more frequent smiles crossed her face. Increasingly, a laugh would pass her lips. As the therapy and antidepressants worked, she was again fully engaged with her children.
Lucas grew accustomed to having children around his house, due to their frequent visits. And the same might be said about his feelings toward Calley, who regularly floated in his thoughts. When she did laugh it lit up the room. He saw in those glimpses, what Grace had observed about Calley. And he saw there was more was still hidden, waiting to be rediscovered.
Soon, Thanksgiving was upon them. Grace prepared the turkey at Lucas’s house because his kitchen was larger. Calley and Sarah baked pies at home. Lucas cut up vegetables then, prepared the rolls for baking. Mid-morning he left, telling Grace he would be back with a surprise for their noontime meal.
A light snow, the night before, left the countryside clean and idyllic. Calley and the kids arrived shortly after Lucas departed. While they unloaded pies the boys sang, “Over the river and through the woods,
to grandmother’s house we go.”
They fell to throwing snowballs in the back yard while
Calley and Grace laid the china on the table. Sarah was ensconced in the living room reading, “Wanda and the Super, Secret, Secret” when Lucas pulled in, driving his uncle’s Ford Bronco. A familiar face was in the passenger seat.
“June’s here! Uncle Lucas brought June!” She dropped her book and ran for the front door.
Outside June stood beside the truck. Then unaided she walked toward the house. Nervously, Lucas hovered nearby. Sarah ran up and the girls traded air kisses, imitating celebrities they had seen. Grace and Calley hurried to the porch, pleasing Lucas with the smiles on their faces. It still surprised him that Calley would write hate mail to Goodman; yet treat June like another daughter. Small steps, he thought. But unbeknownst to him, Calley’s letters were undergoing change.
The meal was a great success. Afterward they played charades and board games like an ordinary family, as if they weren’t the scattered and surviving detritus of separate tragedies.
It came time for people to go home. “I hope to see you soon, June,” Sarah said.
“You’ll see her tomorrow,” Lucas promised. “June is staying over.”
Excited yelps of joy came from the Haskell children.
Grace stayed to help June get ready for bed. Lucas came in to say goodnight.
“Thank you, sir. I had a lovely day.”
“And I too June, you made it special.”
Lucas kissed his fingertips and touched her cheek. She blew him an air kiss.
In the living room Grace poured tea for herself, while Lucas took a short Scotch.
“Is this a trial run?”
“What do you mean Grace?” he asked slightly caught out by her comment.
“Are you thinking of bringing June here, to live with you? Or are you sending her off to some horrid boarding school?”
“Oh I can I see you’re unbiased!”
“Come Lucas,” Grace said between sips of tea. “You’re becoming more like a father every day, and it becomes you.”
Lucas held up his hands. “I am a happy bachelor, with no intention of being rumored into fatherhood. What do I know about rearing a child?”
“You might learn… if you try, Lucas. Think about it.”
*
Detective Egan had not heard from Wilson Chamberlain. He called West Palm Beach. The local police, with the reticence of those who serve the rich, reluctantly provided the unlisted phone number. He called. A member of the household staff tried to put him off, saying he was unavailable.
Egan assured the man he would mention that to his boss after they tore his lake house apart, of course with a search warrant. The man’s manners rapidly improved. Shortly, a middle age voice came on the line. No vestiges of the working class clung to it, now, three generations removed from the Nevada Silver mines.
Egan asked if he owned a tri-hull outboard. The man said, yes. Pat then inquired if he recalled getting a ticket on the lake in July. Chamberlain told him he was in Europe for the summer.
“Surely you’re not calling to collect a ticket?”
Egan ignored the question.
“Who had access to your boat?”
“No one, really.” After a slight pause he added, “Except for my neighbor. I let her use it. The boat is a convenient way into town during the season. You must be aware of the inadequacies of the lake road. The traffic can be terrible.”
“And what is your neighbor’s name?”
“Just send me the ticket officer. My people will take care of it.”
“I really need the name, sir.”
“Well I imagine you know her, officer, her name is Elizabeth Mannering. She’s a local judge.”
Egan went straight from the phone to the sheriff’s office.
“Mannering shot Kellner,” he said speaking to Gaines. Do you remember how Goodman wound her up at the preliminary hearings? Maybe he was shooting in the dark, but I think he knows something. In court he linked her and Kellner as possible friends.”
“All we have for sure is that she was in the vicinity. We can’t show motive. Even if Goodman could put her at the scene, I doubt we’d get a search warrant upon the word of a felon she recently sentenced to death. The other judges wouldn’t touch.”
“If we could pick her up, we could get a DNA sample. The forensic stuff came back and there was a female other than his wife in the bedroom.”
“Maybe it was the maid,” Gaines said.
“Sure and she’s a hell of a maid. She wiped the room clean of prints.”
“Pat, never forget Mannering is a judge. Things like this come down to power. We need to have her nailed down before we move. Get on the phone to Chamberlain again; see if he’ll give you permission to search the boat. Do a paraffin test on the steering wheel. If she used the boat leaving Kellner’s house, I doubt she’s risked taking it out since. Also have forensics vacuum it. See if we get a match with the hair from the crime scene.
But make sure your West Palm Beach boy faxes you his okay. Tell him we would appreciate any help he could give in solving the killing of Judge Kellner. Tactfully, try to deter him from picking up the phone and calling Mannering. But, to be safe, have our men waiting in the drive when you call him. I don’t want her getting there first.”
“Anything else?”
“Sure, she lives next door. Why don’t you look in her trashcan, take anything that might carry DNA, hair, a cigarette, a dirty Kleenex, whatever. We could never use it in court, but it would help us avoid any nasty surprises when we go in with a warrant.”
*
It was bitter cold as Egan cruised along the lake shore in an unmarked car. A white forensics van followed behind, its police markings covered over with magnetic signs that Egan borrowed from a friend who commercially painted.
Outside the gates he telephoned Chamberlain, who though loath to have his boat tied to a murder case, was even more leery of being dragged into it himself. Egan assured him, he could spend a pleasant holiday in sunny Florida with no cares at all, if they might only go in. Three minutes later, the fax tied to his laptop, printed out Chamberlain’s personal note and signature.
They swept the boat. Traces of gunpowder clung to the steering wheel. Prints were lifted. While the forensics team worked, Pat walked down the drive and out to the road. Chamberlain’s trash cans awaited pick-up discretely hidden behind wooden gates, Mannering's receptacles stood along the edge of the road. Egan did, what animals did every night in Red Lake, he kicked it over. Surveying the trash, he picked up a small plastic trash bag, bathroom size, not kitchen. Inside he found hair pulled from a brush and for good measure, tissue paper which judging from the stains held a used tampex. “Bingo” he said. He put on latex gloves and bagged the samples.
The state lab was backed up despite receiving federal funding earmark money. Three weeks. Egan put the phone down. He had waited this long, he could wait some more. No worries, he thought. Wilson Chamberlain’s boat was in a locked facility, securing the chain of evidence.
*
Lucas enjoyed his work at the church. The people of Mason Forks proved to be good and generous people. He made their acquaintance at their worst, now he leisurely discovered their more noble qualities. Pies and cakes were dropped off. New found friends offered to lend a hand. Words of encouragement were spoken. It was a new beginning after twenty years in the military.
Church attendance, which had fallen off, was on a rebound. Some, who left, returned. New faces joined. Many churches used the word “community” but they were truly becoming that. They shared potluck dinners once a week. This served the double purpose of helping members to become better acquainted and for those who were poor or momentarily hard pressed, to fill their bellies. The killings put life in perspective. People had been made kinder by the experience.
Writing to Goodman was a regular part of Calley’s day. Often she wrote before the children got up, leaving the letter i
n the mailbox for the postman. Other times she spent her lunch writing. However, the notes were no longer a repetitive mantra of hate, instead she would tell Goodman of the misery he inflicted, or tell him of what anniversary this day was for Ruthie. So many days’ dead, first Thanksgiving without her. As she had contact with June she relayed these events to Goodman, asking how he could have given up a chance to have a daughter just for vengeance? The letters were a mixture of anguish, anger, recrimination, and venting.
Sub-consciously, Calley used news of June to punish Goodman by showing him what he was missing. By extension he would know what she was missing by her loss of Ruthie. Her usual conclusion of vituperation slowly faded out. She found it difficult to tell Goodman to burn in hell, while she was being kind to his daughter.
Goodman relished her letters. He had a bond with her pain. Yet, her news of June was not wasted. The arrow struck home. Forcibly sober, Goodman looked at himself more objectively. The value Calley put on Ruthie’s life made him wonder if he had undervalued his own children. Slowly, he came to regret killing Ruthie. She was only a child, how could she be to blame for what the church and society had done to him. Robert decided, he might have killed the wrong people.
It was a little more than a week until Christmas. Calley did not feel like decorating her house, but Grace convinced her to do it for the kids. So on Saturday Lucas, Grace and the Haskell’s went in search of a Christmas trees. They drove to Red Lake. At the tree lot the scent of pine was rich and large soft snowflakes drifted from the sky, while tinny speakers played Christmas carols over and over. The Haskell kids took off in a mad rush for the perfect tree, while Grace sought a small one, Calley an affordable one, and Lucas a gigantic one for the church. Soon, each found what they wanted. Lucas tied the trees on the roof of his Bronco, while everyone else rode in Calley’s jeep.
