by D P Lyle
He grimly told of Connie Beeson’s accident. Gasps and moans rippled through the gallery. Obviously, everyone hadn’t heard the news. Westbrooke banged them into silence with his gavel. He seated one of the four alternate jurors and then gave the floor to Mark Levy, Garrett’s court appointed attorney.
Mark, young, bright, well-dressed in a navy blue suit, white shirt, and red floral tie, gave a clear, if not impassioned, summary of his defense. He closed by telling the jury to “do what you know in your hearts is right.” He then returned to his seat.
“Ms. McFarland,” Westbrooke said. “You may proceed with your final argument.”
Dressed in a pin-striped gray suit and white blouse, prosecutor Lisa McFarland paced back and forth before the jury, speaking in a soft voice, drawing the jurors forward in their seats, forcing them to concentrate on each word. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, in my ten years as a prosecutor, never before have I seen an individual more deserving of the death penalty than the defendant Richard Earl Garrett.”
From her front row seat, Sam scanned the jury of eight men and four women, attempting to read their expressions. Each sat erect, stone-faced, betraying nothing.
“You have seen the evidence in this case: the defendant arrested at the scene, bathed in the victim’s life-blood; his fingerprints on the murder weapon, the candle sticks, and the chalice from which he drank the blood of these children; their small bodies, hearts removed, hanging like sides of beef, left to rot like so much garbage.”
Sam’s eyes slid to her left where the families of the victims sat, pale, drawn, eyes vacant as if in a trance. She felt Lisa’s words slamming into them, driving their pain deeper into their marrow.
Her gaze met the watery eyes of Noreen Waters, young Tommy’s mother. Though neatly dressed, she appeared a mass of frazzled nerves, trembling hands, quaking lips. She offered Sam a thin smile and a nod. Always a lady, Sam thought, and returned her nod. Tears pressed against her eyes, but Sam managed to squeeze them back.
“You heard testimony from the defendant in which he as much as admitted his guilt.” Lisa stood before the jury, hands folded before her chest as if in prayer. “His defense?” She waved her hand toward Garrett. “The devil made him do it. You heard his outlandish tale of being invaded by some evil force that compelled him to ravage these children. That he and the children were mere pawns, sacrificial lambs, in the struggle between good and evil.”
Mrs. Waters clutched her Bible to her chest and sobbed. Her husband Harry wrapped an arm around her, attempting to console the inconsolable.
“You have heard from two expert psychiatrists who emphatically stated that Richard Earl Garrett is not insane, not crazy, though with the heinous nature of these crimes I know that may be hard for you to believe. How could a sane person kill and mutilate these three beautiful, innocent children?”
Mrs. Waters broke down, releasing her pain and anguish into her lacy handkerchief and Rosary beads. The other two mothers joined her.
Lisa walked to where the families sat, flashed a sympathetic smile, and then turned her gaze to Richard Earl Garrett. Her voice rose and she pointed at the impassive killer. “This man, this animal, knew exactly what he was doing. He planned the abductions, set the sacrificial stage, and performed the sacrifices. He has shown no pity, no remorse, but rather a smug and arrogant satisfaction with his deeds.”
Sam stared at Garrett, who sat quietly, as he had throughout the trial, hands folded on the table before him. At six feet and 180 pounds, he appeared fit and rested as if two months in jail and three weeks of trial had had no effect on him. Everyone else involved in this madness, herself included, appeared worn, haggard, aging by the day. But, Richard Earl Garrett looked as if he had just returned from an extended, relaxing vacation. The only change she detected between when she arrested him and now was a slight salting of his pepper black hair at the temples and a few new wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Not the graying and wrinkling of age or stress or fatigue, but rather of wisdom, contentment.
He turned as if he had sensed her watching him. As he looked over his shoulder at her, his brown eyes seemed soft, almost kind, but with a malevolent edge. They were the same eyes she had stared into in disbelief two months earlier as she slipped the handcuffs on him.
She, Charlie, and everyone else at the scene had been shaken, sickened, even in shock at the sight of the children’s bodies, but Garrett had been calm, passive, extending his arms, accepting the cuffs without protest. As she ratcheted them closed, he had smiled. Now, that same smile lifted one corner of his mouth. A cold chill drifted up her spine and a hollowness expanded in her stomach.
Lisa approached the jury and grasped the rail before them. She spoke the names of the victims, pausing after each name, allowing the jurors time to form mental images of the dead children.
“Tommy Waters. Lee Ann Hobert. Rachel Culbertson. You all knew them, know their parents, know what kind and good children they were. Know they were innocent, happy, and with so much life ahead. They now call to you...beg of you...not to let their murder go unpunished.
"If you listen, listen with your hearts, there is but one punishment that fits these horrible crimes. Richard Earl Garrett should be expunged from this society, this world, and delivered to the Satan he so loves. You have found him guilty of murder in the first degree with special circumstances. I ask that you sentence the defendant to the same fate he granted these three innocent children...death.”
Richard Earl Garrett, displaying emotion for the first time, gripped the edge of the table and glared at the jury, drawing their collective gaze to him. His lip curled into a sneer. “You people still don’t understand.”
Judge Westbrooke rapped his gavel firmly. “Mr. Garrett, you may not address the jury.”
Garrett ignored the admonition. “You act as if you have control of my fate, of your fate.”
“Mr. Garrett,” Westbrooke raised his voice and again cracked his gavel.
Garrett laughed, never turning from the jury. “Be careful what you choose, for you choose your own destiny, not mine. Lucifer has chosen my fate and so will he choose yours. With the help of your children,” he turned to the parents, his eyes now cold, black, “he and I have become one.”
Judge Raymond Westbrooke pounded his gavel. “Mr. Garrett, you are out of order.”
Garrett stood and as if Westbrooke did not exist, once again fixed his glare on the jury. “Each of you live at his whim. He is destiny.” He locked his jaw defiantly. “Now, go and decide your fate,” he spat.
“Bailiff,” shouted Judge Westbrooke, hammering his gavel furiously, “remove the defendant from the courtroom.”
Sam jumped the rail in front of her, one hand closing around but not drawing the Smith and Wesson .357 that lay against the small of her back, the other clutching the chain between the cuffs that bound Garrett’s wrists. Bailiff Hector Romero, six-three and 220 pounds, grasped Garrett’s arm.
Garrett extended a finger and ran it over the back of Sam’s hand, then gently closed his hand over hers. Not threatening, but rather paternal. Or perhaps the protective cradling of one lover's hand in another's. She froze. The hand that had mutilated three children held hers. A hand of such horrible proportions that she could not begin to fathom its depths. Yet, the fingers were delicate, soft, more feminine than masculine.
A warm flush spread through her, followed by an icy chill.
“Come on, tough guy,” Hector said as he yanked Garrett toward the exit.
Garrett stopped at the door, turned, and eyed the jury, his eyes, no longer soft nor kind, but dark and menacing. Sam flashed on an old Life magazine cover with Charlie Manson’s face. The eyes--inhuman, cold, black, like a cornered, yet un-subdued wolf. The kind of look that clutched your throat, squeezed your guts, and wouldn’t let go. The kind you tried to pull away from, but could not. The kind that peered into the darkest recesses of your mind where you kept your most secret fears and squeezed the juice of those fears into your b
lood stream, creating a river of fire and ice.
His gaze returned to her, softened, held her for a moment, a faint smile parting his lips, then Hector drug him through the door.
The adrenaline that moments before had raced through her veins suddenly settled in her gut, releasing a wave of nausea and cold sweat. Realizing she wasn’t breathing, she inhaled sharply. She quickly sat down and looked around the room, hoping no one noticed her reaction.
Get a grip, Samantha.
Once the courtroom had been restored to order, Judge Westbrooke gave the jury their instructions, including the task of electing another foreman to replace Connie Beeson.
As they listened, Sam again searched their faces for any sign of what they might be thinking, but found only apprehension, fatigue, and occasional worried glances at the door that had closed behind Garrett as if he might burst through it at any moment and hurl hell fire and brimstone at them. The strain of the trial cut deeply into their faces. What would they do?
After the jury filed from the courtroom, Sam settled one hip on the prosecution’s table where Lisa stood, stuffing papers into her choked briefcase. “Good job.”
“We’ll see,” Lisa said, waving a handful of papers, looking for someplace to put them. “I learned long ago, you can never predict what a jury will do.”
“At least you finally got a rise out of Garrett. I was beginning to think he was made of stone.”
“He is. I wish you had shot the son-of-a-bitch. Then, this would be over.”
“It crossed my mind.”
“I wouldn’t have prosecuted you if you had,” Lisa smiled. “How about lunch?”
“I think I’ll go by the gym and work off some steam,” Sam said. “Want to go?”
“Sure. Let me throw some bones to the media vultures and I’ll meet you there.”
Chapter 4
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.”
&
nbsp; “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.
