Frozen Footprints

by Therese Heckenkamp

  “Silence!” Judge Whitman commanded. “I will not tolerate outbursts in my courtroom, Mr. Perigard. This is your second and final warning. Another outburst like that, and I will have you removed.”

  I was surprised I didn’t see steam shooting from Grandfather’s ears, nose, and mouth. Gauntley whispered something to him, and he sat down sullenly.

  Judge Whitman turned his focus back to Rob and told him to continue.

  Rob nodded. “So right after Mr. Perigard sent Charlene off with the ransom money, he tells me he changed his mind about paying, that Max didn’t deserve a single dollar—even if it was, quote, ‘a crafty scheme that Max cooked up.’ So Mr. Perigard sent me to make the switch with fake bills. He was sure that Max, unlike Charlene, wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

  When Rob left the stand, he grinned my way and mouthed, “Good luck.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Gauntley had a strange smile on his face. “I call Dr. Bach to the witness stand.”

  An elderly gentleman dressed in a navy blue suit took the stand and was sworn in.

  “What is your occupation?”

  Dr. Bach sat up very straight. “I am a psychiatrist.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Tell us, Doctor, what is ‘Stockholm Syndrome’?”

  The doctor steepled his fingers. “Stockholm Syndrome is a term used to describe a paradoxical psychological phenomenon wherein a kidnapped person develops a positive emotional attachment or relationship with his or her kidnapper. Hostages may be affected to such an extent, that they will even defend their captor.”

  “Very interesting,” Gauntley said, as if he were surprised to hear this information. “Is this a rare occurrence?”

  “Actually, it happens more often than you might think. In fact, the FBI’s Hostage Barricade Database System shows that roughly twenty-seven percent of victims display signs of Stockholm Syndrome.”

  The doctor went on to cite a case of a thirteen-year-old girl who was kidnapped, then located ten years later, living as a wife to the kidnapper. They even had two children together.

  Listening, I felt sick.

  But I certainly didn’t want Dr. Bach coming to my aid.

  “This is so twisted,” I whispered to Max. I felt a million eyes on me. “And I hate all these people for feeling sorry for us.”

  “Don’t worry,” Max laid a hand on my shoulder, “they won’t all fall for this crap.”

  * * *

  At last the tables turned, and it was the defense’s turn to present evidence and testimony.

  The handcuffs that Abner had bound Clay with were entered into evidence, as was the sliced rope that had been found in the cellar. Flecks of blood had been identified on the rope fibers, and DNA testing proved that it belonged to Clay. When Pharris showed pictures of Clay from January fourth, the day he was arrested, his wounds spoke more than words.

  Magnified, the pictures gave evidence of Clay’s chafed wrists, proving my testimony of how he had struggled against his bonds in the cellar so he could help me and Max. The picture of Clay’s face, however, didn’t need to be magnified. The many wounds were obvious. I watched the jury’s hardened faces soften gradually, and I felt hope that they were truly beginning to see the truth.

  Max gave testimony about how Clay had saved me from the lake. Powerful stuff, I thought. But of course, I’m biased.

  Pharris also drilled Max about what took place after the lake rescue. “Did the defendant enter the cottage of his own free will?”

  “Sure did. He was helping me carry my sister.”

  “Who made the phone call to the police?”

  “Clay did.”

  Pharris played the recording of that phone call for the entire courtroom to hear before continuing with the questions.

  “After the call was made, was the defendant kept in the cottage against his will to wait for the arrival of the police?”

  “No.”

  “Thank you,” Pharris said. “That’s all, Your Honor.”

  * * *

  This time when I took the stand, I was determined to have my say.

  “Ms. Perigard,” Pharris began, “When you first encountered the defendant, did he threaten you or assault you, or in any way force you to enter the cabin with him?”

  “No.”

  “And when his brother, Abner, entered, what happened?”

  I described the scene, explaining how when Abner grabbed me, Clay jumped in to stop him. “Then Abner hit him with his rifle and forced him down into the prison with me.”

  Pharris continued to question me on key points, giving me freedom to describe what had really happened, though we were interrupted with quite a few objections from Gauntley. Still, the truth came out, how Clay was restrained and beaten, locked up, held at gun-point.

  “Clay may have made some mistakes,” I said calmly, “but I’d like to see any one of you stand up to Abner, and even live to tell about it. Clay stood up not just once, but many times.”

  “Objection!” Gauntley barked.

  “Overruled,” Judge Whitman responded, before Gauntley could even say what exactly he was objecting to.

  The judge nodded for me to continue. I took a deep breath. “So don’t condemn Clay for not succeeding the first time, or the second.” As I spoke, I looked each juror in the eye, willing them to understand. “Don’t condemn him for not being physically stronger than Abner.” I rubbed the thin raised scar on my ring finger. “He failed to save us at the start, but he kept trying, and eventually, he succeeded.”

  I cleared my throat. “Even then, he could have run. He knew what he’d be facing if he was caught. But he purposely chose to stay and wait with us for the police. Then he waited in jail for seven long months for his case to come to trial. Don’t you think he’s paid enough?” My voice broke. “Don’t you think it’s time he finally went free?”

  “Hogwash!” Grandfather shot up from his seat. “Balderdash! She’s brainwashed!”

  “Silence!” The judge’s gavel pounded. He pointed a severe finger at Grandfather. “Three strikes, you’re out, Mr. Perigard.” Judge Whitman nodded to two police officers, who promptly took hold of Grandfather’s arms and began forcefully escorting him from the room. Grandfather’s angry struggle and protests were drowned out by an eruption of applause from the courtroom crowds. I could hardly believe it.

  “Order in the court!” The judge’s gavel pounded, but even as the clapping subsided, most everyone was smiling. Max gave a jaunty wave in Grandfather’s direction.

  “Joy, Gwen,” Grandfather barked, “come on! You’re leaving too!” Joy and Gwen gave me an apologetic glance before rising to do his bidding.

  “You’ll all be sorry!” was the last the court heard from Grandfather before he was dragged out the doors.

  “Awesome,” Max said when I returned to my seat beside him, and when he gave me a high-five, I had to muffle a laugh.

  * * *

  Now I was becoming optimistic, but Pharris didn’t share my enthusiasm. “Don’t count your verdict before it’s decided,” he cautioned dully as we met privately between court sessions. “It could go either way. The prosecution’s evidence is very compelling, very emotionally provoking. Our sympathy angle’s good, but we don’t have any evidence strong enough to counter the video. That’s a clear depiction of an accomplice.”

  Pharris’s words ran through my head as I fell into bed that night.

  The video. An accomplice.

  But Clay wasn’t. If only they could have been there. Seen, or at least heard, what came after the camera fell.

  I snapped up in bed. My mind whirred as I replayed the video. There had been no fuzzy white static snow indicating that the film had truly ended. The screen had been dark; you couldn’t see anything. You could barely hear my scream—but it had been there. And that’s when Gauntley had turned the film off.

  But what if there was more?

  I knew there was, because I had been there.

  No
one else knew, because they couldn’t see it or hear it. But if the volume was turned up, way up—maybe using some kind of special equipment—just maybe, the court would be able to hear the rest of the scene. Why hadn’t I thought of this sooner?

  I kicked off my sheet, grabbed my phone, and called Pharris.

  * * *

  All eyes in the courtroom watched the dark gray screen, but it was their ears that mattered. Eventually, we heard what I knew was there. The words were dim, but decipherable.

  “Are you completely insane?” came Clay’s horrified voice. “You are a monster!”

  There was a clang.

  Abner dropped the branding iron, I recalled.

  I braced myself for Abner’s voice, and when it came, it didn’t shake me.

  “And you’re a weak kid who can’t stand the sight of pain. That’s where the power is. You still don’t get it, do you? I’ll do whatever it takes to make the old man pay.”

  “It’s not worth it,” Clay cried. “It’s just money. Just dang money!”

  “That’s right,” Abner sneered, “you still think this is all about money. What a fool. Of course it’s not. It’s about revenge.”

  Thud, thud, smack. The sounds of fists hitting flesh were obvious to me and, I hoped, to every person in the courtroom.

  Wham, the final powerful punch. In my mind, I saw Clay crumple to the floor.

  Now, a buzz of voices filled the courtroom. I couldn’t keep myself from glancing at Clay—something I usually tried avoiding so there would be no more talk of the “Stockholm Syndrome.”

  As if sensing my eyes on him, Clay turned to face me. The words he couldn’t speak were unmistakably evident on his face: Thank you.

  Max nudged me, making me break eye contact with Clay.

  “Good job, Char. You should go into detective work. You could team up with your favorite guy, Detective Donnelly,” he joked.

  I nodded absently.

  * * *

  At last, Clay was given the opportunity to testify in his own defense. I held my breath, wondering if he would take it.

  He did.

  “We’ve heard a lot of testimony over these past days, Mr. Morrow,” Pharris said. “Do you have anything you’d like to add?”

  We all knew that whatever words came out of Clay’s mouth, they would likely be the most pivotal in the case. Most people probably expected a long, detailed, defensive account of every action of his that had been questioned. Instead, we heard:

  “It’s all been said, and I thank Max and Charlene for saying it.” He glanced our way. “I want to ask their forgiveness. The truth is, though I didn’t mastermind the kidnapping, that’s not good enough. I was an accomplice.” He ignored Pharris’s glare. “Maybe not so much by action, but by inaction. I was a coward, compromising, making excuses, twisting the truth. I didn’t stand up for what was right. Max and Charlene could easily have been killed.” He bowed his head. I almost didn’t catch his hushed final words:

  “God forgive me.”

  * * *

  “To convict Clayton Morrow of these criminal charges, the prosecution must have proved beyond a reasonable doubt . . .” As Judge Whitman gave the jury their final instructions, my mind wandered. Today, the long wait would be over. For Clay, it would be a bitter end or a new beginning. For me . . . I didn’t know. I couldn’t think past the verdict.

  Finally, it was time for the two sides to make their closing arguments. Max kept his arm around me protectively the whole time.

  The prosecution went first, Gauntley emphasizing Clay’s guilt and asking that justice be done. He finished by saying, “Remember, just because the victims decide that they like the defendant, that doesn’t make him any less a criminal or a threat to society. He’s still culpable for his crimes, and must be locked away. Think of the other Perigards.” Gauntley’s gaze swept the jury. “If it were your grandkids or kids who had been kidnapped and mistreated, wouldn’t you want the kidnapper behind bars—even if your kids didn’t?”

  Murmurs spread through the room.

  Next, Pharris stepped forward to address the jury. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he began blandly. “The prosecution would have you believe that Clayton Morrow is a ruthless kidnapper, a dangerous criminal. But what does the evidence tell us? Starting from the beginning, the ransom note, Exhibit # 1, is clearly written in single person form, the ‘I’ referring to Abner Morrow. What this entire case comes down to is that the prosecution would have you condemn the defendant for his brother’s crimes.”

  I sat straight in my chair, my muscles tense, as Pharris continued.

  “Look at the facts: Clayton Morrow helped Charlene Perigard out of a cold snowy woods into the shelter of a cabin. Here, he opposed his brother and subsequently suffered beatings. He was tied up and held captive. When able, he assisted the Perigards in digging for freedom. Hardly the acts of a criminal.” Pharris took a few steps and smoothed a hand down the front of his suit. “If he was guilty, why didn’t he flee the cottage before the police arrived? For that matter, why did he go there at all?”

  After a significant pause, Pharris added, “He went there so that Charlene Perigard wouldn’t die of hypothermia. He helped her brother bring her out of the cold, and then Clayton Morrow called the police himself.”

  At that moment, I changed my opinion of Pharris. He had fire in him after all, and it ignited his words.

  “Above all,” he continued, “the defendant saved Charlene Perigard’s life—you have this testimony from her own lips. Clayton Morrow saved her. Will you not save him?”

  Please, I prayed. Please.

  “By now,” Pharris said, “I know it is clear to you that the only thing Clayton Morrow is guilty of is being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Yet has anyone stopped to think what the Perigards’ fate would have been if the defendant had not been at the cabin? Perhaps Clayton was, in fact, in the right place at the right time.”

  My blood pumped hotly through my veins. Pharris’s words streamed into my ears, words which I hoped convinced the jurors, compelling their minds and moving their hearts.

  “I have presented the facts,” he finished. “It is now up to you to use these facts and come to the only logical, just conclusion: A ‘not guilty’ verdict. Thank you.”

  My heart fluttered with hope until the judge informed us that the prosecution had the final word. As I listened to Gauntley’s powerful voice, I thought, No, no, he’s ruining everything! My heart wrenched with distress.

  It wasn’t fair. Of course the side with the last word would have the most influence. The prosecution’s bias would be seared freshly in the minds of the jurors as they departed to decide the verdict.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do not be deceived,” Gauntley pleaded. “The defense and the two unfortunate Perigards would have us believe that Mr. Morrow is a victim, instead of a very real and dangerous criminal.

  “Do not forget, dear jury, the film recorded by the defendant. His fingerprints were found all over the camera. The female victim, in her sworn statement, affirmed that the defendant did indeed film the torturous event.” He paused. “The video should leave no question in your mind about the defendant’s guilt. Despite what came after, only a monster would film such a thing.”

  Abner was the monster! He forced Clay to do it, I wanted to cry, but it was no use. The judge would reprimand me. Besides, I remembered my own blinding anger and hatred toward Clay at the time.

  “The defense wants you to think Mr. Morrow was ‘made’ to do it,” Gauntley continued, “but as you know, it takes free will to hold a video camera, press record, and film for any length of time. And the brother, whom they say ‘made’ the defendant do this dastardly deed, was obviously occupied while the filming was taking place. This would have been the perfect opportunity for the defendant to make a move—if, indeed, he was victimized—which he obviously was not.

  “Yes, the young man may look innocent and harmless—even charming—but you all know
what the evidence has shown: He’s evil, not fit for society. The only place he is fit for is a prison cell.”

  Gauntley’s words rang with the finality of a prison door clanging shut.

  * * *

  The jury deliberation took over three hours. I spotted Clay’s mom sitting in her usual spot, her face pale, her eyes closed, rosary beads slipping through her fingers, her lips moving slightly.

  A very good idea.

  I pulled out my own string of beads. Mine, because Gwen had never wanted it back. Fingering the smooth tear-droplet shapes, I remembered how Max had tied Clay up with this rosary, and how I had released him. I recalled the conversation we had shared, and how later, Clay had called religion “just another form of captivity.”

  Time dragged, but when the doors opened, there suddenly didn’t seem to be enough time. The paper with the verdict was handed to the judge. A collective intake of breath swept through the room.

  Now was the moment of truth.

  My eyes went to Clay, who stood facing the judge—facing the most serious moment of his life—but his posture showed no cowering, no fear. In fact, Clay, who had been beaten and broken so many times in his life, stood waiting with a sturdiness that baffled me.

  Judge Whitman cleared his throat.

  What happened next made my rosary slip from my fingers.

  Deliberately, with a steady arm, Clay lifted his hand and made the sign of the cross.

  An act of faith.

  And suddenly, the verdict didn’t matter. Because, after all, it was only a piece of paper, only the judgment of men.

  Whatever it may be, Clay has the strength to deal with it. He’s not alone anymore.

  And neither am I.

  Slowly, I lifted my branded hand. My fingers brushed the cross imprinted in my skin, then touched my forehead. With thanks in my heart and a prayer on my lips, I too made the sign of the cross.