Death by Trial and Error (A Legal Suspense Short)

by R. Barri Flowers

  "Please," she gasped helplessly. "I don't want to die."

  "Well, you're gonna die, bitch!" His words were hollow and menacing.

  Maxine felt she had reached the point of no return, just as Sheldon had moments earlier. There was apparently no reasoning with a cold-blooded murderer.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to imagine how painful death would be.

  Would she even know when she was dead?

  Was Sheldon aware that he had gone to the other side?

  Would there be the light at the end of the tunnel or would they both drift off into some horrible abyss, uncertain as to where or why?

  Then Maxine heard her husband's killer say in a chilling tone, "But not yet..."

  * * *

  He stared at the good-looking black chick on the bed. Raven hair in box braids formed a halo around her frightened face. Pouty lips had suddenly been silenced. Her breasts and body glistened from sex, and her long, lean legs were still spread wide as though her old man was still on top of her. He could only imagine how hard the good judge had to work to satisfy her. On the other hand, he was younger, hungrier, and definitely more energetic for the task.

  In truth, it had been a while since he'd had a woman, at least not one who looked like her. The notion turned him on like a dam ready to burst. Only he intended to do so inside the bitch's mouth and vagina. He glanced at the bloody corpse on the floor, while thinking, There sure as hell ain't nobody gonna stop me from taking what I want from the lady.

  She certainly couldn't stop him, not even when he took the gun out of her face.

  Who knows, she might even enjoy what they were about to do.

  He knew he would. Every lingering moment of it.

  * * *

  Read the entire State's Evidence, available in eBook, print, and audio.

  # # #

  The following is a bonus excerpt from R. Barri Flowers' bestselling legal thriller

  JUSTICE SERVED: A Barkley and Parker Mystery

  Prologue

  She hid under the bed, carefully controlling her breathing. She didn't move, not even a twitch. Her pink dress was dirty from the pine hardwood floor and her pink shoes were scuffed. The curls of her raven hair billowed around her head like a halo. She could see their shoes, moving around as if dancing to a tender love song.

  Only she knew it was no dance.

  And it was no love song.

  She heard the sound of his fist as it smashed against her mama's cheek. Her mama immediately crumpled to the floor like a rag doll, dazed and moaning. Blood spilled from a corner of her swollen mouth like a red stream.

  Her mama's face ballooned, her cheek shattered from the blow. One eye was swollen shut, protruding like a golf ball. With her good eye, mother and daughter made eye contact in a moment of sorrow and sheer terror.

  She wanted to help her mama and save her from him. But she knew that she would be no match for his brute strength and drunken rage. In that moment of mental connection, her mama told her to remain still as the night so that she too would not face the fists and battering he had inflicted upon her.

  With all of her willpower she closed her eyes tightly; her instincts telling her nothing would ever be the same again. Not that she ever wanted things to be.

  Not this way.

  Not with him.

  When her eyes opened, her mama was no longer on the floor. She had been dragged to her feet and thrown onto the bed like a sack of soiled clothes.

  "Bitch!" She heard him roar like a lion, hovering over her mama as if her shadow.

  Then he hit her again. The blow must have been tremendous, for her mama's dentures went flying across the floor like a bird, landing harmlessly beneath a chair in the corner. She was pounded several more times. Her mama's blood curdling screams had turned to faint whimpers.

  Then the bed suddenly sank to the point where she thought she might be crushed or cut by the jagged springs nearly touching her. It was all she could do not to make a sound, though inside she was crying as loudly as she could muster.

  He had gotten on the bed with her mother.

  "This ain't over, bitch," he spat. "Not by a long shot!"

  She listened as she heard him unbuckle his pants.

  "I'll show you to smart mouth me. When I'm done with you, you'll know who's boss, and who ain't nothin' but a damned ugly assed whore!"

  She could hear some rustling noises, heavy breathing, and groans—the last coming from him by the wicked deepness of it. She couldn't bear to think of what he was doing to her mama. But she knew it was something awful. Something that would make her curse him even more than she already did.

  When he was finished, she heard him roll over. Moments later he was snoring like a bear, the sound coming from deep within his throat, punctuated by labored breathing. She could hear no sounds from her mama, but suspected she was too afraid to even breathe—afraid he would wake up and continue hurting her.

  She was also afraid. After waiting there paralyzed with fear for what seemed like an eternity, she nudged her way beneath the springs till she was out from under the bed. Her pink dress was covered with dust and blood from where her mama had fallen.

  She stood up, intent on taking her mama away from him forever. But it took only one look at her to know this would never be. Her face was almost unrecognizable—horribly discolored and at least twice the size as normal. Her clothes had been ripped apart, exposing a frail thin body, marred with marks and bruises both fresh and from other beatings he'd inflicted upon her. Her legs were spread wide, blood oozing from between them, seeping onto the sheet like red dye.

  Her mama's eyes were wide open, as if held that way by toothpicks. Whatever life was in them had vanished forever.

  Beside her, he lay naked in a drunken sleep, his breathing erratic and uncertain.

  She felt the hatred in her build like steam in an engine. This was softened only by the love for her mama and hardened again by her feelings of helplessness and guilt.

  She climbed atop her mother's battered, broken, and bloodied body and lay there with her thumb in her mouth like it contained magical properties. It was as if she would be rocked to sleep and would wake up and find that everything was all right.

  Deep down she knew that would never be the case. He had seen to that.

  She began to hum a song she made up on the spot, somehow soothing her, no longer caring if he woke and hurt her as he had her mama.

  After all, she could feel no greater pain, bleak darkness, or emptiness than she felt at the moment.

  Chapter One

  Judge Carole Cranston sat on the bench and banged her gavel. The courtroom immediately came to order on this late July afternoon. She was a no-nonsense judge who only wanted to expedite things as quickly as possible from trial to trial, preferring to be in the comfort of her condo overlooking the Willamette River in Portland, Oregon. It was especially nice at this time of year when the summer breeze came in and the sun bounced off the water as if too hot to remain in one place. She was reminded of trips to the Bahamas where she had fallen in love with Grand Bahama Island in particular. She could imagine herself maybe one day retiring to the Bahamas, Jamaica, or even Hawaii, and drink in its beauty and perennial sunshine each day for the rest of her life.

  Carole returned to the present, realizing that at thirty-five years of age and three months, she was hardly able to begin thinking about retirement just yet. I wish. Not when she had a job to do—no matter how maddening and disillusioning at times—and people who depended on her to dispense justice to the best of her ability.

  She turned her espresso eyes on the prosecutor. His name was Julian Frommer. He was in his early thirties, but looked about twenty-one with dirty blonde hair a bit too long, and a small goatee that looked almost taped under his chin. His wool navy suit was ill fitted on a tall, lanky frame.

  "Are you ready?" she asked him routinely.

  "Always, Your Honor." He pasted a flirtatious smile on his lips.

  Bu
t Carole had not even noticed as she turned her attention to the defense. George McArdle, fortyish, African-American, and built like a house, was already on his feet and showing off a three-piece tailored gray suit. His closely cropped dark hair had a slightly crooked part off to the side. He acknowledged her with a twinkle in his eyes.

  "The defense is ready to present its case, Your Honor."

  She nodded and looked at the defendant. Roberto Martinez—a thirty-six-year-old, muscular, Hispanic construction worker—had been charged with beating his live-in lover half to death. The medical report said that she had sustained multiple fractures, including a shattered nose, broken jaw, broken arm, and broken leg. But she would live. And so would the memories.

  Martinez grinned crookedly, as if to say: "It would have been more fun had you been on the other end of my fists, Your Honor."

  Carole glared at him. She could feel the tiny hairs stand on the nape of her neck. But this was invisible to those before her who saw only the cool, calm, and collected attractive judge. Her russet colored individual pixies curved under her chin and onto slender shoulders, contrasting a beautiful butterscotch complexion. Beneath the black robe was a tall, shapely body with long, runner's legs.

  She faced Julian Frommer again. "You may call your first witness, Counselor—"

  * * *

  It turned out his first witness, the victim, was a no-show. She was going to be wheeled in from the hospital where she was still recovering from her injuries. She had apparently had a change of heart and now refused to testify against Martinez. The State's case further began to unravel when it was revealed that the only other witness was a known drug dealer whose testimony came as a result of a plea bargain that would keep him from doing hard time.

  Meanwhile the defense had produced witnesses who would testify that the defendant was seen at work at the alleged time of the assault. It was a shaky alibi at best that left a window of opportunity for Roberto Martinez to have committed the offense and returned to the job. But given that the victim was unwilling to refute this, the prosecution had little choice but to go along with George McArdle's request that the charges be dropped.

  And neither did Carole, though this pained her more than she was willing to admit. The thought that a scumbag batterer like Martinez should get off so easily was disturbing. But then, that was the system for you. Justice often needed help to be dispensed properly.

  Looking Roberto Martinez straight in the eye, Carole announced unaffectedly: "The charges have been dropped. You're free to leave, Mr. Martinez."

  He grinned lasciviously, gave his attorney a hearty bear hug, and headed for the door without so much as a slap on the wrist.

  Growling at Julian Frommer, Carole snapped: "I would strongly suggest that in the future you not waste the court's time—or mine—with a case you were clearly unprepared to make!"

  On that note and without giving him a chance for a lame response, she headed for her chambers, disappointed that another woman beater, who was obviously guilty, had found a way to beat the system. Much in the same way he had his lover.

  * * *

  At Portland General Hospital, Lucie Garcia winced from the pain that wracked her entire body like it was being assaulted all at once. This in spite of the painkillers she had been given. They told her she was lucky to be alive. She didn't feel so lucky.

  The Hispanic twenty-three-year-old rolled her large ink-black eyes, as if to ward off danger. Her brunette hair splayed across the pillow soaked with perspiration. An irregular line of blood had seeped across it from her mouth, which had been cut and was swollen to twice its normal size. A tube was helping her to breathe. Her fractured bones were held together with pins and casts. The rest of her was held together through sheer willpower.

  She thought about Roberto. She'd been told he had been released from custody. Without her testimony, the case had gone out the window. Like a parakeet freed from its cage.

  When it came right down to it, Lucie knew she couldn't testify against Roberto. Though she was afraid of him, and the beatings had become more frequent and more violent in recent months as his alcohol abuse grew worse, she loved him. She couldn't help it any more than a mother could help loving her son, no matter what he did to hurt her.

  Roberto was the only man she had ever loved. The only one who didn't run away at the first opportunity another piece of ass came into view. For that she was grateful. The rest just came with the territory as far as she was concerned.

  Still, Lucie wondered what awaited her when she got home. Would Roberto take it out on her because he had been in police custody? Would he want her back now that she was badly bruised and broken and didn't look anything at all like the pretty Latina who had captured his attention in the beginning?

  Lucie winced again before the sedative began to take effect and she drifted off into a restless sleep. Her last thought was that maybe she would awaken and find it had all been an awful dream.

  Deep down inside she knew otherwise.

  Chapter Two

  Roberto Martinez was counting his blessings as he sat in the bar getting drunk. He had been staring at twenty to life, according to his Afro American public defender. He figured that he'd be lucky if he ever saw the light of day again while he was young enough to be able to appreciate it.

  But the devil must have been watching over his shoulder. Here he was out amongst the living again, and there wasn't a damned thing anyone could do about it.

  He thought about his old lady. Yeah, he'd beaten the hell out of her. But, dammit, she deserved it. They all did. Especially when they opened their big mouths too much and their legs too little. It was the only way to keep them in line. All whores needed to be kept in line, one way or the other.

  Roberto Martinez finished off his last shot of whiskey before winking at the sweet looking black broad wearing shades in the corner while imagining what he could do with her, then moseying out of the bar. The night was cool for this time of year and darker than most. Stars seemed to have disappeared, as if relinquishing their place in space for other solar systems.

  Roberto had half staggered about a block when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and saw a tall, stacked, dark skinned woman with a blonde wig of box braids almost on top of him. He remembered she was the broad in the bar sitting all by her lonesome at the end of the counter. Only she was without the sunglasses, so he could see her eyes. They were deep, dark, enchanting. Just like the bitch herself.

  "You looking for some action, honey?" she asked in a voice that sounded vaguely familiar.

  He studied her. She had on a tight red dress that hugged every curve of her statuesque body, red gloves, and stiletto shoes. She was obviously a hooker. Why the hell not? It wasn't like his old lady was at home waiting to greet him or anything.

  He grinned. "Yeah, I'm looking for some action, baby. How much will it cost?" He figured she was worth maybe twenty. Twenty-five if she was real good to him.

  "Keep your money," she said curtly. "Let's just say I'm in a generous mood tonight."

  Roberto regarded her uneasily. Was this some kind of a setup or something? Were they trying to get him back behind bars? Trying to trick him into doing something stupid on account of what he did to Lucie and got away with it?

  "You ain't a cop, are you?" he asked tentatively.

  She placed a hand on her rounded hip. "Do I look like a cop to you, sugar?"

  Roberto grinned again. "Not like any damned cop I've seen," he had to admit.

  "Then why are we wasting time here jawing?"

  He felt at ease again. His libido was admittedly in need of a quick fix.

  "Yeah," he said. "Why are we? Your place or mine?"

  "Neither." She pointed toward the alley. "In there."

  He looked into the darkened alley. It was hardly the ideal place to get laid. But who was he to argue? He could get his rocks off just about anywhere.

  "Lead the way," he told her.

  He followed the whore to the back of the all
ey, where she leaned up against a wall and urged him on.

  "Come and get it, big boy," she teased.

  Roberto could hardly contain himself as he rushed towards her. He only noticed at the last moment that she had picked up something with lightning quick speed and swung it hard at his head. He felt the impact as his skull cracked, sending him to his knees. The pain cut through him like a sharp knife. Make that a dozen sharp knives.

  "How does it feel?" she asked him, a suddenly wicked edge to her voice. Before he could even think past the pain, much less respond, she struck him again with what he now suspected was a wooden bat. This time it connected across his back, smashing into his spine, paralyzing him. "Does it feel good, asshole?"

  She swung the bat like an All Star baseball player, landing flush against his right cheek, dislodging his jaw and most of the teeth on that side of his face.

  "Isn't this what you like to do to women, Roberto?" she spat, clubbing him across the top of the head, crushing his skull. "Well, how about a taste of your own medicine, you bastard!"

  She swung again and again, each blow shattering another part of him, sending blood, bone, brain, and body pieces flying everywhere.

  By the time she was finished, he was long dead. But it didn't matter, for she received great satisfaction to see to it that even in death he would never be whole again. Just like the lover he had beaten to a pulp.

  She tossed the bloodied bat atop the corpse. Then she removed her wig, gloves, dress, and shoes. She put them in a duffel bag, slipped on some jeans, a sweater, and tennis shoes, leaving Roberto Martinez's remains to rot like raw meat.

  * * *

  Read the entire Justice Served, available in eBook, print, and audio.