by Shawn Inmon
“I think,” Simon said, “that someone at the school district forgot to pay the trash company this summer, and heaps like this are the price we have to pay.”
Thomas laughed. “Okay, so it’s not beautiful. It had one feature that I couldn’t resist. The guy only wanted $400 for it.”
“That’s a pretty irresistible feature, all right,” Ben said.
"I'd be sold," laughed Simon.
Thomas opened the door proudly, revealing the torn upholstery and foam peeking through.
“It’s not quite in the same league as Zack’s Camaro. But, it runs good, and it beats holy hell out of riding the school bus every day.”
Ben and Simon both immediately stopped laughing at him.
“So,” Simon said, “my very, very good compadre, what do you say to picking me up before school in the morning?”
“I say I’ll pick both of you up every morning if you kick in two bucks a week for gas and oil. This thing burns through both.”
They turned and walked together into their brand new school year.
Chapter Fifty-Six
ZACK’S FIRST TRACK meet of the season was an invitational at Corvallis on January 29th, 1977. Anne and Thomas drove up to root him on. Zack hadn’t been home often, just once for Thanksgiving and a week at Christmas. They both missed him. Based on the bear hug he gave them both when he saw them before that first meet, the feeling was mutual.
“How goes it, big brother?”
Zack put his arm around Thomas. “It’s tough out here, little brother. Beautiful coeds everywhere, parties every night. I don’t think this is the life for you.”
“Hopefully there’s some studying going on occasionally too?” Anne asked.
Zack looked wounded, then turned back to Thomas. “That’s the other thing. They expect you to actually study here. No more bullshit, look-something-up-in-the-encyclopedia-the-hour-before class-starts kind of work. Seriously, it’s cutting into my social commitments.”
Thomas nodded toward the track. “You gonna kick ass and take names today?”
A serious expression crossed Zack’s face. “It’s different here. I’m a much smaller fish in a much larger ocean. I’m gonna give it my best, though.”
Thomas and Anne found seats in the cavernous old Bell Field stadium. They had brought blankets and a thermos of hot chocolate. Zack was only scheduled to run the 880 today, which didn’t run until halfway through the events. Anne and Thomas rooted loudly for all the Beavers, not just out of loyalty, but to try and keep warm.
Finally, they spotted Zack peeling off his warmups and doing his stretching exercises. He approached the starting line, scanned the stadium until he located them, then got into his stance. Ten runners took off at the gun and they were bunched in a pack when they hit the first turn. Coming out of that turn, two runners had a few steps of separation. Neither one was Zack. Thomas and Anne both yelled at the top of their lungs, but it was lost in the crowd noise.
By the end of the second lap, it was obvious that Zack wasn’t just laying back waiting for an opportunity. He was giving it all he had. The field had separated by then, making it easy to see that he had come in fifth out of ten finishers. After he had showered, Zack met them back at Anne’s station wagon.
“See? I told you guys. It’s tough out here. Pretty much every kid on that field was the best athlete in their school.”
Anne hugged him, kissed his cheek. “You did wonderfully! How was your time?”
“Actually, two-tenths faster than I ever ran last year. Good for fifth place.” He shook his head.
“How about dinner out? Maybe Sizzler? I’m buying.”
“I was so nervous this morning that I threw up. I’m starved and empty, so I might make you regret that offer.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
THOMAS’S SOPHOMORE YEAR was much less eventful than his first year. No serial killers to track, no blossoming romance, no brothers to worry about not killing. Older boys did not pick on him to any significant degree. Because once you go psycho one time, they never know if you might do it again.
At OSU, Zack’s track meets went along like the first. He continued to work hard and improve, but he wasn’t setting the world on fire. He had once dreamed of improving enough to run in the Olympics in Los Angeles in 1980, but reality was chasing that dream away.
One Saturday evening in mid-March, Anne and Thomas were in the living room eating pork chops and mashed potatoes, watching Jessica Savitch read the news on NBC. The phone rang.
“I’ll get it,” Thomas said, hustling to the kitchen. “Hello?”
“Tommy?”
It was Zack, but he sounded strange. Far away. “Hey, brother! How was the meet today.”
“Good and bad, I guess. Any day we beat the freakin’ Ducks is a good day, but…”
Thomas waited through a five-second silence.
“Zack? Are you there? You okay?”
“Uhh…yeah. I’m here. I’m calling from the hospital. I’ll say one thing for this place. They’ve got the good drugs.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
Hearing Thomas's tone, Anne jumped up and grabbed the telephone. “Zack? Zackary? Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“Hi, Mom. Yeah, I’m kind of okay. I was running the 880 today. I was running against that guy I beat in the state finals last year. I knew I wasn’t going to win the race, but I was sure as hell gonna beat him. I was ahead of him, too, but…”
“But, what?”
“On the second lap, I heard a pop in my left leg. Next thing I knew, I was face down, eating track gravel. They brought me into the hospital here in Eugene. The doctor just told me I completely ruptured my Achilles tendon.”
Anne’s hand flew to her mouth. Her voice remained calm. “We’ll be there in an hour.”
They made it in fifty minutes.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
ZACK TOOK THE rest of the semester off. It was possible that he could have gotten around the campus in a wheelchair, then crutches, but everyone thought it was in his best interest to take a few months to recuperate and return for Fall Quarter. The best news was that his coach had told him his scholarship would be good whether or not he was able to rejoin the team. Both of them knew Zack would never run as fast as he had before.
He hobbled around the house in a full-leg cast, with the toes facing slightly downward to allow the tendon to heal. The Camaro sat unused in the driveway. Thomas offered to drive it for him, but aside from bringing it home from Corvallis, Zack was uninterested. He was a lost boy, laying on the couch, watching game shows and the afternoon movie. As smart as he was, Zack hadn’t been a big reader and he didn’t change that habit now.
The third week of March was Spring Break. The Sunday before it started, Thomas plopped down in the chair beside Zack, who was laid out in his semi-permanent spot on the couch.
“Hey, lazy butt.”
Zack ignored him.
“Wanna go do something tomorrow?”
Zack turned. “Sure. What’s up, wanna shoot some hoops? Go hiking? Run down to the Y for a swim? I’m up for anything.” He turned back to the TV. “Oh, wait. I forgot, I’m crippled up and in a cast. Guess you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”
“Seriously. How long has it been since you’ve been out of the house? Three weeks? A month?”
“Look. I don’t tease you about being a doofus and being socially retarded…well, wait a minute. I do, but I’ve been meaning to stop.”
“Michael Hollister’s trial starts tomorrow.”
That caught Zack’s attention.
“It was originally scheduled for six months ago, but his dad’s lawyers keep getting it postponed. It’s finally going to start tomorrow. I was thinking we could both go.”
“Yeah. I’d like to see that. I’m not very portable at the moment, though.”
“We can make it work. We can take my car—”
“—We can take our lives in your hands, you mean.”
“—and I can fix up the backseat so you can ride back there. Whaddya say?”
A champagne bottle popped on the TV screen. Bubbles floated across it. Lawrence Welk said, “This week-a, we are celebrating our wunnerful nation. To start us off-a, here’s Norma Zimmer, and God-a Bless America.”
Zack hung his head. When he looked up, his eyes hinted of desperation. “Okay. I can’t take any more of this. What time does it start?”
“Ten A.M. I don’t know if there’s going to be a crowd there or not, so I want to be there when the courthouse opens at nine.”
They left the house the next morning at 8:30. Thomas hadn’t anticipated that Zack might be an asset. Thanks to him, he was able to park in the handicapped spot right in front of the courthouse. They got passed through every line and slowdown without having to wait. When they got to Courtroom A, the big double doors were locked.
A guard noticed them. “You boys here for the trial?”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas said.
Zack leaned on his crutches and looked winded, which was only partially an act. He hadn’t walked so far since his injury.
The guard checked his watch. “You’re here too early. It doesn’t start for another forty-five minutes.”
“We know,” Thomas said. “We just wanted to make sure we got a seat. Didn’t know if it was going to be crowded or not.”
The guard peered at the small bulletin board next to the door. “Oh, it’s the murder trial. Well, there will be more people than normal here. We don’t get a lot of those. This courtroom hasn’t been really packed since the Mayor’s wife was on trial for shooting the Mayor and the young man he was with. Now that was a trial.” He looked Zack up and down. “Tell you what. There are a few people in there getting everything set up, but if you can be quiet, I’ll let you in now, so you can find a seat.”
“Deal!” Thomas said.
Two minutes later, they were settled in a middle row all the way to the left of the courtroom, so Zack’s cast was safely against the wall.
They spent the next half hour sitting quietly amid the setting and ritual tools of justice: the immense desk high at the front of the room, the gold-fringed flags of the United States and Oregon, the small desk where the court reporter would sit, the witness box.
As they waited, Thomas thought of Carrie.
She's been gone almost a year now, but I think of her every day. This brings her back. Can I feel her spirit here?
No. She’s gone. Been gone since the moment Michael killed her. Hope you’re happy wherever you are, Carrie Copeland. You were a sweet, intelligent girl. You deserved better endings than a dozen-plus suicides and one murder.
Thomas closed his eyes and a memory flooded in. He and Carrie sitting for the first time in the church, lit by a single small candle. She was singing Amazing Grace. Thomas’s throat grew thick. Thank you, Carrie. I do remember.
Two bailiffs brought Michael Hollister in through a side door, wearing a dark suit and tie, eyes cast down. He didn't seem to notice Thomas. The bailiffs guided him to the left-hand table and sat him down amidst a squad of attorneys. There was Mr. Radishaw, but today he was lower on the legal food chain; he sat at the far end, next to a wall. Three other attorneys surrounded Michael and occasionally consulted with three other younger attorneys who couldn’t get a space at the table, but instead sat in the front row of spectator seats.
Of course. The best defense money can buy.
Well, not quite. The best defense is innocence, but I know he doesn’t have that on his side.
At 9:45, the double doors at the rear of the courtroom opened with a clang. A line of people filed in. The first person in the door was Gerald Copeland, looking thinner and grayer than he had a year earlier.
Losing both your wife and daughter in a short period of time will do that for you.
Mr. Copeland made eye contact with Thomas, then took a seat directly behind the prosecution table. He turned his head slightly toward the back of Michael’s head and kept it there for long minutes.
A respectable crowd filtered into the rest of the dozen rows of seats. There were a fair number of people, but it wasn’t overflowing. A rich kid murdering some unknown girl was interesting, but not in the same class as a mayor’s wife shooting His Honor and His Lover. The proceedings didn’t start right on time. A few minutes after ten o’clock, a bailiff said, “All rise, for the Honorable Judge Harrison Galvan.”
Having readied his crutches, Zack stood with the rest. A trim, grey-haired, grey-bearded man in his sixties entered the room, wearing the traditional robes of the judiciary. Judge Galvan climbed up behind the desk and sat down. “Please be seated.”
The first half hour was all procedural—the judge instructing the jury, going over the schedule, and warning the crowd against any verbal outbreaks.
Michael’s attorneys got first crack at the opening statement. His lead attorney was tall, tan, and exuded an air of confidence.
No way he comes from Middle Falls. Nobody around here looks like that. They must have brought him down from Portland, or up from San Francisco. It’s good to be rich.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Harvey Belk. I represent Mr. Hollister. First, I would like to thank you for your service today. I won’t take up a lot of your time with my opening statement. Frankly, I hope the entire trial won’t take too much of your time. At the same time, we have to remember the seriousness of the proceedings. A young man’s life is in your hands.”
He looks like Gordon Gekko, but he talks like he’s one of the locals.
Mr. Belk's opening statement, lasting less than fifteen minutes, was long on indignity that an innocent young high-achieving scholar had been locked up in the county jail for nearly a year. He failed to mention that those delays had resulted from his own numerous pretrial motions.
The prosecution’s statement wasn’t as showy, but Thomas was finally able to get a good idea what evidence they really did have, a year’s worth of rumors aside.
The lead prosecutor, George Jameson, was a paunchy fortysomething with a bad spine and a suit that screamed “public servant.” His still-red hair had a cowlick. When he looked at the jury, he squinted through thick glasses.
A contrast in styles, to say the very least.
Mr. Jameson didn’t have an ounce of showboat in him, but he was prepared. He laid out the state’s case slowly, point by point. He started with the letter, told how it led the police to Michael Hollister. Thomas watched Michael shake his head vehemently and scribble a note to his attorney when the letter was mentioned.
Still haven’t figured that part out, have you, asshole?
The prosecutor listed the evidence they found when they executed the search warrant on his home and automobile. They had found a number of hairs and a dot of blood in the Karmann Ghia's trunk, both matching Carrie's types. Upon searching Michael's room, they had found a small hidey-hole holding Carrie's necklace and her church key. The prosecutor said he would produce a witness who would testify that a mark on Carrie’s shoulder matched Michael Hollister's bite pattern.
A bite mark. Son of a bitch. I’d like you to get off, so I can take another shot at killing you. If you do, this time I'll make sure nothing and no one stops me. To go by the expression on Mr. Copeland's face, he was thinking along the same lines.
Given what I said to Michael's dad in the principal's office, I wonder why no one summoned me to testify. I guess the only person in that room who would have said anything was Mr. Vincent, and he decided not to escalate conflict with C. Moneybags Hollister. Or if Mr. Vincent did say anything, maybe the firm of Letta, Crook, and Skaate got it thrown out as 'prejudicial to my client.'
Thomas remembered high-profile murder trials stretching on for days, weeks, and months. Judge Galvan was going to have none of that. Before adjourning for the day, he laid out the schedule for the next day. The last witness would be heard before lunch, final arguments would be in the afternoon, and the case would be in the jury's hands before dinn
er.
Thomas and Zack waited all day to see if Michael might turn around and notice them, but he didn't. As they worked their way out of the courtroom, Thomas said, “Wait. Did you see his mom or dad there?”
“I wouldn’t know ‘em if they were sitting right next to us. Would you?”
“Yeah. They came in to the office and tried to get me arrested the day I did my best to choke him out.”
“Slightly ironic.”
“Yeah. They weren’t there today. Odd. Maybe they are embarrassed?”
“Or maybe they want to wait until they know if they have a convicted murderer in the family before they are seen with him again.”
"His stock has gone down and cut its dividend. Time for Hollister Inc. to sell shares in Michael."
"Cut their losses.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
THE NEXT DAY, they arrived early again. Again, the same guard let them in early to reclaim their seats.
The prosecution wrapped up the People's case early in the morning. All of the trial was difficult to watch, but the testimony of the bite mark expert was hardest. Seeing pictures of not one, but a number of pictures of different bites blown up and projected onto a screen was almost too much for Thomas to bear.
The defense only had a handful of witnesses, but they were impressive. One witness disagreed with the State’s expert on the bite marks. The State’s expert came from the state crime lab. The defense’s was a criminology professor from Stanford. Another testified as to the sketchiness and difficulty in identifying specific people via hair strands. Finally, Harvey Belk called one of the policemen who served the warrant.
“Sir,” Belk asked, “Does this appear to be the necklace you claim to have found in the Hollister bedroom?”
A titter ran through the courtroom as the fifty-something police officer retrieved a pair of reading glasses from his pocket. He stared through them, then said, “I guess so. Looks like it to me.”
“Good. Thank you.” Belk reached into his pocket and pulled another, identical necklace out. “Then how about this one?” He looked at the jury. “Or, how about any of these?” He pulled out a handful of identical necklaces.
