Death by Trial and Error (A Legal Suspense Short) (5 page)

* * *

Maxine Crawford, immobilized by fear, watched
incredulously as half her husband's head separated from his body in
something akin to a horror movie. Without time to even contemplate
the terror she had just witnessed or the fact that she was now
fully exposed for the shooter to see, Maxine could only think that
she was next to die. She was utterly powerless to do anything about
her seemingly unchangeable fate as a witness to an execution, but
pray like she never had before.

Through a shaft of diminishing sunlight
filtering through the window, Maxine was afforded a surprisingly
clear look at the killer, lessened somewhat by the tearful haze of
her eyes.

She took an instant to study the person that
stood at the foot of the bed like he was standing guard. He was a
Hispanic male in his early thirties, powerfully built, and short.
He had coarse black hair; dark, frightful eyes that never took
themselves off her nakedness, and a scowl that almost seemed to be
a wicked smile.

Wearing gloves, he held the gun at his side
like in an old Western movie and she wondered why he had not lifted
it and pulled the trigger by now.

Suddenly all she could think about was that
she wanted to live and see another day. She'd worked too hard to
get what she had for it all to end like this.

Commanding her mouth to speak, Maxine said in
a desperate whisper, "Please, don't kill me..."

The man said nothing, but continued to enjoy
his voyeuristic show at her expense, grinning. She wanted to cover
up with the satin sheets, but did not want to provoke him.

He moved to the side of the bed and she saw
that his mouth had become a scowl. He raised the gun and pointed it
at her.

"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.

But 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.