Greed and a Mistress Page 2

  Their current case had taken six months and they were so close they could taste it. Every case was special, but this one was more urgent than most. It concerned the dying wish of a very famous person.

  It was well past nine-thirty in the morning and still the courtroom had not been called to order. In soft tones, people talked, and more than once, the man sitting next to Jackie looked directly at her as though he hoped to start a conversation. His aftershave was a bit too strong, and he seemed nice enough, but she wasn’t interested.

  To Michael, Jackie looked bored, so in an earpiece that allowed only her to hear, he said, “Here’s everything you ever wanted to know about courtrooms. One of those two doors in front leads to the judge’s chambers and the other one to the jury waiting room. The jury box is to your left, so I bet the jury is behind the left door. The judge gets to sit in that fancy black, tall back chair behind his sharp looking wood bench. He gets the best seat in the house. That’s not fair.”

  Jackie looked at the front camera and held her composure in check. Not laughing at Michael’s antics was not going to be any easier this time, than it had been in the past. Hoping she had his attention, she put her hand over her ear.

  “Too loud?” Michael asked. He watched as his employer slightly nodded, and then began to adjust the volume. “Okay, testing, testing, testing...” Again, she nodded, so he went back to reading the article. “It says here, some of the benches are bulletproof. I wonder if this one is. Most courtrooms are computerized these days, but it doesn’t look like the judge has a computer on his bench. Too bad, I’d be happy to help him out from time to time.”

  He paused to look at the slight scowl on Jackie’s face. “Just kidding. In front of the bench, there are two desks, one for the clerk and one for the court reporter. The third table, which you probably can’t see, doesn’t have much on it, but it’s likely the evidence table. Hey, here’s something I didn’t know. There is an imaginary bar that runs right up the middle of the aisle to the bench. That’s why they call it the bar association. Don’t that beat all?

  Naturally, the State has the most to prove, so the DA’s table is closest to the jury. The other side is for the defense. If you lean into the aisle a little, you can see that cute short fence behind the lawyer dude tables.” He paused and watched as Jackie leaned out a little. “That’s to keep you from choking the defense attorney, when you know darn well he is trying to get the bad guy off. Wait, I just saw something about the lectern. It sits right on the middle of the imaginary bar line, and guess what? Another imaginary line runs crosswise from the jury box to the opposite wall. No one, I mean, no one, is supposed to cross that line without permission. Whew, I never wanted to be a lawyer and now I know why. I’m exhausted just reading all the rules.”

  As soon as a door to the left of the Judge’s bench opened, everyone quieted and watched as the Assistant District Attorney and the defense attorney entered. Each carried a briefcase and a laptop. They walked to their respective tables, sat down, and began to getting organized. Behind them walked two women – the court clerk and the court recorder. Both took their places facing the spectators at a table half as tall as the judge’s bench. A few minutes later, the defendant was brought in and escorted to the defense table by two uniformed bailiffs.

  The pictures of Mark Barrett in the press did not do him justice. He was strikingly handsome, although he appeared several pounds thinner than when he was arrested. His dark suit highlighted his light blond hair, and when he smiled at someone in the row behind the defense table, his blue eyes oddly sparkled. Mark Barrett didn’t appear to be worried about his circumstances. In fact, before he took a seat, he glanced and smiled at all the spectators as though he thought himself a celebrity.

  As soon as he was seated, the two bailiffs took up their assigned positions. One went to stand in front of a chair near the jury box, and the other opened the small gate in the fence that separated the spectators from the participants, and then walked to the door in the back of the courtroom. A third bailiff entered and took a seat in a chair against the wall that faced the defense table.

  “Barrett looks pretty good for having been in jail for eighteen months,” Michael said in Jackie’s ear. “Mark Barrett is twenty-four, is married to Holly Gardner Barrett, his high school sweetheart, and has two children, Bethany age two, and Sarah, six months. He opted for a two year technical school instead of college, was well liked and made above average grades. Holly is that knockout blonde sitting right behind him. By the way, she didn’t smile when he came into the room, but he smiled at the two people sitting beside her, and then at her. I think his wife might be a shade miffed at having to be here.”

  “All rise,” the bailiff standing beside the jury box said. “The Honorable Judge J. P. Blackwell, presiding.”

  Just as the people were standing up, the judge entered through the door to the right of his bench. He wore the traditional black robe, and quickly sat down at his oversized, elevated bench.

  “Judge J. P. Blackwell is short like me,” said Michael. “I like him already.” When he heard Jackie clear her throat a little, Michael rolled his eyes. “Okay, okay. Judge J. P. Blackwell is forty. He is young for a judge, but that’s what being brilliant will do for you. The Judge is married to Marcie C. Blackwell and has one child, a son named Jake. He has been on the bench for eight years and has an excellent reputation for never being overturned on appeal. They say his rulings are swift, detailed and concise, which saves the court a lot of time and trouble. Oh, the J. P. stands for John Patrick.”

  Carl added, “The judge likes his cameras on at all times, even when he is not in the courtroom. If an appeal claims an error in the court reporter’s notes, he’s got the DVDs to clear it up.”

  The Bailiff’s voice again filled the courtroom, “You may be seated.” He sat down as well.

  Judge J. P. Blackwell put on a pair of glasses and appeared to be reading something on his desk. When he finished, the man with dark wavy hair softly tapped his gavel on the pad. “Court will come to order. Ladies and Gentlemen, cellphones are strictly forbidden in my courtroom. If your cellphone is not turned off, I suggest you do that now. If you receive a call, the bailiff will remove you and you will not be allowed back in for the duration of this trial.” He glanced at the spectators, saw several making sure their phones were turned off, and he waited until they all settled down. Next, he looked at the defense attorney and then at the District Attorney. “Gentlemen, are we ready to begin?”

  Both attorneys stood up. “Yes, Your Honor,” they said at the same time.

  “You may begin, Mr. Davis.”

  “Thank you. Assistant District Attorney Braxton Davis representing the state, Your Honor. This is case number 6315487, the State of Oregon vs Mark Augustus Barrett. The charge is murder in the first degree and felony theft.” As soon as he was finished, the DA looked at his opponent and nodded.

  “Stephen Livingston, for the Defense, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you,” said the Judge. “Are there any pre-trial motions we need to get out of the way this morning?”

  “Side bar, Your Honor?” Livingston asked. As soon as the judge nodded, both he and the DA approached the bench and began to speak in tones too soft for the spectators to hear.

  As if it mattered, Michael whispered too. “Braxton Gunther Davis is the usual district attorney type. He hates letting criminals walk the streets of Portland and he is good at his job, or so the papers say. He is thirty-six, divorced, and has no children. You may have noticed that he has a slight limp. He broke a hip when a truck broadsided his car a few years ago.” Michael paused long enough to glance at the TV. The attorneys were still at the bench with their heads together. Michael motioned toward it and looked at Carl, but Carl couldn’t tell what they were talking about and only shrugged.

  “Mark Barrett’s lawyer is Stephen Alex Livingston.” Michael continued. “If you have to have a public defender, Steve Livingston is the one to have. He was once a DA and swi
tched sides about fifteen years ago. Like all defense attorneys, he is required to take his share of pro bono cases. He is thirty-eight, has three ex-wives, and he has gone up against Davis in several trials. Watch for him to schmooze with the jury. Livingston is a quick learner and he’s sharp. I don’t know if you can see it, but Barrett and his attorney have the same shade of blond hair. From the back, it might be hard to tell which is which.”

  “Three ex-wives?” Carl muttered. “I thought one was bad enough.”

  Michael rolled his eyes. “Admit it; you still love your wife.”

  “Love is overrated, Michael.”

  Stephen Livingston did not look happy when he abruptly left the judge’s bench and walked to the lectern. He waited until the DA was seated, cleared his throat, and then began, “May it please the court. Your Honor, the defense requests the jury be sequestered. Considering the number of pretrial articles written about this case that are clearly prejudicial to my client, and considering the number that have been printed since the jury was sworn in on Friday, I believe it is not only necessary, but imperative. Several of the articles cite information, or I should say ‘supposed’ information, that you have ruled inadmissible. There is nothing we can do about the past, but we can prevent the jury from hearing any more of that nonsense.”

  “Mr. Davis, do you have any objection?” Judge Blackwell asked.

  “I do, Your Honor.” Davis looked in that direction, but it appeared Livingston was not about to give up his position behind the lectern, so Davis just stood at his table. “As you know, sequestering a jury is expensive. Furthermore, it removes people from their family and friends. Once you have instructed the jury, which you already have, not to read the papers, watch the news, stay off their computers, and refrain from talking to anyone else about the case, it doesn’t matter what is said on the outside. We are forced to trust the jury to do the right thing.”

  “I tend to agree,” said the judge. “Sequestering a jury is expensive and the state would rather avoid that cost if possible. Motion denied. Anything else, gentlemen?”

  Defeated, Livingston shook his head, gave up his positon at the lectern, and went to sit beside the defendant.

  In no hurry, the DA took a turn at the lectern. “Your honor, for the record, and on behalf of the press, I once more petition the court to allow the trial to be televised.”

  Looking fatigued by the subject, Judge Blackwell sighed. “Is this a new petition or the old one?”

  “A new petition,” Davis answered.

  The judge again sighed. “What is it this time?”

  “It is on behalf of the public’s right to know, Your Honor.”

  Already a little hot under the collar, Livingston quickly stood up. “Your honor, the public’s right to know is already well served by the dozen or so reporters I see present in the courtroom.”

  “Motion denied,” said the judge. “Is that all, Mr. Davis?”

  The DA ignored the way the judge looked at him over the top of his glasses. “Your Honor, I...”

  “Your new request, which was much like all the old ones is denied,” the judge interrupted, “and I hope for the last time. Anything else, gentlemen?”

  It was the DA’s turn to sigh. “I have nothing.”

  Michael said, “The DA just glanced at the front camera to see if the little light was red or green. It’s green. Very curious, since the judge denied his request to let the world see what’s going on.”

  Livingston waited for the DA to sit down before he said, “The defense has nothing further at this time.”

  “Very well, Gentlemen,” Judge Blackwell said. “Bailiff, you may seat the jury.”

  Everyone watched in silence as the bailiff opened the side door, let the jury file in and take their seats. Some of the jurors looked surprised to see such a crowded room, while others lowered their heads as if they didn’t particularly want the attention, or to be there at all, for that matter.

  “According to the newspaper, it took four weeks to seat a jury that has not formed an opinion,” said Michael. “They are not supposed to know any of the people involved, including the attorneys, the defendant, or any of the witnesses. However, the victim was well known and many had at least an acquaintance with her. In the end, they seated twelve jurors and two alternates. They are an interesting mixture of race, sex, and age with nearly half over fifty. The moral is, if you don’t want to be on a jury, don’t live past fifty.”

  Jackie wasn’t paying attention to Michael. She was thinking about the subject of their search – the one she hoped to reunite with a family that had never stopped searching, even after more than thirty years. The really awful thing about missing children, if they managed to stay alive, was the likelihood of abuse at the hands of their abductors. Learning those kinds of details was something Jackie avoided at all costs. Once reunited, she was quick to remove herself from the solved case before abuse could be discussed. Avoiding the subject meant survival...her survival. Still, she always wondered if an unthinkable childhood was written on a person’s face somehow. She looked from face to face in the elevated jury box, until her attention was drawn to juror number eleven. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and wasn’t making eye contact with any of the spectators. Was that a sign of abuse? He wore thick glasses, had no apparent scars, was well dressed, and he looked ready to pay attention to the proceedings. Perhaps it was not a sign. Perhaps he was just shy and uncomfortable with so many strangers watching him.

  On the other hand, the woman in her forties seated next to him, had an ugly two inch scar on her cheek, which she tried unsuccessfully to hide with makeup. Plastic surgery would do wonders for her, but that was too expensive for a lot of people. The woman wore off-the-rack clothing, and no doubt did her own hair. Yet, she did not appear at all shy or uncomfortable – most likely because she was used to people staring at her scar.

  Her attention was drawn back to the proceedings when the Bailiff walked to the center of the room. He waited, and as soon as the judge nodded, the Bailiff turned to face the people. “Hear Ye, Hear Ye! Court is now in session. The State of Oregon vs. Mr. Mark Augustus Barrett shall now commence.” The bailiff quickly went back to his seat and sat down.

  “The Clerk may read the charges,” said the judge.

  The older woman wearing a business pantsuit, scooted her chair back, picked up a piece of paper, stood up and cleared her throat a little. “Mr. Mark Augustus Barrett is charged with aggravated murder and theft in the first degree as described in ORS 163.118 and 163.125, criminal homicide.”

  Judge Blackwell waited until she was seated and then turned to the jury. “Ladies and Gentlemen, in this trial, jurors shall not be allowed to take notes. Some people are good at taking notes and others are not, which can lead to needless arguments during deliberations. You are here to decide Mr. Barrett’s guilt or innocence according to the facts of this case. For the duration of the trial and up to the time you are asked to render a verdict, you are not to speak to anyone about what you hear and see in this courtroom – not your friends, families, or other members of the jury. Is that understood?” the judge watched until he was certain all of them either said yes or nodded. “Very well, you may begin, Mr. Davis.”

  “Jackie,” said Michael, “the defendant smirked when the clerk read the charges and the jury noticed. I didn’t think anyone was that stupid. He’s guilty, no doubt about it. By the way, the four people sitting on the far end of the first pew behind the DA are Mrs. Lockhart’s children. There are two men and two women. I recognize them from the newspaper pictures. The brothers are Slone and Atticus Lockhart, and the sisters are Kaydence Lockhart Wilkinson, and Melissa Lockhart Dunlap. The court reporter,” Michael continued as Jackie leaned out a little to look at the woman seated at a computer below the Judge’s bench. “Now there’s an interesting looking woman. I’m thinking of asking her out.” Just as he expected, Jackie looked at the front camera and frowned. “Okay, so I’ll wait until after the trial
to ask her out. Next up, opening statements. This is where a trial starts to get interesting.”

  CHAPTER 2

  “MR. DAVIS,” THE JUDGE said, “You may make your opening statements.”

  “Permission to display the painting, Your Honor?”

  “Permission granted.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Davis turned first to face the Jury. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am Assistant District Attorney Braxton Davis, and I am here on behalf of the State of Oregon.” He went to the opposite wall, picked a folded easel up off the floor, and then set it up. Next, he placed a recently painted portrait of Mrs. Lockhart on an easel and adjusted it so the jury could see her.

  Jackie had to look between several heads to get a look at the beautiful painting. Mrs. Lockhart had a smile on her face as though she was the happiest woman in the world. Her becoming white hair stood out on the progressively light to dark shades of burnt umber in the background, and the modest dress she had on perfectly matched the color of her blue eyes. It was hard to imagine someone had intentionally silenced such a vibrant looking woman.

  “Permission to approach the jury?” Davis asked, after he made sure the painting was secure on the stand.

  “Permission granted.”

  “That’s odd,” said Michael. “The victim’s children look surprised to see the portrait, and Kaydence quickly looked away. I wonder why? See now, if that was a picture of my murdered mother and I hadn’t seen it before, I would have had a very strong reaction, maybe even chocked up a little. Not these four. Something is very wrong with these four people.”

  His limp was hardly noticeable when the attorney for the people took his time, rather than hurried to stand at the end of the jury box, so they could get a good look at the portrait. He intentionally turned so he was also facing the spectators. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, meet Mrs. Amelia Ann Lockhart. She was a woman of wealth, of good standing in the community, a patron of the arts, and she was well known for her generosity to the poor. That was before her life abruptly ended on the night of June 10th, 2012.