Greed and a Mistress Page 3

  The State of Oregon’s case is simple. Mark Barrett, the man seated at the defense table, is the dumbest criminal known to man. He...”

  “Your Honor,” Livingston protested as he started to stand up.

  Davis looked shocked at the interruption and paused for a moment before he said, “Very well, I withdraw the statement.”

  “Talk about smooth,” said Carl. “He got the jury to smile first thing. The men will admire him and the women will be in love by the time this trial is over.”

  The DA scratched an eyebrow and waited a moment more before he turned back to the jury. “The state will prove Mark Barrett did willfully and intentionally take the life of Mrs. Amelia Anne Lockhart. She was sixty-seven years old.

  Mr. Barrett did it for money – ten-thousand dollars, to be exact. He got a gun, went to her house, killed her, and then stole a few very valuable pieces of jewelry. I am amazed that he took so little, and you will be too. In a house filled with irreplaceable valuables, he could have walked out a millionaire. Instead, all he took was five pieces of jewelry. A professional would have known better. A dumb criminal would not.”

  “Your Honor,” Livingston loudly moaned, half rising out of his seat again.

  Again, the judge looked over the top of his glasses at the DA. “I agree, Counselor. Mr. Davis, please refrain from using the word ‘dumb’.”

  “Yes, Your Honor. Let’s see, where was I, Oh yes, Mrs. Amelia Lockhart went to sleep the night of June 9th and never woke up. The housekeeper found her three days later. She had been shot once in the head. Thankfully, Mrs. Lockhart died instantly and did not suffer.

  Mark Barrett thought he could get away with it, but he left some very incriminating evidence behind. In this trial, you will hear what that evidence is, and from that, you will know for certain the only possible verdict you can render is – guilty. Thank you for taking the time out of your busy lives to be here.” Braxton Davis nodded to the woman seated at the end of the twelve member jury box, and then went back to his table.

  “Yep,” Michael said, “that’s what they say about Davis’ style. He makes friends with the jury by addressing each in turn throughout a trial. He is famous for taking good care of his jury too. Telling them Mrs. Lockhart did not suffer eased both the jury and the spectators. Very smooth, that one. If the jury likes you, they’ll come down on your side.”

  Jackie could hear what was said in court well enough, but she needed to be closer to the front if she wanted to observe the subject of their search. She wrote the word ‘details’ on her pad and tipped it up so her team could see it through the camera in her medallion.

  “You’ll have to be more specific, boss,” said Michael. “I’ll tell you this though. Those four are a real work of art...the children, I mean. They are decked out like they’re going to a garden party instead of a trial. Their clothes and jewelry look expensive, and unless I’m mistaken, even the men got recent manicures.”

  The man seated next to Jackie seemed interested in what she was writing, so she wrote down some of the details the DA had cited. Her nosey neighbor turned away.

  “Jackie, Michael is hogging all the attention again. The charges are serious stuff. If they convict him for felony theft, it’s a $375,000 fine. He should have upped his price...by a lot. For aggravated murder, which means he got paid to kill her, he could get death, life without parole, or life with parole after 30 years. Any way you look at it, he’s done in this life.”

  “If they convict him,” Michael added.

  As soon as the DA sat down, the judge asked, “Mr. Livingston, does the defense have an opening statement?”

  “I do, Your Honor.” Steve Livingston stood up, asked permission to approach the jury and smiled when it was granted. Just as handsome as his client, Livingston stood five foot ten and had a touch of gray on the sides of his neatly trimmed hair. Instead of standing at the end of the jury box, he ignored the spectators and stood directly in front of the jury.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have taken you away from your home, your friends, and your family, and we are grateful for the attention you are willing to give to this matter.

  You are here to determine whether or not my client, Mr. Mark Barrett, killed Mrs. Amelia Lockhart. However, it is important to remember that the burden of proof rests with the People. If they can’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, then even if you suspect he might have done it, you must set him free. All we ask is that you assume my client is innocent until proven guilty.” With that, Stephen Livingston went back to his table and sat down.

  “Short and sweet,” said Carl. “I like this guy, even if he is representing a dumb criminal.”

  “Mr. Davis,” the judge said, “you may call your first witness.”

  Davis walked to the lectern and laid several pages of typewritten notes on top. “The People call Chris Cooper.”

  In the back of the courtroom, the bailiff opened the door, stuck his head out and yelled, “Mr. Chris Cooper?” A few seconds later, a man entered the room, and it wasn’t hard to figure out what Mr. Cooper did for a living. He wore a light blue shirt, dark blue pants, a matching jacket with the post office logo on the front, and a baseball type cap, which he quickly removed when he entered.

  The Court Clerk stood up and as soon as he came through the little gate and approached the witness box, she said, “Please raise your right hand. Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth?”

  “I do,” said Cooper.

  “You may be seated.”

  The postman seemed a little nervous as he ran his fingers through his light brown hair, and waited to be questioned.

  The DA didn’t make him wait long. “For the record, please tell us your full name and occupation.”

  “My name is Christopher A. Cooper, and I deliver mail for the United States Post Office here in Portland.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cooper. Mr. Cooper, is 4415 Redwood Blvd. on your mail delivery route?”

  “It is.”

  “Do you know who lives at that address?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lockhart,” the witness paused briefly, “or at least she used to live there before she died.”

  “To your knowledge, has the post office received any kind of notice concerning mail being delivered to the house since Mrs. Lockhart was murdered?”

  “You mean like a change of address? No, I haven’t seen one.”

  “Thank you. Previous to Mrs. Lockhart’s untimely death, how long had you been delivering mail to that address?”

  The postman paused to think before he gave his answer. “About three and a half, maybe four years.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Lockhart personally?”

  The postman briefly lowered his eyes. “We talked several times when I came to deliver her mail, but no more personally than that.”

  “Do you know most of the people on your route well?” Davis asked.

  “Fairly well, all except one couple that just moved in. I haven’t seen them yet, but they take their mail in each day.”

  “Mr. Cooper, do you recognize anyone in this courtroom?”

  “I do. I’ve seen that guy over there before.”

  “Could you point him out for the jury?”

  The postman extended his index finger and pointed. “He’s right there.”

  The DA turned to the jury just to make certain they were paying attention. “Let the record show that Mr. Cooper is pointing to the defendant, Mark Barrett.”

  “So noted,” said the judge.

  “Mr. Cooper, did you see Mr. Barrett more than once?”

  “No, just that once.”

  “I see. When was it that you saw Mr. Barrett?”

  “I believe it was the week before Mrs. Lockhart was murdered.”

  “Where did you see Mr. Barrett?”

  “He was walking down the street in front of Mrs. Lockhart’s house. At first, I thought he was lost, so I asked if he needed directions. He just smiled and kept going.”

  “
What made you think he needed directions?” Davis asked.

  “Well, he seemed to be looking for Mrs. Lockhart’s address. Some people have big numbers on the side of their house near the door, and some even put them on the door. There are numbers on Mrs. Lockhart’s house, but they are smaller than most.”

  “How can you be sure this is the man you saw?”

  “I am careful about such things, and I’m good at remembering faces. People steal from mailboxes, so I pay close attention to strangers on my route. That’s the man I saw, all right.”

  “Can you tell us what the man you saw was wearing?”

  “Not exactly, I looked at his face mostly, but I remember his blue slip-on tennis shoes. Not too many people wear blue ones. Most are white.”

  “What color of blue would you say his shoes were?”

  “Turquoise.”

  Davis moved to the side, clasped his hands together and leaned one arm on the lectern. “I draw your attention to the three days between June 9th, the night Mrs. Lockhart was murdered, and June 12th, when her body was discovered. Did you notice anything odd about Mrs. Lockhart’s mail during that time?”

  “I sure did. She usually came out to get the mail from me. Sweet lady, sweetest woman in the world. She has a box attached to the outside of the house near the front door and that’s what was odd.”

  “Could you be more specific? What was odd?” Davis asked.

  “Well, for three days she didn’t come out, and she didn’t pick up her mail.”

  “Were you worried about it?”

  “Not worried, exactly,” Cooper answered. “I just supposed she’d gone somewhere and forgot to send in a no-delivery notice. She’d never forgotten that before, but I figured she was getting on in years.”

  “By the way, do you recognize this portrait as the Mrs. Lockhart we are talking about?”

  Cooper turned to look at the picture and loudly exhaled, “Yes, sir, that is Mrs. Lockhart.”

  “Where is her mail now?”

  “At the post office. I had it held so it wouldn’t pile up after I read about the murder. I was just sick about it.”

  Davis looked amazed. “You mean no one has come to pick up her mail?”

  “No sir, it’s all in a box just waiting for someone to claim it.”

  “What normally happens to mail when someone dies?” Davis asked.

  “Normally, someone in the family shows the post office some kind of proof of relationship, and then has the mail forwarded to their own address. Sometimes, no one claims the mail and it is returned to the sender, only I’d hate to return her mail. No sweeter woman ever walked the earth than Mrs. Lockhart. If I send all that mail back...it’d be like admitting she was truly gone.” Cooper bowed his head.

  Davis waited for the witness to compose himself. “To your knowledge, was Mrs. Lockhart receiving any threatening letters?”

  “No sir, just the usual bills and magazines. She never did get personal letters that I recall, except maybe the kind of envelopes invitations come in. But then, most people don’t get regular mail now that they have email.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cooper, I have no further questions.” Davis picked up his papers and went back to his table.

  Judge Blackwell removed his glasses and started to clean them with a tissue. “Do you have any questions for this witness, Mr. Livingston?”

  “May I have a moment, Your Honor?” Livingston asked.

  “Very well, but make it quick.”

  “Jackie,” said Michael, “I can’t wait till you see the look on Slone Lockhart’s face when the mailman said her mail was at the post office. He exchanged surprised looks with his brother. I wonder what those two are up to.”

  Carl grabbed a pop can off the coffee table, downed the last of the liquid and then set his computer aside. “You want another pop, pop?”

  “Pop?” Michael gasped. “You’re older than me.”

  “Not by much.”

  Jackie ignored them and took a long look at the people seated on down her row. It was obvious some were taking notes and she suspected they were reporters. Two teenage boys, one with an orange Mohawk and one with dreadlocks, looked like they’d wandered into the room by mistake.

  “Somebody’s precious baby boy,” the man next to her whispered as he followed her gaze.

  Jackie nodded and turned away. Several people on the opposite side of the courtroom changed positions in their seats. They looked uncomfortable and she didn’t blame them. The longer she sat, the harder the pew felt. She uncrossed her legs and sat up a little straighter. It didn’t help much.

  LIVINGSTON FINISHED consulting his notes, and then went to stand behind the lectern. “Thank you, Your Honor. Hello, Mr. Cooper.”

  “Hello.”

  “You testified that you believe you saw Mr. Barrett the week before Mrs. Lockhart was murdered, is that correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you recall the exact day you think you saw him?”

  “Not the exact day, but I’m sure it was the week before Mrs. Lockhart was killed.”

  “Mr. Cooper, if you don’t know the exact day you saw him, is it possible it was two weeks, or even a week and a half earlier?”

  “I don’t think so, but maybe.”

  “Thank you. To your knowledge, has any of the mail on your route ever been stolen?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Livingston looked thoughtful when he asked, “Did anyone report missing mail the week you say you saw the defendant?”

  “I didn’t hear of any missing mail.”

  “But if mail was missing, you would have heard about it?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Thank you.” Livingston checked his notes again. “Mr. Cooper, isn’t it true that you didn’t get a real good look at the man you say you saw the week before Mrs. Lockhart was murdered?”

  “No, I got a good look at him. I just didn’t pay attention to what he was wearing.”

  “Yet, you did not see him committing a crime, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t see him do anything. He just smiled and walked away.”

  “Is it normal for a man thinking of committing a crime to smile as...”

  Davis quickly interrupted, “Objection, calls for speculation, Your Honor.”

  “Sustained.”

  Livingston took what sounded like a frustrated breath and then continued, “Mr. Cooper, do you know how many turquoise slip-on shoes are sold in this country each year?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Thank you, I have no further questions.”

  The judge looked at the DA. “Mr. Davis, redirect?”

  Davis rose up. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Mr. Cooper, you are excused,” said Judge Blackwell. He waited until the witness left the room before he said, “Gentlemen, it is nearly ten thirty. Let’s take a break and reconvene at ten forty-five. Members of the jury, you are reminded not to discuss the case with anyone.” Judge Blackwell stood up and headed for his private door.

  “All rise until the judge and jury have left the room,” the bailiff ordered.

  As the spectators began to leave, Jackie stood up and moved out of the way so others could leave the pew she was sitting in. She took special note of the man sitting next to her, so she could avoid him in the future. He was just a little too nosey for her taste.

  Some people stayed in their seats or stood up just to stretch their legs, and she was about to sit back down when Michael said, “Jackie, that blonde walking toward you is the defendant’s wife. She doesn’t look real happy to be here. In fact, she got upset when the DA put the picture of the victim up. For a moment, I thought she was going to cry.”

  As soon as Holly Barrett walked past, Jackie followed her out of the courtroom. She watched Holly hurry down the hall, disappear around the corner, and then decided to follow her. By the time Jackie made her way through the crowd and turned the corner, Holly was already sitting on a be
nch against the wall, staring aimlessly at a small garden through a large picture window.

  “May I sit beside you?” Jackie asked.

  “It’s a free country...for most of us,” Holly muttered.

  “Thank you.” Jackie sat down and admired the garden herself for a moment. At length, she glanced at the slumping woman beside her. “You look exhausted?”

  “What?” Holly asked.

  “You look tired, Mrs. Barrett.”

  Holly looked away. “Oh, You would too, if you’d just flown in from Salt Lake and then couldn’t sleep all night.”

  “Well, maybe getting the first day over with will let you rest better tonight.”

  “I hope so.” Holly turned to look Jackie in the eye. “Are you a reporter?”

  “No. My name is Jackie Harlan and I’m just here to watch the trial.”

  “You don’t hate me? Everyone else in this town does.”

  “I am not from around here. In fact, I haven’t been to Portland in years.”

  “I’m not from around here either. We’d only lived here a few months before he...” Holly sighed. “He moved us here because he was offered a better job.”

  “Was it a better job?”

  “I guess it was, He didn’t talk about it much. All I know is he put in a lot of long hours after work. At least that’s what he said he was doing.”

  Jackie hesitantly asked, “He wasn’t working?”

  Holly turned her whole body so she could look Jackie in the eye again. “Haven’t you read the newspapers? Everyone knows he has...or had a mistress. I doubt she will have anything to do with him now either.”

  “I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure you knew.”

  “Oh, I know alright. I suspected it long ago and the DA is right – I married a stupid man.” She lightly bit her lower lip. “Then again, only a stupid woman would have married him. Everyone tried to tell me he was dishonest, but would I listen? No, I was in love.” She paused for a long moment before she said, “Funny, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “How love can die like that. I wouldn’t have believed that was possible either, at least not for me.”