times.
By Wednesday, the medical examiner had already been on the stand for two full days. In meticulous detail, he’d recounted each of the victims’ injuries and how they’d been caused. He offered the forensic findings in dispassionate tones, unshaded by nuance, untouched by emotion. Victim number one, Marie Postelwaite, age twenty-five, and a nurse at JFK Memorial, had been raped, beaten, stabbed, and strangled with her own white panty hose, the knot twisted around her neck so tightly, she’d been almost decapitated; victim number two, Christine McDermott, age thirty-three, an elementary school teacher and mother of two, had been raped, sodomized, beaten, stabbed, and bitten repeatedly; victim number three, Tammy Fisher, age sixteen, grade eleven honor student, was found raped, beaten, stabbed, her throat slashed from ear to ear; and on and on, through to victim number thirteen, Maureen Elfer,age twenty-seven and a newlywed, who’d been raped, sodomized, beaten, stabbed, and virtually gutted. Slight variations on the same grizzly theme.
The last thing I wanted to do, I’d told my sister when she called the night before, was to hear any of these gruesome details up close. It was enough to read about such awful things in the paper without having to listen to the muffled sobs of the victims’ families as each fresh horror was recounted. Hadn’t she had enough? I demanded.
“Are you kidding? This is only the beginning.” The forensic evidence was highly suspect, probably tainted, she said knowingly. DNA was a notoriously inexact science. The medical examiner was in the prosecutor’s pocket. Wait till the defense got a crack at him.
I thought of my visit to the squat building on Gun Club Road. I had told my sister about it, hoping it might scare some sense into her. It hadn’t.
“Colin will be found innocent. You’ll see,” she insisted, still resolutely in his corner despite the fact that he hadn’t responded to her note. At least somebody was thinking clearly, I thought, relieved.
“I wonder if they gave him my letter,” she mused aloud in court that second Wednesday, as I squirmed around in my seat, my eyes drifting toward the back of the room, flitting casually across the representatives of the media.
Was that what I was doing here? Had I been hoping to see Robert again? Was that why I’d finally given in and agreed to spend another day in court?
Oh God, I thought with a shudder. I’m as bad as my sister.
“Do you think they’d do that?” Jo Lynn was asking.
“Do what?”
“Not give him my letter.”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly, distracted by the powers of my own self-delusion.
“I think that would be illegal,” she continued, “not giving someone their mail. I mean, I wrote him a letter, which I entrusted to them, and I would think that they’re under a legal obligation to make sure he gets it. Wouldn’t you?”
“I have no idea.” My voice vibrated impatience. I heard it. So did Jo Lynn.
“What’s the matter with you? Disappointed because your boyfriend didn’t show?”
My head snapped toward her, my eyes flashing anger, my cheeks flushing red. “Do you ever say anything that’s not ridiculous?”
“Hit a nerve, did I?”
The door at the front of the courtroom opened and the prisoner was let in. He looked around, eyes taking in the entire courtroom at a glance. Beside me, Jo Lynn waved, a small fluttering of her fingers, followed by a tiny kiss she blew toward him. The corners of Colin Friendly’s mouth creased into a smile as he reached out to grab the invisible kiss, his fingers tightening around it, as if around a young girl’s throat. He was wearing the same blue suit he’d been wearing the first time I saw him, although his shirt was white and his tie navy, and I wondered if he received a fresh shirt and tie every day, and if so, who supplied them. I thought of asking Jo Lynn, decided against it. She’d probably use it as an excuse to comment on my
By Wednesday, the medical examiner had already been on the stand for two full days. In meticulous detail, he’d recounted each of the victims’ injuries and how they’d been caused. He offered the forensic findings in dispassionate tones, unshaded by nuance, untouched by emotion. Victim number one, Marie Postelwaite, age twenty-five, and a nurse at JFK Memorial, had been raped, beaten, stabbed, and strangled with her own white panty hose, the knot twisted around her neck so tightly, she’d been almost decapitated; victim number two, Christine McDermott, age thirty-three, an elementary school teacher and mother of two, had been raped, sodomized, beaten, stabbed, and bitten repeatedly; victim number three, Tammy Fisher, age sixteen, grade eleven honor student, was found raped, beaten, stabbed, her throat slashed from ear to ear; and on and on, through to victim number thirteen, Maureen Elfer,age twenty-seven and a newlywed, who’d been raped, sodomized, beaten, stabbed, and virtually gutted. Slight variations on the same grizzly theme.
The last thing I wanted to do, I’d told my sister when she called the night before, was to hear any of these gruesome details up close. It was enough to read about such awful things in the paper without having to listen to the muffled sobs of the victims’ families as each fresh horror was recounted. Hadn’t she had enough? I demanded.
“Are you kidding? This is only the beginning.” The forensic evidence was highly suspect, probably tainted, she said knowingly. DNA was a notoriously inexact science. The medical examiner was in the prosecutor’s pocket. Wait till the defense got a crack at him.
I thought of my visit to the squat building on Gun Club Road. I had told my sister about it, hoping it might scare some sense into her. It hadn’t.
“Colin will be found innocent. You’ll see,” she insisted, still resolutely in his corner despite the fact that he hadn’t responded to her note. At least somebody was thinking clearly, I thought, relieved.
“I wonder if they gave him my letter,” she mused aloud in court that second Wednesday, as I squirmed around in my seat, my eyes drifting toward the back of the room, flitting casually across the representatives of the media.
Was that what I was doing here? Had I been hoping to see Robert again? Was that why I’d finally given in and agreed to spend another day in court?
Oh God, I thought with a shudder. I’m as bad as my sister.
“Do you think they’d do that?” Jo Lynn was asking.
“Do what?”
“Not give him my letter.”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly, distracted by the powers of my own self-delusion.
“I think that would be illegal,” she continued, “not giving someone their mail. I mean, I wrote him a letter, which I entrusted to them, and I would think that they’re under a legal obligation to make sure he gets it. Wouldn’t you?”
“I have no idea.” My voice vibrated impatience. I heard it. So did Jo Lynn.
“What’s the matter with you? Disappointed because your boyfriend didn’t show?”
My head snapped toward her, my eyes flashing anger, my cheeks flushing red. “Do you ever say anything that’s not ridiculous?”
“Hit a nerve, did I?”
The door at the front of the courtroom opened and the prisoner was let in. He looked around, eyes taking in the entire courtroom at a glance. Beside me, Jo Lynn waved, a small fluttering of her fingers, followed by a tiny kiss she blew toward him. The corners of Colin Friendly’s mouth creased into a smile as he reached out to grab the invisible kiss, his fingers tightening around it, as if around a young girl’s throat. He was wearing the same blue suit he’d been wearing the first time I saw him, although his shirt was white and his tie navy, and I wondered if he received a fresh shirt and tie every day, and if so, who supplied them. I thought of asking Jo Lynn, decided against it. She’d probably use it as an excuse to comment on my
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