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- CABLE
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- VAL COOPER
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- HENRY PETER GYRICH
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- WILLIAM STRYKER
INNOCENCE
By Mike Franzoni
Brooklyn, New York, Early September, 1985
The last vestiges of summer refuse to release their hold on the streets of Brooklyn, instead laying a thick blanket of humidity upon the city. Overhead, the sun pours down from a cloudless sky, scorching the pavement until it attacks the pedestrians with the reflection of its heat. Today, one could, quite literally, fry an egg on the sidewalk, if one so desired.
Yet through the stifling temperatures and beneath the merciless sun, the laughter of children echoes through the streets. The sounds of Indian summer can still be heard, from the crack of a broomstick against a tennis ball, to the gentle rain of an opened fire hydrant falling against the fading blacktop. Life is simple and all cares seem a world away; tucked beneath the smile of a child or the mixed static of an old radio trying to tune in the last few Yankee home games.
Everyone is caught up in the moment, ignoring the pressures normally heaped upon their ever-growing burdens. Perhaps, just perhaps, this is what makes the coming news so much more shocking.
“George! George, come here,” a woman, no older than her early fifties, calls out from her doorway. “Somethin’ big’s comin’ over the scanner. The police’s on their way ta the neighborhood. C’mon… quick.”
Turning away from a conversation with his neighbor, George Martino begins walking toward his wife’s shrill screeching. “I’m comin’, Rosa. Hold yer horses, already.”
No sooner is his back turned to the street than two police units round the corner, their sirens clearing the stickball game from the street, as the curious flock to their windows and doorways to see what’s happening. The squad cars continue along their path, turning one more corner before coming to rest in front of a brick brownstone, not unlike a hundred others in the neighborhood.
Like moths to a campfire, the neighbors find their way to the flashing blue lights, standing across the street as officers hustle into the building. Moments later, they are joined by an ambulance and two additional squad cars, who set up a make-shift barricade through the middle of the street. By now, whispers begin to circulate through the onlookers, rumors of the horrors found within the brownstone, and the gathering has started to dissipate slowly, as stomaches begin to rumble and mercury vapors replaces the torturous sun.
A lone officer steps forward, keeping the banner of yellow tape between himself and the onlookers. Clearing his throat, he begins to speak, “Ladies and gentlemen, I assure you, there is nothing to see here. Please return to your homes and go back about your business. You can all read about it in tomorrow’s edition of the Bugle. Thank you.”
His speech made, the officer turns away from the crowd, heading back up the front steps of the brownstone. As he opens the front door, a duo of paramedics force him to the side as they carry a gurney through the thin threshold. A gasp flows through the crowd as many realize that the bag atop the gurney is marked for shipment to the city morgue. Yet more disturbing than this is the notion that the bag is only large enough to hold a child.
“Get that one loaded in, boys. We got three more to bring out,” the scene coordinator says, trying to keep his volume down as much as possible.
Three Days Later
‘Police Line – Do Not Cross’. Each letter engraved on the yellow tape does nothing to alleviate the fear running rampant on Poplar Street this morning. Henry Peter Gyrich can almost feel it; it weighs so heavily in the air. Flashing the watchman his papers, Nathan steps beneath the faux barricade and into the front entrance of the brownstone.
“Few basic rules. This is a crime scene. Do not touch anything without gloves. Do not disturb physical evidence, such as footprints, blood stains, etc. Do not remove anything from the crime scene. Do you understand these rules, Mister…” the beat cop begins.
“Gyrich. And I know my way around a crime scene, thank you,” he says, his voice ringing heavily with an air of cynicism, something for which he is known for on Capitol Hill. “I’ll be expecting some assistance from the local bureau office shortly. Please call and request a forensics officer, their best field profiler, and a small team of agents. When they arrive, show them up.”
“Of course, sir. If you need anyth…”
Gyrich does not wait for the man to conclude his sentence, instead turning to the staircase and climbing one step at a time. Upon reaching the second story landing, he looks toward the three doors, all standing slightly ajar, the residue of finger-printing dust still caught in the creases of the wood.
He enters the bedroom to his right, supposedly the master bedroom according to floor plans supplied by the previous owner, but in truth, the room is no larger than any of the others. At one time, the carpet had been creme colored, now stained scarlet and knotted in places with drying blood. In other spots, swatches have been removed from the carpet, undoubtedly being checked for fiber and fluid samples.
Gyrich removes a handheld tape recorder from his pocket and begins taking notes, “No visible signs of forced entry, and the police report notes that all doors and windows were locked from the inside. How then did the police come to know of this heinous act of violence? 911 has records of an anonymous call coming in at 5:37 p.m. that day, alerting police to the location and nature of this crime. Attempts to trace the call have brought no results.”
He clicks down on the stop button, pausing to catch his breath and formulate his next round of thoughts.
“Who could have killed an entire family of four, burning the flesh away from their bodies and slicing apart their insides, without physically entering or exiting the house?”
In his mind, an opinion has already begun to form, and there is no doubt in his mind. This senseless attack was the act of deranged mutant, and thus, the reason he has agreed to take this case.
Interlude One
“Nine-One-One. Is this an emergency?”
“Yes. No. I’m not sure.”
“Is this something that requires immediate emergency assistance?”
“I know who killed that family over on Poplar four nights ago.”
“Please hold, sir, while I connect you with a representative from the police department.”
“No, I want to talk to you, and you only. Anyone else gets involved and I’ll disappear. Promise me now: no one else until I’m done speaking.”
From her desk, the 911 operator looks around at the other operators, waving her hands until she gets the attention of her supervisor, who immediately lifts the receiver to call for assistance.
“I promise. Please continue, sir.”
“As I said, I know who killed that Porter family…”
For the better part of the last two weeks, George Martino has heard the wail of police sirens sounding in the distance. While this is not unusual, it is odd that with each one, he has begun to wonder if they were returning to his neighborhood? Who would it be this time? Tonight, his feelings were just beginning to disappear, and he was enjoying the beginning of the fall play-offs. The announcers were just discussing the starting line-ups, and his TV dinner was resting on the tray table in front of him, when the sirens once again pierced the night. Blue light reflected through the lace curtains, as the sirens grew louder.
Yet unlike other times, the sirens did not fade away. This was when George Martino opened his front door to half the mobile units in the Brooklyn precinct.
“Good evening, officers. Is there something I can do for you?” Managing to stammer out his words, George can only watch as officers rush up the steps of his house, pushing him to the side of the front hallway.
“Where’s your son, sir?” an officer half-asked, half-demanded.
“Upstairs, playing Atari, I think.”
The officer immediately jumped on his radio. “Units two and three, proceed with caution to the boy’s room. Exercise all emergency detainment methods; we’re authorized to use whatever force necessary to apprehend the suspect. Go! Go! Go!”
The world collapses around him, and George Martino only hears faint echoes of the sounds around him. The impact of an officer’s foot on his son’s door. The splintering of wood and creaking of metal as it comes off the hinges and explodes inward. The shuffle of feet coming to rest as the officers surround his son. The reading of the Miranda warnings. His wife screaming in disbelief and confusion. He does not know what has happened, but his world has suddenly become a suburban nightmare.
And it culminates with his son being led, in handcuffs, out the front door to a sea of policemen, his friends and neighbors, and the flood of flashbulbs from the press. Broken, he falls to his knees and chokes back a sob.
On the other side of the glass, the boy sits silently, staring down at his hands folded atop the table. Nathan has been watching him for the past few minutes, looking to see if the boy even realized why he had been taken from his home in the middle of the evening and brought here. For the most part, the boy has remained expressionless, with only the slight brimming of tears in his eyes.
“And he hasn’t said anything? Not to the arresting officers or anyone?” Nathan asks, ascertaining the extent of his client’s interrogation. “Have his parents been permitted to see him yet? They were quite worried when they called me this afternoon.”
“His father is waiting in the lobby, but his mother had to be sedated. We haven’t allowed any visitors as of yet,” the detective replies, his arms crossed confidently across his chest. “You’re welcome to sit down with him if you’d like.”
Nathan looks back to the detective, and nods. “Thank you.” With his words said, he opens the door to the interrogation room and steps inside. The boy does not even look up at him as he sits down across the table from him.
“Hello, Stefan. My name is Nathan Dayspring. I’ve been asked by your parents to come and speak with you,” Nathan begins, trying his best to look into the face of his client. “Do you know why you’re here?”
Tilting his head upward slightly, Stefan looks at Nathan and barely whispers, “No…”
“Six days ago, a family was killed in your neighborhood. The city has decided to formally press charges against you. Four counts of murder in the first degree. They’ve placed the indictment hearing on tomorrow’s docket. Seems that some Washington big-wig has pulled some strings to guarantee you a ‘speedy trial’. Now, is there anything you want to ask me or tell me?”
The young man just looks up at Nathan, his eyes revealing the fear he’s masked so well. “Why me? Why did this have to happen to me?”
Interlude Two
“Our children are not safe. Our homes are not safe. Everyday, they are being threatened by the unseen. There is nowhere to run. There is nowhere to hide from this new threat, except within the Lord. Only He can bring the salvation that we need. Only He can provide the sanctuary we seek. Only He can light the path that leads us from the shadows.”
Even now, he can see that the number of patrons has grown since last week. Given time, he is certain, his fellowship will be among the largest that this city has ever seen. They will know that evil represented by these new devils, those vile creatures called the Marvels by the New York journalism circuit. Yes, the energy flows through each of them, building each week, and soon, it will erupt in a crescendo of divine vengeance against the devils that walk among man.
And evil shall be removed from the streets.
It has been two weeks since the incarceration of Stefan Martino, the young man charged with four counts of murder in the first degree for the deaths of a Brooklyn family. The media has worked itself into a frenzy, clamoring for each exclusive interview, but the exclusives run dry when every reporter in the country is chasing them down. Outside the New York State Courthouse, the press awaits the first inklings of news to drift down from the trial.
“Objection, your honor. This trial is the height of public awareness. We were lucky to get an unbiased jury, but that may not continue if we allow the press to make a circus out of this courtroom,” Nathan begins, in response to the government’s request to open the doors to the public. “This trial is about finding the truth, and I can not help but believe that if the press is allowed inside, then they will paint an unfair portrait of my client and jeopardize the chances of a fair trial.”
Gyrich sneers at Nathan and responds, “Your honor, this is a trial of dramatic proportions, the public has a right to know that the United States is doing everything in its power to protect them from the evil that roams their streets. They have a right to feel safe in their homes. And without public participation in this trial, they will believe the worst of everything that happens in this room, as it will likely reach the press through biased rumors. The prosecution is in favor of an open court.”
The honorable Joseph Peterson adjusts his position, struggling to hear the whispered ranting of the two attorneys. Leaning down toward them, he begins to relay his solution. “Mister Dayspring, I am forced to concur with Mister Gyrich on this point. Not because he wants the government to be painted in a positive light, but it is my belief that under closed doors, the press may still paint an ill picture of your client. As the court guarantees a fair trial, I can not force that child to rejoin the world with every man’s hateful glares cutting him down, if an innocent verdict is handed down. However, Mister Gyrich, I will have no grand-standing for the approval of the press. The first time you step out of line, I will usher each and every person out of this courtroom and place you in contempt. Do I make myself clear, gentlemen?”
Both men nod, and as the judge excuses them, step back to their tables.
“Now, as was said before, the defendant has entered a plea of not guilty. Mister Gyrich, you may begin your opening statement,” the judge says, initiating the trial.
“Your honor. Esteemed colleagues. Members of the press and of the community. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. Today is a somber day in New York. Across this country, a nation watches and waits to see that justice is served. In this case, a child sits before you, charged with the gruesome murders of an entire family, from mother and father, to baby and child tucked in for the night. These events are horrifying, and made even moreso by the fact that this family thought itself safe within their own home, a mistake that can be made only once. Each of you has been asked here today in order to reach an important decision. That decision? Whether or not to incriminate this child in the deaths of that family. The prosecution will show you irrefutable evidence linking this child to the murder site and the family itself. It will then become your responsibility, your obligation, to review that evidence and to find this child guilty of the crimes set before him. If you do not, can you truly guarantee that your family is safe within your home? I do not think that you can. Thank you.”
Nathan sits and eyes the jury as Gyrich delivers his speech, watches as member gasps and shakes their head. Nathan knows now that Gyrich is feeding their fears, their paranoia. He is giving the public what they want, and Nathan is unsure now whether he can stop it. Taking a deep breath, he rises from his seat, and begins his opening address.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m not here today to calm your fears or to ease you back into the belief that something like this could never happen to you. The fact remains that this act did happen, and it could very well happen again. However, I ask you now to set aside those fears, to clear your minds of the lingering doubts and to start anew. Today does not mark the beginning of a search for justice. Instead, each of you has become the bearer of a responsibility, and it is the responsibility to declare innocence where innocence exists. This child has been wrongfully accused of a crime he did not have the motive or opportunity to commit. Let’s talk about that for a minute. In order to prove guilt, the prosecution will present you with allegedly irrefutable evidence. However, all this evidence means nothing if they can not prove that my client had the motive to commit this crime, or the opportunity to do so. I ask you only to review the facts presented before you, and to strive toward the truth of my client’s innocence. Thank you.”
As he turns from the jury, Nathan casts his eyes to Gyrich, watching him suspiciously and wondering, ‘What does the United States government stand to gain from victory in this trial?’
Hopefully, he will find the answer before Gyrich hangs his client.
Interlude Three
The reporter came from nowhere as Matt Murdock exited his office. Truthfully, he had known she was there, but he could not rightfully avoid the press without alluding to his own superhuman abilities. The city was high on paranoia against the marvels, and he didn’t want the undue attention turned toward his private life.
“Miss, I believe that every citizen in New York has already been affected by this particular crime. Whatever the outcome, I am positive that the good people will reach their own opinions and realize that their fears have been unfounded.”
Matt descends the front steps of his brownstone office, the click-clack of his guidance stick leading his steps. Turning down the street, he hears the reporter once again call his attentions.
“One more question, counselor. Do you think the child is innocent?”
“Ma’am, I’m afraid that it is not my place to declare innocence or guilt. Ultimately, what my opinion is will not matter in this trial. Mister Martino’s fate has been placed in the hands of a jury of his peers. Their decision is the only one that matters. Now, if I may, I have a lunch to attend with my partner.”
The battle has raged for days, each side struggling to provide crucial evidence to Stefan’s guilt or innocence, while the other side does its best to discount that evidence. Still, the tide of the battle has swung more towards the prosecution, who seem to have every single element of proof needed to cement the boy’s guilt.
Gyrich paces back and forth in front of the witness box, a list of questions flowing through his mind. He has a plan of attack, but it all depends on the order in which he poses his inquiries.
“Would you state, for the court, your name and occupation, please?”
“I’m Doctor George Willis. I work for the city of New York as chief coroner of its special crimes unit.”
“Was this particular instance what would be deemed as a special crime?”
“Yes, sir. A special crimes decree is only issued on cases that involve parahuman victims or assailants, in which case, this instance had a parahuman assailant.”
“And how was this determined?”
“Well, after close review of each of the bodies, the skin – or what was remaining of it – has severe conflagration markings… indicative of a high level burn, something beyond third degree. Seeing as how nothing in the apartment was burned, except for the victims, it was surmised that the assailant had been parahuman.”
“You mentioned conflagration markings. Could you please elaborate?”
“Certainly. Each of the victims possessed a high degree of burns, and in some cases, melting. Their inner organs were charred crisp, the liquids inside dried up or escaped as gasses. The brain tissue was scarred heavily… hemorraging in spots where the heat grew too excessive. Yet, the most alarming issue was the remains of the victims’ skin tissue and bones… both of which were nearly reduced to soot and ash in the fire. That, and the fire is believed to have started internally.”
“Are you referring to spontaneous combustion, Doctor Willis?”
“No, sir. Spontaneous combustion is a random event of catching fire, and has been discounted by several scientests as being impossible. I’m referring to the act of the inner chemicals mixing and igniting themselves, an act impossible without the walls of their internal organs dissipating.”
“Thank you, Doctor Willis. No further questions.” Gyrich turns and walks back to his table, tilting his head toward Nathan as he passes. “Your witness.”
Taking a quick swallow from his glass of water, Nathan rises to his feet and approaches the witness stand. “Doctor Willis, how long have you been employed by the City of New York?”
“Nineteen years, sir.”
“And in that time, how often have you assisted the national government?”
“Approximately twenty times.”
“Of those twenty instances, how many times has a special crimes decree been issued?”
“Thirteen times.”
“By you or the government liaison?”
“I’m not quite sure I understand the question.”
“Let me rephrase. Was the special crimes decree issued by yourself or by the liaison from the national government?”
“Three were issued by me. Ten by the feds.”
“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” Nathan begins, taking-up a leaning position against the jury box. “In your twenty partnerships with the national government, sixty-five percent of those cases have involved parahuman activity. Of that sixty-five percent, you – the field expert – only issued the special crimes decree in twenty-three percent of those cases?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“And who issued the decree in this particular case?”
“Henry Peter Gyrich.”
“Can you identify this person for the court?”
The red rushes to his cheeks, and Gyrick springs to his feet. “Objection, your Honor. This line of questioning is irrelevent. Prosecution is not on trial.”
The judge looks down toward Nathan, and remarks. “Agreed. Please abstain, counselor.”
Nathan smiles quickly to himself. His point has been made. “No further questions, your Honor.”
“Mister Gyrich, I will offer you the chance to redirect this afternoon. Court is in recess.”
And the gavel falls.
The days have placed a strain on their lives. Rosa Martinez hasn’t returned to work since her son was led away in handcuffs. Part of that is because she can not, will not, believe her son capable of such atrocities. But there is also another, underlying reason; she is secretly ashamed and unwilling to face her coworkers and their lingers stares.
In order to meet his family’s mounting financial burder, George Martinez has been working around the clock in his corner market, redoubling his efforts in order to support his family, but also because it serves as a slight distraction from his son’s predicament. Even so, his customer base has dwindled. Most are too impatient to deal with the hordes of press blocking the entrance to the store. A few of them stop by to give George their sympathies or to try and discern his son’s hidden guilt. It has been a hard two weeks, and the pressure remains constant.
They have both spent what time they could watching the court proceedings, but sometimes, the presence of the press and the curious public fills the courtroom before they are able to obtain a seat. Each night, they wait by the phone for a call from Nathan Dayspring, the man who has taken Stefan’s case pro bono, as he brings news of each day’s precedings, always painted in a positive light.
It has been three weeks since their son was taken from them, and the case does not appear to end soon. The papers have told of the prosecution’s show of evidence, including the playing of a 9-1-1 recording from an anonymous source stating that their son was the guilt party in this grisly massacre. Nathan has done his best to refute the evidence, winning in some cases, but slowly losing ground as each witness takes the stand. Gyrich has certainly stacked his hand well.
Today, however, they are finally allowed to see their son. Checked at the outside gate for obscurred items and given the final okay, they cross the threshold into their son’s solitary cell.
Stefan sits on his bed, his feet drawn up beneath his legs and away from the cold floor. His face is drawn and saddened, each eye encircled by the shadow of many sleepless nights. His hands are shackled and covered by a special locking mechanism. The guards had explained that it was in place to prevent Stefan from using his mutant abilities. As George and Rosa Martino enter the cell, their son looks up into their eyes, fresh tears brimming around his own. He does not speak, for he knows not what words to say.
George Martino is the first to speak, his gruff voice trembling as he fights to say the important things before their time runs out. “How are you doing, son?”
“I am okay, papa. I want to come home.”
“Soon, I promise. Even now, Mister Dayspring labors to gain your release.”
“It is not true, papa. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”
“We believe you, son. Both your mother and I have always believed in you.”
Rosa crosses the small distance of the cell, wrapping her arms around Stefan’s neck and burying her head in his shoulder. The tears flow forth like a dam breaking, and soon Stefan joins her in weeping. “Be brave, my son. Mama loves you and will have you home soon.”
With that said, there is a sharp knocking at the bars of the cell, as the guard nods to George, letting him know that their time is up. He disappears just as quickly as he appeared, and George places his hand on Rosa’s shoulder. “It is time to leave him, Rosa. Stay strong, Stefan. We will visit again when we can. Know that your family loves you and trusts that you will be returned to us soon.”
“Yes, papa.”
The couple leaves, and an audible clanging resounds through the cell block as the locks slip back into place. Loneliness returns, and Stefan again dreams of the world outside these four walls and his warm, soft bed.
“Defense calls Doctor Horace Dillard to the stand,” Nathan says, citing his first witness.
A robust man is escorted from an adjoining room, following the bailiff to the witness stand, and taking an oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He sits down, taking in the gathered crowds and wonders how the sketch artist perceives him.
“Please state your whole name and occupation for the court.”
“Doctor Horace Carson Dillard, the third. I am a forensics expert for the New York City Policy Department, Forty-First Precinct.”
“How did you come to be involved in this case?”
“My presence was naturally requested at the scene of the crime once the bodies were discovered.”
“Can you describe for us, in detail, the procedures you followed once arriving on scene?”
“Well, the discovering officers had already cordoned off the block when I arrived. I was immediately escorted in by two officers and shown the location of the bodies. My coat was taken at the door and I knelt in the entry foyer to fetch a pair of gloves from my forensics kit, which I then placed over my hands. The exact locations of the bodies were mapped out and photographed, then the bodies were removed from the scene.”
“And why is that?”
“In a criminal investigation, it is important to determine how the victim was attacked, including angle and strength of impact, both of which are normally indicated by the position in which the body fell. In this particular case, the bodies appeared to have slumped to the floor, falling first to their knees before collapsing entirely.”
“How was this determined?”
“As can be seen in the photos,” the doctor says, pointing towards the board positioned next to the witness box, “the knees of the victims were wrapped to the side of the bodies, tucked very closely to their posterior. This would indicate that the victim was kneeling, and then fell sideways.”
“Is this indicative of any particular form of attack?”
“No, sir. It could mean anything. The victim may have been forced to kneel, then attacked with a bludgeoning weapon or with any means of weapon. All this means is that the victim was kneeling at the time of death. The county coroner would be the one to determine the manner of death.”
“Thank you, doctor. I have only one remaining question. In your professional opinion as a forensics expert, is it possible for four people to be murdered in their homes and for all known exits to their home to be locked behind them?”
Nathan expects it before it happens, and Gyrich does not disappoint him. Rising to his feet, Gyrich shouts out “Objection, your honor. Counsel is asking the witness to extrapolate. This is a matter of fact, not opinion.”
“Your honor,” Nathan refutes, “forensics is a science of educated guessing. The doctor is asked to examine a crime scene, using whatever clues are left behind, to formulate a scenario as to what may have happened. My question is simply asking him to do his job. No more, no less.”
The judge nods his head. “Agreed, objection overruled. You may continue, Mister Dayspring.”
“Doctor, should I repeat the question?”
“No, sir. I understood it the first time,” Doctor Dillard says, shaking his head slightly. “There are many plausible explanations as to how the entrances were locked. Simply put, the perpetrator may have had a key, such any family member, close friend, or landlord may have had. The locking of the doors does not indicate supernatural involvement.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Nathan says, strolling back to his table. “Your witness.”
Gyrich returns Nathan’s smirk with a cold glare, before addressing the judge. “Prosecution has no futher questions.”
The blonde woman sits alone at a table in the back of the room. Her eyes remain hidden behind a pair of Ray Bans, as she with the front entrance intently. However, it comes as no surprise when a shadow falls across the table from behind her.
“Thank you for the invitation, Doctor Cooper,” Nathan says, divesting himself of his coat and sitting opposite of her.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she replies. “Any particular reason you chose the rear entrance?”
“The press has been hounding me at every turn. It was everything I could do to escape the courthouse unscathed.”
“Well, I took the liberty of ordering for you, since I know your time is short. Hope you enjoy chop steak,” Val says, leaning slightly forward against the table. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
“By all means, don’t keep me in suspense.”
She slides a manila envelope across the table. “You need to understand that the information in this envelope will likely be inadmissable in a court of law. It’s all strictly black book, most of my contemporaries know nothing about this. Inside, you’ll find the preliminary details for something called Project: Wideawake.”
“And you’re okay with passing this information off to me?”
“Mister Dayspring, I’ve come to find that the government’s stance on mutants is something less than favorable. Nothing in that envelope is concrete, or at least to my knowledge. My clearance on this project only extends so far, but the implications are staggering. If nothing else, I know that you can use the information inside to humiliate Gyrich.”
Nathan turns the envelope over in his hands, choosing to place it in his briefcase and open it later. “He has had it coming for a while, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, yes he has.”
“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
The young boy whispers his affirmation to the bailiff, nodding as he does so. Quietly, he takes his seat, gripping the bottom of his chair with his fingers.
“How are you doing today, Stefan?” Nathan asks, trying to assuage the boy’s fears.
“As well as can be expected.”
“Understandable. Tell me, what type of things do you enjoy doing?”
“W-well, I spend a lot of time afterschool taking painting lessons from my art teacher. She s-says I have a lot of potential, that I could be a good artist someday.”
“So, you like to paint, that’s nice. Do you have any other hobbies?”
“My friends recently started showing me how to skateboard. I-I’m not that good yet, but it’s a lot of fun.”
“Was one of those friends a member of the Porter family?”
“Yeah, Richie and I went down to the park almost every afternoon. He and the other kids always picked on me about my art stuff, but I let it slide. They were my friends.” He bows his head, a tear trailing down his cheek.
“You miss him, don’t you?”
“Everyday, sir.”
Nathan leans across the witness box, wiping away the boy’s tears with a kleenex, then turns to the judge. “No further questions.”
The judge looks to Gyrich. “Your witness, sir.”
The smug smiles returns to Gyrich’s face, as he approaches the accused in the witness box. “You mentioned that you were friends with Richie Porter. How good of friends were you?”
“We grew up in the same neighborhood, lived two blocks from each other most our lives. We knew everything about each other.”
“Did you spend much time at his house?”
“We’d have sleepovers every now and then, maybe play a little atari or something. Most of the time, we hung out at school or at the park.”
“Did the Porters keep a key hidden anywhere in case one of them was locked out of the house?”
Before Nathan can object, the boy is already blurting out his answer. “Yeah, Mrs. Porter had buried a plastic baggy in the flower box under the front window, just in case.”
“Okay. Earlier you mentioned that the boys picked on you about your interest in art. Did this hurt you in any way?”
“Yeah, it hurt, but I knew that it wasn’t anything major.”
“But you resented them for it?”
“Sometimes. I wanted their support, and they just thought I was being a sissy.”
“Okay, thank you for your cooperation, Mister Martino. You may step down.”
Nathan shakes his head as the boy is escorted back to the table. The prosecution has just provided motive and opportunity. How stupid could he have been to place the boy on the witness stand, just so he could prove that he was a good boy.
The closing arguments come and go. Gyrich makes exceptional references to the evidence that the prosecution has presented. He reminds the jury that not only did the boy have access to the Porter’s house, but also the means to lock the door behind himself. The key has mysteriously disappeared from the pillbox, making it look all-the-more incriminating. Gyrich also made it a point to illustrate how the boy had a motive to kill his ‘alleged’ friend, a life of torment finally forcing the young man to snap and take vengeance upon his tormentor.
Nathan can do nothing more than illustrate that the boy had no prior arrest record, his grades in school have been top-notch, and he was a quiet, artistic soul. He’s tried to paint the boy in a positive light, but Gyrich has sewn the seeds of doubt in the jury, and each of them believe that the boy’s mutant abilities are held in check by the shackles he wears around his hands.
After two hours of deliberation, the verdict is on its way. One by one, the jury shuffles into the room, taking their seats with only the foreman remaining on his feet.
“Would the defendant please rise?” the judge calls out, nodding toward the drawn face of Stefan Martino. “The foreman may now read the verdict.”
In the third row, Rosa Martino’s hand covers her mouth and nose, as she chokes back a sob. Her husband entwines an arm around his shoulders and pulls her tight to his body, seeking solace in her and offering comfort.
“We the jury, on this fifth day of October, nineteen hundred and eighty-five, find the defendant, Stefan Martino, on multiple counts of murder in the first degree, guilty as charged.”
The crowd remains silent, until that silence is pierced by a shreiking whine. Rosa Martino shoots to her feet, held back only by her husband, and she screams out, “NOOOOO! Not my little boy! You can not take my little boy away from me!” She collapses in a fit of tears and sobbing whines, as the bailiffs move toward her son.
The judge hammers his gavel twice, and everyone returns to their seats. “Bailiff, please remove Mister Martino from the courtroom. He will be remanded to state custody until such time as his sentence is issued. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we thank you for your thought and deliberation. You may now return to your homes and families. Court will adjourn until tomorrow morning.”
And the gavel falls a final time.
That night, loneliness returns to Stefan. The tears have long since stopped flowing, as the boy is no longer able to cry. A sob is caught in the back of his throat, and has been since the verdict came down this afternoon. His legs are pulled tight against his body, and he rocks gently back and forth in this fetal position.
The scuffling of feet alerts him to visitors. He looks up as the guard keys into his cell, and lets the priest inside.
“You asked to speak with me, my son?” the priest asks, offering a comforting hand to the boy’s shoulder.
“Yes, Father. I wish to know how the good Lord will interpret this when I come to Saint Peter.”
“My son, the Lord favors those who walk the path of righteousness. However, those who harbor demons within them rarely pass through the gates into Paradise.”
“But Father, I harbor no such demons.”
“Ahh, but you do. For, the powers granted to these ‘mutants’ are those afforded to them by pacts made with the devils, lesser or greater. Whether that pact be made by direct decision or by a slip of the heart, it is still binding. You must know that these pacts may not be absolved.”
“But how can I be forgiven, Father?”
“Look into your heart. Therein lies the answer. If you are not willing to deny the devilish agreement, then the Lord will not remove you from it. I believe you know what to do.”
“Yes, Father.” The boy begins to rock back and forth again. “Thank you, Reverend…”
“Stryker. Reverend Stryker.”
It is five days later, and the media storm has not been quick to die down. Nathan stands in the middle of Central Park, ignoring the rain the pours over his body. An aching in his heart will not die away, and he knows that he has failed the boy. Failed in proving his innocence. Failed in securing his sense of belief. Failed in saving his life.
Nathan stares down into the blurring words of today’s Daily Bugle, watching as the ink smears under the pressure of the rains. He hopes the rain can wash away what the words say and somehow undo the damage that was caused. Perhaps restore a life, but he also knows that it can not be.
He drops the newspaper into the top of a refuse can, letting the words bleed down the page:
CITY STILL IN MOURNING AS FAMILY MURDERER TAKES HIS OWN LIFE. BOY FOUND TO BE NON-MUTANT.
It’s time that he gave up being a lawyer. Preventing his grisly future will not be a battle won in the courtroom. Nervously, he thumbs a manila envelope tucked safely against his chest and beneath his trenchcoat. Perhaps it is time to take a more proactive approach?
Finis.
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