A Reasonable Doubt by Susan Sloan (free novels .txt) 📕

“Yeah.”

“Then I thought someone else would come forward.  Or maybe it was just wishful thinking on my part -- maybe I was just hoping it wouldn’t have to be me.”

“You saw him that night, didn’t you?” Joe prodded softly.

Stiversen looked past his friend’s shoulder, and out across his yard.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Getting into his car in front of Gilhooley’s.”

Gilhooley’s was a rough and tumble bar about ten miles east of town.  It was patronized mostly by bikers, by people from the trailer park just down the road, and by residents of the nearby Shaw River Reservation.

Joe nodded.  “What time?”

“About half past eleven.”

. . .

For Carson Burns, the most irritating part of his having fallen victim to a stroke was his inability to get up and pace.  It was how the former Jackson County Prosecutor used to think, how he used to work out problems with his cases, on his feet, covering the expanse of his corner office in five strides, over and over again, until whatever thorny issue on his mind was resolved.  It was no longer his office, of course, and no longer his job.  He wondered what his daughter did, when she needed to think things through.  Oddly enough, he had never asked her.  But he wasn’t worried.  He wasn’t even defending Jason Lightfoot, and yet he could see the holes in this case -- holes that were growing bigger by the day, and he knew his daughter was also seeing them.

“Got it all figured out?” he asked on Sunday night.

“Pretty much,” she replied, Arnie Stiversen being the last piece to fall into place.  “Thanks to you.”

“No, you knew where to look,” he said.  “You didn’t need me.  You were getting there all on your own.”

“Maybe,” she said.  And maybe she would have, she thought, if the bomb hadn’t blown up her brain.

“All the ducks in order?”

“I think so.”

“Don’t take it too far.”

She sighed.  “I won’t,” she promised.  “I want to -- this whole thing infuriates me that much -- but I won’t.”

Carson smiled, his crooked left-sided smile.  “I know,” he said.  “You’d take on the whole county, if you could.  But you can’t.  And I have a sneaking suspicion you’re not going to have to.  Just remember, though, what you are going to have to do, and that is -- work here, in this town, long after this case is over.”

Eleven

Then it was Monday morning, the second week of November -- the last week of the trial, and Lily felt renewed.  For one thing, the heat wave had broken, temperatures had dropped down into the sixties, and the courtroom was almost comfortable.  For another, a case she had first thought totally unwinnable now had a real chance of ending in an actual acquittal.

“The defense calls Officer Arnold Stiversen,” she said.

The police officer made his way down the aisle, swore to tell the truth, and took the witness stand.  This was nothing new to him.  He had testified many times in his career.  But this was one time he wished he didn’t have to.

“Officer Stiversen,” Lily began, “will you tell us where you were on the morning of February 10th of this year?”

“I was responding to a call about a body that had been found in the seaward alley off lower Broad Street.”

“How did you hear about that body?” Lily asked.

“It came in through a 911 call.”

“All right, now will you please describe for the jury how Jason Lightfoot appeared the morning of his arrest?”

“He appeared to be hung over, not too steady on his feet, and he seemed confused.  His clothes were filthy.  His breath stank.”

“Did you notice any blood on his clothes?”

“No, I did not.”

“His body -- his hands and arms and his face, did you notice any blood on them, any wounds, any bruises?”

Stiversen took a deep breath and looked right at Lily.  “No, I did not.”

“None at all?”

“As far as I could tell, he didn’t have any bruises on him, that is, not until he tried to resist arrest.”

“All right.  At about half past eleven on the night Dale Scott was murdered, where were you?”

Stiversen sighed.  “I was in my car, with my wife,” he said.  “We were driving home from a friend’s house on the Shaw River Reservation.”

“And did you have occasion to pass a bar called Gilhooley’s on your way home?”

“I did.”

“Will you tell the jury what, if anything, caught your eye at the bar?”

“There was a red MG just leaving the parking lot, in a big hurry.”

“Thank you,” Lily said with a nod, having all she needed for now.  “Nothing further at this time.”

. . .

Neither John Henry nor Tom Lickliter had any idea what the significance of the red MG was, nor did either of them want the jury to know that.  So it hung there, dropped like a hot potato.

“Officer Stiversen,” Tom inquired, “what time of day was it when you encountered the defendant in the alley?”

“It was a little after six-thirty in the morning,” the officer replied.

“A little after six-thirty in the morning, in the middle of February -- and what were the conditions?”

“It wasn’t exactly light yet, and the marine air was pretty heavy.”

“Is there any chance you missed seeing the bruises?”

Stiversen hesitated for a few seconds.  “I don’t think so,” he said finally.  “I was practically right on top of him.  And I had my flashlight on him.  I don’t think I would have missed the kind of bruises he would have had if he’d been in a fight with Detective Scott.”

“All right, let’s talk about his clothing.  Are you sure there was no blood on it?”

“I didn’t see any.”

“You are aware, aren’t you, that blood spatter can sometimes be so small the eye wouldn’t necessarily catch it?”

“Yes, sir, I’m aware of that.  And I didn’t say there was no blood on his clothes.  I just said I didn’t see any.”

“Thank you for your preciseness,” Tom said.  “I have no further questions.”

“Redirect, Miss Burns?” the judge inquired.

“No, Your Honor.”

“In that case,