Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

Shelly pulled her in and held her tight.

“Fuck.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not. None of it is.”

“I would never do it to you, Duchess. I wouldn’t do anything without talking to you first. And I can see this isn’t right. Siblings need to stay together. I’ll keep looking. We’ll find the right fit. I promise I’ll keep looking.”

37

WALK AND MARTHA DRIFTED THROUGH three days so torturous they drove back to Cape Haven and lay awake in Walk’s bed, unable to clear the painted picture, the prisoner that spent thirty years planning revenge on the girl he could not have.

Opening statements were brief, plans laid out, seven minutes for Martha, eighteen for the District Attorney, Elise Deschamps. Deschamps was impressive, lengthy list of credentials, smart clothes, black hair framed a pale face. Sincerity poured from her as she applauded the jury, told them she worked for them, for the state of California, and for Star Radley and her orphaned children. She was their voice, their justice. Proof would be overwhelming, premeditated, cold-blooded. Vincent King was a murderer. He took the life of a child, then the life of a fellow prisoner. Killing came easy. They would see they had no choice but to find the man guilty, and, in doing so, pass on a sentence of death. It would not be easy, but she needed them. The Radley children needed them.

Deschamps was skilled, alumna of Yale Law, flanked by two associates who watched and scribbled and nodded at the right times.

Clerks, bailiffs, the artist, the reporters. A small collection to watch a man’s fate decided.

Despite the grand theories, the expert way Deschamps lulled the jury, the facts presented were hard and incontestable. She brought in the pathologist from the state crime lab, who reeled off qualifications so towering Martha moved to call yeah, he could be considered expert. Deschamps barked, Judge Rhodes handled things well enough. Walk smiled as Martha held her ground. He saw Vincent do the same.

The pathologist took them on the kind of journey that saw photos dealt, jurors shake heads, one cried. He detailed blows, hard enough to break three of her ribs. He tracked the path of the bullet, the kill shot, into the chest, likely she was dead before she hit the ground. Charts on easels, anatomy spelled.

A fingerprint guy took them through prints lifted from the Radley house. Vincent King had been in the kitchen, hallway, living room. They lifted one from the front door. After an hour the jury tired. That Vincent King was at the scene was never in question.

Another expert, ballistics, a hired gun to talk guns. And then of the gun itself, though it could not be found the bullet pulled from Star Radley’s body was a .357 Magnum.

And then Deschamps ran, like they knew she would. She pulled out paper and waved it round like it was lit. Vincent King’s father had a gun registered in his name, a Ruger Blackhawk. She asked the jury to guess the caliber, the type of bullet it fired. Walk watched them close and saw each of them follow the ball way out of the park.

On the cross Martha tried to score minor points by getting the guy to admit the .357 Magnum, though a little less common, could still be purchased widely. The damage was done.

Deschamps went on to detail Star’s life, difficult childhood, her younger sister’s tragic death and then her mother’s own death. She recounted the events. Vincent King sat there impassive, only closing his eyes when she talked of the strip of woodland where they found that little girl’s body. Left to die, cold and alone. And then on to the suicide of Star’s mother, how Star had found her, how that might have felt. And, finally, brighter promise, troubled though she was, she doted on her children, Duchess and Robin, now settled into a group home in a town they did not know, at a school where they had to start over, a thousand miles from home. Another photo, the three together on the beach, Walk had taken it himself on a rare day of calm.

Walk was called as a state witness, along with a handful of first responders. First on the scene he took his seat in the hallowed hall, cleared his throat and told the truth in all its ugly. Blood on Vincent, calm in his voice. He did not slant detail, just laid it out and glanced at his friend now and then. Vincent offered him a slight smile, it’s alright, you do your job, Walk.

After eight days the state rested, Walk and Martha went to the bar across from the courtroom, where they took a booth in the back and picked at fried shrimp fresh from the freeze.

“How’s Vincent doing?”

“Oh he’s just swell,” Martha said. “I’ve got half a mind to put him on the stand, let the jury see how calm he is, we call insanity, padded cell for the rest of his life. Beats the needle, right?”

Walk picked up a shrimp, studied it, placed it back on the greased paper. “How long will you take?”

“A couple of days. I’ll say my piece, call my people, and then they’ll get the case and they’ll put him to death.” She stared into her soda.

“You’re doing good, Martha. Really, you look good up there.”

“Try not to look at my ass so much. It’s predatory.”

“It’s the shoes that get me. Your commitment to Chuck Taylor.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of hot sauce.

“You’re kidding me with this. You actually carry it with you.”

“Doubles up as mace.” She poured liberally. “You notice I’m wearing a cross.” She pointed to her necklace. “Jurors three, nine and ten, they’re active churchgoers.” She had done the consulting herself, sat through two days of torturous selection, struck a couple that’d likely volunteer to execute the man themselves, moved for liberals only to see Deschamps repay the courtesy.

“That gun.” She sighed. “The bullet. Like it wasn’t bad enough.”

Walk took a steadying breath. “I have faith in you.”

“You’re just trying to get in my pants.”

Walk noticed she seemed anxious the next morning. They stood when Rhodes came in, took his seat on the grand chair, between the flags.

Vincent sat up front in a cheap suit that Walk had picked out, no tie, he flat refused.

Martha called her own doctor first, Mr. Cohen. She’d helped his daughter out of a bind once, another sorry story of a deadbeat asshole with quick fists, but Cohen was grateful enough to repay his little girl’s savior.

They went through photos of Star Radley’s injuries, both noted the severity. And then, the photographs of Vincent King’s hands. Slight swelling on the right, but likely old, and likely from an altercation Vincent had gotten into a few days prior.

On the cross Deschamps got Cohen to admit he could not say for sure when the swelling occurred, and that a man of Vincent’s size could inflict injury just as easily with an open hand.

Martha moved on to the issue of gunshot residue, brought in her expert, a forensic scientist hired on Walk’s dime, his dwindling savings amassed from a staid life. She was young but confident, held the room as she spoke. She ran them through the science, elemental composition, the chain reaction, the plume expelled during gunshot. No residue was found on Vincent King.

Martha looked on during the cross, watched her expert admit the residue could have been washed off, the faucet was running after all, sweated off, not been there in the first place if Vincent King had left the room right after firing.

Walk took to the stand once again. This time he smiled, admitted he was Vincent’s childhood friend but that was a long time ago. He was actually the one who turned him in all those years back. His duty was to uphold the law, and he wouldn’t let anything get in the way of that.

And then Martha stepped to the front, took a breath and fired her own kill shot.