Three Lives of Jury - Chapter 20
Life, the afterlife and a town called Jury. A 40-year saga of love, jealousy and murder.
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3 Lives in Jury
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This novel, 3 Lives in Jury, is delivered, a chapter or two, every Thursday.
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The Underworld Vents
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“It is a universally acknowledged truth that humankind will fight wars to entrench old beliefs, wrong though they may be, rather than entertain
difficult new ones.”
— Memoirs of Whit Alma by Erin Alma
Chapter 20
In the days leading up to the trial, Lucy and Whit dodged one another as much as two people can when confined by law to the same property. They greeted each other pleasantly when one happened across the other’s space and they carried on polite conversations over meals like strangers sharing a park bench.
Whit still ached at Lucy’s stubborn independence, never getting so much as a half-hearted thank-you. Sometimes, he felt like she blamed him for her shitty decisions.
Lucy was too exhausted to play the game of hurt feelings.
Wanda and Matt carried on like nothing had changed. They engaged in lengthy discussions about the new patio at Big Heart Bakery, the poor parking at the Giant-Mart in Gold Rush and the wilting heat that pushed even the cacti in Wanda’s front garden to the point of sagging, near to falling down.
The trial was delayed twice while defence lawyer Vernon Armstrong strung matters out longer. To justify his fee, Wanda suggested. He petitioned the court to toss the confessions of all three clients because police failed to advise them of their rights to have a parent or lawyer present before they gave their statements at the crime scene.
But the judge ruled otherwise, saying the statements were spontaneous, offered freely before police had an opportunity to advise the three of their rights. And the later confessions, while ill-advised from a defence point of view, were not illegal because by then the Mud Valley Three and their guardians and lawyers had been advised of their rights.
Armstrong next petitioned Frank should be exonerated because of his feverish hallucinations during the incident and that Whit should be absolved owing to the impaired judgment that surfaced when he learned the events in question occurred at the exact location where he was abused a year earlier. Neither one of them were of sound mind.
Both motions were rejected.
In one final manoeuvre, Armstrong raised doubts about Lucy’s fitness for trial, detailing her belief in a surreal world in which she was ensnared in an everlasting war with the paranormal. The judge scoffed derisively and dismissed that argument, too.
Outside, the heat that burned hillsides and melted streets continued into August. People already on edge were pushed further as overworked air conditioners broke down and smothering heat steamed open the cracks in the community.
Smoke from forest fires rolled in, transforming the sun into a dim red sphere. Street lamps flickered on in the mid-afternoon, the sky a sickly yellow and brown. Sports events were cancelled, and young and old were urged to huddle indoors.
People’s opinions on the Mud Valley Three changed little. People clung hard to their initial opinions, finding it was easier to entrench old beliefs than entertain difficult new ones.
The dedicated showed up days ahead hoping to snatch a seat in the courtroom and shouted gruff cliches about retribution and punishment: Society demanded a pound of flesh; the victim’s family deserved closure; the disrespect of today’s youth must be punished.
People in the opposing camp, roughly equal in number, had sayings of their own: justice for our kids; right to self-defence; don’t re-victimize the victims.
White vans and big trucks rolled in, media arriving from throughout the English-speaking world and beyond. The internet tattlers came, as did the influencers, working on spec, hoping to build reputations and fatten bank accounts by riding on the shoulders of tragedy.
The streets became congested with quarrelling podcasters. Advocates, pessimists, optimists, opportunists, fascists, passivists, hate-filled contrarians and conspiracy theorists elbowed one another for slivers of lawn in front of the courthouse. Click-baiters sprang traps and reaped gold.
A few days ago, the Big Heart Bakery caught fire, after it had been singled out as a marshalling point for Mud Valley Three supporters. No one was hurt and firefighters doused the blaze early with little damage done.
The following day, town councillor John Eire’s car was burned to the rubber.
Fights broke out in stores. The two pubs in town kept the tribes apart by designating seating sections; a prosecution area and a defence zone.
On the day of the main event, the heavens sent relief. Rain broke at lunch, an hour before the trial and it soaked the streets, the fields, the hillsides and the mountain tops. Steam rose from the road and the tops of buildings. People stopped their cars and got out to stand, faces turned skyward.
The air conditioning unit on the courthouse roof hammered and coughed to life.
The trial could no longer be postponed and Lucy, Whit and Frank, with Wanda, Matt and Petra, assembled in a conference room at the courthouse, while Armstrong spouted an unnecessarily long speech.
His condescending tone grated on Lucy, and after a couple of minutes she stopped listening. She stared across the table at Whit and she heard Frank’s loud breathing beside her. It would be a relief to shed them both when this was over.
The three were guided into a hallway by police, two in front, two behind. Frank walked behind Lucy, defiant but less murderous than he sounded two months ago. Still, he clung to his code and held his faith that the court would see it his way.
Whit let the moment carry him, worried less than was proper. He viewed his situation through a window of cold logic. Justice wasn’t fair. It demanded only winners and losers and nothing could change that fact.
They bided their time in the hall, waiting for the public to take their seats and security to assume their positions.
A court bailiff stuck her head through a doorway into the hall and said, “It’s time.”
“Thank Christ,” Lucy and Whit said at once, and for the first time in weeks, they smiled together.
Armstrong, Whit, Lucy and Frank entered the front of the courtroom near the defence table. Matt, Wanda and Petra turned back down the narrow hall to the public entrance.
The courtroom was packed. Video and sound feeds were extended outside to an open-sided tent on the front lawn, which was also packed with people craning necks to get a better view.
The courtroom stood as the judge entered, a short, chicken-necked woman, who pounded her gavel and motioned to the bailiff, who shouted at the public to “be seated.”
Judge Michelle Wesaquate opened the proceedings with a warning.
“I want to remind all of you in this courtroom and outside, that if you are reporting on these events, for newspaper, radio, television, or online, that you are under no circumstances to publish the names of the accused or use any details that might identify who they are. The youths are protected under the Young Offenders Act. You must not publish any information that might identify them to the public.”
Wesaquate knew her statements carried no weight to those who travelled from outside the country, but a few added threats couldn’t hurt.
“I don’t care what’s been published or released online before today. It doesn’t matter. And all platforms are included under this publication ban: video, websites, blogs, opinion posts and traditional media content. I won’t tolerate anybody who steps over the line. If I see the ban being violated, I’ll have you brought back to this court to face the consequences.”
She looked up to the defence and Crown tables a short distance in front of her.
“OK, with that out of the way, are both sides prepared to begin today?”
“We are, your honour.” A thin man, who smelled heavily of cigarettes, said as he rose. His assistant, a large bald man sat next him.
“The defence is ready,” said Armstrong. His assistant sat behind him in the public gallery to make room at the defence table for Whit, Lucy and Frank. The three sat statue still wearing black suits without ties for Whit and Frank, and a smart navy suit for Lucy.
“Proceed Mr. Balcourt,” Wesaquate said to the Crown prosecutor.
Balcourt cleared his throat. “The facts are well known and have been known for some time. The death of Lawrence Chester Reams is directly attributable to the three accused. Frank Karl Kappens held the knife that killed Lawrence Reams. He did it with a single, precise stab to the heart. Whitaker Henry Alma and Lucy Bella Kloot were at the scene at the time of the incident and we’ll show the actions of all three led to the murder.”
“Mr. Balcourt, you’re giving an opening statement when there’s no jury here to impress. I’ve seen the evidence and read all the documents pertinent to the case. I don’t need the dramatic story telling. Please just lay out the facts of your case.” Judge Wesaquate leaned her elbows on the desk.
Balcourt nodded and ambled back to his desk.
“Fact,” he said, holding up his index finger. “The three accused broke into Dr. Petra Kappens’ office, where they broke into her private computer and stole confidential information about Dr. Kappens’ patients. In particular, they found information pertaining to a Mr. John King and, using that information, they set off with knives and axes, intending to do harm. Make no mistake, from the outset, this was an attack planned in advance. The fact that they mistook Mr. Reams for John King, does not change that fact.
“Fact number two,” Balcourt held up two fingers. “They hiked into this remote backcountry valley entirely on their own, showing they had their wits about them enough to find their route, and I remind the court that they climbed up a waterfall at the end of a ravine called Moe’s Canyon, which is no walk in the park. They fed themselves and deliberately burned down a shack used for hunting and fishing, which demonstrates how angry they were. They were in Mud Valley seeking revenge.
“Mr. Balcourt, I direct you again to stick with the facts and leave me to reach my own conclusions,” the judge said. “I don’t need you to tell me what this fact means or what I’m supposed to conclude from that chain of events. I can draw my own conclusions.”
Balcourt nodded. “I’m sorry Your Honour.”
He continued. “Then, when confronted by Mr. Reams, they murdered him. They confessed to this fact. If we examine all three of their stories, we see that each of them was fully aware of what they were doing.
“Frank Kappens, we agree, was sick when police arrived on the scene. He suffers from cystic fibrosis, an incredibly challenging fact of his life. But nothing in the medical books says anything about cystic fibrosis causing mental disfunction or hallucinations.
“Lucy Kloot, everybody in town has heard the names Loony Lucy or Kooky Kloot, but those terms are used to describe her eccentricities, even used affectionately at times, and they do not affect her standing as being legally responsible for the crimes. In law, we’re are only concerned with whether she knew if what she was doing was morally wrong. Of that, there is no doubt. She justifies the killing as self-defence, and in order for her to use that as a defence, she must accept the murder was morally wrong in the first place.
“Whit Alma, the ringleader in this tragic story, convinced the other two to undertake this trip by telling them it was the place where he was held and abused more than a year ago. While tragic, it does not excuse his quest for vengeance nor his actions of drawing the other two into the conspiracy.”
Lucy suppressed a laugh at the notion of Whit as the ringleader but a soft snicker escaped. Armstrong and the judge shot her warning glares.
Balcourt slowly strolled across the front of the courtroom. “This was not a rash act done in the throes of emotional turmoil. It was planned days in advance.”
For the next two hours, the baritone of Mr. Balcourt ground on like a large engine.
Teachers and students testified about the mindsets of the defendants in the days leading up to the killing.
Police and rescuers on the scene at Mud Valley delivered their assessments on the states of the three accused.
Armstrong cross-examined each witness, at one point asking the lead police officer on the case if it’s reasonable to assume the three accused headed off on a grueling journey expecting to find John King in the same spot after a year, based on sketchy information they heard on a recording?”
“I don’t know what they were thinking,” the officer answered.
“But is it a reasonable assessment?” asked Armstrong.
“Probably not.”
Chattering arose in the public gallery, prompting Judge Wesaquate to bang her gavel and ask for silence.
Bill “Bull” Wasa strode forward next and climbed into the witness box.
He testified the three were young but seemed capable.
“You wouldn’t characterize them as upset, or distraught or overly emotional?” asked Balcourt.
“Nope. I mean not till they came back the next day.”
“OK, so the following day, how would you describe their behaviour?”
“They were very excited, agitated. It was obvious something had happened, something bad. After they calmed down and explained things more slowly, they said a man tried to kill them but Frank saved their lives.”
Balcourt stopped short as he walked back to his table and looked over his shoulder at Bull.
“You don’t really know that the man attacked them first, is that right?”
“I wasn’t there, so I couldn’t know.”
“So you don’t know if was really self-defence or not?”
“Correct. I do not know.”
“You said they seemed agitated. Tell the court what you mean by that.”
“They were jumpy, yelling, that kind of thing.”
“But otherwise they seemed OK? They were making sense. They were coherent.”
“Sure. They asked for my help to climb to the top of the ridge so we could get a cell signal to call police.”
“The police?”
“Yes.”
“So they knew they did something illegal?”
“I don’t know what they knew at that point.”
Wesaquate sighed. “Mr. Balcourt, please don’t lead the witness into making assumptions.”
Next, Balcourt asked to call Dalton Dawson, the principal at Victoria Secondary School.
Wesaquate flipped through documents before her. “I have an affidavit from Mr. Dawson. Is this what he is testifying to?
“Yes, Your Honour,” said Balcourt.
“Is there more than what I read here?”
“I don’t believe so, Your Honour.”
“Mr. Armstrong, you’ve signed off as having seen this already?” the judge said.
Armstrong agreed he had read it.
“Mr. Balcourt,” the judge said, “I’ve given you most of the afternoon to present your case. I’ve been more than fair. But I’m asking you again to stop grandstanding. There is no jury for you to impress and I have already read all the testimony in the witness statements and other documents, which you yourself filed. I won’t let you jazz this story up so it plays better in the media. This isn’t a true crime show, it’s real.
“Your Honour, Lucy Kloot tried to slit a classmate’s throat. It shows a history of violent intent.”
Wesaquate banged her gavel. “Everybody out of the courtroom. We are done for the day.”
She sat, eyes narrowed, waiting for the public to file out.
The door closed, and Wesaquate ordered Balcourt and Armstrong to approach her desk.
“I warned you I will not allow you to turn this trial into tabloid gossip.” She stood up to lean closer to Balcourt.
Balcourt nodded but appeared unconvinced.
“You’ve undermined my authority. I told you to keep a lid on your interpretations and your drama. If the school principal has more to add that is not already in the court record, then you have to tell me now.”
Balcourt remained silent. Wesaquate continued.
“What do you expect the principal to say in his testimony that is not contained in the statements already filed?”
“I was hoping to reinforce the points, Your Honour,” said Balcourt.
Wesaquate frowned. “The law is clear on this. We are to give young offenders more protection than adults. We must take the necessary steps to ensure their protection and well-being. Can you think of how your calling this witness satisfies that requirement?”
Balcourt wasn’t ready to give up. “It speaks to Lucy Kloot’s violent nature. How is it not important?”
“Nobody is suggesting it is not important, just unnecessary testimony because it is in these documents in front of me.” She paged through a pile of papers on her desk.
Balcourt started to object, but the judge held up her hands. “As well as the principal’s affidavit, there are police reports in these files that show no formal charges were filed and the accused received a school suspension. I see no reason in having the details thrown around in the media.”
“Yes, your honour,” Balcourt said.
“Good,” said Judge Wesaquate. “Moving on. I notice the principal is the Crown’s last witness.”
“That’s right, Your Honour,” said Balcourt.
The judge tapped a pen on her desk. “I’m inclined,” she said, directing her attention to Balcourt, “to end this here and now. You haven’t met the standard for guilt. Do you have more evidence? If you do, tell me now because as things stand, I don’t see how you are close to a conviction here,” she said.
Balcourt sniffed and raised his hands like he was ready to defer to the judge, but then paused. “Look, there’s a grieving family begging for justice. We can’t sweep it under the rug. There could be a public backlash.”
“It’s not my job to worry about public backlash,” Wesaquate’s voice rose. “My concern is that justice is carried out and that means justice for the victim, as well as the accused. Nobody is sweeping anything under the rug. I’m not here to make you happy, or make the public happy or the media happy. I’m here to carry out my job and I suggest you do the same and stop mugging for the cameras.”
Balcourt looked away.
“This court is adjourned until tomorrow at 10 a.m.” Wesaquate rushed from the room.