Chapter 2

"Good evening. Today District Attorney Carl Brady announced a new trial date for former Army First Sergeant Miles Underwood. The new trial will begin on March 15. Underwood is accused of the rape and death of seventeen-year old Virginia Rodriguez last summer.

"Mr. Brady reaffirmed his intention to prosecute the case vigorously and request the maximum sentence possible for the former Army Non-Commissioned Officer. Underwood could receive a sentence of twenty years to life even if the jury finds Ms. Rodriguez's death was unintentional. Earlier this month, Judge Roy farmer declared a mistrial when a previous jury was deadlocked. Mr. Brady expressed confidence in Underwood's eventual conviction, stating he felt a verdict could be obtained easily 'if we can get the right jury' in the new trial."

KSAA Channel Nine
San Antonio Texas
"Evening News at Six"
February 15

The accused man in the lead story had already heard about the new trial date. That very morning, P. Jonah Trenton, Esquire and Attorney at Law, had granted Miles a few minutes to discuss the upcoming trial in his plush office. It had been an uncomfortable interview. Miles knew he should be grateful that Mr. Trenton was representing him pro bono, but sometimes Miles felt like a peasant, come with ragged cap in hand to speak to a peer of the realm. This morning's meeting hadn't been a very good one for Miles. It left him with a bad taste in his mouth.

The fact was, Trenton could not have cared less about Miles' guilt or innocence. Trenton had let drop a few weeks ago the fact that Brady had infuriated him many years ago and Trenton still wasn't over it. Miles couldn't fault Trenton for failing to provide an energetic defense in Miles' behalf, but Miles knew he was only a tool for Jonah to use in repaying the District Attorney for the grievance existing between the two. It left him flat and pessimistic.

The approaching storm was already visible through the wide glass patio doors. The black, low hanging clouds made for an early sunset; it was already dark in their shadow. Heavy lightning was almost continuous behind the roiling clouds, promising a dangerous electrical storm along with the forecasted heavy rain. He'd already made sure all the windows in the house were closed. The patio door was the only outlet still open to the cool evening breezes blowing down from the hill country.

He decided eating an early dinner would be a smart thing to do. In fact, a quick meal and preparing for a power outage would be two smart things. There was no telling if the electricity would be knocked out tonight, but it had happened before, and in lesser storms. Whatever ... it didn't hurt to be ready. He padded through the living room, barefoot in the deep pile carpeting. He straightened the painting over the couch as he passed.

In the kitchen, he pulled a couple of flashlights from the cabinet drawer where everything was stored that didn't have a special place of its own. He put one on the counter and the other on the top of the entertainment center. He lowered the volume on the TV to a whisper and adjusted the screen colors. Finished, he stood unmoving for a long while, watching a television screen he didn't see.

The popping noises of the two hamburger patties in the frying pan finally intruded enough for him to notice and he raced back to the kitchen, just managing to flip them over before the bottoms turned too crusty to eat.

He made himself keep busy as a means to avoid gloomy thoughts. A potato went into the microwave to bake. Done, it was replaced by a small bowl of mixed vegetables.

Examining the overdone meat, he poured a spicy barbeque sauce on the burgers to disguise the taste, or perhaps the purpose was to add some taste. He wasn't quite sure. He shrugged to himself; it didn't really matter.

Grabbing a diet Coke from the fridge and a loaf of bread from the cupboard, he slid them across the breakfast bar where they would be within convenient reach. Carrying the plate loaded with meat and vegetables into the dining room, he sat where he could watch the TV in the living room. His simple bachelor's meal was ready. Sighing, he began to shovel the almost burnt offerings into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed without enthusiasm. There was no problem with the quality of the food, or even the charcoaling of one side of the meat. It was just that nothing tasted good anymore.

With the dishes stowed safely in the dishwasher, he moved into the living room and got comfortable in the recliner to wait for the storm's arrival. The television was tuned to a station showing a documentary about a project to unearth and study the ancient mammoths. He turned up the sound to listen.

Apparently, DNA had been retrieved from another set of frozen remains in Siberia and scientists were planning to use it to reintroduce the particular species to the face of the earth. If there was an explanation of the expected benefit to mankind, Miles had already missed it.

The program didn't hold his attention and faded quickly into the background. The first breath of cold, damp air from the storm blew in through the patio door and he got up to close it before the rain could soak the carpet. He pulled the sliding glass door partially shut. He stopped and leaned against the doorframe to watch the first drops fall.

He almost hadn't gone to the party. He wasn't a party person and was uncomfortable at scheduled, organized parties. Unplanned, informal get-togethers were more his style. On the other hand, he'd been spending entirely too much time by himself. He'd told himself that wasn't healthy. He'd been the next thing to a hermit since he retired from the Army. Maybe the party would be fun. Anyway, his best friends left over from his military career were the hosts, so what the heck? He decided to go--to see if anything was happening. If there wasn't, he could make his excuses and leave.

When he got there, apprehensive but hopeful, he'd found attendance by the female portion of the race disappointingly slight. Many of the invited guests had canceled. That included, Lydia said, a woman she'd wanted him to meet. Relieved and disappointed at the same time, Miles accepted a beer from Lydia. Then she bustled off to greet a couple Miles didn't know.

Miles had known Lydia's husband, Phil, for more years than he could remember. By chance, their path had crossed at several duty stations in their military careers and they'd formed a deep friendship. A senior specialist in the personnel office on Fort Sam Houston, Phil was one of the most popular men on the post. His and Lydia's home was usually full of people who just dropped by for a visit. With both children already in college, Lydia mothered untold numbers of young soldiers who needed it and some who didn't.

Respecting only a barely decent interval after Miles' divorce four years before, Lydia had begun a campaign to set him up with women of her acquaintance that she evaluated as suitable for Miles. Lydia couldn't bring herself to accept the fact that he was quite happily divorced and very satisfied with his unattached status. However badly Lydia wanted to improve his condition, Miles found the concept of a deep relationship with another woman more than a little uncomfortable. Based on his experience, the predictable breakups were just too damn painful.

At thirty-nine years old, with twenty-two years of Army life behind him, he anticipated a lot of fun and relaxation in the coming years--two things that had been sadly lacking in his military career. After an extended middle age, and perhaps a mid-life crisis or two, he intended to find a rocking chair on a white painted porch somewhere and gently fade away as General MacArthur had promised Congress old soldiers do.

Miles didn't see a new wife and family fitting into that picture. On the other hand, that didn't mean he couldn't enjoy the temporary company of an attractive woman whenever the opportunity presented itself.

He'd found a wall near the front door where he could be out of the way. He leaned comfortably against it to watch the flow of humanity across the ersatz stage in front of him. It was as good a floorshow as he was going to find tonight.

After several hours and a couple more beers, it was clear the party not going to get be his kind of social occasion. He made the decision to leave and stood to take the final empty bottle to the kitchen and wish Lydia and Phil a good evening. On the way, he was distracted enough to stop and watch a young woman behaving oddly.

The pretty girl had come to the party with an older woman but their relationship wasn't clear. They'd both made themselves at home to Lydia's ill concealed annoyance. He hadn't known anything about why Lydia didn't like them.

The girl had seemed impossibly young to Miles. As he neared the big "Four-Oh," all women younger than his own group looked underage to him. He'd quit trying to guess ages. This one, though, appeared to be well under the legal drinking age, though she'd been tossing back strong drinks with little visible effect. The baby-faced youngster had tried to take off her crop top blouse twice to 'prove they were real' to an admiring crowd of unattached males. Lydia scolded her on both occasions. The second time, Lydia had to be talked out of asking the girl to leave.

The young woman was quieter now and sitting alone on the couch. More sober than she had seemed earlier, there was a curious look of concentration on her face. For the past few minutes, she'd held a hand pressed tightly against her lower belly. What had attracted his attention was a distinct wince that distorted her features every once in a while.

She'd stood up and begun to make her way by Miles to the hall bathroom. As she passed, she clapped a hand to her belly and staggered, almost losing her balance. Miles had reached out to steady her as she slumped against him.

"You all right?" Miles had asked. The young girl had leaned hard against him for support and looked up at him, her face now lined and haggard from pain.

"He hurt me," she'd complained. "He hurt me."

"What? Who hurt you?" Confused, Miles had glanced at the other people standing nearby. "Y'all know what she's talking about?"

The half-dozen or so closest to him had shaken their heads, murmuring denials as they watched the byplay. Lydia had appeared suddenly, critically inspecting the girl.

"Lydia, I think she needs to lie down for a minute," Miles had said. He'd been uneasy with a woman he didn't know clinging so tightly and wanted to get her back out to arm's length as quickly as he could.

"Bring her in here." Lydia hadn't been happy with Miles' suggestion, but she didn't argue as she led him to the downstairs bedroom. The unfortunate young woman had been barely able to stumble along beside Miles. She'd moaned with each step, her legs accepting less and less of her weight until Miles was completely supporting her.

Miles had eased her down to a sitting position on the side of the bed and bent to remove her shoes. Supporting her shoulders with his right arm, he'd helped her lie flat. As her legs straightened, the girl had gasped with pain and Miles pulled her knees up. It seemed to help a little. He'd propped her knees together so the girl could hold the position without straining.

He'd accepted a cold, wet facecloth Lydia brought from the bathroom and put it over the young woman's eyes. She'd continued to grimace with pain in her lower abdomen, though. Miles had studied her, not sure she was getting any better. He'd caught sight of his hostess looking at the girl also.

"Lydia, someone came with her, right?" he'd asked. "Could you ask her to call this young lady's doctor? Then you go ahead and take care of your party. I'll watch her for a little bit," he'd assured his long-time friend.

Lydia had nodded shortly and left the room, closing the door behind her. She'd shooed everyone outside to the patio where a buffet waited.

Miles had heard the party continuing as he sat with the girl. He'd done his best to help her relax, frequently refreshing the facecloth with more cold water from the faucet. Gradually she'd quieted until she was resting easier, but she hadn't been very alert and that had bothered Miles, though he hadn't known what to do about it. Miles had begun to feel uncomfortable about his assumed responsibility for the girl.

He'd decided he'd go ask about the girl's doctor and get ready to leave the party. Before he did that, he'd gotten up to replenish the cold compress, soaking the washcloth under the water faucet and wringing it out. When he'd come back in the bedroom, the woman was crying and writhing in pain.

"OH GOD, I'M DYING," she'd screamed. She'd squirmed around on the bedcovers for a bit longer and then was still. Without warning, every muscle in her body had convulsed. Arching her back, she'd strained upward until only her feet and shoulders were still on the bed. Hands clasped to her lower belly, she'd screamed shrilly and collapsed back to the mattress. The door had burst open and several curious faces peered in.

"He hurt me ... he hurt me inside!" the girl had babbled, repeating her earlier accusation. Then she'd stopped talking in favor of high-pitched wailing--an inhuman shriek of agony. Shock had spread across the faces of the partygoers. Miles had bent over the girl, trying to hold her as she thrashed around the bed, but the girl had incredible strength. He'd been afraid if he didn't get control of her arms and legs she might hurt herself badly.

"Help me!" the girl had begged. Flustered, Miles had tried but he hadn't known what to do. She'd thrown her legs off the bed and made a move to get off the bed but Miles pressed her back down. His worried eyes had found Lydia's as she pushed into the room past the crowd of onlookers.

"Lydia, I think you better call 911 and get an ambulance," he'd said, his voice breaking and hesitant.

Lydia had turned and disappeared, wasting no time on comment.

Miles felt a sudden wetness as his hand slipped off the girl's left leg in a particularly violent heave. His head had snapped down to see his hand in a pool of scarlet arterial blood gushing from between the girl's legs.

"LYDIA!" he'd shouted. "She's bleeding ... she's bleeding bad! Tell them to get here as fast as they can." He'd been sure he heard an indistinct reply pressing the girl's legs together in an attempt to slow the flow of blood. The classes in first aid the Army offered hadn't prepared him for something like this. He'd been helpless.

He was trying to comfort the girl, holding her down to keep her from injuring herself more when two paramedics had burst in. Standing away from the bed, he'd watched them work a moment before he went to wash up. The sleeves on his jacket had been covered with the girl's blood. When he'd returned to the bedroom, they were rushing her out on a wheeled stretcher. He'd gone home, miserable and alone, wishing there'd been something he could have done for the young woman.

Just before Thanksgiving, after numerous demands by the local media and pressure from various citizen action groups, the police had been waiting for Miles when he got home from a late afternoon visit to the supermarket. In the glare of TV cameras from stations tipped off to the impending arrest, he'd been hauled roughly from his five-year old Taurus. Cuffs had been slapped on his wrists and he was hustled into the back of a patrol car. The groceries had been abandoned in the back seat of his car. The fresh vegetables and meat spoiled before he could arrange bail.

They'd grilled him for nineteen hours and a bit more in the first interrogation--an interview, they'd called it. He'd been told repeatedly they had all the evidence they needed to convict him. Witnesses, the detectives had said, had given them signed statements attesting to the fact that Miles was beating the girl when the guests broke into the room after hearing screams. They had DNA evidence, they said. He knew what that was, didn't he? It proved Miles raped the poor young girl. They already knew everything, they said.

They'd asked why Miles didn't make things easy on himself by admitting it. They knew he wanted to, they said. Get it off your chest; prove to everyone you're not a cold-hearted bastard. Just sign the confession and everything would be okay. They'd go to bat for him with the prosecutor if he cooperated. They knew he didn't mean to hurt her. Heck, it was an accident, right? He could go home, they'd said--get some sleep and then come back to take care of the problem if he would only sign. Tell them how it happened and they could make all this go away.

Near the end of the questioning, dizzy with fatigue and lack of sleep, disoriented by bright lights and rotating teams of accusers, he'd almost succumbed. He'd asked to see the laboratory report but he was put off. No, he couldn't see the witness statements either. That would all come later. Sign, or things would get worse, they'd said.

He'd hung on until he could resist only by retreating inside himself. He'd closed his eyes. He wanted a lawyer, he'd mumbled slowly. He repeated it several times until they'd finally been forced to take notice.

The detectives said lawyering up proved he was guilty. They'd ridiculed him, saying child killers didn't deserve attorneys. They'd shrieked at him, wanting to know how many other kids he'd killed. A pair of big uniformed cops hauled him erect every time he slumped in the chair. They screamed in his ears but he refused to say another word to the officers surrounding him. Eventually it became clear to them he never would.

Twice on the way to his cell, he was shoved against a wall and fists hammered his kidneys when he couldn't respond to commands fast enough. He'd been uncooperative and combative, they'd said. They had only done what was necessary.

The ear-splitting crash arrived simultaneously with a blinding flash, leaving behind rattling windows and the acrid odor of ozone. Startled, he twisted away from the patio door and stumbled back into the living room. Turning back to the glass door, he rubbed his forearms to smooth the hair standing on end. Dark clouds had hastened the coming of night; now it and the storm were here.

The picture on the television dissolved into streaks and blurry shapes for a moment and then cleared as the static charge in the air weakened and died. He yanked the patio door shut and closed the Venetian blinds tight across the wide expanse of glass.

Intellectually, he knew it was no protection at all against another close lightning strike but he felt safer. He turned on the table lamp next to the recliner and stumbled across the room to switch on a floor lamp near the entertainment center. Still visible through the blinds, the glaring flashes of lightning were muted a little by the interior lights. He took up the remote and dialed up the sound volume to compensate for the noise of the violent storm.

The show about the hairy mammoths was over and a documentary about maximum-security prisons had replaced it. The host was busy explaining the offenses and sentences for each of the inmates he would interview. Fascinated, Miles sank into the cushions on the couch as a montage of murderers, rapists, and kidnappers paraded across the screen in rapid succession. Each was more muscular than the last and even more covered with gaudy tattoos.

They gazed out of the screen with flat, dead eyes as they explained how unfair it was to be shut way behind bars with no way to better themselves. More than one stumbled over the word "rehabilitation," but they used it anyway to explain why they shouldn't be locked away from their loving families and friends any longer. They were ready to reenter society they said. Cured, they were. They were certain of it.

After a commercial, the narrator discussed the violence the guards dealt with every day. A lieutenant in the prison guards showed the host a collection of knives made from combs, toothbrushes, stray bits of broken glass, and other unlikely materials. He spoke of how many inmates were killed, wounded, and mutilated every year by other prisoners.

Miles imagined himself standing beside each convict, or perhaps submissively behind the brute, a raped and whipped shell of a man. The terror he'd been feeling for months mounted higher as all the horrors he'd ever imagined about his fate were displayed in crisp, clear high definition on the TV screen.

Eight jurors had voted to send him to prison--he could not get past that--eight jurors! It was too much.

A flood of undigested hamburger and potatoes surged up from his stomach. He ran to the half-bath by the front door trying to hold back the sour mess. Falling to his knees in front of the toilet, he threw up the dinner he'd so recently choked down. Fragments of meat and vegetables spewed forcefully into the bowl until there was nothing left.

The muscles in his stomach kept trying to bring something up, but only bile was flowing now. The acid bit at the lining of his throat. Eventually, even that bitter fluid was exhausted though painful contractions continued for long minutes.

Gradually the dry retching subsided. He stood and wiped his lips with the back of his hand while he stumbled to the sink. He rinsed out his mouth and drank a glass of water to sooth his raw throat. Stripping off his shirt, now badly stained with unpleasant bits of food and stomach acid, he held it under the faucet.

Catching sight of an ashen face in the mirror, he paused to study the reflected image. The eyes were as dead as the prison inmates he'd seen earlier; his face was pale, expressionless. It was undeniably him, but there were harsh lines and creases that hadn't been there before. He could find nothing of the satisfied Army veteran who had set out on a carefully planned retirement a few months ago.

Without thinking, his hand still wrapped in the foul shirt, he cocked his fist and smashed the face in the mirror into a thousand shards.

It was deliberate destruction that served no purpose. It was a mess that he'd have to clean up himself. It was sudden; he hadn't thought about it, fretted over it, wondered what was the best thing in the world he could do.

The sudden physical action felt good to him; in fact, it felt great. He wanted more.

Twisting to the side, he set his feet and threw hard punches at the wall beside the mirror. He pounded fist-sized holes into the sheetrock. It was a long while before he could stop.

But as good as it was to finally lash out at something, he had to stop. He was going to break some bones in his hands if he hit a two by four stud in the wall. Panting, he looked around, holding tight to the ember of anger that remained after his exertions. It was good to feel some emotion other than despair.

He looked his hands to see if he'd cut himself with the mirror glass. His fists still clinched tightly, he held his forearms up. Rotating his wrists, he flexed the muscles in his forearms, checking to see if there was any pain or blood. The small cut on one knuckle needed only a quick rinse and a small band aid.

He stalked to the kitchen and glared out the window at the breaking storm. He couldn't have said how long he watched but at some point he found himself reveling in the violence of the storm. Powerful and impersonal, it had no agenda other than the cold reality of wind-whipped rain and lightning.

It was fresh and clean--in stark contrast to the months of anguish since the young girl's death. Its vastness reminded him of how small he was in the grand scheme, but there was comfort there too. At least that scheme had a place for him. He'd been lost for so long.

He opened the door to step outside, only to be greeted by a fresh thunderbolt that struck no more than a block away. Point taken. The might of the storm was not to be trifled with.

Miles prudently retreated to the cover of the doorway. Even there, the wind drove spikes of rain into his face as he watched electrical energy streak from cloud to cloud in intricate, sometimes delicate patterns. The booming thunder made the windows rattle in their frames. He closed the kitchen door to mute the assault.

He poured a glass of milk, assembled a couple of sandwiches, and carried the replacement meal to the living room. Changing his mind about shutting out the storm, he opened the mini-blinds covering the patio door. He sat in the recliner and watched the lightning dance while he chewed on dry bread and leftover roast beef.

Through the protecting glass door, he could see his carefully mowed and cultured lawn with its well-trimmed shrubbery and attendant rose bushes. The carefully arranged scene was the result of many hours of labor spent on his hands and knees last spring. The backyard was an alien landscape tonight lit by irregular bright flashes, ripped apart by hurricane-strength winds, and drowned by torrential rain.

Green and familiar in the daytime, it was unknown and forbidding tonight. Full for the moment, he dropped a half-eaten sandwich back on the plate and drank the last of the milk before it got too warm. Pulling up on the handle to thrust out the footrest on the recliner, he settled into the overstuffed cushions.

He probed for the anger he'd felt earlier. It was there, tucked away in a corner of his mind, waiting for a summons to reassert itself. Reassured, he relaxed completely and closed his eyes for better concentration.

He thought of the documentary he'd watched about prisons. There wouldn't be any backyards or ice-cold milk for him there ... no compassion, no understanding either, and no second chances. The thought came to him that he would not live very long in that environment either. If the show could be believed, inmates challenged each other daily for small possessions, power, or sex. Street gangs banded together for safety and greater power, according to the commentary.

Miles would be the odd man out in any scenario he could think of. The U.S. Army didn't have any associate organizations in the prison system. A smoldering anger burned hotter, beginning to bore through veils of pain and bewilderment that had clouded his mind for too long.

Abruptly, the television screen flickered and came to life. He hadn't noticed the cable network had gone down. The system's return was an intrusion and he scowled in irritation at the screen. The ten o'clock news was just starting.

He watched a repeat of the announcement of his new trial date. The scenes of the prison were still vividly clear in his mind. The new trial could easily return a guilty verdict. There were only four more jurors to convince and the truth seemed not to be terribly important. The prosecutor hadn't even tried to hide his intent. "If we get the right jury," was what Brady had said ... not a fair jury.

The fury Miles thought he had contained in a corner of his mind blazed hotter with the realization of the prosecutor's goal. There was no conceivable way he could change the district attorney's mind on the matter, of course. Brady had already seen all the evidence. If he was not swayed by that, what more could Miles do?

Miles suddenly could see his destiny. He saw it so clearly, it might already have happened. He would be convicted and sent to a prison like the one in the documentary. It didn't matter he'd done nothing wrong.

The prosecutor wanted him in prison, the judge didn't care one way or the other, and his attorney was barely interested. Eventually, in the upcoming trial--or the one after that--all twelve members of a jury would be convinced he was, indeed, guilty.

He shook his head as he saw himself bleeding and dying on a shower room floor, killed by one of the tattooed, muscled monsters he'd seen on TV. Miles clicked off the television, plunging the room into a silence broken at intervals by the slamming thuds of heavy thunder. With only himself for company, his mind raced.

Frustrated, he gave vent to a wordless roar. The earlier resentment was only a taste of what he was feeling now. He held up his hands. They trembled uncontrollably. Fury threatened to overwhelm him. It had been lurking in the darker recesses of his mind and now it spread fiery tentacles to pull him into the comforting embrace of insanity. His hands gripped the ends of the chair arms, clutching them tightly as an anchor against the tempest. His eyes flicked from one corner in the room to another without pattern or purpose to the search.

Something within him strengthened and demanded immediate release. He pounded the chair with both hands until blood from the cut on his knuckle began to flow. It stained the fabric but he had no energy left over to regret the damage. He screamed ... and then collapsed, slumping back into the seat cushions.

He lay panting, dizzy and exhausted by the intensity of the emotion that had escaped from inside him. Slowly, he gathered himself and sat up in the Lazyboy. He set his feet firmly on the floor.

His eyes were alert now. The cleansing anger had sharpened his senses and his wits.

Without his conscious participation, decisions were reached deep inside him--in that place where civilized logic and reason are checked for validity against animal instinct. He saw ... and understood.