byVandemonium1
I think this story has something for most people except lovers of shallow sex, willing cuckolds or ‘reconciliation at any cost’ types. It will particularly appeal to people like me that have a strong sense of justice. Remember the second B, in BTB can have two meanings.
Like my other stories, I have taken a familiar idea and added what I think is a new twist.
Many thanks to SW_MO_Hermit for proofreading and suggestions on the ending. Also to RPBPhoto for legal advice to make it more realistic. Thanks also to Nancy my US cultural attaché. I felt three reviewers were necessary as it is a complicated story.
No wives were harmed in the making of this story. Much.
+++++++++++++++++++++
From my seat in the dock I looked around the courtroom as the furore continued. After my shock began to dissipate, I realised with dread that the next 6-8 years of my life were going to be hell. And what about my kids? How can they have a normal life with one of their parents in prison for violent assault?
I looked around the court until I saw Sandra, my wife. She was standing there smiling at me. A grim smile maybe, but a smile none the less. I acknowledged the fact that her next 6-8 years were going to be unpleasant as well, with a small nod.
My eyes wandered the room looking for ‘him’, the guy that caused all this. He was hard to spot as the view to him was blocked by people standing in the front. Of course he couldn’t stand yet. He would be in his wheelchair for at least a few months yet. I caught occasional glimpses of his crippled face through the throng. He looked shocked, even with one side of his face still paralysed.
It was my turn to smile.
So, he was shocked, she was smiling and I was numb. No one was going to be happy for a long, long time. How the fuck did it come to this?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
3 months, 2 weeks, 4 days and 18 hours ago
How I met Sandra, who we are or what we look like is totally irrelevant. We were just two ordinary people with decent morals and standards who had complete faith that society would look after decent people and punish the bad. In short, we could be you.
What is relevant is that Sandra and I’d been married for 14 years. During that time, I sired two kids. Rob was 12 and Sarah 10. They are my reason to be. Nothing in the world is more important to me than that they grow into physically and mentally healthy adults. That is my duty and my privilege.
Forty-five minutes ago I had thought that Sandra and I’d been totally in love with each other and would die together as wizened pensioners surrounded by hordes of great grandkids.
Forty-four minutes ago that belief took a serious dent.
Two minutes ago that belief was pissed into the wind. Shot. Destroyed. Murdered. Annihilated.
Knowing my violent temper and how it had got me in trouble in the past, I knew it was imperative that I get out of there and fast. I gathered the kids from where they were sitting on the bonnet of my wife’s boss’s car, outside room 215 of the motel, and hustled them back across the road to my car. Sandra made no move to get up from where she was slumped on the concrete pathway. Her boss, John Bertram, had slunk away already.
The aggrieved predator within me was barely resisting the urge to chase and kill when Sarah gripped my hand and squeezed it just moments before. The civilised human within me walked away without a glance backwards.
In a daze I took the kids home, fed them and got them to bed. All the while the image of Sandra and Bertram walking out of room 213 replayed in what currently passed for my brain. The dishevelled state of her makeup and hair absolutely precluding the chance they were there for a business meeting or any other innocent purpose.
If the kids said anything all evening then I didn’t hear them.
It didn’t even register with me that Sandra hadn’t so much as rung us since we’d left her this afternoon. There was a knock at the door. The clock said 10.05. It was dark outside so it must have been the first night still.
The bewildered animal threw open the door ready to pounce.
And stopped. Where Sandra should have stood, vulnerable, remorseful and afraid, was her sister, Anne. My brain, hovering on the brink of insanity, sent no signals to my mouth to move. After taking in my slack-jawed countenance, Anne broke the silence.
“Sandra is in my car. Can she come in?”
It was bloody embarrassing. I could feel my mouth opening and closing but there were still no signals telling it what to say. With logic not happening, my brain resorted to instinct. What was my job? Easy. Feed, shelter, but above all else, protect my family. I realised, deep down in my unconscious that I must protect Sandra like I never had before. From me.
“No she can’t Anne…….She’s not safe here. Take her away. Far away.” I knew in the battle between my instinct to protect and the animal urge to rend, kill and expunge the pain, there was no guaranteed winner.
Anne’s next words destroyed my slowly returning rationality.
“God damn it Dave, she’s been raped.”
Her words just didn’t register, so I could only repeat, “She’s not safe here” and close the door in her face.
The clock said 3.13 when I finally came out of my torpor. Ironically I must have drunk enough whiskey to snap myself out of it. I examined all the possible excuses Sandra could use to explain being caught. Only one would not result in the end of her life as she knew it and that was rape.
Trouble was that I saw her walk out of room 213 with John-Fucking-Bertram; and she didn’t look like a rape victim to me. So Sandra and Anne had cooked up a story. Well, I wasn’t buying it. They could both go suck my sav.
I must have dozed after that, as the next thing I knew, bright sunlight was streaming in the window. My brain hurt. Well half a bottle of whiskey does that to a bloke. I glanced at the clock and saw it was 7.45. Shit the kids will be late for school.
I had them both out of bed and breakfast half made before Rob said, “Dad, it’s Saturday.” When that obviously didn’t register, he went on with, “No school.”
I slumped in one of the kitchen chairs.
“Dad, was mum having an affair with that man at the motel?”
“Yes, yes she was.”
“What’s going to happen Dad?”
I looked into the innocent, desperate eyes of my children. I badly needed to protect them, but I just didn’t know what to say. I ended up saying nothing. After a while they wandered next door to their friend’s house, where they often spent summer weekends in their pool.
I spent the day brooding. Divorce the slut, become a weekend warrior with a greatly reduced influence on my children’s future; or live in a suddenly loveless, trust less marriage. My normally decisive personality let me down, and I was no nearer to a decision when shortly after 3PM the doorbell rang.
This time it was a guy in a suit who held up a badge, confirmed my identity and introduced himself as Detective Carling.
“Sir, your wife and her sister are outside; but are worried about coming in.”
“I’m not bloody surprised about that Officer Carling, are you?”
“Sir, there are some things I need to tell you.”
I invited him in and we sat in the lounge.
“Your wife spent all night and all today at the hospital, being sedated and tested. I have to tell you, sir, that there were signs of recent sexual activity; and at her sister’s insistence, she requested a blood test for date rape drugs. I can tell you sir that an hour ago the test results came back and she tested positive for GHB.”
“Wha….what does that mean?”
“It means, sir, that there is evidence that your wife has been raped. My colleagues are on their way to the alleged rapist’s house now to arrest him.”
All I heard myself saying was, “Raped?”
“Yes sir. Not all rapes are violent. With these new drugs…..”
I was aware that he kept speaking but I wasn’t hearing any longer. As quickly as my love for Sandra had fled 22 hours earlier, it all came flooding back. The guilt was almost overwhelming. I’d failed dismally in my duty of protecting her.
Without a thought for my guest, I jumped up, ran out of the door, and out into the street. I saw Sandra and Anne standing next to Anne’s car. Sandra suddenly tensed as she saw me running towards her, and Anne moved to stand protectively in front. I brushed past Anne and grabbed Sandra into a tight clinch. All three of us wore wet faces when we went inside five minutes later. Detective Carling had gone.
I became aware later that evening that the kids had come home and then left with Anne. My world was reduced to Sandra and me, and we moved like Siamese twins all that evening and night. Things came to a bit of a head early the next morning.
“Look, Dave, if you apologise one more bloody time, I am going to remove your balls with the garden cutters. If I’d caught you coming out of a motel room in the same circumstances you saw me, I would have come to exactly the same conclusion.” I didn’t dismiss her threat totally. She was almost as tall as me and I knew from experience, quite strong.
I looked deep in her eyes and saw nothing but forgiveness. I felt the bulk of my guilt evaporate which allowed me to see what lay beneath it. Simmering rage. One way or another, Mr. John-Fucking-Arsehole-Shithead-Bertram was going to pay bigtime.
I could only guess how Sandra must feel about him.
I hadn’t pushed for details of their encounter. I wanted to know, but had to allow Sandra to reveal them all at her own pace.
On Monday I rang in to work and took the week off. I then dropped Sandra off for a counselling session the police organised for her on Saturday. With an hour to kill, I dropped into the police station and asked for Detective Carling. He was on shift so we chatted for a while. I thanked him for all his effort and asked where the case was up to at this time. He’d finished all his evidence collection, packaged it and ‘sent it upstairs’. The only thing missing was DNA test results. He seemed genuinely happy to report that his uniformed colleagues were called to a domestic disturbance at the Bertram residence the previous night after John was released on bail. Mr Bertram refused to press charges against his wife. There was only minor bruising after all. As the uniforms were leaving, they were followed by Mrs. Bertram in a taxi, complete with suitcases. I remember thinking that it was a good start to his suffering.
I related this with glee to Sandra when I picked her up. She smiled grimly.
It wasn’t until the Tuesday of the following week that Sandra decided to relate the details of her ordeal. She said her counsellor recommended it. I’d returned to work that week but otherwise spent every free moment with my wife. I even skipped my usual Wednesday poker night the previous week, which was only a thinly veiled excuse to drink beer and tell lies anyway.
I knew absolutely no details, except that she ended up in that motel room after being drugged by her asshole boss.
We were nestled together in bed when Sandra started crying.
“How did you find out about us, Dave?”
“Well, I picked the kids up from school as usual Friday, and took them to that new burger joint along Main Street. As we were pulling out afterwards, Rob saw an Aston Martin in the motel carpark across the road, and asked if we could stop and have a look. You know how he is really into sports cars. I thought it looked like John’s and the personalised plates said JB77. Then when I saw that orange handbag of yours on the front seat, I knew something wasn’t right. It was nearly five o’clock by that stage, and I knew you would have to be leaving soon to get home at normal time, so we just sat and waited to see which room you came out of. The kids checked the restaurant, but it was closed.”
Sandra was silent for some time.
“I can’t believe I was so stupid.”
“Come on dear, it wasn’t your fault.”
“Yes it was. I should never have put myself in a position where he could have slipped me something.”
I said nothing, letting her set the pace.
“It started with a bunch of us going out for lunch on Fridays. I didn’t really take much notice that after a couple of months everyone else started dropping out until it was only John and I left.”
I felt my anger flare. A married woman going to lunch with just another man was only appropriate if her husband was okay with it. In this case her husband didn’t bloody know about it.
“How many times did you go alone with him”, I asked in a voice far more casual than I felt.
“I guess three or four times. Oh Dave I knew it was a bit naughty, but by then I felt totally comfortable with him. He obviously loved his wife and talked about her all the time. He always listened when I talked about you and the kids, and never said anything bad about you. We talked about anything and everything. I did tell him the first time it was just the two of us that it was a bit inappropriate, but he assured me that he didn’t consider me as anything but a good friend. The slimy bastard!” The last sentence was spat with a vehemence I’d never heard from Sandra before.
Saying nothing, I waited for her to continue.
“I suppose he must have slipped something into my wine glass just before we left. When we got up to leave I felt a bit woozy and he had to help me stand. We were in the motel restaurant that day; and as soon as we got out the door he pressed me up against the wall, and started kissing me.”
Sandra interrupted herself with more sobbing. This must have been really hard for her. It wasn’t exactly easy for me either.
“I’m sorry Dave but I really got into it. All of a sudden I just felt so horny. I…I… didn’t think of you at all. I’m sorry, Dave. I just had to have him. The bastard must have pre-booked a room and picked up the key at some stage, as he took me straight in to a room.”
This time the silence lasted an uncomfortably long time.
“What happened when he got you in the room honey?”
“Well, shit, this is really hard to say, Dave; but the counsellor said to be totally honest with you. He pushed me down on the bed, lifted my dress, ripped my panties off and, er……..he performed cunnilingus on me.”
Again I felt compelled to break the silence and in a voice infinitely calmer than I felt, I asked. “Did he make you cum?”
In a very soft voice she replied, “Yes, Dave. Twice. I’m sorry.”
“Go on.”
“Well, after a while he stood up and pushed me onto my knees and shoved his penis in my mouth. Do you really want to know all this, sweetie?”
“What I want isn’t really the right question. I need to hear it all. I don’t think it can be as bad as what I have imagined every night since that Friday. Go on.”
“Well I…….sucked on him for a while, you know……….Then, after a while, he grabbed the back of my head and stuck his penis in as far as it would go. I gagged and almost puked and could hardly breathe. You would have thought I really hated that, but all I can remember is that I just wanted more. That crap he put in my drink must be really powerful stuff.”
Silence.
“Did he cum in your mouth?”
“Yes, Dave. I’m sorry.”
Silence.
“Did you swallow?”
“Yes, Dave. I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t breathe.”
Silence.
“Come on, tell me the rest.”
“Well, he lay on the bed and told me to, you know, kiss his penis until he got hard again. I was still as horny as hell, so I just did it. When he was hard I mounted him and we just went for it until he came again. Then he made me kiss him hard again and we started all over again. I’m really sorry, honey. I know this must be really hard for you to hear.”
That must be the understatement of the year.
“Did he make you cum again?”
“Yes Dave.”
“More than once?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Did you think of me at all during any of this?”
“No, Dave. I know you will never understand this; but it was just like an overwhelming need…like I hadn’t eaten for a week; then someone put a banquet in front of me. He could have been him or you or even a woman with one of those strap on things like we saw in that adult shop that time. It would have made no difference.”
Suffice it to say, I didn’t get much sleep that night. Sandra, with the relief of her unburdening, slept like a log.
The next day I was still seething with anger and looking for an outlet.
I rang Detective Carling for an update. He said he would check and get back to me. He rang back within half an hour and asked if Sandra and I could come in and meet his boss.
An hour later, the kids were next door and we were being ushered into the station chief’s office. After some small talk he launched into his spiel that he must have delivered a thousand times.
“I’m sorry folks but we have dropped all the charges. As you know we arrested Mr. Bertram and charged him with rape with the aid of a prohibited substance. We searched him, his car and his house and found no trace of GHB. We seized his computer and could find no evidence he purchased any on the internet. He claims you engaged in consensual sex with him Mrs Brown.”
Sandra, cherry red with rage shouted, “That’s bullshit!”
“Settle down, Mrs. Brown. I know that and you know that; but with it being your word against his and no evidence that it was he that gave you the GHB, we would be wasting public money by taking this one to trial. I’m sorry.”
My turn. “But what about the medical examination on Friday night?”
The chief pulled a file across and opened it.
“Well we proved your wife was contaminated with semen and DNA matches proved it was Mr Bertram’s but that can be explained by consensual sex also.”
He read from the file again.
“The doctor’s report notes that physical evidence in the vagina and slight bruising of the anus were again consistent with consensual sex, with no obvious signs of excessive force. I’m sorry people, there just isn’t enough evidence.”
I glanced at Sandra. She was looking miserably at the table.
I thanked the chief and Detective Carling and we left. As I reached the door the chief stated in a commanding tone.
“Remember, Mr. Brown, the law takes a very dim view of people taking matters into their own hands.” Without pause or a glance back, we left the building. We said nothing until we got to the car. I gave Sandra a commiserative hug and held her till she stopped sobbing.
Finally she spoke.
“I can’t believe that prick. After raping me and causing all the pain and damage to our marriage, the shithead is going to walk away scot free.”
“Well not totally free. His wife has left him and will probably clean him out in the divorce.”
“That’s not nearly enough.” Again the vehemence from her.
Nothing more was said until we parked in our garage, Sandra made to open her door and get our, but I grabbed her arm.
“Were you going to tell me about him fucking your ass?”
Silence.
“No, Dave. I just didn’t want to hurt you any more than I already had.”
“Was it his idea or yours?”
“His.”
“Did it hurt?”
“At first, yes, but then I got used to it.”
“Did you cum when he was doing it?”
Her silence gave me all the answer I needed. She fled the car.
I’m sorry to say that I wasn’t very good company during dinner that night. My mind was swirling with all the outstanding issues. Why had she allowed herself to be alone with him? Why had she lied to me by omission about the anal? I thought I’d made it clear I wanted to know all the details. I was very upset that she’d enjoyed it so much. What she had described was equal to our honeymoon sex. What really had my animal enraged though, was what to do about the predator that had targeted my patch, and so far evaded punishment for it. I don’t think either Sandra or I could be totally healed until there’d been some nuclear payback.
After dinner I had to get away. I desperately needed time to think and process. It was Wednesday and that presented the perfect excuse. Without realising I was making the most life changing statement since I said, ‘I do’, I told Sandra that I was going to poker that night, and left after packing some things I needed.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
3 months, 5 days and 2 hours ago
I was arrested at work at 3PM the next day. I was charged with assault causing grievous bodily harm on Mr. John Bertram at that stage, but the policeman made it plain it could be upgraded to murder shortly. Thank god it wasn’t Detective Carling who arrested me. That might have spoiled our blossoming friendship.
I smiled when the litany of injuries to the upstanding Mr Bertram were listed. Fractured skull, brain bleeding, causing paralysis to one side of his face. Broken face, ribs, both arms and two smashed knee caps. Both his testicles were removed. Seems some bugger stepped on them with all their weight.
At the station the same chief explained with obvious sympathy that he knew what I felt, but there was no excuse. Revenge attackers often got harsher penalties than ordinary attackers. That way anarchy lay. Very quietly he wished me luck. I didn’t protest my innocence to him. Bizarrely I didn’t want to lose the obvious respect he felt for me.
I was dragged before a judge late on Friday afternoon. I was really starting to develop a thing about 5PM Friday. Prosecuting counsel explained that I was a dangerous person with a history of violence. As it may well have been attempted murder and the victim was still alive, he feared for Mr. Bertram’s safety if I was released on bail. The judge thus remanded me in custody until the trial.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
4 days and 2 hours ago
The last three months have been very hard. The remand centre was three hours away from home, so I saw Sandra and the kids at most once a week. As someone who lived for his kids, it was torture. During the visits we pointedly never spoke much about the case, just family stuff.
She found me a lawyer after my arrest. He recommended a brief and I got to know them well over time. My brief didn’t seem very worried. During discovery, when the prosecution revealed their evidence against me, he pointed out that all the evidence was circumstantial, and juries rarely convicted in such cases. Bertram hadn’t seen his attacker and the neighbour who scared the assailant away hadn’t seen much detail in the dark.
This day was my final meeting with my guy. I detected the first signs of worry on his face and quizzed him. It seems that the prosecuting counsel wasn’t some greenhorn, but an experienced guy who was really hoping for a seat on the bench soon. Shit, that was all I needed. A motivated opponent.
He’d brought in a razor and fresh clothes for me and pointed out in the nicest possible way that nature hadn’t given me the ideal defendant look. At 6’ 1’’ of muscle, with a face a biker would be proud of, I was going to be pushing shit up hill to look like an angel. I’d always been thankful for my looks. As Billy Connolly once said, “You never get mugged when you look like a mugger.” My brief congratulated me on the haircut and suggested I lose the beard tonight.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
3 days and 8 hours ago
My trial started at the crack of 10 O’clock the next day. I was quietly confident, although I was careful not to show it. I knew that convictions in purely circumstantial cases were relatively rare. Besides, our whole legal system is based on the premise that they would rather see 100 guilty men walk free than have one innocent man go to prison. Oh, I was confident all right. I enjoyed total faith in the legal system. Well, almost total. I still retained a niggling fear that I may just be deluding myself.
Jury selection took us to lunch time. As I studied the prosecutor’s performance, I couldn’t help thinking he was better than my guy. He was a slimy bastard, that’s for sure. I couldn’t help but remember the age old question. If a lawyer was eaten by a shark while swimming, would it be called ‘death by misadventure’ or ‘cannibalism’?
I thanked Christ that I wasn’t in the US. I think it was Ian Hart who summed up their legal system, with the American lawyers creed of, “Every man is innocent until proven broke.”
The prosecutor opened the case after lunch with his address. He acknowledged that conviction was difficult in circumstantial cases, but prepared the jury by saying that in this case the evidence was overwhelming.
He then went on to outline his attack. He acknowledged that unless he could prove that I had the means, motive and opportunity, his attack would fail. If he failed in any of those, then it was their duty to acquit me.
My guy then retorted. But the prosecutor had already taken the wind out of his sails by admitting the difficulty of cases based solely on circumstantial evidence. He really wasn’t very good. Was it too late to sack him?
Before the end of the day the prosecutor called his star witness. Me.
Phrasing his questions clearly as establishing either means, motive or opportunity, he launched into rapid fire questioning. I will only give you edited highlights.
“Mr. Brown, do you own a pick that has a handle similar to exhibit A? A weapon, I should add, that was found in a dumpster two blocks from Mr Bertram’s house.” He held up the bloodied tool handle.
“Yes, but…….”
“Just answer the question, Mr. Brown!”
“Is that pick still in your garden shed?”
“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t looked since the Thursday morning I left for work. I’ve been locked up since then, you see.”
“Hmmm. I have to tell you, Mr. Brown, that when the police searched your shed, they could only find a handle-less pick head.”
Without a pause he continued his attack.
“Can you explain why your fingerprints were on said pick handle, Mr. Brown, along with blood identified as Mr Bertram’s?”
I’d known this was coming, and the best excuse I could come up with was. “Someone must have stolen my pick.” I knew it was weak, but, really, what could I say?
The shark smiled at the jury when I said this.
“Further on means, Mr. Brown. Is it true that you have a history of violence?”
My guy finally jumped to his feet.
“Objection your honour. Any non-prosecuted alleged violence on my client’s part is just hearsay and any prosecuted violence is inadmissible.”
“Quite right, Mr. Young. Objection sustained. Mr Sykes, please keep it clean. Jurors, you are directed to ignore the prosecutor’s last question.”
The prosecutor apologised but smiled at the jury anyway. He’d got his point across. I realised he was a dirty fighter, but that seemed to be the only thing we had in common.
“Mr. Brown, prior to the alleged assault, did you know Mr. Bertram?”
“Yes, sir. He was my wife’s boss and we met several times.”
“And did you know where he lived?”
“Yes, sir. Their office Christmas party was at his house last year.”
I knew all this was damning, but I’m an honest guy.
“On the question of motive, Mr. Brown. Is it true that Mr Bertram had sex with your wife on the 24th of September, as part of an adulterous affair?”
Well, my brief got that wrong as well. He assured me that the prosecutor would play down the whole affair thing. Mr. Sykes apparently didn’t care how Bertram looked here.
“Yes”.
“Is it also true that you tried to get the police involved, alleging rape; but were totally frustrated when they took no action against Mr Bertram?”
This time I was prepared. I’m a quick learner, and was careful not to answer his question at the start of my reply. He’d asked me a question and had to wait until I answered it before butting in.
“They took no action against Mr. Bertram because although there was ample evidence of rape, using drugs, there just wasn’t enough to guarantee a conviction. Was I frustrated about the process? My wife had been raped; so, yes, I was unhappy but not enough……..”
“Thank you Mr Brown.”
We adjourned for the night. I was relatively relaxed and still confident in the judicial system. But cracks were starting to appear. The next morning the prosecutor re-launched his assault.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Yesterday we demonstrated ample means to prove Mr. Brown assaulted Mr. Bertram. His fingerprints were on his own pick handle, along with Mr Bertram’s DNA. I’m starting to think Mr. Brown isn’t that smart, aren’t you? By his own admission Mr. Brown knew where Mr. Bertram lived, and that was where the assault occurred.”
“On motive, I have demonstrated that the accused knew that his wife was unfaithful with Mr. Bertram, and was frustrated by our legal system’s response to his false accusation. But, after all, what role do the police have in sex between consenting adults, even if adultery is involved?”
Inside my head I was screaming. Do something, Young. He’s just called my wife a slut. Mr. Young, my brief that I now regretted not sacking, didn’t say anything.
“So, ladies and gentlemen. Revenge against his wife’s lover, frustration over our legal system, two very good reasons to motivate the accused to assault poor Mr. Bertram. Mr. Brown, a man with a proven history…….I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to say anything about that am I?”
The judge aimed a huge frown at the back of the prosecutor’s head but said nothing. He must have seen all sorts of games in his time.
“Let’s get on to the question of opportunity. Are you aware, Mr. Brown, that your wife was interviewed by the police over your whereabouts during the night in question?”
“Not specifically, no.”
“So you are unaware that she told the police that she thought you were at your weekly poker game with three upstanding witnesses.”
“No, sir.”
“Did you play poker that night, Mr. Brown?”
“No.”
I heard a gasp from the gallery, turned and saw Sandra with mouth open and stricken look. Shit, even she thought I was guilty now.
“What did you do, Mr. Brown?”
“I just went for a drive, then parked somewhere quiet. I had a lot to think about.”
“A lot to think about, Mr. Brown, or a lot to brood about? No, don’t bother answering that. The place you went to ‘think’, did it have any witnesses or surveillance cameras perhaps?”
“No.”
“No further questions for this witness, your honour.”
My guy then spent two hours trying to repair the damage Sykes did to our case. He raised my police record of violence. One incident when I was 17. He raised most of the issues of the alleged rape of Sandra but carefully down-played the frustration angle. Sykes raised a few half-hearted objections, but again didn’t seem to really care. Young pumped me to provide a lot of detail on the place I’d gone to think, while not pushing me on what I thought about while I was there.
Then Sykes called Bertram to the stand. Victim impact statements are only supposed to be used in sentencing, not during the trial. But Sykes invented a pretext to get him in front of the jury anyway. My guy objectioned the crap out of him, but it was enough for the jury to see the pathetic drooling creature slumped in his wheelchair. Bertram got to explain how he was lured out of his house onto his darkened porch and assaulted.
My guy got him to confirm he did not see his attacker.
The last witness for the prosecution was a Forensic Psychologist. He was asked to profile the person likely to have damaged Bertram. He answered with great confidence that especially due to the genital damage, the perpetrator was almost certainly a wronged husband.
Sykes was obviously so confident that he didn’t even call police or forensic witnesses.
By the end of this assault, I pretty much knew that, one way or another, I was fucked. My only hope now was the 1:100 philosophy.
My guy didn’t cross examine the prosecution witnesses that much. He did call three character witnesses though. They all testified what a great bloke, husband and father I was.
After closing prosecution and defence speeches, the judge summed up. He gave the jury a speech about circumstantial evidence. He instructed them on timing and conditions of verdicts and the usual stuff about the definition of ‘beyond reasonable doubt’, then asked them to retire. They were gone for only one hour and thirty four minutes.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
Today
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict, in which at least 10 of you agree?”
The foreman stood. “Yes, we have, your honour.”
“And in the case of the state vs Mr. David Brown, on the charge of assault causing grievous bodily harm, how do you find?”
Without a glance in my direction the foreman stated, “Guilty, Your Honour.”
My world crashed.
My faith in the legal system was crushed.
My delusions blew away.
You see, I knew something that only one other person in the world did. I knew I was innocent.
I’d also known for some time that there was only one other person with the means, motive and opportunity to commit this crime. And it wasn’t Bertram’s wife. She was in another state at the time. No opportunity.
So, when a female voice shouted, “It was me”, from behind me, I didn’t even have to look around. I just let my head sink into my hands and shook it.
Shit, Sandra. Why didn’t you listen to my request not to come here today? Why, oh why didn’t you let me take one for the team? The kids need a mother more than they need a father, for Christ’s sake. Even as I thought those things, I knew Sandra’s sense of responsibility and fairness would never allow me to do her time.
I glanced again at the shock on Bertram’s face. How does it feel to know you’ve been crippled by a girl, shithead? For a rapist, whose motivation is all about power, it must really hurt.
Involuntarily, I thought back to that Wednesday night. The night I hadn’t gone to poker and got three alibis. Maybe I should have told Sandra something different. I’d packed a six pack of thinking aids in a cooler and really gone somewhere quiet. At the end of my think, I’d come up with the outline of a plan. Ironically it was very close to Sandra’s. Enlist poker buddies as alibi, go to next town in disguise and buy a new pick handle. Lure shithead out of his house at night after removing bulb from porch light. That’s what I get for marrying someone of Irish descent, I suppose. If she’d thought before she acted then she wouldn’t have used my pick handle, then panicked and dumped it. In my plan I was going to burn it.
It is a fairly sad reflection on the legal system that they hadn’t even considered that Sandra was a victim as well and capable of seeking revenge.
Maybe we should go to couples counselling and improve our communications skills I thought. After all it would have been useful if we could have communicated our proposed acts of extreme violence with each other.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
D/Day + 62 Days
Well, I have to say the last two months have been bizarre. Sandra’s outburst in court threw everyone into a flat spin. I was kept in the cells for two days while the ponderous legal juggernaut made up its mind what to do. I was released at the same time as Sandra was arrested, so I could look after the kids. The same afternoon I bailed her out. Go figure that. I was too dangerous to walk the streets but apparently a girl who inflicted the same damage was not a menace.
I ditched my lawyer, the useless toerag, and found a decent one for her. He immediately suggested Sandra enrol in an anger management program. Said it would look good in court. Although not in remand, Sandra was still being punished harshly. She was worried sick and the thought of being incarcerated and away from her children and I was weighing heavily upon her.
Today was her day in court, this time with her in the lonely dock and me in the gallery. She pled guilty as everyone expected. What wasn’t expected was the judge deferring her sentencing to an unspecified date in the future. He rabbited on about something occurring concurrently that may have a bearing on the harshness of the sentence.
I’ve got a pretty good idea what that might be and it all stemmed from a visitor I’d received at work six weeks ago. My secretary ushered him into my office without the usual phone warning.
“Detective Carling, what a pleasant surprise.”
We chewed the fat for a while, he apologised for the conclusions he had jumped to and I forgave him. It was like two old friends reminiscing about a fishing trip. Finally he came to the point of his visit.
“Dave, can I rely on your discretion?”
“Of course you can. You have my word.”
“Well, since the publicity of your trial and your wife’s sexual assault, two other former employees of John Bertram have come forwards and alleged the same thing happened to them. One was too embarrassed to report it to the police at the time, but the other did. At the time she came in she was tested for GHB and DNA. Because GHB can be out of the system within 6-12 hours, she tested negative. We did manage to take a DNA sample from sperm found on her panties, but with not enough evidence to even arrest Bertram, we couldn’t get DNA from him. Like I said, both girls came in this week but didn’t want to take it any further. Apparently neither of their husbands know about it. They refuse to testify against him. He is quite influential in this town you know.”
“Why are you telling me all this Detective?”
“Well, sir, if you were to somehow be slipped the names of these two ladies and encourage them to testify, then we have an excellent case against Bertram.”
“At the risk of sounding mercenary, Detective, what’s in it for us?”
“A great deal, sir. If we can prove your wife was raped, by getting Bertram convicted, your wife will have an excellent case for mitigation.”
Detective Carling then went on to some other issues, which I won’t bore you with at the moment, then took his leave. At the door I sought to reassure him of my discretion.
“Thank you, Detective. Rest assured I will be discrete, I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with the chief.”
He smiled. “Who do you think sent me to see you?”
I returned to my desk, which now sported an extra, folded piece of paper.
Over the next two weeks Sandra befriended both ladies, then with my presence, we all met both the husbands. I helped coach them through the shock of their wives revelations. Been there, done that, got the orange jumpsuit to prove it. At the end of the exercise, two determined couples marched into the police station. John Bertram’s miserable life was about to go downhill again.
He was arrested again and his trial is in another month.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
D/Day plus 96 days
Well, fuck me. Sandra is free and clear. Shithead Bertram’s trial only lasted two days. He pled not guilty but three brave women coming in one after the other hammered three very large nails in his coffin. I know Sandra loved it. She smiled at him the whole day.
He was sentenced to eight years. Now that’s what scumbag rapists deserve. I can only hope he discovers the other side of rape continually for the next eight years. No, I shouldn’t say that. I don’t condone rape in any way, shape or form.
Sandra was a real mess after three months of waiting for the axe to fall. She broke down with relief when her sentence of three years was handed down, then immediately suspended. I guess the judge didn’t like rapists either.
I was thankful that she didn’t have to wait on the results of the third case linked to this whole affair. Before he left my office that fateful day, two and a half months ago Detective Carling let me into a couple more secrets. Seems he was a bit bemused after the second rape victim approached them. They couldn’t find the file on her original complaint. Furthermore when they asked around why the DNA from Sandra’s case hadn’t been compared to the state database, they finally discovered it was because the public prosecutor hadn’t signed the forms. That comparison would have exposed Bertram automatically.
When I asked who was responsible for signing the request forms, he simply said, “Sykes”. I asked him if he could expose these facts and he said that he was uncomfortable risking his career with such action. But pointed out that a complaint can easily be raised by a member of the public.
I asked what Sykes motivation could possibly be, and Detective Carling simply suggested I check who Bertram’s golf partner was at the country club on Sundays. The prosecutor’s grubby behaviour in court now made perfect sense.
A responsible, but not the slightest bit vindictive, yeah right, member of the public did request an official, internal investigation. He was disappointed at the lack of evidence and total lack of action. He was happier when the same complaint plus copies of the log book from the country club was made to the law society. They could do nothing except censure the prosecutor for failing to reveal his relationship to a person of interest to the court. Mr Sykes resigned, yeah right, his post and moved on. He never did get that job on the bench.
Epilogue
It was on his second day of prison life that John Bertram was introduced to his new cellmate. He was about 6’ 6” and was covered in biker club tattoos. His beard extended most of the way to his navel.
When they were alone, the biker spoke in a deep rumbling voice.
“Do you want to be the husband of this relationship or the wife?”
Thinking desperately quickly, Bertram stammered out, “er the husband.”
“Good”, said the biker. “Now come over here and suck your wife’s cock.”
Two thoughts raced across John Bertram’s mind. Sometimes answers just don’t matter and it was going to be a very, very long eight years.
The end
.
There you go, justice for all.
Sandra didn’t get punished for being raped, no rape victim deserves that. Especially not the humiliation often meted out to them by defense lawyers in court who are often out to assassinate their characters. Having said that, I acknowledge that in the past, frivolous and vindictive rape allegations have been made against innocent people. Sandra’s punishment for inadvertently putting herself in a position where she could be drugged was guilt at Dave’s incarceration on remand and fear of being imprisoned herself.
Dave was unjustly punished but was instrumental in getting two scumbags off the streets or out of court.
Bertram got what every rapist deserves, pain, prison and no balls.
Sykes got what every unethical lawyer deserves, a career in tatters and a bleak future.
Detective Carling and the chief got what all decent men crave. The gratitude and respect of a good man.
I apologise for ‘sexualising’ the rape in this story. When my story, ‘Death Sentence’ was pulled it was pointed out that this is an erotica site and the stories should have some sex in them.
One of my editors has pointed out that elements of this story are similar to the plot of ‘Presumed Innocent’. I am unsure whether I saw the movie or not but certainly can’t remember it.
In the US the accused can’t be forced to testify. This story is not set in the US. In my country the defendant can be called by the prosecution in circumstantial cases.
The author.
An old corporate joke.
Two wildlife photographers are filming lions relaxing when one of the lions sniffs the air then looks directly at them. The photographers look at each other nervously.
The lion stands up and takes a few paces towards them. One of the men, with his eye still at the camera, reaches down and starts tightening the laces of his shoes.
His mate says, “I wouldn’t worry about that. You’ll never outrun a lion in those.”
“I don’t have to outrun a lion. I just have to outrun you.”