“All rise,” the bailiff, Mark Delson, ordered. “For the honorable John McLarti.” The district judge walked swiftly from his chambers behind the burgundy door and climbed up to his commanding chair overlooking the steely, almost unwelcoming, courtroom.

Behind the district judge, the seal of the United States was inscribed into the green marble wall while an American flag stood at attention in the adjacent corner. Curtained windows and cast-iron chandeliers cast the spacious courtroom in an indomitable light as a crowd looked on in quiet anticipation. Jasmine Carpentier waited alongside her client, Ernie Roscoe, and the prosecutor, Stephen Han, positioned himself with his hands resting at his side. At the same time, the jury stood with the weight of responsibility burdening their minds. The court reporters and sketch artists stationed in front of the burgundy bench and along the side of the room captured the scene.

Judge McLarti’s stare briefly wandered over the jury, the prosecutor, and the defense council before centering on the gathered crowd: family members of the murdered wept silently or scowled helplessly at Roscoe. The defendant’s family, at least those who bothered attending the trial at all, sat on the other side of the room with grim inclinations of the coming verdict. Toward the back, near the large copper doors leading out to the domed lobby, a row of reporters scribbled on their notepads while a Private Investigator looked on with his hands clasped in front of him.

“Mr. Han,” Judge McLarti addressed the prosecutor as he settled himself in his chair and rustled through some documents placed beside him on the desk. “Are you prepared for closing arguments?”

“The People are prepared, your honor,” Han nodded.

“Ms. Carpentier?” McLarti questioned, shifting his gaze toward the defense attorney.

“I am,” Carpentier confirmed. The judge wordlessly responded with a half-hearted wave of his hand toward a nearby podium. Han adjusted the sleeve of his jacket and collected a stapled stack of papers before situating himself where McLarti had gestured.

“Your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” the prosecutor began. “As you all well know by now, my name is Stephen Han, and I’m a United States Attorney from Fairfax, Virginia. When this trial began, and you were selected a little over three months ago to impartially judge whether Ernie Roscoe is guilty of the crimes he’s been accused of, I told you, ‘walls can talk.’

What did I mean by that, you may have asked yourself at the time? It’s very simple, really: no crime, whether here in the DMV, Baltimore, or Kerry, Virginia, can go unnoticed without a crime scene. Twenty-two people across six cities were found dead—viciously murdered. Twenty-two innocent souls forced to leave behind their grieving families—some of whom are sitting right here in this courtroom. Over the last three months, we’ve deliberated over the facts of these murders. The crime scenes paint a picture of a man who craves and glorifies violence. The victims of these heinous murders were strangled, hanged, and stabbed to death. These Twenty-two souls weren’t just killed; they were tortured! As we went over blood-splatter forensics and heard testimony of who’s D.N.A. was found at the crime scene and on the victims’ bodies themselves, you may have asked yourself, ‘who would have done something like this?’ His name is Ernie Roscoe!

Ernie Roscoe, or the ‘Kerry Killer’ if you prefer, murdered those people in cold blood. As we all well know, evidence suggests it was premeditated. We went through photographs of the victims and their homes taken by Mr. Roscoe himself as he stalked them. From security footage, we know Mr. Roscoe bought the rope and knives used to commit these murders from grocery stores you or I frequent every week. He stole gallons of industrial-grade bleach from his place of work in a vain attempt at trying to hide what he did! And most damning of all, he mailed his victims’ families ‘ransom notes’ cut from magazines and newspapers bragging about his crimes! He mailed custom crossword puzzles to police stations—each one serving as a hint of where he buried their bodies! Mr. Roscoe did this twenty-two times! Each one more cunning or deliberate than the last! And we know this because of Dr. Frosch’s testimony that a partial fingerprint was lifted off an envelope holding one of the twenty-two ransom notes.

Where does that leave us? The defense will argue that we haven’t proven ‘motive.’ But we’ve heard testimony from Dr. Stark, one of the leading physiatrists in the country, that the motives of a psychopath rarely rhyme. She told you, in her expert opinion, that Ernie Roscoe is devoid of human emotion—empathy, shame, and regret. His only source of happiness these past few years derived from these murders! And I suppose he would do it all over again if he had the chance!

Don’t believe me? Ask Ernie Roscoe’s brother Edward. He testified here last week that his brother had grown increasingly violent over the last six years before ultimately severing their relationship altogether when Ernie divorced his wife and left her and their children to fend for themselves. Ask Gregory Brostead, a Private Investigator, what evidence he uncovered in his search for the identity of the Kerry Killer in the years and months leading up to Mr. Roscoe’s arrest. He testified that there was no evidence to suggest any kind of psychosis-related insanity; instead, Mr. Brostead testified that he had recovered diary entries in the same penmanship of Ernie Roscoe that described feelings of nostalgia and a yearning to recreate some of his more ‘rememberable’ kills.

Even more chilling, Ernie Roscoe plainly threatened Mr. Brostead’s family and loved ones with his trademark ransom typography—including Ms. Carpentier herself, who balked at the mere mention of a—”

“Objection!” Carpentier interjected.

“Sustained,” McLarti agreed. “Stay on topic, Mr. Han. My rulings on Mr. Brostead’s testimony and Ms. Carpentier’s connection to it remain in effect.”

“Yes, your honor,” Han acknowledged, sipping from a cup of water before continuing. “We’ve all made mistakes. We’ve all sought to make up for them in one way, shape, or form to help better ourselves for the future. Ernie Roscoe has not!  He murdered twenty-two innocent people, guilty of nothing but going about their daily lives! And he did it with a sound mind with an eye toward his next victim. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Ernie Roscoe—the Kerry Killer—is guilty! The evidence, in every facet of the definition, is as clear as day! Follow your conscience and fulfill your civic oath to this court. Find Ernie Roscoe guilty and strip him of the opportunity to kill again! Thank you.”

Stephen Han stepped away from the podium and returned to the prosecutor’s table as the courtroom fell eerily quiet. Only the gentle scribbling sound of pens on paper could be heard in the back of the room as some in the crowd shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Ernie Roscoe whispered something into Jasmine Carpentier’s ear before she grabbed a small folder, stood from her chair, and occupied the space vacated by Han behind the podium. She cleared her throat as she flipped through a few pages of notes within her folder.

“Stephen Han is nothing if not an entertainer,” the defense attorney spoke with a careful inflection. “My client, Ernie Roscoe, is guilty of one thing and one thing alone—a failed marriage. In spite of what Mr. Han would like you to believe, Mr. Roscoe is a victim of circumstance and coincidence. The pictures of the victims and their homes Mr. Han used as evidence of stalking and premeditated murder? The Exif metadata was altered.

We don’t know who took those photos or even when! Mr. Roscoe certainly didn’t! He doesn’t enjoy photography. He prefers to keep to himself in his introverted ways, and as we noted throughout the trial, my client was on vacation in Florida when one of the victims was discovered! The prosecution could never prove without a shadow of a doubt that the rope and knives Mr. Roscoe purchased were the exact weapons used in the killings. It just so happened my client purchased the same brand names as those used by whoever committed these atrocities!

Mr. Han also told you about the security footage showing my client stealing ‘gallons’ of bleach from ‘Potomac Cleaning Services.’  It was convenient for Mr. Han to forget to remind you that said footage only showed us that a man with an average height and build stole the bleach from the company’s inventory; that is, in no way, an indictment on Mr. Roscoe!  We never saw the man’s face, nor anything identifiable linked to my client, for that matter!

The prosecution asserted that ‘ransom note’ mail, allegedly sent by Mr. Roscoe to the families of victims, and that ‘crossword puzzle clues’ were sent to the police as a part of some sick game! We do not dispute the authenticity of these letters and crossword puzzles. However, I would like to point out that the mail received by the families and the police did not have a return address or any other evidence linking my client to those letters! Mr. Han pointed out that there was a partial fingerprint on one of the envelopes. If we sent people to jail for a partial fingerprint, our prisons would be beyond overcrowded! In our system of Justice, we need certainty; Certainty that the people we believe have committed a crime absolutely committed a crime without a doubt in our minds! A partial fingerprint is inconclusive at best.

Those diary entries Mr. Han submitted into evidence and paraded around in his closing argument? They were taken out of context. My client has been suffering from night terrors stemming from a home burglary late last year. And what Mr. Han failed to mention about the threats I, Mr. Brostead, and his family received was that the police could not reliably trace them back to their place of origin. We still don’t know who sent them, and it would be nothing but unfair to pin the blame on Mr. Roscoe!

To answer Mr. Han’s question from earlier of ‘where does this leave us,’ this leaves us in an entirely predictable, but no less uncertain, quagmire. You cannot in good conscience find my client guilty because there are still too many question marks and too few checked boxes in this case!  I pray the police resume their investigation into these serial murders and catch the Kerry Killer before it’s too late. But sending someone to jail because you think he may have committed a crime is a miscarriage of Justice! Like I said earlier, you need certainty in this courtroom, and ‘certainty’ in this time and place is hard to come by.  I implore you to come back with a verdict of not guilty. Thank you for your time.” Carpentier returned back to her seat at the defense table while the judge shifted through some papers situated in front of him.

“Motion for a rebuttal, your honor?” Han requested.

“Granted,” McLarti nodded. “Go ahead, Mr. Han.” The prosecutor made his way to the podium once again. He leaned up against the side of the dais as he pondered his next words.

“Ms. Carpentier is right,” Han finally asserted. “In our professions and in our system of Justice, ‘certainty’ is everything. Dare I say that we have one of the few careers in the country that a single mistake on our part may be the difference between life and death. But what do we have here, in this particular case?

Ms. Carpentier did not refute Edward Roscoe’s testimony. Nor did she disclose who altered the Exif metadata on those pictures capturing the victims at their homes. Moreover, the security footage at ‘Potomac Cleaning Services’ captured a man wearing a red jacket—a similar one was found in Mr. Roscoe’s closet. It’s interesting to me that Ms. Carpentier and Mr. Roscoe declined to have his doctor testify on his night terrors in this court; they are hoping you will take their word at face value. The Kerry Killer adheres to a strict pattern: someone every two months has been murdered like clockwork. Do the math, and that’s forty-four months—about three and a half years the Kerry Killer has been active. And that’s only counting the twenty-two victims that we know of! This trial has been ongoing over the last three months, and there has not been a twenty-third murder. Why do you think that is? Maybe because Ernie Roscoe has been detained for that long?”

“Objection,” Carpentier asserted.

“Withdrawn,” Han countered before McLarti could reply. “I don’t believe in coincidences; neither does evidence—everything happens for a reason. The defense can argue context and circumstances to their heart’s content, but nothing can or will change the facts. Between stalking his victims, the partial fingerprints on his envelopes, the security footage at his job, and the diary entries recovered by Mr. Brostead, Mr. Roscoe had the means and opportunity to commit these heinous crimes.  It goes beyond being in the wrong place at the wrong time—it gives insight into the depravities of a serial killer!” Stephan Han walked confidently back to the prosecutor’s table as Judge McLarti rested his elbows on the surface in front of him and tapped his index finger against his other hand’s knuckle. He noted Carpentier’s stoic expression as she reclined slightly in her chair.

“If both the prosecution and the defense have finished closing arguments, it is the opinion of the court that we move to jury instructions,” McLarti decided. “The bailiff will then escort jury members to the back to begin deliberations.”

…

With the jury safely escorted out of the courtroom, Stephen Han rubbed his eyes before taking a swig of coffee from a paper cup on the prosecutor’s desk while Roscoe engaged in a whispered conversation with his lawyer. The room was steely and quiet as a cough from the unnerved and restless crowd echoed over the walls like an explosion. Han looked over at the defense table moments before Roscoe grimaced, shaking his head and staring up at the ceiling with his eyes closed in deep contemplation. With a wary side-eye toward her client, Carpentier checked her inbox on her phone—jotting down some chicken scratch on a piece of paper in the process.

“For an open and shut case, Ms. Carpentier,” Han commented, “You gave me a run for my money.” The defense attorney swiveled in her chair and looked over at the prosecutor.

“If that’s what you think this is, Brandon-Gale didn’t teach you a thing,” Carpentier rebuked, insulting Han’s alma mater. “And an atta boy? Really?”

“That’s not what I meant, I’m sorry,” Han apologized.  “I thought I had this in the bag—that’s all.”

“Oh, they teach you arrogance over there at U.B.G. too?” Carpentier curtly questioned.

“It’s not arrogance,” Han defended himself. “I’m just stating the facts—your client may be a serial killer.”

“Innocent until proven guilty,” snapped Carpentier.

“That’s why I said ‘may,’” Han countered. “Didn’t you used to be a prosecutor?”

“I was,” Carpentier confirmed, looking briefly down at her phone before composing another note to herself.

“What happened?” Han asked. Carpentier hesitated for a moment as she grimly and regretfully stared up at the seal of the United States above Judge McLarti’s chair.

“I got a job offer I couldn’t refuse,” she answered cagily. Han looked quizzically at the floor beside him.

“From Allen and Armstrong?” He asked.

“No,” Carpentier shook her head with a dead look in her eyes. “I’m on loan to them from Strange, Finchum, and Bromm.”

“Oh! You’re up there with the bigwigs,” Han quipped with a surprise nod.

“Yeah,” Carpentier agreed begrudgingly. “It’s been an experience.”

“You don’t sound particularly happy about it?” Han asserted with a raised eyebrow.

“It cost me nearly everything,” Carpentier grumbled internally before replying aloud: “Longer work hours that aren’t particularly ‘rewarding’ at the end of the day. They’re a killer.”

“Been there,” Han acknowledged before gesturing over toward Ernie Roscoe. “What are you doing representing him?”

“That’s none of your business,” Carpentier answered coyly. “Are you still the prosecuting attorney on the Wincroft trial?”

“Yes,” Han answered. “Why?”

“He’ll plead to Grand Larceny, Reckless Endangerment, and Grand Theft Auto if he can avoid jail time,” Carpentier explained.

“I thought Rhett Davies was representing him?” Han asked.

“He was,” Carpentier corrected. “Mr. Wincroft felt that Rhett was pulling his punches, so he hired me.” Han nodded.

“He stole a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry,” the prosecutor noted. “Never mind the damages he caused in the subsequent car chase.”

“He’s willing to do anything else. He’ll pay a fine, he’ll do community service, house arrest, or some combination of the three,” Carpentier urged. “He just wants to stay out of jail.”

“Grand Larceny, Reckless Endangerment, and Grand Theft Auto aren’t good enough, Jasmine,” Han asserted.

“It’s a first-time offense, and I have his promise he’s not going to do it again,” Carpentier argued quietly.

“Can he promise the court the same?” Han asked.

“Yes,” Carpentier replied confidently. “He’ll have it in writing and is willing to read it in front of the judge.” Han leaned back in his chair with a ponderous expression. “Stephen, his eight-year-old niece needed the money for cancer treatment. That’s why he went through with it,” the defense attorney continued.

“I know. But that doesn’t mean he has carte blanche to rob a shopping mall and run from the police for miles on 95,” Han snapped. “Three people were sent to the hospital, Jasmine. A fourth nearly died. He’s lucky no one else was hurt.”

“Stephen, I’m appealing to your better angels,” Carpentier reasoned. “You would be robbing him of what little time his niece has left.”

“Maybe he should have thought of that before he went through with it,” Han stated, a little harsher than he had intended. “I thought she was able to get the surgery anyway?”

“Someone anonymously donated the money, yes. But she’s not out of the woods by any stretch of the imagination.” Carpentier embellished.

“That’s not what I heard. I heard they managed to get the tumor out,” commented Han, calling her bluff. Carpentier pursed her lips and grimaced as she mentally cursed herself.

“He’ll plead to Vehicular Assault along with the other three,” she bargained with a masked expression.

“I want the names of his co-conspirators,” Han countered. “Then we’ll talk.” Carpentier nodded.

“I’ll bring it up to him later today,” she noted, jotting something down on the piece of paper in front of her.

“I’ll be awaiting your response,” Han observed. “…That was kind of ‘shrewd,’ using his niece like that.”

“I’m a lawyer—it comes with the territory,” Carpentier dismissed. “How’d you know about the surgery, anyway?” Han tapped the armrest of his chair.

“Just between you and me? I know who donated the money,” the prosecutor replied rhetorically. Realization swept over Carpentier’s face.

“…It was you!?” She asked, bewildered. Han only responded with a modest smile as Bailiff Delson re-entered the room with a slip of paper in his hand.

Photo by Nellie Adamyan on Unsplash