FICTION: THE WITNESS

The smell of burning leaves. Autumn would never be the same without it. It is the season of football, hayrides, homecoming and Halloween. And the month of October, with all its colored splendor, is about to cut its stay far too short.

It is difficult to think for long of such pleasant things on this cold, rainy late October eve as I sit at my desk. For this Autumn I am engaged in the trial of my career. I am defending Chester Jordan in the trial of his life. Chester has been charged with the murder of his lover's husband. Shotgun blast to the face. No witnesses. Chester's gun. Insurance money. Open and shut case.

Of course, as a seasoned criminal defense lawyer, I am convinced that airtight prosecutions are almost nonexistent. That is, short of a confessed murder. Confessions are just about impossible to get around. Why would anyone ever admit to something they didn't do?

Thank goodness I don't have that problem in this case. Chester hasn't uttered a word since his arrest. Not to the police, not to me, not to anyone. You would almost think he was in shock. At least I am not wrestling with whether to put him on the stand at his trial. Chester ain't talkie. Which makes defending him an overwhelming task.

As for his guilt, I have learned you can't judge a book by its cover and that a coldblooded killer often looks like the person next door. Chester sure doesn't look like he would blast someone into eternity for the sake of love, lust or money. That's what makes defending him so compelling. I believe he didn't do it.

Problem is, all the evidence is quite damning. Chester's shotgun is clearly the murder weapon. The victim's blood was identified on Chester's shoes and pants. Chester was seen leaving the victim's office shortly after the gunshot was reported. Chester was also having an affair with the deceased's wife, and she was destined to receive a half million dollars upon her husband's death. As open and shut as I have ever seen.

That is what I pondered that Halloween night as the rain fell and the wind howled outside my office window. With the trial only two days off, I continued to review police reports and evidence files, hoping for a crack. As midnight approached, I seemingly dozed off. I was startled and looked up from my desk to see a shadowy figure standing in my doorway.

"Are you Roger Earl?" the shadow asked.

"Yes, and who are you?" I replied as I walked over to turn up the heat.

"I am here to help you with the Chester Jordan case," he answered.

"Please sit down," I said, gesturing toward one of the leather-covered client chairs facing my desk. As he sat, I noted the chair had lost its creak. Maybe that good-for-nothing maintenance man had finally gotten around to fixing it.

"Exactly how can you help me with that case?" I asked

"Oh, I was there," he said matter of factly.

"That can't be, there were no witness. At least none that are talking," I added.

"Not only was I there, I had a front-row seat," he retorted.

Well, to say I was curious, not just by what I heard but by what I saw, would be anyone's understatement. Even in the light of my desk lamp, it was nearly impossible to make out his facial features. Nevertheless, I grabbed a legal pad and started to interview this self-proclaimed witness. "Where were you? What did you see? How did it happen?"

"Slow down," he said, "I don't plan on testifying."

"What! You have to testify, my client's life is on the line." After regaining my lawyer's composure, I asked, "Why not?"

"Let's just say I have other places to be," he explained. "Do you want my help or

"Well, of course I do, but how do you plan on helping Chester if you won't testify?" I asked.

"Who said I was here to help Chester?" he asked.

At this point I noticed that it had gotten colder in the room. I got up and quickly started a fire in the fireplace. I then returned to my high back chair and said, " Okay, tell me what you know."

"From what I understand, old Chester's not talking," he said.

"That's right. Hasn't said a word since his arrest. Figure he's trying to cover himself by keeping quiet," I responded.

"Maybe he is covering for someone else," he mused.

"Who?" I asked, "can't be his lover, she has a perfect alibi."

"You're right," he echoed, " sure can't be her, she was out of state at the time." "The way I got it figured, it was the victim who done himself in."

"Why is that?" I asked.

"Well, he truly loved his wife and surely hated Chester for what he had done to his marriage. So, he got Chester's shotgun, called Chester over to his office, and when Chester walked in, he turned the shotgun on himself. The way he planned it, it would look like Chester had killed him so that he could have exclusive possession of his soon to-be wealthy widow. He would be put out of his heart-broken misery. Chester, whom he hated, would get the electric chair, and his wife, whom he still loved despite her betrayal, would lead a wealthy but loveless life. A perfect plan, wouldn't you say?"

"Not bad," I sighed, "but how is all that going to do Chester any good if you won't testify?"

"If you go to the crime scene, you will find a note from the deceased confessing his plan," he explained.

"How can that be," I exclaimed, "the police have been over the scene with a fine-toothed comb."

"Just do as I say, the letter is their," he mumbled.

He then stood up to leave.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"It is nearly midnight," he answered, "and I have somewhere to be."

"But I didn't even get your..

"Don't worry about my name," he interrupted. "Although I don't have any use for it anymore."

I wanted to ask him how he knew so much about the deceased's motives, but he had already turned to go. As he reached the door, he looked back and said, "Do your best for Chester, he probably shouldn't be judged harshly for what he did."

In that instant he was gone. Yes, I will do my best I thought as I opened a window to cool off the oppressively warm office.