The prosecutor
paced the courtroom. He gave the judge a
quick nod. He then looked at the jury,
sizing them up. Finally, he looked at
me, sitting on the witness stand.
“Miss Rika, you
are on trial for the murder of your former employer, Johnston Ryan,” the
prosecutor began. “Would you please tell
the jury your position at the Ryan Orchard?”
“I was the
senior orchard keeper,” I nervously answered.
“How did you
obtain that position?”
“My father had
been the orchard keeper for many years before me. He started work there as a young boy. He lived and breathed for that orchard.”
Talking about
daddy seemed to calm my nerves a little.
“Could you
please tell the jury what happened to your father?”
Suddenly,
talking about daddy wasn't comforting anymore, “He died.”
“Please tell
the jury where he died.”
“Objection!” My
lawyer demanded as he stood up.
“Relevance, you Honor?”
The prosecutor
was quick to defend his question. “Your
Honor, Miss Rika’s defense depends on the history of her father. It’s only fair that I am given the
opportunity to contradict it.”
“I’ll allow
it,” the judge declared.
“Where did your
father die?” the prosecutor asked again.
“In prison.”
“And why was
your father in prison?”
I was reluctant
to answer, but the prosecutor was right.
My defense depended on it. “Fifteen
years ago, he murdered John Ryan.”
The prosecutor’s
eyes widened. He pretended that he was
surprised, even though he already knew.
It was insulting to me.
“John
Ryan? The father of the man that you are
accused of killing? The original owner
of the same orchard? Strange
coincidence, don’t you think?” the prosecutor mocked.
“Some may think
so.”
“Do you know
why your father killed John Ryan?”
“Yes.”
“Please
elaborate.”
I took a deep
breath, and began my story. “My father
use to sweat blood for that orchard. He
did his best to produce the yields that were adequate to Mr. Ryan. Daddy could make the trees produce the
sweetest apples. And the roses; the
colors were brighter than anyone had ever seen.
It was like he could control the plants, and make them produce what he
needed each and every week.”
“Control them?”
the prosecutor interrupted. “What like
mind control?”
I shrugged off
the prosecutor’s remark, hoping that the jury would agree he was being overly
sarcastic. “Daddy use to say that he had
pricked his fingers on the thorns of bushes and plants so much, that the plants
were literally feeding off his blood that spilled on the ground.”
“A little
grotesque, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” I
said. “Daddy had the passion for growing
those plants. I’ve always thought that
passion runs through your blood. He
claimed it was poetic justice.”
“Did your
father also have a passion for killing?”
My lawyer stood
up again, “Who’s on trial here, Your Honor, Miss Rika or her father?”
“Withdrawn,” the
prosecutor replied. “Miss Rika, please
continue.”
I looked over
to the jury, they appeared anxious to hear my story. “One day, John Ryan, and my father had an
argument about the yields. John
threatened to burn the orchard to the ground.
My father wasn't about to allow that, and so he killed John.”
“And you
condone his actions?” the lawyer asked me.
“I don’t
condone them, but I also don’t believe in destroying a persons dream,” I explained. “My father died in prison for what he
did. And I fulfilled his last request;
to have his ashes spread across the orchard.”
“I see. Your father finally became one with the
orchard,” the prosecutor mocked me.
The prosecutor smiled
at the jury, trying to turn them all against me. He'd have loved it if they laughed at
me. “We talked about the similarities of
this case and your fathers. You’re aware
of one more similarity, are you not?”
“The police
chief informed me, yes.”
“Would you mind
sharing that information with the jury?”
I swallowed, “My
father killed John Ryan by stabbing him the stomach with a sharp tree
branch. He then hung Mr. Ryan from a
vine in the same tree. It appeared as if
the tree had killed him. Mr. Johnston
Ryan was killed the exact same way.”
“That’s
interesting. In fact, that’s more than
interesting. To the naked eye, one could
easily suspect that the same killer murdered both victims. But that can't be, the original killer is
already dead.” The prosecutor paced the
room, rubbing the side of his head. “But,
your defense is that your father, reincarnated as a tree, killed Mr. Ryan.”
“That’s
correct.”
I heard the
jury gasp at my claim. The judge looked
at me and rolled his eyes. At that point
I was sure that I’d be asked for the fourth time to take a mental evaluation,
but instead the court continued.
“Why would your
father want to come back from the dead and kill Mr. Johnston Ryan?” the
prosecutor asked.
“Because Mr.
Ryan had just made a deal to sell the orchard to a shopping mall. They were going to bulldoze the orchard to
the ground, and turn it into a parking lot.
I’m sure that daddy wouldn’t approve of that,” I said.
“Yes, I’m sure
he wouldn’t,” the prosecutor mocked again.
“But with that sale, Mr. Ryan informed you that you would no longer have
a working position at the orchard?”
“That’s
correct.”
“And that
angered you?”
“Not at
all. I own a successful flower shop
downtown. I only worked the orchard for
Mr. Ryan because he requested that he have the same blood working it as his
father did,” I responded.
“Even with the
fact that your father had killed his?”
“Both Mr. Ryan
and I agreed that our father’s did not share the same feelings on
everything. And we also agreed that
their feud should not affect our working relationship,” I explained. “A man like that is not come by very
often. Why would I kill someone like
that?”
There was
another sigh from the jury. I actually
felt like I was about to win them over.
“You know Miss
Rika, you’ve made mention of blood, and blood lines several times during this
questioning. It makes you think maybe
you’re right; maybe it is something in your bloodline. And maybe it’s murderous tendencies.” the
prosecutor stated. “No more questions.”
I was excused
from the stand, and shortly the prosecution rested its case. My lawyer closed by stating the obvious; the
only reason that I was accused of any murder was because of my family history,
and a very slim motive. There was not
evidence of my involvement, nor could anyone place me at the crime scene. The prosecutor wanted to bring back to life a
fifteen year old murder, for nostalgias sake.
The prosecutor was up for election later that year, and he wanted a big
win; something that made the papers.
The prosecutor
made his closing arguments with more of the same. No one appeared impressed.
The jury
deliberated for only an hour, and then came back with a “not guilty”
verdict. Nothing could describe my joy
as I walked out of the courthouse that day.
I expected an apology from the prosecutor, but he wouldn’t even look at
me.
That next week,
I visited the orchard. Standing in front
of the locked gates, I watched as a bulldozer was unloaded from a trailer. The orchard was about to be turned into a parking
lot. I wanted to be there for it, and I
wasn’t the only one. The prosecutor
approached me from out of no where.
“You know that
the jury didn’t believe your story,” he said to me.
“They didn’t
believe yours either.”
“What’re you
doing here?”
“I just wanted
to see the orchard one last time,” I explained.
“I practically grew up in there.”
“Saying goodbye
to the old man, huh?” the prosecutor continued to mock me even then.
I smirked at
him, “I didn’t kill Mr. Ryan. I still
hold firm to my story.”
“Yeah. Whatever.”
Soon, the bulldozer’s
engine was started. The operator rolled
it to the other side of the gates where we were standing. He lowered the blade, and began to dig into
the soil.
As the blade of
the dozer pierced into the trunk of the first tree, the snapping of the branches
made an eerie sound. The prosecutor
looked around in a confused way. I could
tell that he agreed; the snapping of the branches sounded like the shriek of a
man in pain. The prosecutor looked at me
as if I had set something up, but clearly I hadn’t.
Suddenly, the
operator of the dozer stopped the engine.
“What on earth?” He climbed of
the dozer.
The prosecutor
and I looked through the bars of the gate, trying to see what the problem
was. A dark red liquid was dripping from
inside the trunk of the busted tree. The
dozer operator appeared hesitant to get too close.
“What is
that? Blood?” the prosecutor asked.
I turned and
looked at him, “That’s daddy.”
END
By: Michael Heitkemper
