Kramer Johnson III endured the long weekend., but by Monday morning he was tired and haggard. The raid by the Georgia Bureau of Inverstigation of his hotel room and his house drained him of his bravado and left him with two choices: He could ask for time to regain is composure, (not to mention the boxes of evidence that had gone missing) or he could put on a face of false confidence and plow ahead.
He went with the latter.
The day began with a meeting in the judge's chambers as both the prosecution and the defense discussed the loss of all the discovery evidence. The defense, led by charismatic attorney Turlington Stone III, was more than ready for trial, especially with no physical evidence.
The tired and disheveled assistant DA was not ready for such a decision, but after discussing it for two days with his boss, he convinced the county to go to trial.
"I still have all my notes and have a record of all the paper work," he said. "It was always going to come down to his word against the women, and we really can't lose."
So with that over-confidence and under-prepared case file, the trial of the short century got off to a wild start.
TV cameras rolled, showing the fiery defense lawyer taunting those charging his client with multiple rapes and two murders in the opening statement.
"The crux of this trial is that they have no evidence, no proof of anything other than word of mouth," Stone said. "The dead can't testify. There are no witnesses, and you'll hear about a bungling of ALL the paperwork for this trial disappearing over the weekend."
"OBJECTION!"
"Sustained, said the judge. "That has no relevence at this point. The jury will disregard."
Stone took a deep breath and faced the jury.
"We're the ones with all the proof," he said. "My client, as you will hear from the women themselves, is innocent."
The murmuring in the courtroom forced the judge to call order several times before she called counsel to the bench.
"What the fuck was that. Stone?" she whispered, covering her microphone. "The women will say what?"
"Your honor, the prosecution refused to look at what we have. Their case is based entirely on whatever was in those lost boxes. We have taped interviews we plan to introduce. And yes, we will bring the women to the stand."
She huffed and began leafing through the papers before her. Turning to asst. DA Johnson, she hissed.
"My God, Kramer. You didn't want to see this?"
Then turning to defense lawyer Stone.
"These women have been through hell! You'd actually make them recount under oath, on television... God man. You turn this into some kind of prurient sex show and I'll have your license!"
Judge Melissa Jo Carter was a tough cookie. Educated at Duke where she left with a law degree, she clerked for Supreme Court Justice Stephen Breyer before a blur of law firms and lower court appointments landed her in a position to take over for a retiring district judge at the age of 29. She eventually ran for Superior Court judge and won in a landslide, her making the youngest judge to ever try federal cases in the state of Georgia.
Still only 36, she wielded more power than any other judge in the state. Judge Carter was a no-nonsense jurist who demanded attention and decorum in her courtroom. That was made easier by the fact that she was pretty.
Privately, those in crime and justice considered to be "hot." No one dared say that in her presence.
She was married but dedicated to her career. She was rarely seen in public, outside of the very private Moccosin Pond Golf & Country Club. But one look at her on the bench and you knew you were looking at a powerful, yet sexy woman whose blonde hair fell over her black robe, which hid the body of a college girl.
She looked good on TV. She looked incredible up close. When her gavel hit the block however, it echoed through the courtroom and everyone in her presence froze like marble statues.
The television cameras mostly stayed on her. Thousands of people watched in rapt attention. They included people at home or at work, people in television stores, in college dorms and student centers, retirement homes, barber shops and beauty parlors and even beach houses where vacationing families stayed out of the sun to watch Judge Carter and the scandalous trial she presided over.
Those included one Tessa Johnson of Tybee Island, Ga., along with two people inside a house on Moccasin Pond, where the new acquaintances were not paying attention at all.
"FUCK ME HARDER!"
Stacey Bradshaw, the presumed widow of a missing man, was on all fours, sweating like a pig, her tongue wagging as a man dove his long cock all the way into her ass.
"Gaaaahhdd yes, J.D.! Fuck me like a FUCKING ANIMAL!"
The television was on as J.D. "Big Dick" Morrison impaled his sexy little pig slut, laughing and grunting as the trial was getting off to a rocky start. A couple of feet away, nine boxes were stacked against a wall, all marked CONFIDENTIAL.
Five hours away, Tessa sat on her parent's old couch, sipping coffee and watching her laptop screen where a dark figure loomed over a screaming woman, fucking her violently as she begged for more.
The video had come in an anonymous email. It was grainy and filmed in night vision, so the couple's eyes shone green. But one thing was obvious. The man's cock was as long as a baseball bat, and Tessa knew exactly where she'd seen it.
She was on her knees as she watched, one hand slapping her wet pussy over and over, harder and harder, making a mess under her as cum ran down her legs.
In her other hand was a business card.
--------------------------------------
J.D. and Stacey had become a thing after the strange disappearance of her lawyer husband. Not that she cared. The married couple had grown apart in recent months, and their sex life had disappeared long before he did.
The night of the assault traumatized the young trophy wife, but she couldn't shake the feeling that it was the most incredible sex she could ever imagine. Though she was in another world that night, the result of too much vokda and maybe an Ambien or two, she had awakened the next morning with cum spilling out of her pussy and ass, a soreness that somehow felt good in a bad sort of way and the sense of something terrible in the air.
And she loved it. Craved it. The terrible air had an aroma. Cum and sweat and something she couldn't quite identify. All she knew was she was on fire. She wanted to be fucked by a someone or something depraved.
The open back door was an invitation for trouble, and she couldn't wait for it.
Stacey had walked in a trance most of the week. She didn't eat. She slept when the Ambien kicked in and woke up feeling tired, used and primal. She hadn't showered. Her pussy smelled like it had been fucked by a tribe of Apaches. By Saturday morning, she had slipped into a state of crazed reality.
That was when she started drinking vodka again. That was when she found the cocaine she'd hidden in her nightstand. That was when it hit her that her husband was gone.
And it was when she heard a car pull up in the driveway.
Startled, she ran to the window instead of the unlocked door. A man was hauling box after box of something and dropping them hard onto her back deck. One box after another until he closed the doors and the rear hatch of his car.
And then there he was.
Standing well over six feet and chiseled from granite, he stood looking into Stacey's eyes, no expression,, just a cold, dead stare. He was sweating profusely, wearing no shirt. He wore a pair of jeans that seemed to be alive, his heavy breathing and heartbeat seemed to be a part of his body.
Stacey felt light-headed then fainted onto her hardwood kitchen floor.
Morrison had had a busy weekend, entering the federal building through the garage on Friday night, slipping past guards who were changing shifts, then winding through the familiar halls until he found a storage room on the third floor.
He stayed up all night, rummaging through old boxes of old trial notes from court reporters, papers from judges dating back 25 years and old personal papers from everyone from criminals and politicians to present-day judges.
One box caught his attention. It was stamped CONFIDENTIAL and was under the heading Superior Court candidate Miles Danforth.
"Hmmmm," Morrison said to himself. "What have we here?"
There were two reasons it piqued his interest. One, it was the lower-court judge who was rumored to have dated Melissa Jo Carter at Duke, and two, it was the man Morrison had killed two years earlier. Again, the body was never found. Mrs. Miles Danforth, of Morrison Pond, never said a word. He was reported missing, and after a month or so, the judge was officially declared a missing person and the trail went deaad.
Morrison and Widow Danforth still ran into each other from time to time. She had his card.
J.D. spent all of Friday night and early Saturday morning going through boxes, periodically going back to look through the Danforth box that had some very interesting items in it. But he was there for something else and eventually, he located a pile of boxes wrapped in red tape with a white paper in a bag marked "Trail of Evidence. Do Not Open."
"Holy fucking shit," he whispered to no one.
He hoped he would find something, anything that would give him some sort of clue as to what the trail of evidence might contain. Instead, the found the entire mother lode.
An hour before sunrise, he drove out of the courthouse garage in a UPS truck wearing a brown company suit. He handed a slip of paper to the federal security guard, who stamped it and nodded as he exited one of the best-protected buildings in the United States.
J.D. checked his cellphone and saw two missed calls, both from Moccasin Pond. The voicemail from the first was short and sweet.
"JD honey, I'll be out of town for a few days, but don't hesitate to call or stop by the house if you need anything. I need something from you. I need some panties. You've torn all mine up. Kidding. I need that fucking foot and a half cow prod up my cunt ASAP. Call you when I get back. Try to behave."
The second was labled POSSIBLE SPAM. It consisted of someone breathing heavily, nervously, But it ended with no one saying a word. Morrison smiled as he headed to his junkyard behind his "business."
Roy Agnew's Body Shop and Wrecker Service
