Exhibit P
Following the arraignment, preliminary hearings, discoveries, two hung juries, and one hostile confrontation between the defendant and a state’s witness during a press conference, the moment the media had been crafting their circus around had finally arrived.
Every defense attorney within half a day’s drive of the Harrisburg Capitol wouldn’t have touched this case with a pole long enough to cross the Susquehanna. And the gaudy lawyer who did was warned he’d not only face certain defeat, course correcting his reputation as well as his ambitious hourly rate, but he’d have to commit the cardinal sin of criminal defense litigation.
He’d have to put his defendant on the stand.
An ordinary letter, one sheet, front and back, discovered on the deceased. Unfortunately, it was written in a code decipherable by exactly two people in the western world. Further complicating matters was that one was now murdered and the other was on trial for it.
The media congealed with every public piece of square footage clear out to 3rd Street. The jury was present to assess reasonable doubt. The psychiatrist under retainer for the prosecution was hired to observe the suspect reading the letter. The CIA, unwilling to even recognize much less confirm the suspect’s employer despite requesting courtroom credentials, monitored for national security. Johnny HotDog wanted to know where to keep his cart until they broke for lunch. And the Bible was present to ostensibly ensure the accused told the truth and nothing but, despite the exonerating temptation.
She entered the courtroom to a chorus of unrelenting strobes. Not only was it her first public appearance in weeks, but also the first in months sporting anything other than her FCI Schuylkill orange jumper. Gone were the bowl haircut and neck tattoos mocked by late night talk show hosts. In their place was the Keystone’s longest cashmere turtleneck along with ketamine kissed waves of auburn that could upstage any current shampoo commercial. Her prison issued boat shoes had been usurped by fluorescent high heels, their sounds drowned by the gasps, photo clicks and keyboard clacks that harmonized her walk down the courtroom aisle.
After a bit of murmuring with her counsel, the accused wobbled over to the witness stand. The Assistant District Attorney was the first to notice. The bailiff had to repeat himself multiple times while swearing her in. The ADA started rummaging through his briefcase, likely for the sworn affidavit from the previous trial containing the defendant’s translation of the letter. It had been deemed inadmissible after an intense deliberation in the judge’s quarters.
The defense attorney serenaded the jury with his preamble for the forthcoming benign letter and the innocuous ability to read it. Finally, Exhibit P was handed to the defendant. She clutched it with both hands, her eyes squinting at each attempted interval of distance. Her confusion mounted before nausea hijacked her testimony, unleashing a potent sliver of sympathy for the woman accused of widowing herself.
The suspect now known as the Cryptic Killer had been enjoying twenty-two years of marital bliss before the KGB bestowed her husband their highest honor from the Kremlin. The couple issued a public swift denial, its sincerity promptly shattered by a video circulating of him with a convicted Russian spy at the annual PA Farm Show. Within 36 hours, his body was discovered with the now infamous letter, assumed to be a suicide note until it was revealed the victim’s wife was on No-Fly lists due to repeated espionage accusations.
And now instead of grieving, the alleged sleeper agent was warding off the death penalty as well as the sickness now assaulting her. The bailiff shouted for everyone to back up, fully anticipating her breakfast to scatter on the courtroom floor. It was only when foam started appearing at the corners of her mouth that attendees stopped debating her splash zone. And once the convulsions began, the shouts for medical assistance were deafening.
The coroner pronounced her nineteen minutes after she swore on that bible. The smell of bile and breakfast burrito ruined Johnny HotDog’s take, but the media was served their feast. They interrogated everybody in the building while law enforcement manned the lone exit. The CIA’s courtroom credentials were never returned, and neither the authorities nor the media managed to interview them.