October 17, 2:12 p.m. Year of the Curtain+5
Los Angeles Courthouse
She was out there, Martin knew it. He looked down from the steps of the courthouse, looking at every plant, parked car, and piece of statuary, wondering where the she-beast that wouldn’t leave him alone was hiding this time. He tried to remember exactly where he’d parked, tried to calculate the number of steps it would take him to get there, tried to see if there was any imminent distraction that would divert her attention long enough for him to get away. When a bus rumbled past the courthouse, he tried to make a break for it, but he wasn’t even halfway down the steps when he heard the shrieking, grating voice that filled him with abject terror.
“Mr. Alcide! Mr. Alcide! Marissa Carson, Monster Muck! Have you got a few minutes?”
Martin bristled as he saw her approach – the little brunette woman’s eyes danced as she grew closer to him, and the smile that curled the corners of her mouth was unmistakable. He hated this bitch. A real reporter would be here for a quote. She was here to dump sand down his boxers. That’s why she wasn’t invited to the press conference he’d had with the real reporters an hour ago.
“I don’t have any time, Miss Carson. If you want to know what’s happening with the Dixon Moreno case you can find out by watching the news like any other private citizen.”
“I’m part of the press, Mr. Alcide.”
“No, Miss Carson. The Los Angeles Times is part of the press. The Washington Post is part of the press. Even USA Today, by the most generous of definitions, is part of the press. You are a troublemaker with a website, and not even a particularly credible one.”
“Aw, come on, Mr. Alcide. I’m averaging over 250,000 hits a day now. And a lot of those readers happen to be your constituents. Do you mean to tell me you can’t give them just a few minutes of your time?”
His nostrils flared and he shot her a look that could have melted chocolate. “Fine, Carson. One question.”
“Just one? Aw, shucks. I guess I’ll make do. So tell me, Marty, has the district attorney’s office looked further into Mr. Moreno’s claim that he wasn’t in control of his mind at the time of the alleged killings?”
His glare grew harsher. “No, Miss Carson, it has not. My office deals in things like facts and evidence, not outlandish stories intended to capitalize on what amounts to a case of mass hysteria.”
“Are you saying that my readers – your constituents, by the way – who believe the Curtain has been pulled back are hysterical? Can I quote you on that?”
He felt his teeth clamp down on his tongue. It was almost an involuntary response, but necessary to keep himself from saying something that would wind up on this bitch’s website. The Dixon Moreno case had been a pain in his ass for nearly five years now, and he couldn’t wait to see it finally put to bed, but the defense would most certainly pull out that “Curtain” nonsense when it began to present its argument tomorrow. Moreno had been captured and arrested on Oct. 16, almost exactly five years ago, and charged with seventeen counts of murder. Martin had thought, just for a moment, that he was going to get the crowning achievement of his career – convicting a serial killer.
Then the “Curtain” stupidity started.
Three months after his arrest, in the midst of stories of people getting eaten by puppets and giant monsters stepping on cars in Asia, Dixon Moreno’s attorney started to put forth the argument that his client had been possessed by demons at the time of the killings. He never even tried to deny Moreno’s involvement, but instead went straight to the argument that he was not in control of his actions at the time. It got worse, though, when he began to claim the “Opening of the Curtain” was caused by the demons and monsters escaping Moreno’s body. In other words, he was claiming that all of the nasty bullshit that had ordinary people hiding under the bed in fear for the past five years were caused by a bunch of boogeymen that slipped out of Dixon Moreno’s brain just after he was caught by the police with a bloody steak knife in his hand and a cold teenage girl at his feet. The defense had managed to waste five years trying to contact experts on paranormal activity, possession, the occult, and different religious groups. And the judge, not wanting to offend anybody by dismissing their beliefs, had allowed continuances for every stupid thing the defense whipped up. But they’d finally run out of ways to delay, and jury selection began about four months ago.
He had to choose his words carefully. He’d learned from experience that Marissa Carson was a master at pulling out only the quotes that backed up her predetermined viewpoint. “What I am saying, Miss Carson, is that the city of Los Angeles does not give any credibility to the theory that Dixon Moreno was possessed by demons when he committed the murders to which he has already confessed. And I am confidant that a jury of his peers will agree with the city when the time comes.”
Marissa pulled her phone out of her pocket and tapped the screen. She’d been recording the whole thing, of course. “Thank you, Mr. Alcide. Have a great day.”
She turned and started her all-too chipper march down the steps of the courthouse. Martin turned towards his car and started to contemplate ways to park closer to the building on the day the verdict was delivered.
