Chapter 1: The Trial Part 1: The Reason Why We're Here

There is a gift in each of us, a gift that reflects the superfluidity of our talents; a soulful expression through one or more three supreme forms: mentally, physically, or spiritually. Some of us have developed a natural virtuosity, musicianship of exceptional quality, and for others the gift of philanthropy; a heart made of gold, extended to heal the sick and destitute and improve the humanitarian arts. There are those that are blessed with a sense of compassion, those that are great philosophers. We have our anthropologists, marine biologists, paleontologists, psychologists, astrologists and psychiatrists, doctors, painters, architects, athletes and ambassadors, historians, and not to mention our writers.

Not least of all our writers, the torchbearers of our imagination, so vividly depicting that which is not seen or heard, or even felt in such a manner that it becomes even more believable than reality. It transcends all thought and cognizance, transformed into something greater than ourselves. It is through the history of the written word that much of our knowledge has been passed down from generation to generation. It can be used for the purpose of entertainment, to encite free thought, to interact and discuss. It can even be used to document something historical, or even insignificant, however inclined the writer is swayed to write.

I have been told I possess this gift; whether or not this is true, my readers will decide. It is with purpose however, that I have chosen to document something historical, and yet insignificant among the greater scheme of things. There are many who will find my story uninteresting, and then there are those who will be wholly captivated. I hope above hope that you are among the latter. But I am aware that I must first earn your trust and interest, so let us begin.

Dim the lights, turn off your radio, disjoin yourself from all the distractions around you. Focus on your breathing, slowly and purposely, reminding yourself with each breath that you are alive...a living sentient intelligent being. Breathe deep into the depths of your belly and slowly release. Repeat, in slowly through your nose and then steadily exhale through your mouth. Once more, again. Now relax and sink comfortably into a restful place.

Continue your breathing excercises along with me as I inform you of my surroundings. Inhale slowly, now hold it, and then release - as the large round clock on the wall, much like one you would find in a library or a courtoom exactly like the one I'm sitting in, ticks slowly away second by second, as the minute hand passes the hour hand momemtarily paused on one o'clock and stops half past the number three. It is precisely one seventeen in the afernoon, on a Friday no less; Friday the twenty second of November to be exact. The year is unimportant for now, but we will get to that eventually. For now, we will continue to breathe, in slowly through the nose, and out through the mouth. Now return to your normal breathing habits as I introduce those that are seated around the courtroom. Next to me is my lawyer. His name is Barnaby Goolsby. Many of his closest friends call him Barney, but to me, he is simply Mr. Goolsby. Next to him, sits the dull disposition of his assistant Mr. Bland. I cannot recall his first name, but his personality is quite characteristic of his last. Adjacent to us is the prosecutor's table where the District Attorney Phineas Feinstein and his associates present their case to the befuddled looking gentleman at the foremost northeastern corner of the courtroom, Judge Milton J. Doogood. He is a prejudiced and spiteful old man. Fortunately for me, my fate lies within the eleven and a half pairs of hands that belong to my fellow peers, the jury; one of them, an elderly gentleman lost his left hand in the war. In its place is left a hook.

I will refrain from describing each of them in detail, for it is the unity of their responsibilities to the court that is of the greatest importance. They will decide my fate, whether ill or fortunate, and so I must place complete faith in their ability to do right by me, and so I sit upright and smile with due diligence and hopeful expectations.

Hopefully by now, you are relaxed and breathing normally. It is the third day of the trial. The courtroom is packed with those I've already mentioned, the victim's family, members of the press, and various other inquisitive people that have nothing to do with the case being heard, but who had to see the crazy man on trial with their own eyes, and hear what the crazy man might say next with their own ears.

I won't bore you with strenuous details or opening arguments. The nature of my alleged crime will of course be announced, but there's no need to reveal that which will only be repeated later.

That being said, my attorney Mr. Goolsby begins his examinations for the day. A young lady sits serenely on the witness stand. She is both calm and beautiful, her hair in shining strands of red stretched gently by gravity, barely daring to touch her shoulders. Her eyes are like emeralds, captivating and precious, and her skin as pale and perfect as an angel's chorus. I have seen this girl before, countless times. She is a librarian, the guardian of the solace I found in reading - the lone observer of my soul during countless cold nights.

Having already been sworn in, her perfect posture, evidence of her upbringing, suprlants her attention to the court as her eyes are locked on me with an incredulous stare, and then suddenly, she jolts to attention at the sound of Goolsby's gravelly voice.

"Please state your name for the court," he countered.

"Gabriella O'Malley."

"And your occupation, Ms. O'Malley."

"I'm a librarian, at the Benton local branch off third street."

"Thank you, Ms. O'Malley." Goolsby bent over and dipped both hands into a large box sitting on the floor. "Have you any idea what I have here?" He asked the young librarian with a deep elongated southern drawl, while pulling notebook after notebook from a large box and stacking them neatly on the table next to the evidence that had accumulated thus far. "There are quite a few of them, Ms. O'Malley," he huffed with exhaustion. Goolsby was a heavy man; even the menialest of tasks overexerted him at times.

"I do recognize them," Ms. O'Malley rejoined with a delicate smile, as if the very nature of these notebooks caused her fond memories.

Goolsby turned to the jury briefly. "Ladies and gentleman, the most recent of these notebooks is nineteen years old, written by the hand of the defendant's own mother. Ms. O'Malley couldn't have been but just a whipper snapper then, I suppose." He paused to soak up all the laughter that errupted in the courtroom. The judge's gavel hammered the audience to submissive quietness, as Judge Doogood glared at Goolsby caveatly and beckoned him to continue in a manner more befitting to a court of law. "My apologies your Honor," quoth Mr. Goolsby. "I will continue if you please, in a more agreeable manner." He then turned to the young librarian on the stand and winked. "Gabriella," he paused. "May I call you Gabriella?" The young girl nodded affirmately as her loosely spiraled curls danced like flames. "Thank you," he continued. "Gabriella, the reason I asked you such an odd question, is because these notebooks were pulled from the very library in which you work. Now, you informed the court that you have knowledge of these notebooks, which are of essential importance to the defense of my client, Mr. Marcoux. So, if you would please humor me for the moment and repeat your answer. Have you ever seen these notebooks, Gabriella?"

"Yes I have," she spoke gracefully.

"Yes, very good then." Barnaby Goolsby paused to consider his next course of action. "And if you would, Gabriella, please inform the jury precisely what these notebooks are and how they came to be in the posession of your library."

"They were kept at the request of Saint Augustine's orphanage after Mrs. Marcoux's...incident." The last word lingered on the tip of her tongue as a precautionary measure.

"I believe we are all aware of the unfortunate incident that befell my client's mother, but for the sake of the jury I will revisit the details of this event at a more convenient time. For now, could you please inform the court what these notebooks are, Gabriella?"

"They were her personal journals."

"Precisely, thank you Gabriella, and have you read these journals personally?"

The young librarian blushed and bowed her head. "Yes," she uttered quietly in shame; perhaps embarrased to confess she had read my mother's journals in my presence.

"No need to be ashamed, my dear girl, it's quite alright. Mr. Marcoux is well aware of your involvement with the journals and takes no offense at your having read them." Gabriella's shoulders sank and her hands began to shake. She refused to raise her head again, even at Goolsby's confession that I was not insulted with her actions. She sobbed quietly, desperately trying to control her emotions. I couldn't hate her for it. In fact, I actually felt pity for young Gabriella. I had always felt very deeply for her, but that is a matter of the heart I am not yet ready to construe.

Mr. Goolsby leaned over and whispered something into her ear. Feinstein stood to object, but Doogood motioned him to remain seated. No one heard what was said to her, but she shook her head in agreement, before Mr.Goolsby turned to address the jury.

"Ms. O'Malley needs a moment to compose herself. Please bear with me, ladies and gentleman," said Goolsby. "You'll have to forgive my unorothodox mannerisms. I tend to be scatteredbrained at times. I began my practice in Mississippi, and believe me it's an entirely different world down south." Goolsby chuckled awkwardly in further attempts to stall while the young librarian closed her eyes and began to breathe deeply; he was the only one. "But I digress, again forgive me," he continued. "These notebooks that I have placed before the court, the ones taken from the Benton Library, are the personal journals as Ms. O'Malley has admitted, written and collected over many years by one Vedette Marcoux, the defendant's mother. There are twenty two notebooks here, filled front and back. As you can possibly guess, the defendant's mother was a very busy lady. But why am I telling you all this? Vedette Marcoux is not on trial here, her son is.

Ladies and gentelman of the jury, if you recall during my opening argument, I stated that I intend to enlighten the true character of my client; that I intend to provide such detail as to explain how he would react to certain circumstances, whether it be out of fear or anxiety, or cool and calculated. There is a very tangible difference.

The purpose of this evidence is to provide a glimpse into the kind of man my client is, and who he used to be long ago. Unfortunately, his poor mother is no longer with us, and down to the last of his family has abandoned him. As you will learn from these journals, he was locked in a basement for fourteen years. He finished his young life as an orphan. Later on, he lived on the streets as one of our homeless, and yet, he still managed to educate himself. You see, my client, Mr. Marcoux is one of the brightest young men you will ever have the honor to meet.

But of course, I understand that being an educated man doesn't prove one's innocense. What it does prove, is that my client has suffered to live a very unfortunate life with a high degree of self respect. He sits before you today, with no one to bear witness on his behalf. He is quite alone. So I ask you to please consider what I'm about to ask. Are you prepared to weigh carefully the very nature of the crime committed, whether or not this murder was carried out maliciously or quite by accident? Ladies and gentleman, this trial is far from over. The state has yet to present the bulk of its evidence against this man, but please use your God given reason as the evidence is placed before you, and consider how relevent is it? Everything about this case is circumstantial.

I won't mislead you, ladies and gentleman. I am about to be candidly honest. Mr. Marcoux was present at the time of the incident, as was witnessed by the arresting officer, Corporal Davidson. The prosecutor will present other witnesses as well, witnesses that claim to have seen Mr. Marcoux, or someone that looks like him, commit this murder.

What you must determine unamimously, ladies and gentleman, is whether the count of second degree murder, a murder that was not premeditated, but carried out with intent to kill Mr. Paulson, applies to this case. I believe you will be convinced by the closing of this trial, that what befell Mr. Paulson was not intended. Perhaps a lesser degree of third degree murder would be more appropriate in such a case, but my client has not been charged with unintentional homicide; he has been charged with the intention of murder.

And yet, the State has been hard pressed to present premeditation in this case, despite that the evidence that Mr. Feinstein has presented so far against my client is extremely damning. So much so, that one might say that this is an open and shut case. But we can't judge Mr. Marcoux guilty just yet, can we? There are too many questions left unanswered.

I intend to prove the circumstances involving the events that occured on the night of October 31, 1957, can only happen one of two ways: either my client murdered Jacob Paulson out of malicious intent, or this unfortunate incident occured quite by accident. Now, the State has chosen to lay out all its cards on the table in hopes to seek prosecution for second degree murder. All or nothing, ladies and gentleman. You must decide, are you going to send a man to prison for the rest of his life for a crime that was not intentional, or will you set him free.


I intend to prove to you, ladies and gentleman, that this accident was just that...an accident, and nothing more. You will learn a great deal about my defendant and his dark past. Some of it will be difficult to comprehend, but it is imperative that you understand his beginnings before you decide his end. Your Honor, I wish to present these journals as exibit F-1-22, with the purpose of establishing a foundation as to the condition of my client's mind when the unfortunate Jacob Paulson was bludgeoned to death."

The prosecutor, Mr. Feinstein stood to his feet. "No objections your Honor."

"I will allow it," Judge Doogood conceded, and Barnaby Goolsby returned once more to the lovely Ms. O'Malley on the stand, who had at this point regained her perfect posture and calm constitution.

"Are you ready to continue, Gabriella?" asked Goolsby.

"I am," she rejoined, once again with a gentle smile.

"I've looked at these notebooks, Ms. O'Malley, but I am unable to read a word of them. Can you inform the court why that is?"

"They were written entirely in French."

"And you, Gabriella, you speak and read French fluently."

"I do, my grandmother is French. She taught me."

"And how is it you have a French grandmother with a name like O'Malley?" he smiled.

Gabriella returned the favor as she responded, "My grandmother on my mother's side is French. My father's father migrated to America from Ireland."

"I see, thank you, Gabriella. I do appreciate your honesty, and we will certainly make use of your linguistic knowledge shortly, but for now, could you please inform the court whether or not you are familiar with my defendant, Mr. Marcoux."

"I am," she blushed again and looked away from me.

"And how do you know Mr. Marcoux?"

"I was told by Mrs. Lancaster that he has frequented the library many times over the years since he was a young boy, but I only just started working there three years ago."

"How frequently has Mr. Marcoux visited the Benton Library since you've been working there, Gabriella?"

"Almost daily, Mr. Goolsby. He was homeless and spent most of his time reading. The head librarian has known him for years and has even allowed him to stay the night whenever it's cold outside."

"It seems that the head librarian, a Mrs. Lancaster, isn't it?" Gabriella nodded. "It seems that Mrs. Lancaster is quite familiar with Mr. Marcoux. Would you say this was a fair assessment?" Mr. Goolsby began to pace across the floor infront of the witness stand, as his mind began to grind over possible scenarios and examinations.

"Yes, Mr. Goolsby."

"Would you say that Mrs. Lancaster is familiar enough with Mr. Marcoux to trust him in such a well respected public place as the Benton Library, Gabriella?"

"I would."

"And do you, Gabriella, are you familiar enough with Mr. Marcoux to trust him in such a place as the Benton Library, where families frequently take their children?"

"Yes, I do."

"And have you ever been alone with Mr. Marcoux in this library?"

"I have."

"More than once?"

"Yes."

"And now, being aware of the crime he is now accused of, and knowing what kind of man Mr. Marcoux is, would you continue to trust him if you found yourself alone with him?"

"I would, Mr. Goolsby."

"And why is that, Gabriella? Why is it that you would trust a man that has been charged and brought to trial on such a disturbing crime against humanity?"

"Because I know him," Gabriella spoke very clearly and diligently. A change took over her face, she seemed more sure of herself, sitting with her perfect posture and solid character, like she had suddenly received a confidence transfusion. "I don't know what happened that night, Mr. Goolsby, but I can't believe that Jack could be capable of such a thing. I can't explain it. Sure, he's quiet. We've hardly even spoken to each other the last three years, but I know in my heart he is a gentle man. I know what love he has for life, but..." And then she paused and looked away unexpectedly, frightened to admit her last words.

"But what, Gabriella?"

"But he's suffering inside. I've seen it in his eyes, though he tries desperately to hide it. There's something inside of him screaming to get out, but I refuse to believe he could be capable of such a thing as to kill a man."

Goolsby, frozen midstep from such an unexpected turn, stopped suddenly and turned to glare at the young librarian in a stupor, hoping Mr. Feinstein would be reluctant to take hold of such a condemning statement and twist it to his own purpose. The remark was said lightly, but could turn into something detrimental, despite the young girl's good intentions. The fat lawyer chewed the meaty pad of his thumb in contemplation. He knew Feinstein all too well. But should he continue, or pass the witness to the council and allow the damage to be done. After a long awkward moment of silence, he spoke. "Your honor, I have no further questions for this witness at this time," he said very collectedly and returned to his seat.

"And the State?" requested Judge Doogood.

"Thank you, your Honor," said Phineas Feinstein, as he rose and approached the witness stand with an overbearing grin that spread from ear to ear.


There is still much of my trial to be covered, but before we delve too deeply into the Trial and Tribulations of Jack Marcoux, it is only fitting that I should provide an introduction, in the very least so that you the reader may acquire an insight into my person and the events that took place that led to my involvement with this alleged crime. I'm about to provide you a rare glimpse into the mind of an accused man, and not only confess the truth of this alleged crime, regardless of the verdict in the end, but I will also take you by the hand and guide you along the foosteps that led me to the path I walked upon to become the man I am today. Follow me, from my very humble beginnings, but make yourself comfortable...it's going to be a bumpy ride; and prepare yourself for the unexpected, for not everything is as it seems.