Fan-Fiction

Pieces of a Whole

written by Betsy J. Bennett

CHAPTER 1

 

The judge banged the gavel three times in rapid succession, bringing the courtroom to order. It was a closed session, with no media, but that didn’t mean the courtroom wasn’t packed. Many of the people were his friends. He whispered to himself that whatever happened, he wasn’t alone. He could see this through. He had learned to lie over the past six years, but not to himself. He didn’t believe, didn’t dare hope. When this was done he would be alone. What he didn’t know was would he survive.

“Will the accused please rise.”

Richard Kimble put his hands on the desk in front of him, used that to leverage himself to his feet. His legs felt boneless, were worthless. His hands trembled, his heart pounded. Much more of this and Indiana wouldn’t need an electric chair. He’d have a heart attack right here.

Stapleton put his hand over Richard’s, meant to convey support, an action that fell short. Stapleton had not been his lawyer for the initial murder trial, this was a new man, not that it mattered. Since his wife’s murder, Richard Kimble had developed a healthy dislike of the entire profession.

Kimble wondered how he could stand, how he could face a verdict again, how he could face anything again. Two days before Fred Johnson had died, a combination fall and bullet wound, before he could confess his involvement in the death of Helen Kimble to a lawman, to someone whose testimony would matter. Richard had heard his confession, but he was hardly an impartial witness in his own defense.

“It will be ok,” Ronald Stapleton whispered in an aside. “This is just a preliminary hearing. At worst he could bind you over for trial.”

That was not the worst Kimble could imagine. He had been four years on the run as an interstate fugitive, escaping a death-penalty conviction. The electric chair waited. Although there were significant additions, the majority of the evidence reintroduced that morning hadn’t been that different from what had been presented in his original trial.

Lloyd Chandler had testified, had taken almost two hours under oath of what he had seen. Six years before he had been in the Kimble house, had witnessed the one-armed man, Fred Johnson, murder Helen Kimble. He had testified why he hadn’t come forth, had cried, confessing his own cowardice, but had stuck to his story.

Then Lieutenant Phillip Gerard had testified, had avowed his professional belief in Kimble’s innocence. He had testified through the afternoon about Fred Johnson, and Richard Kimble.

Gerard had shown up earlier that morning, had visited Kimble in his jail cell. “Don’t say a word, Dr. Kimble,” he had ordered. “I’m not supposed to be here, and your lawyer isn’t here, and anything you say I may be asked to testify. But I want you to know before we go in that courtroom this morning that I am on your side. I believe your innocence. We will get you justice.”

“Thank you.” His voice had been dusty, unused. He found no comfort in Gerard’s words. Terror wrapped around him in waves. He had been here before, faced this man before. And had been sentenced to death. Innocence hadn’t mattered then.

Gerard turned on his heels and left, using crutches, for the surgery had only been the day before yesterday, and probably he had left the hospital AMA, against medical advice. He winced as he moved. Yes, Kimble understood that. He’d been shot in the leg several times himself.

Kimble wore a dark, professional suit and a tie, the kind a physician, a pediatrician might wear on an average day. He had taken off the prison jumpsuit he had been wearing for the past two days. He felt like a prisoner, and oddly, because of the fear and the visions from his past, few based in reality, he felt like a killer. This was his worst nightmare come to fruition. He had been captured, had waived extradition from California, had, for all practical purposes, turned himself in. He had worn handcuffs from the holding cell to the courtroom. Although he did not have them on now, the room was not lacking in armed guards. He had a history of escape, but not today.

Today he faced a judge. Whether he found justice remained to be seen.

The courtroom was absolutely silent. Turning his head slightly, Kimble caught Donna and Len’s attention. She was wiping her eyes with a damp tissue. He wished he had a handkerchief to offer her. Still, they believed in him too, always had. There was comfort in that. Perhaps the only comfort he would find today.

Beside them stood Jean Carlisle, the woman who had tried to protect him from Gerard’s trap. He could not see her as a girlfriend, could only see her as yet another woman he had used while on the run. He had found comfort in her arms he would not deny that, but now, facing a judge, facing what might be the end of his life, he wondered how badly he would hurt her. Her interests, her concerns were frivolous compared to his.

“Dr. Kimble,” the judge cleared his throat, to draw this out or to make him suffer, he had no idea. He was a convicted killer. Yes, during his years on the run he had experienced mercy and kindness and hope, but never from the justice system. They only wanted their pound of flesh.

“Dr. Kimble, I have heard the evidence presented today, and it is the opinion of this court that a gross injustice has occurred. I hereby rule a complete and total exoneration of all charges against you, those from your earlier Capital murder conviction, and any that might appear in the future from your life as a fugitive. Dr. Kimble, please accept the honest apologies of this court. The state of Indiana and this court hereby recognize Fred Johnson as the only man responsible for the death of Helen Kimble. Based on the testimony of Lloyd Chandler and Lieutenant Phillip Gerard, this court exonerates all charges against you. You are a free man.”

May God Have Mercy on Your Soul.

He didn’t hear the ugly phrase, but he expected it with such blind terror that he was certain those had been the judge’s closing words. Honestly he had no idea what the judge had said.

Stapleton slapped him on the back, hearty congratulations, but he slumped in the chair, head in his hands, trying to still his racing pulse, his turbulent stomach. “Richard, you’re free! We won!”

It felt a hollow victory, a sham. It was so unexpected, he couldn’t accept it. He buried his head in his hands. All that horror had not dissipated. It had nowhere to go. Then Donna wrapped her arms around him, crying, holding him, whispering congratulations. He had no idea if she appeared seconds later, or perhaps days. Nothing was making any sense.

“Please, is there a room where he could go, just until this feels real?” Leonard asked. Leonard, his brother-in-law, another staunch believer in his innocence.

“We’ll have to make a statement outside,” Stapleton said, polishing his fingernails on his lapel, as if this had been his victory.

Donna stood, faced him, her eyes still red from her earlier tears, now angry enough that now she was spitting nails. “Can’t you see he’s had enough? Give us a minute.”

“You’re free, Richard. Don’t you realize what that means?” the lawyer insisted, as if maybe these people were missing the point.

“Don’t you realize what he’s been through? He needs time. Twenty minutes, ten. He needs to catch his breath.” Donna had always been a gentle woman, well, except when they had scrappled as children. This little sister had been able to hold her own against two brothers, who acting in tandem had often seen her as prey for their high jinks. The lawyer backed off.

“I’ll find you some privacy.”

Donna helped him stand. Jean tried to take Kimble’s other side, apparently confused that Kimble hadn’t said anything to her yet, that Donna was the one mounting his defense.

They found a small chamber, and Richard sat, then stood abruptly. “I’m going to be sick,” he groaned, and was able to make it to a garbage can where he vomited bile. He had been unable to eat dinner yesterday or breakfast that morning. Lunch hadn’t been offered. There was no food to come up. The memories from the small jail cell had not been comforting, and had been far too real.

Len returned seconds later with a cup of water, that Kimble accepted gratefully. He sipped slowly. He had been bloodless as they led him from the courtroom, white and weak, now high color rose on his cheeks, as unhealthy as his earlier blanched skin.

“Breathe slowly,” Donna said, a physician’s daughter, she knew a thing or two about hyperventilation. “Slow, even breaths.”

Jean tried to wrap her head around what was happening. “I don’t understand. He should be celebrating, laughing. We got what we wanted. He’s free.”

Donna faced her as she would some bully trying to annoy her child, then with a look at her brother, she grabbed Jean by the hand and pulled her out the door, shutting it behind them. “You’re right. You don’t understand. If the judge had said Guilty! And you’re going to the electric chair today, Richard would have walked out of there under his own power, with his shoulders back, and his face unreadable. That’s courage you’ll never be able to understand. But this, getting what we want—that takes a bit more getting used to.”

Leaving Jean speechless, Donna reentered the conference room. Kimble left the bucket, found strength in his own legs to make it back to the small conference table. “I don’t—“

“There’s no hurry,” Donna insisted. They had not seen this coming. This had been a preliminary hearing. They had not anticipated a ruling in their favor. “Take whatever time you need.”

He straightened his shoulders, his spine, sat upright. Breathing was easier. The blackness that had taken control of his sight, which had coiled in from the edges and threatened to blind him, disappeared. He could see.

“It’s over, Richard,” Jean said. “It’s really over.”

He nodded as if he agreed, but he didn’t.

He didn’t see how it could ever be over.

 

***

 

“Dr. Kimble! Dr. Kimble!”

Reporters surrounded the courthouse steps, probably two or three dozen, each with their microphones, their television cameras, their shouted questions. These same people who had been vilifying him over the past four years as wife-killer and escaped death row inmate, were now here, pushing to report his exoneration.

They crowded him, and it felt like prison bars, pressing up against him, giving him no room to breathe. He might be innocent, but the press was still looking for any story for the front page.

“Breathe,” Donna said beside him. “Just breathe,” before the crowd separated them. More microphones where shoved in his face. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Is this what freedom felt like? If so, how could his exoneration be so frightening?

“Richard, could you answer a few questions?” asked Ronald Stapleton. His smile was broad, showed a lot of teeth. It was as if he were taking personal responsibility for this verdict, as if he had gone through all the effort of chasing the one armed man, and not someone they had hired days before, when they realized they’d need a lawyer again.

“I think it’s important.” Stapleton had done very little for the hearing which had just concluded. Kimble was certain it was important for the lawyer’s career, thus the insistence.

Jean Carlisle, the woman at his side, tightened her grasp of his hand in apparent approval. She looked radiant, her smile wide. The dress, he was certain, new. He had spent the past forty-eight hours in an eight-by-eight holding cell, with memories hardly pleasant. She had been shopping. But in her defense, she wanted him innocent, for what it would mean to her. But then, she had been equally as willing to go on the run with him, anticipating, he was certain, the romance of fleeing unjust charges. She would have no idea of the never-ending terror of a fugitive, the fear that he could be recognized at any second. Recognized and brought to the death house, or recognized and shot on sight, for after all, Indiana was anxious to see him executed, why go to all that trouble when a bullet was more efficient?

Dr. Richard Kimble looked at the crowd again: reporters, gawkers, the simply curious. His impulse was to run, fast and directionless, to escape. He had been running for four years without let-up until this morning when the verdict had finally come down, “Innocent of all charges.”

“Dr. Kimble, why did you run?

“Dr. Kimble, how do you feel?”

“Dr. Kimble, what are your plans for the future?”

“Dr. Kimble, how does it feel to be a free man for the first time in six years?”

The questions were an endless cacophony of knives, figuratively digging into his psyche, seeking blood. They may all look pleased at his verdict, but that didn’t mean they still weren’t after his soul.

He was a tall man, six feet, one-seventy-five pounds, with salt and pepper hair that he kept dyed black since his escape from the train derailment. It wasn’t much of a disguise, but it was all he used. Police departments in almost all of the 48 states and on a ship to Alaska had no trouble recognizing him. His eyes scanned the crowd, looking for a way out, a way to hide. His pulse raced. He was used to that. Every minute he was awake, every minute he slept, he felt panic. There was nothing glamorous for a fugitive.

The lawyer stepped forward. “Dr. Kimble will make a statement, then he will take a few of your questions. We don’t want to keep the good doctor long,” Stapleton said. His job had been easy, as the one armed man, the actual murderer of Helen Kimble, Fred Johnson was dead, and it had been proven with eye-witness accounts and Johnson’s own confession that he had committed the crime.

The original judge, who couldn’t wait to see Dr. Richard Kimble strapped into an electric chair, had moved onto a higher court, and the new judge had been glad enough to let him go, before too many questions had been asked as to why the original verdict. Circumstantial evidence did not a Capital case make, nor had it ever been proven pre-meditation. When Richard Kimble had been charged, both the defense and the prosecution had argued it had been a crime of passion, a spur of the moment crime which should have been manslaughter, with a 3-6 year sentence. The original judge had seen things differently.

Although his stomach remained unsettled and his legs felt boneless, Kimble stood tall, faced these vipers he wanted to spit on. Of the press he could count on one finger the reporters who believed his innocence and had tried to back up that assertion with research and editorials. That man had been sent to prison for aiding and abetting. He would have to check if he were still serving time and if he too cursed the name of Richard Kimble.

He released the hand still held in a near-death grip by Jean, family friend, court stenographer, and one in a long line of women who had helped him. His feelings for her at the moment were mixed. His feelings about everything were confused. Up until a few hours ago even with Lieutenant Gerard’s insistence this trial was a formality and he would be exonerated, he has still been bracing himself for a one way trip to the electric chair. Although generally an honorable man, Gerard had certainly lied to him in the past.

Kimble gave a half-smile, faced the crowd, held up his hands, then patted them, palms down, in a “be quiet” movement, that if anyone understood, felt no need to follow. He still couldn’t believe that there weren’t handcuffs digging into his wrists, that the uniformed policemen didn’t have him in their gun sights. He was used to being shot at, if such a thing were possible.

The questions came fast and furious. He’d had twenty minutes as a free man, and why now, facing these blood-suckers, did he feel more of a prisoner than he had wearing Gerard’s handcuffs sitting in a darkened train on the way to the Death House?

“I thank you all for coming here,” Kimble said. “I thank you for the support you’ve given me over the past four years.” He could lie to others with an absolutely straight face. That is one of the main things life as a fugitive had taught him. “I would like to first thank my family for always believing in me, for offering me hope when I had none of my own. They always believed in my innocence.”

The crowd had separated them. Somewhere in this mass of reporters and cameramen were his sister Donna and her husband Leonard, his greatest allies, and while on the run, his main source of strength. He didn’t look for them, felt if he met Donna’s gaze he would shatter. How many times just hearing her voice given him strength to go on?

He pulled in a deep breath and although not a religious man, prayed silently for courage. Courage meant facing your fears head on. He was used to running. There had been comfort somehow in running. “I would like to thank all the dozens of strangers who met me while I was on the run, who helped me, because they believed me when I avowed my innocence. These people who did it for no reward except their conscience wouldn’t let an innocent man be captured, brought to death. I can’t remember all their names, or even all the cities, but they hold a special place in my heart.”

Another lie. He remembered them all, every person he met while on the run: those who held him at gunpoint, hoping for the infamy of capturing Dr. Richard Kimble, and the others, the kind people, those who showed him the back ways out of town, who distracted the police so he could climb out a window or jump onto a moving train, those who offered food, a place to rest, a few moments of respite.

Kimble took a deep breath, wondered if this public flogging would ever be over. He looked over, caught Phillip Gerard’s eye. The lieutenant stood on crutches, far off to one side. Gerard wasn’t much for sharing information with the media, although over the years he certainly had, when he couldn’t get out of the obligation, or when it suited his purposes to catch a fugitive.

A few days before, Gerard had taken a bullet in the leg from Fred Johnson. His expression was stoic. While most people around were celebrating the exoneration, or conversely still out for blood, as usual, no emotion could be read on the lawman’s face.

For a second, seeing Gerard that close gave him a shock, the kind that had his pulse tripping, and highlighted the need to run. Gerard, the man who played so prominently in all his nightmares, who now, oddly enough, had supported him in catching a one-armed man Gerard had sworn was a figment of Kimble’s imagination.  “And while I never thought I would say this, I would like to thank Lt. Gerard. Over the past few days he testified to my innocence. He helped me, offered me the time I needed to prove my innocence.”

Guilt or innocence had never mattered to Lt. Gerard. Richard Kimble had been found guilty by twelve peers, and that had been good enough for him. Gerard believed in the law, but he had given the convicted felon twenty four hours to find Fred Johnson, time that had helped immensely.

“Dr. Kimble, where do you go from here?” the question was shouted from an anonymous voice in the crowd.

He took a moment to think. Where did he go from here? There was no way he could reenter his life. Too much had changed, and he himself was too different. There were scars, physical and mental that these reporters could not see, could not imagine. “I want to get out of here.”

Laughter greeted the statement, but not from Gerard. He still didn’t smile. “I don’t know. For years I only wanted my name cleared. I want to get back to medicine. I don’t know if it’s possible.”

I want to sleep one night without nightmares. I want to be able to walk down the street without fear. I want to forget all the terror I have lived through and devote myself to being a doctor, to helping sick children. All that was true, and was nothing he would ever admit here, in public. He wouldn’t lay himself that bare. They wanted his blood—he wouldn’t offer it.

“How was your life as a fugitive?”

He took a deep breath, wondered if they wanted the truth, if they even had an inkling what the truth was. “I want you to know I have the deepest respect for the law. Even after all that’s happened, I respect the law. It made a mistake in my case, accepting circumstantial evidence as fact, but I hold no grudges. I’m free now. I’m free.”

If only he could believe it.

Link to Chapter 2