January 8, 1850—Yesterday saw the further attempt by the prosecution to malign the character of defendant John Thiroux and show that he has a history of violence. For those in attendance at the courtroom, it was a scene setting worthy of the theater. The attractive and artistic defendant, the charming attorneys for both sides, the gruff judge, and the pretty and bountiful wife of two-time Congressman Pierre Charles were all present playing their respective parts.The trial commenced again at ten a.m., and every eye turned when Mrs. Charles swept into the room in her modish gold paisley print silk day dress, raven curls spilling over her curvy shoulders. She took the stand with confidence and alacrity, speaking her oath in clear, melodic tones, hand delicately placed on the Bible.
Only the defense knew at that point why Mrs. Charles had been called to witness, though many, this reporter included, correctly concluded that Mrs. Charles and Mr. Thiroux were acquainted from residing in the same social circles. It should have been anticipated that a gentleman as charming and innocuous as the defendant would have no difficulty in securing women, even those gently bred, to serve as inspiration for his art. Such a revelation raised a murmur in the courtroom, but no more than was required to express the acknowledgment of the sense of Mrs. Charles’s statement. Bored ladies with absent husbands will accept compliments where they are received, and no greater flattery exists than the request to preserve a woman’s face and figure in oil.
I think it is safe to assume, however, given the collective gasp from those present, that nary a soul anticipated that Mrs. Charles would confess, without so much as a blink or a blush, that she had, in fact, posed for Mr. Thiroux’s artistic renderings as nature had presented her.
Even more stunning was the revelation that Mr. Thiroux lost his temper with the charming and vulnerable Mrs. Charles in such an offensive manner. It is not surprising to discover the defendant was enjoying an open bottle for this encounter, nor does it present him as in control, respectful of women, and thoroughly misunderstood as the defense would have you believe.
A great number of questions arise from this testimony, not the least of which is whether or not Congressman Charles was aware of his wife’s very liberal and forthcoming support of the arts.
Naples Daily News, July 17, 2007—As testimony continues in the trial of Dr. Rafe Marino for the murder of his girlfriend, Jessie Michaels, the defense shifted tactics slightly yesterday in the courtroom. Up until this point, the defense has focused on the lack of evidence being presented, and insisted that what forensic trace evidence was present at the scene was the result of the victim having a relationship with the accused. But now the defense has taken a more aggressive stance, suggesting that a woman such as Jessie Michaels, a former stripper and drug user, and an alcoholic at the time of her death, led a double life. One in which she was the middle-class suburban girlfriend of the upstanding and charming young doctor, another in which she frequented strip clubs and mixed alcohol and recreational drugs. The defense suggested that such behavior could have brought her into contact with her murderer.
Throughout the course of the trial, Dr. Marino has adamantly declared his love and affection for the victim.
Chapter Ten
Sara left Gabriel’s and drove back to her apartment, having scratched a return message on the bottom of his note to her. She couldn’t stay, not without access to her computer, and no idea how long it would be before he returned. It had been a mistake to leave her laptop and Angel at her place. She missed her kitten, was worried about her.
And those sketches had shaken her. Had shown her that this was real, no matter how distant in the past. This had happened and it wasn’t a puzzle or a murder mystery weekend to solve. It was a woman and her life. Just as real as her mother had been.
Growing up in the congested traffic of Naples and the surrounding areas, with laborious commutes on inadequate infrastructure, Sara hadn’t thought twice about getting an apartment twenty minutes from the French Quarter. But she was starting to see why Gabriel had expressed surprise. The convenience of the Quarter, with walking distance to food and shopping, was appealing, and the drive to Kenner was getting annoying. Or she should say the drive from Kenner. What kind of Freudian slip was that?
She had already pulled into her assigned parking spot when she realized there was someone at the door of her apartment. Instinctively, she reversed and pulled into the spot opposite hers and sat with the engine idling, watching the man knock repeatedly and actually peek into the window right next to her front door. He looked very normal, average height and weight, short brown hair barely visible under a baseball cap, dressed in tan khakis and a green golf shirt. There was a package or thick envelope in his hand, and a cell phone balanced on top.
The rational, reasonable thing to do would be to get out of the car, approach him, and inquire what he wanted. But Sara wasn’t about to do that. Observing from her car felt safer, even if it was highly likely the man was selling magazines or offering religious flyers. Or he was a reporter.
That was likely her paranoia rearing its ugly head, but she didn’t want to risk it. She had nothing to say to the press. Other than an expletive that involved four letters followed by the word off.
Her cell phone ringing caused her to jump. “Shit.” Sara let out a breath and yanked the phone out of her purse, eyes still on the guy. He was pressing the doorbell again, lingering longer than was appropriate for a salesman.
Caller ID showed it was Gabriel. “Hello?”
“Hi. Where did you go?”
“Back to my place. Didn’t you get my note?” Gabriel sounded irritated with her, but she was too distracted by the man in front of her to bother to try and appease him.
“Yeah, but why? You just came over and then you left again.”
“You left too.” So there. “I went for coffee and you left.”
“But I came back.”
“So did I.”
“But then you left again.”
If she hadn’t been so distracted by her tenacious doorman, she would have laughed. “We’ve established that. We both left and came back and I left a second time and didn’t come back, because I didn’t know when you were coming back.”
“I wasn’t long,” he said, a little petulantly.
“Okay.” Now Mr. Nice Guy was actually trying the knob to her apartment, giving it a turn and a shove. It didn’t open, obviously, since she was neurotic when it came to locking her door. Maybe she should call the police. Though a guy aggressively knocking on her door wasn’t exactly threatening even if he had tried the knob. They would think she was a loon, and all it would do was call attention to her.