Free Miscarriage Of Justice by Bruce A Borders Page B

mean extra scrutiny. And scrutiny, he certainly didn’t need. So, he definitely would be getting a license, despite the catch-22 of how to get a car to the DMV without a license, and how to obtain a license without a car.
    Buying a paper from the desk clerk, who took the dollar bill without commenting, Ethan wandered up to his room.
    The thought of borrowing a vehicle did cross his mind—just long enough to be considered and then dismissed. Who would he ask to borrow a car? Who would let him? He had no family close by, no friends, and his acquaintances could be counted on one hand—even if he were missing some fingers. The only people in town that he knew were Melanie, the waitress at The Wagon Wheel Grill , and the crotchety desk clerk downstairs. He didn’t even know the man’s name. That was it. Two people. The extent of his list of friends. Mere acquaintances, that’s all. Neither one was likely to loan him a car. He didn’t even plan to ask.
    Ethan shook his head in disgust. Without a car, a private means of transportation, what he had planned would be a tad difficult. But, it looked like the only way to get one would be to buy it and drive to the DMV. With any luck, he’d make it without having an accident or being pulled over by the ever-so-vigilant police officers.
    Looking through the classifieds, he saw they were full of used cars. Not being particular, he chose the first reasonably priced vehicle on the list.
    Not yet consumed by the cell phone craze, which had seemingly smitten everyone else on the planet while he’d been locked away, Ethan used the payphone downstairs in the lobby. An hour and a half later, after walking the three miles to look at the car, he parted with a thousand hard-earned dollars—in exchange for a set of keys. The keys, of course, came with a reliable car—or so the salesman had claimed. The vehicle was nothing fancy; a plain sedan that he hoped would blend in and not be readily noticed.
    On the way to the DMV, he drove as if he were already taking his test, careful to observe all the rules of the road, signaling well in advance of each turn, making sure to come to a full and complete stop at each red light and stop sign, while keeping a constant eye on his speed. The trip took half an hour—twice as long as it should have. Breathing a sigh of relief, he finally pulled into a parking stall, and went inside—to wait, as he soon discovered. Apparently, the DMV service hadn’t improved in his time away.
    Three hours later, having breezed through both the written and driving tests, Ethan Rafferty was once more a licensed driver. It felt good, in more ways than one. With the dreaded chore behind him, he could turn his attention to the task at hand, to make the worthless Mariana Clark pay a little restitution. He’d waited long enough.
    Stopping at the store on his way home, he purchased three items; stationery, pens, and envelopes. That was all he needed—for now.
    Later that evening, seated in the flimsy wooden chair at the wobbly card table in his hotel room, Ethan retrieved the list of jurors he had made at the library. Opening the new package of stationery, he began to write. He’d barely written a single sentence when the moving of the table, back and forth with each stroke of his pen, made him stop. Sighing, he again propped up the broken leg on what passed for a dinette set. Then, resuming his mission, he sat back down, pen in hand.
    Gerald Duncan, the man who had so conveniently been killed in the car wreck, and juror number four, was the subject of his letter. He tried to include all the necessary information and make it sound believable. That turned out to be more time consuming than he’d first imagined. And more difficult.
    Reading over what he had written, Ethan frowned. It was awful. It made him sound like an idiot. He could do better. He wanted everything, each word of every sentence, to provide a maximum effect. Rewriting and rewording, several times, he finally