Becoming Juliet - Paula Marinaro Page 0,2

to allow Clayton to await trial in a fancy drug rehab center. When Clayton Russell showed up in the courtroom with a closely shaven face, a two thousand dollar suit, and a signed certificate claiming that he was now addiction free, Beast was there too. Beast sat across the aisle, two rows behind the prosecutor’s desk with Prosper Worthington by his side. The prosecutor stumbled through the case, while the dream team defense took shot after shot at each and every piece of evidence that the district attorney’s office presented. Then three days into the proceedings, it was discovered that the chain of evidence had been broken. A vital piece of proof had somehow disappeared. The minute that the judge had finished the last pound of his gravel declaring a mistrial, Clayton Russell had turned to look directly at Beast. Then Clayton had given Beast a wide and winning smile.

A week later, Shelley Carrel, a perky, excited, and eager young law student, arrived for the very first day at her new job at the courthouse. Shelley had been about an hour early, so she sat on a bench under the large oak tree in front of the stately building. There she tried to squelch down her excitement by sipping a large mocha latte and thinking about the day ahead. Shelley had been sitting only a few moments when she found her carefully chosen white silk blouse being splattered with thick crimson streams. At first, Shelley thought she had become the victim of droppings from a large bird who’d eaten too many red seeded fruits.

However, when she had looked up into the tree branches, she hadn’t been quite sure what she was seeing. So, Shelley had put down her latte and put on her sunglasses. Then she looked up again into the green canopy. What Shelley saw that day would change the trajectory of her life forever. After that morning, Shelley Carrel quit her internship and went back home to marry the boy next door, Tommy Jenkins. Poor Shelley would be haunted by what she saw on that bright and sunny May morning for the rest of her life. As a result of the trauma, she would suffer from debilitating headaches, and develop a serious and profound anxiety disorder. Because seeing a man freshly skinned alive and hanging from a tree is no small thing; that morning would have similar and lasting effects on several other people who had had the misfortune of passing by the old oak tree that morning.

Clayton Russell’s body hanging high had truly been a gruesome sight. What was left of his neck had been bent at a bizarre angle; his limbs had swayed in the breeze as if his bones were held together by rubber bands. His eyeballs had become bulging, bright white orbs; Clayton’s jaw had been locked wide open and his mouth had been set in a silent scream. His wrists had been bound behind his back and they had been tied tight with electrical wire. Clayton’s genitals had been severed with a jagged cut and stuffed into his anus. Enticed by the cloying smell of fresh carcass meat, insects had buzzed and landed, while their tiny feet became stuck in the gore and sealed their fate. Ravens, crows, and other large carrion birds had hovered around the strung up flesh. The bolder ones had pecked and cawed as they began their jubilant feast.

A handwritten sign had been nailed to Russell’s skull. It simply read: Justice Served.

The place had become a circus in no time at all; fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, reporters, and helicopters all jockeyed for a place at the scene. In the meantime, Billy Bob (Beast) McKenna (with Prosper Worthington by his side) had put in a call to Special Agent Kennedy and turned himself into the bureau. Once in custody, Beast had waived all rights to counsel. When questioned, he heartily declared that his only regret in killing Clyde Russell was that he could not slaughter the bastard again.

It had been many years since the killing of Clayton Russell. Prosper Worthington had passed away and Beast’s time was up. Now on behalf of his grandfather, his club and himself, P.J. McCabe was here to say goodbye.

With every step he took, P.J. had the feeling of being wrapped tighter and tighter in heavy, wet, strips of cloth bandages. His body stiffened as his chest constricted and his breath became labored. The rational part of P.J. knew that it was just bad