Framed

“Miss Moore, please recount your recollection of the events of the evening of Tuesday, March 3rd for the jury.”

“If I’m being honest, Your Honor, my memory’s a bit foggy,” Hannah Moore said. She felt small sitting before the judge, police chief, jury members, and spectators of her court case. Smaller yet knowing they all thought she was a killer. 

“I remember leaving work angry. My boss, Mr. Goodall, of course, had had me working overtime for the past three weeks or so. He was leaving early each day to be with his new wife.” Hannah paused, looking up at the young, thin, blonde Mrs. Goodall. “Anyway, I stopped to get a coffee from my favorite coffee shop. It happens to be right around where Mr. Goodall lives… lived.”

An awkward hush fell over the courtroom. Six days ago, March 3rd, Miss Hannah Moore had been pulled over by Patrol Officer Raul Gonzolas. He had been conducting a routine stop for speeding when he found Miss Moore covered in blood and talking to herself. 

“When Officer Gonzolas opened my door, I tried to tell him something. Next thing I know, I’m in St. John Hospital, handcuffed to my bed.”

“Thank you, Miss Moore. Any further questions,” the judge asked. “None? Very well. Chief of Police, Officer Green, please take the stand. Officer Green, walk us through this case.”

“Gladly,” he replied, eyes gleaming with a twisted sort of pleasure. “After Moore was secured at St. John, and all necessary paperwork was completed, Officer Gonzolas was removed from the case at the request of of Mrs. Goodall. She and I had a, um, private sort of meeting to discuss some important details of the night.” He held direct eye contact with Mrs. Goodall while saying this. She looked away from him, neck hot.

“As she stated earlier, Mrs. Goodall came downstairs from a shower to find her husband, Mr. Goodall, lying face down in a pool of his own blood, with a crowbar in the back of his head. She stated that the front door was open but that she had not heard anyone enter or exit the home.”

Elain Goodall was the 19 year old widow of 53 year old James Tucker Goodall. The late Mr. Goodall was the owner of a small, yet expensive, tech company. He had very few in person employees, Hannah Moore working the closest with him. 

“Mrs. Goodall called 911,” Officer Green continued, his eyes still on Elain. “They arrived shortly after Moore was pulled over. An eye witness said they saw a small, black Ford car speeding out of the neighborhood shortly before Moore was apprehended. Coincidently,” his beady eyes snapped to where Hannah was now sitting with her attorney. “Moore happened to be driving a small, black Ford car when she was found speeding out of that very same neighborhood, her face, chest, and hands covered in blood.” 

Officer Greens’ eyes felt like needles boring into Hannahs’ mind, searching for all of her deepest secrets. 

“We’d like to call for a brief recess.” The sound of her attorney's voice snapped Hannah back to reality.

“I’ll allow it,” the judge replied. “We’ll reconvene here at 3:04 p.m., five minutes from now.” He banged his gavel, and the courtroom dissolved into nervous chitter. 

Officer Green snaked over to Elain, slid his arm around her waist, and pulled her out of earshot of the rest of the crowd.

“I think we've got ‘em,” he whispered in her ear. She giggled, cozying up towards him. “If everything keeps going this well, Moore will get life behind bars, and not only will you inherit the Goodall company, and get a big life insurance payout, you could also sue Moore for a hundred and one different reasons. Imagine what we could do with that kind of money, baby.” Elain cooed and snuggled up closer to him.

Elain, 19, and already planning to soon be on her second husband, had killed her first for money. What any 19 year old could possibly do with half a billion dollars, Elain didn’t know. What she did know: giving Jacob Green ten thousand dollars and her hand in marriage was a small price to pay for driving a crowbar into the back of James Goodalls’ skull.

“We’ll make history,” she said, grinning up at Green.

“Something's off,” Hannahs’ attorney, Josepha Gray, said. She and Hannah were standing on the opposite side of the room from Elain and Officer Green. “There’s a hole somewhere in their story.”

“I don’t know, Josepha,” Hannah replied. “I think the case is pretty stacked against me. I mean, I can’t even defend myself, I don’t remember what happened.” Hannahs’ phone suddenly sounded in her pocket. 

“Oh, sorry, sorry,” she stammered, fumbling to turn it off. “I've been having to set an alarm to remember to take my medication because I was so busy at work.”

“What kind of medication do you take,” Josepha pressed. 

“I have a blood clotting disorder, so I’ve been taking blood thinners since I was 16,” Hannah told her. “I recently switched what kind I take, though.”

“That’s it,” Josepha exclaimed. “I knew there was something off. If you had killed Mr. Goodall, blood wouldn’t have been covering your face, it would have been splattered. In the police report, it said no fingerprints were pulled from the crowbar, and the only prints found around the crime scene were Mrs. Goodall’s. Your hands were covered in blood. Where did this blood come from? Your nose!”

“Josepha, I’m confused. I-”

“No time to explain now! I’m putting you up on the stand, just go with it.”

“Order,” the judge hollered, banging his gavel. “Court will now resume session.”

“I’d like to call Miss Moore to the stand,” Josepha stated.

Hannah rose and took a seat back by the judge.

“Miss Moore, is it true you have recently started taking different blood thinning medication,” Josepha questioned.

“Objection,” Officer Green started.

“I’ll allow it,” the judge said, holding his hand up at Green.

“Yes, Miss Gray,” Hannah said. “That’s correct.”

“Is it also true some side effects of the medication can be severe nose bleeds and loss of consciousness?”

“Yes.”

"Your Honor, I requested the photos that Officer Gonzolas took during the arrest of Miss Moore.” Josepha held up one of the photos she had printed out. “In the picture we can see a disposable coffee cup with blood just above the mouthpiece, where the nose would be positioned. Upon closer inspection, we can see the logo of the coffee shop where Moore claimed to have gone, and a time stamp for March 3rd at 8:17 p.m. Officer Green, what time did officers respond to the Goodall home on March 3rd?”

“I, um,” Green cleared his throat. “8:17 p.m.”

“Meaning the murder of James Goodall took place a few minutes before, while Miss Moore was at a coffee shop over ten miles away?”

“Correct,” Green sighed.

“This thereby makes it impossible for Miss Moore to have killed James Goodall. I rest my case.”

The courtroom watched in silence, waiting for the next action.

“The jury will now vote,” the judge said quietly. “We will meet back here when their decision is finalized.”

Not ten minutes later, a jury member walked up to the judge. “In the case of Moore versus Goodall,” he started. “We, the jury, rule not guilty. Thank you, Your Honor.”