A Wicked Snow

head in a tight bun. She wore suits that flattered her figure. Her blouses almost always ruffled about her neck.

Paine shoved her evidence cart past the spectators as if she were bringing the mountain to Muhammad.

A woman nudged her friend to look up from her crossword a second time.

“She’s a damn sight prettier in person than she is on the TV,” she said approvingly.

“Why doesn’t someone help her with the cart? God, that cart must weight two hundred pounds.”

“She’s one of those women who don’t want any help at all.”

“Maybe the men around here don’t know how to treat a lady, lawyer or not.”

Paine overheard the spectators and offered a slight smile in response. As she turned her head to regard the defense table and the defendant, her smile instantly retreated. Wheaton smiled in turn, but Paine turned away.

Veronica Paine’s opening argument detailed the case against Wheaton. While she ran down each item of evidence, she jabbed a finger in the air in the direction of the defendant. Though everyone knew this was not a murder trial, Paine made sure all were aware of the charred bodies that were discovered in the ashy remnants of the farmhouse. She told the jurors Marcus Wheaton might not be a murderer.

“Not as far as we know,” she said slowly and deliberately. “We don’t know who killed those people. What we do know is that Marcus Wheaton was so in love with Claire Logan that he proceeded to cover up a horrendous crime to prove his undying devotion for her.”

Wheaton glanced over his shoulder toward his mother’s gaze. She smiled back.

“The evidence will show through receipts from Cascade Supply and Hardware that the defendant bought two gallons of kerosene oil of the kind used to fuel hurricane lamps. A witness from Cascade Floral, Inc. will tell you that the defendant routinely purchased flocking material used at Icicle Creek Farm… and used by the defendant to accelerate the fire.”

A juror, number seven, nodded in affirmation.

“The evidence will show that the fuel and cellulose splattered on the defendant when he was setting the blaze. Lab analysis will prove this beyond any doubt.”

Travis Brinker started to stand as if to object, his trousers sticking to the back of his thighs. Instead, he stayed put. Some wondered why he didn’t object if only to stymie Paine’s rhythm.

“What’s more, we have an eyewitness. Not just any witness, mind you, but the daughter of Claire Logan. Hannah Logan will take the stand and tell you what happened that night and what she saw in the days and months leading up to the catastrophic fire.”

She reviewed her notes for the flicker of a second.

“You will learn what was going on in that house, and yes, what went on between the defendant and Claire Logan as best as can be recalled by a young girl.”

Paine warned the jury Hannah Logan might seem confused and overwrought with grief.

“This is to be expected,” she said. “This is not an indication of anything other than a young girl torn apart by a terrible family tragedy.”

Almost an hour had passed, and still she went on.

“A word about the deaths at Icicle Creek Farm,” Paine said, her voice serious. “By stipulation, the defense, prosecution, and the judge have all agreed to acknowledge that a number of people died there. More than one and less than twenty-five. Though some will be mentioned by name during this trial, others will not. This is not a murder trial. This trial is about arson, a devastating criminal act in itself. In no way should any member of the jury construe that the defendant is responsible for the deaths of anyone.”

With that, Paine took her seat. She looked satisfied; a quick read of the spectators’ faces indicated she’d made her point.

Travis Brinker took a breath and placed his hand on Wheaton’s bulky shoulder. A gentle smile broke across his face. If he had meant the gesture to indicate warmth and regard for his client, it did not. One woman among the spectators rolled her eyes. (“I wish the jury could have seen the distance the two maintained when they were not in the courtroom,” the woman later told a TV reporter.)

Brinker emphasized that the case was a circumstantial one. Not only that, the defendant was a victim, too. A victim of love.

“Let’s get this out of the way right now,” Brinker said. “We won’t deny that Marcus was in love with Mrs. Logan. We won’t deny he was there the night of the terrible blaze. He was. She was. But he was trying to put the fire out. This man is a hero, for goodness’ sake. Not a criminal. Not an arsonist. We could say that Claire Logan was the arsonist. It would be easy for us to point the finger. Many lawyers would do that. But we can’t in this case. We really don’t know—and we cannot determine in this court—if she’s alive or dead. If we say she’s alive, then they”— Brinker looked at the prosecution’s table—“they’ll say she’s dead.”

Brinker’s assistant, a woman with wire-rimmed glasses, looked astonished. She telegraphed her thoughts across the court room: You’re going too far!

He continued anyway.

“Yes, you’ll hear from witnesses who will recount much of what went on around the Logan place over the years,” he said. “But again, so what? Who among us couldn’t be painted with a sticky black brush by those who chose to? Who among us, indeed?

“Now, let’s go to the evidence. Yes, he did purchase the fuel for the lanterns. Ladies and gentlemen, that was Marcus Wheaton’s job. He also bought the faulty flocking because he had been instructed to do so! By whom? His boss, of course. The woman he loved, Claire Logan.”

Brinker stepped to the oak rail that segregated the jurors from the rest of the courtroom.

“Listen carefully to the little girl. Listen to Hannah Logan,” he said. “We do not suggest she is a liar. No, not at all. But she is a girl born into a life of tragedy. She is fragile and weary. She is also mistaken. Hannah Logan has been pushed and prodded by the prosecution and by federal agents into—”

Paine was on her feet. “Objection, malicious and misleading!” Her face was red and her eyes were fixed in a glare. “There is no testimony to support such remarks.”

“This is argument, counsel,” Brinker said.

Judge Wells overruled the prosecutor and she shook her head in exaggerated disgust.

“I’ll allow this kind of latitude for opening remarks,” Judge Wells said, “but you’ve pressed the issue close to the line. Any more and we’ll shut this down for the day to see what evidence you can produce to back up your remarks.”

Fifteen minutes later, Brinker wrapped up and thanked the jury for their attention.

Veronica Paine was a methodical prosecutor. She was not given to grandstanding or punching the air of the courtroom with raw emotion. There would be time for that later. Just after ten in the morning, a handsome young man took a seat within the confines of the oak-paneled witness box. It was Myron Tanner, the volunteer fireman who was one of the first on the scene the night of the fire. At six-foot-seven, Myron was a giant. He had strong hands and a dazzling white smile. And more than anything, he deserved a name that suited his sheer physical presence better than Myron.

He told the court how he had happened to hear about the fire on his police scanner as he drove home from a party. Though he was off duty as a fireman, he turned around and drove over to the Logan farm. As coincidence would have it, Tanner had purchased last year’s Christmas tree there—a six-foot Scotch pine that filled the front room of his rented mobile home. Tanner had seen nothing peculiar the week before. And he certainly had not expected what he’d find that snowy night.

“Tell the jury,” Paine said, “what you saw when you first arrived.”

Tanner turned to the jury box and tilted his head. He’d obviously testified in court before. “Oh, it was awful,” he said. “There was smoke and flame everywhere. I got there a minute or so behind the truck with the squad. The house was completely engulfed. The barn where they stored a bunch of their stuff was pretty far gone, too. I’ve never seen anything like it. Never.”

“Did there come a time that you saw a person or persons on the property?” Paine asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I did.”

“Please tell the jury,” she instructed.

“Well,” the giant in the box continued, “I parked and ran over to the house, you know, to see if anyone needed help or whatnot. It was hot. Hotter than any fire I’d ever seen in my life. When I came around the corner on