[The Talon, Smallville, Thursday December 12, 2002]
Lana Lang wiped the counter of the coffee bar. Chloe was actually out today reporting for the school paper. The Crows' volleyball team was battling the rival Fawcett City Lightning in a high school tournament.
She couldn't concentrate on her schoolwork, her job or anything going on in town this week. Clark was made to look like a liar in the Luthor trial thanks to that smug D.A., Jack McCoy.
She really wanted to believe that Clark knew absolutely nothing about Lex and/or any connection to the murder of Chelsea Saunders. But two facts were irrefutable.
According to the Daily Planet, phone records indicated that Clark was the last person Lex talked to. Within an hour of that call, Chelsea was dead. She wouldn't put it above Lex to mislead Clark. But murder? Lex may have a faulty moral compass, but that just made him imperfect. Not a criminal.
"Earth to Lana," Pete snapped his fingers. "For a moment there, I thought you might be having a meteor-caused dizzy spell."
"Oh, hi Pete," Lana grinned. "It's the Luthor trial. I can't believe Clark would know anything about the Saunders killing. Or if he did, he would never keep it under wraps – even if Lex is his close friend."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Pete stated. "The D.A. didn't have to prove that Clark knew everything. He just had to imply that Clark knew 'something'."
Lana turned to Clark's best friend. "So do you think Clark knows something about all this?"
Pete hesitated. Clark was not a liar, he thought. But he is too trusting. If Lex somehow won over his confidence ...
Lex Luthor's influence over Clark seemed to be growing steadily. With each passing day, Clark was being pulled unwillingly into the Luthor cesspool of deceit. Could someone as decent as Clark become confused about where he stood? What was right or wrong?
Pete stopped himself. Clark is not a liar. He's not. He's the most honest guy I know.
"The Clark Kent that I know," Pete began slowly, "would never cover up a murder. If he knew that Lex was involved, he would say something." His voice trailed off quietly. "He should say something."
Lana sensed that Pete was uncomfortable talking about his friendship with Clark. Pete and Clark had been the closest friends in school. Then Lex showed up. Pete never mentioned it, but she knew something had changed their friendship. It wasn't her business, and she didn't press the issue.
Still, she wondered what happened that could slowly create this unspoken void in the friendship.
"People around town are saying the verdict could come today or tomorrow," Lana offered, as she poured two mugs of hot chocolate.
Pete nodded. "Yeah, that's what I hear. They're making closing arguments today."
I hope the jury arrives at the right conclusion, he hoped. That Clark wasn't involved in this mess.
And that the Luthors – both of them – were guilty of conspiracy and Murder One.
[Closing arguments, Supreme Court]
Lex's attorney, Richard Goldstein, was a bit of a prima donna. He reveled in the spectacle of the trial. He played to the merciless media who captured every sound bite. That was Lex's first impression of his lead counsel.
But Goldstein's perfectly-coiffed silver-streaked hair concealed a sharp, compelling legal mind. No wonder he was lead counsel for Luthor Corp.'s Atlantic seaboard operations.
Goldstein gestured emphatically to the jury. "The prosecution has dazzled us with infra-red scanning, DNA lab samples and allegedly eyewitness testimony. I'm not here to argue about the fine details of the NYPD's lab analysis or the accuracy of the coroner's report. The facts speak for themselves. Chelsea Saunders was killed. Her throat was slashed. A DNA sample suggests that an AWOL Army Ranger, Wallace Johnson may have been involved. On that, Mr. McCoy and I are in agreement."
Goldstein held up his finger to stress his point. "This, ladies and gentlemen, is where the people's case begins to unravel. You can't have a murder without a motive. Mr. McCoy would have you believe Ms. Saunders was an angelic employee who dared to challenge the mighty Luthor Corp. What he failed to tell you was that Chelsea Saunders, by merely having this secretive record, was already in breach of a confidentiality agreement she had signed in good faith as an employee. So what, you might claim, that still doesn't justify murder. I don't dispute that. What I do object to is the use of this FedEx package as a magical silver bullet that somehow proves had Lex had all the reason in the world to kill Ms. Saunders."
"Luthor Corp. is a multinational corporation with branches as far flung as Sydney and Buenos Aires ... with tens of thousands of employees. Ms. Saunders might have thought of herself as a virtuous whistleblower, but let's be honest here. Lex Luthor was only in town to observe, not personally direct, a project in Wall Street. If his signature was required, it would be for countless of mundane, record-keeping tasks. Of the hundreds of employees, clients, politicians and lobbyists he had to meet over the course of his stay here, do you really think Chelsea Saunders would have even registered in his mind? Yes, he did meet her for lunch. He's met just about every executive in the New York office. Is it possible Lex could have met briefly with her on the night of her murder. He was her boss, she was working on an important project, so why not? The death of Ms. Saunders is a crime. Lex having lunch with her is not. Wallace Johnson, by his own actions, is a cowardly thug who's trying to escape justice. Lex remained in New York and cooperated with the investigation, even as he was being labeled a material witness."
Goldstein paused in the middle of the courtroom. "Lex Luthor, if he's to be blamed for anything, it's for perhaps being not as thorough in the selection of his security. That's a human resources oversight, not a criminal offense. The people haven't conclusively proved that the findings in this package constitute a crime. For all we know, it might be a trade infraction. Well, then, the state should just fine Luthor Corp. and thank them for being upfront with these findings – which they were in the process of revealing ..."
McCoy rolled his eyes in disbelief. That was the lamest argument he had heard so far. How could the murder of Chelsea Saunders be reduced to a human resources oversight?
"The problem with science," Goldstein concluded, "is that it relies on the interpretation of humans, who are fallible. The cops, the lab technicians, the police psychiatrist, the D.A.'s office all work for the state. Was there political direction in the prosecution of Lex Luthor? I'll leave you to come to your own conclusions. This might be harsh to hear, but Chelsea Saunders simply did not matter than much to Luthor Corp. She was an entry level junior exec who had visions of changing the world by betraying her employer. In the process, she crossed this mercenary, Johnson, and found herself way over her head. Her murder, while unfortunate, was not of Lex's doing. It was not of Luthor Corp.'s doing. We've heard no true evidence whatsoever to prove otherwise. The real murderer is still at large. You have no choice but to find Lex not guilty on the count of first-degree murder."
Serena felt nervous. Half an hour earlier, she had pleaded with Jack to proceed cautiously.
"Don't be too severe with Clark Kent," Southerlyn cautioned. "He is Lex's best friend. Clark might be in over his head, but he's not the kind of kid who'll lie about a murder!"
"I think those green meteors might be messing with your objectivity," McCoy remarked. "He is in way over his head. Kent Sr. might be an honest man. Clark Kent is not."
"On what basis have you come to that conclusion?" Southerlyn responded.
"I read his case file from Lowell County sheriff's office," McCoy stated. "Although Clark has not been directly implicated in any crime, his police reports read longer than half the cellmates at Rikers! With all the unexplained deaths, accidents, fires, explosions ... not to mention Luthor involvement at every turn ... it begs the question: is this more than coincidence?"
"So you think Smallville, Metropolis and the state of Kansas are involved in a conspiracy so wide," Southerlyn began, "that they're prepared to thwart a murder trial to keep the truth from ever coming out? C'mon Jack. I expect that sort of talk from Det. Munch, not the executive D.A. of Manhattan."
"I haven't forgotten Chelsea Saunders," McCoy answered, as if anticipating Serena's line of argument. "The folks on the street always root for the underdog. Enron, Martha Stewart, WorldCom? Only their friends believe what they're saying now. The people want to see justice done, no matter how famous the plaintiff is."
"I'm glad we're on the same page," Southerlyn smiled.
She had hoped McCoy wouldn't go after the Luthors' reputation. Lex was an unruly youth, but he was a smarter and less reckless adult. Lionel was always ruthless with corporate enemies, but that was a desired trait in this brave new world of globalization. Luthor Corp. always had questionable practices – what company didn't? – but the Luthors themselves were still respected in certain circles.
Including those with deep pockets.
McCoy cleared his throat when he began his closing argument. "The defense would have you believe we are prosecuting Lex Luthor for political purposes. That's wrong. We are in agreement that Chelsea Saunders was a victim of circumstance. But, these are circumstances permitted by Luthor Corp.'s senior executive in New York: Alexander Luthor."
"Ms. Saunders did register on Lex's radar. We have two weeks' worth of email between Lex and his friend in Kansas, Clark Kent, indicating that he had a difference of opinion with a junior employee. Chelsea had uncovered questionable shipping orders enroute to the Mediterranean. To parties unknown. Parties which no member of Luthor Corp. – to this day – is prepared to identify. Lionel Luthor has used every legal trick in the book to avoid testifying under oath. Obviously, Lex, as an agent of Luthor Corp., knew the risks involved if federal authorities uncovered the records Chelsea had threatened to expose to the firm's ombudsman. Or to the New York press."
"The defense suggests that Chelsea was in over her head. We don't dispute this. She was fresh out of college, enamoured with a dazzling career in the Big Apple. She was raised to do the right thing. That's not naïve: that is human. She saw that her employer was doing something questionable, and she took the next logical step. She brought up her concerns to her superior, Lex Luthor."
"The ball was in Lex's court," McCoy paused. He brought a stack of papers from beneath the table, and placed each file atop the table – one by one.
"We have dozens of letters and memos," McCoy continued, "indicating Chelsea's futile attempts to draw attention to her concerns about an unusually high volume of chemical shipments departing from Luthor Corp.'s New York warehouses, with ship manifests that seemed to disappear, invoices that were mysteriously misplaced and a corporate culture that hoped that – if they ignored the problem long enough – it would, too, just go away."
"Yes, former US Army Ranger Sgt. Wallace Johnson is wanted as a material witness in the death of Chelsea Saunders. What the people are alleging is that Mr. Johnson did not act out of passion or some contrived scheme to blackmail the Luthors into paying him hush money. Mr. Johnson did not have a motive for killing Chelsea. He was a soldier – trained to kill. Without remorse. He did his duty, but not for Uncle Sam. This is not a case of a human resources oversight. It's not even a case of criminal negligence. Over the past few weeks, we've demonstrated that Lex Luthor and his underlings did everything in their power to undermine and discredit Chelsea, to no avail."
Lex focused on the table in front of him. His expression gave nothing away. As if he was plotting his next chess move. Be careful, Mr. McCoy, he grimaced. You're one or two moves away from being checkmated.
"The defense would have you believe that I plan to paint a nationwide conspiracy designed to protect Luthor Corp.'s interests and political friends. Nothing could be further from the truth ..."
Lex raised an eyebrow in surprise. Surely, he thought, Mr. McCoy would want to leverage the baggage Lionel Luthor carried whenever Luthor Corp. was in legal trouble.
"There is no Deep Throat, no silver bullet that will convict Lex Luthor of Murder One. It's a daunting case. Evidence proves that Johnson was in the building at the time of the murder. So was Lex Luthor. DNA samples prove that Johnson was in Chelsea's room at the time of the murder. Security video shows Lex entering the building during that timeframe. The murder weapon has been found. The bloodied overalls contained both Chelsea's and Wallace Johnson's DNA. This is where the defense's case begins to fray at the edges. Wallace Johnson was not acting of his own accord. He wasn't smart enough to."
Lex sat up in his chair, studying McCoy's face. He actually believes that I am guilty, Lex feared.
"Where was Mr. Johnson's motive?" McCoy demanded. "We've not seen a single shred of evidence indicating why Johnson should kill Chelsea. She knew nothing about his military past. For all she knew, he was just a lobby security guard with the name badge 'Jenkinson' on his uniform. He was AWOL, with an JAG warrant hanging over him. Chelsea Saunders knew nothing of this. Then why would Johnson feel the need to kill a woman he never knew?"
"The motive," McCoy raised his voice, "was in the FedEx package. And who knew the damning contents of this package? One man. One man who had the power to support Chelsea's allegations. You see, Lex Luthor had the option. He had the option to march into the company ombudsman's office with Ms. Saunders and uncover the sordid details about those mysterious chemical shipments. He had the option to challenge the hiring of a Wallace Jenkinson, one of many aliases used by a disgraced soldier on the run. Lex had many options to diffuse this problem, and chose to do nothing. Theologians would call that a sin of omission: committing a wrong by failing to act."
McCoy paused in front of Lex, who glared directly at him. Check, Jack, he thought.
"What he did," McCoy concluded, "according to the laws of this state ... is first-degree murder. By not lifting a finger, he allowed Wallace Johnson to kill Chelsea Saunders, thus preventing her from exposing the company's dirty secrets. But Johnson was sloppy. He left a trail of clues for authorities. These are not the actions of a man bent on committing premeditated murder. These are the mistakes of a cowardly fool who had no idea of the significance of the FedEx package. Otherwise, why would he not try to destroy the evidence: the knife, the overalls and the package? He knew he was a dead man the moment Chelsea died, so he panicked and fled. Killing two NYPD officers were spontaneous acts, which could only worsen his predicament. Was he afraid of the MPs out to arrest him, the FBI, or the Luthors themselves? Only he knows that answer."
"Lex stopped at Chelsea's condo to try to convince her to drop her plans to expose the company's faults. Security camera tapes confirm he was in the building the night of the murder. The package was there. He would have seen it on the table. She was adamant. Luthor Corp.'s corporate culture despises disloyalty. Chelsea, in his eyes, was disloyal. Chelsea was prepared to betray her company for interests he couldn't understand. No doubt, he was livid. The only one who knew the significance of the package wasn't Wallace Johnson. It wasn't Clark Kent, the last person Lex confided in before Chelsea's murder. It wasn't anyone at Luthor Corp.'s Wall Street offices. It was Lex Luthor. Only he knew the potential of those records to become a scandal: one that could de-value the company's stock, scare investors and – worst of all – rob him of his future empire. The package was the motive. Wallace Johnson was the opportunity. When Chelsea rejected his final warning, he punished her. Not by dismissal, but by murder ... conveniently using a man on the run as his almost perfect alibi."
"Unfortunately for Lex, he couldn't supervise how sloppily Johnson had handled the slaying. Fortunately for Chelsea, his sloppiness provided the NYPD with all the evidence they needed. Johnson was merely a tool, a weapon to be used and discarded. There is only one truth in this case: a young woman was murdered to conceal a secret. Find Lex Luthor guilty on all counts. Only then can we be assured that Chelsea Saunders' tragic death was not in vain."
Lex held his hand over his mouth and whispered something to Goldstein. Lex had hoped McCoy would try to spin a fantastic conspiracy tale stretching all the way to Kansas and Washington, which the defense could then refute – fact by fact.
Instead, McCoy was trying to pin the entire killing on him, by suggesting that Lex somehow created the circumstances that led to Chelsea's murder. He did call Clark that night, but only to describe his frustration with a junior employee. Clark was an innocent party, and he regretted that his best friend was involved in this mess.
McCoy was right about one detail. The crisis had reached the breaking point that night. He was hesitant about confronting this naïve girl, who only saw the world as Good or Bad. I was there to rescue her career, he told himself, before Lionel could ruin her future.
I was there to protect her.
What happened during that heated argument at Versailles Condos haunted him, as he now faced the possibility of life in prison, or the executioner's needle.
Judge Fitzwater adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and turned to the jury. "You are now charged with the task of determining the guilt or innocence of Lex Luthor on three counts: murder in the first-degree, conspiracy to commit murder and obstruction of justice. You are to be sequestered until you arrive at a decision on all counts. The court thanks you for your service."
The pounding of a gavel ended Lex Luthor's struggles to plead his case. Now, he yielded control of his fate to strangers. A jury of ordinary citizens who didn't know him, and who cared even less about his future ambitions.
Ambitions that could remain unrealized forever, if he was found guilty of murder.
He hated it: the loss of control over his destiny. Now I know how Napoleon felt as a prisoner on the island of Elba, he thought. Before Napoleon marched to a glorious battle – on his terms – at Waterloo.
Lex snickered. It's not checkmate, Jack McCoy.
Not yet.
[International waters, Caribbean Sea – 100 nautical miles SSW of the Dominican Republic]
Wallace Johnson never knew what hit him.
He had commandeered a small two-engine Cessna plane in the Florida Keys. He knew he had to leave the States. Forever. He had dishonoured his uniform by failing to report to his base three years ago. He had killed two New York cops: one, a rookie. The other, some nameless pilot who tried to struggle with him over the skies of New Jersey. It was them or me, Wallace grinned. I was trained to kill. That's what I'm good at.
But he also knew that there would be no mercy for him, if he was caught. He went underground, avoiding the main traffic arteries – only surfacing in Florida two days ago.
He relied on his military skills to evade capture. If he had stayed in that Virginia motel two hours longer, the feds would have snatched him. He was lucky.
But his luck was running out. He was only supposed to scare Chelsea Saunders. If that meant threatening physical harm, he had been authorized to do so. She was just some dumb blonde who wanted to make a name for herself, he thought.
At least that was what the colonel had suggested. If he was successful – and Chelsea backed off her crusade – he was promised a new identity, safe passage to a safe tropical nation and more money than he knew what to do with.
On that terrible night in November, Wallace had spotted Lex's bald head from the rear. He had just left the elevator. Why was Lex here, he wondered. He remained in the stairwell beside her suite, listening as Lex and Chelsea began to argue.
"Mark my words, Ms. Saunders," Lex had emphasized that night. "If you choose to break your confidentiality agreement with Luthor Corp., there will be consequences."
"Is that a threat?" Saunders had insisted.
"Consider it a final word of caution," Lex had stated. Then he left.
Wallace wasn't sure what exactly Chelsea knew that was so dangerous – not only to the Luthors, but to the 'national security of the United States', as the colonel had put it.
That was when Wallace lost focus.
Corporate traitors could be understood, he felt. It's a society of individuals, with selfish needs.
But traitors to the American republic? Since he enlisted at 18, Wallace was taught to uphold the American values of liberty and the pursuit of happiness. There was no middle ground. You either stood for Old Glory, or you didn't. Love it, or leave it, he believed.
If Chelsea was going to put the country at risk through her actions, then she was a traitor. A threat. Three thousands lives disappeared on September 11. That could never happen again. His own army might see him as a renegade, but he saw himself as a patriot.
One who would do anything to defend his country, even if the country turned her back on him.
This threat had to be eliminated.
He had received a duplicate master set of keys the day before. Anonymously. It would be useful, as he unlocked Chelsea Saunders' door.
Chelsea, that little wench, was a fighter. She swung her fist to strike him. Instinctively, he blocked it, then shoved her to the ground.
She lunged at him, perhaps realizing that her life was in danger.
One blow to the head and she slumped to the ground. Her moans of pain threatened to raise the alarm.
He had slain countless foes with a slice to the carotid artery. No man could survive the loss of blood. It was silent. Quick.
It was automatic. One stroke of the knife and Chelsea was dead.
Then Wallace realized what he had just done. He wasn't supposed to kill her. Only scare her.
But he was a soldier. Intimidation wasn't his training. Killing was.
Reality crashed around him. The colonel warned him to do exactly what this Luthor fellow wanted, to the letter. Lionel or Lex? Both of them? He didn't know. It was too late.
No more new identity, no safe passage, no money. If you screw up, the colonel said, don't come back. Get lost before he finds you. No one defies Luthor and survives for long.
Wallace had heard stories of other agents, other mercenaries who crossed a Luthor. They simply disappeared.
He would not be one of them.
When he fled the Florida Keys, he knew he would never see his beloved country again. He was saddened, as he flew past a flagpole with the Stars and Stripes. How he had loved serving the nation, once.
But he could start anew. Other disgraced soldiers found new lives as soldiers of fortune. The world was full of people needing men like him to fight for them ... at the right price. A modern-day privateer. That was what he knew.
He flew below US Coast Guard radar, landing on an off-coast island near the Dominican Republic. He had stashed some money in Costa Rica. If he could get there, anything was possible.
The weather was overcast as he crossed the Caribbean Sea. He thought he heard a thunderstorm.
He was wrong.
His colonel had placed a call to Norfolk, VA. HQ of the US Navy – Atlantic Fleet. There was a NATO exercise in the Caribbean. The destroyer, USS Brandywine, was practicing manoeuvres, with live surface-to-air Patriot missles. They fired upon dozens of dummy targets.
A momentary blip, then another target appeared.
"Is the exercise over, sir?" the junior seaman asked.
"Negative," the officer stated. "Word from Norfolk is the exercise is not over. Commence firing upon target on my order."
The hydraulic system raised the Patriot missile to the proper trajectory.
"Missile primed and ready, sir," the seaman replied. The blip on the radar didn't seem like another dummy target, but he was new to this post and wasn't sure.
"Fire," the officer announced. The missile screeched away from the destroyer, zipped through the crisp tropical air and sped relentlessly towards its target.
It would not miss.
When Wallace realized that the rumbling was a missile trailing behind him, he tried to steer away instinctively. But he was a soldier, not an Air Force pilot.
The explosion shredded the tiny plane into a thousand fragments. Scorched debris dotted the glorious horizon, as piece by burnt piece littered the Caribbean waters.
The secrets of Wallace Johnson – warrior, Luthor sentry, murderer, cop killer – would remain buried along with the sunken pirate wrecks of the past.
The seaman gasped. "Sir, I think that wasn't a dummy target."
He was right. The target was no dummy, only an unlucky fool who dared to cross a powerful man.
Half a continent away, atop a tower in Metropolis, Lionel Luthor listened to the phone receiver.
"He was one of my own," the colonel lamented. "A fool perhaps, but a true soldier."
"He knew the consequences of failure," Lionel explained. "He had no instructions to kill. He defied our orders. There are penalties for disobedience. He was damned, whether or not we did anything about it. He tempted fate ... and lost. Chelsea Saunders would have been out of the picture eventually. Her untimely death, while regrettable, will have spared this nation a crisis that could shake the foundations of the republic. If the citizenry knew to what lengths its own government would go to ensure its global superiority ..."
"Sometimes secrecy is the best defense," the colonel concluded.
"At last," Lionel mumbled. "You understand. Like those New Englanders hiding in the bush, waiting for Cornwallis' redcoats so long ago, a patriot's work is often in silence. In the shadows. Such is the price of nationhood."
The colonel would become a general, to be granted a chair at the table when the spear of America would pierce Iraq's heart one last time.
And Lionel Luthor smiled, relishing his role as a shadowy protector of his nation's darker secrets. There were no medals he wanted, no public adulation he sought.
He was content in his self-indulgent belief that his actions would ensure the dominance of his country. He was not a man of faith, but of results. The masses could shop 'til they dropped, consume products and spend their hard-earned salaries ... because men like him gave them the freedom to act.
They were free, because he believed he had willed it.
It was an empowering feeling. Why seek public office when he held more power than most men in Washington? Many of them owed their seats to his influence, his money and his favours.
And if these actions turned a profit for Luthor Corp., well, that's fine too.
The intercom crackled. "Mr. Luthor, your car is waiting."
The eye doctor, Lionel grumbled. He grasped his walking cane and slowly walked out of his office.
He remembered a summer vacation in New Hampshire. It's motto: Live Free or Die.
He smiled again. In order for us to live free, some people have to die.
Lionel hummed America the Beautiful as he entered the elevator. He almost forgot that his son was on trial for murder.
Lana Lang wiped the counter of the coffee bar. Chloe was actually out today reporting for the school paper. The Crows' volleyball team was battling the rival Fawcett City Lightning in a high school tournament.
She couldn't concentrate on her schoolwork, her job or anything going on in town this week. Clark was made to look like a liar in the Luthor trial thanks to that smug D.A., Jack McCoy.
She really wanted to believe that Clark knew absolutely nothing about Lex and/or any connection to the murder of Chelsea Saunders. But two facts were irrefutable.
According to the Daily Planet, phone records indicated that Clark was the last person Lex talked to. Within an hour of that call, Chelsea was dead. She wouldn't put it above Lex to mislead Clark. But murder? Lex may have a faulty moral compass, but that just made him imperfect. Not a criminal.
"Earth to Lana," Pete snapped his fingers. "For a moment there, I thought you might be having a meteor-caused dizzy spell."
"Oh, hi Pete," Lana grinned. "It's the Luthor trial. I can't believe Clark would know anything about the Saunders killing. Or if he did, he would never keep it under wraps – even if Lex is his close friend."
"That's what I'm afraid of," Pete stated. "The D.A. didn't have to prove that Clark knew everything. He just had to imply that Clark knew 'something'."
Lana turned to Clark's best friend. "So do you think Clark knows something about all this?"
Pete hesitated. Clark was not a liar, he thought. But he is too trusting. If Lex somehow won over his confidence ...
Lex Luthor's influence over Clark seemed to be growing steadily. With each passing day, Clark was being pulled unwillingly into the Luthor cesspool of deceit. Could someone as decent as Clark become confused about where he stood? What was right or wrong?
Pete stopped himself. Clark is not a liar. He's not. He's the most honest guy I know.
"The Clark Kent that I know," Pete began slowly, "would never cover up a murder. If he knew that Lex was involved, he would say something." His voice trailed off quietly. "He should say something."
Lana sensed that Pete was uncomfortable talking about his friendship with Clark. Pete and Clark had been the closest friends in school. Then Lex showed up. Pete never mentioned it, but she knew something had changed their friendship. It wasn't her business, and she didn't press the issue.
Still, she wondered what happened that could slowly create this unspoken void in the friendship.
"People around town are saying the verdict could come today or tomorrow," Lana offered, as she poured two mugs of hot chocolate.
Pete nodded. "Yeah, that's what I hear. They're making closing arguments today."
I hope the jury arrives at the right conclusion, he hoped. That Clark wasn't involved in this mess.
And that the Luthors – both of them – were guilty of conspiracy and Murder One.
[Closing arguments, Supreme Court]
Lex's attorney, Richard Goldstein, was a bit of a prima donna. He reveled in the spectacle of the trial. He played to the merciless media who captured every sound bite. That was Lex's first impression of his lead counsel.
But Goldstein's perfectly-coiffed silver-streaked hair concealed a sharp, compelling legal mind. No wonder he was lead counsel for Luthor Corp.'s Atlantic seaboard operations.
Goldstein gestured emphatically to the jury. "The prosecution has dazzled us with infra-red scanning, DNA lab samples and allegedly eyewitness testimony. I'm not here to argue about the fine details of the NYPD's lab analysis or the accuracy of the coroner's report. The facts speak for themselves. Chelsea Saunders was killed. Her throat was slashed. A DNA sample suggests that an AWOL Army Ranger, Wallace Johnson may have been involved. On that, Mr. McCoy and I are in agreement."
Goldstein held up his finger to stress his point. "This, ladies and gentlemen, is where the people's case begins to unravel. You can't have a murder without a motive. Mr. McCoy would have you believe Ms. Saunders was an angelic employee who dared to challenge the mighty Luthor Corp. What he failed to tell you was that Chelsea Saunders, by merely having this secretive record, was already in breach of a confidentiality agreement she had signed in good faith as an employee. So what, you might claim, that still doesn't justify murder. I don't dispute that. What I do object to is the use of this FedEx package as a magical silver bullet that somehow proves had Lex had all the reason in the world to kill Ms. Saunders."
"Luthor Corp. is a multinational corporation with branches as far flung as Sydney and Buenos Aires ... with tens of thousands of employees. Ms. Saunders might have thought of herself as a virtuous whistleblower, but let's be honest here. Lex Luthor was only in town to observe, not personally direct, a project in Wall Street. If his signature was required, it would be for countless of mundane, record-keeping tasks. Of the hundreds of employees, clients, politicians and lobbyists he had to meet over the course of his stay here, do you really think Chelsea Saunders would have even registered in his mind? Yes, he did meet her for lunch. He's met just about every executive in the New York office. Is it possible Lex could have met briefly with her on the night of her murder. He was her boss, she was working on an important project, so why not? The death of Ms. Saunders is a crime. Lex having lunch with her is not. Wallace Johnson, by his own actions, is a cowardly thug who's trying to escape justice. Lex remained in New York and cooperated with the investigation, even as he was being labeled a material witness."
Goldstein paused in the middle of the courtroom. "Lex Luthor, if he's to be blamed for anything, it's for perhaps being not as thorough in the selection of his security. That's a human resources oversight, not a criminal offense. The people haven't conclusively proved that the findings in this package constitute a crime. For all we know, it might be a trade infraction. Well, then, the state should just fine Luthor Corp. and thank them for being upfront with these findings – which they were in the process of revealing ..."
McCoy rolled his eyes in disbelief. That was the lamest argument he had heard so far. How could the murder of Chelsea Saunders be reduced to a human resources oversight?
"The problem with science," Goldstein concluded, "is that it relies on the interpretation of humans, who are fallible. The cops, the lab technicians, the police psychiatrist, the D.A.'s office all work for the state. Was there political direction in the prosecution of Lex Luthor? I'll leave you to come to your own conclusions. This might be harsh to hear, but Chelsea Saunders simply did not matter than much to Luthor Corp. She was an entry level junior exec who had visions of changing the world by betraying her employer. In the process, she crossed this mercenary, Johnson, and found herself way over her head. Her murder, while unfortunate, was not of Lex's doing. It was not of Luthor Corp.'s doing. We've heard no true evidence whatsoever to prove otherwise. The real murderer is still at large. You have no choice but to find Lex not guilty on the count of first-degree murder."
Serena felt nervous. Half an hour earlier, she had pleaded with Jack to proceed cautiously.
"Don't be too severe with Clark Kent," Southerlyn cautioned. "He is Lex's best friend. Clark might be in over his head, but he's not the kind of kid who'll lie about a murder!"
"I think those green meteors might be messing with your objectivity," McCoy remarked. "He is in way over his head. Kent Sr. might be an honest man. Clark Kent is not."
"On what basis have you come to that conclusion?" Southerlyn responded.
"I read his case file from Lowell County sheriff's office," McCoy stated. "Although Clark has not been directly implicated in any crime, his police reports read longer than half the cellmates at Rikers! With all the unexplained deaths, accidents, fires, explosions ... not to mention Luthor involvement at every turn ... it begs the question: is this more than coincidence?"
"So you think Smallville, Metropolis and the state of Kansas are involved in a conspiracy so wide," Southerlyn began, "that they're prepared to thwart a murder trial to keep the truth from ever coming out? C'mon Jack. I expect that sort of talk from Det. Munch, not the executive D.A. of Manhattan."
"I haven't forgotten Chelsea Saunders," McCoy answered, as if anticipating Serena's line of argument. "The folks on the street always root for the underdog. Enron, Martha Stewart, WorldCom? Only their friends believe what they're saying now. The people want to see justice done, no matter how famous the plaintiff is."
"I'm glad we're on the same page," Southerlyn smiled.
She had hoped McCoy wouldn't go after the Luthors' reputation. Lex was an unruly youth, but he was a smarter and less reckless adult. Lionel was always ruthless with corporate enemies, but that was a desired trait in this brave new world of globalization. Luthor Corp. always had questionable practices – what company didn't? – but the Luthors themselves were still respected in certain circles.
Including those with deep pockets.
McCoy cleared his throat when he began his closing argument. "The defense would have you believe we are prosecuting Lex Luthor for political purposes. That's wrong. We are in agreement that Chelsea Saunders was a victim of circumstance. But, these are circumstances permitted by Luthor Corp.'s senior executive in New York: Alexander Luthor."
"Ms. Saunders did register on Lex's radar. We have two weeks' worth of email between Lex and his friend in Kansas, Clark Kent, indicating that he had a difference of opinion with a junior employee. Chelsea had uncovered questionable shipping orders enroute to the Mediterranean. To parties unknown. Parties which no member of Luthor Corp. – to this day – is prepared to identify. Lionel Luthor has used every legal trick in the book to avoid testifying under oath. Obviously, Lex, as an agent of Luthor Corp., knew the risks involved if federal authorities uncovered the records Chelsea had threatened to expose to the firm's ombudsman. Or to the New York press."
"The defense suggests that Chelsea was in over her head. We don't dispute this. She was fresh out of college, enamoured with a dazzling career in the Big Apple. She was raised to do the right thing. That's not naïve: that is human. She saw that her employer was doing something questionable, and she took the next logical step. She brought up her concerns to her superior, Lex Luthor."
"The ball was in Lex's court," McCoy paused. He brought a stack of papers from beneath the table, and placed each file atop the table – one by one.
"We have dozens of letters and memos," McCoy continued, "indicating Chelsea's futile attempts to draw attention to her concerns about an unusually high volume of chemical shipments departing from Luthor Corp.'s New York warehouses, with ship manifests that seemed to disappear, invoices that were mysteriously misplaced and a corporate culture that hoped that – if they ignored the problem long enough – it would, too, just go away."
"Yes, former US Army Ranger Sgt. Wallace Johnson is wanted as a material witness in the death of Chelsea Saunders. What the people are alleging is that Mr. Johnson did not act out of passion or some contrived scheme to blackmail the Luthors into paying him hush money. Mr. Johnson did not have a motive for killing Chelsea. He was a soldier – trained to kill. Without remorse. He did his duty, but not for Uncle Sam. This is not a case of a human resources oversight. It's not even a case of criminal negligence. Over the past few weeks, we've demonstrated that Lex Luthor and his underlings did everything in their power to undermine and discredit Chelsea, to no avail."
Lex focused on the table in front of him. His expression gave nothing away. As if he was plotting his next chess move. Be careful, Mr. McCoy, he grimaced. You're one or two moves away from being checkmated.
"The defense would have you believe that I plan to paint a nationwide conspiracy designed to protect Luthor Corp.'s interests and political friends. Nothing could be further from the truth ..."
Lex raised an eyebrow in surprise. Surely, he thought, Mr. McCoy would want to leverage the baggage Lionel Luthor carried whenever Luthor Corp. was in legal trouble.
"There is no Deep Throat, no silver bullet that will convict Lex Luthor of Murder One. It's a daunting case. Evidence proves that Johnson was in the building at the time of the murder. So was Lex Luthor. DNA samples prove that Johnson was in Chelsea's room at the time of the murder. Security video shows Lex entering the building during that timeframe. The murder weapon has been found. The bloodied overalls contained both Chelsea's and Wallace Johnson's DNA. This is where the defense's case begins to fray at the edges. Wallace Johnson was not acting of his own accord. He wasn't smart enough to."
Lex sat up in his chair, studying McCoy's face. He actually believes that I am guilty, Lex feared.
"Where was Mr. Johnson's motive?" McCoy demanded. "We've not seen a single shred of evidence indicating why Johnson should kill Chelsea. She knew nothing about his military past. For all she knew, he was just a lobby security guard with the name badge 'Jenkinson' on his uniform. He was AWOL, with an JAG warrant hanging over him. Chelsea Saunders knew nothing of this. Then why would Johnson feel the need to kill a woman he never knew?"
"The motive," McCoy raised his voice, "was in the FedEx package. And who knew the damning contents of this package? One man. One man who had the power to support Chelsea's allegations. You see, Lex Luthor had the option. He had the option to march into the company ombudsman's office with Ms. Saunders and uncover the sordid details about those mysterious chemical shipments. He had the option to challenge the hiring of a Wallace Jenkinson, one of many aliases used by a disgraced soldier on the run. Lex had many options to diffuse this problem, and chose to do nothing. Theologians would call that a sin of omission: committing a wrong by failing to act."
McCoy paused in front of Lex, who glared directly at him. Check, Jack, he thought.
"What he did," McCoy concluded, "according to the laws of this state ... is first-degree murder. By not lifting a finger, he allowed Wallace Johnson to kill Chelsea Saunders, thus preventing her from exposing the company's dirty secrets. But Johnson was sloppy. He left a trail of clues for authorities. These are not the actions of a man bent on committing premeditated murder. These are the mistakes of a cowardly fool who had no idea of the significance of the FedEx package. Otherwise, why would he not try to destroy the evidence: the knife, the overalls and the package? He knew he was a dead man the moment Chelsea died, so he panicked and fled. Killing two NYPD officers were spontaneous acts, which could only worsen his predicament. Was he afraid of the MPs out to arrest him, the FBI, or the Luthors themselves? Only he knows that answer."
"Lex stopped at Chelsea's condo to try to convince her to drop her plans to expose the company's faults. Security camera tapes confirm he was in the building the night of the murder. The package was there. He would have seen it on the table. She was adamant. Luthor Corp.'s corporate culture despises disloyalty. Chelsea, in his eyes, was disloyal. Chelsea was prepared to betray her company for interests he couldn't understand. No doubt, he was livid. The only one who knew the significance of the package wasn't Wallace Johnson. It wasn't Clark Kent, the last person Lex confided in before Chelsea's murder. It wasn't anyone at Luthor Corp.'s Wall Street offices. It was Lex Luthor. Only he knew the potential of those records to become a scandal: one that could de-value the company's stock, scare investors and – worst of all – rob him of his future empire. The package was the motive. Wallace Johnson was the opportunity. When Chelsea rejected his final warning, he punished her. Not by dismissal, but by murder ... conveniently using a man on the run as his almost perfect alibi."
"Unfortunately for Lex, he couldn't supervise how sloppily Johnson had handled the slaying. Fortunately for Chelsea, his sloppiness provided the NYPD with all the evidence they needed. Johnson was merely a tool, a weapon to be used and discarded. There is only one truth in this case: a young woman was murdered to conceal a secret. Find Lex Luthor guilty on all counts. Only then can we be assured that Chelsea Saunders' tragic death was not in vain."
Lex held his hand over his mouth and whispered something to Goldstein. Lex had hoped McCoy would try to spin a fantastic conspiracy tale stretching all the way to Kansas and Washington, which the defense could then refute – fact by fact.
Instead, McCoy was trying to pin the entire killing on him, by suggesting that Lex somehow created the circumstances that led to Chelsea's murder. He did call Clark that night, but only to describe his frustration with a junior employee. Clark was an innocent party, and he regretted that his best friend was involved in this mess.
McCoy was right about one detail. The crisis had reached the breaking point that night. He was hesitant about confronting this naïve girl, who only saw the world as Good or Bad. I was there to rescue her career, he told himself, before Lionel could ruin her future.
I was there to protect her.
What happened during that heated argument at Versailles Condos haunted him, as he now faced the possibility of life in prison, or the executioner's needle.
Judge Fitzwater adjusted his black-rimmed glasses and turned to the jury. "You are now charged with the task of determining the guilt or innocence of Lex Luthor on three counts: murder in the first-degree, conspiracy to commit murder and obstruction of justice. You are to be sequestered until you arrive at a decision on all counts. The court thanks you for your service."
The pounding of a gavel ended Lex Luthor's struggles to plead his case. Now, he yielded control of his fate to strangers. A jury of ordinary citizens who didn't know him, and who cared even less about his future ambitions.
Ambitions that could remain unrealized forever, if he was found guilty of murder.
He hated it: the loss of control over his destiny. Now I know how Napoleon felt as a prisoner on the island of Elba, he thought. Before Napoleon marched to a glorious battle – on his terms – at Waterloo.
Lex snickered. It's not checkmate, Jack McCoy.
Not yet.
[International waters, Caribbean Sea – 100 nautical miles SSW of the Dominican Republic]
Wallace Johnson never knew what hit him.
He had commandeered a small two-engine Cessna plane in the Florida Keys. He knew he had to leave the States. Forever. He had dishonoured his uniform by failing to report to his base three years ago. He had killed two New York cops: one, a rookie. The other, some nameless pilot who tried to struggle with him over the skies of New Jersey. It was them or me, Wallace grinned. I was trained to kill. That's what I'm good at.
But he also knew that there would be no mercy for him, if he was caught. He went underground, avoiding the main traffic arteries – only surfacing in Florida two days ago.
He relied on his military skills to evade capture. If he had stayed in that Virginia motel two hours longer, the feds would have snatched him. He was lucky.
But his luck was running out. He was only supposed to scare Chelsea Saunders. If that meant threatening physical harm, he had been authorized to do so. She was just some dumb blonde who wanted to make a name for herself, he thought.
At least that was what the colonel had suggested. If he was successful – and Chelsea backed off her crusade – he was promised a new identity, safe passage to a safe tropical nation and more money than he knew what to do with.
On that terrible night in November, Wallace had spotted Lex's bald head from the rear. He had just left the elevator. Why was Lex here, he wondered. He remained in the stairwell beside her suite, listening as Lex and Chelsea began to argue.
"Mark my words, Ms. Saunders," Lex had emphasized that night. "If you choose to break your confidentiality agreement with Luthor Corp., there will be consequences."
"Is that a threat?" Saunders had insisted.
"Consider it a final word of caution," Lex had stated. Then he left.
Wallace wasn't sure what exactly Chelsea knew that was so dangerous – not only to the Luthors, but to the 'national security of the United States', as the colonel had put it.
That was when Wallace lost focus.
Corporate traitors could be understood, he felt. It's a society of individuals, with selfish needs.
But traitors to the American republic? Since he enlisted at 18, Wallace was taught to uphold the American values of liberty and the pursuit of happiness. There was no middle ground. You either stood for Old Glory, or you didn't. Love it, or leave it, he believed.
If Chelsea was going to put the country at risk through her actions, then she was a traitor. A threat. Three thousands lives disappeared on September 11. That could never happen again. His own army might see him as a renegade, but he saw himself as a patriot.
One who would do anything to defend his country, even if the country turned her back on him.
This threat had to be eliminated.
He had received a duplicate master set of keys the day before. Anonymously. It would be useful, as he unlocked Chelsea Saunders' door.
Chelsea, that little wench, was a fighter. She swung her fist to strike him. Instinctively, he blocked it, then shoved her to the ground.
She lunged at him, perhaps realizing that her life was in danger.
One blow to the head and she slumped to the ground. Her moans of pain threatened to raise the alarm.
He had slain countless foes with a slice to the carotid artery. No man could survive the loss of blood. It was silent. Quick.
It was automatic. One stroke of the knife and Chelsea was dead.
Then Wallace realized what he had just done. He wasn't supposed to kill her. Only scare her.
But he was a soldier. Intimidation wasn't his training. Killing was.
Reality crashed around him. The colonel warned him to do exactly what this Luthor fellow wanted, to the letter. Lionel or Lex? Both of them? He didn't know. It was too late.
No more new identity, no safe passage, no money. If you screw up, the colonel said, don't come back. Get lost before he finds you. No one defies Luthor and survives for long.
Wallace had heard stories of other agents, other mercenaries who crossed a Luthor. They simply disappeared.
He would not be one of them.
When he fled the Florida Keys, he knew he would never see his beloved country again. He was saddened, as he flew past a flagpole with the Stars and Stripes. How he had loved serving the nation, once.
But he could start anew. Other disgraced soldiers found new lives as soldiers of fortune. The world was full of people needing men like him to fight for them ... at the right price. A modern-day privateer. That was what he knew.
He flew below US Coast Guard radar, landing on an off-coast island near the Dominican Republic. He had stashed some money in Costa Rica. If he could get there, anything was possible.
The weather was overcast as he crossed the Caribbean Sea. He thought he heard a thunderstorm.
He was wrong.
His colonel had placed a call to Norfolk, VA. HQ of the US Navy – Atlantic Fleet. There was a NATO exercise in the Caribbean. The destroyer, USS Brandywine, was practicing manoeuvres, with live surface-to-air Patriot missles. They fired upon dozens of dummy targets.
A momentary blip, then another target appeared.
"Is the exercise over, sir?" the junior seaman asked.
"Negative," the officer stated. "Word from Norfolk is the exercise is not over. Commence firing upon target on my order."
The hydraulic system raised the Patriot missile to the proper trajectory.
"Missile primed and ready, sir," the seaman replied. The blip on the radar didn't seem like another dummy target, but he was new to this post and wasn't sure.
"Fire," the officer announced. The missile screeched away from the destroyer, zipped through the crisp tropical air and sped relentlessly towards its target.
It would not miss.
When Wallace realized that the rumbling was a missile trailing behind him, he tried to steer away instinctively. But he was a soldier, not an Air Force pilot.
The explosion shredded the tiny plane into a thousand fragments. Scorched debris dotted the glorious horizon, as piece by burnt piece littered the Caribbean waters.
The secrets of Wallace Johnson – warrior, Luthor sentry, murderer, cop killer – would remain buried along with the sunken pirate wrecks of the past.
The seaman gasped. "Sir, I think that wasn't a dummy target."
He was right. The target was no dummy, only an unlucky fool who dared to cross a powerful man.
Half a continent away, atop a tower in Metropolis, Lionel Luthor listened to the phone receiver.
"He was one of my own," the colonel lamented. "A fool perhaps, but a true soldier."
"He knew the consequences of failure," Lionel explained. "He had no instructions to kill. He defied our orders. There are penalties for disobedience. He was damned, whether or not we did anything about it. He tempted fate ... and lost. Chelsea Saunders would have been out of the picture eventually. Her untimely death, while regrettable, will have spared this nation a crisis that could shake the foundations of the republic. If the citizenry knew to what lengths its own government would go to ensure its global superiority ..."
"Sometimes secrecy is the best defense," the colonel concluded.
"At last," Lionel mumbled. "You understand. Like those New Englanders hiding in the bush, waiting for Cornwallis' redcoats so long ago, a patriot's work is often in silence. In the shadows. Such is the price of nationhood."
The colonel would become a general, to be granted a chair at the table when the spear of America would pierce Iraq's heart one last time.
And Lionel Luthor smiled, relishing his role as a shadowy protector of his nation's darker secrets. There were no medals he wanted, no public adulation he sought.
He was content in his self-indulgent belief that his actions would ensure the dominance of his country. He was not a man of faith, but of results. The masses could shop 'til they dropped, consume products and spend their hard-earned salaries ... because men like him gave them the freedom to act.
They were free, because he believed he had willed it.
It was an empowering feeling. Why seek public office when he held more power than most men in Washington? Many of them owed their seats to his influence, his money and his favours.
And if these actions turned a profit for Luthor Corp., well, that's fine too.
The intercom crackled. "Mr. Luthor, your car is waiting."
The eye doctor, Lionel grumbled. He grasped his walking cane and slowly walked out of his office.
He remembered a summer vacation in New Hampshire. It's motto: Live Free or Die.
He smiled again. In order for us to live free, some people have to die.
Lionel hummed America the Beautiful as he entered the elevator. He almost forgot that his son was on trial for murder.