A Wicked Snow

Chapter Twenty-one

It would be charitable of anyone to say that the Spruce County Courthouse resembled an oversized hatbox as it squatted on Second and Lewis Avenues in downtown Rock Point, Oregon. It was such an intrinsically ugly edifice. It was a round, postmodern structure with tiled horizontal stripes and rows of windows the size of those found on a Boeing 727. For two weeks, it was to be the home of the Wheaton arson trial. Cars filled the parking lot hours before the first day of the trial—an occurrence not seen since the 1952 trial of a dentist who had drowned his mistress in Lake Joy and weighted her body with brick-filled potato sacks. She was discovered when her left arm tore from its socket and floated to the shore. A sportsman found the wayward limb. Her inscribed wristwatch was still attached to her wrist: I’LL LOVE YOU FOR ETERNITY.

The bricks retrieved with the rest of the body had been the tooth doc’s undoing. The bricks were the remainders of a special order he had used on a two-tiered outdoor barbecue pit built for his backyard. His wife had read the first article on the case that mentioned the yellow bricks and turned her two-timing husband in. The “Yellow Brick Murder,” as it became known, attracted immense press coverage.

But of course, in the world of media vultures that was to come, that level of coverage was dust bunnies. Claire Logan had put Spruce County on the map when she vanished and left twenty bodies on her Christmas tree farm. She had been transformed into an anti-folk hero. In the months since she pulled off the biggest Houdini in criminal history, Claire Logan had become a super-star of the infamous kind. And though she was not going on trial that warm spring day—Marcus Wheaton was—it was still all about her. And as far as most observers could tell, Wheaton was as close as anyone was going to get to Claire Logan.

Spruce County prosecutor Veronica Paine and defense attorney Travis Brinker narrowed the potential jurors from a field of fifty to twelve. Among those sitting on the jury were a high-school biology teacher, a convenience store clerk, an office secretary, a mill manager from Stoneway Paper, and a mill hand. A few smiled at the sight of the mill worker, a strikingly handsome man of twenty-five, and the manager, a cello-shaped fellow with a wisp of smoke-gray hair: Stoneway had just completed a drawn-out labor dispute in February that left both sides pointing the finger. The very idea that representatives from both sides would work together on anything was almost ludicrous. But that’s what they were to do. Seven women and five men were sworn to listen to the evidence and dispatch justice in the biggest crime to hit Spruce County in more than two decades.

As grotesque as the whole affair was and as close to the action as they were, no one in Rock Point really knew any of the victims. In its own bizarre way, that fact allowed them to give their stories, tell their tales, pose for pictures, and shake their heads for the TV cameras. As one high school student told the reporter from the Today show, “Nothing much ever happens around here, so this is kind of fun. Sad, but fun at the same time.”

A single, hunched-over figure had come to watch the trial with the hope that Marcus Wheaton would leave Spruce County a free man. No one paid any attention to the woman in the long woolen skirt, though the day was too warm for such attire. She was in her fifties, with thin, gray hair, the color and texture of bread mold. Her breath smelled of cherry Lifesavers. Obviously the recipient of some kind of reverse makeover, Liz Wheaton, now looking older than her years, kept her head down when she entered the back of the courtroom. In her wallet, she carried grade-school photos of her only son, a man now accused of torching a farm house and setting off the chain of events that shocked the world. She stared at a little photograph of her boy. His eyes had gazed sweetly at the lens. Both eyes. He had not been transformed by tragedy into a one-eyed terror. He was thin, sweet, and, in short, an all-American boy.

“But, sir,” she had said in her only interview, a phoner with a reporter from Omaha who had found her in her old Craftsman-style house in Portland, “my son couldn’t have killed all those people. I raised him right. He wasn’t a bad boy. Never. I think it was that Logan woman who caused this whole affair. If they ever find her, they’ll have the real demon of this sorry occurrence.”

The first glimpse of a defendant always brings a reaction. In the case of Marcus Wheaton, it was a muffled gasp from a courtroom. He had put on a few pounds. One reporter thought he might weigh upward of 250. He wore a dark blue suit with wide lapels and a bias-striped tie that most likely had been a loaner. Liz Wheaton stayed focused on her son as if she were sitting alone on a pinnacle and staring down a long tube. No one else was there to judge her for loving him. She didn’t care what anyone thought.

Wheaton lumbered to the defense table, wrists red from the too-tight cuffs that had been removed by the bailiff just before the jury walked in. From their seats, none of the twelve could see what everyone else could. The defendant was wearing leg shackles.

A yellow pad, a cup of water, a pencil, and an empty manila folder were on the table. Wheaton would never touch any of those objects. Not that day, and never as the trial progressed. For the most part, as he had during voir dire, he stared straight ahead with little discernable emotion. Once in a while he looked out of the courtroom toward the tiny airplane-like window panels.

“Maybe he’s looking for Claire,” one woman mused as she put away her crossword puzzle and fumbled for change for the vending machines during the morning break.

“Yeah, maybe he’s hoping she’ll show up,” her trial-watching companion said. “He loved her, you know, and my sister knows someone who briefly worked with him at Icicle Creek Farm, and he said the guy’s been in love with Mrs. Logan for years. Do anything for her.”

“Well he shouldn’t have done this!”

“Guess so.”

Defense attorney Travis Brinker was a young man, no more than twenty-six. His face had the kind of roundness associated with a fat person, though he was trim and physically fit. His skin was silky smooth with no evidence that decent whiskers could sprout from its glistening surface. But that didn’t stop the strawberry-blond Brinker—a wispy caterpillar rested under his ski jump nose. He was sweet and nervous. Pitted against Veronica Paine, the young man clearly had his work cut out for him.

Many thought Paine fit her name. The defense lawyers around the cavernous halls of the Spruce County Courthouse called her Veronica Paine-in-the-ass. The moniker wasn’t original, but it suited her just fine. She was no-nonsense and abrupt and she never gave the other side one bit of wiggle room. Paine was not unattractive by any means. Her hair was a glossy and thick mass of chestnut twisted up onto her 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 the southwest side of the place, I saw him.”

“Him?”

“Yes,” he said. “The defendant. I saw the defendant, Marcus Wheaton.”

“The defendant?”

“Objection. He’s already said so,” Travis Brinker said, standing. “Asked and answered.” Brinker’s client was impassive. Some wondered if Wheaton had any other expressions at all. His good eye was as blank as a sprayed and wiped chalkboard. Judge Wells sustained the objection and prodded Paine to move on.

“What, if anything, was the defendant doing?” she asked.

“He was throwing things in his truck and gunning it out of there.”

Over the next six days, Paine called her witnesses as though she was creating one of those construction-paper chains; each person was linked to the one before him or her and all led back to Wheaton. The manager from the Portland floral supplier who had sold the flocking material; the FBI chemist who identified the traces found on Wheaton and the charred piano; the firemen and the sheriff’s personnel who had recovered the evidence of arson; the deputies who picked up Wheaton the night of the blaze; and others. Link after link, a connection was made. Point A was Wheaton and point B was the fire.

And then there were the exhibits. The crashed piano had been reconstructed by a team of scientists and carpenters in an FBI lab in Virginia. Its appearance brought gasps when brought into Judge Wells’s courtroom. Blackened keys, wires spraying forth like a broken box spring. It had been marked with small white-and-red self-adhesive tags with letters and numbers indicating where evidence had been logged. Its broken and missing keys looked like a hillbilly’s malicious grin.

But nothing matched the final piece of evidence, which had been argued over by the lawyers for weeks. Brinker thought that State’s Exhibit No. 25 was exceedingly prejudicial. Paine argued that she wasn’t bringing the exhibit for any other reason than the lab analysis, which recovered cellulose fibers that matched what had been vacuumed from Wheaton’s clothes.

Two pairs of boy’s shoes that had burned and melted were entered into evidence as State’s Exhibit No. 25. She called upon Jeff Bauer to identify the Buster Browns as being among the items removed from the arson site. Bauer, dressed in a fashionable gray chalk-stripe suit and black wingtips, looked handsome and confident. He spoke in a clear, decisive voice.

“Yes,” he said, “these are the shoes that I recovered from Icicle Creek Farm.”

“How can you be sure?”

He poked his forefinger into the interior of a shoe. Triangular pieces the size of a dime had been snipped from the leather for the lab.

“I can see my initials and the date,” he said, pointing to inside one of the shoes. “Right here.”

Nothing was admitted about who specifically had worn the shoes. It wasn’t necessary. Those familiar with the case, which included just about everyone with a TV or newspaper delivery, knew that they had belonged to Danny and Erik Logan. Everyone knew that the boys had been incinerated and only the piano’s shield-like form had protected their shoes from complete annihilation.

The same chemist who had authenticated the lab work on the piano returned to the witness box to go over the microscopic and chemical analysis of the shoes. Traces of a fake snow product were found on both pairs.

“We determined the brand—Mighty White,” he said. “It was recalled two years ago because of its extremely flammable nature. It had been the suspected source of fires in fourteen states. Four deaths, only, thank God.”

If the shoes were bullets aimed at the jury’s hearts, they scored a direct hit. One woman, Juror Five, let a tear roll down her cheek.

Paine had one more witness. It was the girl who had lost everything: her mother, her brothers, and her home.

“Call Hannah Logan!” she said.