Beyond Justice (18 page)

"I haven’t done anything."

"We’ll see if the jury sees it that way, won’t we?"

"I thought you’d gotten to know me, my family.  Made me out into some kind of national hero.  You know I couldn’t have done it.  But now, you’ve convicted me in the press."

"Nothing I wrote was libelous, our legal department vetted that last article.  It was just an op-ed piece, my own opinions."

"This must be great material for your novels."

"I strive for authenticity."  A dark smile eased onto his face.  "Tell me, Sam.  How did it feel doing your daughter, just before she—"

I caught him by the throat.  Thrust forward with such force that his back smacked against the plate-glass window of a coffee shop.  I clamped down around his throat.  "You sick bastard!"

He tried to speak, but my grip choked off his words.  But even as he tried to pull my fingers off his throat, he managed to keep a smug demeanor.  With his eyes, he mocked me.  When they rolled back and he began to lose consciousness I decided to let go.  The writer gasped like a trout on the dry ground.

"You... are such... a...a freak!" he said, holding his neck.  He touched the back of his head then held up his blood-stained fingers for me to see.

The Deputy Amarillas took hold of my shoulder.  I pulled Brent to his feet and shoved him back against the window.

"Problem here?" Amarillas said.

No words.  For a moment I actually thought, since I was about to get convicted of first degree murder, they would only have to add another count to my charges.  Might as well get my pound of flesh.

Brent waved Amarillas off.  "It’s okay.  Sam was just showing me a move from his Tae Kwan Do class.  Just got a little carried away.  Didn't we, Sam?" 

With his hand conspicuously near his gun, the deputy looked to me but I didn’t answer.  The anger hadn’t yet subsided, but I was ashamed.  What had I become?  A small crowd pretending not to be looking dispersed. Might as well have made a public confession to the crimes I'd been charged with.  

I glared at Brent then started back to the corner where I was supposed to be waiting for Dave.  Where was he anyway?  I crossed the street while the deputy asked Brent if he was all right.  Brent nodded, smiled and smoothed out his shirt.  He shot me a look, grinned, shook his head and flagged down a cab.  Amarillas decided to stay with me until Dave arrived.

After calling one or two more times, I only got Dave’s voicemail.  I didn’t have Lorraine’s cell phone number and no one was picking up at the church.   He was almost an hour late now and I was starving.  So I bought a hot dog and sat on the court steps waiting.  

A half hour later, Dave called.

"Where are you? "

"Five minutes from you.  Sam, I’m really sorry...  about the delay."  His voice was shaking.

"What’s wrong?" He didn’t answer.  "Dave?"

"Something’s happened."

Chapter Thirty-One

Whatever had happened, it must have been serious.  Dave stared over the steering wheel and out into space. 

"Want me to drive?" I said.  He nodded and started to climb over to the passenger seat.  The car started to roll forward when he took his foot off the brakes. "Dave!"

Startled, he jerked his head up and pulled up the parking brake. 

"
Definitely
better let me drive," I said. 

Another vacuous nod. 

Five minutes later we were heading back north on the 163.

"What’s happened, Dave?  Are you all right?"  At first, barely a sound came out when he moved his lips.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  "There was a fire."

"Fire?  Where?"

"Church."

"Andy called around Ten O’clock.  Said the church had been vandalized.  Last night someone scrawled in red, on the doors,
"Their blood is on your hands too
!"  Windows were smashed.  They trashed the sanctuary."

"Oh my God."

He continued.  "When I got there today, I was expecting to find broken glass, overturned chairs.  Instead, there were fire fighters trying to put out a huge blaze.  Andy had gone back to get something from his car.  He heard an explosion.  Turned around and the entire building was up in flames."

"Anyone hurt?"

Dave choked back tears and nodded.  "They couldn’t get to her in time.  She was in the kitchen preparing sandwiches for the homeless shelter."

"Who?"

"All her life, all she wanted was to serve people.  To show them God’s love."

"Dave, who was it?"

He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head tersely.  "She never hurt anyone.  Never an unkind word." I wanted to pull over onto the shoulder as we merged with the I-15, but the traffic was moving too quickly. 

"Who was it?" I asked, again.

He buried his
face in his hand, took a deep, tearful breath. "Lorraine."

___________________

As long as I’d known him, I never saw Dave like this.  He was always the model of strength and resolve.  With hardly a word since entering his house, he went straight to the living room, kicked a vase over and fell into the sofa, his head in his hands.

  Not knowing what to say, I sat across from him and kept silent.  In the short time that Lorraine and I got acquainted, she treated me like a son.  I never ate enough, was getting too skinny, never wore enough.  A casserole awaited me in Dave’s kitchen, whenever she came over for Thursday night Bible studies.

I sank into the cold leather and remembered her warm smile, fair hair, and eyes wrinkled by years of smiling.  If she had no other influence on me, it was her joy—indefatigable joy.  And that, she had in spades.  Though her life had not been an easy one, she always counted her blessings.  "Joy, my dear Samuel," she once said, straightening my collar, "is not the absence of pain, but the presence of the almighty."

I missed her already.  Didn’t realize it until I noticed her Bible resting on the coffee table.  Its faded cover must have been black, years ago.  She often left it behind after Bible study and came back for it the next day.  Only this time, she wouldn’t.

For what felt like an hour, Dave and I sat there, the only sounds, our breathing, the ticking of an old wall clock, and eventually, children returning from school and playing and laughing out in the cul de sac.

"Is there anything I can do?"

He shook his head.

"Dave," I said, unable to form my thoughts. "Why?"

"Who knows?"  he sighed.  "We’ve asked this since Cain killed Abel."

"Why God lets bad things happen to good people?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"We can’t know exactly what God had in mind when he allows the wicked deeds of evil people to ravage the lives of the innocent."  His words were strong, but a look of anger kept at bay loomed behind his eyes.  "But I keep hanging on to the belief that if we knew the future, we’d likely take the same road God set before us, if we had to do it all over again."

"Even with the death of loved ones? You take a lot on faith."

"My entire life is based on faith.  That, and the knowledge that death is not the end.  Everything changes when you see that."

"So you think God allowed all this tragedy for a greater purpose?"

Dave’s eyes fell to the floor. 
Please, don’t spout some inane platitude.
   Finally he said, "Right now, I can’t see it.  Can’t make any sense of it.  It doesn’t seem fair.  To Lorraine, to our church.  All we did was what Christ taught— serve and show love to the needy, the downtrodden.  Why did God allow this to happen?  Honestly?  I don’t feel it’s right."

"How
do
you feel then?" As if I had to ask.

"Angry!  Angry at the thugs who torched the church.  Angry at the criminal justice system that isn’t lifting a finger to find Jenn and Bethie’s killer—now that they have you." He punctuated the thought with a fist on the arm of the sofa.

Settling down, Dave sank into the upholstery, rubbing the back of his neck.  Calmer now, he said, "I have to admit, I’m angry at God too."

"Aren’t you afraid He’ll strike you down with lightning or something?"

He shook his head.  "We’ve been here before.  God can certainly take
my
anger.  He understands what I’ve been through.  And despite all the pain, He’s been faithful."

"That’s not the image of God I grew up with."  To me, God was this monolithic, celestial kill-joy that sat in a judge’s robe with a powdered wig.  Lightning bolts shot out of his gavel and he was basically ready to condemn the slightest hint of wrong-doing.  The whole world was doomed because of this harsh and angry, all powerful being." This was the god of my father, Ian Hudson—a lying, cheating wife beater who only invoked God’s name to control and abuse people.

Dave picked up a picture from the end table—his young wife, holding their baby.  He touched the photo with tenderness, then covered his eyes. 

I stared out the window, giving him some time to recompose.  Dave set the picture back down.  He glanced over at the wall clock, wiped his eye and stood up.  "I have to go to the sheriff’s office to answer some questions."

"Want me to come with you?"

"Thanks, but no.  Lots of people to talk to.  I won’t be back till late."

"You okay?" I asked.

Letting out a slow breath, Dave finally looked me square in the eyes.

"Yeah.  It’s going to be fine."

A chill bolted up my spine.

After he left for the sheriff’s, I sat in the kitchen and brought myself to eat a long overdue lunch—Lorraine’s potato casserole, left over from last night.  I slid the pan into the microwave with reverence and wondered if I should say a silent prayer for the old girl.  Her death had all but eclipsed the blade of the guillotine that still loomed over my neck.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The decision to take the stand came after hours of pacing, hand-wringing and mental volleyball.  With the damning DNA test results coming in the rebuttal, there wasn’t much we could do but cast wide net of reasonable doubt and hope that I appear sympathetic before the jury.

But would they believe me?  What possible explanation could there be for the DNA match?  My case was being charged as a Special Circumstances murder—aggravated assault, rape, rape of a minor—and the state was seeking death by lethal injection`.

Wearing her savvy glasses today, Rachel’s hair was tied back and she sported a sharp navy business suit.  She warned me not to get overly emotional nor detached while testifying.  "Just be yourself." The problem was, over the past few months I’d forgotten who that was.

She leaned against the rail of the jury box such that when I answered her questions, the jurors would get a good look at my face.  I told the whole story from the moment I left for my client meeting until when I ran out into the street, covered in blood and screaming for help.  By the time I was done, I thought for sure there would be at least one juror dabbing her eyes.

Nothing but impassive stares. 

Under oath, I had spoken the truth, poured out my heart, and they weren’t buying it.   I was the last of Rachel’s witnesses.  She had called criminalists, EMS, doctors, members of the Bible study group. 

On cross examination, some of our key witnesses were casually impeached by Kenny Dodd, others torn to shreds by Walden on cross.  Several of them stepped down from the stand in tears.

Now it was my turn.

Walden waited a few seconds after Rachel took her seat.  Then he stood up, buttoned his jacket and approached me. "You stabbed your wife twelve times, then raped your daughter and stabbed her ten times, didn’t you?"

Rachel objected immediately.  He acted as if he didn’t hear.

"Then you went to your son’s room and beat him with his own baseball bat, didn’t you?"

"Objection."

"Sustained."  The judge shook his head but was alarmingly tolerant.

"Isn’t it true that you’d recently moved to Rancho Carmelita, even though the cost of living was a lot higher than expected, that you had reservations about being able to afford it, but your wife believed you could manage?"

"Objection," Rachel said.  "Irrelevant."

"Goes to motive."

"Overruled."

I answered in the affirmative.

"You were having trouble making your monthly bills weren’t you?"

"We managed," I replied.

"In fact, according to an Experian credit report, you have two 30 days on your mortgage and HELOCs, two 30 days on your American Express Card, and a 60 day on the Visa card which you used to buy the kiddy porn."

"Objection!"