“Meaning?”
“There’s a chance he’ll charge the driver with something very serious and leave it at that.”
Hannah considered the possibilities. “But then there’s a chance Brian Wesley will get off. Go free. Is that right?”
Carol’s voice was quiet. “That’s right.”
Hannah resumed pacing. “Why hasn’t something been done about this?”
“Drunk driving, you mean? We’re trying, Mrs. Ryan. That’s what Mothers Against Drunk Drivers is all about.”
“I want to help.” Hannah’s heart was fluttering about in her chest. Whatever it takes. “Tell me what to do.” Hannah paced toward the dining room table and set the articles down.
Carol drew a deep breath. “Well, most of our efforts focus on public awareness. If we can make people more aware of the consequences, we can accomplish several things.”
“I’m listening.”
“We can reduce drunk driving, for one thing. You’ve heard of our campaigns. ‘Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.’ ‘Be a Designated Driver.’ ‘Tie one on,’ which is our red ribbon program.”
“I’ve seen those. Tied around car antennas, you mean?”
“Right. We pass them out at our office and at various storefronts. People tie them on to show a united force in the war against drunk driving.”
“I had no idea … it’s so …”
“Organized? Yes, it has to be.”
“And the key is public awareness?”
“Right. It stops a percentage of drunk drivers, but it also educates the public.”
“The public?”
“Yes. Jurors are chosen from the public.”
The words sank in, and Hannah nodded. Of course. She scribbled the word juror and underlined it several times. “I get it. The more people who understand, the less likely a jury is to let a drunk driving defendant go free.”
“Exactly.”
Hannah tapped her pen on the notepad. “You say public awareness, and I picture television ads and billboards. I guess I don’t see how I can help.”
“We have something called a victim impact panel, Mrs. Ryan. Three or four people who’ve been directly affected by drunk driving travel to schools and local government meetings and make presentations.”
Hannah felt tears forming in her eyes, and suddenly her voice was too choked to speak. After a moment of silence, Carol gently continued. “We encourage panel members to bring pictures, their loved one’s favorite clothing, anything that will make what has happened more real.”
Tears slid down Hannah’s cheeks and she sniffed softly. “I could do that, Mrs. Cummins.” She paused. “I will do that. When can we meet?”
“Call me Carol. And we can meet soon.” The woman’s voice was filled with compassion, and Hannah knew she had another ally. “I think we should attend the hearing tomorrow. Are you free?”
Hannah felt an ache in her gut—and a hole in her heart. Tom was gone. Alicia, too. Jenny was back in school, and the two of them barely spoke. Was she free? She shook her head. Her calendar would be open the rest of her life. The only thing that mattered was getting Brian Wesley behind bars. Now … now there was a way to make that happen.
She could tell people what had happened to Tom and Alicia. And maybe, if she worked hard enough, she would do more than put Brian Wesley away. Maybe she would change drunk driving laws forever.
She exhaled sadly. “Yes. I’m open. And please … call me Hannah.”
“Okay, Hannah. The hearing is at ten. Judge Rudy Horowitz is presiding. Let’s meet outside the courtroom at quarter ’til.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I’ll introduce you to Mr. Bronzan. You need to talk to him, see what he wants you to do before you get involved in a victim impact panel.”
“All right.”
“Oh … and if you could, bring a small photograph of Tom and Alicia. I have a pin with the Mothers Against Drunk Drivers’ logo. We’ll put their picture inside, and you can wear it anytime there’s a hearing.”
Hannah was silent, but she couldn’t stop the single sob from slipping out.
Carol’s voice was compassionate. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I know it’s hard. But every bit helps. Sometimes in all the legal maneuvering, the victims are forgotten.”
Hannah nodded and gulped back what felt like a torrent of tears. “I’ll bring the pictures.”
Carol paused. “No one knows your personal pain, Hannah, but that dark place you’re in? I’ve been there.”
Hannah’s shoulders slumped. She hadn’t thought about it before, but it made sense. Carol must have lost someone in a drunk driving accident, too. She closed her eyes tightly, her heart heavier than before. “Thanks, Carol. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The conversation ended, and Hannah replaced the phone on its base.
Pictures of Tom and Alicia.
Hannah drew a steadying breath and remained motionless, bracing herself against the kitchen counter as she stared distantly through the living room window into the backyard. They had lived in this house for fifteen years, ever since Tom had finished his residency. The swing set stood where it had since Tom and she assembled it one Christmas back when the girls were four and six.
She studied the swings, and she could see Alicia, her long, honey-colored hair flowing down her back in a single ponytail. As a child, Alicia had spent hours on that swing set. Hannah could remember working in the kitchen, making dinner and passing the time watching her little girl swing back and forth, smiling and singing. She was such a happy little girl.
The image faded, and Hannah padded slowly across the living room to the bookcase and her collection of photo albums. She examined the dates on the side of each until she found the most recent. She took it from the shelf and ran her hand over its cover. Just as she was about to open it, her eyes fell on another album, one from more than a decade ago.
Hannah smiled sadly. She had never been one to toss photographs in a drawer and forget about them. Her album collection was complete, intricately organized.
She removed the older album and opened it, turning the pages reverently. As she did, her breath caught in her throat. On the third page was a picture of Alicia, two years old, sitting in a wagon. The little girl was wearing only a diaper, a lopsided grin, and a white plastic cowboy hat. Alicia’s hair had gotten darker as she grew older, but back then her wispy blond locks stuck out from beneath the hat at all angles. Hannah closed her eyes and remembered the moment. She could feel the sun on her shoulders as she snapped the picture … hear Alicia’s voice chirping happily, “I’m a little cowpope! Happy little cowpope!”
Hannah laughed out loud, despite her tears. Alicia had been five before she could say cowpoke correctly.
Another image came to mind then, and Hannah felt her smile disappear. Alicia, two years old, lying on a hospital bed, deathly white and hooked to IV lines. It had happened a month before Jenny was born. Alicia was taking a nap and Hannah, exhausted from the final days of her pregnancy, decided to slip into her own bedroom and lie down.
She woke to the sound of Alicia choking, gasping for breath. She’d raced to the kitchen to find Alicia curled in a ball, lying on the floor, an open bottle of kitchen cleaner nearby. Hannah had forgotten to put it away.
Dear God, help me! Prayer had been a natural response then.
In the end, as he had always done back then, God came through. Doctors observed Alicia through the night and then sent her home the next morning, singing a merry song about flowers and sunshine as she skipped to the family car.
Hannah shut the photo album, set it aside, and covered her face with her hands. She wept then as she hadn’t since the day of the collision. “Why?” she shouted. “Why, God?”
She cried out again and again, releasing the anger and frustration and gut-wrenching grief that grew deep within her. Why would God watch over Alicia when she was two, only to walk away from her when she was fifteen? As hard as she tried, Hannah couldn’t under
stand why God had stopped listening to her … why he had turned his back.
“What did—I ever do—to deserve this?” Hannah was sobbing too hard to catch her breath.
Eventually, her sobbing grew quieter, and she stared at the picture of Alicia as her mind drifted. Her favorite hymn came to mind, and Hannah found herself humming along. “Great is thy faithfulness, great is thy faithfulness, morning by morning new mercies I see. All I have needed thy hand–”
Hannah jerked, realizing what she was doing, what she was saying. Stop! She angrily forced the song from her mind. It was a horrible song, full of lies. The Lord was not faithful; the mornings were without mercy, without any hope or reason for moving beyond the edge of the bed. And everything she had ever needed from God he had taken from her the day Tom and Alicia died.
Hannah’s eyes stung with fresh tears. The words of that hymn used to describe the perfect life she and Tom shared. The organist had played it at their wedding. The choir had sung it when Alicia—and then Jenny—was dedicated. If ever there was a hymn Hannah had been able to sing from her heart it was “Great Is Thy Faithfulness.” Now the song was nothing more than a painful reminder of how God had let her down. Great was thy faithfulness.
No matter what else might happen, she would never, ever sing that song again.
She was still sniffling softly, still holding the photo albums, trying to find the strength to search for a picture of Tom and Alicia that she could take to tomorrow’s hearing, when she heard the front door open.
“Mom?” It was Jenny.
“In here.” Hannah wiped at her tears. She heard her daughter traipse through the house and set her books on the kitchen counter. Then she watched as the girl poked her head into the living room. Poor Jenny. She looked as though she had aged a decade since the accident—and Hannah saw something unspeakably sad in her eyes.
Before Hannah could say anything, Jenny looked intently at her face … then at the photo albums on her lap. Rolling her eyes, Jenny sighed softly. “Never mind.” She turned and headed for the stairs.
“Jenny, wait.” Hannah stood, too weak from grief to move.
The only reply was the sound of footsteps making their way up the stairs, toward the bedrooms.
“Jenny! I want to talk to you!” New tears filled Hannah’s eyes, and she collapsed back onto the floor, her legs curled under her.
You’re losing her, too. Hannah closed her eyes against the small voice. Go. Talk to her before it’s too late.
She shook her head. She wouldn’t chase Jenny. The girl was being selfish and insensitive; if she didn’t want to talk, then so be it. She grabbed a tissue from the nearby end table and blew her nose. Then she put the older photo album away and pulled the newer one onto her lap.
“Sometimes the victims are forgotten.” Hannah clenched her teeth and searched the collection of photos. Tom and Alicia would not be forgotten. Not as long as she had anything to do with the court proceedings.
She drew a deep breath and scanned the photographs until she found a shot of Tom and Alicia. They were grinning into the camera as they worked over the gas grill during a family barbecue at the beginning of summer. It was a close-up and probably the best recent picture of the two of them.
She ran a finger over their faces. Tom had said he didn’t know how he’d get through either of his daughter’s weddings. Especially after Bob Carlisle’s song “Butterfly Kisses” became popular. Any time he heard the piece, Tom would beat his chest once, just above his heart. “Ughh. Kill me with that song. When my girls get married, they’re gonna have to pour me out of the church in a bucket. Better buy stock in Kleenex while there’s still time.”
There was no need now, no weddings to dread, no oldest daughter to walk down the aisle. Poor Jenny, baby. One day you’ll have to make that walk alone. Hannah worked her fingers under the plastic sleeve and removed the photograph, setting it on the table next to the tissues.
She flipped forward a few pages until her eyes fell on another photo, this one of her and Tom taken that past June. They were atop a pair of rented horses, about to ride through the Santa Monica Mountains. Hannah closed her eyes, and she could feel the cool ocean fog against her skin; her senses were filled with the salty summer air and the sweet smell of horse sweat as it drifted up from beneath the saddle. They had ridden for several hours before returning and driving to Malibu Park, where they had sat side by side on a bench overlooking the deep green canyon and shared peanut butter sandwiches.
Hannah kept her eyes closed. Everything about that moment seemed so real …
Was she still there, sitting beside Tom, waiting for him to tell her it was time to go home? Maybe every devastating thing that had happened since then had only been part of a terrible nightmare.…
She waited—and heaviness settled over her. No. She was not at Malibu Park. And Tom would never sit beside her again.
In this life …
She shut the reassurance out. There was no comfort in dwelling on thoughts of eternity. If there was an eternity. Today was all that mattered.
And today, Tom and Alicia were gone.
She sighed and opened her eyes, allowing her gaze to fall on the picture once again. Tom looked so young and alive, so handsome. He had pulled his horse up to hers and casually draped an arm around her shoulders. Then she’d handed her camera to a stable boy.
“Memories for another day,” she’d said and Tom had groaned. He had always teased her about her excessive photo taking.
“Here we go. Dan Rather, capturing the moment for posterity.” He raised an eyebrow and met the grinning gaze of the stable boy. “Don’t laugh. Your turn will come, boy.” Then he grinned at Hannah. “One day I’ll have to build us a separate wing just to hold our photo albums. That’s how many memories we have for another day.”
She looked at the photo, and she could still see the laughter in his eyes. Tears slid down her face again.… Would they ever stop? She shook her head, feeling as though she were falling down a deep, dark well. Would she ever snap another photograph? She couldn’t fathom it. Not when the only memories that mattered were those that were already made. She lifted the photo album, clutching it against her chest.
“Oh, Tom … where are you? How can you be gone?” She sniffed and rocked back and forth, cradling the album close. “I’m so alone, Tom.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, staying that way a long while, hugging the cold, plastic-covered page against her heart—and with it, all that remained of the man she’d loved since she was a child.
Eleven
He has handed me over to those I cannot withstand.
LAMENTATIONS 1:14B
The meeting took place in a windowless room located on the first floor of the Los Angeles Superior Court Criminal Courts Building. Only two parties were present: Harold Finch, defense attorney for Brian Wesley, and deputy district attorney Matthew Bronzan.
Matt knew his opponent well. Finch was a hard-nosed defender whose primary source of income came from defending drunk drivers. The man’s business card sported the image of a martini glass and announced, “Caught having too much fun? Drunk driving arrest got you down? We can help.” Matt kept the card tucked into the frame around his desk calendar. A reminder to keep fighting the war, keep battling the cases until the words fun and drunk driving would never appear in the same paragraph.
Finch referred to himself as “the drunk driver’s best friend,” and one day Matt did some research to see what made his opponent tick. He was surprised at what he found.
Rumor was that fifteen years earlier, Edward Finch—Harold’s older brother—had developed a promising future in law. Common knowledge had it that the two brothers had attended law school together and planned to go into practice one day. Back then, they were hardworking, clean-cut young men; lawyers who dreamed big and planned to change the world by righting wrongs, one case at a time.
Edward never got the chance.
The summer after he graduated law school, he attended
a wedding where the air-conditioning broke down during the reception. Hundred-degree temperatures had people sweltering in the ballroom, and Edward spent much of his time camped out at the punch bowl. From everything Matt had heard, Edward Finch had never been a drinker, and he didn’t know until the third glass that the punch was spiked. Of course, after that it didn’t matter. With all the dancing and mingling, there was only one way to cool down … so Edward drank crystal goblets of punch until he lost count.
Apparently Edward’s young wife tried to talk him into calling a cab or getting a room at the hotel, but Edward wouldn’t hear of it. So they got in the car. Halfway home there was a police officer pulled off the road, writing someone up for speeding. Drawn by the flashing lights, Edward let his car drift off the road—until he rear-ended the police car, narrowly missing the officer. No one was injured, but the officer took the accident personally. According to court records, the officer later testified that Edward had acted in a “belligerent manner,” that he’d been clearly intoxicated and said, “Next time I drive drunk, I’ll take better aim.”
Edward swore up and down he’d never said anything of the sort, but his trial took place three weeks after a well-publicized incident in which a young mother had been killed by a drunk driver while walking her daughter to school. The jury made an example of Edward Finch, and he received a one-year sentence in county jail.
Midway through the term, his wife left him. When he got out of prison, he was a broken man, a convict with no apartment, no money, no license to practice law, and no chance at his much dreamed-about career. From everything Matt heard, Harold did what he could to help his brother, suggesting odd jobs and encouraging Edward to appeal for reinstatement with the California Bar Association. But depression set in, and Edward began drinking in earnest.
Last anyone had heard, the man roamed the streets in urine-drenched rags, slept under park benches, and was hopelessly addicted to alcohol. A victim of unjust circumstances—at least, that’s how Harold saw it.
Matt understood Harold Finch better after finding out all of this, and in some very small way he pitied the man. The knowledge of Finch’s past made him human.
Waiting for Morning Page 10
