Kerra hesitated. “I’m visiting my aunt. She ended up having to be here. I figured I might as well come along. I didn’t know what else to do with myself.”
“Is she the court reporter?”
“No, actually—” She inhaled quickly. “She’s an alternate on the jury.”
Brett took a moment to process the news. There were only two alternates, and one was a man. His eyes bugged at her.
“Believe me, she didn’t want to be,” Kerra blurted, then looked horrified. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I mean, I know your dad needs a jury.”Her words dangled. She blinked, as if amazed at her own stupidity.
“That’s okay.” Brett forced calm into his voice. “I’m sure it’s no fun sitting up there, either.”
Kerra’s glance shot right through him. She fingered her purse. “Do you think we shouldn’t be talking?”
Oh no, Brett thought. “I don’t see why not. Your aunt’s not supposed to talk to anybody about the trial, including you, so—”
“Oh, she’s not,” Kerra interjected. “She wouldn’t do that.”
“Well then?” Brett raised a shoulder.
Kerra nodded slowly, then considered the sidewalk.
Brett searched for a way to keep the conversation going.“Are you in college?”
“I just graduated in June.”
“Oh.What are you going to do next?”
Pain danced across her face. “I’m supposed to start teaching math this fall in a junior high back home in Kansas. I’ve committed to a year.”
“Doesn’t sound like you’re too excited about it.”
“I guess I’m not.”
Brett wanted to ask why but decided not to press.
“There’s Aunt Chelsea,” Kerra said suddenly.
Chelsea. Yes, that was the name Milt Waking had told him.
“Oh, great. She’s with that chatty Irene Bracken again. I bet that woman’s invited herself to lunch for the second time in a row.”
Brett’s mouth opened before his brain had a chance to stop it. “Well, don’t go with them. Go with me.”
She swung a surprised look at him.What a blunder he’d made.
“I mean, if you want to.”
“Well.” She seemed nonplussed. “Let me see what’s happening.” Kerra rose and met the two jury members out of earshot. The aunt stared at Brett. He looked away, feigning indifference. A moment later Kerra returned.
“Guess what,” she said, as if not quite believing her own words. “Irene’s all geared up to go with Aunt Chelsea. The woman seems to have latched on to her. I don’t think Irene will care a bit if I’m not along. So I guess you’re stuck with me.”
Brett pulled to his feet, both awkward and pleased. “What about your aunt? She didn’t seem too happy.”
“Well, she isn’t.” Kerra laughed at her own candidness. “But she won’t have time to think, with Irene talking her head off.”
“Okay. If you’re sure. Uh … Most people walk down Broadway. But I found a coffee shop yesterday across the tracks. It’s only a few blocks.”
She smiled at him, and warmth spread across his shoulders. “Let’s go.”
“SO. WHY DON’T YOU want to start your teaching job?”
Shaded by a large green umbrella, Kerra sat across from Brett at a glass-topped table outside the coffee shop, toying with a French fry. Brett had placed himself in full sun, barely squinting, as if he were born to the outdoors. One arm was hitched over the back of his chair, his body at an angle toward her.His deep-set eyes regarded her steadily.
“It’s not that I don’t want the job; it’s just that I don’t know how I can manage it. I’ll have six classes a day and well over one hundred students. I’ll have to teach them, keep order in the classroom. I’ll have to think
His eyebrows knit. “Isn’t that what teaching is all about?”
“Yes, but I just don’t know if I’m up to it.”Anxiety rose in Kerra at the very thought. She’d done nothing since graduating but hang around her parents’ house, mourning. June twenty-second had been a nightmare. She’d mourned so deeply that day and all the days surrounding it, not to mention the entire year before, that she’d become used to the weight of it.Grief had become a familiar wrap, the blanket she spread upon herself by night and the cloak she donned by day. Sometimes she felt as if the grief were stitched to her. Shedding it would pull off a part of herself.
“You want to tell me why?”
Brett’s voice sounded so kind. His concern, and her thoughts of his own pain, pushed aside Kerra’s reticence to talk. She laid the French fry down, eased her plate away. “Forty-six days ago, June twenty-second, was supposed to be my wedding day. My fiancé, Dave, and I had set the date early last year when we got engaged. Then in May of last year he was killed in a car accident. I was with him. I wasn’t hurt much. But I watched him die.”
Brett leaned forward in his chair, eyes piercing hers as he struggled for words.Kerra could see the rise and fall of his chest.“I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
Kerra fiddled with the edge of her plate.“Well. I should hardly be telling my troubles to you. Seems like you’ve got a few of your own.”
“Yeah.”
They were silent for a moment. Kerra was dying to know if he’d read the morning papers, but didn’t know how to ask.What would he think if he knew that the “visions woman” was her aunt?
“Tell me about where you live,” she prompted. “How far away is it?”
“About an hour and twenty minutes with no traffic,” he said. “Salinas is in Monterey County. It’s a farming area in a valley.” His face softened. “Absolutely beautiful place.”
“And your family owns a farm?”
“Actually, it’s called a ranch. Three hundred acres. It’s one of the most productive ranches around.We grow lettuce, broccoli, cauliflower, celery, spinach,mushrooms, artichokes.You name it.”Brett’s pride was evident.
“So your dad is pretty well known there?”
“Yeah. He’s very respected for his business skills. In fact, Dad’s called the Salad King. You know those prepackaged salads that are in all the grocery stores now? Dad was one of the main inventors. He’s also one of the main inventors of the precut broccoli and cauliflower and other vegetables. When the ready-to-go products hit stores, sales went way up. Even sales of the stuff we already sold a ton of, like lettuce.”
Dozens of questions swirled in Kerra’s mind. “Are you running the ranch right now?”
“We have a foreman. I’ve been helping him. I’ll go back this weekend to check on things.”
“Oh.” Kerra couldn’t think of anything else to say. She took a drink of water.
“Tell me about your aunt,” Brett said.
Uh-oh. She set down her glass with care. “What about her?”
“She’s the one the papers talked about, right? She had a vision about a murder last year?”
Kerra could hear no accusation in his voice. Just curiosity. And perhaps uneasiness.
“She’s a wonderful person. So supportive after Dave was killed. She kept calling me again and again. She invited me here, hoping she could help me get over things.”
“No wonder she didn’t want to end up sitting in a courtroom.”
Kerra nodded, warmed that he would be so empathetic, given his circumstances.“You don’t have to worry about her, Brett, if that’s what you’re thinking. She’s really just like anyone else. Most of the time anyway.”
“She sounds very religious.”
“No, not religious; she’s a Christian.” The words popped out before Kerra had time to think.Terrific. She really didn’t want to get into a discussion about God.
He frowned. “What’s the difference?”
Oh, great; try getting out of this one. She shifted in her chair.“Well, the way I’ve heard it explained is that religion is any sort of belief system that man invents to try to reach God. Christianity is God reaching out to man. Through Christ.”
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p; His chin puckered. “Do you believe that? About God reaching out to man?”
Sure, for all the good it had done her. “Yes.”
Brett nodded slowly, as if the concept were brand-new to him. Then suddenly he glanced at his watch. “It’s almost one.We need to be getting back.”
Kerra scraped back her chair, relieved. “Thank you so much for paying for my lunch.”
“You’re welcome. Hope your aunt didn’t mind.”
Kerra made a face. She may feel protective of her aunt Chelsea, but the woman could hardly tell her what to do. “I am an adult.” Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she fell in step with Brett toward the courthouse.
“HEY, ROGELIO, COME WITH us for lunch, man.”
Rogelio wiped the sweat off his face and shook his head. “Can’t. I’ve got some stuff to do.”
“What you got to do now?” Carlos asked.
“He’s got responsibilities you know nothing about.” Their boss, Chester, a man in his forties with six kids, waved a dirty hand at Carlos. “Leave him be.”
The two of them drove off in Chester’s dusty truck as Rogelio slid into his hot Chevy and headed for a small park around the corner. He didn’t have anything to do; he just wanted time to think.
Rolling up to the curb by the park, he grabbed his lunch box.He walked a short distance, then heaved himself on the ground by a tree. Scooting back to lean against the trunk, Rogelio closed his eyes for a five-minute siesta. Vague red images moved across the insides of his lids. Kristin yelling at him to get out. Mama Yolanda clutching a baby’s sleeper to her eyes and crying.His hand trembling over a document, then suddenly, fiercely, signing.
“Relinquishment,” the document was headed in bold capital letters. “I do hereby relinquish and surrender … ” The words were branded into his brain.When Kristin had handed him the paper, all the information had already been filled in for him—his name, the date, the Welk Adoption Agency name and address.
All, that is, except his signature.
“I’m making a copy of this, Kristin,” he’d declared after signing it. Self-loathing already churned in his chest.
“Just give it to me now.”Her arm had shot out to grab it.
He’d whisked the paper out of her reach.“No! I’m going to make a copy of it.”His voice had turned acid. “At least I should have some proof. Just in case I don’t see the money.”
“You’ll get your money, I told you! As soon as you give me that paper, I can get it.”
Rogelio squeezed his eyes against the memory. Part of him thanked God in heaven that he’d taken the time to make a copy. Without it he would have no clue where to look for his baby. But the other part of him cringed at the guilt it caused. All that time he’d taken to make the copy, he could have changed his mind. He could have torn up that paper at any time.
Instead he’d torn up his grandmother’s heart.
FOURTEEN
Chelsea settled into her jury chair, worrying about Kerra.What could she possibly have to talk about with Brett Welk? Chelsea didn’t trust him.He seemed as tightly wound as a ball of string. Something about those eyes, the way he held himself. He looked too much like his father. Chelsea couldn’t help but think of the strength of Darren Welk’s genes running through his son. Did Brett have the same kind of temper?
Besides, the whole idea left her with a strange feeling. The niece of a juror having lunch with the son of the defendant. There may not exactly be a law on the books against it, but it just didn’t sit right.
“All rise.”
Chelsea watched the judge take her seat.
The prosecutor first called a witness from the service company for Shawna Welk’s cell phone. The woman identified the phone bill that covered Shawna’s calls in February. In support of Tracey’s testimony, the bill included a record of the call Shawna had placed to Tracey’s private line at the exact time of 1:47 a.m.No other calls were made around that time. Stan Breckshire logged the phone bill with the court clerk.
The prosecutor’s next witness was Ralph Petsky of the Monterey County sheriff ’s department. Petsky, a ruddy-faced man with a flat, wide forehead, testified that he had taken the call when Tracey Wilagher reported that her mother was missing.
Erica Salvador drew herself up in her chair at the defense table, a pen poised over a yellow writing tablet. She stared at the witness, arched eyebrows raised, as if she were mentally dressing down an anticipated foe. Chelsea wondered if she would be cross-examining. Next to her, Terrance Clyde eased back in his chair, one arm stretched out, knuckles lightly bouncing off the table.
“What did you do after you talked to Miss Wilagher?” Stan Breckshire asked.
“I went out to the Welks’ house to take down all the information.”
“But you did not end up investigating the entire case yourself, is that correct?”
“Yes sir. Once my report was done and we saw what we were possibly dealing with, the decision was made to bring in detectives Draker and Kelly. They are the ones who investigated the scene at Breaker Beach.”
“Okay.” Stan raised a hand. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves; let’s back up. So you initially went to the Welks’ house.What kinds of questions did you ask the members of the Welk family?”
“With a missing person, it’s typical that we ask lots of questions. We ask if the person has been involved in drugs or drinking, for example. Could Mrs.Welk have gone somewhere with a friend or boyfriend? And I asked Mr.Welk at length about fighting with his wife, since Tracey Welk had reported in her phone call that this was the case.”
“May I approach?” Stan Breckshire asked the judge.
“Go ahead.”
The prosecutor picked up a document from his table and slipped it in front of Deputy Detective Petsky. He perused it, then looked up.
“Sir, would you please tell me what this document is?”
“It’s the written report of my initial interviews with the Welk family.”
According to Petsky’s notes, Darren Welk had been cooperative as he answered questions.Welk admitted that he and Shawna had been fighting, but claimed he was quite drunk at the time and did not remember much of what happened that night.
Directly in front of her, Chelsea could see the first alternate’s arm moving as he took notes. The man on her right was writing as well. Chelsea had chosen merely to listen. Had that been a mistake?
Stan Breckshire asked Petsky to turn to page three and read the second paragraph.
“Okay.” He flipped the pages. “‘Mr. Welk said that after the Browards left, he and Mrs.Welk were involved in a further altercation, which continued to involve words only. The alcohol in his system then made him groggy, and he lay in the sand by the fire and fell asleep.When he awoke, Shawna’s daughter, Tracey, was kicking him, demanding to know where her mother was.’”
“‘Involve words only’? What does that mean?”
“That according to Mr.Welk, they were arguing, that’s all.”
“He didn’t mention hitting her?” Stan sounded amazed.
“No.”
“Didn’t mention blood?”
“No sir.”
The prosecutor shook his head.
For the next half hour Stan Breckshire went over the report with Deputy Detective Petsky, sometimes line by line. Finally he logged the report with the court clerk and turned the witness over for cross-examination.
Erica Salvador pushed back her chair with a determined air.Her high heels clicked as she strode to stand before the witness, two documents dangling from her hand. Erica’s suit was ice blue—fitting, thought Chelsea, for the coolness that seemed to swirl around her shoulders. Even in heels, she couldn’t be over five feet two. Erica blinked slowly, considering the witness. He shifted in his seat. Stan Breckshire hovered over the prosecution table like a hawk, right leg madly jiggling.
“Detective Petsky.” Erica’s voice was smooth as silk. “You testified that Mr. Welk was cooperative when you came to his house, correct?�
��
“Yes.”
“Were Brett and Tracey also cooperative?”
“Yes.” The man held himself very still, as if expecting Erica to pounce.
“And according to your report,Mr.Welk said he couldn’t remember events of that night because he’d had a lot to drink.”
He stared at her a moment before answering. “That’s right.”
“Did you believe him when he said he couldn’t remember?”
“Objection!” Stan cried. “Irrelevant.”
Judge Chanson flicked her eyes at the prosecutor without moving her head. “Sustained.”
Erica didn’t flinch.“Detective, have you ever forgotten something because you’ve been drunk?”
“Objection. Irrelevant!” Stan’s face flushed.
“Sustained.”
The defense attorney glanced at the jury with half-lidded eyes. Her meaning was clear to Chelsea. Iknow something about this man.
“Permission to approach the witness?” she asked as she tossed one of the documents before Stan.
He flicked through it, then shoved back his chair. “Your Honor, sidebar, please!”
Judge Chanson and all three attorneys met beside the judge’s bench. Chelsea watched as the court reporter picked up her machinery and stood nearby, talking into her cupped recording device. Erica folded her arms and tipped her head disdainfully as Stan jabbed the air with spread fingers. Judge Chanson pointed a pudgy finger at the two attorneys, and they both simmered down as she addressed them. With a dismissive motion of her hand, she sent them back to their places. Stan took his seat like a missile ready to fire. Erica lay the document before Deputy Detective Petsky with the utmost tenderness. Her voice was hardened sugar. “Would you please tell us what this document is?”
With reluctant eyes he glanced over the papers, then raised his head with an expression of feigned boredom.“It’s a report of a three-day suspension of duties. It’s dated over six years ago.”
Erica ignored the emphasis. “And what was the suspension for?”
“Being drunk and disorderly.”
The attorney allowed his answer to hang in the air. “‘Drunk and disorderly.’ I see.” She ran her tongue along her top teeth. “Would you kindly turn to page two and read the paragraph at the bottom?”
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