With a protesting shake of his head, he flipped a page and read. “‘When asked about details of his physical altercation with Buster Lakeland, Deputy Detective Petsky replied that the alcohol he had consumed made it impossible to remember much of the events.’”
Erica nodded. “Were you telling the truth when you made that statement?”
“Yes.”
“So you understand firsthand, do you not, that a large amount of alcohol in someone’s system can render that person unable to remember well?”
“Objection. Leading the witness!” The words rat-a-tatted from Stan Breckshire’s mouth.
Judge Chanson rubbed her neck with a finger. “Overruled.”
“Yes,” replied Petsky.
“Uh-huh. So when Mr. Welk told you he couldn’t remember events of the night in question, I assume you believed him?”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Stan’s voice rose with indignation.
“Sustained.” Judge Chanson leaned forward and glared at the defense attorney. “Ms. Salvador, I warned you.”
Erica raised her hand in a gesture of apology that didn’t fool Chelsea one bit. “I am so sorry, Your Honor; I just got carried away. I have no further questions.”
She clicked high heels back to her seat with a knowing smile.
Stan Breckshire sprang to his feet. “Deputy Detective Petsky, do you still drink?”
“No sir,” the man replied with firm pride. “Not at all since that incident.”
“Not had another suspension?”
“No. And I don’t plan to.”
“Good, good.” Stan tapped his chin with a forefinger.“Tell me, in the past six years which kind of evidence have you discovered to be more reliable: information someone tells you or proven facts?”
“No question there. Proven facts.”
“Is it a common occurrence for a discrepancy to exist between the two?”
“Yes sir.” Petsky shrugged.“Happens far more than we’d like.”
“I’ll bet it makes your job of discovering the truth a whole lot harder.”
“Objection.” Erica looked disgusted. “Leading the witness.”
“Sustained.” Judge Chanson gave Stan a look.“Try asking a question, counsel.”
Stan rephrased, but Chelsea read his implication clearly: Darren Welk’s claim that he did not remember what had happened that night on Breaker Beach would be far overshadowed by the “proven facts.”
She wondered what those facts might be.
TRACEY DROPPED HER CAR keys onto her kitchen table, fighting back a nervous burst of tears. She was done. Through with her testimony. She’d nearly worried herself sick about it,wondering how she would sound.Wondering if the prosecutor could really protect her, as he’d promised. Tracey had known that the attorney for the disgusting Darren Welk would try to catch her in a lie. Her stomach had churned at the thought that she might make a mistake. But Stan Breckshire told her she’d done well.
Just afew more days, she told herself. Afew more days and the trial will finally be over.
She sank into a kitchen chair and placed a hand over her eyes. She would not cry. Goodness knows she’d cried enough.As day after day dragged on, she didn’t know how she could stand it anymore. Sometimes she thought she would go crazy. All she could do now was hang on and wait—alone.What she wouldn’t give to have someone beside her, caring for her, helping her through this. But she had no one.
The clock on the wall ticked softly as she rubbed her temples. After a moment she eased back her head, rolling it from side to side. Then she pushed away from her chair. Fetching a soda, she headed for her computer, set up on a square folding table in the living room of her apartment.
As her computer booted up, Tracey impatiently waited, hoping for some email—her one lifeline. She certainly couldn’t talk to anyone in Salinas. Soon after that night on Breaker Beach, she’d gotten burned by two “friends” who’d run their mouths to snoopy reporters. After that Tracey had abandoned all her local friends. A chat room freak, she had turned to a few faceless people she’d “met” on-line who lived in other countries. Now she emailed them regularly. She could talk of her loneliness without her mom, about her desire to leave.
Tracey logged on to her server and checked for new mail.
[email protected]
She sighed in relief. A message from Maria in Brazil. She tapped her mouse button and began to read.
Tracey,
Hi, how are you? It’s so hot here. But the beaches are lovely.
Did you testify at the trial today? How did it go?
Tracey clicked the reply button and began to type.
Dear Maria,
You wouldn’t believe how much I miss my mom… .
FIFTEEN
“Good afternoon,Detective.” Stan Breckshire caught himself patting his palms in anticipation. Abruptly he pulled them to his sides. Detective Douglas Draker’s six-foot-two frame filled the witness stand with an air of familiarity. He rested his forearms easily on the desk, hands lightly clasped.
Step by step Stan led Detective Draker through testimony about the crime scene investigation that Draker and his partner launched when they first visited Breaker Beach Sunday afternoon. As Tracey Welk had indicated, there were indeed in the sand red drops that appeared to be blood. The detectives took samples. Due to Darren Welk’s insistence that Shawna had fallen and cut her forehead on a piece of metal or something in the sand, the detectives searched for such an object but did not find it.
As for the half footprints in wet sand that Tracey had spoken of, nothing remained. The tide had come in again since the early-morning hours, washing away any potential evidence.
The detectives sealed off the beach as a crime scene, even though they could not be certain a crime had been committed.As Detective Draker put it, at that point things looked “more than a little suspicious.” The stained sand was sent to the county forensic lab. Upon returning to their offices, the detectives had a rather heated discussion with their superiors over whether or not they should obtain a warrant to search Darren Welk’s car. Politics came into play, the detective reluctantly admitted. Darren Welk was a powerful man in Salinas.
Sunday evening came and went. On Monday morning the local paper carried the news of Shawna Welk’s disappearance. Then the Salinas police station received a serendipitous phone call. A man said that he’d been working as a security guard in Brothers Memorial Cemetery around 4:20 a.m. and had witnessed something. Stan did not pursue what that something was. The man who had called would have to testify to that himself.
The call gave the detectives reason for a very limited search warrant. They would be searching only around a newly planted bush in the Welks’ backyard.
Stan asked about the defendant’s actions when the detectives arrived at his door, warrant in hand.
“I should tell you that we chose not to show the warrant immediately,” Detective Draker explained. “We wanted to gain Darren Welk’s cooperation if we could.He had cooperated up to that point, and we felt it would be easier for all involved if we could get him to continue to do so.”
“And did he cooperate?”
“Yes sir, he did.”
Stan stole a glance at the defense attorneys. T. C., who would be cross-examining, leaned back in his typical position, bouncing a hand slowly and silently against the table. Erica Salvador was bent over her writing tablet, pen flying furiously.
“By the way, who was in the house at the time, other than the defendant?” Stan asked.
“No one at first. But just as we were leaving, Brett came home.”
“Okay.We’ll get back to that.What did the defendant tell you about planting the bush?”
“Objection. Hearsay,” T. C.’s voice boomed.
Judge Chanson considered, absently rubbing her double chin.
“Your Honor,” Stan jumped in, “I’m not offering this for the truth of the matter but merely to show the defendant’s—”
Judge Ch
anson waved a hand at him. “Overruled. But be careful, Mr. Breckshire.”
“Thank you.” Stan felt a wave of satisfaction. The jury would not be impressed with the defense’s attempt to cover up the detective’s answer. “Go ahead, please.”
“He said the gardeners planted it,” the detective replied tersely.
Stan let the words hang in the air. The stereo sound of reporters’ scratching pens was music to his ears. “The gardeners?
“Yes sir. He said they were supposed to plant the whole row of bushes along the driveway the previous Friday. He’d come in from work and had showered to go out to dinner and hadn’t stopped to check the backyard. Still, he assumed that all the bushes had been planted at that time.”
With a shocked expression Stan pursued details. Detective Draker testified that he asked the defendant three times about the bush, and each time the defendant told him the same story. Finally the detective told Darren Welk that his story just didn’t stack up with their information.
Stan began to pace, blood flowing warmly in his veins.“How did Mr.Welk respond?”
“Your Honor, I must object to this entire line of questioning; it’s all hearsay.” Terrance Clyde’s deep voice implied the obviousness of the prosecutor’s errant ways. He unfolded his frame and stood in one smooth movement, hands spread.“We have no way of knowing Darren Welk’s understanding of such questions at that time or whether—”
“I think he was sober by then, Terrance,” Stan commented. Someone behind him snickered.
“Mr. Breckshire!” Judge Chanson turned a livid eye on him.
“Sorry, Your Honor.” Stan pretended to check his notes so she wouldn’t see the smirk on his face.
“See to it that you mean it.” The judge sat back with a huff and blinked. “Now, Mr. Clyde, I’m going to allow the questioning. But I assure you I’ll give you plenty of leeway on cross-examination.” She sent another searing look at Stan before turning to the witness.“You may answer the question.”
“Mr.Welk responded that our information was wrong,”Draker answered. “We talked some more, but he wouldn’t change his story. So I finally said we’d like to dig up the bush.”
“Did Mr.Welk comply?”
Draker shook his head. “No. According to him, the bush was expensive and would be harmed if we dug it up.When we could not get him to comply, we showed the warrant.My partner went to our car to get two shovels and evidence bags, and we began to dig.”
“And what did you find?” Stan began to pace again.
The detective’s expression remained neutral. “Underneath the bush we found a woman’s white silk blouse.”
A collective breath sucked through the courtroom.
“Really,” Stan responded.“Was there anything unusual about the blouse? That is, other than the fact that it was underneath a bush.”
A titter ran through the onlookers. Stan glanced at the jury. B. B. the bartender giggled, then caught herself. A small tsk puffed from the lips of Mike Bariston, the black man sitting next to Chelsea Adams.
“Well, it was very dirty, as you would expect,”Draker said.“But we did notice, down the front, numerous stains which appeared to be blood that had been partially washed away.Also, the blouse was wet.”
“What did you do with the blouse?”
“We put it through our standard procedure, placing it in a paper bag, labeling it. From there it would go to the county lab to be examined.”
“For?” Breckshire prompted.
“For one, to see if we could possibly get any prints off it. Although because of the dirt and since it was fabric, we couldn’t count on that. And of course to check to see if those stains were indeed blood, and if so what type. Further, since it was wet, to examine it for possible traces of salt water, which obviously could have come from the ocean.”
Stan Breckshire ducked his head in a few quick nods. With a meaningful glance at the jury, he plucked a sealed paper bag from his table and carefully began to open it. The courtroom fell silent except for the rustling of the bag.When the top was open, the prosecutor picked up a pair of clear latex gloves and slowly, painstakingly pulled them on. From the corner of his vision Stan saw Erica Salvador close her eyes in an “Oh brother” expression. Let her make faces, he thought. He dangled a gloved hand above the bag, took an audible breath, then reached inside.He pulled out a filthy blouse and turned to the judge. “May I approach?” At her nod he carried the blouse gingerly to the witness stand and spread it before the detective.
“Is this the blouse you found?”
The detective eyed the blouse solemnly. “Yes sir, it is.”
“And the partially washed stains that appeared to be blood are where?”
The detective pointed without touching the blouse. “Here around the front buttons and a little to the left.”
“Thank you.” Breckshire picked up the blouse again as if it were a bomb about to explode. He displayed its stained front to the jury, stepping slowly down the line.Hesta Naples cast it a prim look while Tak Nagakura’s expression never changed. B. B.’s eyes widened. Henry Slatus, the hang-jowled black man in the back row with a flashy diamond ring on his pinkie, strained to see around Hesta. Chelsea Adams clearly tensed. His display complete, Stan returned the blouse to the bag and officially logged it with the court clerk.
“Now, Detective Draker,” he said, rocking on his heels, two fingers thrumming against his chin, “what was the defendant’s explanation, if any, when you and your partner uncovered the blouse?”
“He didn’t talk, sir.”
“Didn’t talk.”
“No sir.”
“He just said nothing?” Breckshire’s eyebrows rose. “No explanation, no reason for why the blouse would be there?”
“No sir.”
The prosecutor turned a lingering look of accusation on Darren Welk. The moment stretched.
“Mr. Breckshire, since you’re apparently thinking,” Judge Chanson broke in dryly, “perhaps this would be a good time to take a fifteen-minute break.”
CHELSEA WAS WASHING HER hands in the bathroom when the impression hit. It wasn’t a vision, nothing seen or heard. But deep within her the voice of God resonated, a voice that she had come to know well. Imparting to her one intense command.
Pray for all the people associated with this case.
Chelsea withdrew her fingers from under the tap. Turned off the water. She waited for God to say anything else, perhaps something more definitive, but nothing more came.
Absently she dried her hands.Yes, Lord, I’ll pray. Anything specific?
Again she waited but received no further impression.
A knock sounded on the door. “Be right out!”
Chelsea didn’t want to keep the person waiting. As she unlocked the door, silent prayers for the jurors began to flow through her mind. She would begin with Irene, juror number one, and go down the line. Then, during those waiting moments in the courtroom, she would pray for others—the attorneys, the judge, reporters, witnesses.
She sensed there was something more here, that in time God might lead her to pray more specifically and perhaps for certain people. She sensed too a heightened alertness within her. That she was entering a time in which prayer and careful listening to God’s further leading would be particularly important.
God, please help me hear you. She opened the door. You know I can’t do this alone.
SIXTEEN
Stan Breckshire ogled the lookie-loos returning to their seats, vaguely wondering how many would stick out the entire trial. He was beginning to memorize their faces. There was the couple probably in their seventies, she carrying a bag in which she could hide a soda six-pack, and he sporting a striped bow tie, of all things. A threesome of older women were settling themselves dead center in the second row, whispering furiously. Amazingly, all three of them had long, straggly gray hair. They reminded Stan of the Three Fates from Greek mythology—the old crones who decided how long each mortal would live. Stan caught
snatches of the words blouse and blood and “that handsome defense attorney.”He sniffed, turning his attention elsewhere. A fine-looking young blond sat on the end, all by herself. A wiry man with a half-bald head, looked about in his forties, also sat alone, arms crossed, rocking with a “Let’s get on with the show” expression.
The jury filed in. Stan took his seat, foot jiggling. He jerked his neck to the left. The discomfort in his arm was a tad less today. Probably because of all the pain relievers he’d downed.
A few minutes later, with Detective Draker back on the stand, Stan launched into details of his investigation after the blouse had been found. The detective sat just as he had before, with the same amount of emotion on his face—nil. Mr. Personality.
Discovery of the blouse, the detective intoned, prompted them to take the defendant down to the sheriff ’s department in Salinas for immediate questioning. Darren Welk could have requested a lawyer to meet him there but did not do so. Brett arrived home just as they were leaving, and his father quickly explained what had happened. Brett’s face, according to the detective, turned a sickly white.He followed his father out to the detectives’ vehicle, demanding to know what they were going to do. When they pulled away, Detective Draker said, Brett stood on the sidewalk looking after them with a dazed expression.
While Detective Draker and his partner questioned the defendant at the station, their colleagues were busy obtaining a search warrant for the defendant’s house and car. The house was immediately “frozen,” or sealed off.No evidence of foul play was discovered in the house. On the floor of the passenger side in Darren Welk’s car they found a woman’s purse. And far back underneath the left rear seat, numerous grains of sand were discovered. These were also sent to the lab to be compared with grains of sand taken from Breaker Beach.
Stan stopped pacing and scratched his head.“Could these grains of sand possibly have come from Darren Welk’s shoes?”
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