Dread Champion

by Brandilyn Collins

  “Oh,” Irene said, gasping. She sank into the couch, ducking her head.What was she to do?

  She had to move.

  Before she knew it, her hand was dialing the phone. The receiver shook in her ear as she waited for her friend Rachel to answer.

  “Hello.”

  “I—”No more words came. Air gushed from Irene’s mouth.

  “Hello?” Rachel sounded impatient.

  “It’s me,” she croaked. “Irene.”

  “Irene? What’s the matter?”

  “Is Tom there?” Irene’s heart hammered against her chest. She threw a wild look out the window.

  “Of course he’s here; where else would the old man be?”

  “Tell him to come over right now and get me. Right now, you hear?”Tears bit Irene’s eyes.Her body melted into the couch.“I need to stay at your place tonight.”

  “Irene, what—”

  “Just come! Now!” Irene smashed down the phone.

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 8

  NINETEEN

  From the moment she rushed into the jury room, Chelsea knew something was wrong. At first she thought it was her own anxiety over arriving so late with Kerra. Traffic had been particularly slow, and with every red stoplight she’d felt her muscles tense. She didn’t want to think about the entire court being held up just because of her. She already felt uncomfortable enough around certain members of the jury.No need to heighten the hostility emanating from Tak, or the distrust from prim and proper Hesta. And more than once Chelsea had caught a piercing glance from Antonio, the short,muscular man who worked in construction.

  In the jury room B. B. slouched in a chair, tapping one long pink fingernail against the table.Mike Bariston leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms folded, surveying the floor with his buggy eyes. Sylvia Caster caught Chelsea’s gaze and raised her eyebrows almost expectantly. Chelsea drew in a long breath,willing her metabolism to slow. “What’s going on?”

  “Something, that’s what,” Henry Slatus answered before Sylvia could open her mouth. He spread pudgy arms, the large diamond ring on his right hand sparkling against his black skin. “Irene ran in a few minutes ago like a mouse chased by a cat.Went right up to Sidney and whispered something in his ear. I swear she was shivering. Next thing we know, he was ushering her out.”

  Chelsea felt her face go slack. “Is she okay?”

  “Don’t know.” Henry studied her. “You’ve had lunch with her, haven’t you? Did it seem like something was wrong?”

  “No, not at all.” Chelsea glanced at Sylvia. Clay Alton, the first alternate, sauntered over. He towered above all of them, tilting his head to observe the group from the corner of his eye like some waiting vulture. Gloria Nuevo, a Hispanic woman in her thirties with sleek, chin-length hair, turned from the water cooler, a small cup in her hand. “Candy’s not here, either.”

  “I saw Candy.”Victor Chavarria’s stooped frame moved behind Sylvia. “She and I were the first ones here. She was jittery, too. Said she needed to talk to Sidney.”

  Two jurors asking for Sidney Portensic. Chelsea’s eyes locked with Clay’s.

  “So now what?” B. B. asked in her smoky voice.

  Clay shrugged. But his bushy eyebrows jumped with obvious anticipation. “We wait.”

  MILT WAKING PROWLED the courthouse lobby, once again checking his silver Rolex watch.Nine twenty.He drew to a stop near a bench, arms crossed and fingers drumming against his properly exercised biceps. His watchful eyes swept the large hall. Everyone involved in other cases had long since disappeared into their respective courtrooms. Lynn Trudy revved across the way, avidly conjecturing with reporters as to what was going on. The Three Fates perched on a bench, jabbering. It hadn’t taken long for the nickname Stan Breck-shire had given them to circulate among trial watchers. Lynn Trudy had repeated it to just about everybody.

  The sleek-haired reporter from Channel Four popped open a tiny cell phone and began to dial. That’s right, Milt willed silently, get bored and leave. Milt knew enough to stay. Delays happened for a reason. It could be as simple as the judge getting caught in traffic. Or it could be something far more interesting.

  Milt’s eyes rested on Brett Welk, sitting at the end of one of the long center benches. He leaned forward, hands locked between his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. The knockout young blond appeared, coming from the direction of the bathroom. She slowed, as if not quite sure what to do.Milt watched her catch sight of Brett. She hesitated. Then eased over to him and sat down. He looked up at her and smiled.

  Smiled. First time Milt had seen that. Brett straightened, leaning ever so slightly toward the blond, a bit of body language of which Milt doubted he was even conscious. The blond smiled back and said something to him. She looked at Brett with intensity as he answered, as though searching beneath the surface for the truth. Then she began talking, her expression animated. Milt cocked an ear. He heard the words Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz. She sounded like a tourist. Milt pondered that. A tourist at a murder trial?

  Brett listened to the blond talk, a softened look on his typically serious face. One hand rested on his knee, the other on the bench between them, practically touching her. Milt didn’t need his practiced reporter’s eye to see the effervescing attraction.

  Very interesting.

  STAN STOOD BEFORE Judge Chanson’s cherry wood desk, one heel bouncing against the dark carpet. His shoulder wasn’t bothering him yet, but he knew he wouldn’t have to wait long. Stress was already gathering like a bowling ball, ready to roll down every nerve ending that dared exist between his neck and thumb.Naturally, T.C. was the epitome of cool, which only caused Stan to jitter all the more. The defense attorney’s mane of hair lay with perfection as always. Stan was beginning to wonder if the man slept in a hair net. Sitting up. A court reporter huddled, repeating every word into her machine. Jed Trutenning, a tall, heavyset detective with the Redwood City police department, stood wide-legged and formidable, scratching notes in a handheld pad.

  “I haven’t a clue who did this,” Erica Salvador declared. Indignation rose from her narrow shoulders like heat from asphalt. She stood with hands on hips, lips pursed, her orange lipstick matching the color of her suit. “This is just too much. All the grief of having a change of venue for our client, and some nutcase butts in from Salinas.”

  “Who’s to say he’s from Salinas?” Judge Chanson growled. “For that matter,who’s to say it was even a he? Ms. Bracken and Ms. Lowe clearly couldn’t tell.” She heaved a sigh, shifting in her seat. “Okay.” She smacked her hands on the arms of her chair like a general summoning the troops.“Now we get to see if we still have a trial, ladies and gentlemen.” She put on her reading glasses, shuffled papers on the desk with a businesslike air. “Let’s see, Irene Bracken was juror number one. Juror number two is …” She ran a finger down a page.

  “Hesta Naples,” Stan interjected.

  “Yes. Hesta Naples.” She looked to the detective, sliding off her glasses. “Okay, Jed. Tell Sidney to bring in Ms. Naples.”

  For the next two hours they questioned the jurors one at a time. Stan’s nerves frayed a little more with each person. One more reported telephone contact and they’d run out of jurors. A mistrial would be declared. That would be even worse than having Chelsea Adams end up on his jury. Finally they faced the final answer with Ms. Adams. No, she said, she had not been contacted and neither Irene nor Candy had told her anything.

  The jury was intact. Clay Alton had already replaced Irene Bracken as juror number one. Now Judge Chanson moved Ms. Adams to serve as juror number ten. Ms. Adams looked stunned to hear she would be deliberating.

  Well, thought Stan. Apparently, God wasn’t telling Ms. Adams very much these days, or she’d have seen it coming.

  A thought hit him as Sidney Portensic ushered Chelsea Adams out the door.“You don’t think somebody did this just to get Chelsea Adams on the jury, do you?” he burst.

  Judge Chanson looked at him askance.“Huh?”

>   “You know, after the all news stories about her—”

  “If I may so remind you, I do not read or listen to the news when I’m in trial!”

  “Of course, of course,” Stan said, backpedaling. “I’m just saying that if her presence as an alternate made good headlines, imagine how it will be now that she’s on the jury.”

  The judge’s cheeks blanched. “I am not interested in what the media has to say, is that clear?”

  Stan held up both palms in a gesture of surrender.

  Judge Chanson snatched her pen off the desk and tapped it furiously. They all waited for her to settle. “You know what I’m going to have to do now,” she declared.

  Oh yes, they all knew. But no one had wanted to say it. The jury would be anything but happy, and no one wanted an unhappy jury.

  “Why didn’t you tell each of them when you questioned them?” Stan demanded.

  The judge glared at him. “And what would that have accomplished? I didn’t even know if we still had a jury.” She pointed a finger. “I’m going a step at a time here, understand? This is still my trial. No matter what’s happened, I do not plan to lose control of my own courtroom.”

  Stan ducked his head. “Sorry, Your Honor. Just a little upset, that’s all.”He began pacing.

  Judge Chanson’s finger turned from Stan to Detective Truten-ning. “Jed, I want you to find whoever did this. And do it quick!”

  “GOOD AFTERNOON, LADIES AND GENTS.” Sidney Portensic bustled into the jury room.“And I do mean afternoon.”He made a point of looking at his watch. “For those of you having too much fun to notice.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Sidney,”Victor murmured. “Lots of fun.”

  “Okay, listen up; here’s what coming up next in this here circus.” He cringed at the tired chuckles. “Oops, perhaps I shouldn’t have put it that way.”He drew himself up like a ringmaster addressing his audience. “Now for your entertainment—before we get you some lunch, that is—you all get to see the judge together in the courtroom. No onlookers, no reporters, just you and the judge. And the attorneys, of course.What would the courtroom be without attorneys?” He let his eyes sail toward the ceiling.

  “Quieter,” Sylvia Caster declared.

  “Okay, I want my ducks in a row.” Sidney shooed them with his wide hands. “Line up, please.”

  Gloria Neuvo looked none too happy as she motioned Chelsea to take the emptied place in line behind her. Raising her shoulders in apology, Chelsea slid into place. Juror number ten. She could not believe this was happening. The thought of deliberating with this group filled her with discomfort.Did you plan this all along, Lord? Is this what you wanted?

  Sidney stood beside the line, his head bobbing up and down on his thick neck as he checked each juror.“Okay. Let’s head ’em up and move ’em out.”

  Chelsea filed with the others down the hall,worries of Kerra filling her head. Had she been with Brett Welk all morning as they waited for news? Chelsea was afraid she knew the answer too well. Brett was the only other person Kerra had talked to.Dear God, please protect Kerra.

  The air in the courtroom seemed thick and full of portent, as if dark thunderheads were gathering. Judge Chanson and the attorneys watched the jurors take their seats in silence. Stan Breckshire perched on the edge of his chair behind the prosecution table, a bouncing foot pushing his whole body into motion.

  “Well, folks,” Judge Chanson began, “we’re back together, with a few changes. We welcome Mr. Alton and Ms. Adams onto the jury.” Her brief smile was overshadowed by the seriousness of her tone.“Now that it’s clear we still have twelve members for the jury, we face the next obstacle.We can’t afford to lose one more of you. Therefore”—she leaned forward—“I find myself in the position of having to take extreme precautions to protect the proceedings of this trial. Even though the trial is only two days under way, much money, time, and energy has already been spent on the change of venue and all the pretrial hearings. So until this trial and your deliberations are concluded, I’m going to have to sequester you.”

  Gloria gasped softly. Chelsea’s stomach wrenched. God, no! She could not possibly be sequestered. Absolutely no way.

  “Obviously, this is a surprise. If there is anyone who unequivocally cannot be sequestered, this is the time to say so. But remember”—the judge raised a hand—“that the loss of just one of you means a mistrial. So even though I might empathize with your situation, I will not easily be persuaded to allow any of you to go at this time.” She shifted in her chair. “Now I imagine some of you have questions.”

  Chelsea sat frozen as questions and answers ping-ponged back and forth.Where would they sleep? Where would they eat? What about their clothes? In Chelsea’s first thoughts none of that mattered. How can you let me be separated from Kerra, God? she raged. After you made it so clear that Ishould bring her here for spiritual help?What’s she going to do now, hang around with Brett Welk?

  And what about Paul? What if he can’t call me? Surely, Lord, you’re not going to let me be cut off from everyone!

  Chelsea rested her forehead on her fingers and closed her eyes. Landing on this jury had been a bad dream to start with.Now it was turning into a nightmare.

  TWELVE FORTY-FIVE. Kerra glanced up to see Stan Breckshire hustle out the courtroom door.Within seconds Lynn Trudy had cornered him, hair and blood red fingernails spiking the air as she demanded to know what was going on. Stan gripped her elbow and pulled her aside, where they spoke animatedly.

  A moment later Terrance Clyde glided from the courtroom, Erica Salvador’s heels clacking at his side. Brett pulled to his feet, mumbling, “Finally.” Kerra watched him make a beeline for the attorneys.Milt Waking snapped to attention, along with the cadre of newspaper reporters. The other television reporters had long since packed it in.

  Kerra watched the defense attorney talk to Brett, his spread hands and calming expression like that of a parent breaking bad news to a child. Brett’s shoulders slumped.

  Like a flash fire, the news spread through the courthouse hallway. The air crackled as reporters surrounded the attorneys, launching futile questions.Milt Waking’s cameraman jockeyed for position, lights flaring. The attorneys backed into the courtroom and disappeared, leaving the media to feast upon Lynn Trudy and Brett. Channel Seven’s camera whirred in Brett’s whitened face.

  Kerra found her way to a far wall and leaned against it, mind scrambling.What would happen to Aunt Chelsea? How would they see each other? Realizations licked at Kerra like flames. She couldn’t be with Aunt Chelsea at all. She might as well go home. Tears pricked her eyes.

  “I said no comment!” Brett’s voice, thick with emotion, reverberated in her ears. Furiously he pushed through reporters. Remorse pinched Kerra’s nerves. How could she be thinking only of herself?

  “Brett!” Before she knew it, she was scurrying toward him, reaching out a hand. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

  Brett gripped her hand, aiming a sizzling look over his shoulders at the reporters. Fueled by adrenaline, they hustled down the courthouse escalator, across the first-floor hall, and out the doors, not stopping until they’d rounded the corner of the building. There they sank onto a bench, breathing hard, blinking in the warm sun and trying to collect their wits.

  TWENTY

  Janet Cline sighed as she returned to her office after ushering the childless couple out the door.Her chest felt like lead. She hadn’t slept well the previous night, thanks to the visit from Rogelio Sanchez.

  Why am Iso unhinged? she asked herself for the dozenth time. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps Rogelio’s girlfriend had begun proceedings with the Welk agency but had dropped them and moved to another. Perhaps she’d lied to him about his being the father.

  The fax machine on her desk clicked. Janet dropped into her chair and stared at it, hoping it was the fax from Sacramento. Paper began feeding through the machine. Janet’s back muscles tensed. The top of the fax scrolled into view. She saw the familiar social s
ervices logo and drew in a hard breath. She leaned forward, ready to snatch the paper. As it continued to scroll, she ran her eyes over the handwritten note.

  Hi, Janet.Here’s the document you wanted. Let me know if Ican do anything else for you.

  Janet pulled the first sheet out and waited for the second. The top of the relinquishment form rolled up. One hand hovering over the machine, she read the typed and handwritten language on the official document.

  I/We, the father of Roselita Nicole, a minor female child …

  She held her breath and prayed to see the name and address of some other agency. To no avail.“Welk Adoption Agency” practically leaped off the page. Briefly she closed her eyes.

  All right. So she and Shawna had handled the adoption. Then Rogelio couldn’t be the father. Some other young man’s signature would be on that form—some name she would recognize.

  The legalese scrolled into view. Below it would be the name of the father.

  Please, God, let it be somebody else.

  Rogelio Sanchez

  Air seeped from Janet’s throat. She stared blankly at the name, trying to absorb the news. Suddenly a vivid memory spun through her head. Shawna snapping up straight and yanking a key from a square gray lockbox when Janet had unexpectedly entered her office. She’d looked flushed, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Janet hadn’t given it much thought. Now she wondered.

  What had been in that box?

  Slowly Janet slid the paper from the machine. She checked the lines for the required signatures of two witnesses—lines that had been empty on Rogelio’s copy. They were filled. Tracey Wilagher and Shawna Welk. Janet dropped her gaze further to the “authorized agency official” line, and her heart stumbled.