Dread Champion

by Brandilyn Collins

  “All right.” The judge fiddled with the chain of her glasses as she checked the clock.“We’ve gone a little overtime, so let’s cut our lunch break short and be back here in forty-five minutes. Mr. Clyde, I assume you will be ready to begin at one o’clock?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Court dismissed.”

  ROGELIO DROVE TOWARD his house during lunch break, smelling his own sweat in the hot breeze through his car’s open windows.He’d had it, his anger having built with every minute that morning. This waiting was about to drive him crazy! He parked quickly, got out and slammed the door. Inside the house he marched straight for the kitchen.

  “Mijo, why are you home?” Mama Yolanda pushed herself up from the couch and turned off the TV. “I’ll make you some lunch.”

  He picked up the phone, punching in the memorized numbers.

  “Milt Waking.”

  Finally! “This is Rogelio,” he spat. “What are you doin’, man?”

  A pause. For a second Rogelio wondered if the guy had forgotten who he was. “Oh. I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  “Yeah, right. Is the story going to be on the news tonight, yes or no? And don’t lie to me, because I’ve had enough of it!”

  “No, Rogelio. The answer is no.”

  He punched the air. “Why?”

  “I told you before. I’ve found much more. Give me two days; that’s all I ask.”

  “I don’t have two days!”

  “Yes, you do!”Milt sounded desperate. “Do you want your baby or not? If you do, you’d better just sit tight. Because if you do anything stupid, we could both lose everything.”

  “What’ve you got to lose? I’m the only loser here.”

  “Rogelio.”Milt breathed into the phone. “Please. Do what I ask. Two days.”

  “Two days is Saturday.

  “I know. Two days.”

  Rogelio slammed his fist against a cabinet. He didn’t trust Milt, but what choice did he have? Who else could he trust anyway? He had no clue what to do.

  Forgetting Mama Yolanda’s presence, he cursed aloud and banged down the phone.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Chelsea could see Stan Breckshire’s nervousness in his silently drumming fingers. Terrance Clyde rose from the defense table with confidence and strode to the podium. He took his time there, positioning his notes before him just so.He rubbed his temple thoughtfully, eyes squinting above the jurors’ heads, as if he were reading something on the back wall. Chelsea could feel the anticipation as all waited for him to begin.

  She headed a new piece of paper. Facts to Support Innocence.

  “This is a tragic case of a marriage,” the attorney declared in a quiet tone. “A marriage based on lies and deceit. The husband running around with other women, the wife having affairs with other men. A marriage of volatility, jealousy, upheaval, and unhappiness, full of argument, strife, and distrust.

  “This is not a case of murder.”

  Terrance Clyde looked to Gloria, Tak, then B. B.

  “The prosecution would have you believe that the absence of any real proof that Shawna Welk is dead is of no consequence. That is absurd. The very first requirement in proving murder, as you will hear the judge tell you in her instructions, is to prove that, quote, ‘a human being was killed.’”

  Proof of murder? Chelsea wrote.

  The defense attorney’s voice boomed through the courtroom as for the next hour he tore down point after point made by the prosecution. Shawna Welk’s constant stream of boyfriends proved she was unhappy in her marriage. Who could be absolutely sure that she hadn’t linked up with yet another man and made her escape? There were no witnesses to this alleged murder. Terrance threw out one scenario after another. Darren Welk had admitted that he’d hit Shawna in the heat of an argument. Perhaps her tooth had been knocked out at that time as well.What if Shawna staged the footprint, wading into the water and coming back out somewhere along the edge of the beach in a place that Tracey could not easily see on a night with little moon? She could have torn her pants and thrown the piece of fabric plus her knocked-out tooth into the receding tide in hopes that they would later wash up onshore.

  As for the question of whether Shawna would leave Tracey, apparently the mother-daughter relationship wasn’t everything Tracey Wilagher had made it out to be. The two had been seen fighting. Shawna had screamed at her daughter, slapped her. Tracey was now an adult and didn’t need the constant care of a mother. And Shawna was known to be manipulative, demanding. “Angry as she was at her husband,”Terrance declared, “bleeding from a wound he had caused, she may well have thought, This is my chance and I’m taking it; I’m out of here.”

  Chelsea’s pen scratched over the paper.Fight with Tracey.Mad at husband.

  He leaned over the podium, voice dropping. “Remember this: With all the possibilities I have posed as to what could have happened that night on Breaker Beach, if you find just one of them plausible, you cannot be assured beyond a reasonable doubt that Shawna Welk is dead.”

  Chelsea glanced at Victor Chavarria on her right.Victor was normally an avid note-taker, but he’d written not one word in the last hour. On her left Gloria too had set down her pen.

  Reporters were certainly writing. All except Milt Waking, who seemed to stare right through Terrance Clyde, his mind a million miles distant. As if feeling her eyes, he glanced at her, then stared with intensity. Chelsea flinched. But she could not tear her gaze away.

  Idon’t like him, Lord, but you say you’re using him. Please continue to work your will.

  One of Milt’s eyebrows raised the tiniest bit, his expression mixing smugness with burning questions. Chelsea sensed him probing her face. For what? A hint of some divine knowledge about the trial?

  Sorry to disappoint you this time, Mr.Waking.

  She turned her attention back to the defense attorney.

  Terrance Clyde sagely shook his head. “In addition to all that we have just discussed, there is another problem. Even if you somehow, in some way, manage to deny the fact that Shawna Welk may still be alive, you face the next hurdle.And this one is insurmountable.You cannot be absolutely certain who is responsible for her death.

  “You heard testimony of numerous arguments in which Shawna Welk was involved. She argued with her boyfriends. She argued with her daughter. And she argued with Brett Welk, the son of her husband.”

  The grim tone of the attorney’s voice as he spoke the last line betrayed his intentions. Pinpricks danced up Chelsea’s arms. Here it came. She could see the path he would lead the jury down, as clearly as if he’d rolled out a red carpet.

  Darren Welk pressed back in his chair. He began to slowly rub his hands.

  “Remember, according to Tracey, there was no love lost between Brett and her mother. Since the day Shawna Welk moved in, he’d seemed to resent her trying to take his own mother’s place.”Terrance eased away from the podium and toward the jury box, as if preparing for a confidential conversation.“Let me tell you a few things that bother me. Do you remember Tracey Wilagher’s testimony about that night? Do you remember what she said when I asked her if she’d seen Brett Welk’s car as she drove away toward the beach? ‘No,’ she replied. Then when she returned to the house, upset over not finding her mother, Brett came out of his bedroom fairly quickly. Darren Welk appeared, still drunk. According to Tracey’s testimony, Brett then went downstairs for about ten minutes and came back visibly shaken.After that Brett put both his father and Tracey to bed in their own rooms.And no one can testify as to what Brett did until around nine thirty the next morning, when Tracey woke up.”

  Chelsea glanced at Kerra. Her niece sat stiffly, face pale. She looked as if she hardly dared breathe. Brett’s jaw flexed, his expression granite.

  Where was Brett? she wrote.

  Terrance Clyde reminded the jury of Victor Mendoza’s testimony. How the man had mistaken Brett for his father in a photograph and had admitted that in fact he could not be sure who he had s
een digging in the Welks’ backyard in the early-morning hours of February sixteenth. Father and son were indeed built alike—same height, both stocky, muscular. And Brett’s face bore a great resemblance to his father’s.

  “Now.” The defense attorney lifted a hand, forefinger pointing toward the ceiling. “I want to show you something. I want to show you part of this video that the prosecution considers so important to its case.”

  With Sidney’s help Terrance pulled the television monitor away from the wall and dimmed the courtroom lights.“Here are the final moments of this infamous interview.”Using a remote, he turned on the monitor and the VCR and turned up the volume. Darren Welk’s face, slack-jawed and worried, filled the screen. Terrance hit the pause button. “Now, the next voice you’ll hear is Brett Welk’s. This is the moment when he arrives at the police station.Notice the fright in his voice. Notice what he says.Most of all, notice his father’s reaction.”

  Chelsea felt her stomach turn over. Again she looked to Kerra. God, please let this attorney be wrong!

  Terrance Clyde hit a button and the tape jarred into action.

  “Where’s my dad?”Brett’s voice demanded off camera. “I want to see him right now! I want to talk to the detectives!”

  Darren Welk’s eyes bugged. “No!” He grabbed the detective’s wrist. “You’re not talking to my son. You’ve got your man.” He hit his own chest with a finger. “Leave Brett out of this.”

  Terrance paused the tape. “‘You’re not talking to my son,’” he repeated. “Look at Darren Welk’s face. Know what I see? Fear.

  The intense fear of a parent trying to protect his only son.”

  The video moved to action once more. Chelsea watched the screen.

  “We’ve got our man?” the detective mocked. “Is that a confession, Mr.Welk?”

  Darren Welk’s mouth opened, as if he’d suddenly realized the trap he’d set for himself.His expression changed to anger.He hit the table with his fist. “I want to see a lawyer!”

  Terrance stopped the video, rewound it, then paused it again at the moment Darren Welk heard Brett’s voice.His face froze with the click of a button. The attorney pushed the monitor a few feet back but left it on, and asked a bailiff to turn on the lights.

  “Let me ask you,” he said quietly, “does it make sense that Darren Welk, drunk as he was, allowed Brett to put him to bed, then got up again and buried that blouse? I say that while Tracey and Darren were sleeping, Brett buried that blouse.” He raised his eyebrows. “When Detectives Draker and Kelly went to the Welks’ house, warrant in hand, Darren Welk couldn’t seem to understand why the detective asked questions about the newly planted bush in the backyard. Darren told him a gardener had planted the bushes on Friday. When the bush was dug up and the blouse found, Darren Welk gave no explanation as to why it was there. I suggest that was because he was shocked to the core. He hadn’t put it there. And there was only one person whom he realized would have done it—his son.”

  At the defense table Darren Welk’s hands rubbed and rubbed.

  Dear Lord, Chelsea cried silently, it’s true, isn’t it?

  “How did Detective Draker describe Brett’s reaction when he drove up to the house and found out what had happened? ‘His face turned a sickly white,’ the detective said. Then Brett stood on the sidewalk as if in a daze and watched the detective drive his father off to the sheriff ’s department. Before long Brett barged into the department, demanding to break into the interview so he could speak to the detectives. That’s when Darren Welk abruptly stopped talking.

  “I ask you,” Terrance said, eyes narrowing, “why was Brett Welk so anxious to talk?”

  Of their own accord Chelsea’s eyes drew to Brett. Spectators and reporters stared at him openly. Chelsea watched him swallow hard, his chest rising as he breathed. Beyond that he did not move a muscle. Kerra too seemed to have turned to stone. One thing their expressions lacked was surprise.

  They’d been expecting this.

  The thought sped like a bullet through Chelsea’s brain.

  Oh, Lord, you’ve promised me you’re in control. Ibelieve you. Itrust you. But…

  At that moment, Kerra turned to Chelsea with a determined stand-by-my-man blink. Chelsea went cold inside.

  Terrance Clyde was not nearly finished.He continued to pound out his accusations against Brett. If Brett had buried that blouse— and it seemed highly likely—how could the jury convict Darren Welk? If Darren was covering for this action of his son, what else might he be covering for?

  BRETT. Chelsea wrote the name again in all caps. Slowly, painfully.

  The attorney moved to his final argument. Even if the jury could fully, unequivocally believe that Shawna Welk was dead, and even if they could set aside every question they had about Brett Welk’s involvement, they faced a third barrier to finding Darren Welk guilty of second-degree murder. At the most, Terrance explained, they could only find him guilty of involuntary manslaughter, for the homicide would have been committed without malice aforethought and without the intent to kill.What’s more, it had occurred in the heat of passion and while Darren Welk was intoxicated.

  “My friends, hear me,”Terrance pressed.“The prosecution’s case amounts to no more than involuntary manslaughter. They have not given you one shred of evidence to indicate that Darren Welk went to that beach with the intent to kill his wife.Yet they ask you to con- vict my client of second-degree murder.” His voice rose. “Nor have they given you proof beyond a reasonable doubt that Darren Welk, and Darren Welk alone, is responsible for Shawna’s death. And in fact they have not even given you solid proof that she is dead!

  “In light of all the holes in the prosecution’s story,” he concluded, “and in following all the judge’s instructions that you will hear, I ask you—how can you do anything but find Darren Welk not guilty?”

  As the attorney took his seat, Chelsea focused on her notes. BRETT. Her own handwriting mocked her.

  Dear God, help us all.

  MILT DIALED TRACEY’S WORK number during the afternoon break, mind swirling.He’d hardly been able to concentrate all day, and his notes on the closing arguments were sparse. He would really have to wing his evening report. But that was the least of his worries.

  Tracey answered on the third ring.He laid charm into his voice. “Hey, there.” You lying little witch.

  “Oh, hi!”

  “Missed you last night.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  “Look, I have an idea.” He worked to keep his voice light. “The jury’s going to begin deliberations tomorrow afternoon—”

  She drew in a breath. “Really?”

  “Yes. We’ve only got the prosecution’s rebuttal and judge’s instructions left.”

  “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe the day’s finally here.”

  I’ll bet you can’t.

  “I know you’ll want to be at court when the verdict comes in,” he said. “I’ll need to be hanging around, too. Since the jury’s sequestered, they’ll deliberate right through the weekend if need be. So here’s my idea. Get your boss to give you the day off tomorrow. Come up here tonight and stay with me in my town home until the verdict is in.”

  “Oh,Milt, that would be wonderful.”

  “Of course, I’ll have to be at court tomorrow and Saturday while you stay here. Bring something to read. But at least while you’re here, no reporters—or your aunt—will bother you.When I hear the verdict is in, I’ll call you, and you’ll be able to get to the courthouse pretty quickly.”

  “Okay,” she purred.

  “Here’s how to get to my place.”Milt gave her directions. “Come as soon as you can after work. By the time you get here, I’ll be home.”

  He clicked off the line and closed his eyes. It would take every ounce of acting ability he had to pull this off.

  And to think he’d almost felt sorry for the girl.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  That evening, after Paul’s phone call, Chelsea
knelt beside the hotel bed, desperately praying.Words from the prosecution, from the defense, roiled inside her head until she thought her skull would burst. The rest of the jury had been escorted out to dinner, while she’d once again begged off. She could imagine the raised eyebrows, the judgments festering in the mind of each juror. Here she was, on the eve of their deliberation, further distancing herself.

  So what? she countered. It didn’t matter what they thought. She had to pray.

  She gripped the bedspread, speaking aloud.Asking God for grace, for strength and wisdom during deliberations. She could not shake the sense that she was preparing for an unknown and unpredictable battle. Meanwhile, she knew, God was continuing to work his will through others.

  How am Isupposed to vote, Lord? I’m so confused about what I’ve heard. Isuspect Darren Welk, and yet Ithink Brett was involved. I’m scared to deliberate with that jury, especially if Idisagree with them.Help me deal with Tak and Hesta and Latonia…

  How many of the jury members knew about her niece’s relationship with Brett? she wondered. How many, in their phone calls from loved ones, had listened to the whispered tales they were not supposed to hear? If she voted not guilty,would they suspect she was doing it for Kerra? Yet they wouldn’t be able to voice their suspicions, because they weren’t supposed to know.What kind of strange standoff would result?

  And if she voted guilty, wouldn’t Kerra hate her?

  God, Iknow Ishouldn’t worry about these things. Help me just to do what’s right.

  Her worst concern lay with the rest of the jury. Perhaps the judge’s instructions would help. Perhaps after hearing them, she’d find that the doubts she carried weren’t “reasonable” enough for a not-guilty vote.