“Hey, I don’t schedule these things!”Ron exhaled loudly.“What’s going on with you? Is something wrong?”
Milt almost laughed. “Are you kidding? I’m having the best day of my life.”He glared at his right hand, flexing the fingers. They hurt like crazy. Brett Welk had a hard head.
Kerra’s sobs were dying down. Brett still held her as if she were going to fly away.
Focus,Milt, focus!
He pushed away from the car, straightening. “Okay,” he said tersely. “What time?”
“Twelve thirty.”
His chin dropped.He looked a wreck.He felt a wreck.How could he ever pull this off? And that’s if he was right to begin with.
“You there?”
“Yeah.”
Rogelio yelled Milt’s name, his arm raised, finger pointing.Angst and fright and the need to blame pulsed across his face.
“Gotta go; call me.”Milt snapped off the phone and slid it into his shirt pocket, which was amazingly intact.He threw his briefcase into the car and locked the doors. Then collected his wits. Suddenly he knew what to do.
“Rogelio, you have to listen to me.”He moved forward slowly, as if he were approaching a bomb about to explode. “You don’t need that paper. I promised you I’d help you get your baby.And you will. If you and Brett and Kerra will do exactly what I tell you.”
THE URGENCY DISAPPEARED. Chelsea felt it lift from her shoulders as if she’d sloughed off a heavy blanket. Weakly she leaned against the bathroom door and waited. Opened her eyes, fixed her gaze on the tile floor. She searched within herself, trying to feel the fear, the oppression. She couldn’t allow herself to be wrong.
Lord, what’s happened? Has the danger passed?
She waited, her unseeing gaze traveling the floor.
Nothing.
She breathed out slowly, bringing a shaking hand to her forehead. Thank you, God. Thank you, thank you. She lacked the strength to pray any more than that.
Chelsea could stand no longer. She sank down upon the closed toilet lid, feeling her ankles tremble.Her muscles felt soft, like cooling melted wax. Minutes ticked by as she rubbed her temples, allowed herself to breath, collected the scattered marbles of her emotions. She flexed her back and her spine cracked.
She knew she would have to go back out into the jury room. It wasn’t fair for her to be occupying one of only two bathrooms. Besides, she’d need to face the jurors. The trial wasn’t over yet.
Chelsea pulled to her feet and surveyed herself blearily in the mirror. She looked as if she’d been hit by a truck.Well, she had.
Lord, help me. Please.
Five minutes later she emerged from the bathroom. All conversation stopped, every eye warily upon her as if she were schizophrenic. Hesta raised her chin, her expression screaming disdain. Tak sat with arms folded, and Latonia openly sneered. Clay broke the silence with a foreman’s bristling resolve.
“Are you going to be able to continue? Or is all our work going to end in a mistrial?”
She locked eyes with him. Only then did she realize her utter calm. After what she’d just been through, what could these people possibly do to her?
“I am fine,” she replied levelly. “No mistrial here. Sylvia, please forgive me.”
She walked to the table and reached for an unclaimed water bottle near Antonio. “May I?”
He picked it up with reluctance and handed it to her, making sure their fingers didn’t touch.
TWELVE FORTY. MILT DRUMMED nervous fingers against Brett’s car.He felt like a fast-talking salesman after the spiel that had gushed from him in the last ten minutes. At least nobody had hit him again. Brett’s tanned face had faded to a pasty mud, save for his purpling left temple. He’d hardly been able to absorb Milt’s words. Understandable, thought Milt, given the events crammed into the last half hour. Kerra seemed equally stunned. Her tears had dried, leaving tracks through her makeup.Mascara smeared under her eyes. Only Rogelio looked the better for wear.With Milt’s explanations,wild as they sounded, the kid’s hope had returned.He nearly trembled with anticipation.
Milt gazed at each of them, then felt his jaw.What a motley foursome they made. This was too bizarre.
“It may not work,” he said for the third time. “I’ve done my best. I’ve done everything to make it happen. But the next part’s out of my control.”
“It’s not out of God’s,” Kerra blurted.
Milt gave her a look.Oh no, not another one.Wouldn’t Aunty be proud.
Brett nodded sagely. So did Rogelio. Milt turned his head from one to the other, mouth twisting with surprise.What was this, a conspiracy?
“Yeah, well, if God doesn’t come through, don’t kill me, all right?” He ran a hand down his tie, then puffed out air. “Trust me, you won’t have to.”
“If this doesn’t work,”Brett retorted, “if my father’s found guilty and has to wait months for another trial because you wanted your exclusive story”—he sneered the words—“you’d better watch your back.”
Milt tensed. For a minute he thought Brett would take another swing. Kerra wrapped both hands around Brett’s upper arm and tugged gently until he calmed down.
The cell phone rang. All four of them jumped.
“Answer it, answer it!” Rogelio’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
Milt yanked it from his pocket and punched a button, heart turning over. “Yeah.”
“I think we got a hit.” Ron sounded breathless.
His eyes closed, relief washing over him once again.
“What, what?” Rogelio cried.
Milt turned away, cramming the phone against his ear.“Tell me.” He listened, envisioning Ron’s description. “How long does Gary think the line will take?”
“Not long.Maybe twenty minutes.”
Calculations ran through his mind. Twenty minutes there, plus another twenty …
“Everything all right there?” Ron asked.
Milt swung back to his trio of cohorts and gave them a thumbs-up. Kerra gasped. “The jury’s going to be in the courtroom, listening to testimony,” he told Ron. “And you wouldn’t believe the folks I’ve recruited to help me.”
SIXTY-ONE
In Milt’s kitchen Tracey filled a glass with ice water from the refrigerator, television droning in the background. The phone rang. She almost dropped the glass. Her heart tripping over itself, she slowly reached out to place the glass on the tile. Three sideways steps and she stood at the counter where the phone lay. She stared at it, reading the i.d. number. It was Milt’s cell phone.
Another ring pealed through the kitchen. She snatched up the receiver. “Hello.”
“It’s Milt. Come down right now. The jury’s in.”
She sucked in a breath. Suddenly she felt light-headed. “I’ll be there.”
In less than a minute she pulled out of the town home parking lot and onto the street.
ROGELIO USEDMILT’S CELL phone to quickly call Kristin as they walked to the courthouse. His heart constricted at the sound of her voice. “Are you okay? And Mama Yolanda?”
“We’re fine. But I’m getting really tired of this, Rogelio.You have to tell me what’s going on.”
“Just stay there. I don’t think you’ll have to wait much longer.”
“What’s happening?
“Kristin, I’ll tell you everything. But I don’t have time now. Just promise me you’ll stay there and wait for my next call.”
She made an impatient sound in her throat.
“Please.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Call you soon.” He punched off the phone and handed it to Milt. The reporter’s shirt was pulled out, his tie all out of whack, and his hair a mess. “You’d better stop in the bathroom,” he said. “You look like someone’s just made your day.”
ONE O’CLOCK.
Milt had gotten strange looks from the guard and deputy sheriff who’d been assigned the unusual task of running courthouse security on a Saturday. Once inside the ba
throom, he’d managed to clean himself up remarkably well, save for the bruise on his jaw. At least no blood had stained his shirt. He almost wished the bruise were darker. It would only heighten the drama on camera. He touched the area and winced.
He hung back as other reporters shuffled through the courtroom door, followed by the Three Fates. Stan Breckshire appeared on the escalator. The attorney bounced off the top step and skittered inside. Oh, buddy, Milt thought, you think you’re nervous now. He peeked into the courtroom. Terrance Clyde and Erica Salvador already hovered about the defense table. Chairs squeaked and papers rustled as people settled. A bailiff escorted Darren Welk to his seat, then walked to the courtroom door. “You coming in?”
Milt angled his bruised jaw away from the man.“Maybe later.”
“All right.” The bailiff closed the door.
The hall fell eerily quiet. Only he and Rogelio remained. Brett and Kerra huddled in the tiny conference room at the far end of the hall, the door slightly ajar. Best for Brett to keep out of sight, as his presence might be too intimidating for certain people.Milt wished he weren’t so far away, but at least he was well hidden.No doubt he’d cover the distance in a heartbeat if he was needed.
Amazing, Milt thought, how all these pieces were falling into place.
Now, where was Bill?
Rogelio flexed his jaw, casting expectant glances toward the escalator. The kid was making Milt even more nervous. “Go sit on a bench on the other side,with your back to the courtroom,”Milt told him. “Lean forward, stare at the floor like you’re waiting for somebody.” Rogelio nodded, then hitched himself away.
Bill appeared a moment later, lugging his equipment. “Channel Five’s still around out front,” he said. “Guy asked what on earth I thought I’d be filming. I said, ‘Not a thing. But Milt Waking thinks he owns me.’”
Milt managed a wan smile. His heart thumped around in his chest. Tracey should be here.He’d figured out how to keep her from going into the courtroom. She was so pliable, really, for all she’d done. Half mush melon.
He checked his watch. Two minutes after one.
His cell phone rang and he nearly dropped it in answering.“Milt here.”
“Everything’s clear,”Ron said.“You’ve got about twenty minutes.”
CHELSEA FELT THE BRIMMING tension of every jury member as she followed Gloria Nuevo into the courtroom. The calm she’d experienced twenty minutes ago had faded, leaving her nerves worn and prickling. Her ankles felt weak as she lowered herself into her seat.
Brett and Kerra were absent.
Fresh fear bubbled in Chelsea’s stomach. Did this mean anything? Maybe they were just at lunch.Maybe they didn’t think hearing testimony all over again was important.
That couldn’t be it, she argued with herself. Surely Brett would think anything occurring in the trial significant.
Oh, Lord, I thought the danger had passed. Please let her be all right!
Judge Chanson entered. Chelsea wrenched her thoughts away from Kerra as everyone rose, then sat again. She had to listen to this testimony. Surely the Lord would show her something. If not, she prayed for peace about changing her vote. Give me wisdom, God; let me hear with your ears. Judge Chanson examined the jury with intensity, trying to read their expressions. She wouldn’t have to try very hard, Chelsea thought fleetingly, given the black looks on most of their faces.
Chelsea’s eyes pulled back to the spectators and reporters. She couldn’t stop thinking about Kerra. Then she realized with a start that Milt Waking was also gone. The knowledge snagged her breath. No way would he choose to miss any piece of news about this case.
Unless more exciting news was happening somewhere else.
She dropped her gaze to her lap, considering. That had to be it. Slowly understanding seeped through her.Hadn’t God told her that he’d chosen to work through Milt? Hadn’t he warned her that when she could not act herself, her prayers would be critical? Hadn’t God clearly led her to pray for Milt and Brett and Kerra? God was working. While her emotions had swayed her this way and that, while she’d alternately prayed and complained, God had been at work.
Thank you, God, thank you. Inever should have doubted, not for a minute.
“All right,” Judge Chanson announced. “I understand that you want to hear certain parts of Tracey Wilagher’s testimony.We have brought up the part of the record that you’re interested in, and the clerk will now read it to you.”The judge’s eyes caught Chelsea’s, then blinked away.
The clerk began. “‘I’d been sick with the flu,’” she read from her computer without emotion. “‘I’d gotten it three days before, and after a day of having a fever, I’d finally gone to bed… .’”
TRACEY SENT HER PURSE through security and scurried up the escalator. Everything seemed so deadly quiet. Spooky almost. As she neared the second floor, she spotted Milt outside the courtroom. Only two other people were on the entire floor—a man with a television camera, and some guy she barely noticed, sitting on a bench. Milt met her halfway in the hall.
“Are they already inside?” she huffed. Her stomach felt tied in knots.
Milt squeezed her shoulder. “Yes, but they haven’t decided on a verdict after all. They just wanted to hear some testimony read back.”
Tracey’s lungs deflated like a punctured balloon. “Oh.” She rubbed her forehead. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry,”Milt said soothingly.
She surveyed him wearily. He seemed a little on edge himself, running his fingers up and down his tie. It took her a moment to register the large bruise on his jaw. “What happened to you?” She reached out her hand.
Milt pulled back before she could touch him.“My clumsy assistant over there.” He indicated with his head. “Bonked me with his camera.”
“Oh,” she said again. Tracey half-turned away, staring mindlessly at the floor. She must sound so stupid, but her brain would hardly work.
“Look, since you’re here, you might as well stay.”Milt put an arm around her. “You look exhausted.”He urged her into motion, guiding her to a seat near the far end of the hall. “If you stay down here, when folks come out of the courtroom, you won’t be bothered.”
“Maybe I should see what’s going on.”
“Nothing but boring testimony.”His lips twisted in a half smile. “Or believe me, I’d be in there myself.”
“Okay.” She slumped on the bench.
“You know I can’t stay with you. I’ll go talk to my cameraman. Just sit tight now. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
As he moved away, she saw him check his watch.
STAN FORCED HIMSELF BACK in his chair, feigning calm, wondering what the problem was with Tracey’s testimony.What had he missed in his questioning?
As the clerk’s voice droned through the courtroom, his eyes roamed over the jury. Something was definitely up. Tak’s typically stoic expression was laced with anger. Latonia’s jaw was set, her fore- head creased. Henry sat straight in his seat, arms crossed. Clay leaned forward, head ducked, looking up at the clerk.
Clay’s the foreman, Stan thought.
His gaze slid to Chelsea. She looked worn, beat up. The thought hit him like a brick over the head: she was fighting the jury. Stan couldn’t be sure she was alone. Maybe she had one or two on her side. But if she did, he certainly couldn’t pick them out based on their body language.
Did she know something?
For the first time since he’d first laid eyes on Chelsea Adams, fear of her supposed ability flashed through his veins.What if she really could see things? What kind of damage could she do?
Just as suddenly the fear vanished.Nothing, he told himself, that’s what. If Chelsea Adams could “see” anything with divine knowledge, she’d see Darren Welk killing his wife. Besides, this God’s power stuff was ridiculous. The strange mix of rationality and emotion—that’s what ruled the courtroom. Ruled the world, for that matter.
Purposely Stan fixed his eyes upon the clerk, even
as his back muscles tightened and anxiety edged down his right arm.
ONE TEN. MILT SWEATED bullets as he walked away from Tracey. He felt soaked in his suit, his shirt plastered to the white T-shirt underneath. His eyes swung to Rogelio, who faced the opposite direction, neck and shoulders arched. The kid looked like a cat ready to pounce.
He angled over to Bill,who was sprawled on a bench with an arm on the back. “How much time?” Bill asked in a barely audible voice.
“Maybe ten minutes?”
Bill smirked. “Too bad I can’t use lights. A dark picture won’t do much to show off your injury.”
“Yeah, well. You ought to see the other guy.”
“Really. Didn’t think you had it in you,Waking.”
One eleven.
Milt was about to split a gut. Soon it would be all or nothing. A rocket to the moon or the end of his career.
He glanced back at Tracey. She was staring at her lap. What a great move, getting her to sit all the way down there. All the more floor space for luring. Plus she wasn’t that far from the conference room. That’s it, babe, just sit. Just play decoy for ten more minutes.…
“Bill, go over and talk to her, keep her occupied. Sit so you can keep an eye on me. I’m going to watch the bottom floor.”
“Right, Boss.” Bill spoke in a gruff voice, like some Mafia underling.
Milt ignored him.He waited until Bill had settled next to Tracey. Then he sidled toward the top of the escalator and glued his gaze to the bored security duo below.
CAUTIOUSLY BRETT EASED THE conference room door farther open and peeked out. His temple throbbed where Milt had punched him. A minute ago he and Kerra had heard voices close by—Milt and Tracey. Now he heard another man’s voice. There was Tracey. Sitting on a bench in profile, not twenty feet away, talking to Milt’s cameraman.
He drew back inside.
“Is she there?” Kerra mouthed.
He nodded.
Kerra bit her lip, then hugged him, quivering with nervous energy.He held her tightly, resting his cheek on the top of her head.
Brett could barely grasp what was happening. He’d so quickly assumed that his father was guilty, thinking he’d pieced together the events of that night on the beach.Obviously, his father had believed the same, the glaring evidence filling in the missing elements of a drunken memory. In the last hour, Brett had gone through enough emotions to last a lifetime. Anger, relief, and elation still swirled in his chest like brittle leaves in a dust storm. To think of the months of guilt he’d felt! All those times he’d beat himself up for burying that blouse. All the sick remorse over his dad’s refusal to point the finger at his stupid cover-up, just to keep him out of jail. Kerra was right—their actions, however skewed, proved they loved each other. If this worked out, Brett declared to the heavens, he’d shout to the whole world what God had done for him. And for his father.
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