"Isn’t it true that the two of you were colleagues a year ago, before you were promoted to partner?"
"Yes."
"And when you became his supervisor, did you ever tell him that you would see him fired before you ever recommended him for a promotion?"
"Not in those words exactly."
From her papers Rachel pulled out a printout. "I have here an instant message transcript from February this year in which you wrote to my client: You think you’re better than me, just because they gave you the Franklin case? Well, six months later, I’m your freakin’ boss! And you are never going to make partner while I’m here. Better start looking for another job."
"We just had an argument," George tried to explain. "Heated words, that’s all."
"This goes on for another page or so," Rachel said. "And the only words my client says in response are: ‘sure, George’, and ‘whatever.’"
Rising from his chair, Walden said, "Move to strike. This is work product."
Hodges shook his head. "Go on, Ms. Cheng. But not much longer without bringing it home."
"Thank you," she replied. With a deep breath, she stepped back from the witness stand and began her attack run. "So, once again, Mr. Schmall. You don’t like my client, do you?"
"Asked and answered," Walden said.
"How can anyone like a child molesting murderer?" George said.
"You’ve wanted to get rid of him since he reported you for legal misconduct and the firm reassigned the Franklin case to him, isn’t that so?"
"In the end, I got the promotion, not him!"
"He was a constant reminder of your shame, so you’d do anything to get him fired, wouldn’t you?"
"I didn’t say—"
"You’d even go as far as getting the help of some computer expert to plant pornography on his computer, wouldn’t you?"
"Objection, argumentative!"
"What else have you done to frame my client?"
"Your Honor!" Walden cried. The entire courtroom filled with chatter. Hodges started banging his gavel, calling for order.
"I asked you a question, Mister Small!" Rachel said.
"Schmall," George shouted. "Schmall, you stupid Asian bitch!"
With an arctic gaze that rivaled Anita Pearson’s, Rachel stepped back, gave the jury a look and said, "I’ve no further use for this witness."
Chapter Twenty-Three
When Fred Chase took the witness chair, I experienced a profound hollowing sensation in my innards. Walden methodically walked him through the debacle in his office. Now everyone knew that I attacked my human resources director in a rage. That did wonders for my character portrayal.
Even with Rachel's cross examination, in which she managed to convey that my rage was understandable, under the circumstances, I felt the jury's sympathy draining away.
I left the courthouse uncertain. Rachel had thoroughly trashed Anita Pearson on cross. Casting doubt in George’s direction was a stretch, though. And Fred Chase? She did her best. It was only the first day of the trial and already I was drained.
Most of the credit for digging up the dirt on Anita Pearson, went to Mack, Rachel’s private investigator. It didn’t thrill Rachel particularly, having to expose the detective’s past. A necessary measure, however, and Rachel didn’t regret it if it helped my case.
Completely ensconced behind Black Mountain, the sun lay to rest in an amber crested bed. Night fell like an ominous curtain. Dave drove us home on the I-15. How many times had I taken this same route with my kids sound asleep in the back and Jenn by my side, after a concert downtown, or a trip to the zoo, or a day at Sea World?
As usual, dinner was simple. We ordered Chinese from Szechuan Palace and sat around the house like college roomies. I wanted to avoid televised coverage or commentary about my trial, but after an exciting episode of 24, previews for the 10 o’clock news rolled around.
A small video clip of Walden waving his arms around dramatically. The caption read: HUDSON MURDER/RAPE TRIAL BEGINS, STORY AT TEN. No matter what channel we switched to, the coverage was rampant. Finally, Dave and I agreed we’d had enough television for the night. He went to the kitchen to grab another couple of Amstels when the phone rang.
It was Rachel. After a few exchanges, Dave stepped over and handed me the phone.
"I hope you’re not watching TV," Rachel said.
"Why? We’re famous."
"I’m serious."
"That bad, huh?"
"Lots of talk on both sides."
Although I was dying to hear what everyone was saying, I had promised not to pay much attention to the media. The stress wouldn’t help me in court. "How do you think we’re doing?"
"I’d be a lot more worried if they had some direct evidence."
"We need to get that DNA test back from the crime lab."
"Mack’s working on that. Should get an ETA in a couple of weeks."
Provided I wasn’t convicted by then. "That’ll be our trump card, right?"
"A double-edged sword. For you, the DNA results would be both direct and exculpatory."
As for witnesses, Mack had interviewed just about everyone who’d known me, Jenn, or the kids. Nothing useful turned up, but he was still optimistic. By the end of our talk, Rachel encouraged me to get plenty of rest—I’d need my strength for court. Just before she hung up I said, "Rachel, wait."
"Yes?"
"You did great today. I really appreciate it."
"Thanks, Sam."
"I mean it. Not just today. I appreciate everything you’ve done. You don’t know how much it means."
"My brother died in prison while serving a life sentence for a crime he didn’t commit. I know." Somehow, when she said ‘she knew’, I felt a connection with her. Not sure exactly what it was. I was vulnerable, she’d been compassionate. That was all.
No. I couldn’t allow feelings to develop. We said good-bye cordially and I hoped she wasn’t thinking about this as well.
All was quiet for the rest of the night. Through the window, pale moonlight bathed my house next door. Only, it wasn’t my house anymore. I was an exile.
Dave went to take a shower while I remained in the living room with the television off. I looked for something to read, anything that happened to be lying around. Anything but the Union Tribune.
Though my eyes were starting to feel like sandbags, my mind still ran with all kinds of thoughts about the trial. On the far side of the coffee table sat a burgundy, leather bound Bible, its pages open with a satin bookmark in the center of the spine. Curiosity got the better of me and I picked it up. It was open to a random passage.
At first, I found nothing terribly enlightening— just thoughts on living a moral life and a bit of theology. But then I came to a paragraph that stood out to me.
I read it again:
He committed no sin, and no deceit was found in his mouth. When they hurled their insults at him, he did not retaliate; when he suffered, he made no threats. Instead, he entrusted himself to him who judges justly.
A warm, tingling sensation coursed through my body, from my head down to my feet. Various fragments of the passage kept repeating in my mind:
He committed no sin.
Then I heard Jenn’s voice, her last words— "Mercy, not sacrifice."
Rachel’s "prophetic" word came to mind—it’s going to be fine. Aaron had been in this coma for two months now. It’s going to be fine.
All the words swirled around in my head. The Bible passage. Jenn’s words. Rachel’s. I could swear some of them were audible.
My breath grew short. A bead of perspiration rolled down my face. Inexplicable warmth infused my entire body. For a moment, it felt as if the floor underneath had vanished. But I didn’t fall. The room spun. I shut my eyes, unable to breathe until I opened my eyes. The words seemed to glow and rise from the page.
By his wounds you have been healed.
Have been healed?
I didn’t realize that I was holding my head b
etween my knees—crash position—until Dave said very quietly, "Sam, you okay?"
"Oh...Yeah...I’m fine."
"You sure?" he asked.
"Just a bit overwhelmed."
"Can I get you anything? Coffee, warm milk, Tylenol?"
"I’m okay, thanks. Just need some rest." Grabbing his proffered hand, I pulled myself up and smoothed out the wrinkles out of my perspiration-dotted shirt. "Tomorrow’s another round of testimonies."
"You’re in good hands."
"Yeah."
As I started up the stairs, the phone rang. Dave answered it in the kitchen. "Hello?"
I stopped to listen.
"Who is this?" Dave said. I peered over the rail, into the kitchen. "I know you can hear me, so listen carefully. Do not mess with me!" He stabbed the END button.
It didn’t take much to figure that the call came from someone upset with Dave, a local pastor, for hosting a killer and rapist in his home. I wanted to grab something, pummel it. Harassment was the last thing I needed from life.
It was just warming up.
Chapter Twenty-Four
It seemed like the trial would go on forever. The D.A.’s first expert witness, a computer forensics expert, showed evidence that I had indeed purchased and downloaded child pornography over the internet. He traced credit card transactions to me. Couldn’t they see this was blatant identity theft?
Somehow, the hacker stole my credit card information and switched my settings to online statement delivery two weeks prior. Rachel argued that identity theft was common and got the forensics expert to concede to the possibility. On redirect, Walden poked holes in this argument.
The prosecution brought in all kinds of character witnesses, many of them my former co-workers. Amazing how much they wanted to see me convicted. None of the testimonies hurt as much as Mike Seiffert’s. My best friend. "You had us fooled, you sick bastard!" he said, pointing straight at me with an entirely alien expression. Thirteen years of friendship. Gone.
My entire social context collapsed. It had been doing so for some time now, but Mike’s testimony hammered it home. I contemplated this as I rubbed my ankle where my GPS tracker chaffed.
After another bruising week in court, something occurred to me. Dave, the Bible study group, and of course, Rachel, my attorney, all "religious fanatics" whom I had once despised, were now my only friends.
As long as I’d known him, I’d always been curt to Pastor Dave. But he never even hinted at it. Not even once. Now, facing him every day, hat in hand, living in his home made it more difficult.
Each time I approached the subject, he would deflect it. "We don’t need to revisit it," he said one Sunday morning over breakfast.
"Actually, I do."
"I don’t hold any of it against you."
"Thanks, but I need to just say it once and for all. Come on, Dave. You of all people know the value of confession."
He set his mug down, wiped his mouth and sat back. "If it’s that important to you, go ahead."
"Since we met, I’ve been less than kind to you. Rude, to be more precise."
"Sam, really—"
"No, let me finish. You’ve shown me nothing but kindness. Considering how I’ve treated you... I owe you an apology," I said, now aware of his earnest gaze.
"You owe me nothing."
"You deserve an explanation." A boulder had been lifted from my chest. "You, Rachel, the Bible study group, you're not like any Christians I've known. I thought you were like the rest, judgmental, intolerant, out of touch, I just figured that Jenn had met some decent people who’d eventually disappoint her, given enough time."
"Glad we didn’t."
"Me too. But don’t expect me to convert, okay?"
Dave let out a hearty laugh. "Sam, have any of us ever tried to push our beliefs on you?"
"No."
"Have we ever made you feel less accepted because of our differences?"
"No. That’s just it. What kind of religion is it if you don’t go around preaching fire and brimstone, and guilting everyone?"
"You really want to know?"
"I’m curious, that’s all."
"Got any plans this afternoon?"
"Other than sitting around?"
"Then why not come and see for yourself?"
"I’m not going to your church."
"Neither am I."
Chapter Twenty-Five
Today’s service was not held within stained glass and hallowed walls. For Dave, church wasn’t in the actual building, it was where ever its people gathered with a common purpose.
Along with the members of his church, Dave took me to the Seabreeze projects near Rancho Penasquitos, where single parent families struggled to raise their children, while working two or three jobs just to make ends meet. Virtually orphaned, many children here saw their parents for only a couple of hours a day. On weekends, this meant lots of kids, lots of time, and very little in the way of guidance, or just good clean fun.
A sunny winter day in San Diego feels like spring in New York. Freshly mowed lawns exude a sweet aroma, flowers bloom and sunlight warms your back, giving you a deceptive sense of hope. But the constant woosh of cars behind Seabreeze Apartments made me think of life passing by these kids at freeway speeds. In the front, however, a wide grassy area, bordered with white-barked camphor trees, stretched across the common area like a park without playground equipment.
Members of City on a Hill, visited often and had been adopted into this community, often helping families by donating supplies, providing baby-sitting, grocery shopping, homework assistance, and tutoring. They also supported local schools by donating much needed supplies, volunteering to repaint and refurnish dilapidated classrooms, and even providing counseling for troubled kids.
On the open lawn, a picnic table covered with red gingham housed a veritable feast. A generator hummed as it powered the air pump for an inflatable monster truck jumpy. It swayed as kids bounced around inside, laughing with delight, a luxury they’d never otherwise enjoy. All this, courtesy of City on a Hill.
Fried chicken, vegetables, potato salad, cole slaw, apple pies, and one of Lorraine’s famous casseroles enticed the residents. I licked my lips at the scent of it all. I saw the top of Lorraine’s silver head as she sat in a lawn chair surrounded by half a dozen young women. She was handing out care packages—toiletries, soap, toothpaste and brushes, and even some luxury items like bath oils and makeup like the mother hen she was.
Lorraine smiled and waved me over. I turned to Dave who simply nodded and went over to talk to Alan and Samantha, who was not quite showing yet, but glowed the way first-time mom’s do when they’re with child.
As I approached the circle of ladies, their smiles faded. It took me a moment to understand.
"Ladies, this is Sam," said Lorraine.
"Sam?" one woman in the group said, her face pale. "Sam Hudson?" Quiet gasps floated into the air. They looked like a bunch of cats, too spooked to run.
"Now, ladies," Lorraine said. "Sam is innocent. It’s just a matter of time before he’s acquitted."
"I...I have to go," a young mom said, her words barely leaving her mouth. "Think I left something on the stove."
"Me too," another said, nearly tripping over the lawn chair.
Lorraine sighed and threw her hands up. "Ladies, please. There’s no need—"
Another one: "Thanks Lorraine, gotta run."
My stomach clenched. From their wide-eyed sweeps, scanning the area for their children and an escape route, it was clear what they thought and how they felt about me. They all got up and slinked away, tails tucked.
"Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty?" Lorraine called out. None of them so much as turned their head as they plucked their children from the picnic tables and pulled them back behind closed doors.
"I’m sorry, Sam." Lorraine opened her arms, wiggled her fingers inviting me into a grandmotherly embrace. "I’m so embarrassed."
I had been follow
ing Rachel’s advice—not paying attention to the media and was unprepared for this. For all those mothers knew, a child-molesting murderer was on the loose. "Didn’t mean to break up your little meeting."
"Never mind those girls. I’ll straighten them out."
"Don’t be too hard on them."
She smiled, touched my face. "Make sure you have some of my casserole before it’s all gone."
I thanked her and went in search of Dave. When I found him, he gestured for me to follow him to the table where lunch was being served. "Did you meet Lorraine’s group?"
"Uh, well," I frowned.
"Oh, don’t tell me."
"Yeah."
"Man, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say."
Over lunch, I couldn’t help but notice the sidelong glances, the whispering parents huddled together. When they realized who I was, many of them left with their children in tow. Despite my discomfort, I kept a cheerful demeanor and pretended not to be bothered.
This seemed to be working fine until a scowling man walked over. His tight, black tee shirt revealed taut muscles. He glared at me with volatile eyes. Dave put himself between us.
The guy said, "I ain’t got no quarrel with you, Pastor Dave." Trying to muscle his way through, he stabbed a finger at me. "It’s this murdering pervert I got a problem with!"
"Settle down Charlie," Dave said, with a grip on his shoulder. Charlie pulled away, a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth as he spoke through his teeth.
"Get the hell out of my neighborhood, Hudson. You wanna rape your daughter, kill your whole family? That's your problem. Just keep the hell away from mine."
I tossed my empty plate onto the table and started walking back to the car. As I passed Charlie, he grunted an obscenity and shoved me.
"You really don’t want to do this," I said, turning slowly to face him, my fist so tight it trembled.
"Oh, you gonna kill me too?" He sneered, his eyes flared.
"Go to hell." I started off again.
"After you!" Charlie pushed past Dave and came right at me, fist coiled. I turned around just as Charlie took a swing at my face. Before I could react, Dave grabbed Charlie by the wrist, twisted his arm behind his back, sending him to his knees. Charlie gritted his teeth and moaned.
BEYOND JUSTICE Page 10
