He shook his head.
"Dave," I said, unable to form my thoughts. "Why?"
"Who knows?" he sighed. "We’ve asked this since Cain killed Abel."
"Why God lets bad things happen to good people?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
"We can’t know exactly what God had in mind when he allows the wicked deeds of evil people to ravage the lives of the innocent." His words were strong, but a look of anger kept at bay loomed behind his eyes. "But I keep hanging on to the belief that if we knew the future, we’d likely take the same road God set before us, if we had to do it all over again."
"Even with the death of loved ones? You take a lot on faith."
"My entire life is based on faith. That, and the knowledge that death is not the end. Everything changes when you see that."
"So you think God allowed all this tragedy for a greater purpose?"
Dave’s eyes fell to the floor. Please, don’t spout some inane platitude. Finally he said, "Right now, I can’t see it. Can’t make any sense of it. It doesn’t seem fair. To Lorraine, to our church. All we did was what Christ taught— serve and show love to the needy, the downtrodden. Why did God allow this to happen? Honestly? I don’t feel it’s right."
"How do you feel then?" As if I had to ask.
"Angry! Angry at the thugs who torched the church. Angry at the criminal justice system that isn’t lifting a finger to find Jenn and Bethie’s killer—now that they have you." He punctuated the thought with a fist on the arm of the sofa.
Settling down, Dave sank into the upholstery, rubbing the back of his neck. Calmer now, he said, "I have to admit, I’m angry at God too."
"Aren’t you afraid He’ll strike you down with lightning or something?"
He shook his head. "We’ve been here before. God can certainly take my anger. He understands what I’ve been through. And despite all the pain, He’s been faithful."
"That’s not the image of God I grew up with." To me, God was this monolithic, celestial kill-joy that sat in a judge’s robe with a powdered wig. Lightning bolts shot out of his gavel and he was basically ready to condemn the slightest hint of wrong-doing. The whole world was doomed because of this harsh and angry, all powerful being." This was the god of my father, Ian Hudson—a lying, cheating wife beater who only invoked God’s name to control and abuse people.
Dave picked up a picture from the end table—his young wife, holding their baby. He touched the photo with tenderness, then covered his eyes.
I stared out the window, giving him some time to recompose. Dave set the picture back down. He glanced over at the wall clock, wiped his eye and stood up. "I have to go to the sheriff’s office to answer some questions."
"Want me to come with you?"
"Thanks, but no. Lots of people to talk to. I won’t be back till late."
"You okay?" I asked.
Letting out a slow breath, Dave finally looked me square in the eyes.
"Yeah. It’s going to be fine."
A chill bolted up my spine.
After he left for the sheriff’s, I sat in the kitchen and brought myself to eat a long overdue lunch—Lorraine’s potato casserole, left over from last night. I slid the pan into the microwave with reverence and wondered if I should say a silent prayer for the old girl. Her death had all but eclipsed the blade of the guillotine that still loomed over my neck.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The decision to take the stand came after hours of pacing, hand-wringing and mental volleyball. With the damning DNA test results coming in the rebuttal, there wasn’t much we could do but cast wide net of reasonable doubt and hope that I appear sympathetic before the jury.
But would they believe me? What possible explanation could there be for the DNA match? My case was being charged as a Special Circumstances murder—aggravated assault, rape, rape of a minor—and the state was seeking death by lethal injection`.
Wearing her savvy glasses today, Rachel’s hair was tied back and she sported a sharp navy business suit. She warned me not to get overly emotional nor detached while testifying. "Just be yourself." The problem was, over the past few months I’d forgotten who that was.
She leaned against the rail of the jury box such that when I answered her questions, the jurors would get a good look at my face. I told the whole story from the moment I left for my client meeting until when I ran out into the street, covered in blood and screaming for help. By the time I was done, I thought for sure there would be at least one juror dabbing her eyes.
Nothing but impassive stares.
Under oath, I had spoken the truth, poured out my heart, and they weren’t buying it. I was the last of Rachel’s witnesses. She had called criminalists, EMS, doctors, members of the Bible study group.
On cross examination, some of our key witnesses were casually impeached by Kenny Dodd, others torn to shreds by Walden on cross. Several of them stepped down from the stand in tears.
Now it was my turn.
Walden waited a few seconds after Rachel took her seat. Then he stood up, buttoned his jacket and approached me. "You stabbed your wife twelve times, then raped your daughter and stabbed her ten times, didn’t you?"
Rachel objected immediately. He acted as if he didn’t hear.
"Then you went to your son’s room and beat him with his own baseball bat, didn’t you?"
"Objection."
"Sustained." The judge shook his head but was alarmingly tolerant.
"Isn’t it true that you’d recently moved to Rancho Carmelita, even though the cost of living was a lot higher than expected, that you had reservations about being able to afford it, but your wife believed you could manage?"
"Objection," Rachel said. "Irrelevant."
"Goes to motive."
"Overruled."
I answered in the affirmative.
"You were having trouble making your monthly bills weren’t you?"
"We managed," I replied.
"In fact, according to an Experian credit report, you have two 30 days on your mortgage and HELOCs, two 30 days on your American Express Card, and a 60 day on the Visa card which you used to buy the kiddy porn."
"Objection!"
"Allegedly...." Walden smoothed his necktie. "Allow me to restate the question. You were experiencing financial hardship, weren’t you?"
I explained that with the recent move, I hadn’t gotten to changing the mailing addresses for my bills and amidst all the commotion of unpacking and settling into a new home, I had forgotten all about them until the lenders contacted me. "I made my payments the same day they called."
"But on paper, one could argue that it looks like financial hardship. Wouldn’t you agree?"
"One might, if he wasn’t interested in the truth."
"And you’re just honest Abe, aren’t you?"
Rachel bolted from her chair. "Your honor!"
"All right, Counsel," Hodges said to Walden. I glared at the D.A., but there was no way I’d take the bait. "Mister Hudson, let’s just say—for arguments sake—you were feeling financially pressured, but for some reason you didn’t want to upset your wife, who wanted a new house. So you agree to buy a home in Rancho Carmelita that costs..." he flipped through his papers and said, "...nine hundred and fifty-thousand dollars..." He took a deep breath and exhaled as the figure sank into the minds of the jury.
Without a pause, I said, "We were in complete agreement about—"
"Please wait until I’ve asked a question. Now, you’re hurting financially, you resent being pressured into this situation..."
"Objection."
"Again, goes to motive, Your Honor," he countered.
"You’re reaching," Hodges replied. "Speed it up."
He thanked the judge and continued.
"Were you happily married, Mister Hudson?"
"Yes."
"Really?" Was I supposed to answer that? I hesitated and instantly regretted it.
"Asked and answered," Rachel said.
&nbs
p; "Let me ask you another question," he turned to Hodges with open hands. "And, begging the court’s indulgence, I promise it’s related." The judge consented. "Did your wife, daughter, and son have life insurance policies?"
"Yes."
"For how much?"
Was Rachel going to object? Sure, it was relevant to motive, but shouldn’t she object? She was writing on a legal pad and reading a pile of notes. "It was a standard policy," I finally said. "The policy was based on assets, liabilities, potential loss of income—"
"Please just answer the question. How much?"
"Two and a half million."
It was clear that Walden was a shrewd prosecutor, but now, by the way he arched his eyebrow, puffed his chest as if aghast—or at least conveying a silent, "aha!" with his eyes, it was becoming apparent what a masterful thespian he was. He turned slowly to the jury. "Two-point-five million." Walden whistled. "That’s a lot of money. "Well, that would certainly solve your financial problems, wouldn’t it?"
Now Rachel objected. But I couldn’t sit on that one. "Look! I didn’t—!"
"You didn’t answer my question, Mister Hudson. But you know what? Don’t bother." He walked to the evidence sitting on the table and picked up the knife that had been used that night.
"Does this look familiar to you, Mister Hudson?"
"Yes, it’s from my kitchen."
"In fact, it it’s the murder weapon, isn’t it?"
"That's what the police say."
"Can you explain how your fingerprints got on it?"
"It’s simple. I’d been cutting vegetables earlier that evening."
"Yes, so you’ve told us. But isn’t it true that your fingerprints were on it, because you used it to stab your—"
"OBJECTION!" Rachel’s voice filled the courtroom.
"Mr. Walden," Hodges said. "I’m warning you."
He smiled, nodded a fake apology—bastard knew he was crossing the line.
"Fine," Walden said. "I have the same questions about the baseball bat, but everyone knows what I’m getting at. The question, Mister Hudson, is this: Besides those of the victims, why were your prints the only ones found on the murder weapon and the bat?"
"Because the killer was wearing gloves."
"The killer was wearing gloves," he repeated, with a twisted smirk. I was ready to grab Court Exhibits 5 and 7 and demonstrate on Walden. "Do you really expect us to believe that excuse? You’re not about to pull a Johnny Cochrane on us here now, are you?
"It’s the truth!"
"You would deny, if in fact you killed them, wouldn’t you?"
I wasn’t going to answer that. I just tried my best to keep my poker face on.
"You’re a southpaw, aren’t you?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Did you know that the Sherriff’s department criminalists have determined by the knife wounds that the attacker was also left-handed?" Acting surprised is fairly simple, especially when you're not acting. Pretending not to be surprised—therein lies the challenge. How had we missed that? Not that the answer really mattered. Walden had kicked me in the crotch and my reaction was all he was really after. He got it in flying colors. "I repeat. Did you know that the attacker was left-handed?"
"No."
"My, my. What a coincidence," said Walden with a vinyl smile. He pointed at the horrific, blown up, photos of my wife and daughter. "So you just came home and just…found them that way."
"No, I already said that—"
"Right, right. You claim they were still alive when you first got to them."
"That’s exactly what happened."
"Right. So, let's review: You killed your wife."
Rachel objected.
"No," I replied.
"Raped your daughter."
"No."
Again, Rachel objected. The judge pounded his gavel, but Walden was on a roll. He was in my face now, making a violent stabbing motion. "Stabbed her, over and over and over and over."
Rachel was shouting her objections.
I couldn’t retrain myself. "No!"
The audience’s murmuring crescendoed and Hodges rapped his gavel one last time. "Mister Walden!"
"Then you took a bat—!"
I leapt to my feet. "No dammit! I didn’t do any of that!" Fists clenched, I don’t know how close I came, but I wanted to grab Walden by the throat.
He stared at me, feigning surprise. "Do you want to hurt me, as well?"
"MOVE TO STRIKE!" Rachel leapt to her feet now.
"Too late, counsel," Walden sneered. "Your client’s already done that. And his family paid the price." And with that fatal blow, he went back to the prosecution’s table. "Nothing further."
Rachel’s redirect should have caused the jury to at least doubt Walden’s assertions. If it did, they gave no such impression. While the court recessed for lunch, I asked Rachel what the deal with Walden was—his cross examination was pretty lame. "How can he be so thick?" The anxiety in Rachel’s eyes answered more clearly than her words.
"He’s just warming up for the presentation of the DNA evidence."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
When determining guilt or innocence, DNA evidence is for the most part an absolute. The presentation of this "new evidence" came as no great surprise to us. To the jury and the public though, it was a land mine. That made it much easier now for them to convict and sentence me with a clear conscience.
My stomach wrenched tight as the prosecution’s expert witness from the lab took the stand. I kept wiping my palms on my pants. Rachel had only a few questions for the DNA expert, most of them a weak effort to impeach. How much were you paid to testify? How much do you make each year testifying for the D.A.’s office? Has your testimony ever contradicted the prosecution’s case? You wouldn’t want to risk a lucrative career by admitting it, if you’d fudged the test results to make my client appear guilty, would you? The desperation was lost on none.
Finally, Kenny Dodd called out his objection, which the judge sustained. But Rachel was done. Had she sufficiently damaged the witness’ credibility? Difficult to tell because he didn’t flinch even at the most inflammatory questions. Walden had more than enough time to coach him on the admission of the DNA test results—State’s Exhibit 24. We knew this was coming.
There was no defense rejoinder. It would have been nice to have a few surprise witnesses of our own like perhaps, Mack testifying that there had been evidence found at the crime scene indicating an intruder. But the killer was so meticulous that he left nothing. Not a trace. It was basically my word against the State’s.
Both the defense and the prosecution rested.
___________________
I never realized just how manipulative and tasteless a lawyer could be until Walden began his summation. He clicked a button on a portable CD player and a recording of Bethie playing the slow movement of Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons filled the courtroom. All the while, he held up a photo of the most precious, angelic little face I’d ever known.
"Bethany Hudson. Twelve years old. So much ahead of her. So much promise. But now, she will never experience the joys of life—her unique and beautiful life: a Carnegie Hall debut, a first kiss, marriage, children of her own." The poster-sized photo was taken by the Union Tribune photographer for the feature Brent Stringer had done on me, just weeks before the murders.
The music added just the right blend of beauty and melancholy. Juror number five wept openly. Juror number six put her arm around her and patted her shoulder.
Next, pictures of Jenn. Walden had gotten a hold of our photo album and had seized some of my most prized memories. He held up a photo of Jenn in her wedding gown. Her smile lit up the room even through her mere likeness. I missed her so much.
"Jennifer Lawrence-Hudson. In the prime of her life. A budding writer poised for a successful literary career, a devoted wife and mother, faithful member of her church and community. Betrayed and killed by a deviant, pedophile of a husband who cared only about the i
nsurance money.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, from the testimony of our witnesses and the blood that drips from the defendant’s own hands, the evidence is beyond compelling. The fingerprints, the credit card records, the child pornography, the semen found on his own daughter. What else does anyone need to conclude that he is guilty? Guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
"This was a premeditated crime of greed and sexual perversion. And let’s not forget the attempted murder of his own son, Aaron Hudson, who now lies in a coma with practically no chance of recovery. He was only four years old when his father took a baseball bat to his head.
"To be clear, these were first degree murders with special circumstances. In the name of justice, of truth, I implore you. You must find the defendant guilty on all counts. Show him the same mercy as he’s shown his victims—his own family—he deserves as much. Anything less would not only be unjust, it would be immoral." He finished by holding up a photo of the three of them. "These beautiful children and their mother never had a chance to express their shock at such a betrayal. They no longer have a voice." He set the pictures down on prosecution’s table and returned only to jab a finger at the jurors. "You must be their voice, for they have none but yours." He held their gaze like Svengali then returned to his table.
After a few seconds, the entire courtroom fell silent.
Rachel got up to approach the jury box. She hesitated. For the first time in the entire trial, she spoke with open and empty hands. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the State has proven nothing. From the initial investigation by a severely prejudiced, and I daresay, disturbed detective, to the possibly tainted DNA samples and report by a biased career witness, their handling of this case could possibly be one of the worst miscarriages of justice in the history of the United States.
"The court will remind you of the burden of reasonable doubt. Unlike a civil trial, criminal cases demand much higher levels of proof. Certainly much higher than what the prosecution has tried to pass off.
"Samuel Hudson was framed. Based on that truth, it is clear that the prosecution’s evidence could have been planted by any number of people, none of which, by the way, have been examined or even brought under suspicion. Anyone capable of independent thought can see that there’s plenty of reasonable doubt to go around a few times and back.
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