The Legacy Series Boxed Set (Legacy, Prophecy, Revelation, and AWOL)

by Ellery Kane

  I said nothing, but I was grateful when the bailiff cleared his throat. “All rise for the Honorable Judge Henry Blacksher.” A stately man with a thick, black beard and strong shoulders glided in, his black robe swishing as he ascended the bench. He acknowledged the crowd with a nod, then bellowed, “Please be seated. Mr. Van Sant, Ms. Dillard, are there any issues to address before we bring in the jury?”

  “No, Your Honor,” both attorneys replied in unison.

  Solemn, Judge Blacksher announced, “Before we proceed today, I’d like to take a moment to honor the 6,000 Americans who lost their lives in Chicago five years ago.” My mother had met me at the door that day, shell-shocked. We sat together, barely a word between us, as we watched the news coverage. The Navy Pier Ferris Wheel bobbed in the water for days until it sank, joining at least a thousand bodies in a watery tomb. Back then, at age fifteen, it was the worst thing I had ever seen. I couldn’t have known just a few days later bombs would explode in five more cities, fragmenting all that was safe and good in the world. In the wake of the tragedy, sales of Emovere and Eupho exploded. It was only a matter of time before the government deployed the Guardian Force to re-establish order.

  Judge Blacksher’s voice suspended my memory. “Bailiff, please instruct the jury to enter the courtroom.” As the jury filed in—six men and six women—I squeezed the hard bench beneath me, reminding myself this was real. Next to me, Elana chewed her bottom lip.

  “Jury members, I’d like to remind you of the importance of your role in this trial. Though you may find portions of the testimony overwhelming, gruesome even, it goes without saying I will not tolerate the use of emotion-altering medications in my courtroom. Not only is it illegal, but it clearly compromises the integrity of your decision-making. Do I have your promise?”

  Unsurprised by these instructions, the jurors nodded their heads and were seated. Even before the government banned EAMs, their use was restricted in legal settings, jurors included. As a psychiatrist, my mother was also forbidden from using EAMs while working, a limitation that extended to medical doctors, police officers, and teachers.

  “Bailiff, please provide the jurors with their monitors.” The bailiff strode alongside the jury box, securing an EAM tracker on each juror’s wrist. Using skin conductance to measure emotional and physiological arousal, the tracker was intended to ensure compliance with the law. But—like most government mandates—my mother never trusted it.

  “Mr. McAllister, you may stand.” The screech of his chair cut the silence like a scream, as Quin’s father stood and faced the judge. The jurors’ heads swiveled all at once toward him. “Please advise the court of your name and date of birth.” As he began speaking, his voice shaky but determined, I thought of his first day of freedom.

  He had arrived in Hayward on the 6 p.m. bus from Los Angeles, everything he owned in a gray duffel bag. “There he is.” Quin pointed from the back seat, as Shelly began honking the horn with uncontrolled jubilation. She rolled down the window and whistled. “Hey, good lookin’!” George McAllister’s smile was broad, but underneath it, he seemed overwhelmed, skittish.

  “How’s this for your first taste of freedom, honey?” Shelly planted a wet kiss on his lips.

  Quin squeezed his father’s shoulder. “Hey, Dad.” His voice was nervous, childlike.

  “Hi, Son.” Quin’s father nodded at me. “Alexandra, good to see you again.”

  “So what’s the first thing you want to do?” Overeager, Shelly bounced in her seat, even as she drove.

  Quin’s father exhaled. “I’m pretty tired,” he admitted. “And a little…” He waved his hands back and forth rapidly. “ … rattled. Like a fish out of water.”

  Shelly stuck out her lower lip. “C’mon, George. We have to celebrate.” She was relentless. “Then you can go back to being a boring fish.”

  “Alright, alright,” he conceded with a chuckle. “I have been craving Rocky Road ice cream for years.”

  Inside the crowded ice cream shop, I watched Quin’s father unravel. As Shelly chattered on, oblivious, sweat beaded on his forehead. He unfastened the top two buttons of his chambray shirt—a parting gift from Dellencourt—and leaned back in the booth. I saw Quin watching him, his jaw tensing with concern. “Mr. McAllister, are you okay?” I asked.

  “I think I just need a little air. It’s more crowded in here than I expected. A little too much … freedom.” With urgency, he slid along the booth’s leather seat, pushing Shelly aside and fleeing toward the exit. She called after him, “George! Wait! I’m coming with you.”

  Alone with our melting ice cream, Quin turned to me. “I didn’t expect that.” He sounded confused.

  “What did you expect?”

  Quin shrugged. “I’m not sure. He’s just so different than I remember.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?” I squeezed his knee under the table.

  “Yeah, I guess.” He seemed unconvinced. “But I thought freedom was a good thing too.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY - TWO

  DREAM KILLER

  “MS. DILLARD, you may begin your opening statement,” Judge Blacksher announced with a polite smile.

  Vivian Dillard stood and walked toward the jury box, leaving us with a view of her well-tailored pencil skirt and tightly wound brunette bun. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’d like you to meet Shelly McAllister.” With a click of her manicured finger, an oversized picture of Shelly appeared on a projector screen. It was one I hadn’t seen before. In it, Shelly was barely recognizable—ten years younger and twenty pounds heavier—a wholesome high school graduate wearing a cap and gown.

  Across the aisle from me, a woman choked back a sob and buried her head in her hands. I recognized her instantly from The Real Scoop article as Belinda Wiley, Shelly’s mother.

  “On October 9, Shelly was brutally stabbed by the man she loved. She was twenty-eight years old and carrying his child. During the course of this trial, the defense will try to confuse you, try to muddle your perceptions. Mr. Van Sant will do his best to persuade you that his client is the victim here. Please do not be fooled by his charade. There are two victims in this case, only two: Shelly McAllister and her unborn child.”

  Ms. Dillard turned from the jury and took several decisive steps toward Quin’s father. Her face—heavily make-upped—lacked expression, her skin pulled taut. According to The Real Scoop, after her highly publicized divorce, Dream Killer had undergone several plastic surgeries. She extended her arm, pointing toward George McAllister. Her gesture so dramatic, I half expected him to collapse, stricken by her finger of blame.

  “Now, ladies and gentlemen, I would like you to meet George McAllister. Shelly’s only mistake was choosing him as a husband. Another woman before her made that same mistake and paid with her life. Unfortunately, so did Shelly. Evidence—and there is a lot of it—will show, just as in his first marriage, George McAllister was jealous, so jealous that on October 9, he flew into a rage. Armed with a knife from their kitchen, Mr. McAllister stabbed Shelly fourteen times. Fourteen.” One of the female jurors gasped.

  “Though Mr. McAllister may appear harmless today, the scientific data we will present to you from the Prophecy Program will clearly show he was and always will be a predator—cold-blooded and heartless—incapable of being anything else in this world. After his release from prison, he abused banned emotion-altering medications, EAMs, the ones he purportedly detests, which further heightened his aggression. The defense will try to sell you a story of conspiracy, but I want you to remember my words: There is only one murderer in this room, and he is sitting right here.” She smacked the table in front of Quin’s father, a cruel exclamation point, before she returned to her seat, looking docile.

  Leaning toward me, Elana whispered, “Now we know why they call her Dream Killer.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY - THREE

  GUILTY

  IN FRONT OF ME, Quin squirmed in his seat. Even so, I was surprised at how well he was holding it together. Emma
put her lips to his ear, whispering something, and he nodded. I felt my heart bleed a little.

  Judge Blacksher gestured to Edison’s father. “Mr. Van Sant, the floor is yours.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.” Counter to his usual strut, Mr. Van Sant approached the jury with a humble tread, his head lowered. “I would like to begin with a confession. There are many things of which George McAllister is guilty.” He paused, allowing the jury to absorb the impact of his words. “Does he have a lengthy criminal history? Guilty. Has he served time in prison? Guilty. Over thirteen years, in fact. Was he controlling and violent in his marriage to his first wife, Angela? Guilty again. Did he kill Angela? 100% guilty.” Silently, Mr. Van Sant walked back toward Quin’s father.

  “Ms. Dillard would like to end the trial right now, have you believe because George McAllister is guilty of these things, he is also guilty of the murder of his second wife, Shelly. But I know you all are much smarter than that. George has made mistakes—awful, terrible mistakes—and he has paid for those mistakes over and over again.” Placing his hands on Mr. McAllister’s shoulders from behind him, he continued. “Thirteen years in prison will change a man. After his release, George became an advocate. He started speaking out against emotion-altering medications, the very same kind he was taking when he killed his first wife. He garnered a lot of support for this cause, but he also attracted the attention of the wrong people—the type of people who don’t want an ex-con interfering, taking away their profits—the type of people who have the means and the desire to do whatever it takes to stop him.”

  Mr. Van Sant returned confidently to the jury box, head held high. “For the murder of Shelly McAllister and his unborn child, George McAllister is absolutely innocent. But please, don’t take my word for it. Take the word of his son, Quin, who supported and trusted him from the day of his arrest. Quin sits behind his father today, believing in his innocence, just as you should and will.”

  I felt Max squeeze my hand. “Breathe, Lex. Just breathe.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY - FOUR

  FIRST WITNESS

  “MS. DILLARD, please call your first witness.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. I would like to call Officer Mario Aceves to the stand.” Officer Aceves, dressed in his police uniform, ascended the podium.

  The bailiff approached. “Do you solemnly swear the testimony you are about to give is the truth…”

  Trying to follow Max’s advice, I exhaled. “Here we go,” I whispered to Elana.

  “Officer Aceves, how long have you been a member of the Oakland Police Department?”

  “Eight years.”

  “And have you worked patrol all eight of those years?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m one of the longest tenured patrol officers.” Officer Aceves beamed with pride.

  “Would it be accurate to assume you have quite a bit of experience as a first responder to a violent crime?”

  “I don’t like to brag, but I guess you could say that.” Pleased with his answer, Ms. Dillard grinned conspiratorially at the jury. A few began taking notes on their court-issued computer tablets.

  “On the night of October 9, you were called to the Lands Down Apartment Complex in Oakland, is that correct?”

  “Yes. I believe it was shortly before midnight. There was a domestic disturbance call.”

  “Can you tell us what you observed when you arrived?”

  Officer Aceves leaned forward and turned his head toward the jury. He shook his head with obvious dismay. “It was one of the worst crime scenes I’ve ever—”

  Mr. Van Sant jumped to his feet. “Objection. Non-responsive. He was asked for his observations, not his opinions.”

  Judge Blacksher nodded. “Officer Aceves, please limit your response to what you observed with your five senses.”

  “Of course, Your Honor. I apologize. The victim, Shelly McAllister, was lying on the floor in the bedroom. She was not breathing, but her body was warm. She had been stabbed numerous times. We found a knife, a large kitchen knife, next to her. There was blood everywhere.”

  Ms. Dillard handed the officer several pictures. “Do these photographs accurately depict what you observed upon arrival?”

  He flipped through them, making no attempt to disguise his disgust. “Yes, they do.”

  “Your Honor, I would like to enter Exhibit A: Crime Scene Photos into evidence. Jurors, you will find a comprehensive folio of these images on your tablets.” Ms. Dillard placed an oversized picture of the bloodied bedroom onto an easel facing the jury. Remembering my own horror, I watched their faces recoil.

  “Did you also see George McAllister that night?” Ms. Dillard pointed her accusing finger at Quin’s father. He looked back at her, unwavering, but under the table, his foot thumped at a frantic pace.

  “Yes, ma’am. When we arrived, he was sitting on the bed. He was visibly distraught, crying. There was some blood on his shirt.”

  “Did you ask him any questions at that time?”

  “I asked him what happened, and he said he couldn’t remember.”

  “I see.” Ms. Dillard turned eagerly to the jury, anticipating disbelief. “Did you search George McAllister’s person?”

  “I did. We found nothing in his pants pockets.”

  “And you also searched his outer clothing, correct?”

  “Yes. He told us that he had worn a jacket that evening. It was lying on the kitchen table. Inside the outer pocket, we located a vial containing a small amount of liquid.”

  “Does this look like the vial you found?” Ms. Dillard held up a plastic tube inside a clear baggie.

  “That looks exactly like it.”

  Turning to Judge Blacksher, Ms. Dillard remarked, “I would like this vial, Exhibit B, moved into evidence.” She continued, readdressing the officer. “Did you ask him what was inside the vial?”

  “Of course. He said he never saw it before and didn’t know.”

  “Did Mr. McAllister say anything else to you that night?” My stomach turned. I knew Dream Killer was building to something, slowly working her way to a crushing crescendo.

  “He did.”

  “Officer Aceves, please share with the jury what he said to you.”

  “Well, it was a question actually. He asked me if he killed his wife. I think his exact words were … Did I do this?”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  The entire courtroom seemed to expel an audible breath. “I knew it! You monster! You killed my baby!” Shelly’s mother, Belinda, collapsed in a heap in the aisle.

  A heavy frown marking his forehead, Judge Blacksher banged his gavel. “Order! You will compose yourself, ma’am.” Another wail escaped Belinda’s throat. “Let’s take a fifteen-minute recess.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY - FIVE

  BOTH, EQUALLY

  MY EYES IMMEDIATELY WENT TO Quin’s father. He was partitioned between Edison and Mr. Van Sant, his head in his hands. Quin bolted for the door, brushing past a group of people helping Belinda to her feet. I waited for Emma to follow, but she didn’t. Uncertain, she sat staring at her fingernails.

  “I’m going after Quin,” Max told me.

  “Me too,” Elana chimed, pulling me to my feet along with her.

  “I guess that means I’m coming with you.”

  Quin was standing at the end of the hallway, looking out the window of the emergency exit door. I couldn’t see his face, but his hands were clenched into tight balls. He raised his fist toward the wall, and I waited. Then, his hand collapsed at his side.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked Elana.

  “Quin needs us. He needs you.” Skeptical, I trudged forward, watching Quin brood.

  “Hey, Quin,” Max called out as we approached.

  Quin turned to us, spinning on his heels. I half expected him to run. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came. Before I could move out of his way, he threw his body against mine, holding me so tightly there was nothing else to do but put my arms
around him. It was pleasure. It was pain. It was both, equally.

  Max and Elana stood watching, bewildered. Then, just as abruptly as it began, Quin released me from his sudden embrace. Silent, he walked away from us and back into the courtroom.

  “What just happened?” Max asked me.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Your witness, Mr. Van Sant.” The courtroom had the appearance of order—precarious as it was—as Edison’s father began his cross-examination of Officer Aceves. Belinda was noticeably absent.

  “Thank you. Good morning, Officer.” Mr. Van Sant’s lips curled into a charming smile. This is going to be good, I thought to myself. “I would like to begin with some questions about your eight years of experience on patrol. During that time, how many murder scenes have you encountered as a first responder?”

  “Hard to say. I don’t exactly keep track.”

  “Of course not.” Mr. Van Sant smirked. “If you had to estimate, is it more than fifty, more than one hundred, more than—”

  “Less than fifty,” Officer Aceves interrupted.

  “Less than fifty,” Mr. Van Sant repeated, stalking between the bench and the jury box. “I would like to show you something.” He passed the officer a piece of paper. “Could you tell the jury what you are looking at?”

  “Well, it looks like some type of tally sheet from the police department. A breakdown of our … of my … patrol record.” He shifted uncomfortably and took a sip of water from a glass in front of him.

  “And what does it say there next to your name? In the homicide column?”

  “The number ten.”

  “Then, if this information is accurate, you have responded to ten homicides over the course of your eight-year career, correct?” Mr. Van Sant held out his hands displaying his ten fingers.

  “I guess so.”

  “Would you say that makes you an expert in assessing homicide scenes?”

  “Objection, irrelevant.” Ms. Dillard was emotionless. “He is not being qualified as an expert.”