Beyond Justice (38 page)

"Don't remind me."

"When you showed up, screwing up all my plans, I figure it wasn't a sign, this earthquake.  Just stupid luck.  And there was no God.  As I'd suspected all these years, I was on my own.  No way out unless I killed Butch."

"But you stopped."

"Don't you get it?"  He cleared his throat and annunciated.  "But if ye had known what this meaneth,
I will have mercy, and not sacrifice
, ye would not have condemned the guiltless.  For the Son of man is Lord even of the sabbath day."

"Sounds familiar."

"Matthew Chapter 12.  Point is, it can't be a coincidence.  When you said, 'Mercy, not sacrifice,'
that
was my sign."  He let out a bitter chuckle.  "Not sure it would have been enough to stop me from cutting Butch's throat, though."

"But it did, long enough for me to... Sorry about your leg."

He grasped my arm firmly.  "Something happened.  I haven't felt it for years.  But when you spoke those words, it was like a door opened.  Something came though, came back to me.  Something I haven't had for years."

"What's that?"

"Peace."

  That day, Bishop walked away with much more than peace.  The riot had been quelled when a Special Response Team smoked the inmates out of the control room.  They nearly lost the hostage in the process but ultimately restored order.

Three inmates made it outside the Prison walls during the riot.  The heads of La Fraternidad, the Blacks, and The Fourth Reich.  Had I not stopped Bishop, he might very well have joined their exodus.

But they didn't make it very far.  All three of them had been shot and killed.

On a day that so many had lost their lives, Frank "Bishop" Morgan rediscovered his and re-dedicated it to God.  Because
'Mercy, not sacrifice,
' the very words uttered by his mother and by my wife at their deaths, had saved his life.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

It was a day that would forever be engraved into my memory.  Not only had the worst earthquake in over two decades struck, but it had brought about a transformation at Salton.

Six weeks after the quake, Butch resigned.  A week later, the warden took an extended leave which later became permanent.  Artie the Possum, my cellmate had survived his injuries.  He would never let me forget that he owed me his life.  Each day, I exercised with him and assisted him during rehab until he could walk again.

"If you hadn't come after me," he would say, "I would have died."

Frank had a different way of expressing gratitude.  Not like Artie, gushing all over the place.  It was much simpler, but every bit as sincere.  He now greeted me with something he gave no one else at Salton.  Respect.

With tears, I mourned the loss of Sonja Grace—how aptly named she had been.  Forever in my mind, will she remain that angel, who risked everything so that I might see Aaron.

As for Butch, I don't know how much he appreciated that I'd spared his life.  All I know is that before he left, he met with Bishop alone and had swore that he would not allow any harm to come to his sister.

"You put the fear of God in him," Bishop told me.

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Three months passed and my case had been reopened, based on the evidence found at Brent Stringer's apartment.  I began to anticipate each conference with Rachel, making sure to time my showers as close as possible to our meetings.  Neither of us would, however, admit to the feelings we'd fought so long to repress.  My appeal dominated our attention, anyway.  That, and the mounting legal battle with the State over Aaron's life support.

Whatever it took, I
had
to be exonerated.  I needed to get out of prison and reclaim legal guardianship of my son.  But in this fight, time was no ally.

  There was, however, one positive development.  The exoneration hearings were about to begin.  So that I could appear in court with expediency, I'd be transferred back to San Diego Central.

"So this is it, Silk," Possum said, shaking my hand as I stood by our open cell door, two armed guards and a C.O. standing outside and waiting.  "Man, this place is gonna be a whole lot quieter without you."

"You were the talker," I said.

"Only around great listeners."

"Right."

"Well, okay, but my point is—" he choked up.  "I'm...oh hell, I'm going to miss you!"  He wrapped his arms around me and pressed his head into my chest.

Taken by surprise, I patted his back with my fingers and hugged him back.  "I'll be praying for you, for Pam and little Jack," I said.  "Don't give up.  I know a great attorney."

He just nodded, still in my chest.  I was starting to feel awkward and lifted my hands, my arms.  But he just stayed there, not letting go.

"Artie?"

"Hmm?"

"Not in front of the cons, okay?"

He pushed away, wiped his eyes and sniffed.  "You be good, hear?"  He stuck out his hand again.  I gave it a firm shake.

"You too."  With a smile, I took one final look into my cell—the pale walls, stainless steel sink and commode, the bunks.   Dreadful as it was, this had been my home for the past two and a half years.

"Good-bye, Poss."

"Yeah." He sniffed and turned his face back into the cell.  Who'd have thought he'd be so emotional?  I turned my back to the cell.  The door slid and slammed shut, sending a jolt though my body.  As I walked down the tier, fellow inmates who had once looked at me with disdain, cheered me on.

"You go, Silk!"

"Knock 'em dead, Hudson.  You're gonna beat this rap!"

"There goes my homie!"

"Nice ass!"

I smiled and waved, passing each one of them with high fives, fist grabs, and hope—the culmination of faith and determination over the past couple of years.   At the end of the corridor, I found Bishop putting up some new drywall in the corridor that led to B-block's exit.  He had been promoted to a managerial position in P.I. (Prison Industry).   Never mind that the point of P.I.  was to prepare for a transition back into society—Bishop was still on death row—the new warden thought highly of him and afforded him a long leash.

"Frank," I said, stopping for a moment.  "I'm off to San Diego Central."

He wiped his hands on a rag and stepped over.  "All right, man," he said, grabbing my hand and shaking it in a tight grip.  "Remember what we talked about, okay?"

"I will."

"If you're ever in doubt, remember, confirmation of the scriptures."  He'd taught me to recognize the promptings, the quiet voice of God, as I'd experienced so early in my faith.  But I also learned that His voice would never contradict the Scriptures.

"You've got a gift, Sam.  A real gift.  But like all spiritual giants, it's going to be tested, refined."

"Never ends, does it?"

With a warm smile, Bishop pulled me into a manly, one-armed embrace. "Ends once, and then begins eternity."

"Thank you, Frank."

A heavy thump on the back and he released me.  "No.  Thank
you
."

"For what?"

"Your faith, your obedience to God.  For letting him work through you to help me find my way back."

"Just doing what I knew I must."

"You go out there and keep doing that.  No matter what anyone tells you."

Presently, I became aware of an odd contradiction in my heart.  I'd been caged like an animal, brutalized, abused, all the while innocent of the crimes of which I'd been charged.  Justice had not been served, it had been violated.  Shouldn't I have been elated to leave this legal and moral cesspool?   But now, realizing that my time at Salton was over, that I might be a free man in matter of weeks, I found myself looking with nostalgia at this, my spiritual birthplace.  The home of unexpected brethren.

Frank lifted his hand, pressed his thumb against my forehead and drew a tiny cross.  "
Dominus vobiscum
."

"And with you also," I answered.  I had been concerned for him, daring to hope that he might one day be exonerated.  After all, like Jenn always said, "Miracles are happening every day, if you know how to spot them."

I turned, nodded good-bye and then began to worry for his safety.  True, he didn't fear for his own life, he'd entrusted it to God.  But he was no longer the dreaded Tiger of Salton.  Heading up P.I., helping the chaplain with religious services, Bishop was now a model inmate with a reputation as the kindest, most gentle soul in the prison.  But kindness and gentleness didn't lend itself to survival here.

I said a silent prayer for him and started to walk.  Just before exiting, I turned back and saw something which I recognized right away.  I wasn't seeing this with physical sight.  Two bright lights shaped like formidable warriors flanked him.   No reflective glow, no shadow cast.  No one else seemed to notice.

It's going to be fine.

Chapter Eighty

Otherwise known as "America's Finest City," San Diego had never seen such tumultuous times.  The judges had not issued gag orders for the many hot cases on their dockets.

As multiple high-profile criminal cases ran concurrently, the media enjoyed its wildest three-ring ever.  Brent Stringer, a.k.a.
Kitsune
, faced multiple murder charges, while my own appeal got fast-tracked.

The court entered its final stages in the deliberations over Aaron's fate.   This too had garnered national attention.  True to form, politicians and all manner of organizations, religious and non, gathered on both sides of the moral divide, mounting their soapboxes, ostensibly in the name of what was best for "the Hudson boy."  A politician's playground.  Not one of them had ever known him.

The Stringer case was now in discovery.   In an ironic twist, D.A. Thomas Walden, the man who prosecuted me got me convicted, now called me as a witness against Stringer.  For that reason, and because he knew it was inevitable, he did not plan to contest my exoneration.  It wouldn't take Barry Scheck and the Innocence Project.  Frankly, it would reflect better on the D.A.'s office if they laid low and focused on convicting the real killer, a heftier flounder for their legal skillet.

My hearing was to take place tomorrow morning, but that didn't stop Walden from sending in his Deputy D.A., Kenny Dodd to prep me for my deposition as a witness for the Stringer case.

Alone in a secure meeting room within the skyscraper-like building of San Diego Central Jail, I sat on a steel folding chair behind a steel framed table, waiting for Kenny Dodd to arrive.  Just a day before my exoneration hearing and my feet were still shackled.  I was beyond it, though.  A couple of years at Salton made commonplace these chains, which once stripped me of dignity, lowering me to the status of a wild beast.

The wall clock read 10:15 AM.  Half an hour late.  I found the quiet within the soundproof room soothing.  Nothing but the steady hum of the fluorescent overheads.  The square window in the door was barely wide enough to see the guard outside stand, exchange words with another guard, yawn, and sit back down.

Ten minutes later, I was ready to crawl out of my skin.  This journey had been long and painful.  Aaron was alive.  His quality of life, however, had fallen under question.   Rachel and I had been fighting the court with every reasonable argument for the reinstatement of my guardianship, not the least of which being that I was, in fact, his father.   By some inane technicality, the judge maintained that I was still not eligible to take on legal guardianship.  Something pertaining to my current inability to provide financial support.

My head bowed and fists clenched, words of wisdom came to me.

One step at a time.  In His time.

I shut my eyes, held fast to that thought, tethered to all my hopes of seeing that promise fulfilled. 
It's going to be fine.

"You okay there?" I opened my eyes and she was standing there.  I had forgotten that she was coming along with the D.D.A.

I took a slow, deep breath.  Tried to smile. "Hello, Rachel."

Dodd stepped in front of her and shook my hand.  I wanted to go to Rachel, but my chains were fastened to a heavy steel screw eye, imbedded into the concrete floor.  I sank back into my chair.

"Mister Hudson, Kenny Dodd.  Remember me?"  His hair was cut short, but still golden.  Though it had only been a few years, he seemed to have aged and put on a few pounds since the last time I saw him.  In court at the prosecution table next to Walden.  Gone were the tan, the sheepdog bangs, and the sleepy surfer eyes.  Working for the D.A.'s office probably left him little time for surfing.  Or exercising.  He should try prison.

"You're late, dude."

"Technical difficulties."  Dodd pointed to his laptop bag.

"I haven't forgotten."

"Yeah, well.  That was like, three years ago."  He tugged at his collar.