Beyond Justice (12 page)

On the day escrow closed and
with great reluctance, I handed the keys over to the real estate agent.  The house was far from empty, though.  My children’s laughter, the warmth and aroma of home cooked meatloaf, bread and corn, the soft padding of Jenn’s feet, trying not to wake the kids, at 6:30 every morning as she went downstairs to prepare breakfast—it was all still there.  Even as the door swung shut for the last time.

Chapter Nineteen

The offer stood at murder one, life without parole, which according to the D.A. was extremely generous.  He didn’t think we’d prevail in a capital murder trial.  "It’s a gift," he told Rachel.  "And why waste time and taxpayer dollars to proceed with a trial you know you’ll lose?"  This came the day before opening arguments.

Rachel’s office, if it could be called an office, hid between an insurance broker’s and a travel agency in Clairemont Mesa.  Cubicle would better describe it.  We sat at a second-hand desk donated by friends from church.

"You need to consider it, Sam.  If we lose—"

"No."  Watching my wife and daughter die, seeing my boy beaten within a sliver of his life, was bad enough.  But to lie and say I did it?  At times I would actually welcome the death penalty, if for no other reason than to put an end to it all.  But in my heart, I kept hearing Jenn say, "
Aaron needs you.
"

I am ashamed to admit there were even days when I doubted he’d ever pull through.  Sustaining hope was exhausting, especially when forbidden to visit.  Still, Aaron became my sole reason to go on.  That, and the furious determination to find the bastard who did this to my family and bring him to justice.  And I didn’t mean the California Criminal Justice System.  If I ever got a hold of him, I would try, convict, and execute him in the court of Sam Hudson.  No punishment was too cruel or unusual for that animal.

Mack had worked long hours chasing down every potential lead and witness, interviewing every expert—pathologists, criminalists, computer forensics.  Refusing to concede that he’d exhausted all possible avenues, he remained optimistic.

  When I pressed Rachel about my chances, however, she was not nearly as positive. "We really needed the DNA test results," she said.  "It’s our best piece of exculpatory evidence."

"What’s the hold up?"

"I’m not sure."  She exhaled forcefully.  "Their case is highly circumstantial, but I have to tell you, it’s going to be tough.  Juries in murder cases like these want blood." She came over, sat in a chair next to me and put her hand on my shoulder.  "You might want to consider the deal."

"And lie to the whole world, saying I raped Bethie, killed her and her mother, beat my son into a coma with a baseball bat?"

"I’m not saying that."

"Then what are you saying?  Because that’s exactly what it’ll sound like."

"You’re facing the death penalty, Sam.  I’m not certain we can win this."

"I can’t believe you’re even suggesting it."

She took a deep breath, held still for a long pause.  Then stood up and rubbed her eyebrows.  "I’m just—!  I’m just trying to keep you alive."

"At what cost?  Dammit Rachel, you’re starting to sound like those TV-show lawyers."

She stepped over and jabbed her finger at me.  "You’re letting pride get in the way of what’s most important, and trust me, it’s not your reputation or your good name!"

"Oh really?"  I stood too.

"Yes, really.  What good will you be to Aaron if you’re dead?"

"I won’t be much good to him if I’m put away for life."

"At least you’ll
be
alive!"

"And he wakes up only to find his father pled guilty to killing his mother and sister!"  We stood face to face, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, my fists clenched.  If anger and frustration had been flames, the entire building would have burned to the ground.  Neither of us had slept more than a couple of hours a day for the past few weeks.  It was taking its toll.

Blowing out a long breath and running my hand through my hair, I went over to her. "Rachel, tell me.  Are you still willing to go in there and fight?"

"Of course.  It’s just..." She turned her back to me.

"What?  What is it?"

"I...I just can’t..."

I went over stood behind her. "You can’t what?"

She turned around and with anguished eyes, said, "I can’t imagine the thought of you laying there, strapped to a table with tubes in your arms.  I can’t imagine them injecting you with— I just can’t..."

I didn’t know what to say.  She was embarrassed and clearly hadn’t meant to make this about her feelings.  But there they were.  And they mattered to me a great deal. 

"We have to fight this," I whispered, wanting to but afraid to reach out and give her a reassuring touch.

"I know.  To plead, that would be lying." She turned to me, her composure regained.

"Is your God a just God?" I asked.

"Yes, but…"

I lifted her chin. "Then we have to believe that truth and justice will prevail." She nodded and sniffled.  "Didn’t you get a word or five back in Children’s hospital, that night?"

"Yeah.  
It’s going to be fine
."

"That’s right.  Now, we might not have evidence on our side but we have the truth.  That’s got to count for something."

With a valiant smile, she said, "I wish I had your faith."

"At least you have someone to place yours in."

"I’ve been praying for you every night."

"I’ll take whatever help I can get."

"Not just for the trial," she said, twisting a lock of hair in her fingers.  "I pray that you’ll find a home for your faith."  Her words resonated within me, made me feel cared for in a way I hadn’t since losing Jenn. 

I looked her in the eyes and thanked her.  Rachel started to gather her things.  When she was ready to go, she turned to me. 

"Walden’ll pull it from the table once we go to trial.  You sure?"

"No deal."

Chapter Twenty

If your impression of a judicial building has been shaped by Hollywood, then the San Diego Superior Court building will not be what you’d expect for something as dramatic as a capital murder trial.  No grand cupolas, no towering marble columns.  Just flat concrete and glass.

When you first walk inside, you’re not greeted by breathtaking views of vaulted ceilings with gold-etched frescoes, depicting the ideals of American jurisprudence.  You’re walking into a government building—drab, cold, air as stale as the daily grind of the hundreds of the people who work there. 

People stand in line, placing their briefcases and purses onto conveyor belts, running them through x-ray machines, before walking through metal detectors.  You’d think you were about to board a 747 during a code red terrorist alert.

When I entered the courtroom, I sensed the people seated behind the waist high partition in the gallery glaring with scornful eyes.  I didn’t realize my head was drooping until I saw Dave Pendelton.  He pushed his thumb under his chin, silently reminding me:
keep your head up
.

I met Rachel at the defense table and we took a seat.  An armed deputy stood in plain view with a clear shot.

"You ready?" Rachel asked.

"Not really."

"Good.  Keep that tension, but hold it together."

"All rise," the bailiff announced.  "The honorable Judge Jonathan Hodges." My best interview suit hung loose on my shoulders.  In less than three months, I had lost thirteen pounds.  According to Rachel, Hodges was the worst possible judge we could have gotten.  When it came to capital cases, he was an irate hard-liner.

Hodges took a seat on a black leather executive chair; a wall of law books neatly lined the shelves behind him.  He thumbed through a couple of pages of a legal brief, an expensive pen in hand, then motioned to the prosecution to begin.

Second chairing, Deputy District Attorney Kenny Dodd stood and pitched the opening statement to the jury.  This was not the same "dude" at the interrogation room in the Poway sheriff’s station.  He’d cut his hair, looked all business, his tone crisp and professional—nothing like that California beach bum I’d met a couple of months ago.

"We’re here today because of a crime so horrible, so brutal, most people would find it hard to even imagine.  This is the stuff you read in fiction, couldn’t happen in real life.  But, members of the jury, the evidence will show that truth is indeed stranger than fiction.  And more brutal."  Dodd walked closer to the jury box and pointed to three blown up photos—Jenn, Bethie and Aaron.

"Jennifer and Bethany Hudson were attacked in their own homes.  Raped and stabbed repeatedly.  Little Aaron
Hudson, while asleep in his bed, was struck in the head repeatedly with a baseball bat and now lies in a coma, even as we sit here now.  This all happened in the supposed safety of their own home.  Couldn’t happen, you might think, not in a quiet, well-to-do neighborhood like Rancho Carmelita.

"But that’s not the biggest shocker.  The man who did this wasn’t some random burglar, some unknown killer.  He was the husband and father of this beautiful family."  He pointed right at me.  I wanted to shrink into my seat until I remembered Dave’s strong arm, behind me, ready to yank me up.

"The evidence will prove Samuel Hudson, a pedophile, with financial motive, did in fact murder his family.  He did so by taking full advantage of their trust.  A sacred trust given to the one person they depended on to provide for and to protect them.

"When the trial is over, justice will be in your hands.  You’ll see no other choice but to find him guilty." He gazed at the photos on the easels, shaking his head sadly.  "Jennifer, Bethany, and Aaron are depending on you to do the right thing."  Dodd thanked the jury and returned to his seat.

Without hesitation, Rachel stood up, fastened the top button of her navy blazer and walked quietly to the jurors.  "Seeing is not believing.  Not always, anyway.  The prosecution will attempt to place before your eyes what they consider evidence, in order to pin the blame on the easiest scapegoat they could find.  They want a quick conviction, not the truth.  But their entire case is circumstantial.  There are no eyewitnesses to this crime, nothing that can be proven to an absolute certainty.

"Mister Dodd used that tired, old cliché, truth is stranger than fiction.  And he’s right."  She leaned closer to the jury box.  "Imagine this.  You come home and find your wife stabbed, dying in a pool of blood.  With her dying breathe, she compels you to go, check on your children.  What do you find?  The most horrible thing possible.  They’ve been attacked as well.  You spend the night watching your daughter die in the ER and the only comfort you have is that your four year old son has survived. But he's in a coma, from which the doctors doubt he’ll ever recover.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is every man’s nightmare.  But it gets even worse.  Now imagine that you’ve just buried your wife and daughter, you’re trying to pick up the pieces of your life, and suddenly you’re arrested and charged with their murder.

"You’ve lost your job, you’re slapped with a restraining order so you can’t even visit your son in the hospital, and you’ve lost legal guardianship.  Your son.  Your only family left, who may never come out of his coma, who may very well, at this moment, be dying."  She turned to me.  "All this while you’re forced to stand here, accused of these horrific crimes you couldn’t possibly have committed."

She turned to the photos.

"Jenn, Bethie, and Aaron weren’t the only victims," she said, emotion filling her words.  "My client is a victim too.  He’s a victim of the real killer, a victim of an irresponsible media, a victim of the district attorney’s office, and the police.  The police, who aren’t bothering to look for the real killer, who is out there now, waiting to strike again.

"Sam Hudson is innocent.  Start with that assumption.  It’s not only your moral duty, it’s your legal duty.  By law he is presumed innocent.  And in truth, he is."

When Rachel finished, she seemed to stand ten feet tall.  Never had I seen her speak with such authority and conviction.  Why did I ever doubt her?  The jurors kept their eyes on her as if she were Moses holding the sacred tablets in her hands. 

And this was just her opening statement.

___________________

The first witness Dodd called was Detective Anita Pearson, clearly a seasoned pro on the stand.  Words rolled off her tongue like greased ball-bearings, giving the impression of one who was never mistaken.  With detached simplicity, she responded to the questions pointing at diagrams of my house, its exterior, the interior floor plans, and a table with various items such as the murder weapons, laid out and tagged. 
She detailed a step-by-step re-creation of the events based on the crime scene investigation.

"The defendant came home while the victim and her children were asleep.  The victim may or may not have awoken to find herself being repeatedly stabbed with a knife."

"Can you identify the murder weapon used on Mrs. Hudson?" Dodd asked.