Beyond Justice (14 page)

She nodded, sniffed and held her head high again.

"I only have one question for you, detective.  Have you ever allowed your personal feelings and/or your background to influence your judgment in an investigation."

"Never."

"Did you do so with Mister Hudson?"

"No, sir."

"Nothing further."

Chapter Twenty-Two

During a short recess, Judge Hodges called both counsels into his chambers, the trial resumed.  I would later learn that His Honor denied Rachel’s motion to suppress the child pornography found in my network directory.  She argued that the contents of that folder are considered "work product."

Walden laughed aloud.  "Company computers enjoy no privacy."  His honor would indeed allow it as evidence.

Next, Walden called my former supervisor, George Small, to the stand.  Brillo and Clorox couldn't wipe the smugness from his face. 
He testified that I had been terminated for using the firm's
computers to purchase and store child pornography. 

On cross, Rachel tried to establish the possibility that someone else could have planted it.  She also tried to make George admit that I had always been a valued member of the firm, he kept bringing it back to the porn and how that brought serious liability to the firm's reputation.  How at first, he expected their investigations would clear me.  But when it pointed to me, he had a legal obligation to fire me and turn me in.

Unshaken, Rachel placed her arm on the rail by George and looked right at him.  "Now, Mr. Small."

"Schmall."

"Right. Schmall."  She leaned into him.  "You’ve never liked my client, have you?"

"Objection!" Walden was on his feet.

"Goes to bias."

"Overruled." Hodges rubbed his eyes.  "Mr. Schmall, answer the question."

"He’s not winning any popularity contests with me.  Or anyone else for that matter," George said.

"Is that a yes or a no?" asked Rachel.

"I guess that’s a no." 

"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 between 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.