Dread Champion (19 page)

Kerra screwed up her face. “Huh?”

“It's from Jeremiah 20:11. ‘The LORD is with me like a dread champion.' Jeremiah said it after he'd been beaten and put into stocks for speaking God's word. He knew God would continue to watch over him and in time would subdue his enemies.” Chelsea searched for words to explain what the name meant to her personally.“ God is our champion, Kerra, our provider and protector.He is also fearsome, awesome, striking dread in the hearts of his enemies. He is to be both loved and revered. He works his will through situations in which many times all we can see is the mess.We have to keep our eyes on him and trust him.”

Kerra listened intently, her lips parted. A crumb of sourdough bread rested on her cheek. Chelsea reached out to wipe it away.Her niece smiled self-consciously, brushing a finger across her lips in case there were more. “Aunt Chelsea,” she declared, “you ought to be a preacher.”

Chelsea rolled her eyes. “No thanks. A wife, mother, and aunt will do just fine, thank you very much.”

“Don't forget jury member,” Kerra teased, wagging a finger.

“Ha, ha.” That was the one thing Chelsea wished she could forget.

I
RENE BRACKEN HUMMED
a little tune as she negotiated the turn into her narrow driveway. The rosebushes climbing the fence on her left hung pink and red against the worn wood, a proud display of her gardening abilities. She turned off the engine and smiled at the flow- ers. She could remember planting those fledgling rosebushes with Bill as if it were yesterday.

Irene slid out of her car. She checked the mailbox, looking as always for the familiar handwriting of her daughter in Arizona.Her son never wrote. Males just had a thing against writing, Irene had learned. She'd never once known her husband to send a letter to his own mother.

Nothing in the mail except a few bills and plenty of junk. Irene sighed. So much for a bit of company.

In her small entryway Irene set her purse and keys on the long table against the right wall. Automatically she looked at the picture hanging above the table—a large photo of her and Bill on their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Their heads were bent together, their hands clasped. Their daughter had said they'd posed like teenagers. Well, thought Irene, they'd felt like kids.Married three decades and more excited about each other than ever.

Irene headed into the kitchen and laid the mail on the counter. For the next half hour she puttered about, mixing a casserole of rice and chicken and sliding it into the oven, opening the mail, all the while talking to her cats. Her supper baking, she plopped herself before the television in the family room and flipped to Channel Seven.“A revealing day in court in the so-called Salad King case,” the lovely female anchor read.“That story and others coming up.” Irene settled back against the cushion, only half-watching the commercials. She sure liked that Asian gal on the news. Such shiny black hair.

Irene knew she wasn't supposed to see any media coverage of the trial, whether in the newspapers or on TV. But she just couldn't help it. Besides, who would know?

A few minutes later the story about the trial filled the screen. Irene watched in fascination, her bottom lip dropping as she concentrated. Milt Waking was standing by that awful-looking spiky-haired woman in the courthouse hall. He pointed a microphone at the woman's bright red mouth. He asked a question, and the camera zoomed in to show tears standing in eyes heavy with mascara. “I can't begin to tell you what it's like for me to hear testimony like that,” she said. “That my sister, the sister I loved so much, is reduced to …” Her voice broke and she lay two fingers against her lips. Irene thought her dark red nail polish looked like dried blood.“That she's reduced to a few pieces of clothing and a tooth.” The woman's eyes focused past the reporter as she blinked back tears. “I have to go; I'm too upset. That's all I want to say right now.”

“Oh,
look!”
Irene threw out a hand. “There I am!” She watched herself walk toward the long set of stairs. “Oh my.” Did she really look like that? Like such an old woman, moving so carefully, as if she didn't trust her own legs.

When the news was over, Irene flicked off the television and sat motionless on the couch. She felt thrilled at being on television, despite her appearance. Surely at least one of her friends had seen it and would call. Irene frowned at the black telephone sitting on the end table, willing it to ring.

It didn't.

After a time her casserole was finished baking. Irene dished some onto a plate, poured a glass of ice water, and took both back to the family room to watch TV. She ate slowly, as was her habit, savoring the spices. Just when she was about to take the last bite, the phone rang.“Oh!” She placed the fork on her plate with a clatter. Then took a breath to calm herself before picking up the receiver. “Hello,” she said with anticipation, wondering which friend it might be.

“I have a message for you.”

She blinked and drew back her head.Whoever was calling had a serious case of laryngitis. “Yes?”

“Listen very carefully,” the voice rasped.“Vote not guilty for Darren Welk.
Not guilty.
Do you understand?”

Irene's mouth opened, then closed. Her hand tightened on the phone. “I don't—who is this?”

“Vote … not … guilty.” The gritty words sandpapered her ear. “Or you'll be sorry.”

Click.

Irene stared unseeing at the carpet, her mind trying to land on one coherent thought. The dial tone sounded loudly. She slammed down the phone, fingers still clutching the receiver.

A dam broke in her mind, questions and fears pouring. Somebody knew her phone number.Who? Did the caller also know where she lived?

Irene's head jerked as she sent a frightened gaze through her front window.Was someone out there watching? She saw no one in the street, no unusual car. Irene trembled. She should get up and close the curtains. Then get out of the house. But what if the caller was waiting for her to go outside to her car?

“Oh,” Irene said, gasping. She sank into the couch, ducking her head.What was she to
do?

She had to move.

Before she knew it, her hand was dialing the phone. The receiver shook in her ear as she waited for her friend Rachel to answer.

“Hello.”

“I—”No more words came. Air gushed from Irene's mouth.

“Hello?” Rachel sounded impatient.

“It's me,” she croaked. “Irene.”

“Irene? What's the matter?”

“Is Tom there?” Irene's heart hammered against her chest. She threw a wild look out the window.

“Of course he's here; where else would the old man be?”

“Tell him to come over right now and get me.
Right now,
you hear?”Tears bit Irene's eyes.Her body melted into the couch.“I need to stay at your place tonight.”

“Irene, what—”

“Just come!
Now!
” Irene smashed down the phone.

THURSDAY, AUGUST 8

NINETEEN

From the moment she rushed into the jury room, Chelsea knew something was wrong. At first she thought it was her own anxiety over arriving so late with Kerra. Traffic had been particularly slow, and with every red stoplight she'd felt her muscles tense. She didn't want to think about the entire court being held up just because of her. She already felt uncomfortable enough around certain members of the jury.No need to heighten the hostility emanating from Tak, or the distrust from prim and proper Hesta. And more than once Chelsea had caught a piercing glance from Antonio, the short,muscular man who worked in construction.

In the jury room B. B. slouched in a chair, tapping one long pink fingernail against the table.Mike Bariston leaned a shoulder against the wall, arms folded, surveying the floor with his buggy eyes. Sylvia Caster caught Chelsea's gaze and raised her eyebrows almost expectantly. Chelsea drew in a long breath,willing her metabolism to slow. “What's going on?”

“Something, that's what,” Henry Slatus answered before Sylvia could open her mouth. He spread pudgy arms, the large diamond ring on his right hand sparkling against his black skin. “Irene ran in a few minutes ago like a mouse chased by a cat.Went right up to Sidney and whispered something in his ear. I swear she was shivering. Next thing we know, he was ushering her out.”

Chelsea felt her face go slack. “Is she okay?”

“Don't know.” Henry studied her. “You've had lunch with her, haven't you? Did it seem like something was wrong?”

“No, not at all.” Chelsea glanced at Sylvia. Clay Alton, the first alternate, sauntered over. He towered above all of them, tilting his head to observe the group from the corner of his eye like some waiting vulture. Gloria Nuevo, a Hispanic woman in her thirties with sleek, chin-length hair, turned from the water cooler, a small cup in her hand. “Candy's not here, either.”

“I saw Candy.”Victor Chavarria's stooped frame moved behind Sylvia. “She and I were the first ones here. She was jittery, too. Said she needed to talk to Sidney.”

Two jurors asking for Sidney Portensic. Chelsea's eyes locked with Clay's.

“So now what?” B. B. asked in her smoky voice.

Clay shrugged. But his bushy eyebrows jumped with obvious anticipation. “We wait.”

M
ILT
W
AKING PROWLED
the courthouse lobby, once again checking his silver Rolex watch.Nine twenty.He drew to a stop near a bench, arms crossed and fingers drumming against his properly exercised biceps. His watchful eyes swept the large hall. Everyone involved in other cases had long since disappeared into their respective courtrooms. Lynn Trudy revved across the way, avidly conjecturing with reporters as to what was going on. The Three Fates perched on a bench, jabbering. It hadn't taken long for the nickname Stan Breck-shire had given them to circulate among trial watchers. Lynn Trudy had repeated it to just about everybody.

The sleek-haired reporter from Channel Four popped open a tiny cell phone and began to dial.
That's right,
Milt willed silently,
get bored and leave.
Milt knew enough to stay. Delays happened for a reason. It could be as simple as the judge getting caught in traffic. Or it could be something far more interesting.

Milt's eyes rested on Brett Welk, sitting at the end of one of the long center benches. He leaned forward, hands locked between his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. The knockout young blond appeared, coming from the direction of the bathroom. She slowed, as if not quite sure what to do.Milt watched her catch sight of Brett. She hesitated. Then eased over to him and sat down. He looked up at her and smiled.

Smiled. First time Milt had seen that. Brett straightened, leaning ever so slightly toward the blond, a bit of body language of which Milt doubted he was even conscious. The blond smiled back and said something to him. She looked at Brett with intensity as he answered, as though searching beneath the surface for the truth. Then she began talking, her expression animated. Milt cocked an ear. He heard the words
Golden Gate Bridge
and
Alcatraz.
She sounded like a tourist. Milt pondered that. A tourist at a murder trial?

Brett listened to the blond talk, a softened look on his typically serious face. One hand rested on his knee, the other on the bench between them, practically touching her. Milt didn't need his practiced reporter's eye to see the effervescing attraction.

Very interesting.

S
TAN STOOD BEFORE
Judge Chanson's cherry wood desk, one heel bouncing against the dark carpet. His shoulder wasn't bothering him yet, but he knew he wouldn't have to wait long. Stress was already gathering like a bowling ball, ready to roll down every nerve ending that dared exist between his neck and thumb.Naturally, T.C. was the epitome of cool, which only caused Stan to jitter all the more. The defense attorney's mane of hair lay with perfection as always. Stan was beginning to wonder if the man slept in a hair net. Sitting up. A court reporter huddled, repeating every word into her machine. Jed Trutenning, a tall, heavyset detective with the Redwood City police department, stood wide-legged and formidable, scratching notes in a handheld pad.

“I haven't a
clue
who did this,” Erica Salvador declared. Indignation rose from her narrow shoulders like heat from asphalt. She stood with hands on hips, lips pursed, her orange lipstick matching the color of her suit. “This is just too much. All the grief of having a change of venue for our client, and some nutcase butts in from Salinas.”

“Who's to say he's from Salinas?” Judge Chanson growled. “For that matter,who's to say it was even a he? Ms. Bracken and Ms. Lowe clearly couldn't tell.” She heaved a sigh, shifting in her seat. “Okay.” She smacked her hands on the arms of her chair like a general summoning the troops.“Now we get to see if we still have a trial, ladies and gentlemen.” She put on her reading glasses, shuffled papers on the desk with a businesslike air. “Let's see, Irene Bracken was juror number one. Juror number two is …” She ran a finger down a page.

“Hesta Naples,” Stan interjected.

“Yes. Hesta Naples.” She looked to the detective, sliding off her glasses. “Okay, Jed. Tell Sidney to bring in Ms. Naples.”

For the next two hours they questioned the jurors one at a time. Stan's nerves frayed a little more with each person. One more reported telephone contact and they'd run out of jurors. A mistrial would be declared. That would be even worse than having Chelsea Adams end up on his jury. Finally they faced the final answer with Ms. Adams. No, she said, she had not been contacted and neither Irene nor Candy had told her anything.

The jury was intact. Clay Alton had already replaced Irene Bracken as juror number one. Now Judge Chanson moved Ms. Adams to serve as juror number ten. Ms. Adams looked stunned to hear she would be deliberating.