Dread Champion (20 page)

Well, thought Stan. Apparently, God wasn't telling Ms. Adams very much these days, or she'd have seen it coming.

A thought hit him as Sidney Portensic ushered Chelsea Adams out the door.“You don't think somebody did this just to get Chelsea Adams on the jury, do you?” he burst.

Judge Chanson looked at him askance.“Huh?”

“You know, after the all news stories about her—”

“If I may so remind you, I do not read or listen to the news when I'm in trial!”

“Of course, of course,” Stan said, backpedaling. “I'm just saying that if her presence as an alternate made good headlines, imagine how it will be now that she's on the jury.”

The judge's cheeks blanched. “I am not interested in what the media has to say,
is that clear?
”

Stan held up both palms in a gesture of surrender.

Judge Chanson snatched her pen off the desk and tapped it furiously. They all waited for her to settle. “You know what I'm going to have to do now,” she declared.

Oh yes, they all knew. But no one had wanted to say it. The jury would be anything but happy, and no one wanted an unhappy jury.

“Why didn't you tell each of them when you questioned them?” Stan demanded.

The judge glared at him. “And what would that have accomplished? I didn't even know if we still
had
a jury.” She pointed a finger. “I'm going a step at a time here, understand? This is still my trial. No matter what's happened, I do not plan to lose control of my own courtroom.”

Stan ducked his head. “Sorry, Your Honor. Just a little upset, that's all.”He began pacing.

Judge Chanson's finger turned from Stan to Detective Truten-ning. “Jed, I want you to find whoever did this. And do it quick!”

“G
OOD AFTERNOON, LADIES AND GENTS.
” Sidney Portensic bustled into the jury room.“And I do mean afternoon.”He made a point of looking at his watch. “For those of you having too much fun to notice.”

“Yeah, yeah, Sidney,”Victor murmured. “Lots of fun.”

“Okay, listen up; here's what coming up next in this here circus.” He cringed at the tired chuckles. “Oops, perhaps I shouldn't have put it that way.”He drew himself up like a ringmaster addressing his audience. “Now for your entertainment—before we get you some lunch, that is—you all get to see the judge together in the courtroom. No onlookers, no reporters, just you and the judge. And the attorneys, of course.What would the courtroom be without attorneys?” He let his eyes sail toward the ceiling.

“Quieter,” Sylvia Caster declared.

“Okay, I want my ducks in a row.” Sidney shooed them with his wide hands. “Line up, please.”

Gloria Neuvo looked none too happy as she motioned Chelsea to take the emptied place in line behind her. Raising her shoulders in apology, Chelsea slid into place. Juror number ten. She could not believe this was happening. The thought of deliberating with this group filled her with discomfort.
Did you plan this all along, Lord? Is this what you wanted?

Sidney stood beside the line, his head bobbing up and down on his thick neck as he checked each juror.“Okay. Let's head 'em up and move 'em out.”

Chelsea filed with the others down the hall,worries of Kerra filling her head. Had she been with Brett Welk all morning as they waited for news? Chelsea was afraid she knew the answer too well. Brett was the only other person Kerra had talked to.
Dear God, please protect Kerra.

The air in the courtroom seemed thick and full of portent, as if dark thunderheads were gathering. Judge Chanson and the attorneys watched the jurors take their seats in silence. Stan Breckshire perched on the edge of his chair behind the prosecution table, a bouncing foot pushing his whole body into motion.

“Well, folks,” Judge Chanson began, “we're back together, with a few changes. We welcome Mr. Alton and Ms. Adams onto the jury.” Her brief smile was overshadowed by the seriousness of her tone.“Now that it's clear we still have twelve members for the jury, we face the next obstacle.We can't afford to lose one more of you. Therefore”—she leaned forward—“I find myself in the position of having to take extreme precautions to protect the proceedings of this trial. Even though the trial is only two days under way, much money, time, and energy has already been spent on the change of venue and all the pretrial hearings. So until this trial and your deliberations are concluded, I'm going to have to sequester you.”

Gloria gasped softly. Chelsea's stomach wrenched.
God, no!
She could not possibly be sequestered. Absolutely no way.

“Obviously, this is a surprise. If there is anyone who unequivocally cannot be sequestered, this is the time to say so. But remember”—the judge raised a hand—“that the loss of just one of you means a mistrial. So even though I might empathize with your situation, I will not easily be persuaded to allow any of you to go at this time.” She shifted in her chair. “Now I imagine some of you have questions.”

Chelsea sat frozen as questions and answers ping-ponged back and forth.Where would they sleep? Where would they eat? What about their clothes? In Chelsea's first thoughts none of that mattered.
How can you let me be separated from Kerra, God?
she raged.
After you made it so clear that Ishould bring her here for spiritual help?
What's she going to do now, hang around with Brett Welk?

And what about Paul? What if he can't call me? Surely, Lord, you're not going to let me be cut off from everyone!

Chelsea rested her forehead on her fingers and closed her eyes. Landing on this jury had been a bad dream to start with.Now it was turning into a nightmare.

T
WELVE FORTY-FIVE.
Kerra glanced up to see Stan Breckshire hustle out the courtroom door.Within seconds Lynn Trudy had cornered him, hair and blood red fingernails spiking the air as she demanded to know what was going on. Stan gripped her elbow and pulled her aside, where they spoke animatedly.

A moment later Terrance Clyde glided from the courtroom, Erica Salvador's heels clacking at his side. Brett pulled to his feet, mumbling, “Finally.” Kerra watched him make a beeline for the attorneys.Milt Waking snapped to attention, along with the cadre of newspaper reporters. The other television reporters had long since packed it in.

Kerra watched the defense attorney talk to Brett, his spread hands and calming expression like that of a parent breaking bad news to a child. Brett's shoulders slumped.

Like a flash fire, the news spread through the courthouse hallway. The air crackled as reporters surrounded the attorneys, launching futile questions.Milt Waking's cameraman jockeyed for position, lights flaring. The attorneys backed into the courtroom and disappeared, leaving the media to feast upon Lynn Trudy and Brett. Channel Seven's camera whirred in Brett's whitened face.

Kerra found her way to a far wall and leaned against it, mind scrambling.What would happen to Aunt Chelsea? How would they see each other? Realizations licked at Kerra like flames. She couldn't be with Aunt Chelsea at all. She might as well go home. Tears pricked her eyes.

“I said no comment!” Brett's voice, thick with emotion, reverberated in her ears. Furiously he pushed through reporters. Remorse pinched Kerra's nerves. How could she be thinking only of herself?

“Brett!” Before she knew it, she was scurrying toward him, reaching out a hand. “Come on, let's get out of here!”

Brett gripped her hand, aiming a sizzling look over his shoulders at the reporters. Fueled by adrenaline, they hustled down the courthouse escalator, across the first-floor hall, and out the doors, not stopping until they'd rounded the corner of the building. There they sank onto a bench, breathing hard, blinking in the warm sun and trying to collect their wits.

TWENTY

Janet Cline sighed as she returned to her office after ushering the childless couple out the door.Her chest felt like lead. She hadn't slept well the previous night, thanks to the visit from Rogelio Sanchez.

Why am Iso unhinged?
she asked herself for the dozenth time. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps Rogelio's girlfriend had begun proceedings with the Welk agency but had dropped them and moved to another. Perhaps she'd lied to him about his being the father.

The fax machine on her desk clicked. Janet dropped into her chair and stared at it, hoping it was the fax from Sacramento. Paper began feeding through the machine. Janet's back muscles tensed. The top of the fax scrolled into view. She saw the familiar social services logo and drew in a hard breath. She leaned forward, ready to snatch the paper. As it continued to scroll, she ran her eyes over the handwritten note.

Hi, Janet.Here's the document you wanted. Let me know if Ican do anything else for you.

Janet pulled the first sheet out and waited for the second. The top of the relinquishment form rolled up. One hand hovering over the machine, she read the typed and handwritten language on the official document.

I/We, the
father
of
Roselita Nicole,
a minor
female
child …

She held her breath and prayed to see the name and address of some other agency. To no avail.“Welk Adoption Agency” practically leaped off the page. Briefly she closed her eyes.

All right. So she and Shawna had handled the adoption. Then Rogelio couldn't be the father. Some other young man's signature would be on that form—some name she would recognize.

The legalese scrolled into view. Below it would be the name of the father.

Please, God, let it be somebody else.

Rogelio Sanchez

Air seeped from Janet's throat. She stared blankly at the name, trying to absorb the news. Suddenly a vivid memory spun through her head. Shawna snapping up straight and yanking a key from a square gray lockbox when Janet had unexpectedly entered her office. She'd looked flushed, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Janet hadn't given it much thought. Now she wondered.

What had been in that box?

Slowly Janet slid the paper from the machine. She checked the lines for the required signatures of two witnesses—lines that had been empty on Rogelio's copy. They were filled. Tracey Wilagher and Shawna Welk. Janet dropped her gaze further to the “authorized agency official” line, and her heart stumbled.

Her own forged signature stared back at her.

TWENTY-ONE

This is a fine how-do-you-do,
Stan Breckshire ragged to himself as he tried to swallow the last bite of a turkey sandwich. He'd eaten at the deli counter, standing up. Couldn't restrain his energy enough to sit.

As he walked briskly back to the courthouse, he wondered how his twelve were doing in the jury room. Heaven knew they'd better get used to those four walls, because they were going to be seeing a lot of them. Lunch would be brought in from now on. Escorted trips to and from the courtroom. Escorted trips to some nearby hotel, probably as sterile and cold as his own. Only one or two immediate family members would be allowed to call.

Nearly two o'clock. Court would be resuming. Finally. It seemed like days ago that Stan had questioned Detective Draker. The man had been cooling his heels all day as he waited to continue his testimony.
Great,
thought Stan as he bounced up the courthouse steps. A ticked-off witness, a ticked-off jury, and no doubt about it, a ticked-off judge.

Just great.

By two thirty Stan was once again ensconced in questioning the detective. Everybody had reconvened, one big unhappy family— except for the extra-large flock of reporters. Stan wondered where they all had come from. Some soundless cry had summoned them from all corners of the wind. Now they perched in their seats like beady-eyed seagulls picking just-hatched turtles off a beach.

Something else swirled in the courtroom. Suspicion. Stan saw it played out in the probing eyes of the spectators and jurors, the glare of the judge, the stone face of Darren Welk. Somebody had contacted the jury—somebody with a lot to gain or lose.Was that person in the courtroom? Stan knew that the major players in the case, like Lynn Trudy, Tracey Wilagher, and Brett Welk, would be among the first questioned, regardless of whether they were rooting for the prosecution or the defense. And hopefully Trutenning would question reporters too. Calls from the jail were taped, so Darren Welk couldn't have managed the deed. Nor could he have known the phone numbers of the two jurors. But he certainly had the dough to pay someone.

Was he that stupid?

“Now,Detective Draker,” Stan said, bringing his thoughts in line as he paced in front of his table, “you told us yesterday that on the Saturday after the disappearance of Shawna Welk, two items washed up on the beach—a piece of navy blue fabric and a tooth.Would you tell us what you discovered about these two items? Perhaps the fabric first.”

Detective Draker's expression was as flat as always. “The fabric was ripped and looked as if it had come from the bottom of a pant leg. Tracey Wilagher identified the fabric as belonging to the suit her mother had worn the night of February fifteenth.”

Stan nodded. “Did you verify this information?”

“Yes.Miss Wilagher had brought her mother's jacket home with her from the beach.We were able to match the piece of fabric to the jacket.”

Stan turned to the prosecution table and pulled forward a large paper bag.Opening it, he extracted the piece of fabric and the jacket and spread them carefully before the detective. “Can you identify these items?”

The detective examined them carefully, almost grimly.“Yes. This is the piece of fabric that washed up onshore, and the matching jacket.”

“Thank you.” Stan gathered the items and held them out for the jury to see. Slowly he walked the length of the jury box. The new juror number one, Clay Alton, perused the items at length, then jotted in his notes. Stan slid a glance to Chelsea Adams.Her expression was impassive as she considered the clothing. Her hands lay folded in her lap. No notebook.