Dread Champion (4 page)

“Yes,” she replied, “there were.”

The prosecutor leaned his forearms against the podium. “Let's talk about that for a moment.”

The “moment” stretched into many. First Stan Breckshire grilled her; then Terrance Clyde grilled her. They went over every aspect of last year's Trent Park case, every thought Chelsea had entertained, every action she had taken. In the beginning the two attorneys were respectful, nodding in understanding, masking their disbelief. Chelsea had learned enough about attorney tactics to know they both were doing everything they could to get her off the jury. No doubt she seemed far too unpredictable to be appealing to either side.Why didn't they just use a challenge and kick her off? As their questioning continued, the attorneys became more forceful, more cunning. Forty-five minutes passed. Every muscle in Chelsea's back grew rigid. Her hands grew clammy and her throat dry. As if the attorneys' attitudes weren't difficult enough, Chelsea could feel the growing animosity of the jury. She was a troublemaker, taking their precious time, making them all sit there while she proselytized about her “religion.”The more she was forced to explain about her visions and following God's leading, the more their judgment against her seemed to blanket her shoulders, weigh her down.

Why are you allowing this, God?
she prayed silently even as she continued answering carefully, deliberately.
Why should your words fall on such hollow ears?

Perspiration dampened her upper lip as Terrance Clyde gathered his notes from the podium. Surely her face was flushed. Chelsea stole a look at the clock. Four forty-five. Kerra would be arriving at the airport in an hour. Chelsea would need to allow herself plenty of time to reach the airport, commuter traffic on 101 being so slow.No way did she want to miss being on time. The poor girl had not been able to recover from the tragedy she'd been through, and Chelsea had practically begged her to come for a rest. She needed her Aunt Chelsea to be waiting for her with open arms.

“No more questions, Your Honor,”Mr. Clyde announced.

“Okay.”The judge turned to the prosecutor.“Mr. Breckshire, anything further?”

“Yes, yes, just a few more questions.” Stan Breckshire rose, agitation showing in his step.

Chelsea searched within herself for the last remnants of energy as she watched him hurry to the podium.
God, please give me an honest answer that can get me out of this trial!
She couldn't in good conscience pull a trick like that of the man before her, but surely there was
something
she could say. Grief-weary Kerra desperately needed her attention for the next two weeks.

“So, Ms. Adams”—Stan Breckshire rapped a finger against the podium—“let me ask you an important question.As a result of the events in the trial last year, do you now have a moral conviction about sitting in judgment of anyone?”

Chelsea wished for all the world that she could truthfully say yes. “No, I don't.”

“Well,would you find making a decision as to guilt or innocence difficult?”

“Sure, it would be difficult. I couldn't do it lightly.”

“Yes, yes, but would you find it
too
difficult to make after your experiences?”

Would she? Maybe so; maybe she'd never be able to make such a decision. The tempting excuse cavorted in Chelsea's mind.Mentally she grasped for it, sought to rationalize such an answer. But she knew it was not the truth. She fought to keep the disappointment from her voice. “It wouldn't be too difficult, no. I would just weigh all the facts, taking all the time necessary to do that. And then I'd make a decision.”

The prosecutor eyed her. Chelsea resisted checking the clock again. Time was ticking by.

“Would you feel comfortable finding a defendant guilty?” the attorney pressed. “Would you be able to look him in the eye and say he's guilty?”

“Yes, if I believed so.”

A jury member behind her coughed. Another one sighed. She wanted to turn around and apologize, say she didn't like this any more than they did.

Stan Breckshire grasped both sides of the podium.“How do you feel now about the police? Would you lean toward helping them? Or do you think you'd need to give every break to the defendant?”

Chelsea hesitated. She so wanted to give the man the answer he sought. Kerra
needed
her; what was she doing? “I would neither lean toward helping the police nor lean toward the defendant. I'd just have to follow my own conscience.”

“Ms. Adams.” The prosecutor hunched over the podium like a teacher toward a recalcitrant pupil. “How many of your ‘visions' have you had since that trial last year?”

Chelsea blinked. “I'm not sure. Ten,maybe.”

“So you have almost one a month, perhaps?”

“Well, I … You can't really time them like that, but I guess on average that's about right.”

“Any more having to do with crimes?”

“No.”

“What did they have to do with?”

Her chest tensed at the memories.“Different things. For the most part they're about people's hurts, perhaps something that happened in their past. God shows me how to pray for these people.”

“So again, they show you things that you couldn't possibly know any other way?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.And how long has it been since you've had a vision now?” Sudden understanding of where he was headed washed over Chelsea. She watched Stan Breckshire's fingers drum the podium. Behind him the lead defense attorney watched her without blinking. His assistant sat forward with an elbow on the table and two fingers dug into her cheek.

“It's been about six weeks, I'd say.”

“Six weeks.” Stan Breckshire's chin jutted out and back. “Then aren't you about due for another one?”

Chelsea suppressed a nervous laugh. “I have no idea. God tends to do things in his own time.”

The attorney sniffed. “Still, six weeks certainly fits the pattern, wouldn't you agree?”

“Well, not really. There is no pattern.”

His gaze hardened. “Ms. Adams, stick with me for a moment. Let's just say that during the course of this trial, you were to have another vision. And let's further say the vision was about the trial itself, perhaps leading you to think you knew information not given in court. Now. Once you were in deliberation,
would you tell others on the jury about your vision?”

“No.”

He drew back in overt surprise. “Why not?”

“Because any visions I have are between me and God.”

“But wait a minute; you've told others about them before, right?” His words were pointed, precise. “You certainly told police about your vision of the murder last year.”

“Yes.”

“Then why wouldn't you tell this jury if you had a vision that you believed added information that should be used in deciding guilt or innocence in this case?”

Chelsea shook her head. “It's just not something I would do. It's a completely different circumstance to tell the police about a murder in the first place than to say something when I'm on a jury. A jury has to decide on evidence.”

“Well, if it comes from God, isn't that evidence enough?”

“It's not evidence as provided in court. The evidence that a judge instructs a jury to rely upon.”

Stan Breckshire leveled beady eyes at her. “So you would not tell anyone.”

“No. I would not.”

He raised his hands as if in deep quandary. “Then why would God send you a vision about the trial at all, if there's nothing you could do with it?”

Chelsea stared at him, momentarily befuddled. “Who said he would?”

“Who said he wouldn't?” the attorney shot back. “You yourself indicated that you can't control these visions.”

“I … That's true.”

“So who's to say your ‘God' wouldn't send you one about this case? You certainly claimed he sent you one about last year's trial.”

Chelsea flinched at his sarcasm.“I don't claim to know what God will or will not do, sir,” she said quietly.

“But what if you
did
have what you call a ‘vision' about this case?” His voice grew louder. “Would what you ‘saw' affect your decision in any way?”

How to answer such a question? Chelsea breathed a prayer for the right words. “As I said, the way I understand it, the jury hears evidence in a trial, and they must listen to the judge's instructions as to how to weigh that evidence as they deliberate. I would follow those instructions.”

“But”—the attorney pressed his forefinger against the podium—“what
if
God told you to do something different from what the judge told you? Who would you obey?”

There was the clincher. Everyone in the courtroom knew it. Jury members on the front row openly leaned forward to ogle Chelsea, awaiting her answer. She could feel the sets of eyes behind her, watching. The whole room seemed to hang on her reply.

Kerra's desperate needs pulled at Chelsea's heart. Wasn't this question God's means of allowing her to be with her niece? And of giving her a way to get herself excused, as Paul wanted? For how could she not answer that she would obey God above all else? Wasn't that the truth?

And yet for some reason Chelsea sensed this was not what she should say.

God, help! What do you want of me?

She opened her mouth and words flowed of their own accord. “The Bible tells us to obey the government. I can only tell you that if I were on this jury, I would listen to the judge's instructions and follow them as I reviewed the evidence brought out within this courtroom.”

The prosecutor's thin lips pressed as he leaned halfway over the podium. “Do you
want
to be on this jury?” he demanded.

Chelsea smiled wearily.“No. Believe me.”

“You sure?”

Frustration tightened her throat. “Sir, there are other places I'd rather be right now. If I may suggest, since you don't want me on this jury, can't you just send me home?”

A gleam appeared in his eye. “Do you want to go home?”

“I sure do.”

He turned to the judge in sheer desperation.

She spread her hands and shrugged.

“She wants to go home, Your Honor.” He sounded almost petulant.

“So do I, Mr. Breckshire.” Her tone was dry. “It's after five o'clock.”

He sighed. “Fine.We can resume this questioning tomorrow, if you like.”

The judge gave him a look. “What I'd
like,
Mr. Breckshire, is to seat this jury. Let's finish with Ms. Adams today, shall we? If she is excused, we'll have to call an entire new panel.” She considered Chelsea with a weary expression. “Ms. Adams, you've undergone considerable questioning today, and I'm sure you're tired, as we all are. It's already past time for court to recess, so I'm going to just ask you a few final questions, okay?”

Chelsea nodded, holding her breath.
Please, Lord, let this be it.

“All right then. As you have gathered, this court's main concern rests upon your ability and willingness to be fair and impartial. I'd like to conclude all the questions by asking you this: If circumstances led to your deliberating in this case, could you consider the evidence entered into this trial—and
only
the evidence entered into this trial? Could you do this
regardless
of what you may believe God told you privately, through a vision or any other means?”

Air escaped Chelsea in a thin stream. She closed her eyes a moment before answering.How ironic that all the hard lessons she'd learned from last year's trial would lead her to this moment. “Yes, I can.”Her voice held unmistakable defeat.

Judge Chanson sat back in her leather chair, raising her eyebrows at the two defense attorneys. They bent their heads together, whispering, then pulled apart.“Nothing further from us, Your Honor.”

A thought rose in Chelsea's mind. A last grasping-at-straws attempt to be excused.“Your Honor?” she said timidly.“Is there such a thing as family issues getting in the way of someone serving? My niece flies in today to visit for a few weeks. If I'm on a jury all day, what will she do? No one else is at home, and this trip has been planned for a long time.”

Judge Chanson inclined her head, thinking. Chelsea felt a swell of hope.

“I understand your concern,” the judge said at length.“The problem is, I was just about to deny hardship to Mr. Seecham before you. Now you are asking me to grant you the same thing.At this point in time, we are simply too under the gun to seat this jury. So I'm going to deny your request.”

Chelsea dropped her eyes, then nodded miserably.

“Mr. Breckshire?” Judge Chanson said.“Satisfied?”Her tone indicated what she would have him say.

“Just one more question, Your Honor.”

She considered him, then waved a tired hand in the air.

He turned back to Chelsea.“Ms.Adams, after all my questioning of you today, how can you be impartial to the prosecution in this case?”

To her surprise, Chelsea's lips curved upward slightly. The poor man seemed so deflated. As if she were really anything to fear. “Your questioning today will not prejudice me one way or the other. I know you're doing your duty.” She added quietly, “As I have to do mine.”

The prosecutor's head bobbed once. Clearly, there was nothing more he could do. “I thank you for that recognition.” He smiled briefly, showing teeth. Chelsea decided she liked his frown better. “That's it,” he announced. “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

The judge plopped her hands on the armrests of her chair.“Well, Ms. Adams, we thank you for your sincere answers. I'm asking you to stay now as second alternate.” She picked up papers before her and glanced at the clock. “Okay, we know it's late. Just a minute longer for the rest of you, and we'll swear you in. And then we'll expect to see you back here tomorrow morning at nine o'clock.”