Dread Champion (41 page)

Her prayers had become simple, desperate cries.
Help me, Lord, please!

Finally Clay suggested—no, demanded—that they go over the testimony,witness by witness.“Something in there,” he informed her, “is bound to change your mind.”

During the afternoon break Chelsea hid out in the bathroom, clinging to the sink and praying with all her might. “What's the point of all this, Lord?”
s
he whispered aloud.“Nobody's changing their opinion. Am I supposed to fight like this the rest of today? And tomorrow? When can I stop? Just a few hours and already I'm so tired.”

Break over, they all took their places once again. Chelsea sat woodenly, awaiting the onslaught.

Clay leveled his eyes at her. “Do you have anything you want to say before we take up where we left off?”

Chelsea felt the hardness of the chair against her back. A vise gripped her head. She forced her voice to remain level. “Only that I'm sorry. Believe it or not. I don't mean to cause problems. Like all of you, I just want to do what I think is right.”

A small
tsk
emitted from Antonio's lips. Tak's eyes were cold. Hesta leaned forward and looked at her down the table, mouth in a thin line.“Right,”Clay said with a slow blink.He consulted his notes. “Okay.Where were we?”

“Tracey's testimony,”Henry replied. “She's kicking Darren Welk to wake him up.”

“Yeah, okay.” Clay read his notes.“He gets up, stumbles around, denies he knows where Shawna is. They both start searching the beach. Then Tracey goes back home, convincing herself she'll find her mother there, which of course she doesn't. Apparently, she makes enough noise to bring Brett out of his bedroom—”

“Do you realize how long this is going to take?”Tak's long fingers drummed the table. “I really don't see the point of going through every witness's testimony.”He pointed at Chelsea. “I say you tell us your version of what happened, since you're so sure of yourself.
You
tell us who killed Shawna Welk.”

Every nerve ending in Chelsea's body prickled. She gazed at Tak, feeling his scorn, his hatred. This was not just about the trial, she knew. This was about her Christian beliefs,which he apparently held in utter contempt. Others around the table may not have possessed his level of derision against her faith, but that was changing in the face of her perceived obstinacy. She had no proof of what she believed about the murder, no rational argument upon which to rest. She had only the knowledge, deep within her, that she was doing what God had asked her to do.

“I can't tell you that,” she said.

“Because you won't or because you can't?” Tak pressed.

“Because … because I can't.”

“Then you have no argument.”Tak's face hardened.“No basis for your opinion.Which says to me that you are not listening to the evidence you heard in the courtroom, as you promised the judge you would. You are instead listening to some imagined voice in your head—that voice you claim comes from ‘God.'” He slid his eyes around the jury table.“Can't you all see that? Why are we letting her get away with this?”

“I'm
not letting her get away with it,” Latonia declared. She wagged her head at Chelsea.“You think you've got a corner on God? I grew
up
in church.My grandfather was one of those Bible-toting preachers who rose up on his toes when he yelled about hell. I believe in God just like you do. But one thing I
wouldn't
do is let him make me look the fool. Which is what you're looking like at this moment!”

“I—”

“Well, I frankly don't care what
anybody
around this table believes.”Hesta's voice burned like ice as she cut Chelsea off. “We're not here to discuss religious beliefs.We're here to decide on the guilt or innocence of a man charged with murder.”

“That's exactly what I'm saying!” Latonia threw out her hands, palms up. “Yes, we're here to discuss a man's guilt or innocence, based on the evidence in court. But
she
”—Latonia pointed a perfectly groomed, short red nail at Chelsea—“is turning it into some sort of religious cause.”

“That's not what you're doing, is it, Chelsea?” Sylvia prompted. “You simply have some questions, right?”

Chelsea's mouth dried out. She raised a water bottle to her lips with trembling fingers and drank. “I'm trying to tell you,” she said, emphasizing each word, “I simply feel that something's wrong. I don't know what it is.Maybe if we continued discussing—”

“So this has nothing to do with your Christianity.” Tak glared at her.

“Well—”

“It has nothing to do with your ‘listening to God.'”

Dread unwound itself and slithered through Chelsea's stomach. Every eye around the table focused on her, full of scorn.“How can I answer that?” She wanted to melt into her chair.“In everything I do, I try to listen to God.”

“There, you see!”Tak slammed a hand onto the table and Chelsea jumped.He hunched forward, his face livid.“You told the judge you would consider nothing but the evidence. You
lied!
Now you are in contempt of everything this jury stands for! If we had an alternate behind you, I'd report you to the judge and throw you out!”

“Yeah, well, we don't have an alternate.” Clay's voice was layered with disgust. “And if we twelve can't come together, this whole trial goes down the drain. That's not going to happen, not on
my
watch.”

“Not on mine either,”Henry declared.

“Or mine.”Hesta's voice nearly shook with rage.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” Sylvia held up both hands, as if blessing the room into calmness. She turned to Chelsea, face grim. “Things have gotten out of hand here.”Her words were distinct, controlled, like that of a negotiator's. “Now. Chelsea. Just tell us what we need to hear. Tell us that you are basing your opinion on evidence you heard in the courtroom, evidence that we can then discuss. Assure us that your vote is
not
based on something you feel God is telling you to do, when you yourself don't see the reason for it.”

Chelsea stared at her, throat closing. How could she possibly answer? She
had
promised to base her vote on evidence.Wasn't she doing that? Hadn't the evidence simply failed to convince her? She was voting her conscience, as God had commanded, wasn't she?

“When you yourself don't see the reason for it.”

What was her reason? What did she believe? Could she deny she was basing her vote on what God told her to do?

What do you want from me, God!
she cried.
They're all against me!

She opened her mouth. Looked Sylvia squarely in the eye. Then gazed at Tak, at Clay and Latonia. A settling hovered in her chest, like kicked-up dust drifting back to solid ground.

“My opinion,” she heard herself say, “is based upon my conscience of voting as I think is right. There's no doubt in my mind that this is what God would want me or any of the rest of you to do. My vote is based upon the judge's instructions regarding reasonable doubt. I cannot bet my life on the fact that Darren Welk, and only Darren Welk, killed his wife. Because I absolutely believe Brett, his son, buried that blouse.”

She gazed around the table defiantly. Tak, Henry, and Hesta all hurled back their responses at once.

FIFTY-THREE

Brett's watch ticked past five o'clock with no word from the jury. Wearily he pushed to his feet from the hard bench. The hallway filled with people emptying out of various courtrooms. Most of the reporters who'd hung around for a possible verdict had already left. Milt Waking and his cameraman were headed for the escalator. Brett felt his face harden, watching Milt. Sorry excuse for a human being.

“Might as well call it a day.” Brett held out a hand to Kerra. She gave him a sad smile as she rose.

Neither of them wanted to eat much. They bought sandwiches and drinks, then for the third evening in a row drove up Skyline to their vista. Brett sat on the rock and gazed without seeing at the bay, his arm around Kerra. His whole body felt weighted. After the long afternoon this night would seem interminable.

“They're going to find him guilty,” he said, breaking the silence.

Kerra's head moved slightly. A breeze ruffled the hair around her face.

“But then why shouldn't they?” His voice thickened. “It's what God wants, isn't it—justice. The guilty don't get off.”

“Oh, Brett, don't.”

“Why not?”He pulled away from her, propelled to his feet. “It's true and I might as well face it. Still, he doesn't deserve second degree. You know he was drunk; he didn't mean to do it.” Brett swung around toward the bay, shoulders sagging.He heard the swish of clothes as Kerra clambered off the rock and to his side. She wound her fingers around his arm. “If I just hadn't—”

“You have got to stop blaming yourself, Brett.”

He shoved a hand into his pocket, blinking hard.

“Can you see what's going on?” Kerra squeezed his arm. “You and your dad are protecting each other.At a high price. I'm not saying that anything that happened was right. But I do know God can work through the horrible mistakes we make.Whatever the verdict is”—her voice tightened—“it seems to me you and your dad ought to be able to start talking.Whether it's at home or at the jail. The
actions
of love are all there. You two just need the words.”

M
ILT SHRUGGED HIS SUIT
coat into place and smoothed his hair.
One last time of standing on these courtroom steps,
he thought.
One last time.
By tomorrow, if everything went as planned, he'd have a story that would blow the whole Bay Area away.

He focused on the anchorwoman's introduction to his segment, coming through his earphone. The cameraman signaled him.

“Yes,” he said to the camera, “as you've heard, things are winding down in the highly watched Salad King trial of Darren Welk from Salinas. Nevertheless, the case continues to surprise us all. As the case was sent to the jury late this morning for deliberation, I learned that Lynn Trudy, sister of the victim, was taken in by detectives for a second round of questioning about the illegal phone calls to two jury members—and is still being held. By telephone, her attorney, Dave Nugan, made this statement: ‘I am certain that this misunderstanding will soon be straightened out. Throughout the trial of Darren Welk, Lynn Trudy has made it very clear that she believes in his guilt. She would have no reason to call two jurors and demand not-guilty votes. She will continue to cooperate in ques- tioning with the detectives until the real culprit in this jury tampering is found.'”

Milt raised an eyebrow. “Despite Nugan's comments, by late this afternoon Ms. Trudy's situation had not changed, and according to sources, she has refused to answer any further questions. Back to you, Cindy.”

“All right,” the anchorwoman responded.“Thank you,Milt. This case does seem to get stranger and stranger.”

Milt nodded at the camera, a little smile on his face.

You ain't seen nothing yet, babe.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 17

FIFTY-FOUR

Brett eased into a space in the near-empty parking garage. Clearly, the courthouse would be quiet, given that it was Saturday. As he locked his car, he spotted Kerra driving in. She caught sight of him, and her face broke into a smile that squeezed his chest. He walked toward her car.When they met, he pulled her into his arms. The fresh smell of her hair, the feel of her body, swirled him with comfort.Kerra hugged him tightly, then stepped back.“Are you okay this morning?”Her blue eyes searched his face.

“I am now.”

She brushed fingers against his jaw. “Whatever happens, know that I'm with you.”

He nodded, throat suddenly tight.

They fell in step toward the courthouse and more long hours of waiting.

C
HELSEA HAD BARELY SLEPT.
As she dressed for another day with the jury, her limbs felt as though they had weights attached. Before falling into bed at midnight, she had alternated between pacing the room, reading the Bible, praying, and just plain worrying. Every time she caught herself giving in to her anxiety, she'd tried to turn it into a prayer. Sometimes it worked; sometimes it didn't. Sometimes all she could see were her problems. She believed the Lord was at work. But at this moment, as she waited for the escort's knock on her door, she just wanted to climb into bed and pull the covers over her head.

Ican't do this, Lord. Iknow you want me to keep holding out. You've made me sense that very clearly. But I just feel so weak. Ican't last much longer.

A knock sounded on her door. Steeling herself, Chelsea walked toward the dresser to pick up her purse.

The vision came with no warning. It flashed through her mind, strong and vivid, gut-wrenching. That same evil man … and Kerra, her face pulled into a rigid mask of terror.

Immediately the vision vanished. Chelsea's blood turned to water. She threw out a hand and hung on to the dresser, eyes squeezing shut. Trying to tell herself that she hadn't seen it, she had
not.

This was not real.

She slid to her knees, prayers tumbling from her lips. Prayers for Kerra's protection, for her own wisdom and strength, for God to show her what to do. She needed to be with Kerra, warn her of coming danger, maybe save her from it. She'd have to change her vote quickly, do anything to get herself out of there.

Show me what to do, God!

The knock sounded harder on the door.

“Coming!” Chelsea called. Trembling, she pulled to her feet.
Lord, what do Ido? Let me change my vote; let me go home!

She snatched her purse off the dresser and headed for the door.

J
ANET
C
LINE CHECKED THE
time as she chewed the last of her bagel. Ten o'clock. In fifteen minutes she needed to be out the door, and her hair wasn't dry. Even though it was Saturday, her calendar was full for the rest of the day. Four interviews plus a stack of paperwork. And since she'd be the only one in the office, she'd have to answer the phones.