Dying Declaration (33 page)

“No thanks. Better head home,” she said cheerily, as if her polite rebuff would easily settle the matter; then, “Oops,” as she stumbled against Dustin. They both laughed.

“You’re in no shape to drive,” he said. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and drew her next to him as they walked. “And I’ve got a hot tub.”

Despite her cheery protests, Dustin guided Nikki toward his car. A few feet away she stopped abruptly.

“I really do need to go home,” she said. The giddiness had left her voice, but the words slurred together, formed by a thicker-than-normal tongue.

“But, dude, we’re made for each other,” Dustin argued. He grabbed her hand. “I can feel it. Let’s give it a shot. See what happens.”

Nikki pulled back. A thought hit her. “Maybe you should come to my place instead,” she said. “We can pick up my kids on the way.”

Dustin twisted his head and looked Nikki up and down. “Kids,” he asked. “With an
s
?”

Nikki nodded. “’Fraid so.” She pulled out her cell phone and speed-dialed Bella while Dustin watched. Bella answered on the second ring.

“I should be there in about half an hour,” Nikki said. “The kids sleeping?”

Bella starting rambling on in response until Nikki cut her off. “Hang on a second,” Nikki said. She held the phone toward Dustin, her arm swaying a little. “You want to talk to her?”

He stepped back and raised his palms, like he might get involved in some kind of paternity suit if he just touched it. “That’s cool. I believe you. I mean . . . whatever.”

Nikki chatted for a few minutes while Dustin waited. “Whoa,” he said, after she hung up. “That just blows me away. I mean,
you didn’t seem like the type to have kids and everything.”

She just stood there with a small grin plastered on her face, watching Dustin squirm in the uncomfortable silence and wondering if he might still offer her a ride home.

She didn’t have to wait long to find out. “You want me to call you a cab?” Prince Charming offered.

53

THE NEXT DAY,
as Charles sat alone in his office preparing his cross-examination of witnesses, a terrible truth hit him. It came as he sat jotting down questions for the Reverend Beckham, the pastor for Thomas and Theresa Hammond who refused to take even an ounce of responsibility for young Joshua’s death. It was as if Beckham could preach something—
“Don’t ever seek the medical help of man”
—and then just ignore the consequences of what he was saying.

“If you’re going to talk the talk,”
Charles would say when he preached on the boardwalk,
“then you better be ready to walk the walk.”
And in this moment of clarity, in the quietness of his still office, the thought slammed him with the force of a head-on collision.

He
was no different than Reverend Beckham.

The thought horrified Charles and made him lose focus on what he was doing. This man Beckham preached like a Pharisee, putting greater burdens on his congregation than he was willing to bear himself. This man turned his head while Joshua writhed in pain. How could he not see his own role in the child’s death? Couldn’t he see that by doing nothing he had condemned young Joshie to die?

And now Charles had to ask himself that same question.

How could he do nothing about the unborn babies that might be affected by his ex-wife’s judicial decisions? Wasn’t that the whole point of that awful cemetery dream? Denita had endured the trauma of an
illegal
abortion, of having to sneak around and keep it secret, she so feared the stigma of a public abortion. Denita would never get appointed by the current Republican administration if anyone knew of her secret bias. And even if Denita said she had changed, how could she ignore her own intense personal experience?

It had changed her. Charles had seen that with his own eyes. And it would
have to
affect her on issues like parental consent laws, informed consent, partial birth abortion, and other attempts to limit the procedure. If Charles helped hide her past, if he just remained conspiratorially silent, how was he any different than Beckham?

He wasn’t, he realized.

He would have to write a letter to Senator Crafton, he decided. And he would let the chips fall.

He hunkered over his keyboard and started typing immediately, before he could second-guess himself again. He did his best to put his emotions aside as he typed. Writing this letter was painful—even now his stomach was in knots—but it was the only way he could live with himself, the only way he could sleep at night.

He prayed this whole mess would somehow bring Denita closer to God, not drive her further away.
“People change, Charles. Even without getting all religious like you, people still change.”

But Charles didn’t believe that was true. Apart from faith, people don’t change. They can’t.
“The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?”
Wasn’t that what
”
Scripture said? Wasn’t that what Charles preached to his congregation of tourists and hangers-on every Friday night?

But still, even as he typed, he couldn’t help but wonder about the wilted flowers on the grave of Baby Arnold.

Dear Senator Crafton,

I am the ex-husband of Denita Masterson, who I understand is being considered for nomination as a U.S. District Court judge. Before that nomination is made, there is something that you need to know about Ms. Masterson, something very personal that may well affect the way she views cases regarding a woman’s right to choose.

He swallowed hard and noticed that his fingers trembled a little. He tried to blot her picture from his mind.

During the course of our marriage, and without my knowledge, Denita obtained an abortion using the RU-486 pill. At the time she did so, the abortion pill was not legal in the United States.

Charles printed out the letter, signed his name, and felt a part of him die.
Why,
he wondered,
did something so right feel so very wrong?

54

SATURDAY NIGHT,
July 2, five days from the start of the trial, and Thomas wondered what else could go wrong. First came the call from Charles—he couldn’t make it for Bible study again, something about prior commitments for the holiday weekend. Buster reacted badly, cursing and throwing his Bible into the cell. Thomas picked up the Bible, smoothed out the pages, and laid it carefully on Buster’s cot.

Buster was getting on his last nerve. The man just didn’t take his Christian walk seriously enough. And Charles wasn’t helping none with these last-minute cancellations.

Then there was the fight. Actually more of a beating, to be precise. Thomas didn’t witness the events, but the inmates talked of little else. It all started when Buster was walking by a new white fish named Carl Stoner, a greasy biker dude with an attitude, long hair pulled back in a ponytail, and tattoos on every visible inch of his body from the neck down. During his first three days in jail, Stoner had been making quite a name for himself, picking fights with smaller inmates right and left. He was roughly the same size as Buster, though his bulk came more from fat than muscle. Buster claimed he heard Stoner mutter the
n
word to another Anglo, and Buster turned on him in a flash.

Stoner denied the comment, but a couple of other members of the ES gathered round and swore they’d heard Stoner use it on other occasions. Buster took a little spontaneous poll, asking the brothers whether they thought Stoner was innocent or guilty.

Twelve guilties; none for acquittal. The white boys who had gathered around were not given a vote.

That’s when the shouting started, and Stoner removed all doubt by calling Buster the same name straight to his face. Buster responded with an explosive right to the midsection, cracking two of Stoner’s ribs. With Stoner doubled over in pain, Buster grabbed the back of Stoner’s head and slammed his knee into Stoner’s face. Blood spurted from Stoner’s mouth and nose as he crumbled to the ground in a heap.

The men scattered as the guards arrived. Turned out that nobody saw anything.

That night, in the dark quiet of the cell, Thomas knew that he had to confront Buster with the sinfulness of his conduct. It was the first fight Buster had picked since his conversion, and it was no way for a Christian to act.

“Heard about the fight tonight,” Thomas said, keeping his voice down so that it couldn’t be heard in other cells. “I can understand why you was mad—”

He heard Buster curse under his breath in the other cot. “No, you can’t, Pops.”

“Regardless,” Thomas continued, “it don’t justify what you done. Christians can’t return hate for hate, Buster. Think how much God showed you love even when you hated Him.”

Thomas waited for an answer. He was ready to work through this even if it took all night. You couldn’t go around claiming the name of Christ and then start cracking people’s ribs when they disrespect you. It was time for Buster to get serious about his faith. It was time for some good old-fashioned repentance.

But there would be nothing to work through. Buster answered only with silence. And a half hour later with the sound of heavy snoring.

55

FOR THE NEXT FOUR DAYS,
Nikki and Charles prepared diligently for trial, like a couple of young professionals who had never had even a momentary longing for each other. Charles was thankful that Nikki had at least gone back to a first-name basis—no more of this “Mr. Arnold” stuff. But there was a distinct chill in the air when they were together and an unspoken rule that their past relationship would not be discussed.

Nikki sent every nonverbal message possible that she would never again give the relationship a second thought. She had always been a woman of casual but intimate touches, something that Charles loved. They would be talking together, and she would reach out and touch his arm, casually fling her arm over his shoulder, or playfully punch him. But now she was making an obvious effort to avoid any physical contact whatsoever. It was like he had an infectious disease, one she was determined not to catch,
as she restrained her normally vivacious personality and ubiquitous sense of touch.

The investigation was proceeding no better, as Nikki reported running up against one roadblock after another. None of the bartenders or waiters at the restaurants patronized by Armistead could recall seeing Armistead and the Barracuda together. The long-distance phone calls listed on his bill were also a dead end. Nor could Nikki find out any information about a malpractice company called the Virginia Insurance Reciprocal or any recent settlement of an insurance claim by Armistead.

By the eve of trial, the two legal warriors were getting frustrated. They couldn’t shake the feeling that they were close to a breakthrough on Armistead but couldn’t quite make out the whole picture. After weeks of investigating and strategizing,
the trial still seemed to hinge on the credibility of one witness—Dr. Sean Armistead—and they were missing the silver bullet for his cross-examination.

But that was something they could no longer control. The night before trial, they focused on things they could control: Nikki had completed her ratings of the potential jurors, Charles had completed his outlines for the examination of witnesses, and Charles had practiced his opening statement twice with Nikki playing the role of juror.

It was now nearly 11:00 p.m., and the two had their papers spread all over the classroom that Charles had coopted for use as an office in the days prior to the trial. Nikki used the floor; Charles’s stuff covered several rows of seats.

She checked her watch. The kids were staying with their mom, and it was getting late. “I think we’re ready,” she announced,
rubbing her eyes.

Charles looked up from the stack of papers in front of him. “Let me go over the last few minutes of my opening one more time. I’ve just written some new thoughts.” He stood and started stretching his back.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said. “Really. I’ve gotta go and pick up the kids. I mean, technically, they’re not even supposed to be with their mother if I’m not there.”

But before she could stand, Charles was off, launching into a passionate appeal outlining the defendant’s evidence and asking the jurors—no,
begging
the jurors—to keep an open mind until they heard the defendant’s case. He was in his street preacher mode, pacing and cajoling,
asking brazen rhetorical questions—all under the expressionless gaze of Nikki Moreno. His voice rose and fell in a mesmerizing rhythm. He was preaching the gospel of reasonable doubt, and the jurors were his congregation.

When he concluded fifteen spellbinding minutes later, there were beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. The room took on an uncomfortable silence. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down at his critic, who was still sitting cross-legged on the floor.

“How’d you like it?”

“It’s fine,” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

At this, Charles’s shoulders slumped. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt and sat down on the floor in front of Nikki, leaning back on his hands with his legs extended out in front of him.

“That’s it? Fine?” he asked.

She shrugged again. “Nothing wrong with fine.” She started stacking up some papers as Charles watched her every move. “It’s late,” Nikki continued, sounding defensive. “I’ve gotta go. It was fine.”

Charles continued staring, unsatisfied with the answer. It wasn’t that he was fishing for more praise; it’s just that he expected some passion. Nikki wasn’t being Nikki. He needed her unguarded feedback, not some polite answer from someone working hard to stay emotionally detached.

“Nikki, we’ve got to talk.”

She rolled her eyes. “If I remember correctly, last time we ‘talked’—” she made little quote marks with her fingers as she said the word—“it was more like you talked and I listened. And if I’m not mistaken, the gist of our little talk was that you were basically too good for me because you’re a Christian and I’m not. So, needless to say, I’m not real excited about talking again.” She stood to go.

Charles reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Sit down, Nikki.”

She glared at him, pulling the wrist away.

“Please.”

She narrowed her eyes and sat.

“Is that what you believe?” Charles asked. “That I somehow think I’m too good for you?”

Nikki shrugged again. She stared past him at the wall.

“Look, Nikki, nothing could be further from the truth. During the few times we spent together before the now infamous ‘talk,’ I had to pinch myself just to make sure it was real. I mean, I couldn’t believe that someone as beautiful and charming as you would ever spend any time with me.”

The expression on her face seemed to soften slightly. Charles studied her as he waited for a response. None came.

“When we talked,” he continued, “I knew I didn’t phrase things right. What I was trying to say is that our friendship really mattered to me, and I didn’t want to hurt you by making you think I was looking for something more. Now we’ve got this trial to get ready for, and I’m just walking on eggshells wondering what you’re going to think about this or what you’re going to say about that.”

Charles softened his voice and looked down at the floor as he continued. He bent his knees and leaned back on his hands. “I
understand why you’re mad at me, but I’ve got to get this off my chest before we head into trial. I’ve got to know that we’re in this together, that we can talk openly, and that we’ll guard each other’s back. We’ve got enough people shooting at us,
trying to put our clients away. I’ve just got to know that you’re with me no matter what.”

Charles decided to wait her out. He had to have an answer. He couldn’t suffer through a two-day trial with this battle going on in his own ranks. Why couldn’t they at least be friends?

This time Nikki sighed. A look of sympathy came over her face, lingering there for a moment only to be replaced by that mischievous smile. “You sure that’s what you want?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” she said. She reached out her hands and grabbed his. They pulled each other up. She let go of his hands, brushed off her jeans, and said matter-of-factly, “I’m with you as long as you’ll promise me a few things.”

“I’m listening.”

“First, no more bump-on-the-log defense.”

“Of course not.”

“Second, don’t try to embarrass me in front of the client by asking me to pray.”

“Sorry. I never should have done that.”

“Third, you’ve got to rewrite that sorry opening.”

What? Is she serious?
“Can’t we go back to just being professional colleagues, Ms. Moreno?”

“No way,” she said. “You asked for this.” The spark in her eyes returned, and she broke into a wide Nikki Moreno smile.

He had forgotten how beautiful she was when she smiled.