BEYOND JUSTICE Read online

  It would all be moot after my DNA test results excluded me, however. If ever there was a case-buster, DNA was it. Through these tests, death row convicts are exonerated. DNA is the linchpin of dramatic acquittals. This along with the fact that I had no criminal record at all—not even a moving violation—would surely cinch it.

  I was confident.

  ___________________

  The jury had been sent to lunch half an hour early because the test results had arrived, hand delivered by a paralegal from the D.A.’s office who had probably been sitting on the report longer than they’d let on.

  Back in His Honor’s catacombs, Rachel paced around like a caged panther while Walden stood behind one of Judge Hodges’ dusty wingback chairs, shifting from foot to foot.

  Hodges opened the envelope and started thumbing through the pages from the crime lab. If the perpetual frown etched in face had grown more or less severe, Rachel couldn’t tell. Leaning against a window sill, she tapped her fingers incessantly until the judge’s eyes emerged from the report. "Would you mind? I’m trying to read."

  "Sorry," Rachel sighed.

  "Your honor," Walden said, tugging on his necktie. "Once again, I would like to ask the court to reconsider my motion to suppress this—"

  "Will you give it a rest?" Rachel hissed.

  Two minutes later Hodges stood up and held the pages out. To whom, Rachel wasn’t certain. But when the judge nodded to her, she knew. Triumphantly, she stepped over to his desk.

  As she read the report, however, her stomach twisted into a fisherman’s bend. Her hands began to tremble and she dropped the pages on the desk. Her throat was so dry that barely a pathetic squeak came out when she spoke. "What...? How’s this poss—?"

  Walden came over, looked over her shoulder and made tsk-ing sounds. "Counsel, you should have agreed to the motion to suppress."

  She was too stunned to make a coherent response. "But this report—"

  "Proves that your client’s semen was found on his daughter’s body," Walden said, exhaling with self-satisfaction. At that point, Rachel wanted nothing more than to kick Walden’s ass and impale his privates with the point of her heels. She’d fallen straight into his trap. Walden had in effect eliminated the possibility of suppressing the evidence, robbing her of a mistrial. The judge had ruled that the evidence was admissible. Rachel had all but demanded it.

  "Your Honor?" she said, but didn’t know what to ask him. He wouldn’t make direct eye contact with her. "Your honor, please. This is unfair surprise. I’d like to request a continuance."

  "No freakin’ way," Walden said.

  "You keep quiet, Tom," Hodges said, jabbing a finger. "I’ve known you to troll the depths, but this...this is low. Even for you."

  "All perfectly legal," he said, palms open, his face beaming with a toothy grin.

  "Ms. Cheng," Hodges said softly. "While I sympathize with your position, proper investigation on your part may have prevented this."

  How? Rachel didn’t command the resources that the District Attorney’s office did. She was behind on her office rent and falling behind on her mortgage of which she was already three months behind and in redemption. Another two months and, according to California’s non-judicial foreclosure laws, her home could simply be put on the market and sold by the bank.

  Still shaken, Rachel’s lip quivered. She fought to keep her eyes from welling up. "Please, your honor. I need some time to prepare a response. Counsel has misled me—"

  "You can’t prove that," Walden said. "And besides, it’s perfectly legitimate for my rebuttal."

  "—to believe that the evidence would be exculpatory. I’m not prepared."

  "Regardless, this is direct evidence. Damning too." Letting out a slow breath laced with a grumble, His Honor shut his eyes, removed his glasses and rubbed his temples. "All right. I’m giving you one day. That’s all."

  "But—"

  "Do not test the court’s generosity, Ms. Cheng."

  She nodded, gathered her papers and retreated from his chambers. Then flew down the hallway and holed herself up in a ladies room stall. She’d been bearing the weight of a tremendous burden for several months with a splintered match stick.

  Rachel dropped her briefcase, stood there, one hand pressed against the wall, one over her mouth. All her work and worries were collapsing around her. She sobbed for a good fifteen minutes.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Rachel’s eyes were still red when she broke the news. Mike Tyson might as well have nailed me with an uppercut. "That’s impossible!" I said, gripping the edge of the worn table in the witness room. I dropped into a chair. "There’s no way—"

  "Level with me, Sam." Rachel’s voice trembled. "They matched your DNA to the semen found on Bethie."

  "No way in hell! It’s got to be another setup."

  "Chain of custody is air-tight. It’s yours."

  If I weren’t so perplexed, so utterly shocked, I might have been able to think more clearly and speak calmly. But I couldn't. I found myself raising my voice, pounding the table. "They planted it!"

  "Who, Sam? Who?"

  "I don’t know. Maybe Pearson, one of the CSI’s?"

  "No, they got samples from the crime scene before you gave yours."

  "Hell, a clerical error?" This was so impossibly surreal I could barely think.

  "They’ve got a fool-proof accountability system. It’s no mistake. Your semen was found on Bethie." An entirely alien expression descended upon her pale countenance. "I have to ask..."

  "What?"

  "I'm sorry, I have to—"

  "Ask me what!"

  "Did you do it? Sam, did you rape your daughter?"

  "No."

  "Did you kill her?"

  "No."

  "What about Jennifer—"

  "No!"

  "Aaron?"

  "NO, DAMMIT, NO!" Before I knew it, a chair flew across the room, smashed into the wall with a loud crash. It had flown from my hand. Rachel winced, tears flowing down her cheeks, breathing with a quiver, but eyes fixed with determination. The door opened and an armed officer stuck his head inside. "Problem, ma’am?"

  She shook her head. "We’re okay. Thanks."

  He gave her a doubtful once-over and said, "You sure?"

  "Yes. My client just got some very disturbing news and was...upset."

  He looked at me doubtingly and said to Rachel, "I’ll be right out here." The door clicked shut.

  "It’s all over." I sat down and buried my face in my hands. As for how my semen ended up on the crime scene—I couldn’t bring myself to say "on Bethie"—I couldn’t think clearly enough to speculate.

  "I’m sorry, Sam."

  "You think I’m actually capable?"

  "As your attorney, what I believe is irrelevant. I have an ethical duty to zealously defend you to the best—"

  "Yes or No, Rachel."

  She stared at me for a moment longer than I would have preferred, then answered. "No. I don’t believe you did it. Nor do I believe you could."

  "Good." The tension ebbed as we held each other’s gaze. I could breathe again.

  "But I can’t get this evidence suppressed." She went on to explain how the DA had tricked her.

  "So we’re doomed. What’ll we do?"

  Rachel sat down across the table, reached out and took my hands in hers. "With your permission, I’d like to ask Walden to reconsider the deal."

  "We’ve been through this already."

  "Not this close to verdict."

  I tore my hands away. "What makes you even imagine I’d change my mind!"

  Gathering her papers and stuffing them into her briefcase, she stood and said, "All right. We have a twenty-four hour continuance so I can study the reports and prepare some kind of a response. You’d better get some rest and start thinking about..." I knew what she meant to say, but the words were too fatalistic for her to utter.

  "I know." Besides Aaron, there really wasn’t anyone I felt compelled to see on
e last time, before... well, just before the final phase.

  "If you need to contact me, call my cell," she said on her way out. "My land line’s been shut off along with my hot water. I think electricity goes next week."

  I stood up to see her to the door, but she didn’t so much as look back. As she stepped through the doorway, I grabbed her hand. "Wait."

  She looked up to the ceiling, shut her eyes as if my words were barbed. "I have to go."

  "Look, I’m sorry," I whispered.

  "It’s okay, I understand." She started off again, but I gently pulled her back to me. It wasn’t my intention, but she ended up in my arms. Before I could put some distance between us, she relaxed and leaned the back of her head into my chest.

  My heart hammering, my head spinning, I couldn’t sort things out. I backed away and turned her around to face me. "I just wanted to say, thank you. No matter what the verdict."

  A tear escaped her eye. "It’s going to be fine."

  Chapter Thirty

  Standing on the corner of Broadway and Front, waiting for Dave to pick me up, I almost felt like a free man. Deputy Amarillas stood with me but didn’t say much, just kept his eye on me. Shaded by the visor of a Padres baseball cap and dark sunglasses, I buried my face in the Union Tribune. The last thing I wanted was to be recognized by my adoring fans.

  The midday sun stretched high above the buildings. My navy suit absorbed so much heat that I had to take the jacket off. I kept shuffling my pant cuffs, self-conscious of the GPS anklet peeking out.

  I looked at my watch, then to the deputy and shrugged. "He’s running late. Maybe traffic." The poor officer kept eyeing the hot dog vendor on the curb. Each time the stainless steel lid opened for a customer, steam from within lifted out carrying the savory aroma of Hebrew Nationals, sweet onions, and sauerkraut.

  Amarillas stood ramrod straight, eyes hidden behind mirrored shades, hands on his hips. He might have looked cool if he wasn’t licking his lips like a puppy in a butcher’s window. It was, after all, lunch time.

  I appreciated the State’s concern for my safety, but I was standing in broad daylight outside of the San Diego Superior Court. Nothing was going to happen to me.

  "You know what? I’ll be okay," I told him. "My ride’s just a little late."

  "You sure, sir?"

  "Go on, I’ll be fine."

  He tipped his hat and nodded. "I’ll be on the steps where I can keep an eye on you." I thanked him and was tempted to buy a frank for myself, but I had lunch plans with Lorraine and Dave. If they’d ever show up.

  Just as I started to search for his number on my cell phone, I saw someone familiar, just across the street with a finger pressed into one ear, a cell phone into the other. When I realized who it was, something ignited in my chest. I couldn’t have been thinking straight, because a second later I was storming across Front Street. Nearly got hit by a taxi cab, but I went forward and stood right over him as he spoke into his cell.

  He looked up at me, clearly perturbed at my proximity. "Can I help you?"

  It was Brent Stringer. I hadn’t seen him since he interviewed me for the "Superdad" article.

  "I think you’ve done plenty, already," I said and removed my sunglasses. I was expecting him to cower. Instead, he shook his head and held up a finger.

  "Call you back, okay? Bye." He flipped his cell phone shut and slipped it into his pocket.

  "I just want to know one thing," I said, seriously trying to keep from smashing in the guy’s face. "Why?"

  "I just write the truth, okay? The public has a right to know."

  "I haven’t done anything."

  "We’ll see if the jury sees it that way, won’t we?"

  "I thought you’d gotten to know me, my family. Made me out into some kind of national hero. You know I couldn’t have done it. But now, you’ve convicted me in the press."

  "Nothing I wrote was libelous, our legal department vetted that last article. It was just an op-ed piece, my own opinions."

  "This must be great material for your novels."

  "I strive for authenticity." A dark smile eased onto his face. "Tell me, Sam. How did it feel doing your daughter, just before she—"

  I caught him by the throat. Thrust forward with such force that his back smacked against the plate-glass window of a coffee shop. I clamped down around his throat. "You sick bastard!"

  He tried to speak, but my grip choked off his words. But even as he tried to pull my fingers off his throat, he managed to keep a smug demeanor. With his eyes, he mocked me. When they rolled back and he began to lose consciousness I decided to let go. The writer gasped like a trout on the dry ground.

  "You... are such... a...a freak!" he said, holding his neck. He touched the back of his head then held up his blood-stained fingers for me to see.

  The Deputy Amarillas took hold of my shoulder. I pulled Brent to his feet and shoved him back against the window.

  "Problem here?" Amarillas said.

  No words. For a moment I actually thought, since I was about to get convicted of first degree murder, they would only have to add another count to my charges. Might as well get my pound of flesh.

  Brent waved Amarillas off. "It’s okay. Sam was just showing me a move from his Tae Kwan Do class. Just got a little carried away. Didn't we, Sam?"

  With his hand conspicuously near his gun, the deputy looked to me but I didn’t answer. The anger hadn’t yet subsided, but I was ashamed. What had I become? A small crowd pretending not to be looking dispersed. Might as well have made a public confession to the crimes I'd been charged with.

  I glared at Brent then started back to the corner where I was supposed to be waiting for Dave. Where was he anyway? I crossed the street while the deputy asked Brent if he was all right. Brent nodded, smiled and smoothed out his shirt. He shot me a look, grinned, shook his head and flagged down a cab. Amarillas decided to stay with me until Dave arrived.

  After calling one or two more times, I only got Dave’s voicemail. I didn’t have Lorraine’s cell phone number and no one was picking up at the church. He was almost an hour late now and I was starving. So I bought a hot dog and sat on the court steps waiting.

  A half hour later, Dave called.

  "Where are you? "

  "Five minutes from you. Sam, I’m really sorry... about the delay." His voice was shaking.

  "What’s wrong?" He didn’t answer. "Dave?"

  "Something’s happened."

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Whatever had happened, it must have been serious. Dave stared over the steering wheel and out into space.

  "Want me to drive?" I said. He nodded and started to climb over to the passenger seat. The car started to roll forward when he took his foot off the brakes. "Dave!"

  Startled, he jerked his head up and pulled up the parking brake.

  "Definitely better let me drive," I said.

  Another vacuous nod.

  Five minutes later we were heading back north on the 163.

  "What’s happened, Dave? Are you all right?" At first, barely a sound came out when he moved his lips. He cleared his throat and tried again. "There was a fire."

  "Fire? Where?"

  "Church."

  "Andy called around Ten O’clock. Said the church had been vandalized. Last night someone scrawled in red, on the doors, "Their blood is on your hands too!" Windows were smashed. They trashed the sanctuary."

  "Oh my God."

  He continued. "When I got there today, I was expecting to find broken glass, overturned chairs. Instead, there were fire fighters trying to put out a huge blaze. Andy had gone back to get something from his car. He heard an explosion. Turned around and the entire building was up in flames."

  "Anyone hurt?"

  Dave choked back tears and nodded. "They couldn’t get to her in time. She was in the kitchen preparing sandwiches for the homeless shelter."

  "Who?"

  "All her life, all she wanted was to serve people. To show them God’s love
."

  "Dave, who was it?"

  He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head tersely. "She never hurt anyone. Never an unkind word." I wanted to pull over onto the shoulder as we merged with the I-15, but the traffic was moving too quickly.

  "Who was it?" I asked, again.

  He buried his face in his hand, took a deep, tearful breath. "Lorraine."

  ___________________

  As long as I’d known him, I never saw Dave like this. He was always the model of strength and resolve. With hardly a word since entering his house, he went straight to the living room, kicked a vase over and fell into the sofa, his head in his hands.

  Not knowing what to say, I sat across from him and kept silent. In the short time that Lorraine and I got acquainted, she treated me like a son. I never ate enough, was getting too skinny, never wore enough. A casserole awaited me in Dave’s kitchen, whenever she came over for Thursday night Bible studies.

  I sank into the cold leather and remembered her warm smile, fair hair, and eyes wrinkled by years of smiling. If she had no other influence on me, it was her joy—indefatigable joy. And that, she had in spades. Though her life had not been an easy one, she always counted her blessings. "Joy, my dear Samuel," she once said, straightening my collar, "is not the absence of pain, but the presence of the almighty."

  I missed her already. Didn’t realize it until I noticed her Bible resting on the coffee table. Its faded cover must have been black, years ago. She often left it behind after Bible study and came back for it the next day. Only this time, she wouldn’t.

  For what felt like an hour, Dave and I sat there, the only sounds, our breathing, the ticking of an old wall clock, and eventually, children returning from school and playing and laughing out in the cul de sac.

  "Is there anything I can do?"