BEYOND JUSTICE Read online

  Chapter One Hundred

  Each visit grew more difficult than the last. Aaron showed no signs of improving. His legislative death sentence didn't make things any easier. Rachel and I spent the entire visit pleading with God to work a miracle or two. Was I deceiving myself? Two hours later, we left through the back entrance to avoid the crowd. Neither of us said a word on the way back.

  Rachel begged off dinner. She still had tons of work for my case and a new civil suit. Wouldn't be the best company with all that on her mind, anyway, she said. Dinner was once again a solitary affair.

  The evening news featured my statement on the steps of Children's. I came across as self-righteous and pompous. Nice. Dan DeMarco faced the camera and said, "That was Sam Hudson, recently exonerated for the murders of his wife and daughter. No stranger to the media and the court, Hudson is reported to have been visiting confessed serial killer, Brent Stringer. Also referring to himself as Kitsume, Stringer's murder trial begins next Monday. Hudson is scheduled to testify against him as a witness for the State."

  Later that night, Rachel arrived at my doorstep. She stepped in as soon as I opened the door and spread out her office across the living room table, the sofa and floor. "Sorry, I really need to finish this brief."

  "Where were you?"

  "I was in my office when you called."

  "You didn't have to come."

  She went back to organizing her papers. "I'm going to be pulling an all-nighter. Don't worry, I'll be a proper lady. Promise."

  "It's not you I'm worried about. Need a blanket and pillow?"

  "There it is!" She pulled out a sheet of paper and held it triumphantly. I've been looking all over for this lousy affidavit..." She stopped herself, realized I had no idea what she was talking about. She dropped it back into the organized stack and came over to put her arms around me. "I've been so caught up with this civil case."

  "MacClellan vs. Donnell?"

  "Wrongful death. I work on Aaron's case at night." She pointed to the paper. "That one's from a doctor at Johns Hopkins. Says that Aaron might not qualify as being in a persistent vegetative state. Something about neurological frequency response."

  "Will he testify?"

  "I'm working on him. As long as they're denying your guardianship, I'm going to try every angle." She shrugged. "I'm going for Constitutional rights tomorrow."

  "Give it to me straight. Not like I'm his father, attorney to attorney. What are the chances?"

  There was no smile on her face to start with. She managed to look even more severe. "I'm still praying."

  That wasn't the answer I wanted to hear, but did ask for the truth. "All right, then," I said, rubbing the knot in my neck. "Make yourself at home. Not much in the fridge, but help yourself. Sure you don't need a blanket or anything?"

  "Maybe coffee. Like I said, all-nighter."

  At 4:06 AM I came downstairs to find Rachel curled up on the sofa, an empty coffee mug in her hand. I set it on the table, tucked her in with a comforter from the guest room and dimmed the lights.

  "Just try to stay awake in court," I whispered and kissed her on the head.

  Chapter One Hundred and One

  The news wasn't good. Rachel was still working on legal briefs and when she texted me: Motion Denied. Despite vocal opposition from various interest groups, the State's mandate to terminate Aaron's life support had prevailed. The Union Tribune quoted them saying, "We are loathe to incite another Terri Schiavo incident."

  Incident? Since when were matters of life and death mere incidents?

  The faith needed to sustain hope for Aaron and to befriend Brent Stringer was beyond my capacity. Still, after all I'd seen, after all I'd been through, I was determined to hold fast. Two more days passed and Brent was refusing visitation again. But on the third day something truly remarkable happened.

  He asked to see me.

  "What I don't understand is this guy hanging on the cross next to Jesus," Brent said, his tone calmer and more down to earth than ever before. "I mean, he's about to die and he's got the nerve to ask the Son of God to forgive him?"

  A good question, but I still wasn't all that comfortable with this manipulative psychopath acting like he was letting his guard down. "So you've been reading the Bible I gave you."

  "Not much else to do in a jail cell. You ought to know that." Where was that smug air of superiority? That wise-cracking attitude? Was he just luring me into something only his mind could conceive? These visits were becoming quite a chore. Still, I made God a promise and I intended to keep it.

  "What do you think, Sam? Do you think Jesus really meant it when he told that criminal he would—"

  "What are you going on about?"

  He shut his eyes, concentrating on God only knew what. Then he began to recite:

  "We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong." Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

  Jesus answered him, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise."

  "That's from the gospel of Luke, Chapter Twenty-three. Just before Jesus died on the cross."

  That passage came back to me as soon as he quoted it. "Yes, I do recall that."

  "Do you think then, that it could mean that it's never too late?"

  "I'm not God," I said, skeptical at Brent's sudden interest in salvation. Part of me wanted for him to continue rejecting it, so that he'd burn in hell. But to be honest, that was the part of me which wanted to rebel against what God had asked of me.

  "Sam." A cold shiver crept up my neck when he said my name. "Help me out here. How can I be saved?"

  "Don't ask me. I'm not a priest."

  "Then what are you doing here? Why do you keep coming to see me?"

  'Because God told me to' seemed too trivial to articulate. I just shook my head and stood up. "I'm not really sure anymore." I turned to the guards and they opened the door.

  "Wait," he said. "Just tell me, what must I do to be saved?"

  "You're pretty good at finding your own answers in the Bible," I said. "Look it up yourself."

  This had to be another one of his acts. To what end, I would probably never know, but I wasn't buying it.

  I was out of there.

  Chapter One Hundred and Two

  It disturbed me that my initial reaction to Brent's query about salvation was cynicism. Might not this have been God's purpose all along? That was what angered me. And at the same time, troubled me. He had supposedly received my forgiveness, why not God's? For the next few days I pondered this before returning to see Brent again.

  The familiar aroma of Friday cafeteria fish wafting through San Diego Central as I made my way to the visitation room. Brent had shaved his whiskery mug, his hair now trimmed and combed. The only thing missing now was a suit and tie. What was I doing here? Had I truly forgiven him? Or was I just like every religious hypocrite I'd condemned throughout my life.

  He stood to greet me. "Hey, bro!"

  "Brent?"

  "I'm so glad to see you," he said, his smile beaming.

  "You are?"

  Sitting in the meeting room, he seemed even more different than before. So much so that I became instantly suspicious. He regarded me as though reuniting with an old friend.

  "Please, have a seat."

  My brow tightened. I sat and scrutinized his face. "Okay, I give. What's going on?"

  "I have you to thank."

  I turned to the guards, but as usual, they didn't return my gaze. "The trial begins in two days," I said. "You don't have time for games."

  "My attorney's not going to be happy."

  I shifted in my chair, leaned forward. "Help me out here."

  "I'm thinking about changing my plea to guilty."

  "You're—? Hold on. You're changing your plea?"

  "Guilty as charged."

  "Walden offered you a deal?"

  The corners of his mouth pulled down and he shook his head.
"No, I'd already agreed to tell him where the Samberg girls are buried. There's no deal on the table."

  "You realize that you'll get the Death Penalty."

  "Counting on it."

  "I don't understand." My eyes fixed on his chained wrists resting on top of his Bible.

  "A lot's happened since—Well, I've got so much to thank you for."

  "What are you talking about?"

  He took a deep breath, a story bubbling to the surface. "When you came that day, talked to me about my past, I was still—I don't know—on the verge."

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to comprehend.

  "You gave this to me," he said pointing to the Bible. "Man, I hadn't read the good book since my mom—since Sunday school."

  "Where is she now?"

  "Oh man, Sunday school," Brent said, nostalgia drawing his eyes towards oblivion. "That was a lifetime ago."

  "Brent, your mother?"

  "She and Dad both died when I was eleven." His smile fled. "And before you jump to conclusions, it wasn't me. You can check the Boston police records, June 25, 1975. Murder-suicide. Nice family, huh?"

  "He killed her?"

  "She killed him."

  "I'm sorry." Wasn't sure I believed him, but why would he bother lying now? "Anyway. I didn't mean to snuff out whatever it was that was making you smile."

  "It's all right, I'm cool."

  "So tell me. What is it?"

  "You're still testifying against me, right?"

  I nodded.

  "Good."

  "I'm just not getting it."

  "All right," he said, leaning forward. "You want the long version or the Reader's Digest?"

  "Whichever."

  "Long story short: I'm forgiven."

  I shrugged. "I told you I forgave you, it's just sinking in now?"

  "Took me a while, but when I finally started to believe that you meant it, it made me think, if you could forgive me, then maybe God could too. For everything."

  It seemed too easy, too convenient. I had to admit, part of me felt disappointed.

  Brent's eyes sparkled with sincerity. Disturbingly so. "So I asked to see Reverend Wilson, the chaplain."

  "Don't tell me."

  "I've accepted Christ, Sam. Don't you see? I'm saved." The guards stood in their usual position. As if they weren't listening. One of them clicked his tongue and shook his head.

  Straightening up, I said, "Pardon me, but I'm finding this hard to believe."

  "I don't blame you. Really. But it's true." He flashed a smile. "What's the matter, you don't think God can forgive me?"

  "It's not a matter of if he can." I stood up and scratched the back of my head.

  "I thought you'd be happy."

  "Look, I don't know what to say, all right?"

  "Why did you come to me in the first place? And you never explained how you knew about Sally."

  "I told you, you'd never believe me."

  "You never believed I could change."

  "All right!" I said, gripping the back of the chair so hard my nails dug into the upholstery. "I came because I thought God wanted me to forgive you, to befriend you! You wanna laugh, go ahead! It's all a big game for you anyway, isn't it?"

  In a freakish reversal of roles, Brent sat calm while I lost it. I had never anticipated this. I thought for sure he'd be defiant to the end, burn in Hell for what he'd done. And I was supposed to be set free from all my bitterness.

  "It's not a game," he said with a deep sigh.

  "Then it's an act! You're a psychopath and you're faking it." Deep down I hated myself for saying it, because there was always a possibility, no matter how small, that he might be sincere.

  "You'll never know how great God's love is, how great His forgiveness is, until you've been as guilty as me."

  "If that's what it takes, then I never want to know."

  "Sam, listen. All my life, I was convinced that I was going straight to hell. So you know, what difference did it make if I—?"

  "Guard!" My thoughts turned dark, like drops of blood infusing a once clear glass of water. Condemnation boiled to the surface and nearly made it past my lips.

  "Sam, wait. Hear me out."

  I lifted my hands to deflect his words and went to the door. "If you think they're going to reduce the sentence just because—"

  "No," he said. "I still have to pay."

  "Got that right!" I stormed out.

  For the next half hour , I sat in the parking lot yelling at God and cursing myself.

  Chapter One Hundred and Three

  The weekend was miserable. Having tossed and turned until dawn both Friday and Saturday nights, I could barely function during the day. The only person I spoke to was Rachel, and that was only for a few minutes. We were so involved with Aaron's case that I hadn't gotten to telling her about Brent.

  Both Rachel and I were sleep deprived. I had just gotten my first solid hour of sleep when the doorbell rang. Must have been ringing for a while, because an urgent pounding accompanied it. My head still in a fog and my butt still in my shorts, I got out of bed and noticed the voicemail indicator flashing on my cell phone.

  More pounding.

  "I'm coming!" I opened the door and found Rachel just at the end of a call on her cell phone.

  "Are you all right, Sam?"

  "Yeah, I just dozed off."

  Rachel stepped forward and entered the house. "I've been calling you for an hour." As she entered the house, she seemed distracted.

  "Everything okay, Rachel?"

  "Yeah, I just..." She sat down in the sofa and from the look on her face, I could tell she needed me to say something to get the conversation started.

  "Oh, I need to tell you," I said, suddenly remembering. "Have you heard?"

  Rachel opened her eyes and blinked at me.

  "Brent Stringer."

  Her brow knitted. "I've been a bit involved."

  "I think he's going to change his plea."

  "What?"

  "Any idea why he'd do that?" I asked, more curious than embarrassed at my toddler-like grasp on criminal legal strategy.

  "Besides the fact that he is guilty?"

  "He'll get death."

  She started putting the documents back in the manila folder. "I don't know, maybe he just wants to get it over with without drawing the trial out. Saves on taxpayer dollars, anyway. Didn't you ask him why?"

  "I was so thrown by it, I just left."

  "So how have your visits been going?" she asked.

  "I don't know. When I told him I forgave him, he just laughed it off. But a couple of days ago, he opened up about his childhood, how he became fascinated with death while watching his dog die."

  "Okay, now that's just creepy." Rachel grimaced, shuddering at the thought.

  "I'm pretty sure that was the beginning of it all because—"

  "Sam?" Rachel whispered through gritted teeth. Her face began to crumple and the hinges of the floodgates came apart, one screw at a time. "They've denied our motion."

  "What?"

  She began to sob. I went over to hold her but she was inconsolable. Finally, she lifted her face and said, "I keep asking myself if I'd missed something, a precedent, a loophole, but it's just no good!"

  "What about challenging the guardianship issue? I'm still waiting to hear from a firm or two."

  "Even if you were to start a new job today, they'd require at least six months of steady and sufficient income, along with continuous health benefits. Never mind that our church is holding half a million in escrow, with affidavits of financial support. They don't care."

  "I can't believe it." My mind raced with any possible idea or alternative. All but prayer had been exhausted. Then it struck me like a semi. In just two days, by court order, my son would die.

  ___________________

  Pastor Dave and the church group visited that night. They'd missed me and Rachel at church and brought us dinner. Afterwards, we adjourned to the family room and carefully navigated th
e emotional minefield.

  "What's God been telling you recently?" Dave asked me.

  "Actually, he's been pretty quiet."

  "You've had enough burning-bush experiences for a lifetime," Rachel said.

  "To be honest," I said, "I haven't taken the time to really pray recently. Not sure He'd want to hear from me now, anyway."

  "Why's that?" Alan said.

  I explained what had happened with Brent, how I couldn't believe that he'd just accept Christ after a lifetime of murderous cruelty. How I doubted his sincerity. "Guess I'm disappointed with God," I said. "If someone like Brent could just get off scott-free, after all he's done."

  "But he's still getting the death penalty," Dave said.

  "My forgiving him was hard enough. But I'm just not sure he deserves to be saved," I replied.

  "He's yanking everyone's chain," Rachel said. She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to her chest. "Think about it. He's cunning, manipulative, displays a grandiose sense of self-worth, criminally versatile, a pathological liar. Classic psychopath."

  Dave leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "If I recall my psychology classes correctly, he should also fail to accept responsibility for his own actions. According to Sam, he's not even going to contest the death penalty."

  "Has his attorney dropped him yet?" Rachel asked, and took a sip of tea. "I mean, has she even heard about his change of heart, much less his change of plea?"

  I shrugged.

  Samantha spoke up. "I've been giving it some thought and I have to say, I'm with Rachel. It's all too convenient. He's just saying whatever he thinks the jury or the judge will want to hear. I'm sure he's got a big surprise up his sleeve."

  "All right, everybody," I said as the discussion heated up. "I'm the one who has to testify tomorrow." Rachel turned around and leaned apologetically against my shoulder. "This is a compelling topic," I conceded. "But I still have to get up on the stand and testify against him. When Jodi—"

  "—The Piranha," Rachel added.

  "When she cross-examines me, I'm sure she'll bring up my visits and even use them against me. I'll be impeached in a second."