BEYOND JUSTICE Page 34

  "In case you've forgotten," Rachel said. "Walden's pretty sharp, himself. He'll recover you on the redirect."

  "Problem is, I can't just take Brent at his word," I said. "Dave, can we know if someone is really saved?"

  "Forget it," Rachel said. "Psychopaths don't change. Ever. Stringer's lying."

  "I agree," said Samantha.

  "But is it impossible for God to change him?" I said. "How can we know?"

  Dave rested his chin on his fist, hemmed and hawed a bit then said, "A tree is known by the fruit it bears." I seemed to be the only person who didn't get it. Everyone else was ready to drop it now. An awkward silence fell. Soon all eyes were on me.

  Dave said, "Guys, the reason we're here tonight is to support Sam. We've been avoiding it, but we ought not leave this house until we've addressed it." He regarded me with a poignant smile. "It's why you asked us to over, right?"

  I nodded.

  At that moment, everyone put their arguments aside and encircled me. Dave said, "Let's pray for Sam, for Aaron." They each laid a hand upon me—my head, my shoulders—and began to pray for me, for Aaron.

  Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven.

  Chapter One Hundred and Four

  Apparently, the media hadn't gotten wind of Brent's plea change. It would have been all over the Monday morning news, otherwise. Nevertheless, reporters swarmed the courthouse from the gray steps outside to the hallway that led to the courtroom.

  Instead, the recent headlines announcing the beginning of the trial were accompanied by reports of Detective Anita Pearson's inadvertent and sordid cyber-affair with the person she later discovered to be the Kitsune serial killer. I would later learn that the detective had not shown for work that day, nor for the past two days. She was not returning her voicemails either.

  I spent a good forty minutes with Thomas Walden going over my testimony. By the time we were done, I felt like the rung of a ladder. My story was important in establishing Brent's guilt, the horror of what he'd done, but as far as the D.A. was concerned, I was just a means to an end.

  The morning sun hadn't yet burned through the thick marine layer. Pale fog and clouds blanketed the entire city. Rachel had come for moral support, but was consumed with paperwork in hopes of ever finding an eleventh hour miracle for Aaron.

  While Walden and Bauer gave their opening arguments, I sat in the witness room reading the Bible for what seemed like an eternity. There had to be a verse or passage with pertinent wisdom. I prayed, sought a word of knowledge, a vision.

  Nothing.

  My thoughts were divided three ways between that soul-hollowing angst over Aaron, bewilderment at the big picture that was God's plan, and wondering what in all creation Brent was up to.

  As for Brent, I was starting to incline towards Rachel and Samantha's belief that his ostensible salvation was nothing but a ploy. Or perhaps, despite his apparent joy, he had simply become suicidal and wanted to convey a more favorable public image, before taking his own life.

  A knock came at the door.

  I stood and a female deputy entered. The first thing I noticed was not her blue eyes, nor her fair hair. It was the radio transmitter clipped to the lapel of her beige uniform. And the gun holstered in her belt. I felt a slight pang as I remember Sonja Grace.

  "You're on," she said.

  Rachel shut her briefcase and came to my side. "Ready?"

  "As I'll ever be."

  "Good," she said and took my hand.

  ___________________

  "The State calls Samuel Hudson," Walden announced.

  The bailiff swore me in and I took my place on the witness stand. How odd to be here once again. As Walden asked his first question, my eyes were drawn to Brent. He was dressed in a dark suit with a red tie. Nothing on his face suggested a man who'd committed multiple counts of murder and rape, of one looking at a death sentence.

  Nearly four years ago, I had sat in that very seat behind the defense table. Puzzling, how close the back of that chair sat to that wooden partition, the only thing separating the defendant from the public.

  The honorable Janice Cunningham had permitted him to appear without handcuffs—something his attorney had insisted upon so as not to bias the jury. Seemed insane, but there he was, unrestrained. There must have been more than a few people in the jury box and gallery glad to see the gun strapped at the bailiffs' waist.

  "Please state your name for the record," Walden said.

  We went through establishing my identity, address and background. I then gave an account of the night Jenn and Bethie were murdered. Though I'd rehearsed it many times in my mind, made an allowance for the pain it might conjure up, I had no idea just how difficult it would be to relive that night in full detail. I started to choke on my words, quickly wiped the tears from the corner of my eye.

  With not so much as a sympathetic word, Walden stared at me, his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels. Get a grip, Hudson. Rachel kept watching me with concern. A couple of jurors dabbed their eyes.

  Before we could continue, a small commotion erupted at the defense table. Jodi Bauer gesticulated violently, hissing at her client. The argument grew more intense.

  "You can't do that! Not now!" Bauer said.

  "Do it, or you're fired!" shouted her clilent.

  Judge Cunningham glared down. "Counselor, is there a problem?" Bauer didn't answer. She continued waving her hands, arguing with Brent. "Ms. Bauer!"

  "Tell her!" Brent shouted at his attorney.

  The Piranha stood, her lips drawn tight. You could almost see the steam billow out of her ears. Many of the people in the gallery were leaning forward, gripping the backs of the chairs, not missing a word.

  "Your honor, my client and I are—"

  "Disrupting this trial," the Judge said. "Now what's the problem?"

  Bauer huffed and said, "My client is contemplating a change of plea at this time. But I'm advising him against it. Clearly, in his current state of mind it would not serve his best interests to—"

  "I am completely competent!" Brent shouted.

  "Given the gravity of the charges, it would be malpractice for me to agree or advise a guilty plea without even a chance to defend him."

  "I would like to hear opening arguments before I rule on that. Mister Stringer, would that be all right?" the judge said. "Take the time to seriously consider this."

  "Yes, your honor."

  "Also be aware that if you change your plea to guilty and the court accepts the plea, the court is to discharge the jury from giving a verdict in the matter and will find you guilty."

  "Yes, your honor."

  "The finding has effect as if it were the verdict of the jury, and then you shall be liable to sentencing accordingly." Cunningham paused and stared straight at Brent. "The State has recommended the death penalty."

  He nodded and looked down.

  "Please speak up for the record."

  "Yes, your honor."

  "Very well then. And Ms. Bauer?"

  Just about to sit, Bauer stood up again. "Your honor?"

  "Keep the histrionics to a minimum."

  The Piranha nodded and took a seat again.

  Walden continued, his questions going towards quantifying the losses I'd suffered, as a result of Brent's crimes. As if you could put a dollar amount on them. By the time Walden finished, I felt like I'd just sold my family to the state.

  The Piranha stood to cross-examine me. She flashed a mouthful of flesh-stripping teeth. Her moniker had been well-earned. "First, Mister Hudson, let me say how sorry I am for your loss."

  I dipped my head in acknowledgment.

  She then turned so that as she questioned me, she was also facing the jury. "I'd also like to express my sympathies for the egregious errors of the District Attorney's office, which resulted in your spending almost four years in a maximum security—"

  "Objection," Walden said. "Beyond scope."

  Undaunted, Bauer continued the charge. "It was Mr.
Walden who erroneously tried and convicted you—"

  "Objection, irrelevant!"

  "Sustained." Cunningham said.

  Jodi snapped back, "I haven't asked a question yet."

  "Then ask one, counsel," Cunningham said.

  Satisfied that her first bite into Walden had drawn blood, Bauer turned back to me and said, "You've been visiting my client in jail, haven't you?"

  "I have."

  "What was the nature of these visits?" Walden had coached me to avoid looking in his direction when I wasn't sure about a question. But piranhas can smell blood. "That information isn't privileged, Mister Hudson."

  I turned to the judge. She nodded. Answer the question.

  "For one thing, I wanted closure."

  "And did you find it?"

  "I don't know." Brent was looking at me with concern. I averted my eyes as soon as I realized.

  "Isn't it true, Mister Hudson, that after all my client has been accused of, after all your loss, that you told him you've forgiven him?" Walden stood up to object, but Cunningham shooed him back into his seat with two fingers.

  "Yes," I replied.

  "Thank you. And you brought him a gift too, didn't you?"

  "Yes."

  A wave of shuffling and murmuring snaked through the courtroom.

  "Please tell the court what that gift was."

  "A Bible."

  "A Bible." The Piranha paced around before me with hungry eyes. "Are you aware that my client has since converted to Christianity? That you are to thank for—"

  "Objection," said Walden. "The defendant's religious convictions have no—"

  "Mister Hudson," Bauer didn't even wait for the judge. "Do you believe the teachings of the Bible?"

  "Objection. The witness' religious beliefs are irrelevant."

  "Overruled, the witness will answer the question."

  "Yes," I said.

  "You believe in the Bible, the Holy Scriptures of Christianity."

  "Asked and answered," Walden said.

  "Specifically," Bauer continued. "Do you believe in the Bible's message of forgiveness."

  "Yes, but I don't see how—"

  "Is it your testimony then that you believe that my client would be forgiven by God if he repented and accepted Jesus as his savior?"

  "Your honor!" Walden exclaimed. "There's no foundation for this. The witness is neither a theologian nor a member of the clergy. Furthermore, his beliefs are not relevant to this case."

  "This is a capital murder case," Bauer said. "It's my ethical duty to make every possible argument in my client's best interest."

  "I'll admit, this is somewhat irregular." Cunningham said. "But I'll allow it.

  I wasn't sure how to answer Bauer's question and was glad for this pause. But I was under oath. My innards began to knot up.

  "Mister Hudson," Bauer said. "The question was, and I repeat: Would Brent Stringer be forgiven by God if he repented and accepted Jesus as his savior?"

  Chapter One Hundred and Five

  "I'll rephrase the question," Bauer said after I took perhaps too long to respond. "As a Christian, do you believe that my client should be shown mercy, grace, and forgiveness?"

  I caught myself staring at the worn chestnut rail. I pulled my head up, looked Brent in the eye. If he was putting on an act, it was almost believable. Finally, I answered. "If he sincerely repented and—"

  "Yes or no, please."

  Brent's eyes sought mine as if for approval. Desperate defendants and their attorneys would do anything. I started to wonder if the whole argument they'd had over the change of plea had been staged. Then Dave's words echoed in my mind.

  A tree is known by the fruit it bears.

  "I repeat," said Bauer. "Would he be shown mercy, grace, forgiveness?"

  "If he is sincere, then yes. God would forgive him."

  "Do you forgive him?"

  "Objection!" said Walden.

  "Withdrawn. During one of your visits, did you or did you not say to my client—and I quote, 'I forgive you.'"

  "Yes. I did."

  "Nothing further."

  Already on his feet, Walden buttoned his jacket and approached the stand for his redirect. He strode right past Jodi, brushing shoulders.

  "Religious convictions aside, do you actually believe that the defendant should, if found guilty, be allowed any reduction of his sentence? In light of all the women and young girls he's raped and murdered, all the innocent men like yourself, who he's framed and whose lives are forever marred?" Walden said, stabbing his index finger in Brent's direction.

  It was dawning upon me that as a witness, I was no more than a marionette, both attorneys fighting for control of the strings. "Reduce his sentence?" I said. "I'm not even sure if Brent himself believes that."

  "The question is, do you?"

  "Objection," Bauer droned. "The witness' opinion on verdict or sentencing is irrelevant."

  Walden smirked at her. "This is your line of questioning."

  "Overruled," said the judge.

  "Again, do you, Samuel Hudson, one of the many victims of this psychopathic killer and rapist, believe that he, the defendant, should receive any reduction in his sentence?"

  I could admit that God would forgive Brent. But for him not pay with his life? I hadn't ever thought that through. If it were based solely on emotion, I'd answer negatively, without hesitation. "I'm not sure."

  "Yes or no," Walden said, growing impatient.

  "Give me a minute." I didn't know the Bible well enough. Never discussed Christian perspectives on capital punishment with Pastor Dave. "I think he should pay for his crimes. But I'm not sure the solution to murder is necessarily killing the killer."

  Before I had a chance to consider what I had just said, a cold, yet familiar voice arose from the gallery and said, "I object." The crowd stirred.

  "Order," said Judge Cunningham.

  "You of all people, Hudson," the voice said. "You're trying to get him off the death penalty? You've been conspiring with him from the beginning! You, Kingsley, all of you!" Gasps and murmurs rose up as everyone now recognized that it was Detective Anita Pearson. Dark circles rimmed her bloodshot eyes.

  "Order!" Cunningham shouted and rapped her gavel. "Detective, take a seat!"

  Her gaze vacant, the Detective stood from her chair and approached the front of the courtroom. "You deserve to die every bit as he does," she said to me, and opened the wooden gate to cross the bar and enter the well of the courtroom. The court clerk lifted his head and turned back, regarding the judge with confusion. Was she about to make a speech?

  "Detective, you are in contempt of court," Cunningham said. "Bailiff, escort her out!" The bailiff began to approach Pearson, who was now standing in front of the clerk's desk. An armed deputy also came forward from the back of the courtroom.

  Just then, Pearson reached behind her back and pulled out her gun, aimed it straight at me. With an ominous click, the hammer cocked.

  Rachel cried out to me with deathly inevitability.

  I was going to die.

  "No!" Brent shouted, and leaped up from his chair.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  Chairs hit the ground.

  Sleeves and pant legs shuffled.

  Then, a thunderous gunshot.

  I tensed up, anticipating a bullet entering my forehead.

  Another shot.

  More screams.

  The sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground.

  I opened my eyes. The bailiff and another deputy had wrestled Anita to the floor. Her gun fell to the ground as the deputy twisted her wrist back. "It's justice!" Pearson cried through clenched teeth, her eyes feral, hair flailing as her head thrashed about. "Justice, God Dammit!"

  Before her, Brent Stringer lay on his side, a crimson pool expanding on the floor by his chest. Two scarlet stains on his white shirt revealed that he'd put himself between me and Anita's gun. I went over to him.

  He looked up with a faint smile. I
knelt, unable to comprehend how I could possibly be feeling sorrow for him. "Do you really think..." he coughed and grimaced. "... God will forgive me?"

  I reached out, grabbed his hand. Cold, trembling. "Remember that criminal, crucified next to Christ? Jesus told him, Verily I say unto thee, Today shalt thou be with me in paradise."

  He smiled. Coughed and winced. "Mercy." A tranquil smile came over his face, like that of a child, asleep and secure in the arms of a loving father.

  Chapter One Hundred and Six

  Anita Pearson was taken into custody and would later face murder charges. Her attorney, a partner from Jodi Bauer's firm, planned to argue temporary insanity, pending a psychiatric evaluation for trial competency. In the meantime she had been committed to Patton State Psychiatric Hospital, where Diana Napolis was sent for stalking and threatening Jennifer Love Hewitt, after a judge declared her incompetent to stand trial.

  Brent's death troubled me more than I could have imagined. Had I answered in haste when I assured him that God would forgive him? Had he truly changed and found redemption? Or was this more of his psychopath games? I'd never know for sure. But one thing I did know and have held onto since:

  A tree is known by the fruit it bears.

  The fruit we bear from our hearts is not our words and attitudes, so much as they are our actions. And Christ said, Greater love hath no man than this, than a man lay down his life for his friends. Brent never meant to escape punishment for his crimes.

  And his final act can only be judged by God.

  Chapter One Hundred and Seven

  The Stringer case ground to an abrupt halt. Rachel and I spent the next day in civil court arguing an eleventh hour appeal with a judge who was apparently deaf.

  And dumb perhaps, but not mute.

  His vociferous condemnation of my cruelty towards my son caused the hairs on my neck to prickle. It fueled more than a few juicy headlines. But I'd grown accustomed to such nonsense. Any thought for my own reputation had long since been eclipsed by my concern for Aaron.