BEYOND JUSTICE Page 5

  "All right, you’re crazy."

  "I know your type. I’ve known you all my life."

  "Get me that phone."

  "That’ll only happen when—"

  "Now!"

  She squinted with her left eye. I thought for sure she would pistol whip me. Instead, she gathered her things, turned around and stepped outside. The door swung shut. The mini-blinds rattled. I sat alone for another forty minutes, watching the clock’s minute hands blaze like a snail towards 11:30 AM. My stomach rumbled, but I was too upset to even think about food.

  ___________________

  As the day crawled on, I found myself wondering why Pearson was so determined to pin the murders on me. Maybe she was psychotic. Perhaps George had framed me—but how? Why?

  Or could it be I was actually criminally insane, with no recollection?

  I shrugged off that thought with a shudder.

  Around noon, a slim, twenty-something man entered the room. His khakis hung loose on his lanky frame. His white short-sleeved shirt and tie with little palm trees screamed freshman. Sandy hair kept falling over his freckled face, as he set his briefcase on the table and removed his sunglasses. When he extended his hand, I was sure he’d say, Dude…this arrest is like, totally bogus. But instead he said, "Kenny Dodd. I’m an attorney."

  "You’ll excuse me if I don’t shake your hand." I held up my cuffed wrists.

  "Oh...yeah. Sorry, man." Slow and laid back, his eyes never quite fully opened. He pulled out a legal pad and fumbled with a stack of paper. "Let’s see," he said, flipping his head back in a vain attempt to get his bangs out of his eyes. Looked more like a sheepdog than an attorney. "You’ve been arrested for murder—"

  "Are you court appointed? I haven’t made my phone call yet."

  "They’ll get you a phone soon, if you want. I just want to help you out here, before they try to squeeze a confession out of you."

  "But—"

  "Sir, it’s okay. Now, you’ve been read your rights?"

  "Back in the parking lot, when they cuffed me."

  "You were aware of your right to having an attorney present?"

  "Yes."

  "Can we talk about it now?" He scratched the back of his head.

  "I suppose. Are you court appointed?"

  "As I said, I’m an attorney." Something wasn’t right. I chewed my lip and squinted at him. I sniffed the air for the scent of pot. "Mister Hudson, I’m here to help. So I’m going to have to ask you some questions."

  "Let me see your business card."

  He looked as if I had asked him to strip naked in the middle of a Sunday ladies’ church luncheon for a full body cavity search. "Dude, it’s all good. I’m just trying to help."

  "Show me some identification, Dude!" For the first time, his eyes opened wide, his face became pale. Dude started packing his things. "Hey, wait!" I said.

  As he stepped to the door, he spoke in a sober tone. "You’re only making it harder for yourself, man."

  The restraints kept me from moving more than a couple of inches from my chair. I began to shout, hoping someone outside would hear. "I want my phone call! Do you hear me? I’m being denied my rights! Somebody get—!"

  The door slammed shut. Though it was less than six feet from me and unlocked, I was stuck. Imprisoned already.

  ___________________

  Finally, at about 3:00 PM, Detective Batey entered the room with a phone, one of those gray Polycom conference room speaker phones. He plugged it in, tested for a dial tone and sat on the opposite edge of the Formica table. He also brought a paper sack from In-N-Out Burgers with a sweating cup of Coke. One whiff of the fries made my mouth water. He set the food down, just out of my reach, took out one of the fries, tasted it and made some "mmm" sounds. My stomach growled, protesting the torture.

  My head felt light, my hands trembled slightly. The air condition vent blew right down on me. But I refused to let him know he was having any effect on me.

  "Ready for your call?" he asked.

  I nodded and told him that all my contacts were on my cell phone—which had been confiscated, along with all my other things I had to sign for when I arrived. He stepped outside and later returned with it.

  My first instinct was to call home and tell my wife. A sharp pang abruptly reminded me why that wasn’t possible. Apart from Aaron, I had no living relatives. Forget calling Mike or anyone at the firm. The thought of calling Jenn’s parents even crossed my mind. It left as quickly as it had come. What would I say? 'Ma, Oscar, can you help me out? I’ve been arrested for the murder of your daughter.'

  Finally, I asked Batey to look through my cellphone contacts for my neighbor, Dave Pendelton, an emergency number Jenn had insisted I keep. Good thing I did.

  Batey dialed the number on the Polycom. After five rings Dave’s answering machine picked up, instructing to leave a message. I shook my head at Batey and he terminated the call. "Want to try another number?"

  "Same name, try his cell."

  Again, the phone rang.

  "Hello?"

  "Dave?" I gestured to Batey for privacy. He stepped outside.

  "Speaking. Who's this?"

  "It’s me. Sam."

  "Sam? How are you?" He was in his office at church, giving premarital counseling to a young couple. He couldn’t believe that I'd been arrested. He asked me to hold the line while he excused himself from the session, then he returned.

  Did I have an attorney? No.

  Did I want him to get me one? Yes.

  Did I need him to come to the station? If possible.

  "Sit tight, Sam. I'll see you soon."

  Chapter Eleven

  Anita Pearson didn’t believe in luck. She was good at her job. Damned good. She could always spot a domestic within the first hour of investigation. One problem this time: No murder weapon. Sure as hell wasn’t going to hold her back, though.

  As for motive? Something would rise to the surface. Always did, given enough time. Hudson had no known history of conflict in his marriage, no fights, previous violence, or abuse. Not on record, anyway. He appeared to be a loving husband who'd never laid a hand on his wife or children. Didn’t matter. They all looked like that in the beginning. This case was all but closed.

  But solving the case was one thing. Getting a conviction and adequate sentence was another, thanks to those snakes known as defense attorneys. Almost as annoying were those rookie uniforms, District Attorney Investigators, (DAI’s, they liked to call themselves), and anyone else who might misstep, causing a crucial piece of evidence to be suppressed during trial. Worse still was having all her hard work undone by a probable cause hearing because of that kind of sloppy work on someone else's part.

  Thanks to crap like that, three murderers and two rapists had been released back into the very feeding grounds from which she’d yanked them. All in the past two years. Hence, her hatred for slimeballs who preyed on innocent women and children. Hence her need to shut down emotionally and become as cunning as the very psychopaths she hunted.

  No way Sam Hudson would slip through her net. Sonofabitch repeatedly stabbed his wife, raped his daughter, and bludgeoned his four year old son. He needed to be exterminated like the vermin he was. And if Anita had her way, as slowly and painfully as possible.

  When Kenny Dodd left the station without so much as a word from Hudson, she threw her hands up in the air and got Thomas Walden on the phone. "Three hundred DDA’s and you send Kenny Dodd? The hell were you thinking?"

  "It’s worked before."

  "It was stupid. You’re gonna get this whole thing kicked. What’d you do? Go to Pacific Beach, pick up a stoned surfer and stick a briefcase under his arm?"

  "Did Hudson confess?"

  "Take a guess." Anita exhaled and waited for her blood pressure to go down. "I can’t believe you tried that. Good thing he didn’t talk, because it’d all be inadmissible."

  "Then relax."

  "I need that search warrant. Now."

  "What's you
r probable cause?"

  "A tip from Hudson’s former employer, George Schmall. He was instrumental. So how about that search warrant?" She waited for him to answer, though she knew what he would say next.

  "What have you—"

  "A buttload of evidence."

  "Statements? Potential witnesses?" Walden asked.

  "Kiddy porn. On his work computer. In a law firm! Freakin' deviant."

  "Child pornography, eh?"

  "Listen, Tom. I can only hold him here for so long. I need to search his car, his home computer."

  Walden grunted. A good sign. "All right, you got it."

  "Call you soon as I get back."

  "Anita," Walden said, his voice guarding from enthusiasm. "This could be a high profile case, as big as Matt Kingsley."

  It hadn’t even been two months since the Hollywood action hero was convicted of murdering his wife in their Rancho Santa Fe mansion. Anita wished that she could have been the one to take the bastard down. "I understand." But she didn’t give a piss about Walden’s political agenda.

  "Don’t misstep," he said.

  "Same to you."

  Chapter Twelve

  At 4:35, Dave and a slender woman came to see me. Her complexion made you wonder if she had actually worked on her tan or if she was just one of those naturally blessed Asians. Her navy trousers matched her jacket. She was attractive, but didn’t dress in a way that drew undue attention to her figure, as so many Southern Californian women do.

  "You okay?" Dave asked me.

  "I don’t think so."

  "This is Rachel Cheng," he said. "She’s a defense attorney and a member of our church." When I stood, I realized just how tall she was. I’m no giant, but at six-one, I didn't have to look down very far to meet her gaze. She reached out to shake my hand. My fingers were still greasy after wolfing down the burger and fries from Detective Batey. I wiped my cuffed hands on my shirt before shaking hers. "Sorry, didn’t have a chance to freshen up."

  She smiled. "That's quite all right."

  "Listen," I said. "I really appreciate your coming down here, but I don’t know if I can afford anything."

  Dave patted my shoulder. "Don’t worry about that for now, okay?"

  "Please," Ms. Cheng said. "Have a seat." She spoke with stately gentleness, carried herself with a confidence that suggested a savvy person with whom you’d best not get into a debate. "Do you feel that your rights have been violated in anyway?" she asked, her smile quickly fading as she opened her portfolio and started to take notes.

  "They sent someone in who tried to pass himself off as a defense attorney. At first, I thought he was court appointed. Criminal’s not my field, but I’m no fool."

  Rachel’s eyes widened. "You’re an attorney yourself, aren’t you?"

  "Lewis, Garfield & Brown, Tax Controversy and Litigation." I huffed. "That kid was no lawyer."

  "That was Deputy District Attorney, Kenneth Dodd."

  "Oh."

  "A stunt like that? I wouldn’t put it past Walden. Did you tell him anything?"

  "That I wanted to make a phone call, that’s all."

  "Good," she said. "Wouldn’t have been admissible anyway." She reached over and squeezed my hand. "Now, let’s start from the beginning."

  I recounted the entire ordeal from the moment I stepped into my cubicle and found that I’d been canned. So many unanswered questions. Not the least of which, the child pornography in my network folder. I felt embarrassed to mention it and vehemently denied culpability.

  "Don’t worry," she said. "We’ll get to the bottom of this." When I finished she stood up and I noticed her... violet eyes? Colored contact lenses. I tried not to stare.

  "Did you know that they searched your house?" she asked.

  "No, when?"

  She regarded Dave and scribbled some more.

  "Around noon today," Dave said. "That female detective and some uniformed officers. They broke your door down."

  I wanted to speak my mind, but thought better of swearing in front of the Reverend and the lady who was now my attorney.

  "I’m going to the Magistrate’s," Rachel said. "We’ll get you out. First things first."

  "What’s the plan?" I asked.

  "I’m going to try to get this whole thing tossed. You were denied access to a defense attorney, though you asked."

  "They never said I couldn’t have one."

  "I know, but they didn’t let you make a phone call until hours later. And look how long they’ve kept you here—they haven’t booked you yet. In the meantime, they tried to trick a confession out of you." She had a secret weapon up her sleeve. I sensed it. As they were about to leave, I stood and cleared my throat.

  "Ms. Cheng?"

  "Rachel."

  "All right, Rachel." I hesitated. But I had to know. "Mind if I ask you a question or two, as you are going to be my attorney."

  "Sure."

  "I know this may sound incredibly rude, but—how old are you?"

  Her smile faded slightly. "I’ll be twenty-nine this January."

  "How long have you been practicing?"

  "Got my bachelors at Berkeley, Masters at UCLA Law. Passed the bar shortly after." If I weren’t looking straight into her confident gaze, I might have imagined a hint of defensiveness. But you wouldn’t know it from her violet eyes.

  "My question was, how long have you been practicing?"

  "About four years."

  "What firm are you with?

  "Actually," she said. "I’m a solo operation."

  Our eyes locked. Neither of us blinked.

  "I’m sorry, but...how many criminal cases have you actually won?"

  "One hundred percent of them." Rachel stood tall, her lips glistened, reflecting fluorescent overheads.

  "How about a number instead of a percentage?"

  She and Dave looked at each other. Dave spoke close to my ear. "She’s really good, Sam. Trust me."

  "How many?" I tried to keep my voice down.

  "One."

  The smile fell from my face.

  "And it was one heck of a trial," Dave said.

  "One!" I nearly missed my chair as I sat back down. I didn’t want to appear ungrateful, but the thought of my future resting in the hands of someone with practically no experience gave me pause.

  "Mister Hudson," she said, in a calm voice. "If I can get you released on bail or O.R., will you trust me? You can always fire me if you’re dissatisfied."

  I blew out a long breath and thought about it. "All right. Let’s do it." As if I had a bevy of attorney’s to choose from.

  Chapter Thirteen

  During the search of Sam Hudson’s house and car, Anita Pearson seized a personal laptop along with documents from his file cabinet. His car was impounded for evidence. Analysis would take some time. Just as she thought, she found a CD in his briefcase with copies of the same kiddy porn images found in his network folder. This sicko was going down.

  When she got back to the station, Detective Batey approached her like a boy who had stolen loose change from his mother’s coat pocket.

  "You what?"

  "Come on, Anita. The guy’s been in there all day. Letting him eat wasn’t going to hurt the case."

  "He’s scum! And you treat him like some kind of VIP?"

  "Keep this up and we’re all going to be in trouble." Technically Batey was right. But that didn’t excuse him undermining her.

  "All right, go on, get outta here." Sitting at her desk, fiddling with the coiled phone cord as she waited for Larry at the District Attorney’s office to pick up, Anita kept her eyes on the clock. 6:25 PM. Uniformed officers were now escorting Hudson from the interrogation room to the squad car. Maybe a night in San Diego Central would make him more willing to confess. She glowered at Batey and he cringed in his chair.

  "Pick up, dammit," she muttered at the phone. Again she glared at the clock. Finally the call connected. "Larry Finkel, DDA."

  "Where is it?"

  "On
its way. Hello to you too, Ani—."

  "You said you’d have it here before noon."

  "No. You demanded it by noon. I said I’d do my best."

  "I called you this morning to remind you. Again!"

  Larry stayed silent for a while, probably thinking up some lame excuses. Finally, in a hushed tone, he said. "In case you've forgotten, I'm up to my ears in paperwork for the Walker trial."

  "How could I forget? You cry about that every chance you get." Granted, the infamous Coyote Creek Middle School shooter case was important. And the irony of his connection to Hudson was not lost on her. Leonard Walker shoots two students, nearly kills Hudson’s daughter. Hudson finishes the job. Anita started to chew on a pencil eraser.

  "On top of that," Larry said, "I’m managing a caseload the size of Montana and my calendar’s busting at the seams."

  "Made your bed. Not my problem."

  "Why’re you always busting my balls like that?"

  "You owe me, that’s why."

  Silence. He hated when she called him on that. After they broke up last year, when she caught the little prick cheating on her, he’d promised to always use his position at the D.A.’s office to help her. Anita hung that over his head like a fetid salmon. And she would likely do so for the rest of his natural life.

  "Come on, Anita. It’s on its way." Even as they spoke, the warrant arrived, hand delivered via courier.

  "It’s here. Bye."

  As she read the warrant a low-pitch growl emerged from her throat, threatened to break out into a scream. She crumpled the warrant and threw it into the wastepaper basket, kicked the door and sat down at her computer, typing up all possible justifications for what she had done. None of them had strong enough legs on which to stand. She had gotten too eager to put Hudson away, too arrogant, and too careless.

  Detective Batey fished the wadded-up search warrant, smoothed it out on Anita’s desk and whistled. Now he knew why she was so upset.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning, Rachel and Dave brought me a clean change of clothes—black slacks, white dress shirt, and a red tie for my arraignment. Deodorant would’ve been nice, as I wasn’t given the luxury of a shower down at the San Diego Central Jail.