Beyond Justice (41 page)

He also uploaded keystroke trackers through Instant Message sessions with Bethie.  Invisibly, they installed themselves onto our home computer shortly after my name and picture appeared in the news over the Coyote Creek school shootings.

"From that point on," Stringer said.  "I studied Hudson's life, his credit card spending habits, his daily and nightly schedule.  He was the perfect subject.  Consistent, predictable."

Walden stared at the ceiling.  "And Hudson's work computer?"

"Oh, the kiddy porn?  Brilliant.  And I do say so myself."

"Right."

"Child's play, if you'll pardon the expression." A demented grin.  "USB flash drive.  Plugged it into his computer before he returned to his desk.  It takes a mere ten seconds for an autorun executable to install itself and run as a background service."

"About the night you murdered Jennifer and—"

"Murdered?  No, no, no.  Wrong word.  They were beatified!"

The D.A. cleared his throat.  "No sign of forced entry, no physical trace of you, no hairs, no DNA."
Nice ass-armor, Walden.

"As I said, Hudson was the perfect subject and entirely too easy.  Before he returned to his cubicle to meet with me for that Superdad interview, I got the model number of his security alarm panel from the manual he left on his desk.  Later, I got the override codes from manufacturer's technical support line.  I stole into his garage as soon as he drove off that night for his client meeting.  As for traces?  Come now.  What can I say?  Clever as a fox."

"So you'd devised a method of leaving zero evidence."

Stringer yawned.  "Yes, yes.  Latex gloves, hair nets, shoe covers—blah, blah, blah.  Don't you watch CSI?"

"But what about the DNA?  They matched the semen found on Hudson's daughter to his own."

"Ah, now that was beautiful, wasn't it?"

"What did you do, bribe someone down at the crime lab?"

"That'd be without class, Tommy-boy.  And besides, bribery’s so...unimaginative."

"Well?"

"Let's be clear about one thing, before you launch a witch hunt over the chain of custody of evidence.  The semen
was
in fact Samuel Hudson's."  There came an uncomfortable pause.  Under the table, Rachel grasped my hand.  Dodd pulled on his collar and cleared his throat.  I wanted to disappear.

Stringer smiled.  "But Sam never raped his daughter.  No.  He was a model father—another reason he was chosen."

"Then how?"

"For an officer of the court, you're pretty thick, aren't you?  Hudson's life ran like clockwork.  Every Thursday night, while his wife and kids went to Bible study meetings, Sam went to meet clients at dinner meetings.

"Every
Wednesday
night, he and his wife had a date night.  And that didn't mean going out to dinner or the movies.  They had sex every Wednesday night.  You can learn a lot from those webcams and microphones in people's bedrooms if you have the right spyware running."

Some three years after the crime, the mystery finally started to unravel—stitches tearing off a festering wound that time could not heal.  I was reliving the violation all over again.

"Thursday is trash day in Rancho Carmelita," Stringer continued.  "Based on his online orders from condoms-express.com, I knew Sam's mode of birth control and hence where to find samples of his DNA.  A bit messy, but easily dealt with."

"So you're a dumpster-diving deity?  You planted Hudson's own semen on his daughter's body."  Walden said.

"You may bow before my brilliance."

The revulsion was exceeded only by the urge to grab Stringer by the throat and snuff out the smugness on his face.  Rachel must have sensed my tension because she put her hand on my back and rubbed it.  "Turn it off," I said, my fist trembling.

"Are you sure?" Dodd said.  "We still—"

"TURN IT OFF!"  I bolted up from my chair.  It slid back, scraped the concrete floor and slammed into the wall.   For nearly three years, I imagined what I'd do to the sick bastard, if ever I got my hands on him.  Now, with a face to put on these violent thoughts, I felt so much closer to it.  I stopped, trying to remind myself,
Do not repay evil with evil
.

"Shut it off, please," Rachel said.

Dodd hit a button and flipped down the LCD.  "Well.  I think there's enough to go on there."

"Counsel," Rachel said.  "I think my client needs some time to—"

"No," I said and pulled my chair back into place.  "It's all right.  Let's finish this."

We went over every detail of Stringer's statement, verifying credit card accounts, email accounts, ISPs, and yes, even the scheduled date nights.  These questions would come up in the upcoming depos, and when I took the stand.

By the time the interview was over, I felt as if I'd just finished a marathon.  I asked Rachel if we could meet later that afternoon instead of right after this meeting.  I needed time to settle down.  She completely understood.  We started for the exit.

Walking through the door, I saw something that turned my legs into putty.  I grabbed the doorframe.  Dodd noticed and caught me by the arm.  Shocking as the confession had been, nothing could prepare me for what awaited outside the meeting room.

Chapter Eighty-Five

Directly outside, a steel gate enclosed a corridor connecting the main entrance to the bowels of San Diego Central.  A metal grid divided this corridor.  Though you couldn't fit more than a finger or two in the grid, you could see clearly through it.  I stepped out and heard not one, but two buzzers sounding.

Over at the entrance gate, a pair of guards brought a prisoner in.  An everyday occurrence you get used to.  But something about
this
inmate alerted me.  He turned his face to the ground as he approached in the opposite corridor.  Without taking my eyes off of him, I walked to the grid.  Just steps before our paths brought us directly across from each other, the inmate looked up.  It must not have been more than a second or so, but our eyes locked for an eternity.

"Oh no," Rachel whispered.

Fire and ice blasted through my veins.  I slammed my hands against the grate, stabbing fingers through, clutching, clawing.

"Well, well, well.  What have we here?" said Brent Stringer, a malevolent smirk slashing through his features.  He pulled free from the guards and put his face just outside my fingers' grasp.

"What is this!" Rachel demanded.

Dodd sputtered. "I didn't work his schedule."

"Sick sonofabitch!" I said, snarling at Stringer.  "You killed my wife—"

"Don't forget, I did your little girl and beat the crap out of your son!"

I let out a savage cry that echoed through the corridor.  Grabbed the grate, rattled it as hard as I could, slammed it, and shouted.

"Move it!"  The guard grabbed Stringer's arms and shoved him down the corridor.  He kept his face turned to me, mocking me with his eyes.  Kenny Dodd gently took hold of my arm.  I spun around and shoved him back so hard he fell onto the ground.

"Sam, no!" Rachel cried.  I leapt back to the grate, threats and vituperation on the tip of my tongue.  I squeezed the metal grate as if it were Stringer's throat and didn't let up until it began to hurt.  He was so close I felt as if I could will him to death.  No one would blame me.  He'd shown no mercy, not even to a child.  It would be the justice he deserved.

A distant echo, Rachel was calling my name.  She touched my arm.  By sheer reflex I coiled back a fist.  She winced, shouted my name one last time and I realized it was her.  "I'm sorry," she said.  "You weren't supposed to see him."

"I...He was just..."

She took my hands in hers and held them firmly.  Dodd got up, straightened his tie, and blew air through his lips.  I couldn't speak.  All manner of emotion raged within.

"Is he going to be all right?" Dodd said.

I held up a hand and nodded yes.  "Give me a moment."  I went back to a corner in the corridor and began slamming the grate again.  Over and over and over again.  After a minute, my hand became numb.  I kept slamming it, shouting, until finally Rachel stepped over, her eyes beseeching. "Sam."

I shouted and slammed the grate one last time.  She reached out, the velvet pads of her fingertips touched my face. 

Then the dam burst.

Chapter Eighty-Six

It must have been the quickest hearing in the history of the San Diego Superior Court.  Judge Matthew Schermerhorn had been wrestling a docket bloated with exonerations, of which mine was merely the first.

It was reported that upwards of three hundred and fifty people attended in the audience, many overflowing into extra courtrooms and watching via closed-circuit television.

As I approached the tall mahogany doors of the courtroom, I remembered the first time I had been brought before the court—shackled like an animal.  Immediately I remembered Dave Pendelton's words, as he sat directly behind me in the gallery.  "
Keep your head up.
"

Cameras flashed, whispers hovered.  Excitement infused the air like an open field during a lightning storm.  But I dared not appear overconfident.  Anything could happen.  Rachel said that this judge was a straight-shooter.  But one never knew, temperaments and all.

Decked out in a charcoal suit Rachel had brought me, I shifted in my chair, tugged at a sleeve here, fixed a wayward collar there.   All while she presented Brent Stringer's recorded confession.  The entire courtroom bristled as they viewed the video.  Stringer claimed responsibility for everything I had been accused of.  He explained just how easy it was to hack into a computer and implant surveillance software.  Identity theft was merely the prelude to his fugue of malice.

Walden sat at his table, made no arguments, never looked in my direction.  He spent the entire hearing scribbling on a legal pad.  Probably playing tic-tac-toe with himself.

The entire hearing wrapped up in about an hour.  Judge Schermerhorn turned my way and spoke.

"Will the defendant please rise." 

I stood, fastening the top button of my jacket.  I'd heard of exonerations going afoul at the last moment, kicking the case back into an endless appellate loop.  Three years at Salton flashed before me—Bishop, Possum, Butch.  I wasn't afraid of that place.  It wasn't prison that caused my heart to thunder like a herd of mustangs.  It was the thought of not being able to fight for Aaron.  Time was running out.

I didn't move, didn't breathe.

Schermerhorn scowled and read from a paper in his hand.  "Having heard the new evidence which is clearly exculpatory in nature, it is the court's decision to vacate Samuel Hudson's convictions on all counts."  The entire room rumbled with a crescendo of murmurs.  "This case is hereby dismissed with prejudice."

He struck the sound block with his gavel and I started breathing again.  The noise in the courtroom grew so loud I could barely hear myself think—a juxtaposition of cheers, jeers, sighs of relief, and murmurs of indignation.

Rachel turned to me, a look of overwhelming relief on her face.  I tried to speak but ended up like a goldfish flipping about the kitchen floor.  She rushed over and embraced me.  My arms floated up, wrapped around her.  "Thank God," she said quietly.  "Thank God."

For the past three years the thought of dying in prison—or surviving long enough to be executed—dangled over my head.  And though I saw this exoneration coming from the moment I learned of Stringer's confessions, I couldn't believe it was finally happening.

"I'm free."

PART III

"He is no fool that gives what he cannot keep

to gain that which he cannot lose."

—
Jim Elliot

Chapter Eighty-Seven

IT'S NOT UNTIL YOU HAVE THEM TAKEN AWAY that you realize just how precious the simple things in life are.  Walking on the sidewalk without a guard, without chains.   Rachel and I pushed past a multitude of reporters offering them a brief statement too numb for bitterness, just gratitude.

I would have gone straight to Aaron, but the restraining order—the most difficult part of my newfound freedom, would not be lifted until next week.  So my first act as a free man was to visit Jenn and Bethie's graves.  Rachel and I exchanged scarcely a word on the trip up to the cemetery.   Riding at freeway speeds on the 805 was surreal.  Completely alien and at the same time, completely familiar.

Grey clouds obscured the afternoon sun.  A brisk gust carried the sweetness from a wall of Jasmines that lined the cemetery's boundaries.  Their graves had been lovingly maintained.  Fresh flowers stood in urns attached to the sides of their headstones.  Rachel stayed back, affording me privacy.