Dread Champion (3 page)

As in every county, gossip was alive and well within the courthouse walls. Stan had heard an earful and reentered the courtroom with rising panic.

Stan rubbed his arm, wincing. So what? At the very worst, the woman would only be second and final alternate.
If
she got past his questioning at all, which she wouldn't.

Judge Chanson slid on her gold-rimmed reading glasses and, for the benefit of the newly arrived, began to read the complaint against the defendant. That in
The People vs.Welk,
Darren Wayne Welk was charged with second-degree murder under Penal Code Section 187, yada, yada. Stan forced his eyes to the judge, barely hearing her words. Not that he needed to. He'd heard them at least two dozen times since that morning, every time a new batch of potential jurors had entered the courtroom.

“Okay.” Judge Chanson exchanged one paper for another, her glasses still perched on her nose. The ends were attached to a purple chain around her ample neck. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, leaving nothing to frame her double chin. “First we have Greg Seecham. Mr. Breckshire?”

You're my boy, Greg,
thought Stan as he pushed back from the table, automatically pulling his tie. He hustled to the podium that faced the jury, making eye contact with Mr. Seecham. “Good afternoon.” The guy looked almost too good to be true. A yuppie white businessman, every prosecutor's dream. Brown hair perfectly coifed; the drawn, beleaguered face of stressful success; and a designer suit—right down to the magenta power tie. Stan knew that yuppies tended to fear crime, be fiercely protective of their property, and usually hadn't suffered enough to be sympathetic to some defendant. Unfortunately, the man also brimmed with impatience, obviously not happy at missing a full day at the office. Stan opened his mouth to begin questioning, hoping against hope that Seecham wouldn't claim work hardship.

“Your Honor, I have a real problem with staying.” Seecham addressed the judge as if Stan weren't there. “Since I received my summons, things have now changed at my start-up software company, and I'm the only one there who can … ”

Uh-uh, too late for asob story.
It was the end of the day and everyone was tired. Besides, these two were it for the panel. No one wanted to wait for another group to be called.

“Let's talk about this, Mr. Seecham,” Stan pushed in before the judge could reply. “Court usually ends around five o'clock, and this case is only expected to take about two weeks. Can you manage to work in the evenings just for that long?”

“No way; that's not enough time!” the man replied, as if the mere thought were ludicrous.

“Well, is there a coworker who can fill in for you?”

“
No.
As I said, I'm the only one who knows how to run the place.”

“And the staff can't do without you for just a few days? Surely you have a cell phone. You could check in during breaks.”

Seecham's face compressed. “I can't run the office from a courtroom. We're right in the middle of some very important projects, and I
have
to be there all day.”

“Could you possibly—”

“Mr. Seecham,” Judge Chanson cut in, her tone betraying impatience. She leaned forward, puffing herself out over her cherry wood desk as if to intimidate Mr. Irreplaceable with her very size. “I know this is a difficult time for you. But jury duty is what it says—a duty that should be fulfilled if at all possible.”

“I understand that, but for me it
isn't
possible.Not at this time.” Greg Seecham began ticking off manicured fingers like a scolding young parent. “First of all, we've run into problems with the software program we were supposed to launch last week. Every day we take to fix those problems, we lose an estimated $267,000. Second, another program … ”

Stan Breckshire hung on to the podium, right arm throbbing, as Greg Seecham fired every shot from his company's heavy artillery. The man started quoting numbers right and left—amounts of dollars his company would lose on this project and that one. All with multiple zeros. And of course they weren't just
his
dollars; they were the
investors'
dollars, blather, blather.His boy or not, Stan wanted to wrap his hands around the man's starch-collared neck and choke him silly.

“All right, Mr. Seecham,” the judge intoned, pulling off her glasses, “we get the picture.” She sat back in her large black leather chair with a sigh.“Mr. Clyde, anything you want to add here?”

“Well, Your Honor,” T. C. said without rising, his baritone voice oozing empathy, “I think we should let Mr. Seecham go. Clearly, he has a work hardship issue that simply can't be overcome.”

Well, thought Stan, there was his answer. T. C. hadn't a clue who Chelsea Adams was.

“I'm not so convinced of that.” The judge fingered the chain on her glasses, eyeing Greg Seecham. “A company of this apparent size is certainly maintained by more than one person. I think—”

“I don't even see why this defendant
needs
a trial,” Seecham growled suddenly, casting a purposeful glance at the jurors down his row.“He's obviously guilty.”

“Your Honor!” T. C. protested, half-rising from his seat. He shook his gray, craggy head at the judge as if to say, “What more do you need?”

Judge Chanson narrowed hard eyes at Seecham.Her wide jaw set and her chest swelled with air. Stan cringed. Seecham's gig was obvious enough, but Stan knew the judge couldn't give him a chance for further prejudicial statements in the presence of the jury. Even if the other members were giving him looks of pure derision. Seecham stared back at the judge with a spit in the Constitution's eye. Stan could have punched the guy. He hoped Greg Seecham's software company bit the dust. And gagged on it.

Judge Chanson arched back in her chair, still staring daggers. “You are excused, Mr. Seecham.”Her words were clipped. Seecham darted from his seat, slithered past the knees of Chelsea Adams, and made for the door. Judge Chanson lodged her glasses on her nose just so and busied herself with papers, her eyes flicking up to aim one last knife at Mr. Yuppie's fast departing back.

The courtroom door closed. The judge took a cleansing breath. “All right,” she announced tiredly, then checked her list. “Chelsea Adams.”

Stan Breckshire's heart fell to his toes. Greg Seecham's trail still slimed the courtroom floor, and now he needed to convince Judge Chanson to excuse the last juror for cause.

No problem, Stan rallied himself. He'd produce enough cause, all right.

“Good afternoon, Ms.Adams.” Stan bobbed his head, lips pulling back for a brief moment. The faces of his peers back in Monterey County flashed like neon before him. He could just imagine their head-shaking upon hearing he'd let this babe on his jury. Could just hear his nemesis Harry Kent blabbing it up, feigned sympathy on his face and a jingle in his step. And Stan wouldn't be around to defend himself.

Well, no matter, because he wasn't about to let that happen. No way, no how.Whatever it took, Stan Breckshire was going to get the religious lunatic named Chelsea Adams out of his jury box.

TWO

Chelsea sat straight-backed in the padded jury chair, keenly aware of her surroundings. Every color, every scent, seemed to flood her senses. She at least was glad they were in a different courtroom, and even on a different floor, from last year. That one would have held far too many memories. This courtroom, 2H, was on the second floor, while the Trent Park case had taken place on the fourth.

Darren Welk… second-degree murder.

The judge's voice still whirled in Chelsea's head. A case not even from her county, and of all people
she
was sitting in the jury box.

“Good afternoon, Ms.Adams.”The attorney standing before her looked to be in his mid-thirties, slight in build and short. His nose was large and hooked, his eyes small and dark. Chelsea braced herself as she watched him move with quick, nervous motions. She was sure he'd recognized her name. It was in the hunch of his shoulders, the unnecessary shuffle of his papers.Wariness crept through her.

“Good afternoon,” she replied. She kept her voice level, casting a glance at the judge. The woman was studying her a little too intently.

“My name is Stan Breckshire.” The prosecuting attorney bobbed his head again.“As you heard some minutes ago, I'm from Monterey County. This case has been moved here to the San Mateo County courts in what we call a change of venue. Let me first ask you, do you know anyone involved in this case?”

“I don't think so.”

“Recognize anyone in the courtroom?”

Chelsea allowed her gaze to drift once more to the faces she'd noticed upon entering. Behind Stan Breckshire sat two sophisticated-looking defense attorneys, a gray-haired man who was probably in his early sixties and a young Hispanic woman. On the far side of the room two sheriffs, one male and one female, hunched on opposite sides of a battered desk, looking bored. A court reporter sat below the judge's raised platform at the top center of the room, repeating every word into the large, cupped microphone of her machine. Chelsea knew that the large computer monitor before the judge would immediately display her record of the proceedings. Another woman—the courtroom clerk—occupied a second desk near the judge, also with a computer.

“No,” Chelsea replied.

“Okay. How about this case? Have you heard about it?”

“Yes, some. I've read about it in the newspaper and have seen some segments on the news.” Her voice seemed so loud. Did she sound too forceful? Nervous?

“I see. Have these news stories led you to form an opinion as to the defendant's guilt or innocence?”

“No, not at all.” Chelsea realized the words were too quick, springing truthfully from her past experiences. Hardly the words that would see her excused.

The attorney thumbed the corner of his notes.“You say that with some assurance.”

Heat prickled Chelsea's scalp. “Yes. I mean, guilt or innocence is something that has to be proved in court. I really couldn't know just from the media.”

“So you haven't heard anything in the reports that would prejudice you in any way regarding the guilt or innocence of this defendant?”

Chelsea shook her head.“No.”

“Okay.” The prosecutor paused, as if pondering his next question. His thumb picked up speed, riffling his papers in earnest. Irritation poked at Chelsea.Why couldn't he just come out with it? Get this foreboding discussion over with so she finally could be excused. She'd waited all day in the jury room, when she could have spent precious time with her husband, Paul, before he left on his business trip to England. And she still wanted to get some errands done before picking up her niece at the airport after her flight from Kansas. Kerra's arrival time was approaching all too soon.

“Ms. Adams,” Breckshire said, obviously feigning ignorance, “have you ever been involved in a criminal trial before?”

Chelsea took a deep breath. Here it came. “Yes.”

The attorney's face remained impassive. “Would you tell me about it, please?”

“I'll try.”Chelsea hesitated, forming her words carefully. “I know it's hard for people to understand. It's hard for
me
to understand. But sometimes I'm able to ‘see' things in my mind. The best words for describing this are probably ‘seeing a vision.'”

The attorney nodded, urging her on.

“Last summer I had a vision about a murder. I didn't know who had been murdered or when, but I became sure it had happened in Trent Park in Haverlon. After a lot of deliberating, I went to the police. I really didn't want to get involved, but I just felt I
had
to, because the knowledge of what I'd … ‘seen' was so clear and real to me. The police didn't believe me at first, because they hadn't even heard anyone was missing. It's kind of a long story, but I ended up discovering the body of a young woman in Trent Park. This was the woman I'd seen being murdered in the vision. Months later when the defendant was brought to trial, I was a witness for the prosecution. But only because I found the body, not because of the vision I'd had. That was not considered evidence in the trial and couldn't be mentioned.”

Chelsea could feel the eyes of every person in the jury box pressing upon her.And she could almost hear their thoughts, their formulating impressions. Could well imagine the conversations around their dinner tables that evening.
“You won't believe who almost got on our jury today. Remember all the news stories about that woman who… ”
She swallowed hard.

Stan Breckshire pulled at his tie, his chin scrunched and neck extended. Then reassembled his face into a mask of empathy.“That's quite amazing. Really amazing. And what do you believe is the source of these ‘visions,' as you call them?”

Chelsea looked him straight in the eye. “God.”

Stan Breckshire's head cocked, eyebrows rising. “God.”

“Yes.”

“I see.” He scratched rapidly under his left ear. “Why would God … do this?”

Chelsea managed a tiny smile. “Mr. Breckshire, I don't know. That is, I know in the general sense. If God gives certain knowledge to one of his followers, he surely must have good reason. There's some kind of outcome he wants to see. Probably he's working in answer to someone who's praying out there. But why
me?
I've asked that many times.”

The attorney's hands pressed together, a forefinger beating time on each side of his chin.“Okay.Well. Let me just ask you some more questions about this particular case last year.”He pulled his fingers abruptly away.“There were other extenuating circumstances regarding your involvement, isn't that true?”

Chelsea's insides grew still. This was the part she'd dreaded all day as she waited hour after hour in the jury room to be called. But it was also the part that would get her out of the courtroom. Paul had made his expectations very clear while packing for his trip that morning. “Do us both a favor,” he'd said, “and get yourself excused in a hurry.”Chelsea had understood his fears.He was still very protective of her, after all that had happened.