Dying Declaration (40 page)

67

WAITING.

It was driving Charles crazy.

For three hours on Thursday afternoon the jury deliberated while Charles and Nikki fretted. Thomas quietly prayed, and Theresa busied herself amusing the children. At six o’clock Thursday evening the jury announced they were not even close to a verdict. They would like to reconvene Friday morning, they said. After dire warnings about listening to news coverage or talking to others, Judge Silverman dismissed them for the night, promising that a good night’s sleep would help their deliberations.

There would be no sleep for Charles, only late, late shows on television, second-guessing every decision made during the trial and counting sheep. On Friday morning the vigil continued. By Friday afternoon the speculation swirled as to why the jury was taking so long.

It could only be good for the defense, Nikki surmised. How could anybody say there was no reasonable doubt when it took the jury two full days just to reach a verdict? Charles was more pessimistic, fretting about a possible compromise verdict or hung jury.

“But I wouldn’t do anything different if I had to try the case again,” he said, mostly to himself. It was about the tenth time he had said that since the jury started its deliberations.

“It went as good as it possibly could have gone,” Nikki replied.

And the longer they waited, the more they reminded themselves that they had tried a great case. There was no way the jury could come back with guilty verdicts.
Could they?

By four o’clock on Friday afternoon, the combatants had to seriously consider the possibility that the jury might not reach a verdict before the weekend. State law required a unanimous verdict for either guilt or innocence; otherwise the jury would be declared “hung,” and the case would be tried again at a later date. Nobody wanted that.

The lawyers and court personnel could hear muffled shouting from the jury room, but it was impossible to make out what the jurors were saying. Despair descended on both camps by late Friday afternoon as the very real possibility of a hung jury loomed large.

At 4:17, the jury rang the buzzer for the third time that day asking for the bailiff. The first buzzer had resulted in a question to the judge. The second buzzer had been a request for a lunch break. This time they handed the bailiff a note.

“We have a verdict,” the bailiff announced to the courtroom. Then he disappeared out the back door to get Judge Silverman.

Charles leaned over and reminded his clients that it was traditional for the defendants to stand for the reading of the verdict. As Silverman scrutinized the jury form, just to be sure everything was filled out correctly, the others followed Charles’s cue and solemnly rose to their feet. Thomas stood next to Charles. On the other side of Thomas was Theresa, then Nikki. When Charles felt the big man reach over and grab his hand, he glanced to his right and saw the others holding hands as well. Over his shoulder, in the front row, he saw Tiger and Stinky, also standing, squeezing each other’s hands so tight that their knuckles had turned white. He felt an incredible surge of pride for representing these folks . . . good folks . . . innocent folks.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” Judge Silverman asked.

“We have,” the jury forewoman said, standing. She was one of the mothers. Not a good sign.

“What say you?” Silverman asked.

“In the case of Commonwealth versus Theresa Hammond, on the sole charge of negligent homicide, we find the defendant—” the forewoman paused and looked at Theresa, an unmistakable sign—“not guilty.”

“Praise God,” Charles whispered.

“Yes!”
Nikki exclaimed.

Theresa Hammond began to quietly sob. “Awright!” a squeaky little voice said behind Charles.

Silverman banged his gavel. “Order in the court.”

All eyes turned back to the forewoman. “In the case of Commonwealth versus Thomas Hammond, on the sole charge of negligent homicide, we find the defendant—” she did not look up, did not even pause as she read—“
guilty
as charged.”

The words sucked the wind out of Charles. His knees felt weak. He went into a fog, things becoming dreamlike, nightmarish.

“No!” Theresa cried, her face in her hands. “Lord, please no!”

Nikki stood speechless.

Thomas stared straight ahead, showing no emotion, barely blinking as the words sunk in. Then he turned toward Theresa and sheltered her face in his chest, holding on to her and staring into the space over her head. Tiger and Stinky scampered forward and threw their arms around their daddy’s waist.

“I’m sorry,” Charles said, looking into the blank stare of the big man.

“Please be seated,” Silverman requested, banging his gavel.

Slowly Thomas freed himself from the clutches of his family and slumped back into his seat. Charles felt nothing . . . almost like he was floating in space, not really there at all. He was just so . . . stunned. He thought he was prepared for the worst,
but this?!
What was the jury thinking?

Judge Silverman thanked the jury and discharged them. They walked silently from the jury box, none even looking in the direction of a sobbing Theresa and a stoic Thomas.

“The defendant will be remanded to the custody of the Virginia Beach City Jail,” Silverman said. “Sentencing will proceed at 10:00 a.m. Monday morning.”

“All rise,” the clerk said. “This honorable court is adjourned until 10:00 a.m. on Monday morning.”

Charles stood, his legs somehow miraculously working, and leaned across to the big man. But the words caught in his throat for a precious few seconds, and then the deputies were there, handcuffing Thomas. Charles watched in horror and helplessness as Tiger lurched forward, broke through the deputies, and flung himself around his father’s waist.

“You can’t go!”
Tiger screamed. “I won’t let them take you.”

Tiger hugged his daddy with all his might and wrapped his little legs around his daddy’s immense left calf. But Tiger was no match for the deputies. They pried his bony fingers and skinny legs away from his dad. In the chaos, Thomas just kept repeating,
“It’ll be all right, buddy. It’ll be all right.” A sobbing Theresa reached out and drew Tiger to herself, trying to comfort her son through her own tears. Stinky joined them, the water flowing from her big blue innocent eyes, as she watched the deputies escort her daddy from the courtroom.

“We’ll appeal,” Nikki whispered insistently to the family. “We’ll move for a new trial. We’ll get him out.” But her words of comfort were drowned in the wave of grief flooding Theresa and the kids.

Charles just stood there watching this tragic scene unfold before him, as if he were detached from it. He had never felt so helpless, so utterly useless, in his whole life. The horrid images seared into his mind. A slump-shouldered Thomas led from the courtroom. An inconsolable Theresa. The courage of Tiger, wanting to fight back, but not knowing how. And the innocence of Stinky. The pure little bird. Crushed in the hands of the young know-it-all from the forest. Her innocence and faith in the system shattered by the ambitions of the Barracuda.

There was a tap on Charles’s shoulder.

“You tried a good case,” the Barracuda said, extending her hand.

“Is this your idea of justice?” Charles demanded.

The Barracuda withdrew her hand. “No, this isn’t justice.” She sneered. “Justice would have meant I nailed them both.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked down the aisle of the courtroom, answering questions from the press along the way.

Charles turned and grabbed Nikki by both arms. “Meet me in the war room in an hour,” he said.

“I’ll be there,” she said.

There was fire in her eyes.

68

CHARLES HAD
his back to the door when she entered. He was poring over some legal cases, trying to find some basis for a new trial. Something—anything—that Silverman had done wrong. A bad evidentiary ruling, a flawed jury instruction, an objection that should have gone the other way. The more he dug, the more discouraged he got. Unfortunately for Thomas Hammond, Silverman had made few mistakes.

The room was a mess, but Charles knew that Nikki wouldn’t mind. There were papers scattered all over the floor as if they had been thrown into the air before falling randomly. Charles still had his dress slacks on, his monogrammed shirt unbuttoned at the neck, and his incandescent tie loosened so the knot hung low on his chest.

She was already fifteen minutes late, so he didn’t bother turning around when he first heard the door to the war room close. He lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. “Why’d we have to get Silverman?” he asked, turning toward her. “Not much to appeal unless—”

He blinked . . . and stood slowly, not taking his eyes from her. She just stood there, staring back.

“Denita?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, moving slowly toward him. “I heard about the verdict . . . tried to reach you on your cell phone .
. .”

Charles glanced around the disheveled room. “Left it in the car, I guess. How’d you find me here?”

“The custodian,” she said sheepishly. The softness of her voice surprised Charles. It was so unlike Denita. She fidgeted a little as she stood in front of him, fumbling with the envelope in her hands.

She was dressed in jeans, a white button blouse, and sandals. Very casual. Her hair was pulled back away from her face and gathered with a couple of hair clips. How often had he brushed her hair away from her face before kissing her? How strange that he wanted to reach out and touch that hair again and pull her close right now.
I must be on the ragged edge emotionally.
They had been through a lot, but she still held this sway over him—the ability to infuriate him one minute and mesmerize him the next.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I don’t know.” Charles shrugged, surprising himself with the honesty of his answer.

“I was there for your closing,” she said, still fidgeting.

“I saw you.”

“You did great. I thought you had them.”

Charles sighed. “Me too.”

She took a deep breath and a small step closer, staring deep into Charles’s eyes. “Thanks for this,” she said, glancing down at the FedEx envelope. “Is this really the only copy you sent?”

Charles looked at it and nodded. “I couldn’t bring myself to send it to the senator, so I just sent it to you. Figured you would have shredded it by now.” He looked up and met her eyes. “You’ll make a good judge, Denita.”

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he saw that quick and natural smile he had fallen in love with so many years ago. “I’ve been trying to tell you that,” she said. “What changed your mind?”

Charles waited a few seconds to answer. He wasn’t really sure. “Flowers on our baby’s grave,” he eventually replied, his voice suddenly hoarse. He swallowed hard, felt his throat constricting with emotion. “Ones that I didn’t put there.”

Without hesitation, she stepped forward and embraced him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “For a lot of things.”

He hugged her back, didn’t even have to think about it, really. It just felt so natural. The scent of her, her shampoo and familiar perfume, brought back so many memories. For Charles, the four years of separation began melting away. Had she really changed that much? She pulled back slowly, but they somehow still held hands, her left hand resting comfortably in his right. Her other hand was still holding the envelope.

And then he felt it.

A ring! A diamond! Without thinking, he stared down at it. No wedding band, but definitely an engagement ring.

He felt like he had just been sucker punched for the second time that day. His hope of reconciliation, so improbable yet so powerful just a few short seconds ago, now crashing around him. His emotions instantly locked down—an unbidden defense mechanism—leaving him flat and empty, momentarily devoid of feeling. He absorbed this blow without blinking. He had already taken such a beating at the hands of others today. Now his ex-wife had piled on.

She must have sensed his thoughts—it seemed like she had always been able to read his mind—and withdrew her hand. She looked down at it herself, then up at him.

“Congratulations,” he managed.

“You’d like him, Charles,” Denita said blushing. “Reminds me a lot of you during our first few years.”

He knew that she meant it as a compliment, but it devastated him nonetheless. The message was clear. If he had never changed,
never been converted, he would have never lost her. An inconsolable sadness pierced his defenses. It was over this time, really over. He could feel the awful finality of it. No hope of reconciliation; no prospect of Denita accepting Christ and renewing their vows. He felt as crushed as he had the night she first told him about another man in her life; the night she told him she wanted a divorce.

What did I expect? That somehow this letter—this decision to protect our secret—would make everything right? bring us back together? Why can’t I get over this woman? Why do I still care so much?

He took a deep breath, the air suddenly heavy and stale in the room. He needed to be alone so he could process this.

Just then Nikki, never one for subtle timing, came bursting through the door. “Sorry I’m late,” she called out, then pulled up short when she noticed Denita.

Nikki had changed into a pair of cotton shorts that hung low on her hips with the waistband rolled down and a cropped cotton shirt that exposed her midriff and pierced navel. In her right hand she carried a pair of sandals, which she promptly tossed on the floor. In her left hand she had the two remaining bottles from a six-pack of Corona.

Charles gathered himself and introduced the women, watching Nikki’s eyes go dark when they shook hands. “Thanks for joining us,” Nikki mumbled.

“I was just leaving,” Denita replied. She was suddenly all business. “Just wanted to stop by and talk to Charles about a few things.”

Though Charles politely protested, Denita insisted on going. He walked her out to the hallway, where they stood facing each other for a long time. Denita tilted her head toward the war room. “Doesn’t seem like your type.”

“She’s not,” he said, though he wasn’t sure he meant it. He really wasn’t sure of anything right now.

“You’re a good man, Charles.” Denita spoke the words tenderly. Then she took his arm, leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry it wasn’t meant to be.”

Before he could answer, before he could admit how much he regretted that too, she let go of his arm and turned away. And then,
like so many times before, Charles found himself watching her go, staring at her back, his heart throbbing with the familiar pain of what might have been.

He stood there for a few minutes, scenes of their time together racing through his mind like a home video on fast-forward. He felt the corresponding rush of emotion, as if reliving everything he had ever felt toward Denita in those same few moments. It left him totally spent. He needed time alone, just to crash, just to sort things out. Get over her one more time . . .
somehow release these emotions he had been keeping inside for so long.

His mind flashed to the dream he had just a few short days ago: an arrogant Denita sitting high on her lofty bench, overlooking a graveyard of children, laughing at him. He thought about how different the real Denita was from the one he had imagined in his dream. God had humbled her somehow. He felt a little ashamed for even thinking about writing a letter to Crafton, for putting so much stock in a stupid dream. After all, wasn’t that the same dream that had him marrying Nikki?

Right.

Nikki. His bride-to-be. Waiting for him in the war room, three sheets to the wind, plotting legal strategies that would never work. He suddenly didn’t have the strength to go back in there and deal with
that
.

But he knew that he owed it to Thomas to try.

He placed his head in his hands, slouched against the wall, and began to pray.

Nikki was sprawled out on the floor when Charles made it back into the war room. She was reading a document and drinking her Corona. “Want one?” she asked, holding the bottle toward Charles.

“Huh?”

“Want a beer?”

Charles looked at her and lowered his eyebrows. “You can’t have beer in here. This is a
Christian
law school.”

“Okay,” Nikki said. Then she took a long gulp. “Sure you don’t want one?”

“Yeah.”

“Your loss.”

Charles joined her on the floor, and they sat there in silence for a while, Nikki gulping down her beer, Charles leaning back on his palms, staring straight ahead. He hoped Nikki would ask a question about Denita. He would take that as a cue to open up about it. But she didn’t and so he tried to chase thoughts of Denita from his mind by focusing on the case. Neither subject brought him any joy.

“It was Buster,” he finally said. “They must have believed Buster.”

Nikki burped. “Yep. I can’t believe they bought his act. He’s such a moron.”

“But a free moron,” Charles complained. Suddenly, the events of Buster’s testimony and the case seemed so far away, so insignificant.

“But a free moron,” Nikki repeated. For some reason that must have seemed funny to her, and she started giggling. She looked at Charles, who totally missed the humor. “Sorry,” she said.

She took another swig, then spoke in the exaggerated manner of someone having a little difficulty with her tongue. “So, Charles,
since you’re the magician, how you gonna pull a new trial outta your hat this time?” Her voice went up an octave at the end of the sentence to emphasize her question.

He sighed. It wasn’t the question he had been hoping for, but he tried to focus on the case. “I’ve been doing nothing but research since I got back here more than ninety minutes ago,” Charles said. The mild rebuke about time was lost on Nikki.
“We’ve basically got two grounds for requesting a new trial, both of them long shots.”

Charles watched Nikki peel the label from her bottle.

“First, I’ll argue that Silverman should not have allowed Reverend Beckham to testify because his testimony breached the priest-penitent privilege. Second, I’ll argue that no reasonable jury could convict Thomas but not Theresa. I mean, they were both totally in this together. There was no evidence to make his conduct different from hers—”

“Except Buster,” Nikki interrupted.

“Yeah, except Buster,” Charles agreed.

More silence followed as they pondered the treachery of Buster Jackson.

“A jailhouse conversion,” Charles muttered. “I had my doubts all along, but I never saw this coming. He owed his life to Thomas.”

“And now his freedom,” Nikki said.

Charles nodded. “This morning, which seems like forever ago now, we were in the catbird seat. Armistead imploded on the witness stand yesterday, and then Tiger ate the Barracuda for lunch. I just couldn’t believe we could lose. And after Theresa’s diary was read on the first day, I figured if anybody was in danger of getting convicted, it was her, not him. I should have spent more time attacking Buster in my closing. I just didn’t think anybody would believe him—”

“Wait,” Nikki said, holding her palm straight out. “Rewind it. What’d you say?”

“I should have spent more time on Buster in closing. I just—”

“No. Before that.”

“Um, I thought if anybody might get convicted, it’d be Theresa, not Thomas?”

“Stop!”
Nikki said.
“That’s it!”
She placed her bottle, nearly empty, on the floor. She started to stand but tripped and fell back to her hands and knees. She crawled a few feet toward Charles, then stopped. She was on all fours, her dark eyes dancing with excitement.

“Don’t you see it?” she exclaimed. “We got set up.”

“Nikki, let’s just get you home. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

She crawled closer and then sat up on her knees facing Charles. She placed her open palms against both sides of Charles face.
“Look at me,” she pleaded, “and listen to me. We . . . got . . . set . . . up.”

“And?” Charles said.

“And I intend to do something about it,” Nikki said. Then she let go of Charles’s face and quickly stood. She took a little sideways step to catch her balance. “Just as soon as I get back from the bathroom.”