Brett held up a palm against any further words.He couldn’t take any more. His father was in trouble, his father needed him, and all he was doing was blubbering about his own pain. Suddenly the walls closed in. Brett raked a hand across his chest, pulling his shirt away from his skin. “This place is awful; we have to get out of here. I’m going to get Terrance, tell him to get you out right now!”
“Brett!” His father pressed a hand to the glass. “Terrance is already doing all he can. I’ll be home before you know it.”
Before you know it…
“Let me say that again.”Terrance Clyde’s resonant voice boomed through Brett’s memories. Brett blinked, forced himself to focus. “Because it’s the most important thing you’ll hear during this trial.” The attorney leaned on the railing of the jury box, eyeing the jurors with fatherly wisdom.“The ‘evidence’ the prosecution will present to you cannot surmount the high standard of reasonable doubt.”
A reporter on Brett’s left cleared her throat as she wrote. Brett stared at her hands for a moment, then let his eyes wander. So many people filled the row in front of him. He’d come in late enough to know that the rows behind him were just as filled. Many of the people he could see were obviously not reporters.Who were these people? Was this their idea of entertainment, watching his family laid bare? Somewhere behind Brett sat Shawna’s older sister, Lynn, who’d traveled from her home in Michigan for the trial. The first sight of her had disgusted Brett. So heavily made up. Such lewd clothes and rough manner. She even made Shawna look good. Lynn had come to watch his father “fry for the death of my sister,” as she’d put it, eyes narrowed in hatred. Brett could practically feel her vengeance at his back.
“And so you will see, ladies and gentlemen,”Terrance Clyde concluded, “that this case is built upon nothing but circumstantial evidence. Evidence that can’t possibly add up to the high standard that must be met in order for you to consider a guilty verdict.”
With all his heart Brett hoped that was true.His dad couldn’t be convicted; he simply couldn’t. Brett couldn’t imagine how his father, who so loved the outdoors, would ever survive years in jail. The last six months had been bad enough. Or how he himself would survive without his father. Fortunately, they had their foreman, Rudy, to take over main duties for the ranch. But nobody could run it like his dad. There was only one Salad King.
Terrance Clyde thanked the jury and sat down. The judge rapped her gavel, recessing court for a fifteen-minute afternoon break. All around Brett people rose, gathering notebooks, purses,murmuring to one another. On the row in front of him, a young figure stood slowly, glancing behind her at the milling bodies. Brett caught a glimpse of a beautiful, high-cheeked face framed by blond hair. The cut of her jaw was both chiseled and dainty, her lips full.
Her eyes caught his and hung there before sliding away. Something about her looked healthy and frail at the same time. Brett watched the hesitation of her movements, felt a lostness wafting from her to him.
From the corner of his eye Brett caught sight of his father being escorted toward a back courtroom door by a bailiff. Thoughts of the young woman fell away as he watched, hoping his father would give him a glance. Just before disappearing through the door, his father looked back and nodded at him. Brett forced a grim smile. He turned toward the courtroom exit,wondering what to do with himself for the next quarter hour.
SEVEN
In the hall, Stan Breckshire broke up his tête -à - tête with Lynn Trudy. Nutty woman. She was constantly cornering him with questions and suggestions. Darren Welk wasn’t going to get away with the murder of her sister, no sir. They’d discussed his opening remarks, the various jurors. Stan tried to convince her he did know what he was doing. He’d already begun watching the jurors, taking in their reactions, he told her.Who took notes and who didn’t? Who seemed more emotional? Lynn agreed that the Japanese college student, Tak Nagakura, was a stoic one.His face never seemed to move.He looked like a spindly spider next to B. B., the overweight, brown-haired bartender, a woman who practically oohed and aahed with every statement. And that English teacher, Hesta Naples. Lynn rolled her eyes. Hesta sat straight-backed, her lips in a prim line, dark hair slicked into a severe bun. Stan told Lynn how he pictured Hesta’s house, a game he played in reading jurors. It would be immaculate, with silverware and underwear perfectly stacked. The latter was probably chain mail.
Lynn had emitted a dark laugh till she choked.
Stan neared the courtroom door, jerking his neck. His pinched nerve throbbed. In just a minute court would resume.
“Stan Breckshire?” a voice sounded on his left. “Milt Waking, Channel Seven news.” The man held out his hand and Stan shook it. The guy was Mr. Television, all right, down to the thick dark hair and chiseled jaw.
“You know I can’t comment about the case,” he said.
Waking acted as if he hadn’t heard. His gray eyes pierced. “How nervous are you, knowing Chelsea Adams is in the courtroom?”
Stan blinked.
“Surely you know her background.”
Stan tilted his head in a “So what?”
“I hear you tried pretty hard to get her off yesterday.”
“Really. I don’t recall your being present.”
Waking shrugged. “I have my sources.”
“Then go ask your ‘sources’ how I feel.” Stan darted into the courtroom.
He banged down his briefcase on the table.What a jerk. Not a word about his opening statement. Just, “How do you feel about Chelsea Adams?”
Stan’s hands stilled. Before lunch he’d noticed Waking yakking into the camera. Had he mentioned Chelsea Adams? Stan cringed. What would all his colleagues back home think?
So? He tossed files out of his briefcase. He’d known this. Keeping reporters’ mouths shut was like telling a skunk not to spray. It didn’t matter. In the end winning was all that mattered.
KERRA SLID INTO HER SEAT and glanced around.Reporters, clustered up front, were settling, pulling out their notepads. Spectators sat mostly in groups of twos or threes. One sat alone—the young man she’d noticed when court broke for recess.He was solidly built,with brown hair cut very short.He caught her eye. She smiled briefly, then looked away, wondering.He looked like a young version of the defendant.
She sighed, wishing they’d had a longer break. And she wished that chatty old woman juror, Irene Bracken, hadn’t horned in on her lunch with Aunt Chelsea. All the same, given the circumstances, Kerra was glad she’d come today. At least she had something to do. And she had to admit, the case was interesting in a morbid way.
“All rise,” the bailiff intoned. The judge swept in.
The prosecution’s first witness was a black-haired woman named Lonnie Broward, a close friend of Shawna Welk.Kerra could see that she was nervous. Lonnie and her husband, Todd, had gone out to dinner with the Welks on February fifteenth, the night Shawna disappeared.
“We met at Croft’s Restaurant in Moss Landing,” Lonnie Broward informed the court. She spoke stiffly, her eyes fixed on the prosecutor.
“Was this dinner something you had planned in advance?” Stan Breckshire asked.
“Yes. The four of us usually got together about once a month.”
“How well did you know the Welks?”
“We were their closest friends. In fact, Todd and I were with Darren the night he met Shawna at the restaurant where she used to work—the Villager in Monterey. She was our waitress.”
“I see.” Breckshire jerked his right shoulder. “So you were actually friends with Darren Welk first.”
“Yes.”
He nodded as if the answer held great import. “I’d like you to recreate for us that Friday evening of February fifteenth. Let’s start with you and the Welks at dinner. How did the evening go?”
Lonnie Broward took a deep breath. Kerra could feel the emotion welling from the woman. “Everything was fine,” she began, “until Darren caught sight of someone across the restaurant. …”
As the prosecutor coaxed details, the defense attorney often interrupting with objections, Lonnie Broward’s story slowly unfolded.
DARREN WAS DRUN. Laughing in his deep-throated way, fingers wrapped around his third after-dinner drink. Todd had cracked some male-oriented joke. Shawna shook her head at Lonnie. Shawna looked great as always in awhite silk blouse, navy jacket, and matching slacks. Her hair had recently been bleached to abrassier shade of blond. She’d told Lonnie on the phone just that afternoon that she was ready for a celebration. Another successful adoption had been completed, the baby placed in the long-awaiting arms of a childless couple. “That’s what I live for,” Shawna had said.
Darren’s laughter cut short, surprise dulling his face. Shawna saw the look. She scanned the bar across the dimly lit room and her eyes stopped. Lonnie followed her gaze to along-legged twenty-something in a short skirt and plunging neckline. The woman blinked slowly, almost snidely, at Shawna, then arched her eyebrows and looked away. Shawna’s cheek muscles flexed, her eyes hardening. She could turn from one emotion to another faster than anyone Lonnie had ever known.
“Another one of your little bimbos, Darren?” Shawna’s words fell like chipped ice.
Darren waved a callused hand. “Oh, don’t start, Shawna.” He sounded bored. “I’ve never seen her before.”
“Don’t give me any of your ‘Don’t start, Shawna.’ Iknow that look on a woman’s face.”
“Well, Ican’t help it if perfect strangers find me outrageously attractive. You did, too, as Iremember.” He leered at his wife.
Shawna glared pure venom. “And Imarried you,” she hissed. “As I remember.”
“Hey, knock it off, you two,” Todd cut in.
Shawna sipped her liqueur in silence, hand shaking. Lonnie could hardly blame her.Darren made little secret of his running around. Still, Lonnie didn’t want to witness another fight between the Welks; she’d seen enough of those already, especially when Darren was drunk. For a solidly built man, he sure couldn’t seem to hold his liquor.
Animosity swirled between the Welks while they all finished their drinks. Darren ordered another. Lonnie just wanted to go home.
As they left the restaurant, Darren suggested they stop by the beach.
Lonnie hesitated. “Why not?” Todd responded heartily, trying to break the tension. “This night’s too great to waste. Ever seen it this warm in February?”
“I’ve got heels on,” Lonnie protested.
“So take ’em off,” Darren said, fishing in his pocket for his car keys.
“We’ll meet you at Breaker Beach. Nobody’ll be there. We’ll build a fire.” He fumbled his car door open with the air of a man in charge.
Darren Welk said they were going to the beach, so it must be so.
“What’s the point?” Lonnie pressed. “You and Shawna haven’t spoken a word to each other in the last twenty minutes.”
“Well, tha’s better than screamin’ at each other, isn’t it?” Darren placed a hand on Lonnie’s back and pushed. “Get in your car. We’ll meet you there.”
Shawna rolled her eyes in weary submission. “I’m driving,Darren,”
Lonnie heard her say as the Browards headed for their car.
“No, you’re not,” Darren shot back. Before getting into his car, he ambled over to astand of free local newspapers near the restaurant door and took out a few.
“She’s trapped,” Lonnie told Todd as they followed the Welks’ car up Highway 1. “She’s got no money; no way can she divorce him.With the prenuptial agreement, she wouldn’t get a penny.”
“Trapped, nothing; she’s got a great life. Look at the house she lives in. Where’d she and Tracey live when she was just a waitress? And where would she have gotten the money to open her adoption agency?”
Lonnie folded her arms. “If they start one of their out-and-out fights, we’re leaving, you hear?”
“Fine. But you know them—they could be cooing like lovebirds by the time we get there.”
They passed the turnoffs to various beaches. About three miles past Zmudowski State Beach, the Welks’ car turned left onto a narrow road.
The Browards followed. The road undulated through strawberry and artichoke fields spread under the canopy of night. The heady, wild scent of eucalyptus trees filtered through Lonnie’s barely open window; she could see their white bark peeling in smooth rivulets down their large trunks. After about amile the road turned into adirt lane bordered by more trees. The Welks’ car rolled to where the road ended at sand. Todd Broward pulled in behind and parked. The narrow beach was on their left. Large black boulders framed the beach’s near side, starting at the end of the lane and stretching into the surf. The far side of the beach ended in a rocky cliff.Darren lumbered into the trees near the road and picked up loose firewood. Todd would start the fire with his cigarette lighter.
The smell of salt water hung in the air, fresh and clean. The sand near the water looked undisturbed and perfect, apparently blown smooth by wind earlier in the day. Now the air was calm. Lonnie held Todd’s hand as they navigated the sand, the surge-hiss of the ocean captivating. Lonnie was beginning to feel glad they’d come.
The mood soon shattered. Shawna was clearly in no mood to play the cooing lovebird. As the two couples sat on logs in front of a crackling fire,Darren downing four beers pulled from a six-pack in the trunk of his car, all she could do was peck at him. The drunker he got, the more he started to peck back. Before long they were pacing in the sand, waving their arms and yelling at each other.Well, Shawna paced; Darren lurched. His anger turned black, vicious. Lonnie grew frightened.
“Come on, Shawna, we’re leaving.” Lonnie plucked at her friend’s sleeve. “We’ll take you home.”
Shawna wrenched away, eyes fixed on Darren, her mouth in a thin line. “I’m staying right here. We’re going to have this out, once and for all.”
“Tha’s right, she’s not goin’ anywhere,” Darren drawled, flames from the fire playing across his reddened cheeks.He hulked against the inky sky, flexing his fingers.
Lonnie caught her breath. She’d never known Darren to hit Shawna before, but she felt something new in the air. Something pulsing, like the tide against the beach. “Come on, Shawna,” she pleaded. “Go with us.”
It was no use. Todd pulled Lonnie away, saying the Welks were both adults. He never imagined Darren would hurt Shawna. They’d have their fight; then Shawna would drive Darren home.…
LONNIE BROWARD SWALLOWED and closed her eyes. The courtroom fell silent. Despite all the interruptions from the defense, Kerra had found Lonnie’s testimony painfully riveting. She could practically reach out and touch the woman’s guilt over surviving that night while her friend had died. Kerra rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled. She understood Lonnie’s suffering all too well.
“Mrs. Broward?” Stan Breckshire prodded. “You were telling us the last thing you saw?”
“Yes.” Lonnie took a deep breath. “As I slid into our car, I heard Shawna screaming and Darren screaming back. I couldn’t understand their words. And then we started to drive away. I looked back and saw Darren lumbering toward her. I could just barely make them out in the firelight. Then they were out of sight.” Lonnie’s eyes filled with tears, her voice faltering. “That’s the last time I saw Shawna Welk.”
EIGHT
“‘That’s the last time I saw Shawna Welk,’” Darren mocked in a singsong voice. His words sloshed bitterness and angst against the separating glass in the dreary room that the Redwood City jail reserved for meetings between prisoner and attorney. The room was vented so they did not need to use telephones. Darren planted himself wide-legged in his chair, square jaw set, eyes hard.
Terrance Clyde sat back in silence, hands clasped over his waist. Darren’s foul language and roaring anger intimidated him not in the least. He’d seen it all before. Best to let the client blow off steam.
“Why didn’t you tear that woman apart on the stand?” Darren’s fingers rent t
he air in vivid illustration. He pushed out of his chair and paced, muttering under his breath. “One day of court, and I already can’t take any more. Have to sit there like a head of lettuce while my ‘friends’ betray me.”He smacked the wall.
“She didn’t say you were a killer, Darren.” Terrance’s voice was mild.
“She might as well have!”
“Lonnie is a prosecution witness; what do you expect? You knew this was coming, Darren; we’ve talked about it for weeks now. Relax. I did all I could with her testimony.”
“Relax?” Darren drew to a halt, snorting. “You are telling me to relax? I’m the one who’s cooped up in this ratty place while my crops rot! Where have you been since February? Sleeping in your own bed. Taking your sweet time preparing this case!”
Terrance cast him a knowing look. “Darren. You know very well I rushed to prepare this case. Most attorneys would have taken far longer.”
“Well, you didn’t rush enough!”
Terrance refused to take the bait. He eased back his shoulders, sending pops down his tired spine. Air in the tiny room was stale. He was glad he’d left his suit coat in his car.
Darren Welk was proving to be every bit the difficult client Ter-rance had expected. Terrance had practiced law in Salinas for a long time, and although he hadn’t known Darren personally, he had certainly known his reputation—as both the most successful rancher in the area and the most outspoken.As a free man in his own fields, Darren Welk might well have been king.When he barked orders, employees jumped. So did his colleagues. But as a jailed murder suspect, he was told when to eat, when to sleep, when to wake up. His whole world as he had known it, everything he’d taken for granted, had been turned inside out. Anger, despair, and terror would inevitably haunt him in vicious cycles. Terrance had known, as Darren’s attorney, that he would become both the man’s lifeline and his punching bag.
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