BEYOND JUSTICE

by Joshua Graham

I pulled up a chair and sat by my son. His breathing was irregular and shallow, his hand warm but stiff. It twitched every now and then.

  The image of Aaron, lying in a casket smaller than should ever exist arrested my breath. But the thought of him growing up as a paraplegic, sentenced to life in a wheelchair, unable to run and jump and play—that made my heart sink. He was always such a happy boy, not a care in the world. To rob him of life this way was almost as bad as taking it away from him completely.

  "The initial hemorrhaging seems to have subsided," Conway continued, "But there’s swelling now, putting pressure on the brain. We can’t tell just yet the extent of the damage, or how much more might be caused if the swelling continues."

  "What are his chances?" I would have given anything to trade places with him.

  "If Aaron was an adult, I’d say close to none. But children are amazingly resilient because their bodies are still growing and developing."

  "Please. What are his chances?"

  "If there are some unforeseen complications, such as hemorrhaging or severe cerebral edema, he could suddenly take a fatal turn. On the other hand, I’m surprised he’s survived at all, so who knows? We’ll just have to wait and see."

  "Basically, you don’t know."

  "I wish I could tell you more."

  Aaron’s chest rose suddenly, as if he was finally able to take in a full breath. I waited for him to open his eyes. Come on, kiddo, come on. I squeezed his hand twice, gently—love-you. But alas, no change. "What’s the plan, any kind of treatment?"

  "The plan for now is to keep the swelling down, keep draining fluids, prevent infection, and make it to tomorrow."

  "Can he hear me?"

  "I wouldn’t talk to him much right now, don’t want to stimulate him until the pressure comes down."

  "What can I do, then?"

  The doctor bent over Aaron, lifted his eyelid and shone a light into his eye.

  "Be with him."

  Chapter Five

  Nothing can prepare you for the violent deaths of loved ones. Arranging for their funerals was more than I could handle alone. The passing of seven days did little to numb the pain. Thankfully, Dave Pendelton and some the members of his church helped me through the process.

  The funeral was a quiet event. I had Jim O’Brien to thank for keeping the media away. He stood at a distance, in uniform. His partner Chris sent his regrets but was not able to attend.

  A few members of Jenn’s church had asked if they could attend. I was surprised that only twelve had asked to come. Jenn would probably have wanted the entire congregation there.

  Jenn’s agent flew in from New York. It was the first time we met in person. While singing her praises, Barb mentioned the figure on Jenn’s book advance. Had it been any other time, I would have been impressed. Six figures never seemed so insignificant.

  Pastor Dave gave a short sermon and read some of Jenn’s favorite verses from the book of Proverbs:

  Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.

  One of the congregants played a guitar while a young lady sang You Are My Hiding Place. A tear rolled down my cheek and I struggled to hold it together. Jenn’s parents sat with me. Maggie put her arm around me and we held each other.

  Several eulogies were given, mostly for Jenn, a couple for Bethie. Oscar, Jenn’s father, stood to give his eulogy, though at times his voice cracked. "I’ve buried more buddies after the war than I can remember. You’d think I’d be used to it. But burying my daughter and granddaughter is something I never—" He pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped his eyes and nose. Maggie squeezed my hand.

  "As a child," Oscar continued, "Jenny was shy, but strong-willed. Didn’t know the meaning of giving up. I still remember driving her to the pet shop to get that puppy she wanted. She worked all summer scooping ice cream at Baskin & Robbins and saved every penny until there was enough for the puppy, the shots and supplies. She took care of Jimbo until he died at the ripe age of seventeen, three years after she got married.

  "That was my Jenny. Stubborn as a mule, taking care of those she loved, no matter what it took." Oscar stepped away from the podium and returned to his seat.

  I finally worked up the strength to say a few words. Gazing out at the crowd, I realized that aside from Jenn’s parents, we had no living relatives. Neither of us had siblings, were never close to our few cousins, and any uncles or aunts were either dead, or in a mental institution. Members from her church, City on a Hill, were the closest thing Jenn had to an extended family. But I had no family other than my wife and children. For the most part, I was addressing strangers.

  "I wish I had an anecdote or two..." It felt like a tumor had just developed in my throat. "Anyone who knew Jenn…" I caught a glimpse of their caskets and lost it. Several others wept with me. Finally I got a grip. "I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say except that... the world is a darker, colder place now."

  When it came time for the burial, eight men from the church served as pall-bearers. I followed the procession to the burial site, which was thankfully within walking distance of the memorial hall.

  The caskets were lined up next to each other. I requested that they remain open during the prayers so that Jenn and Bethie would have one last moment in the warm San Diego sun they loved so much.

  In a soulful baritone, Dave led everyone in a hymn—When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder. This would be the last time I’d see Jenn and Bethie’s beautiful faces. Ever.

  He sang the last verse solo:

  Let us labor for the Master from the dawn till setting sun,

  Let us talk of all His wondrous love and care;

  Then when all of life is over, and our work on earth is done,

  And the roll is called up yonder, I’ll be there.

  As they all repeated the chorus, I placed Bethie’s violin and bow under her hand, which was cold and stiff like wood. I touched her face, her silky brown hair. My little girl. Such a wonderful life taken from her. So much she’d never experience, touch, taste.

  And to think, barely three weeks ago, I had almost lost her in the shooting at her school. Nothing worse could possibly happen, I had thought. "Goodbye, baby girl," I whispered. "Daddy loves you." I was reluctant to pull myself away, but Jenn was also waiting.

  Not even death could diminish her beauty. Jenn's countenance beamed with peace, contentment and a hint of a smile—that playful grin she wore when she knew something I didn’t. Beneath her hand I placed the wallet photos she always carried of her children—Bethie and Aaron as two-year-olds. I also put the picture frame that she kept on her nightstand—the one with a white jasmine blossom she had picked on our honeymoon and taken home to preserve and pressed. One of the happiest times in our life.

  The casket lids descended. Just one more look, please. Then they were lowered into the ground. Dave said a final prayer as each person dropped a long stemmed rose into the graves. Poor Aaron. He didn’t get to say good-bye to his mommy or sister.

  Then it was over.

  Tearful hugs and handshakes, mostly from people I hardly knew, and I found myself seated alone on a mint-green, metal folding chair. An unceremonious front loader roared by bringing sand to drop into the graves. I decided to say my final good-byes. I couldn’t bear the sight of that huge monstrosity dropping sand on top of them, had no idea the very end would be so mechanical.

  Part of me—perhaps the best part—would be buried with them as well, forever.

  The front loader’s hydraulics hissed.

  I walked away, not looking back.

  ___________________

  The sun had just begun to set. Amber light infused the family room. I opened a bottle of Robert Mondavi and brought it with me as I walked upstairs to see if I could settle into my bedroom. I wasn’t ready. The wine stain was still there, along with some of the blood stains which I hadn’t yet cleaned. We never had that last dri
nk together.

  I retreated to the guest room and turned a chair towards the window facing Black Mountain. Across an amber canvas, the sun expired and gave way to a purple veil just over the horizon. Hot air balloons rose up taking people on romantic excursions. Flames from the burners illuminated the evening sky. I’d spend my evening with my Merlot, which I planned to drain directly from the bottle.

  Intent on anesthetizing myself, I took a pillow from the guest bed, wrapped myself in a comforter, and sat in an armchair, staring out at the hills. My eyes, my entire body and spirit began to shut down before taking my first pull. Perhaps I’d just sleep until morning. Not a bad plan.

  But it was quickly thwarted when my cell phone buzzed.

  The caller ID showed "restricted." Perhaps it was Children’s Hospital, calling to inform me that Aaron had come out of his coma.

  "Mister Hudson, this is Detective Pearson."

  "I gave at the office last week."

  "I need to speak with you again."

  "Why?"

  She cleared her throat. "To update you on the investigation. Let’s meet tonight."

  "What?"

  "Your house. Twenty minutes." She hung up before I could tell her what to do with herself.

  Chapter Six

  With a bottle in one hand and a pair of wine glasses in the other, I opened the door. For all I knew or cared, Anita Pearson could have been an android. Her partner, Detective Batey, stood behind her hugging his arms as a dry gust swayed the palm trees outside.

  Without a thought for my bare feet, disheveled hair, and shirt tails hanging over my pants, I held out the bottle and empty glasses. "Care to join me?"

  "We’re on duty," she said.

  "Suit yourself." I gestured to the living room. A chill ran up my spine as an unseasonably cold breeze blew through the doorway. "Have a seat."

  Batey smiled and began to sit in my black leather recliner.

  "I’ll stand," Pearson said.

  Batey backed up and stepped away from the chair.

  "Fine. You stand, I'll sit." I set the bottle and glasses on the glass coffee table.

  She pulled out her PDA and started tapping again. "How was the funeral?"

  "Just lovely, thanks."

  "Mmm-hmm." Her eyes were glued to the PDA. When they weren’t, she didn’t even attempt to meet mine. Instead she scanned the room, the windows, the furniture.

  Human looking enough, Detective Batey, seemed nothing more than a bodyguard. He shrugged as if to say, "Don’t look at me, she’s in charge."

  "You were going to update me on the case?" I said to Pearson.

  "We’ll have the crime scene DNA results any day now. A comparison with CODIS should lead us to some important conclusions. The samples you gave, however, might not be processed for a while."

  "The purpose being, of course, to exclude me as a suspect."

  "Right." Her eyes narrowed, her gaze, the rusted point of a spear. More incessant tapping on her PDA. "How would you characterize your marriage?"

  "Things were great. We had a new lease on life, you know, after my daughter survived the shooting."

  "Any problems, disagreements?"

  "No."

  "You sure?"

  "I told you. No problems."

  "You didn’t have any arguments on the night of the murder? One of your neighbors heard you shouting."

  "I wasn’t shouting at her."

  "At who, then?"

  "My son."

  Back to the PDA.

  "No, wait. You see, Aaron"

  "How old was your son, Mister Hudson."

  "Is. He is four. You see, he misplaced his—"

  "Four years old." Tap, tap, tap. My brow became moist. A drop of stinging perspiration rolled into the corner of my eye. I wiped it quickly, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

  She did.

  Took more notes.

  "Shouldn’t I have an attorney present?"

  "You’re not under arrest."

  "Then why this interrogation?"

  "Just taking a statement."

  I slammed my fist on the coffee table. "This is the third one!"

  Pearson flipped the leather cover of her PDA shut and shoved the stylus in. She stood, her face devoid of expression, and arched an eyebrow. "It’s in your best interest to stay calm, Mister Hudson."

  "Calm? You show up a few hours after I bury my wife and daughter and all but accuse me of—!" Maybe it was the stress, the fatigue. I couldn’t help myself from shouting. "Have you no decency!"

  She lifted her index finger. "We’ll be leaving now."

  As Pearson and her partner started for the door, Batey whispered, "Very sorry for your loss, sir." I couldn’t get myself up to see them to the door. I gripped the arms of my recliner and nodded half-heartedly.

  "Come on, Randy," Pearson droned and shooed him out the door. She was about to close it behind her when she peeked back in. "You might be hearing from the District Attorney’s office. Try not to be so defensive."

  Chapter Seven

  The initial forensic reports from the crime lab arrived. Anita Pearson had her killer. She knew it in her gut, which in her five years as detective, had never been wrong. Almost never. Yesterday's visit to Sam Hudson confirmed it.

  Victim number one—Jennifer Hudson—died of multiple stab wounds. There were signs of blunt force trauma to the head.

  Victim number two—Bethany Hudson—died of multiple stab wounds. Traces of semen found on her along with pubic hairs from the attacker. This was all it took for Anita to charge like a rhino into the D.A.’s office.

  "We’ve got the right guy," she said to Thomas Walden. "I knew it the moment I laid eyes on him."

  "Hudson? Come on, how’s it going to look going after the husband? He just lost his family."

  "How’s it going to look if you don’t get a conviction? Hudson did it. I need a search warrant."

  "Anita, there’s this little thing called due process."

  "He knows we’re on to him. If we don’t hurry, he might just take a flight to Buenos Aires and fall off the radar."

  "You closed the crime scene already."

  "It happened in the man's home, for Chrissakes. We searched what we could inside and around the house. But I need to see his personal computer, his file cabinets."

  "You want a warrant based on what, a hunch?" The D.A. scribbled something onto his desk blotter-calendar. Probably writing down a reminder to take his poodle to the groomer. Pig.

  Without taking his eyes from his calendar he muttered, "You're risking a Probable Cause hearing." He finished scribbling and looked back up. "Come back when you have something more solid."

  "You want solid? Go ahead and authorize the crime lab to expedite Hudson’s DNA samples—top of the list." She fixed an icy gaze. "And I’ll bring you probable cause on a silver platter."

  "Oh, really?"

  "But delay things, and this guy vanishes before we match him? I’ll be serving you pie, your choice: humble or crow, either way it’ll be all over your face."

  Three ridges creased Walden’s forehead. He reclined in his leather chair, put his hands behind his head, leaned back, then smiled. "Everything legit with the sample collection?"

  "Voluntary... more or less."

  He lowered his reading glasses and cast her a doubtful look, exasperation rising like steam from a cow pie.

  "It was."

  "Oh, all right. I’ll get the warrant, but I won’t expedite the tests."

  She stood up, rapped her knuckles on his desk. "This’ll be a slam-dunk."

  "I'll have Larry draw it up."

  "Oh, great." Why'd it have to be weasely, ex-boyfriend Larry?

  As she walked towards the door, Walden said, "Anita..."

  "What?"

  "I want this conviction as much as you do. Same sides, right?"

  Pearson turned around, opened the door and muttered, "Right."

  "Don’t you forget it."

  She was already gone.


  Chapter Eight

  For the next few days, paperwork and drudgery dominated my life. Death certificates, insurance forms, fending off reporters. The mere act of getting out of bed seemed insurmountable. Each day the sun rose and intruded through the window of the guest room. I still could not bring myself to sleep in my own bed. Though I had it cleaned, the chill of death still lingered.

  Nearly two weeks passed. Despite the fact I was living off of pizza, Chinese take-out, and all manner of high-calorie junk, I lost ten pounds. Dave dropped by now and then to see if I was okay and to offer help in any way I might need. Initially I declined, but by the third week, I was so overwhelmed that I tossed my pride and accepted.

  "I'm not sure what I need," I said, letting him into my house, which looked like the bachelor pad from hell. Boxes of stale pizza strewn everywhere, black garbage bags that should have been thrown out a week ago, and dirty laundry obscured the floor. "I just don’t know."

  "I think I might have a clue."

  Later that day, Dave showed up with four people from Jenn’s Bible study group. They arrived with brooms, mops, and other supplies to clean the house and dig me out.

  "Oh, I couldn't—"

  "You should go and see Aaron. Take all the time you need." Dave picked my car keys and jacket off the floor and handed them to me.

  A white haired lady, holding a mop said, "Go on, Mister Hudson." She patted my cheek with a maternal hand. "We'll just tidy up a bit while you're out."

  It was hard to say no to a person that reminded me of Aunt Susan. Even harder to refuse an offer to have my landfill cleaned. Suddenly, words began to fail. "I just—I don't know what to…"

  "It's okay, Sam." Dave turned my shoulders, facing me towards the garage. "Go ahead and be with your son."

  Aaron was stable, though still comatose. The doctors had nothing new to report. About all I could do was hold his hand, speak to him and just be there. For about an hour I stayed with him, just holding his hand, talking to him, now that it was okay to do so.