BEYOND JUSTICE

by Joshua Graham

  "Remember that trip to Wild Animal Park we were talking about?" I brushed a hand through his hair. "Well, I'm taking you there. We'll see rhinos, lions, you can chase the ducks all you want this time." The words caught in my throat. "You just need to wake up soon. Okay Aaron?" Tears filled my eyes. "I miss you."

  The nurse came in, apologized and turned away.

  Wiping my face with my arm, I waved her back. "It's okay. Just about ready to go."

  Without aim, I drove on the freeway until I arrived at La Jolla cove. There, I sat on a warm rock, watching the tide-pooling kids holding hands with their parents. Soon, as the waves began to roll in, churning white froth in the rocky crags, the families vanished. Even the seals left the protected shore, leaving me alone with thoughts that were fast becoming unwelcome residents in my mind.

  Two hours later, when I came home, the house looked as clean as it had ever been. The carpet had been vacuumed and shampooed. All my papers were neatly arranged. Decorations were set back in place. On top of that, for the first time since Jenn’s death, the scent of home-cooked food floated sweetly in the air.

  As I entered, haunting echoes filled my mind—the kids running to me, assaulting me with hugs and giggles as they did every night when I came home from work. Bethie would put her violin down and jump into my arms, even though she knew she was getting too big for that.

  "Daddy, daddy," Aaron would shout. "Fly me!" I'd pick him up, hold him horizontal and run all the way down the hall, the two of us shouting, To the sky, past the moon and into the heavens. To infinity and beyond!

  What I wouldn’t give now to look into the kitchen and catch a glimpse of Jenn, with that knowing smile she had on our Wednesday "date" nights.

  In the foyer, Dave and the others were putting on their sweaters and jackets. Lorraine, the elderly lady who reminded me of Aunt Susan smiled and patted my cheek. "There’s a casserole in the oven, dear. Just heat it at 350 for ten minutes."

  "I'm speechless." The house almost looked like my home again. "Thank you. Thank you all."

  Dave smiled. "Jenn was a sister to us."

  Since Jenn started attending City on a Hill, I had stiff armed them, cast them with the rest of the religious hypocrites. These people, however, were unlike any of the other religious people I’d known.

  So moved was I by their kindness that I did something I never dreamed I’d do. I invited them to join me for dinner.

  ___________________

  The unexpected food shortage crisis was quickly averted when Lorraine sent Alan to Vons to get more chicken and vegetables. The aroma of buttered rolls, roasted rotisserie chicken, sweet white corn on the cob, and sautéed vegetables made my mouth water.

  I sat at the table with my guests, certain that by the end of the night I’d be preached at, pressured—albeit politely—to confess my sins and give my life to Jesus, Hallelujah! But the closest it came to that was Dave asking if he could give thanks before we ate. Of course he could. Were she here, Jenn would have had it no other way.

  For the rest of the evening, we recalled things about Jenn and Bethie, some of which I would never have otherwise known, because their religious life was something I never took part in.

  By the meal’s end, we retired to the living room with coffee and happily distended bellies. Alan, who had come with his wife Samantha, leaned forward and drew a slow breath.

  "Mister Hudson," Alan said.

  "Please, everyone just call me Sam, okay?"

  Alan's wife Samantha grinned. "Might get confusing."

  "I’m wondering, Sam," Alan continued. "Would it be okay if we prayed for you tonight?"

  "I don’t know." I shifted in my chair. "I’m not all that comfortable with it."

  "Honey," his wife said. "He's not—"

  "Really," I said. "It’s all right. I appreciate it, but it’s not necessary."

  "Don’t be shy, Sam," Alan said. "Anything at all, just say the word."

  "Honey, please," Samantha’s brow wrinkled. "He said he’s not comfortable."

  An awkward silence fell.

  "Well," I said, to break the ice and bail poor Alan out, "My son could use all the prayers he can get." Right away I regretted it. I began to imagine some kind of snake-handling, holy roller, voodoo session. But it was too late to rescind now.

  Dave nodded and came forward. Alan took hold of his wife’s hand, who in turn took Lorraine’s, and so on until the entire group encircled me.

  Here goes.

  Again, there was silence. But it was an expectant silence. Like something truly remarkable was about to happen.

  And it did.

  It started with a low-pitched rumble under our feet. Then came the creaking of the house’s wood frame. Windows rattled. Before long, the entire house was shuddering. Reminded me of my childhood subway rides on the D-Train into Manhattan. A light side to side rocking.

  Lorraine let out a gasp.

  The group began to pray simultaneously.

  Though everyone else’s eyes were squeezed shut, mine remained wide open. A warm, tingling sensation trickled from the top of my head down my spine and spread through my body. Another fifteen seconds and it was over—the prayers and the tremors.

  Lorraine was the first to speak. "You’d think after thirty years in California, I’d be used to these earthquakes."

  "Sure you didn’t plan this with the Man?" I smiled at her and pointed heavenward. "Because it wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to scare me into religion."

  She shook her head. "I’ve been jumpy ever since Northridge. Don’t you get scared?"

  "Not really. Just another little San Diego tremor. We’re pretty far from any major fault lines." Lorraine blushed and laughed. "Thank you for the prayers. I can honestly say it was earth-shaking."

  Whether it had been a true spiritual experience or an emotional high, their prayers helped. I no longer felt isolated. Someone knew my pain, someone cared.

  And they didn’t even ask me to say the Sinner’s Prayer.

  Chapter Nine

  The morning after, I called George, my supervisor at the office but he didn't pick up. Probably saw my number on his caller ID and let it roll over to voicemail. I needed to come in and copy a couple of files from my work computer which contained life insurance contact information. The very idea of getting paid for Jenn and Bethie’s deaths repulsed me, but the funeral and the burial had cost thousands. We’d depleted our cash reserves on our new house. Reserves were something I had to seriously consider now as Aaron’s insurance deductibles were beginning to pile up. What would happen if, God forbid, I should lose my job and benefits?

  I called Human Resources to discuss issues of insurance claims. Amanda answered. She seemed startled and abruptly put me on hold. A cheesy popcorn version of We've Only Just Begun played while I waited.

  "Sorry to keep you, Sam," she finally said. "How are you doing?"

  "I’d be lying if I said fine."

  "I’m so sorry."

  "Amanda, I need to talk to you about my life insurance benefits."

  "Of course."

  The next few words were difficult to utter. "How do I go about making a claim?"

  A pause. She muffled the receiver with her hand and I vaguely heard her murmuring. Then she was back. "You’re going to need to come into the office."

  "Can I bring a copy of the death certificates or do you need the originals?"

  "Either is fine. You’ve got to come in right away. Okay?"

  "I suppose." Why so urgent?

  "Like today?"

  "I can be there in an hour."

  "Good. We’ll see you then."

  ___________________

  The first stop was my cubicle. I hoped to avoid all the sympathetic wishes and concerned faces. To my surprise, no one in my department approached me. Instead, they turned their heads and pretended they hadn’t seen me. That worked just fine for me.

  I was stunned to find my cubicle completely empty, save for a cardboard box and a she
et of paper on my desk where my computer and monitor used to sit. It was a memo on the firm’s letterhead and simply said:

  Samuel Hudson,

  Please report to Human Resources for your exit

  interview.

  Fred Chase,

  Director, Human Resources.

  ___________________

  "What the hell is this?"

  "Sam, please. Have a seat." Fred sat stone faced at his desk, hands folded. He seemed calm, but I could see the apprehension in his eyes.

  "I will not have a seat! Tell me why I’m being canned."

  He sighed, glanced around the room. "This isn’t really open for discuss—"

  "Dammit, Fred. I just lost my wife, my daughter. My son’s in a coma. I need the medical insurance."

  "You’re an at-will employee in the state of Califor—"

  "Cut the crap!"

  "Do you have all your personal effects?"

  I answered by stabbing my index finger down at the cardboard moving box. "It was George, wasn’t it?"

  "His decision, yes."

  I always knew George was looking for the perfect opportunity to get rid of me. I never imagined he would sink this low. "Look at my record, Fred. I've performed on par—no, above par, won bigger settlements than any of my peers, never took time off without authorization. I was up for partner. Sure, I took more than my allotted bereavement days, but I had tons of vacation and sick days banked."

  He held his hands up. "It wasn’t that either."

  I kicked his desk. The sound echoed down the hall and into the main lobby from Fred’s door, which I only then remembered was open. We remained silent for a moment. He lowered his voice and motioned for me to shut the door.

  "Listen to me, Sam. What you do on your own time is none of our business. But what you do with the firm's computer on the firm’s time, is."

  "What, paying bills online? Updating my Netflix queue? iTunes? For that, I’m getting the ax?"

  "Come on, Sam," he hissed and leaned forward. "You know what I’m talking about. Your private hobbies."

  "No way. None of that was mine."

  "We have regulations about that sort of thing."

  "I came forward with it!"

  He shifted in his chair, tugged on his collar as if it had suddenly shrunk. "Do you have any idea what kind of liability you’ve exposed the firm to? Child pornography on a company computer? What if a client saw that? This is automatic grounds for termination."

  Anger boiled within me, threatened to blow like Mount St. Helen’s. I’m not a violent man, but I became keenly aware of my potential. "Okay Fred, Listen" I said, curbing my temper. "Go ahead and investigate all you want, but I need to make those insurance claims."

  "The investigation's concluded. And I’m sorry, but your benefits have been terminated as well."

  "No, wait. You don’t understand—"

  "I think we’re done, now," Fred said, shutting a folder on his desk with a polyurethane smile. He handed me a slip and a pen. "Need you to sign this exit form. Section Two states that the reason for your termination has been explained to you."

  I snatched it out of his hands, threw it aside. "This is insane. I have never—!"

  "It’s final. Nothing I can do about it. Anything you’d like to say for the record before we conclude?"

  Only two words. Which I shouted repeatedly as I leapt over his desk, tackled him to the floor and grabbed his throat, shaking his head like a rattle.

  Until someone called security.

  ___________________

  Shock is too mild a word to describe my state as I walked back to my car, escorted by a pair of security guards. I didn’t particularly love this job, but it had always been a stable part of my life. I slammed the trunk shut and when I looked up, I saw my best friend standing there.

  "Mike, listen," I said, hoping to find my old buddy and only ally rushing to my side.

  He only shook his head. "What the hell, Sam? What the bleeding hell?" The look on his face, disappointment and disgust. If this was one of his damned pranks, I’d have to thoroughly kick his ass.

  "How could I what, get fired?" I said. "Does everyone know why?"

  The side of his mouth began to twitch. His eyes were molten lava. "All this time, you pretend to be my friend, a decent guy."

  "I never downloaded any of that stuff! What kind of sick—?"

  "All this time, you made me believe that I was the screw-up, that I was morally bankrupt, while you, the almighty, the self-righteous, can’t-do-wrong, Samuel Hudson..."

  "Just stop for a sec—"

  "You sick sonofabitch!" This was no prank. Mike got right into my face, his voice hissing. "They’re investigating me too. Because I was your friend."

  "Come on, Man! You know I wouldn’t download that stuff!" With open hands, I stepped forward. But he recoiled, as if I carried the Hantavirus.

  "Wouldn't you? Man, I don't even know you anymore."

  "Don't be saying that, Mike. All these years, you've known me. Do you—"

  "Keep the hell away from me and my family!"

  "No. No, Wait. Just listen to me."

  "To think, I let you stay under my roof. With my wife, my kids!"

  "Mike!"

  But he was off. And for good measure, he turned and flipped me the bird. A gust of Santa Anna put a bitter taste in my open mouth, causing me to choke on the dryness.

  I leaned back against my car, let out a long breath, shut my eyes and waited for the jackhammer in my chest to slow down.

  Then it was quiet.

  Nothing but the wind blowing, dry leaves scraping against the asphalt, and a car rumbling through the parking deck.

  My neck ached. Best if I went home and slept it off. Then I realized, My God! I’m losing all my medical benefits along with my salary. Things couldn’t possibly get worse.

  But they did.

  "Mister Hudson?"

  I opened my eyes. Before me stood Detectives Pearson and Batey. Pearson's hand rested on her hip, right above her gun. I groaned and rubbed my neck. "You’ve got to be kidding."

  "You need to come down to the station with us, now."

  "Why?"

  Batey turned me around, directed my hands up against my car and began patting me down. A crowd had gathered by the balcony. George stood amongst them with his arms folded over his chest, watching the whole thing.

  Pearson’s words echoed in my head, becoming more distant as she spoke. "Samuel Hudson, you’re under arrest for the murder of Bethany M. Hudson and Jennifer Lawrence Hudson..."

  Chapter Ten

  I sat alone in an interrogation room at the Sherriff's station in Poway and remained silent. How could this have happened? Had to be a mistake.

  After twenty minutes in a creaky wooden chair, staring at the wall clock and the one-way mirror, I breathed a sigh of relief when Detective Pearson finally entered the room. I gave her a reluctant smile. "The cuffs really aren’t necessary."

  Instead of a PDA, she held a yellow legal pad and pen in hand. She sat at the opposite side of the table, scribbling notes. "There’s one question that stands out."

  I didn’t answer.

  "Why your own family?"

  It took all my self control not to react the way I felt: violent. I took a deep breath and stared into her glassy eyes. "Shouldn’t I have an attorney present?"

  "You are an attorney."

  "I mean, a criminal defense lawyer."

  "I can’t advise you on that," she said. "You’re certainly entitled as per your rights, but that’s up to you."

  I thought of calling someone from criminal back at work, but they all watched me get arrested. No way would the senior partners allow anyone to represent me. First the child pornography, now murder charges. They’d do best to distance themselves from me as much as possible.

  "Do you think I should have a lawyer?" I was testing her. Criminal wasn’t my field, but anyone who watched Law & Order knew this much.

  "I can’t give you leg
al advice. You want to talk to us with or without a lawyer, that’s your choice. But your resistance won’t reflect well."

  "I need to make a phone call."

  "You’re certainly entitled to that as well. Meanwhile, you’re looking at two counts of Murder One at the very least. Rape of a minor, aggravated assault, we’re talking special circumstances—"

  "This is insane."

  "This is a capital. But with a confession I might be able to talk with the D.A. and get you a deal. Get it down to life without parole. Without a full trial, you’d save the tax payers of San Diego County a lot—"

  "What are you, on crack?" An ironic laugh escaped my lips.

  Pearson tossed her paper and pen on the desk and leaned forward with her hands pressed firmly into the gray Formica. "Something amusing?"

  "Only this joke you call law enforcement."

  "I'm just trying to make things easier." Our eyes locked. She sat down again, tying to look unperturbed. "For everyone." She wouldn’t look at me now.

  "So is this the part where you smash a wine bottle and stick the jagged edge into my face and say, ‘Don’t be foolish, vee have vays of making you schpeak?"

  "Scumbag."

  "I'd like to make that phone call now."

  "You’ll get that, when I say so." She continued to write. A minute passed with no sound save for the scratching of her pen.

  "You know this is wrong. Why are you doing this?"

  "You don’t get to ask the questions here," she said, her eyes never leaving the form.

  "Ms. Pearson."

  She didn’t look up.

  "Detective."

  That approach didn’t bear fruit either.

  Slamming my bound fists onto the table I shouted, "Dammit, young lady, you look at me when I’m talking to you!"

  That worked. Two seconds from Chernobyl, she lowered her pen and stood up slowly. "I will look at you when and if it suits me, you low-life, bottom-feeding—"