The next ten minutes might as well have been ten years. I paced around until Rachel asked me to stop. It was making her anxious. Finally, Dave returned. We ran up to meet him.
"How is he?" I asked.
"He had an infection from fluid build up in his lungs and a high fever. He stopped breathing. But the Motrin got him down to 101 and he’s on a ventilator now."
"He made it," I said, so relieved I almost laughed.
"He’s still non-responsive, but alive."
I sighed, "Thank God."
Rachel and Dave smiled at each other.
"Amen," Dave said.
Chapter Eighteen
The trial was set for December 19. Rachel spent the days leading up to it interviewing just about everyone I knew in search of witnesses who might prove helpful to my case. She ran herself ragged, sometimes working eighteen hours a day and on weekends.
She secured a private detective by the name of Richard Mackey, a friend of Alan and Samantha. He liked to be called "Mack." With my innocence as his starting point, he was investigating every angle, every lead, in search of the killer.
Mack was an ex-cop from Poway who had retired early, after winning seven million dollars in the California Super lotto—his share in a 31 million dollar jackpot that he and others from his softball team had claimed. The money hadn’t spoiled Mack, though. Aside from retiring at the ripe age of forty-one and moving to a slightly larger, slightly newer house, he and his family lived pretty much the same as always. He took on only the most interesting cases and charged only a nominal fee. He took my case pro bono.
Oscar and Maggie secured a Domestic Violence Restraining Order with relative ease, doing away with the temporary one. My only contact with Aaron came vicariously through Dave, Rachel, and some of the other Bible study group members.
Now Oscar and Maggie were suing for legal custody. They got it. Painful as it was, the ruling neither shocked nor hindered us from plowing headlong into the murder case. One oblique benefit to Oscar and Maggie taking guardianship was that they could claim Aaron under their medical insurance.
Pastor Dave offered me a position at his church cleaning the sanctuary, offices, bathrooms. The pay wasn’t great, but it was better than nothing. "I would have offered it to you from the start," Dave said, "But I knew you had to try to make it on your own first." He was right. I would have been insulted, too prideful to have considered a janitor’s job just a few weeks ago. Now, I was happy with whatever I could get. I have a feeling Dave knew I'd get really depressed or go crazy, without something to do every day.
My house sold within a day of listing. The San Diego real estate market was still strong back then. Houses stayed on the market for less than a week before they got snatched up by hungry buyers. A seller’s market. Escrow was to close just one week before my trial.
The time came for me to pack up and move out. Anything I had not already sold, I packed away into a total of twenty cardboard boxes. These were the last physical remnants of my home. All the furniture was sold along with the house—the buyer loved Jenn’s taste in home decor and that gained me an extra ten thousand dollars in the selling price. I would actually come out a couple of thousand dollars in the black.
Three days before the close of escrow, I walked through the house, packing items of sentimental value. Rachel came over to help me decide what to keep and what to let go. She knew it would be too difficult for me to do alone.
We started in the master bedroom. All the furniture had been covered with pale sheets. The bed hadn’t been slept in since the night of the murders. I packed away photos, a large framed wedding picture, some of Jenn’s favorite books, her unfinished manuscripts.
Packing Jenn’s clothes away in boxes proved more difficult than I could have imagined. As Rachel and I stood in the closet, taking things down from hangers, something caught my eye. It was that silly necklace of seashells I made for her on our first date. As a girl, she had always dreamed of going to Hawaii. With that necklace, I made a promise to take her there one day.
"Why do you keep that old thing," I would ask, years later.
"It’s a reminder. Of your love, of how you always keep your promises." She wore it on our honeymoon in Maui, and every time we went to the beach.
Gazing at the necklace in my fingers, I recalled Jenn’s perfume, her silken auburn hair that draped over my arm as we walked the La Jolla shores on brisk moonlit evenings, enjoying our time off and trying to ignore our guilt for leaving the kids with a baby sitter.
Some of the necklace’s shells were broken, their color faded. But holding it, I still sensed her presence. Her smile, her goofy laugh.
"That one special?" Rachel asked.
"Yeah."
"You should save it," she said, giving my hand a warm touch. The necklace went into a single container which I’d labeled ‘Keepers.’ A small box that held only the most precious of mementos.
In Bethie’s room, there were too many things to consider. I picked out the keepers—one of her baby pictures, her first violin, a 1/16th size, concert recordings and programs. I couldn’t watch as Rachel packed the rest away for long term storage or donations.
Aaron’s room proved equally difficult. Because he was not actually gone, it seemed wrong to be putting his things away. The Thomas train table, his most prized earthly possession, was too large to be put in storage. I refused to sell it, rationalizing that it would be difficult to explain why I had gotten rid of it when he awakens.
For the first time in a long while, I sat by the train table as I’d done with Aaron many times after work. Every night when I came home, he’d run up to me and make me "fly" him around the house. I’d pick him up, hold him horizontally and together we’d say, "Up into the sky! Past the moon and into the heavens!" Then we’d race down the hallway with his wings spread, and we’d shout, "to infinity and beyond!"
The warmth of Rachel’s shoulder against mine reminded me of her presence. She pushed little green Percy around the wooden tracks and said, "My nephew has the same table."
"His pride and joy, right?"
"Yeah."
What I wouldn’t give to fly Aaron again. Or to sit there playing trains with him, making up stories and acting them out—just one more time. "God, I miss him," I said, my voice cracking as I held the blue Thomas engine in my hand. "I miss them all." I bit my lower lip to keep from breaking down.
"Oh, Sam." She put her arms around me as I wept, still clutching the train engine in my fist. I didn’t want her to see me this way—empty, broken, weak. But there was no use hiding it. "It’s okay," she said, whispering warmth into my ear. "You’re entitled to a good cry." She tightened her arms around me, pressed her cheek to mine and stroked my back. "Just let it all out."
Her breathes punctuated her own muffled sobs. A tiny whimper confirmed what I had suspected all along. After all the stories she’d heard, all the pictures, she’d grown to love Jenn and my kids like her own family.
I don’t remember now how long we stayed in each other’s arms. But it occurred to me that besides Jenn, my mother, and Maggie, I had never held another woman this close since I got married. Pulling back, I wiped Rachel’s tears. She studied the floor.
With all the negative publicity that comes with being a defendant in a murder trial, I had become a pariah in San Diego. Most of the time it made me angry. But deep down, the worst part of it was the loneliness. Rachel touched a part of my soul that so desperately needed to be known. With her eyes still shut, she lifted her head with glistening lips parted.
I leaned in towards her, placed my fingertips on her face, let them rest there. My breath grew short. It felt so natural. I brought my lips so close to hers that I could feel her breathing.
I wanted this.
So did she.
Just as our lips were about to touch, we both pulled back. She turned her head and I pushed myself back to a respectable distance. "I’m sorry, Jenn— Rachel!" Dammit. As if I wasn’t already mortified enough.
She smiled demurely and shook her head. "No. I’m sorry. Should have known better." Neither of us wished to dwell on what might have proven a mistake. We stood up and acted as if it never happened.
"Thank you for all your help," I said. "Not just for today, but for everything."
"Come on. Let’s finish up."
After Rachel left, I spent the rest of the evening preparing for my evacuation. The next day, Dave helped me move the boxes into a self-storage unit. A couple of boxes went next door into his garage. I'd be staying in his house until I found a place of my own, which, on a church janitor’s salary, could well have turned out to be a homeless shelter. Dave welcomed me to stay as long as I liked.
On the day escrow closed and with great reluctance, I handed the keys over to the real estate agent. The house was far from empty, though. My children’s laughter, the warmth and aroma of home cooked meatloaf, bread and corn, the soft padding of Jenn’s feet, trying not to wake the kids, at 6:30 every morning as she went downstairs to prepare breakfast—it was all still there. Even as the door swung shut for the last time.
Chapter Nineteen
The offer stood at murder one, life without parole, which according to the D.A. was extremely generous. He didn’t think we’d prevail in a capital murder trial. "It’s a gift," he told Rachel. "And why waste time and taxpayer dollars to proceed with a trial you know you’ll lose?" This came the day before opening arguments.
Rachel’s office, if it could be called an office, hid between an insurance broker’s and a travel agency in Clairemont Mesa. Cubicle would better describe it. We sat at a second-hand desk donated by friends from church.
"You need to consider it, Sam. If we lose—"
"No." Watching my wife and daughter die, seeing my boy beaten within a sliver of his life, was bad enough. But to lie and say I did it? At times I would actually welcome the death penalty, if for no other reason than to put an end to it all. But in my heart, I kept hearing Jenn say, "Aaron needs you."
I am ashamed to admit there were even days when I doubted he’d ever pull through. Sustaining hope was exhausting, especially when forbidden to visit. Still, Aaron became my sole reason to go on. That, and the furious determination to find the bastard who did this to my family and bring him to justice. And I didn’t mean the California Criminal Justice System. If I ever got a hold of him, I would try, convict, and execute him in the court of Sam Hudson. No punishment was too cruel or unusual for that animal.
Mack had worked long hours chasing down every potential lead and witness, interviewing every expert—pathologists, criminalists, computer forensics. Refusing to concede that he’d exhausted all possible avenues, he remained optimistic.
When I pressed Rachel about my chances, however, she was not nearly as positive. "We really needed the DNA test results," she said. "It’s our best piece of exculpatory evidence."
"What’s the hold up?"
"I’m not sure." She exhaled forcefully. "Their case is highly circumstantial, but I have to tell you, it’s going to be tough. Juries in murder cases like these want blood." She came over, sat in a chair next to me and put her hand on my shoulder. "You might want to consider the deal."
"And lie to the whole world, saying I raped Bethie, killed her and her mother, beat my son into a coma with a baseball bat?"
"I’m not saying that."
"Then what are you saying? Because that’s exactly what it’ll sound like."
"You’re facing the death penalty, Sam. I’m not certain we can win this."
"I can’t believe you’re even suggesting it."
She took a deep breath, held still for a long pause. Then stood up and rubbed her eyebrows. "I’m just—! I’m just trying to keep you alive."
"At what cost? Dammit Rachel, you’re starting to sound like those TV-show lawyers."
She stepped over and jabbed her finger at me. "You’re letting pride get in the way of what’s most important, and trust me, it’s not your reputation or your good name!"
"Oh really?" I stood too.
"Yes, really. What good will you be to Aaron if you’re dead?"
"I won’t be much good to him if I’m put away for life."
"At least you’ll be alive!"
"And he wakes up only to find his father pled guilty to killing his mother and sister!" We stood face to face, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, my fists clenched. If anger and frustration had been flames, the entire building would have burned to the ground. Neither of us had slept more than a couple of hours a day for the past few weeks. It was taking its toll.
Blowing out a long breath and running my hand through my hair, I went over to her. "Rachel, tell me. Are you still willing to go in there and fight?"
"Of course. It’s just..." She turned her back to me.
"What? What is it?"
"I...I just can’t..."
I went over stood behind her. "You can’t what?"
She turned around and with anguished eyes, said, "I can’t imagine the thought of you laying there, strapped to a table with tubes in your arms. I can’t imagine them injecting you with— I just can’t..."
I didn’t know what to say. She was embarrassed and clearly hadn’t meant to make this about her feelings. But there they were. And they mattered to me a great deal.
"We have to fight this," I whispered, wanting to but afraid to reach out and give her a reassuring touch.
"I know. To plead, that would be lying." She turned to me, her composure regained.
"Is your God a just God?" I asked.
"Yes, but…"
I lifted her chin. "Then we have to believe that truth and justice will prevail." She nodded and sniffled. "Didn’t you get a word or five back in Children’s hospital, that night?"
"Yeah. It’s going to be fine."
"That’s right. Now, we might not have evidence on our side but we have the truth. That’s got to count for something."
With a valiant smile, she said, "I wish I had your faith."
"At least you have someone to place yours in."
"I’ve been praying for you every night."
"I’ll take whatever help I can get."
"Not just for the trial," she said, twisting a lock of hair in her fingers. "I pray that you’ll find a home for your faith." Her words resonated within me, made me feel cared for in a way I hadn’t since losing Jenn.
I looked her in the eyes and thanked her. Rachel started to gather her things. When she was ready to go, she turned to me.
"Walden’ll pull it from the table once we go to trial. You sure?"
"No deal."
Chapter Twenty
If your impression of a judicial building has been shaped by Hollywood, then the San Diego Superior Court building will not be what you’d expect for something as dramatic as a capital murder trial. No grand cupolas, no towering marble columns. Just flat concrete and glass.
When you first walk inside, you’re not greeted by breathtaking views of vaulted ceilings with gold-etched frescoes, depicting the ideals of American jurisprudence. You’re walking into a government building—drab, cold, air as stale as the daily grind of the hundreds of the people who work there.
People stand in line, placing their briefcases and purses onto conveyor belts, running them through x-ray machines, before walking through metal detectors. You’d think you were about to board a 747 during a code red terrorist alert.
When I entered the courtroom, I sensed the people seated behind the waist high partition in the gallery glaring with scornful eyes. I didn’t realize my head was drooping until I saw Dave Pendelton. He pushed his thumb under his chin, silently reminding me: keep your head up.
I met Rachel at the defense table and we took a seat. An armed deputy stood in plain view with a clear shot.
"You ready?" Rachel asked.
"Not really."
"Good. Keep that tension, but hold it together."
"All rise," the bailiff announced. "The honorable Judge Jonathan Hodges." My best
interview suit hung loose on my shoulders. In less than three months, I had lost thirteen pounds. According to Rachel, Hodges was the worst possible judge we could have gotten. When it came to capital cases, he was an irate hard-liner.
Hodges took a seat on a black leather executive chair; a wall of law books neatly lined the shelves behind him. He thumbed through a couple of pages of a legal brief, an expensive pen in hand, then motioned to the prosecution to begin.
Second chairing, Deputy District Attorney Kenny Dodd stood and pitched the opening statement to the jury. This was not the same "dude" at the interrogation room in the Poway sheriff’s station. He’d cut his hair, looked all business, his tone crisp and professional—nothing like that California beach bum I’d met a couple of months ago.
"We’re here today because of a crime so horrible, so brutal, most people would find it hard to even imagine. This is the stuff you read in fiction, couldn’t happen in real life. But, members of the jury, the evidence will show that truth is indeed stranger than fiction. And more brutal." Dodd walked closer to the jury box and pointed to three blown up photos—Jenn, Bethie and Aaron.
"Jennifer and Bethany Hudson were attacked in their own homes. Raped and stabbed repeatedly. Little Aaron Hudson, while asleep in his bed, was struck in the head repeatedly with a baseball bat and now lies in a coma, even as we sit here now. This all happened in the supposed safety of their own home. Couldn’t happen, you might think, not in a quiet, well-to-do neighborhood like Rancho Carmelita.
"But that’s not the biggest shocker. The man who did this wasn’t some random burglar, some unknown killer. He was the husband and father of this beautiful family." He pointed right at me. I wanted to shrink into my seat until I remembered Dave’s strong arm, behind me, ready to yank me up.
"The evidence will prove Samuel Hudson, a pedophile, with financial motive, did in fact murder his family. He did so by taking full advantage of their trust. A sacred trust given to the one person they depended on to provide for and to protect them.
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