“No nonsense. Doesn’t like drunk drivers.”
“Good.” Finch breathed easier. “You been off the bottle?”
“Sometimes. I drink a little now and then, but no driving, man. Don’t worry.”
Finch’s face grew red and he frowned. “It’s going to take more than that, Mr. Wesley! You need to stop drinking. This case will go to trial, and if the prosecutor can prove you’re still drinking, there’s a chance you’ll be convicted of first-degree murder.”
Brian gulped and his palms began to sweat. When he could speak again, his voice was pinched. “You said that wouldn’t happen.”
“It’s never happened in the history of California.” Finch set his elbows on the table and leaned closer to Brian. “But jurors are changing. They’re only sympathetic to a point. If they think you’re going to drink and drive again, maybe hurt their families or friends, they just might put you away.”
Brian picked up a broken piece of the paper clip and ran his finger over its smooth length. “I’m trying to stop, man.”
“How about AA? You connected with a group yet?”
“I went once. Some guy led the thing … kept talking about higher power this, and God that. I couldn’t relate, you know?”
Finch waved a hand in dismissal. “The God stuff is part of the deal. No one says you have to believe it, but if you’re not in with an AA group, you’ll lose the jury’s sympathy for sure.”
Brian looked down again, and his eyes fell on another paper clip. He reached out and pulled it closer. “So … what? Pretend I’m some kind of Jesus freak?”
“God, Jesus, Buddah, higher power … whatever. Just go along with it. This has nothing to do with your personal belief system. It has to do with keeping your pickled behind out of prison. Understand?”
Brian nodded and bent the paper clip until it was unrecognizable.
Finch summed up Brian, and his face became a mask of doubt. “I plan to win this case, Mr. Wesley. But I am going to need your cooperation.”
“Got it.”
“All right, that’s better. Listen, I have to talk to someone down the hall. I’ll be back in ten minutes, and we’ll get set up in the courtroom.”
Brian did not look up as his attorney left the room. A ripple of terror ran through him like a current of electricity. How did I get here? His heart skipped a beat in response. Wasn’t I doing my best work ever, sober for three weeks? How did everything get so messed up? He closed his eyes and he could see Carla, the devastated look on her face when she picked him up at the county jail the night of the accident.
She had said nothing until they were in her car. Then her voice had been barely more than a whisper. “How could you, Brian?”
He hadn’t answered her. He had still been drunk, after all, and there was no point defending himself to Carla. But she’d been relentless, horrified at what had happened. “Brian, do you understand? You killed two people!”
He tried to explain that it was an accident … of course he hadn’t meant to hurt anyone. But Carla was furious and unforgiving. For days after the accident she stayed away from him, almost as if she were afraid of him. When they spoke, she talked of nothing but the accident, the impending court proceedings—and the biggest issue of all—when Brian was finally going to quit drinking.
A week after the accident Brian could take no more. He moved out and took up residence on the sofa bed at a friend’s nearby apartment. Jackson Lamer was a party buddy from Brian’s high school days, faithful and true, always ready with a cold one when the chips were down.
“Dude, whatever you need,” Jackson had told him after hearing about the accident. He popped the top of an aluminum beer can and handed it to Brian. “Rides to court, AA meetings. Whatever, dude. You’re in righteous, big-time trouble, and that’s what buds are for, man. Just let me know.”
Jackson was a keeper, the kind of friend Brian wished he had more of.
Police had impounded Brian’s car, and the few times he had needed a ride in the weeks since, Jackson had come through. Days were difficult, wondering if he should look for a job or wait until the courts were through with him. But evenings were better, he and Jackson would pass the hours sharing a twelve-pack, talking about old times.
Since the accident, only Jackson had been faithful. Everyone else had forsaken him: Avery Automotive, Carla, even the beer. Back in the old days, the drink always made things okay, but ever since the accident, there was no peace—not in drinking or sleeping … and definitely not in thinking. Day or night, whenever he closed his eyes, he was haunted by them. The girl lying lifeless on the side of the road; her father trapped in their family car, his life slowly draining away. A mother and sister left alone, brokenhearted.
He hated himself for what he’d done to them.
He tried to block out their faces, but they pushed their way into his mind anyway. And with them came images of demons, laughing, taunting him, offering him another drink. Brian swallowed hard around the lump in his throat.
The legal proceedings were pointless. Whatever happened in court, he was already trapped in the worst kind of prison.
He looked around, searching for another paper clip, but found none.
A meeting for alcoholics had offered no relief. Finch had called with the information, explaining that there was a meeting one mile from Jackson’s apartment. Brian remembered the evening well. He had stayed clean for the occasion, and that evening Jackson had dropped him off.
“Give it a try, man.” He’d shrugged. “Who knows, maybe I’ll join you one day.”
Brian walked through the double glass doors nervously, signed in, and found a seat. The room was filled with twenty or so men and women ranging in age from early twenties to late fifties. Most of them looked comfortable, like they’d been meeting together for years.
“We have someone new in our group tonight.” The leader looked right at him as he spoke. “Mr. Wesley, will you stand and tell us a little about yourself and why you’re here?”
Brian wished he could disappear, but he stood, his knees knocking within his worn jeans. “Brian Wesley. I, uh … I was in an accident last week. Uh … my attorney told me about this.”
A knowing look came over the leader’s face. “Brian—may I call you Brian?”
Brian nodded.
“Brian, was that the accident at Ventura and Fallbrook?”
He looked around the room, suddenly embarrassed. “Yeah.”
The leader seemed to wait for him to elaborate. When he stood silent, the man went on. “You were driving under the influence, is that right?”
Brian nodded again and shoved his hands deep inside his pockets.
“Can you tell us about it?”
“Uh … well … no.”
The leader nodded. “Okay.” He paused. “I’m sure a few of us read about that accident.” He looked at the others and his voice filled with compassion. “A father and daughter were killed when Brian, here, drove his truck through a red light at Ventura and Fallbrook. Is that right, Brian?”
Brian’s temper flared. “I said I didn’t want to talk about it!”
“I understand, but we don’t keep secrets in this group. We’re here to help you.”
Brian wanted to run from the room. “I don’t need help. I’m here because of my attorney.”
“You’re not alone, Brian. A few of those sitting around the room here have been involved in serious accidents. Accidents they caused by driving drunk. But they’ve found forgiveness in Christ and have accepted his gift of new life.”
Brian shook his head. The guy sounded like some kind of religious freak. Who was Christ anyway, and what did new life have to do with drunk driving? What sort of God would want anything to do with him after what he’d done to that family?
His response had been quick. “I don’t believe in God, man.”
The leader smiled kindly. “That’s all right. He believes in you. He wants to meet you right where you are, Brian.”
Bria
n had listened to the man’s religious drivel for ten minutes before leaving the meeting early. If there was a God—and he seriously doubted the idea—Brian knew he would have died in that accident. The pretty blond girl and her father would have lived. It was simple as that.
He hadn’t gone back to the meetings.
Brian looked at the clock. The hearing would take place soon. He pushed the pieces of broken paper clips with his forefinger until they formed a small letter s. He hadn’t talked to Carla in three weeks, and he suddenly wondered about Brian Jr. What would the boy think when he realized what his father had done?
He thought of his own father. Red Wesley was a boozer from way back. He floated from job to job, and when Brian was four, he deserted the family and took up with a barmaid across town. Brian’s mother got married again, this time to a wealthy, tea-drinking investor. He didn’t exactly love Brian, but he bought him whatever he needed, and in his father’s absence, material goods weren’t all that bad. After a year or so they lost track of Red Wesley. Ten years later his mother was notified that Red had died. Alcohol poisoning.
All his life Brian had been determined to be a better father than Red.
I’m just like him. Brian dug his elbows into his thighs and dropped his head into his hands. I don’t care what they do to me. Lock me up for twenty years. Thirty, even. Then Carla can meet someone, and little Brian can have a different daddy. He deserves better.
He squeezed his eyes shut and the images returned again. The girl, her blond hair matted with blood … her father moaning from inside the car. The demons, black faces dripping with blood, sneered at him, taunting him.
“Okay, God,” his hands shook and his pulse quickened. The dryness in his throat seemed to reach down into his gut. “If you’re real then I give up. Take me now. I don’t want to live another minute.”
Brian waited. Nothing. “I thought so.”
He pushed the paper clip pieces around until they formed the shape of a glass. He glanced at the clock once more and wrung his hands together, trying to still their incessant trembling. Let’s get this thing over with so I can go home and have a drink.
Jenny lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. She still wore the same rumpled pajamas and had barely moved in the two hours since her mother left. It was nearly ten, and the school bus had long since come and gone. Jenny clutched her stomach and rolled onto her side. She hadn’t lied to her mother, she really did feel terrible. Her heart pounded and her chest ached … getting air was hard because she couldn’t relax long enough to draw a deep breath. Her sinuses throbbed from hours of crying. She had felt this way since the previous afternoon and had passed the night restlessly, desperately trying to sleep.
“Oh, I don’t care, Lord!” She rolled onto her side. “Take me. I don’t wanna live anyway.”
She grabbed her pillow and shoved it over her face so she couldn’t breathe. Seconds passed, and she willed herself to hold firm, keep the pillow in place. Just a few minutes and she would be with Daddy and Alicia. Take me, Lord. Please.
Suddenly, when it seemed her lungs would burst, she threw the pillow onto the floor, gasping in great gulps of air.
I can’t even do that right. Please take me, Lord.
If only she weren’t so weak. She should have held the pillow longer. There had to be another way. Carbon monoxide. Sleeping pills. A razor blade. Something.
Mom doesn’t want me. My friends won’t talk to me. Please Lord, I want to be with you and Daddy and Alicia.
She tossed and turned, rolling from side to side, gulping in quick, jerky breaths. What was wrong with the air in this room? It was stale, warm. No matter how many times she sucked in, her body screamed for more oxygen. She wove her fingers into her hair, grabbed two fistfuls and pulled as hard as she could. I hate this, Lord. I want to die. Carbon monoxide. Sleeping pills. A razor. She ran through the options again and again and again. Until finally she couldn’t keep her eyes open a moment longer, and she drifted off to sleep.
Thirteen
The Lord has rejected all the warriors in my midst;
he has summoned an army against me.
LAMENTATIONS 1:15A
Hannah was pacing a short, nervous pattern in front of Judge Horowitz’s courtroom when a woman appeared with two large photo buttons pinned to the lapel of her cream-colored jacket. The first held the insignia of Mothers Against Drunk Drivers; the second bore the picture of a kind-looking man in his thirties. The woman was forty-five, maybe forty-eight. Her hair was pulled back, and her eyes held a gentle glow, as though she had found a peace that was rare in a world of suffering.
The woman approached and held out her hand. “Hello. I’m Carol Cummins.”
Hannah wondered if Carol could see her heart pounding in her throat. “Hannah Ryan.”
“I thought it was you. We’re usually the first to arrive and the last to leave.” She smiled and motioned toward the courtroom. “Matt Bronzan is probably already setting up inside. Let’s go in. I’ll introduce you.”
Hannah felt her pulse quicken. What would Matt Bronzan think of her? Did she look like a victim? Would she evoke enough sympathy from the people who had the power to put Brian Wesley behind bars? She thought a moment and tried to take on the look of a victim. As she did, she glanced at the photograph in her hand and remembered the truth.
Tom and Alicia were gone. There was no need to pretend.
“I brought the photo.”
Carol took it and studied it a moment. “They look very happy.” She raised her eyes, and Hannah saw distant pain there.
Hannah looked at the picture once more. “Yes. We all were.”
“Well …” Carol drew a deep breath. She took the photo and snapped it carefully into a photo pin, then handed it back to Hannah. “I’d like to hear more about your family some day, Hannah. But right now we had better get inside. The hearing’s in just a few minutes.”
Hannah pinned the photo of Tom and Alicia to her rayon blouse and nodded. She was ready to meet Matt Bronzan.
Inside the courtroom, Matt straightened a pile of notes and set them down in front of his chair. Adjusting his tie, he glanced at the clock on the back wall. The others would be here any moment. He swallowed hard and rubbed his damp palms together. His decision was made. He was about to go through with it.
He prayed for wisdom and success. It was time. The system had gone along for too many years without recognizing how serious drunk driving and its consequences were. He prayed that this case would change that.
The back door opened, and he turned to see two women walk in. He recognized Carol Cummins from MADD, and he studied the other woman with her. She was striking, despite her swollen eyes and loose clothing. Hannah Ryan. He was sure of it.
“Matt.” Carol stopped at the railing separating the spectator section from the rest of the courtroom.
“Good morning, Carol.”
She slipped an arm around the other woman’s shoulders. “This is Hannah Ryan. The defendant killed her husband and—”
“I know who she is,” Matt cut in kindly. His gaze held Hannah’s for a moment, then he reached out and took her hand in his. He hesitated. There was so much he wanted to say, but nothing that could help. “I’m … I’m so sorry, Mrs. Ryan.”
Hannah nodded, and Matt saw her eyes fill with tears. She seemed unable to speak so Matt continued. “I’m glad you’re here today. It does make a difference.” He paused. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to explain a little bit about what I’m going to do today, what’s going to take place.”
Carol turned to Matt. “I told Hannah about the first-degree murder possibility.”
“Right.” Matt still held the woman’s hand, and he looked intently at her. “Yesterday I met with the defendant’s attorney. They offered a plea bargain.”
Anger flare in Hannah’s eyes. “A plea bargain?”
“The defendant was willing to plead guilty to incidental vehicular manslaughter. According to their agreement, he would have serve
d thirty days in jail and paid a fine, a thousand dollars I think it was.”
Hannah dropped his hand. “You settled?”
“No. I told them we weren’t interested.”
The woman’s face flooded with relief. “So what’s the charge?”
Matt paused. “We’ll charge him with driving under the influence and causing bodily injury while under the influence for the injuries your daughter Jenny sustained. Those charges don’t carry prison time, though.”
“What about the rest?”
Matt hesitated. “First-degree murder. All or nothing.” He studied Hannah and looked to Carol. “Have you explained any of this to her?”
“Yes. She understands.” Carol tightened her grip on Hannah’s shoulders. “If the jury doesn’t agree with the charges, Mr. Wesley walks away a free man.”
Matt drew a deep breath and returned his attention to Hannah. “My office has been waiting for a case like this, and we believe it’s time. The defendant, Brian Wesley, has prior convictions and prior drunk driving accidents. He’s had his driver’s license suspended, and last year it was revoked. He has participated in alcohol education courses and signed agreements as part of his parole conditions promising never to drink and drive again. At the time of the accident, he had no valid license, and tests showed he had consumed a significant amount of alcohol before driving home.” Matt softened his voice. “All of which makes this a very serious situation.”
Hannah swallowed hard and stood a bit taller. She hesitated a moment. “Do you think we have a chance?”
Matt smiled. “I think so. First-degree means Mr. Wesley used his vehicle as a weapon and set out deliberately to murder. Premeditated murder, really. It’s a tough charge, but there are a few landmark precedents in other states. The question is culpability. To what degree was Mr. Wesley culpable in the deaths of Tom and Alicia.”
Hannah’s brow wrinkled in a frown of concentration. Matt figured she was trying to makes sense of all he’d told her. “No one’s ever been convicted of first-degree murder for driving drunk and killing someone?”