Waiting for Morning (16 page)

Brian 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
.

L
AMENTATIONS
1:15
A

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 served 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?”

“Not in California, no.”

Carol crossed her arms. “We’ve tried a time or two—” she nodded to Matt—“at least Matt here has. But in the end the jurors simply haven’t been ready.”

Matt shifted his weight. “We’re hoping this case, and the timing, will change that. Thanks to the education from MADD and other organizations, people want drunk drivers off the road. I think they may be ready to do something more drastic than ever before.” He met Hannah’s watchful look. “I really believe we can get a conviction in this case.”

“If you do—” Hannah hesitated.
“When
you do, how many years will Brian Wesley get?”

“The penalty for this charge is twenty-five years to life. It’ll
depend on the jury’s recommendation and the judge.”

Carol met Hannah’s eyes. “That’s one thing we have going for us this time. Judge Horowitz is fairly conservative. He doesn’t have much sympathy for people who choose to drink and drive and then kill someone in the process.”

“Of course Wesley would never serve twenty-five years.” Hannah’s eyes narrowed at this, and Matt went on. She needed to know the facts. “He could be out in five, even three years with parole.”

“Three years! If he gets sentenced to—”

She broke off when a door opened and Judge Horowitz appeared, his black robe flowing behind him. He climbed effortlessly into his elevated chair and began sifting through documents on his desk.

Another door opened, and Matt watched Harold Finch enter the room. Behind him came the man Matt presumed was Finch’s defendant. Trailing the procession was a bailiff. The trio walked past Matt and the two women and found seats at the defense table. Finch whispered something to his client.

Matt turned and found Hannah staring at the men. “That’s Harold Finch there on the right,” he whispered. “He represents the defendant and typically—”

“Which one is Brian Wesley?”

Matt caught his breath at the anger in Hannah’s voice. “I’m not positive, but I assume he’s the younger guy on Finch’s left.”

Hannah was still staring at the man when Matt excused himself.

The hearing was about to begin.

Hannah barely noticed Matt leave or the judge bang his gavel and ask the court to come to order. Her attention was fixed on the man sitting next to Harold Finch.

Somehow she had expected him to be dark and sinister, with the cold eyes of a killer. Instead he was clean-cut with a
trim build. He looked like the youth minister at their church. Hannah studied him and felt a wave of nausea wash over her. She clenched her teeth. It didn’t matter how he looked. She hated him.
How could you?
She glared at him, boring her eyes in the back of his skull.
How could you kill my family?

The judge’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “In the matter of
The People v Brian Wesley
, I believe the state has a formal charge to file. Is Mr. Wesley present?”

The young man next to Finch nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Hannah’s gaze remained locked on Wesley as she absently fingered the photo button on her blouse. The nausea intensified. Suddenly the room was spinning, and she had to fight off a wave of lightheadedness.
Don’t faint, don’t faint, don’t faint
. She drew a steadying gulp of hot, courtroom air.

You can do it
. She nodded. Yes, she could. This wasn’t about how she felt. This was about what she’d lost. And it was about making Brian Wesley pay for his sins. She closed her eyes for a moment and willed herself to be strong.
I’m doing my best, Tom, really I am
.

The judge continued. “Is counsel present for the defendant?”

The man Matt Bronzan had identified as Harold Finch stood. “Yes, your honor.”

Judge Horowitz peered down and acknowledged Finch over his oval reading glasses. “Mr. Finch. I assume you will be counsel for the defendant throughout this matter?”