Waiting for Morning (21 page)

“Mr. Wesley … remember, the keys to your prison cell lay between the covers of this book. Call me if you have any questions.”

Hannah found a seat in the courtroom ten minutes before the preliminary hearing and noticed Carol Cummins heading toward her.

“Did I miss anything?” Carol gave Hannah’s hand a quick squeeze.

“No. Mr. Bronzan is not even here yet.” Hannah kept her voice to a whisper.

“Is Jenny coming?”

Hannah scowled. “She had to be at school early for a project or something.”

Carol hesitated. “How’s she doing?”

“It’s hard to tell. She spends a lot of time in her room. Whenever I try to talk to her she gets hard, almost angry at me.”

“Have you thought about sending her to a counselor?”

Hannah blinked at the question. A counselor? Of course not. Jenny wasn’t sick, for heaven’s sake. “No. We never thought much of counselors.”

There was a pause. “That’s because you had the Wonderful Counselor.”

Hannah felt something like a rock in her stomach. “Yeah, well, on that note maybe we
should
look someone up.”

Carol’s voice softened. “You still have the Wonderful Counselor, Hannah. You just need to go to him.”

Hannah sighed. Why couldn’t Carol leave this alone? Hadn’t she made her feelings clear? “I told you I’m finished with that. Clearly God, if he even exists, did not want to spend a lifetime walking by my side. He left me, remember? From here on out I’m on my own. And so is Jenny.”

Carol reached into her notebook and took out a slip of paper. It was covered with scribbled notes. “I wrote these down
for you.” Carol handed the paper over. “Just some Bible references. I know it sounds crazy, but they’re all from Lamentations. I really related to them. Maybe sometime when you have a moment to yourself …”

Hannah took the paper because to refuse would have been rude. She folded it and tucked it into a pocket in her purse, then cocked her head to one side and looked at Carol. Sadness filled her at the sincerity on her friend’s face. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Carol. Really. But it isn’t going to work. When I’m alone and nothing makes the hurt go away, I don’t go to the Bible. How could I believe anything it says after what happened?” Carol didn’t have an answer for that. But then, Hannah hadn’t expected one. “I go to my photo albums. Pictures of me and Tom when we were kids, wedding photos, and … and pictures of my little girl—” Hannah’s voice broke and she bit her lip. When would the pain stop?

Carol placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to make things worse.”

Hannah swallowed, but it took her a moment to speak. “I know. You mean well. But please, no more talking about God and the Bible and how much my old church friends could help. I have you, after all—” she smiled through teary eyes—“and Mr. Bronzan. That’s enough for now.”

The preliminary hearing was underway.

Matt had given a thorough rundown of the state’s evidence, and in response, Harold Finch had tried to convince the judge that his client may not have been legally drunk at the time of the collision. He delivered a long-winded dissertation explaining how it takes so many minutes per drink for alcohol to permeate the bloodstream and how it was possible Brian Wesley’s senses had not yet been impaired when the crash occurred.

At first Hannah had been alarmed but from where she and Carol were sitting, she could see the calm in Matt’s face, and
her concern eased. When Finch finished, the judge ordered a five-minute break, and Hannah watched Matt rise and turn his attention toward her. He smiled and made his way through a small gate in the railing to where she and Carol sat. There was something tender in his eyes, and Hannah had the oddest feeling that somehow this man could relate to her pain.

Carol motioned toward the lobby. “I have to make a few phone calls. I’ll be back.” She stood up and left as Matt approached and leaned against the back of one of the seats. He nodded a greeting to Hannah. “Glad you could make it.”

“I told you, Mr. Bronzan, I’ll be here every time there’s a hearing.” Hannah stared at the back of Brian Wesley’s head for a moment and felt her anger rising. “I want him locked up as much as you do.”

“Call me Matt.”

She met his gaze and smiled a smile that never reached her eyes. “Okay, Matt. Call me Hannah. By the way, you did great up there.”

“This is only the beginning. It’ll get a lot more heated once we get to trial.”

Hannah hesitated. “Then … you’re not worried about the … the …”

Matt shook his head. “The argument about Wesley’s blood alcohol level? No. I had a feeling we’d get that from Harold Finch. It’s a new defense in these cases.”

Hannah nodded uncertainly. There was so much involved. She didn’t know what she’d do if it weren’t for Matt.

The judge returned to his chair, and Matt put a hand on her shoulder. “Carol tells me you’re ready to do victim impact panels.”

Hannah nodded and closed her eyes. For an instant she saw Tom and Alicia, lifeless, as they’d looked lying on stretchers that day in the hospital. She opened her eyes and the image disappeared. “Yes, we’re planning to do one next month. Sometime before Thanksgiving.”

“Let’s get together before then so we can compare notes. You know, come at this thing from the same angle. It’s crucial that everyone who hears you or reads what you say understands about the first-degree murder charge. If we’re going to break ground here, we’ll need the public’s support.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got an appointment right after this hearing, but maybe next week?”

“Absolutely. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Okay, we’ll talk soon.” He turned and made his way back to the table.

The judge rapped his gavel once more. “I see that all parties are again present.” He gazed about the courtroom. “I’ve had time to review the preliminary evidence on both sides, and I have determined there is ample evidence to hold the defendant, Brian Wesley, over for trial in each of the charges he faces.”

Hannah felt a surge of relief. Matt had been right.

The judge continued. “I’ve checked the docket and—”

Harold Finch was on his feet. “Your honor, I would like the court to remember that Mr. Wesley is currently undergoing therapy for injuries he received in the accident. We would like—”

“Sit down, Mr. Finch,” the judge interrupted. Finch looked surprised as he obeyed the judge’s order. The judge glared at him. “You have already informed the court of Mr. Wesley’s injuries and his need for therapy. Now, if you’ll let me continue—” he faced Matt—“The holidays are fast approaching, and since we must allow time for … Mr. Wesley’s
healing
process, I have set a trial date of May 14.”

Six months
. Hannah hung her head and looked to Matt for his reaction, but as always, he appeared calm and confident. He kept one hand in his pocket, and Hannah was struck by how professional he looked. The jurors were going to love him. “That works fine for the state, your honor.”

She glanced at Harold Finch. He was trying to contain a
smile and failing badly. “That should work for my client, as well, your honor. We’ll certainly file a motion if Mr. Wesley is still in therapy at that time and needs a continuance.”

The judge raised a single eyebrow. “Mr. Finch, let me say something again, in case you have forgotten. This court is well aware of your reputation to delay trials, presumably for the benefit of your clients and to the detriment of the memories of many witnesses. You will not be permitted to play that game in this courtroom. See to it that your client is either healed or transferable by wheel chair. The trial date is May14.”

Finch looked as if he might object but changed his mind. “Yes, your honor.”

“If that’s all, then I’d like to call attention to the next matter on the docket …”

Matt gathered his things, and Hannah watched as Finch and Brian Wesley stood and left the courtroom.

She stared, frowning. What was that tucked into the crook of Brian’s arm? Her eyes widened, and fury washed over her as she nudged Carol. “Look at that.” She nodded toward the defendant. “It looks like he’s carrying a Bible.”

Carol looked in the same direction as she stood and swung her purse over her shoulder. “Hard to tell from here. Could be.”

Hannah kept her gaze locked on the book in Brian’s hands. “I can’t believe it! I think it really is.” Hannah clenched her teeth, fighting off the powerful urge to throw something at the man. “He probably got it from one of those prison ministry people. Bunch of do-gooders. I wish they’d just leave well enough alone. There’s no point witnessing to a man like that. There’s no way God—if there
is
a God—would let a worm like Brian Wesley hang around heaven.”

Seventeen

Together they wasted away
.

L
AMENTATIONS
2:8
B

Brian got back to Jackson’s apartment that afternoon and hid the Bible under his pillow. Wouldn’t want Jackson to see it and think he’d freaked out and gone religious or something. The afternoon passed, and that night Jackson brought home a case of Miller, which they shared while talking about the trial.

“Dude, I don’t know. I smell trouble this time.” Jackson’s forehead creased with genuine concern as he crushed an empty aluminum can in his hand and popped open another cold one.

“Tell me about it.” Brian turned his can bottom-side-up and guzzled the last bit of beer before grabbing another. “Man, I’m looking at a lot of years behind bars.”

Jackson belched loudly. “You’ve got that expensive dude, what’s his name?

Brian laughed, but it sounded hollow even to him. “Finch. Harold Finch.”

“That’s right. Hey, man, who’s paying for that dude?”

“My old man. Called him up in Virginia, and he wired me the bucks. He’s loaded.”

“Cool.” Jackson took several long swigs and set his can down hard. “I thought your old man died.”

“Yeah.…” Images of Red Wesley, sprawled out drunk on the sofa flashed in his mind. Brian swished a mouthful of the cool, amber liquid around in his mouth and swallowed hard. “Died a long time ago. The money comes from my stepdad, man. He
figures I’ll stay away if he sends me money. Especially when I’m in trouble.”

Jackson thought about that a moment. “That’s cool. How loaded is he?”

“Not that loaded. I definitely have to hold a job, man, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Jackson nodded. “Well, hey, dude, at least you got old Finchman. You might get off yet.” He motioned toward the half empty Miller carton. “Hey, man, toss me another, will you? The night’s young!”

When Brian opened his eyes the next morning, he had no memory of how or when he finally went to bed. He knew he and Jackson had drunk into the night, but exactly how long, he couldn’t say.

He shifted, groaning, and felt something hard beneath him. He tossed and turned and tried to get back to sleep, but there seemed to be a pile of bricks directly under his head.

When he could no longer tolerate the discomfort, he finally reached around near his pillow. His hand found something hard and heavy, and he pulled it out. His eyes widened.

“Oh, man …” The Bible. He’d put it there the day before.

He stared at it and sat up in bed, wincing at the wave of nausea that washed over him. He leaned against the headboard and drew a deep breath. What did he want with a Bible, anyway? He opened the front cover again.

The lady’s words were haunting.
“The keys to your prison cell lay between the covers of this book.”

Man
. No one talked like that in the bars. Even Carla didn’t talk like that. She griped and complained about his drinking. She ragged on him as often as she could. But she never talked about the keys to his prison cell.

Now, through the haze of an incredible hangover, Brian understood the lady’s words. She wasn’t talking about a cage
made of bars and brick. She was talking about drinking. The prison of alcoholism.

As he studied what she’d written, he noticed something else. A few letters and some numbers written underneath her message. It looked strange, like a foreign code of some kind:
Phil. 4:13
. Brian studied it for a moment and then a realization hit. Maybe it was a Bible story or something. Words from the Bible. Yeah, that must be it.

He’d never held a Bible in his hands, let alone read one. But as he lay tangled between the sweat-soaked sheets that morning, his head pounding, he turned the pages gently until he reached the index. He scanned the list of chapters and found dozens of names he’d never heard of.

Then he saw it:
Philippians
. Hey, it was the closest thing to what she’d written. He checked the reference beside it and turned to the corresponding page. Now, what the heck was 4:13? He scanned the text and realized that occasionally there were large numbers that seemed to divide the writing into sections. He found section 4, and noticed that every sentence or two there were other, smaller numbers. His eyes darted past 11 and 12, and finally settled on 13. He read the words slowly:
“I can do everything through him who gives me strength.”

Brian read the words over and over again until his head began to clear and tears filled his eyes.
“I can do everything through him who gives me strength.”

The keys
.

Tears spilled onto the delicate pages, and he carefully closed the Bible.

Now if only he could learn how to use them.

Eighteen

The young women of Jerusalem have bowed their heads
to the ground
.

L
AMENTATIONS
2:10
B

The call came three weeks later, early one morning, while she was studying the book of Romans. By that time, although she still prayed for Brian Wesley every day, she had decided he was not going to call. He had probably tossed the Bible first chance he had and never gave it another thought. That did not discourage her; she had seen the same rejection from a number of drunk drivers, and she knew she could not change their behavior. God did not ask her to be successful, just faithful. She would continue to pray for change in drunk drivers’ hearts as long as she had life.