Beyond Justice by Joshua Graham Page 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