Second Chance - 03 - Blind Trust by Terri Blackstock
Perhaps too much. And that love had led him into lying about the fate of another person she had allowed herself to love.
If only there were a wet windowsill she could sit on today, she thought, and distant lightning glittering on the slanting rain. If only there were some escape from this hell she and Clint were being dragged through. If only she had some guarantees about God’s provision this time.
Clint closed his eyes and tried to stay calm. They’d be there soon, and there had been no attempts made to stop them. In moments he would be inside the courtroom, waiting to tell everything he’d seen on that night eight months ago. He hoped it was worth it. He hoped Givanti would be locked up for the rest of his life.
He opened his eyes again and saw Sam sitting erect and alert, peering between the front seats out the windshield for some sign of danger. Maybe there wouldn’t be any. Maybe Givanti’s arms didn’t reach far enough to—
“Hold on!” The driver slammed on his brakes and screeched into a slanted halt, barely missing the ambulance in front of them. “What the—?”
“It’s a tree.” Sam’s face turned white at the sight of the fallen tree obstructing their passage. He pulled his gun and held it toward the ceiling as he pulled his hood more closely around his face. “Someone doesn’t want us to get through.”
“Stay alert, guys,” the driver warned.
Sam’s eyes were straining up toward the small clay cliffs overlooking I—20. Clint’s stomach plummeted. It wasn’t the tree that was the problem. It was the fact that they were forced into sitting still.
“Back up!” Sam ordered the driver.
He tried to back up, but the ambulance behind them was too close.
“Get out of this line as fast as you can!” Sam yelled as the driver tried to maneuver between the cars. He did half of a U-turn, backed up, then screeched around and slammed his accelerator to the floor. The other ambulances tried to follow suit, except for the one Gary Rivers drove. Through the back window, Clint saw Rivers with his hood pulled down, getting out and running toward the tree.
“What’s he doing?” the driver asked, staring into his rearview mirror.
“Just go! Drive!” Sam shouted.
At that moment the ground erupted in an explosion that left the world behind them in flames and debris and a whirl of smoke from which they had barely escaped. The ambulance skidded off the road, leaving a trail of burnt rubber. Behind them, one of the other ambulances careened into a tree.
“Let’s get out of here!” Sam yelled to the driver. “Somebody up there has a rocket-launcher or bazooka aimed right at us!”
The driver pulled the ambulance back onto the road, and behind them, the other ambulance, still functional despite the huge dent in its fender, followed.
“Where’s the third car?” Clint asked, peering through the back window.
“Blown to pieces,” Sam said. “I don’t get it. Why wouldn’t Rivers turn around and follow us back? Why would he take down his hood and get out of the car like that?”
Clint was watching the bridge and the cliffs for another sign of attack. “What’s the range of those things?” he asked.
“We’re out of it,” Sam said. “But that doesn’t mean there won’t be another attack somewhere down the line. Man, this is even bigger than we thought. We’ve got to get you there, so you can make sure Givanti fries.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sherry!” Madeline’s voice was racked with horror as she screamed her name from the doorway of the house. “Oh, Sherry, hurry! Sherry, come here!”
A moment of panic froze Sherry, but then she pulled herself together and got up to run toward her friend, the bodyguard close on her heels. “What happened? Did some—?”
“I don’t know.” Madeline’s voice trembled. “I was watching television, and the program was interrupted by a special bulletin. There was an explosion on Maincast Road. An ambulance. One man was killed, three wounded.”
“What?” Blood drained from Sherry’s heart, leaving her dizzy. “No. It wasn’t them.”
The television sliced across her words as another bulletin came to life, this time from the steps of the courthouse. “We’ve been told the mystery witness in the Givanti trial was supposed to make his appearance half an hour ago. However, it is rumored that the witness is being transported in an ambulance, which may very well be the one that was in the explosion on Maincast Road. We have no further information at this time, but we will be waiting here for word and will keep you informed. Please stay tuned for further updates.”
One of the bodyguards rushed for the telephone and began dialing frantically. Sherry and Madeline crouched together and stared at the television. He was dead, Sherry thought. It had happened, just as she knew it would …
The woman on the steps of the courthouse flashed back onto the screen, microphone in her hand, her words tumbling out in a burst of excitement.
“… ambulance has just arrived … witness is unharmed and on his way in …”
Sherry clutched her face and gave into the tears racking her. “Oh, thank God. He’s not dead!”
The camera switched to the group of navy-blue hooded men, with guns pulled, huddled together around the “witness,” rushing for the door. “We understand that the explosion was believed to be an attempt to stop the witness from testifying, and that the attack will not be admissible as evidence in the trial. So the jury will not have the benefit of this information that seems to implicate the defendant.” She paused and listened as someone relayed a piece of information to her. “We understand that the men in the burning car were police officers trying to divert the potential attacks, and they succeeded at their own expense. We’re told the explosion was caused by a bazooka or rocket launcher from the cliff over the highway, and that the assailant remains at large.”
“It wasn’t Sam,” Madeline choked out. “They were in the other car. Thank God, it wasn’t them.”
Not yet, a voice inside Sherry despaired. Clint and Sam had made it to court. But would they make it back? How many chances would they have for escape before the lunatics stalking them succeeded in killing them?
Numbly, she got up and went upstairs to the room Clint had slept in last night. It still smelled of shower steam and after-shave, but it seemed so cold here without him. So dark. Turning on the light, she pivoted slowly, taking inventory of the things he had left. The shirt he had worn yesterday draped over the chair; the worn pair of jeans crumpled on the floor; his old jogging shoes. She picked up the shirt and shrugged into it, burying her face in the collar. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she inhaled its scent. It smelled like Clint: strong and masculine.
Biting her lip, she went back to her room and got out the box of letters he had written to her. She crawled onto the bed and opened it, needing those letters to get her through the day. They were all she had of him until he came back.
And they all began with “My Sherry.” She lifted the top one and tried to read the shaky scrawl.
They tell me the infection’s gone, and the scar should heal over soon. But there’s nothing they can do for the feeling of emptiness inside me. There’s no medication that can heal my spirit. Because I know you’re hurting, just as badly as I did when Paul rammed that knife into my side. At least I understood what I was going through. You have no idea.
If you could wait until this is over, I’ll come back to you someday. And if there’s such a thing as justice, and if God is as kind as I know he is, we’ll start our lives over again.
I love you. I wish I could convince your father to deliver this to you, but he won’t. I suppose he knows best in these matters, but I hate letting you think that a love like mine could die. Even if I do, my love never will.
Sherry closed her eyes and a tear dropped onto the ink, smearing it. He had believed he would die. He hadn’t expected to survive those months. And all the while she was sitting at home feeling sorry for herself for having to return the wedding gifts and cancel the wedding plans. She
She picked up another letter, and saw that the handwriting was much clearer.
What would I do without Sam? He listens when I talk about you, and he never acts bored or unsympathetic. I think he probably knows everything about you there is to know, right down to the time you spilt pink lemonade on your head—remember when your purse strap slid down your arm, and you raised it to slide it back up, only you wound up pouring your drink on your head? Sam and I got a good laugh out of that one, just like you and I did when it happened. It was good, because there’s so little to laugh about these days.
I hope it’s not the same with you. I hope you can still laugh, and enjoy, and love life. I hope your eyes still light up when you go outside in the mornings and see that it’s going to be a beautiful day. I hope you still feel that sense of purpose that has always been so unique about you. If I’ve gotten anything from all of this, it is a more defined sense of purpose. I’m doing the right thing, and if that’s the only consolation I ever get from it, it’ll have to be enough.
I’ve taken up jogging and working out to lift my spirits. It gives me a boost. Sam sings. It makes him feel better, and though I’ll never admit it to him, it makes me feel better too. As long as there’s a song for him to sing and a path for me to jog, and your face in my dreams, I’ll get through this. And you will too.
She couldn’t help smiling at the uplifting tone of that one. She wiped the tears off her face and went on to the next one.
It’s so lonely without you. So quiet. So cold. There are days when I think that just seeing your face would get me through another few months. The thought itself gets me through another day. If only there were some end in sight.
I’ll never be comfortable in our love again. When I get back to you, I’m going to see every day with you as the dawning of another chance to affirm what I feel for you. I love you in a dimension removed from all this madness.
Are you still wearing your hair the same? Does your bottom lip still feel like warm, wet satin? Are your eyes still putting the sky to shame? Oh, how I want to hold you. Please, just hold on a little longer. Just a little longer.
“Just a little longer,” Sherry whispered, nodding her head. “I’ll hold on, Clint. I’ll hold on.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Wes was almost to the courthouse when he heard about the explosion on the radio. His face drained of color, and he pressed the accelerator harder and flew faster.
A mob scene with cameras and microphones waited outside the courthouse. Wes double-parked behind another car and got out of his car. He started to run toward the building.
“Wes!”
He turned around and saw Eric Grayson sitting in his BMW, a phone to his ear as he leaned out his open door.
Wes ran toward him, his eyes murderous with accusation. “I heard about the explosion,” he said. “Was my sister in it? Was Clint?”
“No,” Eric said, cutting off the phone and grabbing his briefcase. “Sherry didn’t come, Wes. I wouldn’t let them bring her with Clint. She’s safe, son. And Clint was in one of the other ambulances. He’s already inside.”
“I want to go in,” Wes said. “I want to hear what this is all about. Why my sister has been dragged into something so deadly.”
“All right,” Eric said. “I’m sure the courtroom is full, but you can come in with me.”
With no time to deny his father’s favor, Wes followed him into the side door of the courthouse.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Did you take the pulse of the man you said was shot?” The defense attorney’s acrimonious voice was directed to Clint, though he faced the jury. After hours of drilling testimony, in which Southern analyzed everything he dared to say, Clint was getting angry.
“No, I did not.”
“Then how can you know that he was dead?”
“He had a bullet hole in his chest. And I heard Paul say he was dead.”
“Did you examine the alleged bullet wound?”
Clint smirked and shook his head with disbelief. “No, I did not. Under the circumstances I thought it a little silly to pop out from where I was hiding and ask them to let me examine the body so that my testimony in the murder trial might be flawless.”
A soft roar of chuckles passed over the spectators, then died.
“Did you see them bury the body?”
“No, I did not.”
“Did you see them throw it into the river?”
“No.”
“Did you attend the funeral of this man you say was dead?”
“Of course not.”
“Could that be because there wasn’t a funeral?”
“I don’t know if there was. I was busy recovering from my knife wound at the time and didn’t much care.”
Southern’s back went rigid and he swung around to the judge. “Your honor, I want that last comment stricken from the record. It has no relevance in this case.”
The judge nodded gruffly. “Sustained.”
But the jury had heard every word.
The defense attorney’s eyes leveled on Clint’s as he faced him squarely, preparing for a duel. “In other words, Mr. Jessup, this man that you are saying was killed on the night in question could in fact be walking around right now. You really have no evidence at all that he was even harmed.”
“Do you consider blood evidence?” Clint’s question came through steely lips.
“People bleed, Mr. Jessup. They also heal.”
Clint hadn’t spent the last eight months in hiding just to have some hyped-up lawyer shoot his story down. He’d seen what he’d seen. “I saw Givanti shoot him!” he blared. “I saw him fall, and I saw blood on the left side of his chest! I heard—”
“Your honor, this witness is out of control—”
“I heard Givanti and Paul say that he was dead,” Clint said louder, “and I—”
“Mr. Jessup, if you continue these outbursts—”
”—heard them decide to hide the body, and then I watched them drag him out!”
The attorney’s face was raging red, and the judge was banging his gavel, but Clint went on. “If he’s not dead, why have so many attempts been made on my life? Why was Gary Rivers killed just hours ago?”
“Mr. Jessup, I’m going to find you in contempt of court if you don’t control yourself—”
“Control myself? Your honor, what was I hiding for eight months for if I can’t tell the truth? He wants you to think Anderson is still alive. I can’t show you a dead body to back up my story, but he can’t show me a live one to back up his!”
“Your honor, I’d like to request a short recess.” This time it was the prosecuting attorney’s voice that cut in. The judge agreed.
Clint dropped back into his chair on the witness stand and held his face in his hands.
Clint tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair he sat in, wishing he had something constructive to do with his hands. Something like throttling the defense attorney. When Grayson and Breard had stepped in quietly just moments ago, he had not been sure whether it was anger or delight sparkling in their eyes. He didn’t much care.
“I could lecture you on the importance of keeping your cool in the courtroom, Clint,” Breard said, “but under the circumstances, I think your outburst has been to our advantage. Especially the part about your recovering from your knife wound.”
It wasn’t the event that was significant, Clint thought, but the telling of it. “He struck it from the record. It doesn’t matter that people have been hurt over this. My knife wound is as insignificant to those people as Gary Rivers’s death was.”
“Oh, it matters, all right. The jury heard every word, whether it’s on the transcript or not.”
“But what difference will it make when he comes back in there and makes them believe that Anderson is alive and well and living in Kalamazoo somewhere? I wish he hadn’t been killed that night! You have no idea how many times I
Grayson was calm. “You did a good job this morning telling play-by-play what happened. The jury hasn’t forgotten. And honestly, I think what just happened in the courtroom did more to make Southern look bad than you.” He picked up a sweating silver pitcher and poured himself a glass of water. “He lost the reins when you stood up and started yelling, and he couldn’t get them back. His loss of cool showed a little trace of desperation. I expect him to try to get some witnesses in here to smear your character. His last resort is to convince the jury that your word isn’t worth anything.”
“Smear my character? How?”
“He’ll find a way.”
“I don’t know how,” Clint mumbled. “My life is clean. My crimes seem to be only in the mind. Unless I’m wrong, there’s no crime against wanting to strangle someone.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” Grayson said, patting Clint’s knee with fatherly fondness. “But we’ll be prepared just in case.”
Clint sat in knots for the rest of the day as he heard friends and acquaintances testifying to his character. It was brought out that he was undependable. Hadn’t he quit his job when people depended on him? Hadn’t he turned on one of the students in his own youth group?
Grayson’s face blazed fire when the defense attorney drew from someone the fact that Clint was engaged to the prosecutor’s daughter. In spite of Breard’s string of objections, the job had been done, and Clint looked like a man whose very words inspired doubt—an ally of a prosecutor out to get the defendant.
Because this judge had a reputation for squeezing all he could into a court day, especially when the trial was close to an end, the closing statements were delivered that afternoon. And the hopelessness and frustration and tension rising inside him became a volatile mixture while he waited for the jury to be dismissed to decide on the verdict.