Dread Champion by Brandilyn Collins Page A

attorneys, and onlookers before landing momentarily on the defendant. “Good morning, everyone. Let’s get some housekeeping out of the way, shall we? First”—she turned to the jurors—“since speaking with you yesterday, I have decided to do something I don’t usually do. In most cases, jurors wait outside in the hall like everyone else while court is not in session. But because of the media’s interest in this case, and since it’s already been through one change of venue, I’m going to be a little more cautious. From now on I’ve opened up the deliberation room in which you members of the jury will meet each morning and be able to take your breaks. There are two bathrooms in there for your use. During lunch you can go where you please, but of course remember that for the duration of this trial you are under admonishment to speak to no one about the case.When we take our first break, your bailiff will show you the deliberation room and how to access the hallway that leads to it. All right?”
    The jurors nodded as one.
    â€œOkay. Now let’s turn to our other items, and then we can get down to business.”
    Stan flopped his papers back onto the table, a forefinger riffling one corner of the stack. His heels picked up speed.
    â€œâ€¦ WHAT D ARREN WELK did not know,” Stan Breckshire declared, “was that in the corner of that little interrogation room and hidden from view, a video camera was running.”
    Chelsea maintained a passive expression as she sat in the prosecutor’s line of fire. Stan Breckshire paced in staccato steps before the jury box, abruptly turning, his arms jerking now left, now right.His dark suit hung a little large on his shoulders, and his red-flecked tie was slightly askew. His forehead collapsed in lines of fitful concentration, his hand raking his coarse dark hair until it stuck out like stiff feathers.
    â€œUnderstand,” the prosecutor continued,“a hidden video camera is common procedure.”He pulled up to the rail separating him from the jury box, his right palm bouncing off the wood.“You will see this tape. You will see firsthand how Darren Welk”—he half-turned his body to indicate the defendant—“looks and acts as he tells the detectives what he ‘remembers’ about that night.How he hit his wife.How she fell in the sand and cut her head.You will see”—Breckshire’s face screwed into a cynical expression—“how he happened to remember everything that could be verified by his friends, Lonnie and Todd Broward.And then, amazingly, how his memory stops just about the time these friends leave. How it doesn’t resume again until his stepdaughter, Tracey Wilagher, arrives at the beach, panic-stricken because her mother is missing.” Stan Breckshire paused to allow his insinuations to sink in.“And you’ll hear Darren Welk confess that he buried his wife’s bloody blouse.”
    Chelsea felt her own face pulling at the mental picture of a man burying a bloodied blouse in the middle of the night.Her eyes wandered to Darren Welk, who sat unmoving except for his hands. One large fist knotted into his other palm, then slid away, the fingers opening to cover the other hand, now fisted. Then slid again. Back and forth. Back and forth. Chelsea watched those fingers, feeling their force. Could this man be capable of killing his wife? Chelsea gazed at his face. Darren Welk was fairly handsome in a weary and rugged sort of way,with a wide, square jaw and gray brown hair.His skin seemed to hold a permanent tan, even after almost six months in jail. Chelsea guessed he would be even more brown if he still worked the fields. His face was deeply lined. Something about the man looked implacable, hard.
    â€œ … you will hear Lonnie Broward’s testimony,” the prosecutor continued. “You will hear that the last time she saw the deceased, Shawna