Dying Declaration Read online

  PRAISE FOR DYING DECLARATION AND OTHER NOVELS BY RANDY SINGER

  “[Singer] delivers a fresh approach to the legal thriller, with subtle characterizations and nuanced presentations of ethical issues.

  And he’s no slouch with a plot.”

  BOOKLIST

  STARRED REVIEW, ON DYING DECLARATION

  “Singer hits pay dirt again with this taut, intelligent thriller. . . . [He] is clearly an up-and-coming novelist to watch.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  ON DYING DECLARATION

  “Singer gets better with each subsequent novel, and he excels in Dying Declaration. . . .”

  FAITHFUL READER.COM

  “Randy Singer has done it again. Dying Declaration grabs you on the first page and doesn’t let go. . . .

  Singer delivers Grisham-like plotting buttressed by a worldview that clarifies the dilemmas that bombard us daily. Don’t miss this book.”

  HUGH HEWITT

  AUTHOR , COLUMNIST, AND RADIO HOST OF THE

  NATIONALLY SYNDICATED HUGH HEWITT SHOW

  “An explosive fusion of legal ploys, passion, and power. With Dying Declaration, Singer’s well-earned reputation for masterfully crafted stories and compelling characters shines brighter than ever.”

  BRANDILYN COLLINS

  AUTHOR OF VIOLET DAWN

  “Directed Verdict is a well-crafted courtroom drama with strong characters, surprising twists, and a compelling theme. . . . Randy Singer’s novel is

  engaging, memorable, and highly significant.”

  RANDY ALCORN

  BEST- SELLING AUTHOR OF SAFELY HOME

  AND HEAVEN

  “[Irreparable Harm is] an accomplished novel. Randy

  Singer combines edge-of-your-seat action with a powerful message. Highly recommended.”

  T. DAVIS BUNN

  AUTHOR OF MY SOUL TO KEEP

  “In this gripping, obsessively readable legal thriller,

  Singer proves himself to be the Christian

  John Grisham.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  ON FALSE WITNESS

  “Singer hooks readers from the opening courtroom scene of this tasty thriller, then spurs them through a fast trot across a story line that just keeps delivering. . . . Like the best suspense novels, the character development is sophisticated enough that readers won’t know the villain’s identity until the final pages.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  ON BY REASON OF INSANITY

  Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at www.tyndale.com

  Visit Randy Singer’s Web site at www.randysinger.net

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  Dying Declaration

  Copyright © 2004 by Randy Singer. All rights reserved.

  First printing by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., in 2009.

  Previously published as Dying Declaration by WaterBrook Press under ISBN-10: 1-57856-776-9.

  Cover photograph of dashboard copyright © by Tom Hoenig/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of road copyright © by Comstock Images/Jupiterimages. All rights reserved.

  Back cover element of stethoscope copyright © by Neubauwelt. All rights reserved.

  Back cover element of gavel copyright © by Julie Felton/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Author photograph copyright © 2008 by Don Monteaux. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Dean H. Renninger

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920, www.alivecommunications.com.

  Some verses are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

  Some verses are taken from The Holy Bible, King James Version.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Singer, Randy (Randy D.)

  Dying declaration / Randy Singer.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4143-3155-3 (sc)

  1. Parent and child—Fiction. 2. Negligence, Criminal—Fiction. 3. Trials (Homicide)—Fiction. 4. African American lawyers—Fiction. 5. Attorney and client—Fiction. 6. Psychological fiction. I. Title.

  PS3619.I5725D95 2009

  813'.6—dc22 2008053393

  * * *

  Printed in the United States of America

  15 14 13 12 11 10 09

  7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Keith and Jody.

  At the heart of this book is a special relationship

  between a brother and sister.

  Writing it has made me even more grateful for ours.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  1

  SHE LOOKED PITIFUL.

  She was a plain woman with a prominent nose and an everyday face, made even less memorable by her refusal to wear makeup. She had stringy black hair, puffy eyes, and skin blotched with red marks where she had nervously clawed at her neck. She made no effort to stop the tears from running down her cheeks and dripping on Joshie’s head. She hugged him closer to her chest, rocking gently in the recliner and humming softly, stopping the motion only to wipe her child’s forehead with
a cool, damp washcloth.

  She placed the washcloth back on the arm of the worn recliner and kissed Joshie on the cheek. She felt his little body twitch back and forth in a way that mimicked the rocking of the recliner. She resumed her rocking. The twitching stopped.

  The little guy was so hot. Motionless, almost lifeless, except for a quiet moaning. His pain was her pain. And it was doubled by her helplessness, her inability to stop the relentless march of the fever or to combat its devastating effect.

  She could no longer bring herself to take the temperature of her youngest child, still four months shy of his second birthday. The last reading, taken two hours ago, registered 103. It was probably higher now. It would make no difference because she couldn’t do anything about it. And so she cried. And rocked. And prayed.

  Thomas Hammond had not left his knees for half an hour. He formed an odd picture, this burly man with the round scruffy face, bulging forearms, and callused hands slumped meekly on his knees—the posture of humility. This was spiritual warfare, and it was a battle that Thomas intended to win. He prayed in the master bedroom at the other end of the double-wide trailer from Theresa, next to his bed, his head buried in his massive hands.

  “Take this fever from us. Spare my son, Jesus.” He said the words aloud, barely audible but soaked with intensity. Over and over again the same simple requests. The story of the persistent widow filling his thoughts. If I pray long enough. Hard enough. “Increase my faith. Save my son. Don’t punish him for my mistakes.” He tried bargaining with God—he’d promise anything. “I’ll go anywhere, Jesus. Do whatever You want. Serve You with all my heart. Just gimme this one thing. Don’t punish Josh—”

  “Dad!” It was five-year-old John Paul, his oldest son, the one that Thomas had nicknamed “Tiger.” The boy called from his bedroom down the hall.

  “Your Word says You are slow to anger, abounding in love, full of grace and mercy.” Thomas stopped, the whispered words sticking in his throat. At this moment, it didn’t feel like he served a God of mercy. He felt the anger rising, the frustration of unanswered prayer. And then he felt the guilt. Could his anger be the one thing holding back God’s healing hand? “Show Josh Your mercy—”

  “Hey, Dad!” The call grew louder now. Persistent.

  “Just a minute, Tiger.” Thomas ran his hand through thinning hair and reluctantly rose. He trudged down the hall to the boys’ room and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. It was important to be brave.

  He opened the door and let the hall light illuminate the cramped quarters that Tiger proudly called his own room, though he shared it with Josh. Tiger sat straight up in bed, clinging to his tattered blankie, his bright blue eyes wide open.

  “Keep it down, Son. You’ll wake up Stinky.”

  “Stinky” was Tiger’s seven-year-old sister. She had earned her nickname when she was still in diapers. Thomas would talk to her while he changed her, wrinkle up his nose, and pronounce her “Stinky.” The name stuck, and Stinky became a term of endearment. But it was a name that only family used and only around the house. Others called her Hannah.

  “I can’t sweep, Daddy. I got some bad dreams . . . again.”

  Thomas sat down heavily on the bed and rubbed Tiger’s ragged blond hair. “Well, they’re over now, ’cause I’m here.” He knew what Tiger needed to hear, and Thomas took some comfort in the routine that on other nights could be aggravating. “I’ll beat that old bogeyman up one side and down the other,” Thomas growled. He could see the slightest grin beginning to form on the young boy’s face. He tickled Tiger’s ribs and watched the grin grow. “Now just lie down and think your happy thoughts.”

  “I did,” Tiger said. “But then I went to sweep. Daaaaddy?” Tiger drew out the name for maximum effect, then looked up with his best puppy-dog eyes.

  “Yeah, buddy?”

  “Will you lay down wif me?” Tiger scooted over in his small bed to give his dad some room. They had done this many times before. Thomas’s large frame would never quite fit on the small portion of the bed unoccupied by Tiger. But Thomas would try. He would balance himself half on the bed and half off, with one hand on the floor propping himself up, telling Bible stories until he heard the heavy breathing of a sleeping boy.

  “Not tonight, Son.”

  “Please, Dad, dus’ one story!” Tiger whined. “Tell me ’bout Abe-ham and his son and how God got them a goat.”

  Thomas grinned. He could hardly resist the little guy even on normal nights. Tonight he craved the comforting routine of telling bedtime stories and watching Tiger’s eyelids grow heavy. But tonight he also knew how badly Theresa needed him. And his prayers for Joshie were not yet finished. God had not yet answered.

  “I can’t right now, Son. I gotta go check on Mom and Josh again. If you’re still awake when I come back, I’ll tell you the story of Abraham.”

  “Okay,” Tiger said cheerily. The kid obviously had no intention of sleeping.

  Thomas kissed him on the forehead, pulled the covers up around his neck, then turned and walked toward the door.

  “Daddy?”

  “What?” The word came out sharper than Thomas expected. He stopped walking, a little ashamed of himself for taking it out on Tiger.

  “I’m firsty.”

  A few minutes later, Thomas joined his wife in the small living room. His stomach churned as he paced the stained carpet, watching helplessly as his wife continued her vigil—rocking, wiping Josh’s brow, humming, and praying. She ignored Thomas.

  “Is the fever breakin’?” he asked at last.

  Theresa shook her head.

  “Have you checked in the last few minutes?”

  “Why should I?” Her voice was cold, her face etched with worry. The pressure of believing in things unseen was taking its toll.

  Thomas walked behind the recliner and began rubbing her shoulders. He felt the gnarled and knotted muscles of her slender back, and he penetrated them with strong fingers, trying to massage out the tension. It didn’t leave.

  “When is the last time you checked?” he persisted.

  “Two hours ago.”

  “Don’tcha think we oughta check again?”

  “Only if we intend to take him to the hospital if it’s still high.” She turned her head and looked behind her at Thomas, pleading with large hazel eyes. She stopped rocking. Joshie didn’t move.

  Thomas avoided his wife’s eyes, bowed his head, and shook it slowly. He walked from behind the chair and knelt in front of her. He placed his big hands on Theresa’s legs.

  “Just have faith,” he said softly. “God’ll heal ’im.”

  Theresa snorted at the suggestion. “I’ve got faith, Thomas. I’ve had faith. But he’s getting worse. . . . Don’t you dare lecture me about faith.” Her voice had an edge that Thomas had never heard before.

  Joshie moaned. His little body jerked for an instant; then he curled tighter into a ball, snuggling against his mother’s chest.

  “You want me to call Pastor Beckham and the elders? They could git over here and anoint him with oil again, pray for him—”

  “I want you to call an ambulance,” she demanded, her voice quivering. “God sometimes works through doctors. How can you just kneel there and let your son suffer while you do nothing?”

  “Theres—”

  “Here.” She sniffed as she thrust little Joshie out toward her husband. She held the child in outstretched arms, like a sacrifice. “You hold him. You look at your son, and you tell him why he has to die just so you can prove to the world how much faith you’ve got.” She held him there for a moment—her youngest, her baby—then turned her head away.

  Words failed Thomas. He reached out and took his son, pulling him against his own chest. He felt the heat radiate through his son’s pajamas.

  Holding the boy gingerly, Thomas rose to his feet. Only then did he notice, out of the corner of his eye, Stinky and Tiger standing in the doorway to the living room. They were dressed in their pajamas, holding h
ands. Tiger still clung to his blankie; Stinky held her favorite baby doll.

  He turned to face the kids, wondering what they had heard. Tiger’s bottom lip trembled, and his eyes were moist and big. Stinky looked confused, fighting heavy eyelids, her blonde curls shooting in every direction.

  “Is Joshie gonna die?” she asked.

  2

  HE LEANED FORWARD and put his back into it, pulling the large green plastic trash can down Atlantic Boulevard. The trash can had built-in wheels on the bottom, but he still strained against the load, his lean cablelike muscles glistening with sweat. It was a typical June night in Virginia Beach—sweltering hot with suffocating levels of humidity.

  He was quite a sight, this young black man with the square jaw, intense brown eyes, and electric white smile. And he drew more than his share of stares, even on a sidewalk lined with lunacy. But he was used to it, and he felt like a natural part of the cacophony of personalities that made Atlantic Avenue hum. There were skateboarders, punk rockers, rednecks, beach bums, surfers, and sunburned tourists. They wore baggy shorts, bikinis, obscene T-shirts, tank tops, and visors. They sported every color and cut of hair imaginable. His own cut, a close-cropped flattop that accentuated his angular features, added nothing unusual to the mix.

  He had walked more than a half mile from the parking lot, but he had a few more blocks to go. He wheeled his contraption past a hip-hop band, with their baggy pants, boom box, speakers, and amps. This was their corner, and they had gathered a small crowd in a semicircle, clapping and gyrating. The boys were rapping, and the boys were dancing, just plain getting down, dreadlocks flying everywhere.

  “Yo, Rev,” the man with the mike said.

  The man pulling the trash can stopped, pointed a finger at his hip-hop friend, and smiled. “’S’up, dog.”

  “We gonna bust a little freestyle for the rev,” the man with the mike announced. Without missing a beat, he started a new line. “B-boys in the front, back, side, and middle. Check out my b-boy rhyme and riddle.” The b-boys—the break dancers—let loose as the crowd pulsed in approval. “Rev teach the black book smooth as butt-ah, but po-lece and white folk dis the broth-ah.”

  The man with the trash can smiled and nodded, soaking in the energy from the brothers. Pleased, the singer attacked his impromptu rap with more vigor, each line growing worse than the one before, feeding off his own angry energy. After a few wholesome lines about the rev, the lyrics degenerated into the more familiar fare of sex, drugs, and the next punk to get whacked. When the rev had heard enough, he thumped his chest and pointed at the man. “Peace out,” he said.