The Touch

By Brian Bennett

Wesley Roberts was a happy family man with a loving wife and two wonderful children. But that was before a drunk driver killed his family and a slick lawyer robbed him of justice, leaving Wesley with grief, despair, and coals of smoldering anger.
As time passed, smoldering coals became burning flames of revenge. One evening, with nothing to live for and nothing to lose, Wesley caught the slick lawyer alone and strangled him to death with his bare hands.
On his way to strangle the drunk driver, Wesley stumbled over a blind man seated on a sidewalk in deep midnight shadows. Angry at being kicked, the blindman swung his empty wine bottle, whacking Wesley hard on his knee. It hurt. Already in a murderous mood, Wesley grabbed the man's head, touching the man's eyes, ready to gouge them out. From out of nowhere, a powerful force paralyzed Wesley.
"You're burning me!" the man cried out.
As suddenly as the force had captured Wesley, it released him.
Gasping for breath, the blindman said, "I can see you."
Confused and afraid, Wesley ran away.
Soon excited by and accepting his wonderous gift, Wesley exchanged revenge for a fantastic reason to live. He began a secret mission to heal the needy, including the murdered lawyer's desirable wife. But soon his quiet plan exploded in the glare of media cameras and network news, forcing him to embrace a well-planned, public healing ministry. Accompanying his ministry were guilty thoughts of embracing the dead lawyer's wife.
All the while, Police Detective Cosgrove was convinced that Wesley was a murderer but couldn't prove it. It gnawed and gnawed at him. And though Wesley had become a much-needed savior, Detective Cosgrove refused to surrender his certainty.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350916010

Book preview

Chapter 1

A hint of another hot and humid Texas summer was in the air, but for now a lingering Spring still kept things relatively cool around the Dallas Metroplex. The brick and glass notice board outside the Bible Fellowship Church read: In Loving Memory of Lacy, Bethany, and Collin Roberts. Inside, men and women in somber suits and dresses filled the sanctuary.

Seated on the front pew, Wesley Roberts mentally whipped himself as he saw over and over again his last conversation with Lacy in his mind. You’re supposed to be cleaned up and on your way to pick up Bethany and Collin, Lacy said over her shoulder, as she carefully placed the giant special-order cake on the serving table under the Happy Birthday banner. We can’t have a party for them if they’re not here.

He offered an apologetic gesture to her back. I’m sorry. I lost track of time.

She turned to face him. I can’t believe you mowed the yard instead.

Yeah, okay, it was a bad idea. I just thought that, after the cake and ice cream, all the kids are probably going to be in the back yard for games and stuff, so I thought I’d neaten it up. I’ll shower right now and go get them.

No, I’ll go. You neaten yourself up.

Okay, I’ll hurry.

With a deep sigh followed by a slow smile, Lacy said, I love you anyway, even if you are stinky. Then with a quickly blown kiss she was out the front door.

And gone forever.

Standing behind his gleaming oak pulpit, Reverend Tim Smith read, I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.

Wesley glanced up at his good friend who was trying his best to bring some comfort into a life torn apart.

Those that believeth in me, though they were dead, yet shall they live.

Dead. Squeezing his eyes tight, Wesley shielded himself against that awful word with ones he and Lacy had vowed together at their wedding and spoken at the baptism of their twins.

And whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.

Die. His shields pierced; Wesley surrendered. My fault! My fault! My fault!

Alone in a tiny boat on life’s unsympathetic ocean without the anchor of his family, wave after wave swept Wesley Roberts far out to sea.

Reverend Tim Smith turned his aging Dodge into a well-tended middle-class neighborhood. It was the kind of neighborhood that any realtor would love to show to potential buyers.

However, looking through the passenger window, Wesley saw only memories. Tarzan! Tarzan! Bethany and Collin cried out. Be Tarzan Daddy! Their wish was his command. Okay, climb on and hold on. Standing with a laughing child hanging from each outstretched arm, Tarzan attempted his best to pound his chest.

Tim glided his car gently to a curb in front of their destination and turned off the engine. He had been careful to drive without haste, and now that they had arrived, he leaned back in his seat. He hesitated a moment before looking over at his friend. If you want to talk … He let his offer trail off.

A few heartbeats passed before Wesley returned to the present. He focused on the dashboard, the windshield, or the car’s hood, anywhere but on the front door of his home.

Anytime you need me, Wesley, I’ll be available. Just let me know.

Wesley took a deep breath before exhaling. No need. I’m okay. Thanks.

For a few moments Wesley was ten years old again, readying himself to dive into the deep end of a summer camp swimming pool for the first time. He had not wanted to do that either, but he had. Now he would have to do this too—he could not put it off any longer. Placing a hand on the door handle, he pulled. The door swung open. As if physically painful, his movements were slow and deliberate. He stepped out.

Tim leaned over toward the open passenger door. I could come in for a while, if you’d like. I could help you straighten things up some. His new offer hung in the air several seconds before drifting away.

Wesley bent down to look back at Tim. You’ve done all you can. Don’t worry. I’ll call you if I need anything. His hand lingered a moment on the handle before shutting the door with finality.

Good intentions politely, yet firmly rejected, Tim yielded. Starting his engine, he eased back into the street and drove away. The image in his rearview mirror showed that Wesley had not moved an inch, nor did it appear that he was inclined to. Tim fought the urge to turn around and try again. He won. It was a minor victory.

Wesley watched Tim round the corner a block down and disappear from sight. His shoulders sagged with relief. Tim was a good friend, his best friend in fact, but he did not need the attention. Not right then anyway. Maybe later. There were other friends, too, but the thought of more sad faces and more comforting words made him want to run and hide. Hands in pockets, his gaze fixed on the pavement at his feet.

Minutes went by. Like so many other things, time no longer had any importance now. It belonged in another life, not this one where time was paralyzed. Yet, deep in his gut he understood that time would go on, and on, and on, filling him with empty thoughts. Or worse, thoughts baring the sharp teeth of regret.

The sound of an approaching car caught his attention. A neighbor slowed down to wave. It was a friendly, solemn gesture, one befitting Wesley’s loss. Wesley’s brief nod of acknowledgement encouraged the neighbor to continue down the street.

Running a hand through his thick auburn hair, Wesley looked heavenward. Was there an answer up there somewhere? No, only the peaceful blue sky dotted here and there with fluffy white clouds floating off to wherever fluffy clouds go.

Clouds were moving, but not Wesley. He could not keep standing on the sidewalk, giving other neighbors the opportunity to stop and chat. So, he turned away from the beauty of a blue sky to face his home—a home just as dead and buried as his family. Home? It was now nothing but a house.

Plodding toward the front door, Wesley’s eyes avoided the red oak sapling that he and Lacy planted to celebrate the anniversary of their first date. On the door, above the welcome mat, some sympathetic soul had placed a black wreath. An odd reminder came to him, one from life before the car wreck. Today is Tuesday. Wednesday is trash day. Wreath and mat would be in tomorrow’s trash.

Getting the door key out of his pocket was simple enough. Turning it in the lock and opening the door was hard. Forcing himself to step inside was worse. Nothing but silence greeted him. For several nights since the wreck, he had slept at Tim’s rectory, but now he would have to sleep in his own bed. Lacy’ bed. Their bed. An empty bed.

No more. It would be the couch from now on.

The sound of the soft click of the front door shutting behind him seemed to bounce off dull walls. The expression silent as a tomb popped unbidden into his mind, making him utter a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a sob. Weary steps took him to the doorway into what was to have been the party room. He paused there to look in.

He shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t help himself.

On the room’s back wall hung the Happy Birthday banner. On the table below was a dried-out birthday cake. Two sets of four little candles still waited to be lit, then blown out, before servings were sliced and passed around. Place settings on the assembly of small tables filling the rest of the room remained untouched. Blue and pink bunting that Lacy had strung around the room still hung. A few persistent balloons, their strings taped to each little chair, still floated in the stuffy air. Here and there others sagged, their air slowly seeping out, their strings no longer taut. Still others had long ago sunk onto the floor.

Like helpless iron filings to a magnet, Wesley was drawn into the room. He stopped at one of the small tables where its four balloons still clung to life. He took in the neatness of Lacy’ preparations—four plates with napkins and forks. Reaching down, he picked up a small plastic fork. He tried to focus on a pink balloon floating next to him. Swiping at wet eyes helped. Keeping the balloon taut with one hand, he held the fork in his other. One quick jab and the balloon popped. That done, he moved around the little table to the next balloon, a blue one, his fork at the ready. POP! On to the third, again blue. POP! The fourth balloon was pink. Which little girl would have sat there? Maybe Bethany herself. For a heartbeat Wesley could not bring himself to do it. Then … POP!

The blue and pink remains lay on the small table, tiny creatures whose lives had been taken away in an instant. He threw the fork across the room, then sinking to his knees, he slumped over the little party table. His moan of endless loss broke the suffocating stillness. Thirty-five-year-old Wesley Roberts wept like a four-year-old, his tears soaking a folded party napkin.

Chapter 2

The verbal cue coming over Rhonda Marsh’s earpiece told her that her TV station’s early fiftyish studio anchorman was about to toss the story to her. Tucking away her lip gloss, Rhonda asked, How do I look?

With a thumbs up, her pudgy cameraman said, Great.

She knew that already, but confirmation was always a good thing. She got her cue. Thank you, Brad, she said, being careful not to accidently call him dad as she was often tempted to do. Her camera-ready smile instantly gave way to informative seriousness. I’m here in front of the Dallas County Criminal Courthouse where the trial of Jason Malcolm will soon begin. Jason is the son of well-known influential businessman and former speaker of our Texas State Legislature, Charles Malcolm. The younger Malcolm was arrested this past spring for drunk driving, which allegedly led to a deadly car accident and the tragic deaths of a young mother and her twin four year old children. The woman, Lacy Roberts, and her children, Bethany and Collin, were killed instantly when Malcolm’s vehicle struck them broadside. While serving time for DWI, the younger Malcolm was also charged with Criminally Negligent Homicide in those deaths. However, he could have been charged with Intoxication Manslaughter, which could well have carried a stiffer penalty if found guilty. When I asked county prosecutor, Phillip Linder, why he chose the lesser charge, he only said, she glanced at her notes, that it seemed to fit this particular situation. She paused a couple of beats to let the prosecutor’s vague statement fully register with her viewers. Confident that she had given them enough time to catch a whiff of something possibly suspicious, she continued, That horrible accident was months ago. Now, at last, Jason Malcolm’s case is coming to trial. Malcolm’s defense attorney is none other than J.C. Carville, rated as one of the top-ten defense attorneys in the country. And though Mr. Carville has an impressive string of successful acquittals, it is said that he’ll have his work cut out for him this time because of the highly emotional aspect of this trial. Mrs. Roberts and her children were killed on their way home to a party in celebration of the twin’s fourth birthday. She then allowed a few moments of silence to go by for the tragedy to be fully appreciated. We will continue to keep you completely informed as the trial unfolds. She mentally counted to three before her recently whitened smile reappeared. This is Rhonda Marsh for the Channel 27 newsroom. News when you need it. Back to you, Brad.

Her cameraman lowered his camera. How’d I look? she asked.

From their front row seats behind the prosecutor’s table, Wesley and Reverend Tim had a perfect view of the defendant and his lawyer. Wesley’s eyes locked on the man who shattered his life like a broken headlight.

Leaning into Wesley, Tim whispered, Don’t look at him, you’ll only torture yourself further. I know it’s been a long time getting here, but the waiting will be over very soon, and this awful chapter will be closed and then things will get better.

Wesley turned to focus on the statue of Justice with her sword, scales, and blindfold. Chapter closed? Yes. Get better? Never. Ignoring his friend’s advice, he stole another glance at the defendant’s table where Jason Malcolm seemed to be rubbing his wrist raw.

J.C. Carville unobtrusively placed a firm hand on Malcolm’s wrist. He whispered, Quit grinding your damn wrist. You look like some friggin’ junky needing a fix.

I can’t help it. It broke when I hit the dashboard. The doctor said it would heal by now, but it still throbs and burns like fire. It’s killing me.

Taking a quick glance over his shoulder to see who might catch their little exchange, Carville lowered his voice again. Well, maybe you shouldn’t have been boozing it up, then maybe there wouldn’t have been a wreck, and then your wrist wouldn’t be killing you. Take a Goddamn pain pill, then stick your hands in your lap so the jury can’t watch you going nuts.

Doing as told, Malcolm took a small pill out of his shirt pocket, then reached for the convenient glass of water on the defense’s table.

Out of the corner of his eye, J.C. Carville appraised his latest client once again. Gone were the little bastard’s stringy hair and the pathetic excuse for a beard. Gone too were his expensive yet fashionably worn clothes that made him look like a street bum with a portfolio. A forced haircut, shave, and a neat conservative suit was the best he had been able to do to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Lest the disgust in his eyes be noted by the jury, he took a few moments to shuffle some papers. It’s a good thing Daddy Malcolm coughed up a big bundle to swallow his little shit’s story…. But damn, sometimes!

Papers neatly shuffled, Carville turned his attention to the jury box. Pleased as much as possible with his crafting of a sympathetic jury during the selection process, he hoped they would be able to see his bigger picture. His bigger picture always included the innocence of his client or at least a reasonable doubt. Early on, he had decided that the latter would have to be his game plan. The accident report stated that Malcolm had been drunk and probably speeding. How fast was undetermined. It was apparently a minor miracle that he made it around that curve at all. In private, Malcolm admitted that he had held onto the steering wheel like he was in an Indy 500. The wreck was months ago, but this was now. Now all he had to do was shut up, try to look remorseful, and let him work his magic.

The door to the judge’s chambers opened. All rise! the bailiff cried out, his command echoing off the courtroom’s rich wooden paneling.

Judge Harkins made the most of his entrance with a rustle of his custom-made black robes. Stepping up behind the judge’s bench, he stood gazing out over a courtroom jammed with the concerned and the curious. He also wore a look of displeasure, rumored to be practiced in his bathroom mirror. The effect brought about the desired results; the courtroom quickly fell silent. Judge Harkins nodded to the bailiff who called out, Be seated!

After the usual procedural announcements and the DA’s opening statement were completed, Judge Harkins turned to the defense. Mr. Carville, you may now make your opening statement.

Thank you, Your Honor. Carville stood and strode toward the jury box.

Slits for eyes, Wesley watched Carville. He had been told that the lawyer was smooth, way too smooth. And from what he could see, Carville looked it. His dark hair had perfect touches of gray, and unlike other lawyers who might straighten and button their jacket prior to opening their mouths, his expensive suit was already straight and buttoned.

Carville got right to it. Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution will attempt to prove that my client is guilty of criminally negligent homicide in the deaths of Lacy Roberts and her two children. He’ll tell you that Jason Malcolm was drunk and speeding, causing their deaths. And yes, it’s true that my client had been drinking. And for that he has already served the proper amount of time prescribed by law. He paused, his eyes sweeping his audience. Eye contact fully made, he continued, "But . . . but his drinking did not cause the accident. It-did-not. Let me repeat that. My client’s drinking did NOT cause the accident.

For a second, Wesley’s heart forgot to beat.

Carville waited to let his statement fully sink in. Satisfied, it was time to make his next point. It’s also true that Jason was driving fast. But he was NOT speeding. The speed limit on that stretch of dangerous county road is fifty miles per hour. That’s way too fast for the road conditions there—a blind curve on a two-lane road masked by dense trees and high thick brush. That’s the county’s fault, not my client’s. Jason was driving the speed limit. Again, he gave the jury time for his truth to be appreciated.

Heart pumping, Wesley studied the jury face by face. Are they buying that load of crap?

Ready for his third point, the foundation of his defense, Carville said, Now, what is also true, tragically true, is that . . . He let eyes sweep the jury again, then . . . Lacy Roberts herself was to blame for that terrible accident.

Wesley leapt to his feet. That’s a lie! There’s no way that’s true!

All eyes swung to Wesley. Tim was out of his chair in an instant, clamping his hands on his friend’s arm and shoulder. That won’t help. You need to sit down.

Judge Harkins hammered his gavel. Quiet! Sit down and be quiet.

Gripping the railing in front of him with both hands, Wesley struggled to be calm. It’s not true, he pleaded as matter-of-factly as possible. In return the jury gave him mixed expressions of sympathy and embarrassment.

Leaning over the railing behind him, the prosecutor tugged at Wesley’s jacket. Remember I told you that the defense would say things that you wouldn’t like. This is just the beginning. We’ll have to suck it up and get past it. And we will. Do what the judge says. You need to sit down. You’re not helping your case.

Come on, Tim said, putting more pressure on Wesley’s unwilling shoulder.

Wesley turned to Tim, But it’s not true.

I know that, and the jury will, too. They’ll understand. Let’s get this over with as soon as we can. Come on, sit down.

Under the table, Jason ground away at his wrist until it turned red while Carville, looking at his shoes, did his best to appear sympathetic.

Eyes pleading, Wesley turned to the jury. It isn’t true. Few in the jury could look directly at him.

Judge Harkins said, Mr. Roberts, please sit down.

Obey the judge, Tim said.

Wesley looked around the courtroom. Everyone was staring at him, Carville now, too. Relenting, Wesley sank onto his chair. Fists clinched, he tried hard to focus on the polished floor at his feet.

Judge Harkins nodded to Carville, Continue.

Confident that the disturbance would work in his favor, Carville suppressed a smile, then turned to face the jury once more. Here’s what happened that terrible day. Jason was driving down that dangerous road in firm control of his car. Even though he’d been drinking, his driving ability was unhampered. He paused a second to consider stating that Jason was not driving recklessly, but instantly erased that prejudicial word. And he was driving the speed limit. So . . . what happened next?

Knowing that the jury was intent on his answer, Carville let his question hang in the air a couple of seconds longer, then, Imagine the scene, if you would.

Wesley cringed. He would not imagine it. But he imagined it anyway–the shattered glass, their blood, their bodies.

Mrs. Roberts arrives at that dangerous and tricky intersection. The only witness on the scene, a bicycle rider who saw it all, will testify that Mrs. Roberts then pulled out into the intersection. Did she look both ways? Did she look at all? Carville shrugged. We don’t know. What we do know, what the witness will swear to, is that Mrs. Roberts for some unknown reason came to a stop in that dangerous intersection. Why? Carville figuratively stopped in that same intersection. Did she forget something and was she going to back up and turn around? Did an important thought suddenly come to mind? Did one of her children suddenly cry out for her attention? I’m afraid that we will never understand why Lacy Roberts brought her car to a complete stop in the middle of that dangerous intersection. It will always remain a mystery. His expression registered a helpless lack of understanding. He then leaned into the jury box. But-she-did. There she was, right in the middle of that narrow two lane road. Then Jason came around that blind curve.

Carville let his eyes glide over the jury once again. He sensed them picturing that stark visual with a focus so strong he could smell it.

Wesley did his best not to see that same picture. He failed.

Jason did not have a single chance to avoid hitting her. The accident was inescapable. She was right there in front of him. Carville paused before coloring in the details. Jason put on his brakes. His skid marks prove it. The Department of Public Safety trooper noted them in his accident report. Grasping the jury railing with both hands, his next words took on an air of unquestionable truth. There just wasn’t enough time and space for him to stop. He would have if he could have, but tragically . . . his next words struck like a hammer on an anvil, Mrs. Roberts-did-not-give-him-a-chance-at-all.

Wesley tried to stand, but Tim’s hand clamped tight on Wesley’s arm. Don’t, he whispered.

Carville took a slow breath before continuing. Nodding toward his client and in a voice losing its hard edge, he said, It’s a miracle that Jason escaped with his life and only a broken wrist and bruises. Moving directly in front of an overweight female juror that he had pegged during jury selection as a likely ally, Carville took up his tale again, his voice laced with sympathy. The sad truth is that . . . he looked the woman directly in the eye, it was not Jason Malcolm who accidently killed Mrs. Roberts and her children. It was Mrs. Roberts herself.

Shoving Tim away, Wesley shot to his feet. That’s a lie! A lie! Lacy was always a safe driver. Always. She would never let something like that happen. Never! She loved our children. She always protected them.

Judge Harkins pounded his gavel. Please, Mr. Roberts. Sit down … Please.

Tim and the prosecutor attempted to pull Wesley back onto his chair, but Wesley fought back, refusing to budge. That’s a lie! A lie!

The courtroom echoed with dead silence. Several jury members slumped deeper into their seats; others appeared frozen in place. Wesley’s hands practically strangled the railing in front of him.

Judge Harkins sighed deeply, then, in a calm quiet voice, said, Mr. Roberts, all of us here today understand your feelings. You have friends here. You truly do. But this is just the beginning of what may continue to be a very unpleasant experience for you. However, you cannot continue to disrupt this court. You must be silent and stay seated or I will demand that you be escorted out. I will do so reluctantly, but I will do it. So, please, try your best to keep calm.

Wesley turned to the jury, his pain raw for all to see.

The opportunity ripe, Carville also turned to the jury. His tone adjusted to befit his words, he said, Mr. Roberts’ feelings are totally understandable. His loss is great. He gathered his next words for the dagger’s thrust. "Mr. Roberts says that it could not have happened that way. However, what he cannot bring himself to say is that it should not have happened at all. He took a couple of seconds to look directly at Wesley, then let his gaze shift back to the jury. At the moment of the accident, Mr. Roberts was busy elsewhere. Perhaps if he’d been with his family, things would be different now. Guilt can be a horrible burden."

Like punishing body blows, Carville’s words crumpled Wesley into his chair.

Jason lowered his head and closed his eyes.

Chapter 3

Two days later, lip gloss and microphone again in place, Rhonda Marsh stood on the bottom courthouse step about to be on a live network feed. Her local story had gained a national buzz. It could be the big break she needed