AT 1:45 P.M., MIKE WALKED UP THE SIDEWALK AND INTO THE courthouse. If Bobby Lambert wanted to show remorse, there was no harm in letting him stew in his guilt a few extra minutes. The deed room was in the windowless basement of the building. Mike had searched a few real estate titles in his career but pitied the lawyers and paralegals who spent the majority of their time, mole-like, on the lowest level of the courthouse.
Bound in large, leather-covered folios, some of the older deeds were beautifully handwritten documents dating back to the 1830s. More recent records were kept in computer files that could be accessed in seconds. Mike walked down a flight of stairs to an opaque glass door marked “Register of Deeds” and opened it. A few men and women glanced up in curiosity when he entered. Mike nodded to an elderly lawyer named Rex Bumgardner, who had spent his entire career in the deed room and achieved status as a living oracle of the history of land ownership in Barlow County. Written recitals of real estate transfers would survive his death, but his stories describing how and why the land changed hands would be buried in the ground with him.
There was no sign of Bobby. Perhaps he’d not bothered to wait when Mike didn’t show up on time. Mike approached Mr. Bumgardner.
“How are you, Mr. Bumgardner?” he asked in the soft voice that deed room etiquette required.
“Fine, except for my arthritis. Don’t get old, Mike. It’s no fun.”
“I don’t plan on it. Has Bobby Lambert been down here today?”
Mr. Bumgardner glanced over his shoulder. “He was here a few minutes ago.”
Mike walked past the shelves of deed books and looked down the aisles. He didn’t spot Bobby until he reached the far corner of the room. His former partner was standing with his back to him and held a leather deed book in his hand. He turned as Mike approached and closed the deed book.
“What do you want?” Mike asked.
“Did you ever read the old handwritten deeds?”
“Not unless I had to. What is this all—”
“Take a look in here,” Bobby said, handing the book to Mike. “There is something in it you might find helpful. Read it, then forget you saw me here.” Bobby stepped past Mike, who grabbed him by the arm.
“Why are you doing this to me?” Mike asked sharply.
Bobby jerked his arm free. “Because whether you believe it or not, I’m your friend.”
“That’s not much of an apology.”
Bobby turned his back on Mike and left the aisle. Mike glared after him. He turned the heavy book over in his hand. It was one of the oldest volumes, the red leather cracked and worn. Mike placed the book on a nearby stand and opened it. It covered a nine-month period of land transfers in the 1850s. He flipped through the pages without seeing any mention of Cohulla Creek and wondering why such an old book would have any current relevance. He was about to close it and return it to its place when a loose sheet of paper, folded in half and placed between the sheets, caught his attention. Mike opened it.
The script was barely legible. His eyes went to the bottom of the page where in a familiar scrawl Maxwell Forrest had written “Minutes from JH.”
It was from Jack Hatcher.
Mike spread open the paper and examined it more closely. Dated the previous year, it appeared to be informal notes Hatcher had made at a meeting. Hatcher mentioned the “CCP,” which Mike interpreted as the Cohulla Creek project, as well as references to “TG, DB, and BN”—Troy Linden, Dick Bunt, and Butch Niles. Linden and Bunt participated in the conference via speaker phone. Halfway down the sheet, Mike’s eyes stopped when he saw the name “Miller.” Beside the name Hatcher had written “How?” and underlined it twice.
On the next line, he’d written “BD will handle.” Brian Dressler. The remainder of the memo contained action steps related to the CCP and the dates by which they were to be completed. A circle was drawn around a day in May only a few weeks away. Mike tried to figure out the significance of the May date, but there wasn’t enough information to do so. There was no reference to anyone else. Except for the handwritten notation at the bottom of the sheet, nothing linked the document to Maxwell Forrest.
Mike folded the sheet and stuck it in his pocket then returned the volume to the stacks. He reentered the open area of the deed room and approached Mr. Bumgardner.
“Did you find Bobby?” Bumgardner asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t see him down here too much. Did you hear that Park is moving to Charlotte?”
“Yes.” Mike paused. “Mr. Bumgardner, are you aware of the activity associated with the Cohulla Creek watershed?”
“Sure. Some of the local landowners have called me with questions, but I’ve not done any work for the companies buying the options. That’s being handled by outsiders probably charging three times as much as I would.”
“What’s going on?”
“The usual. It’s one of the prettiest stretches in the area, and developers would understandably be interested.”
“But what about the tracts owned by the state?”
“That will probably end up in a state park. It’s a great little trout stream.”
“No rumors otherwise?”
Bumgardner shook his head and looked at Mike more closely. “If you know one, I’m listening. The folks seeking my advice wanted my opinion about the fair market value of the options. I gave it based on the available land and how it could be developed.”
“If the options are already sold, my information wouldn’t make any difference.”
“Except that a few of the options expire soon, including the main ingress and egress route to the area. A key parcel is tied up in the estate of a man who died last summer. If that option isn’t exercised, it will be tough for the developers to get all the heirs to agree on anything.”
ON THE WAY OUT OF THE COURTHOUSE, MIKE MET MELISSA HALL near the district attorney’s office.
“Did you get my fax?” Hall asked. “I sent it to the church before lunch.”
“No, I’ve been away from the church for a few hours.”
“Ken instructed me to withdraw the plea offer in the Miller case and notify you in writing.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed. “The ten days aren’t up.”
“I know, but you didn’t accept the deal while it was still on the table.”
“Why renege on the offer?” he asked testily. “That’s not very professional. The integrity of the system depends on lawyers keeping their word to one another.”
Mike saw Hall’s face flush.
“I’m following orders.”
“Is Ken still pushing the case up the calendar?”
“Yes, and I’ll be the one handling it.”
“Good.” Mike paused. “By the way, how many cases have you tried?”
“Two misdemeanors. This will be my first felony. Have you tried a lot of criminal cases?”
“Plenty, but this will be my last.”
MIKE LEFT THE COURTHOUSE. HIS PHONE BEEPED, INDICATING that he had a voice message. It was from Sam.
“Tell Miss Hall I’ll accept the plea deal. I believe my dream was a warning that my enemies will be in the jury box, and if I go to trial, I’ll be convicted. Papa was looking out for me, and even though it doesn’t make sense, I’d be foolish to ignore the message.”
Mike hit the Redial button. The phone at the Miller house rang, but no one answered. He was about to click off when Muriel answered.
“Is Sam there?”
“No, he’s on a job.”
“Did you know he called me?”
“Yes. He doesn’t want to have a trial. He’s going to tell the judge that he didn’t do anything wrong but will plead guilty to the charge you mentioned, so he won’t have to go to jail.”
“Where can I reach him?”
“Let me check his work schedule.”
Mike waited.
“He has several places to go on the east side.”
Muriel gave Mike the addresses. Mike made notes on a legal pad.
“I have got to talk to him,” Mike said. “There have been some new developments.”
MIKE DROVE TO THREE PLACES BEFORE HE SAW THE FAMILIAR TRUCK and trailer parked alongside the street. Sam was on his riding mower, cutting a large flat yard that had a single maple tree in the middle. The tree was covered in young leaves that would turn brilliant yellow and orange in autumn. Mike parked behind the truck and stood beside his car while Sam made another loop around the yard before cutting off the mower’s engine.
“Did you get my message?” Sam asked as he approached and wiped his hands on his overalls. “My decision doesn’t have anything to do with your situation at the church, and I know what I said the other day about the apostles, but there are times when I have to do things that seem wrong at the time. Later, it turns out right because Papa had another plan in—”
“The DA’s office withdrew the offer a few hours ago,” Mike interrupted. “Taking a deal to end the case is no longer an option.”
For the first time since he’d known Sam, the older man looked shocked.
“But why? I thought we had ten days to decide.”
“It should have been left open. Usually, the DA’s office honors its commitments to make sure the system runs smoothly. But with me, there’s no incentive. They can renege without worrying that I’ll do something to them in another case.”
Sam wiped his forehead with a red bandanna he took from his back pocket.
“What is Papa up to?”
“I don’t know, but I’ve been busy. As of now, we need to assume that we’re going to trial.”
Mike told Sam about his conversation with Darius York. Sam didn’t seem encouraged by the strong likelihood that his signature was lifted from a real check and imprinted on two forged ones. When Mike reached the part about York’s fee, the look on the old man’s face stopped Mike from asking him for money.
“The handwriting evidence will give the jury a scientific reason to believe in your innocence. But that’s not all I have to show them.”
Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out the paper Bobby had left in the deed book.
“I have a copy of the minutes of a meeting Jack Hatcher had a year ago with some of the people involved in the Cohulla Creek land development. Your name is mentioned along with Brian Dressler’s.”
Mike placed the sheet on the hood of his car.
“It looks like something from one of your notebooks, but with what I already know, I can make some sense of it.” He went over the minutes in detail and concluded by saying, “This should give you hope. I can drag all these people into court and sequester them. They won’t know what hit them until I start my questions.”
He waited for Sam’s response.
“I appreciate what you’re doing,” Sam said slowly. “If this trial was about who has the best lawyer, I’m sure we’d win. But the important thing for me to figure out is Papa’s plan. Without that, all the lawyer skill in the world won’t help me in the way I need it most.”
“Sam, this isn’t a religious game; it’s real. You’re charged with a criminal felony, and if you’re convicted, you could go to prison for a long time. I believe God will help us if we ask Him, but that doesn’t mean He’s going to tell us everything in advance. We may have to walk blind and trust Him to keep us from falling in the ditch.”
Sam’s face softened. “I see what you’re saying. We’re all little children who don’t see everything perfectly, and Papa looks out for us in a million ways we never realize. There are many times I’ve had to trust Him with the future when I didn’t understand the past.” Sam paused and continued with more intensity. “But doing what the Master wants is all I care about. In something as big as this, I have to know His will so I can obey it.”
“I’ll leave that up to you. But I’m clear about my obligation. I’m going to represent you in this case and do everything in my power to prove your innocence. I will not abandon you.”
Mike knew it was the only decision his conscience would allow, and speaking the words with conviction empowered him. He might end up as lonely as the solitary maple tree, but at least he’d stand up for what was right without yielding to intimidation.
Sam put his hand on Mike’s shoulder and looked him in the eye.
“Thank you. What happens next?”
“I’m going to track down Brian Dressler. He could be the key to the whole case.”
WHEN MIKE LEFT SAM, HE PHONED BRAXTON HODGES.
“Any word on Dressler?”
“No, what about your end?”
“Just pursuing leads,” Mike answered noncommittally.
“You’re holding back on me,” Hodges said. “I can hear you sniffing like a bloodhound on the scent.”
“A legitimate defense for the case is coming together, but there’s nothing I can reveal—yet. Mr. Forrest claimed Sam was an inept criminal. I could say the same thing about the people trying to frame him.”
“At least tell me if you’ve gotten a copy of Miller’s letter to Hatcher. You don’t have to read it to me, just tell me it exists. I want to print a facsimile in the paper when I break my story.”
“I wish I had the letter, but I don’t.”
“But I can hear it in your voice. You’ve found something good.”
“Maybe better. Talking to Dressler is my number one priority.”
“I’m staring into his empty cubicle as we speak. Nothing has been touched since the day he left for Alabama.”
“Let me know as soon as he shows up.”
“Will do. You’ll owe me a hamburger when this is over.”
MIKE RETURNED TO THE CHURCH. DELORES WASN’T AT HER DESK. The fax from Melissa Hall had been slipped into Mike’s in-box. Even if Delores could be trusted, it disturbed him that she knew an offer had been extended then withdrawn in the Miller case. Mike checked his phone messages. None of the other elders had phoned. No cracks appeared in the unity of those seeking to bring disunity to the congregation.
An hour later, Nathan Goode came in and sat down while Mike finished a phone conversation about vacation Bible school with the children’s ministries coordinator.
“Have you heard the rumors?” Mike asked when he hung up the phone.
“It’s not true,” Nathan replied. “I admit to four earrings in my right ear, but I never broke the law except for a few traffic tickets when I owned an old car that was unsafe at any speed.”
“No, I’m serious,” Mike answered. “I need to tell you about last night’s session meeting. If I continue to represent Sam Miller in the criminal case I mentioned to you, I’m going to have to leave the church.”
Nathan’s jaw dropped open. “If you’re kidding, this is the worst joke of the year.”
“It’s not a joke. I’m sticking with Miller, which means I’m out by the end of the week. They’re calling it a three-month sabbatical, but there’s no guarantee that I’ll return.”
“Are you sure about this? Can’t someone else help this guy?”
“They could, but I’m going to do it. If you knew the whole story, you’d understand. I can’t tell because much of it is confidential.”
“And the elders won’t cut you any slack?”
“No, there are a few who would like to kill my career and another who stabbed me in the back.”
“Wow. When this comes out in the open, the congregation will revolt and vote out the elders. This is worse than some of the lamebrained stuff the school board does.”
“We’re an independent church, but it’s not that easy under our bylaws. And I’m not sure a new session would solve the problems.”
Nathan shook his head. “They’re crazy.”
“You still have a job,” Mike continued. “Your name didn’t come up.”
“But it will. You don’t have to name the assassins, but if Milton Chesterfield and Barbara Harcourt are mad at you, there’s no telling what they think about me.”
“Miller had a dream about this situation before it happened. He saw the church on fire, only I didn’t know about it.”
“Then I’d better get out, too. Don’t shut the door. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Don’t rush it,” Mike responded. “Living on a teacher’s salary is going to put a crimp in your car payment, and I think you’re doing a super job with the teenagers. Give it a chance.”
Nathan gestured over his shoulder toward the door. “What was Delores’s take?”
“Was she at her desk when you came in?”
“No.”
“She seems supportive, but I’ll have to see where she ends up. Delores is an independent thinker.”
Nathan looked at Mike for a few seconds. “If I hang around for a while, what should I plan to do on Sunday?”
“Select something subject to the approval of the interim minister. I think ‘Blest Be the Tie That Binds’ would be a nice hymn selection.”
“No,” Nathan replied, shaking his head. “Since you can’t tell me what to do anymore, we’ll sing the ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic’—with special emphasis on the grapes of wrath.”