WHEN MIKE RETURNED TO THE CONFERENCE ROOM, DARIUS York was alone. The expert had taken out a calculator.
“The other lawyer left right after you did.”
Mike checked his watch. “Don’t expect the typewriters a minute early. Let’s go back to the library.”
When they returned to the library, Mike checked to make sure they were alone. He sat at the table.
“What did you find?” he asked.
“The checks were signed with a stamp. Very carefully done to make it hard to spot at first glance, but once I put them under the scope, the ink pattern was obvious. If I could take a scraping of the ink, I could identify the type of pad used.”
“And the stamp could have been manufactured from Miller’s signature on another check?”
“Or more likely his signature card on file with the bank. If that matches the stamp, there will be no question in my mind what happened.”
“Would there be collusion by the bank with the company making the stamp?”
“Not necessarily. Usually a signature on a blank sheet of paper is used, but the bank could have sent the signature card and told the company it was acting with the customer’s consent.”
Mike nodded. “I’ll send Sam to the bank to get his signature card. Will you need to examine it under the microscope to see if it’s a match?”
“That will help, although the loop on the S and the way he leans back the e in Miller are so distinctive, it should show up without magnification. When can you get the card?”
“I’ll try to reach him now, and send him to the bank.”
York touched his catalog case. “I scanned the checks, so they can be blown up and projected as part of a PowerPoint presentation to the jury. I’ve already worked up fourteen points of similarity on the checks. That puts use of the same stamp on both checks at over ninety-eight percent, but it would be helpful to create a few slides incorporating the signature card as well.”
Mike flipped open his phone and dialed Sam’s number. Muriel answered.
“This is Mike. Where is he?”
“In the storage shed working on one of his mowers.”
“Please get him.”
Mike waited, visualizing York’s display. If the signature card matched the stamp, it would make it harder for Hall to argue that Sam had ordered a signature stamp. Linking the bank’s typewriters to the checks would tighten the noose. “Hello,” Sam said.
Mike told him what to do.
“What if they won’t give me a copy of my signature card?”
“Get the name of the person who refuses and let me know.”
“Okay, I’ll give it a try,” Sam said with reluctance in his voice.
“Are you nervous about going to the bank?” Mike asked.
“Yep, I guess so. It’s been hard not worrying even though I’ve tried to keep my mind on Papa and kept busy tinkering with my stuff.”
“I can meet you at the bank if that helps.”
“Nope, I’ll head right over there.”
“Then come to the courthouse. We’ll be in the library. It’s on the first floor.” While they waited, Mike and York worked through items to include in the presentation. The former FBI agent was what Mike called an automatic witness— swear him in and turn him on.
A few minutes before the typewriters were to be delivered, Sam came into the library. The old man looked out of place surrounded by legal books.
“Any problems at the bank?” Mike asked quickly.
“Nope.” Sam handed a card to Mike. “I signed a new one, so they gave me the old one.”
Mike and York ignored Sam as they leaned over the card.
“That’s it!” Mike exclaimed. “It’s identical to the stamp!”
York didn’t immediately respond but took a magnifying glass from his case. Mike watched as York turned the card in several directions before looking up.
“You’re right. I’ll put it under the scope, but I think it’s a match.”
Mike glanced up at Sam. “Do you realize what this means?”
Sam shook his head.
Mike rapidly summarized the information York had developed, then held up the card in triumph.
“We’re one step away from breaking the back of the prosecution’s case. Once this comes into evidence, it opens the door for the other allegations connected with the bank to come in as relevant motivation to destroy you and your credibility.”
York looked up at Sam, who was still standing near the door.
“You’re an innocent man, Mr. Miller.”
Sam didn’t look pleased. “But you’re not an innocent man, are you?”
“What do you mean?” York replied.
Sam touched his belly. “I saw bags of gold behind your eyes with writing on them in another language. The gold didn’t belong to you, but you took it anyway.”
Mike held out his hand. “Sam, don’t be ridiculous. Mr. York is a former FBI agent. I’ve paid him to help us. He’s doing an honest job.”
“I’m not talking about this,” Sam said, pointing to the information on the table.
Mike looked at York, who was staring at Sam as if the old man had grown two heads.
“Please, don’t take offense,” Mike said to York. “It’s just part of what I’ve gone through representing him. Sam has dreams and sees things that aren’t there.”
“You didn’t talk like that when I told you about Jack Hatcher and Butch Niles,” Sam responded.
Mike stood up. “Sam, let’s go into the hallway.”
Mike grabbed Sam’s arm and steered him out of the room.
“Why are you trying to sabotage our relationship with a man who is here to help you?” Mike asked furiously.
Sam tilted his head to the side. “If you’d seen those bags of gold, you wouldn’t be getting mad at me. That man had better repent and make it right.”
“That’s not our job,” Mike shot back.
“Why not?” Sam raised his voice. “Is Mr. York more important as a witness in my case or as a soul who will live forever in heaven or hell? What if he dies without meeting the Master in this life? What answer will he give when Papa looks in his face? What answer will you give for not caring enough to help him?”
Mike’s head was spinning. “He doesn’t want our help.”
“How do you know? You hustled me out of there before we could find out.”
Mike spoke in a softer tone. “I know you mean well, but you brought me into this case to defend you against a criminal charge of embezzlement. That includes finding and hiring an expert witness to testify to the truth. I’ve found one who is very competent and believable. Now, you’re trying to take over defense of your case and destroy my hard work. If you do, there’s no need for me to hang around.”
“Why don’t we let Mr. York decide? If he doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll leave him alone. I can reveal the deeds of darkness, but conviction of sin isn’t part of the job description Papa gave me. That’s up to the Helper.”
Mike didn’t know what to do. In a few minutes, York would need to examine the typewriters.
“Okay,” he said. “Let me go in alone. Wait here.”
Sam folded his arms across his chest. “That’s a good idea. You need to learn.” Mike felt his face flush but suppressed his anger. He reentered the library. York was sitting in his chair staring across the room.
“Does your client claim to be a psychic?” York asked when Mike shut the door behind him.
“No, I’m not sure what label he places on himself, but I’ve learned that I can’t control what he says. This latest outburst is causing me to rethink my whole trial strategy. I’d planned on calling him as a witness, but if he suddenly starts accusing someone on the jury—”
“Can I speak to you confidentially?” York interrupted.
“Uh, yeah.”
“At first, I didn’t know what he was talking about, but there was an incident in my past that fits what he saw. It happened so long ago that I’d pushed it out of my mind, but it’s not the sort of thing I could ever totally forget. Of course, the military statute of limitations has run out and it seems pointless—”
The door opened and Melissa Hall stuck her head inside. Mike could see Sam standing behind her.
“The typewriters are here,” she said. “We’re closing the office in thirty minutes.”
“We’ll be right there,” Mike replied.
When Hall left, Mike shut the door in Sam’s face and turned to York.
“Are you still willing to help?”
“Yes.”
Mike breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks for being a professional and overlooking my client’s behavior.”
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s get to the machines.”
They left the library. Sam was waiting for them.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Mike whispered to Sam as they walked down the hallway. “I’m smoothing things over with York.”
There were three typewriters on the conference room table. Maxwell Forrest was present and accompanied by a man Mike didn’t recognize but assumed worked for the bank. Melissa Hall stood off to the side. Mike watched Forrest closely eye Sam as the old man entered the room.
“Sit here,” Mike motioned to Sam.
York opened his catalog case, took out a sheet of paper, and rolled it into the carriage of one of the machines. The conference room only contained a single outlet, and the cord attached to the machine wouldn’t reach from the table to the outlet in the corner.
“Do you have an extension cord?” he asked Hall.
“No,” she replied without hesitation.
York picked up the machine and placed it on the floor near the outlet. Plugging it in, he turned it on and methodically hit all the keys, both lowercase and uppercase, along with all the symbols. After repeating the process, he typed the exact information contained on each of the checks and repeated it as well. Finally, he typed the serial number for each machine on the bottom of the paper. While he worked, everyone in the room watched as intently as if the former FBI agent were performing brain surgery. Forrest made notes on a legal pad. Mike realized the bank was possibly retaining its own expert. The idea sent Mike quickly down the path of deciding how to respond to a battle of expert witnesses if the bank’s expert was made available to the prosecution. York continued working until he finished and looked at his watch.
“That should do it with five minutes to spare,” he said.
Mike turned to the man accompanying Forrest. “Your name, please?”
“Rick Post,” Forrest replied.
“And his position?”
“At the moment, custodian of these typewriters.”
Mike left the sarcastic remark alone. Post put the typewriters in boxes, placed them on a set of hand trucks, and rolled them out of the office. Forrest motioned for Mike to come into the hall.
“Do you have a minute?” Forrest asked.
“Yes.” Mike turned to York and Sam. “Wait for me in the library. The courthouse doesn’t close until five-thirty, so we have a little bit of time.”
Mike and Forrest stepped into the hallway.
“Let’s go into the courtroom,” Forrest suggested.
The main courtroom was empty yet expectant, an arena waiting for arrival of the gladiators and the roar of the crowd. Forrest spoke.
“Mike, I’ve always held you in high regard as a person and a lawyer, and your move into the ministry was a great act of self-sacrifice that served as an inspiration to me. However, I know you’re bound and determined to embarrass the bank and try to drag as many reputable businesspeople through the mud as you can. Whatever I have to do to defend my clients isn’t meant to attack you personally. It’s strictly business. I’m sorry you let yourself be lured back into the fight, but now you’re here, and we’re all going to get a little bloody before this is over.”
“I’ll stay within the rules.”
“As will I, but mercy is limited to the walls of your church. When you come into this courtroom on Monday, mercy won’t be a word in the dictionary.”
Mike looked at the wooden floor for a few seconds before looking up and responding.
“And I sincerely hope you’re not involved in what may have happened in this case.”
Forrest looked Mike in the eye. “Have you ever known me to cross any ethical or moral line?”
“No, sir.”
“Then we go into this with an understanding of the past, which I hope won’t be violated in the future.”
Forrest extended his hand, and Mike shook it. The firm grip that had greeted Mike’s arrival in Shelton when he graduated from law school was noticeably weaker. They returned to the hallway and went in opposite directions.
Mike found Sam and York sitting across from each other.
“It won’t be easy,” York was saying.
“What now?” Mike asked.
“Nothing,” York replied with a wave of his hand. “Let me set up and quickly check the typed samples. I’ll do a more extensive review at home, but I can give you a preliminary opinion before I leave.”
He placed enlarged copies of the two checks on the table and set up his microscope.
“Computers can do the same kind of analysis that I’m performing,” York said as he prepared his equipment.
“But they can’t testify under oath and give an opinion,” Mike responded.
“True, but I may run them through a program on my computer to bolster the credibility of my opinion.”
York placed one of the sheets of paper under the microscope and began moving it from letter to letter. In a few minutes, he removed it.
“It’s not this one,” he said. “The r and capital M are totally different.”
He picked up another sheet and examined it, taking much longer. Mike looked at his watch. The courthouse would close in a few minutes. He really wanted an opinion before York left town.
“I think this is it,” York said without raising his eye from the viewer. “I’ve found identifiable marks on five of the letters and two of the numbers with several more letters to analyze.”
“Where would that put the percentages?”
York sat up straight. “Not sure, but by the time I finish, I should be able to convince a reasonable person that the checks were typed at the bank.”
Mike broke out a smile. “It only takes one reasonable juror to stop a conviction, and a few strong ones for acquittal can usually carry the day. The signature stamp could have been explained away, but access to this typewriter is completely outside Sam’s control. This is huge.”
York began packing up his gear. “I’ll do a thorough evaluation of the other typewriter as well and give you a call tomorrow.”
“Good.”
When he was finished, York stood and looked at Sam.
“Thank you, Mr. Miller.”
“You’re welcome, but mercy comes from Papa’s heart.”
After York left, Mike turned to Sam. “Mercy? What’s that all about? I thought you were going to leave him alone.”
Sam held up his hands in surrender. “He brought it up, and I answered him.”
“What did you say?”
Sam rubbed his stomach. “I didn’t think you liked the water in my well, and now you’re asking for a drink the Master provided another man. What am I supposed to do with you?”
Mike shook his head. “Okay, keep it to yourself. But it’s good to know there is still mercy at the courthouse.”
MIKE DIDN’T REALIZE HOW TIRED HE WAS UNTIL HE’D LOOSENED his tie and deposited his briefcase in the downstairs office. Peg was in the kitchen sitting on a stool and preparing a large salad for supper.
“We’re eating healthy for supper,” she said. “I want our baby to like everything I’m throwing into this salad.”
“Fine with me; I’ll sleep soundly tonight whether my stomach is empty or full.”
While they ate, Mike told her some of the events of the day. He left out Sam’s warning to Darius York. He suspected Peg would be upset with him for the way he handled the situation. When he described his conversation with Forrest in the courtroom, she spoke.
“What was he trying to do? Get you to quit?”
“No, I don’t think so. At first, I thought he was playing a mind game with me—a one-man good cop/bad cop routine, but now, I believe he was sincere.”
“In his desire to spill your blood on the courtroom floor,” Peg responded sharply.
“That part was just lawyer talk. It was the sentiment behind the words that came through in the midst of the blustering.”
Peg shook her head. “Maybe I’d agree if I’d been there, but to me, he was just trying every angle to exert his will.”
After supper, Mike sat in his recliner and closed his eyes. Within seconds he was in a large room without windows. The room was dark at first, but as his eyes became accustomed to the light, he could make out human shapes along the walls. Mike stood still and waited for one of the people to move or speak. Nothing happened. He waited a few more seconds then cautiously stepped toward the nearest figure. The closer he came, the more he expected a voice to challenge him, or perhaps an even more violent reaction. Two feet from the form, he slowly reached out his hand and touched it.
It was made of wax.
As Mike’s eyes continued to adjust to the hazy, unnatural light, he could tell that life-size wax figures lined the walls of the room. Mike recognized the familiar forms of Maxwell Forrest, Milton Chesterfield, Braxton Hodges, along with people he’d known in the past but not seen in years. Other figures were total strangers. Some of the pedestals were empty, and he wondered whether someone had stolen the statues. Sensing a presence behind him, he quickly turned around.
And woke up.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, MIKE ARRIVED AT THE COURTHOUSE THIRTY minutes early. The fact that Judge Coberg had denied the motion about the typewriters gave him confidence that Sam’s constitutional right to face his accusers would trump any privacy rights or arguments of inconvenience presented by Maxwell Forrest on behalf of the bank.
Mike entered an empty courtroom. Bowing his head, he dispatched a silent prayer thanking God for how well the case was going. When he opened his eyes, two other lawyers were entering the courtroom. In addition to motions and the call of the criminal calendar for the following week, the judge would receive guilty pleas for cases in which plea agreements had been reached. By the time Mike’s watch showed nine-thirty, approximately twenty-five people and seven other lawyers, including Greg Freeman, were in the room. Maxwell Forrest wasn’t one of them.
Melissa Hall was handling duties for the DA’s office. She placed a large stack of files on the table without looking in Mike’s direction. Several lawyers came up to her for quick discussions.
“All rise!” the deputy sheriff on duty announced.
Mike stood up as the door behind the bench opened. Judge Lancaster entered the courtroom.
“Be seated!” the deputy called out when the judge had taken his place on the bench.
Mike’s heart was pounding and his mouth felt dry. William Lancaster was a rogue judge—unpredictable and, at times, capricious. Mike had experienced uneven success before him. The fiasco with Danny Brewster obliterated any positive memories.
“Court will come to order,” the judge said in his slightly pinched voice. “Judge Coberg was called out of town on a family emergency. I will be receiving pleas as well as presiding over next week’s criminal trial calendar.”
“Proceed,” the judge said to Ms. Hall.
The young DA began calling cases. Individuals stepped forward, some with attorneys, others unrepresented. As the judge began receiving guilty pleas, Mike listened closely, not because he had any interest in the cases, but to determine if the judge was going along with the deals or rejecting them. Out of the first three cases, only one plea agreement survived intact.
Several attorneys sitting near Mike began to whisper. Mike couldn’t hear their conversations but knew they were discussing whether to seek a continuance in an effort to avoid facing Judge Lancaster. The same thought crossed Mike’s mind.
The requests for continuance began to flow, and Lancaster didn’t seem to mind. The judge wasn’t lazy, but his mood of the moment made him receptive to postponement of justice to another day. A few guilty pleas slipped through intact. When only a few people were left in the courtroom, the back door opened, and Maxwell Forrest entered. Bobby Lambert was with him. Forrest was a formidable foe, but Mike would rather face him than contend with his friend. The judge finished the first part of the calendar.
“Ms. Hall, how many cases are you placing on next week’s trial calendar?”
“Seven,” she responded. “First out will be State v. Miller.”
“I’m representing Mr. Miller,” Mike said as he stood to his feet.
The judge looked at him as if noticing him for the first time. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve maintained my license, Your Honor,” Mike replied, “and I’m defending Mr. Miller.”
“What’s the charge?” the judge asked Hall.
“Felony embezzlement from a nonprofit organization. The indictment charges the defendant with embezzling in excess of $100,000 from a church.”
The judge turned to Mike. “It wasn’t your church, was it?”
“No, sir.”
The judge grunted. “How long do you anticipate it will take to try the case?”
“One day for the State’s case,” Hall responded.
“Two to three days for the defense,” Mike said.
The judge leaned forward. “That’s virtually the whole week! Isn’t there a way to get this pared down so the court can handle more than one case?”
Maxwell Forrest spoke. “Your Honor, if I could interject?”
“Go ahead.”
“The primary reason for the excessive length of trial is a plethora of subpoenas issued by Mr. Andrews to people across the entire country and his demand for voluminous records from the Bank of Barlow County. Mr. Lambert and I are here to argue several motions to quash the subpoenas.”
The judge turned to Mike. “Explain what you’re doing.”
“We were going to argue the motions after the calendar call,” Mike began.
“But I want to hear the matter now,” the judge snapped, “since it may affect what I tell the rest of the lawyers on standby.”
Mike cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”
Mike repeated his argument of the previous day. Every time he tried to speak in generalities, the judge interrupted with a specific question. As Mike talked about Troy Linden and Dick Bunt, he realized that Maxwell Forrest was smart enough to deduce Mike’s trial strategy.
“Is Representative Niles going to claim governmental privilege?” the judge asked Forrest when the legislator’s name came up.
“No, sir. The legislature is not in session next week. However, I think my client and the Court have a right to know why he’s being summoned. Representative Niles was not involved in the investigation into the embezzlement and had no contact with the defendant.”
The judge looked at Mike.
“That’s not true, Your Honor. Mr. Niles and Mr. Miller had a conversation within the past two weeks.”
“About the charges?”
“Not specifically. But there is a collateral connection that will be developed through the entire testimony I will present.”
“What type of collateral connection?”
Mike felt his face flush. “With all due respect, to answer that question, I would have to reveal my trial strategy.”
“Then you’d better decide what will convince me not to grant Mr. Forrest’s motions.”
Mike quickly gathered his thoughts. “The defendant possesses knowledge that may jeopardize business interests connected to Mr. Niles.”
The judge narrowed his eyes. “Are you contending these witnesses engaged in a conspiracy against your client?”
“That is an issue the jury should have a right to decide.”
The judge turned to Hall. Mike saw Bobby lean over to Forrest and begin whispering.
“Does the State have a position on these subpoenas?” the judge asked the assistant DA.
“Abuse of the subpoena power of the court is not constitutionally protected activity. Therefore, we concur with Mr. Forrest’s arguments and hope the Court will not empower Mr. Andrews to engage in a spurious witch hunt.”
“That’s an interesting characterization,” the judge responded dryly. “Does the term witch hunt apply to men as well as women?”
Everyone in the courtroom stared at Hall to see how she would respond to the overtly sexist remark. Mike saw a red tinge travel from her neck to her cheeks.
“Yes, sir,” she managed.
“Court will be in a five-minute recess until I announce my decision,” the judge said.
Judge Lancaster left the bench. Maxwell Forrest and Bobby came forward to talk to Melissa Hall. Greg Freeman approached Mike.
“Any predictions?” Mike asked.
“This is my first look at Judge Lancaster,” the younger lawyer said, “and it’s not pretty. You saw what he did to my plea bargain.”
The judge had rejected the plea, forcing Freeman’s client to choose between letting the judge sentence him without any guaranteed result or going to trial.
“If my case takes all week, you can bring the plea deal before Judge Coberg when he returns to the bench.”
“That’s what I’m counting on. Are you sure your case will take four days?” “Yes. It always takes longer than you think.” Mike motioned toward Hall, Forrest, and Bobby, who continued to talk in earnest. “They’re trying to sell something to Ms. Hall right now, but I’m not sure what it is.”
Mike tried to stay calm, but inside he was wrapped tight in the turmoil of suspense. The next words from the judge’s mouth would dictate the scope of events for the next week and a half. A favorable ruling would allow Mike to proceed as planned; an adverse decision would force him to greatly restrict the scope of his defense. The judge returned. Instead of speaking, he wrote something on a sheet of paper in front of him.
“Motion denied,” he said without glancing up. “Mr. Forrest, tell the subpoenaed witnesses you represent to be here Monday morning along with the tangible items requested by the defendant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mike added.
The judge ignored him and turned to Hall. “What is the call list for the remaining cases on the trial calendar? I want everyone involved in the number two and three cases here on Monday in case there is an unforeseen delay in the Miller case.”
“One other matter on the Miller case,” Hall replied. “Mr. Forrest has been talking to me, and, uh . . .”
Maxwell Forrest stepped forward and continued, “Mr. Lambert and I will be filing a request to serve as special prosecutors in this case.”
“That’s up to the district attorney,” the judge grunted. “But I’m warning all of you. Nobody is going to undermine the efficient administration of justice in my courtroom.” The judge looked at Mike. “That goes double for you, Mr. Andrews.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll notify you as soon as Mr. West makes his decision,” Hall said to the judge.
The judge waved his hand. “Go on. Give me the rest of your calendar.”
Mike didn’t hear Hall’s response. His heart rate slowed as he closed his briefcase. Forrest’s desire to be directly involved made sense. Never common, use of a special prosecutor occurred when the wealthy victim of a crime wanted to make sure the responsible person was convicted and hired the best trial lawyer in town to assist the State’s prosecutor. Jack Hatcher and those connected to him were scared—scared enough to spend a lot of money to guarantee a guilty verdict.
WHEN MIKE TURNED ON HIS PHONE AFTER LEAVING THE COURTROOM, he had a voice mail from Darius York. Mike punched in the expert’s number.
“I spent the morning running comparisons on the typewriters and the checks,” York said. “I’m going to blow up the individual letters on the checks and place them beside the ones from the sample sheet of the typewriter used. To emphasize the uniqueness of each unit, I’ll also include the letters and numbers from the other two machines. Several letters stand out strong.”
“Sounds good.”
“It is. The machine used is by far the most distinctive of the units. Your client is lucky.”
“I’m not sure he believes in luck.”
“Whatever he believes is different from anything I’ve ever encountered.”
“You don’t have to tell that to me.”
“He has a strong defense. I’ve rarely seen this type of exculpatory evidence. I know anything can happen in court, but Mr. Miller should walk away from this with a lawsuit against someone for causing him to suffer through this ordeal.”
“When can I preview your presentation?”
“I’ll have it ready by the end of the day on Sunday. I’ll send it to you via email as a PDF attachment so you can give feedback before I drive down on Monday.”
“Great. You won’t testify the first day of trial. It will take all morning to pick the jury, and the State’s case will fill the rest of the day. I suspect most of the evidence on behalf of the bank will take place during rebuttal. The bank president and his business partners want to use a special prosecutor to make sure their interests are protected.”
“I can’t blame them,” York responded. “The district attorney looked younger than my granddaughter.”
“This is her first felony trial. She may deliver the opening statement and handle the direct examination of the detective who interviewed Sam, but you’ll be cross-examined by an experienced trial lawyer.”
“It’s been done before. I can hold my own. Any word on their expert?”
“No, but the State has to serve me with an amended list of witnesses if they intend to use one.”
AS HE DROVE UP THE HILL TO HIS NEIGHBORHOOD, MIKE thought about the Little Creek Church. He’d been so occupied with the upcoming trial that he’d not dwelt on the shadow lands beyond the jury’s verdict. Several possibilities passed through his mind in quick succession, but he squelched them. For the moment, State v. Miller was his past, present, and future.
Peg was in the art room working on a sketch that would be the basis for another watercolor.
“Take a look,” she said.
Mike stood beside her. It was a bird’s-eye view of a 1950s-era beach house with a family on the sand between the house and the ocean. Several children splashed in the surf. Mike quickly counted.
“Five kids. Whose house is it?”
“A happy family’s.”
Mike pointed at the scene. “The father had better get off the beach towel and back to the office.”
“No. There won’t be a cloud in the sky.”
“I wish I could say that.”
“What happened?”
Mike told her about the specter of Judge Lancaster and Maxwell Forrest’s intervention.
“Was Sam there?” she asked.
“No, defendants aren’t required to be there. I hope he was cutting grass somewhere.”
“But wouldn’t it be a good idea for him to listen, so he can tell you what God is saying about the situation and the people?”
“That’s something I haven’t considered. Except for yesterday, I’ve kept Sam isolated so he wouldn’t say the wrong thing in the wrong place at the wrong time. One crazy slipup from him, and I can forget all my careful planning.”
“I still think it would be a good idea.”
“There won’t be another opportunity. Next time up is jury selection on Monday morning.” Mike paused. “I’ve never selected a jury for a client who believed he could uncover the secrets of another person’s heart. It should be an interesting process.”
MIKE SPENT THE AFTERNOON WORKING IN THE DOWNSTAIRS OFFICE. After several hours, mental fatigue began to crack his capacity to analyze and organize. He pushed away from the desk and rubbed his eyes. He stepped out of the room and found Peg lying on the couch in the great room reading a novel.
“My brain is fading, but my body needs a workout,” he said. “Would you feel abandoned if I took Judge out for a romp?”
The dog, lying on the floor beside Peg, raised his head at the sound of his name.
“Go,” Peg said. “Both of you need the exercise.”
“Let’s go,” Mike said to him.
“How long will you be gone?” Peg asked.
Mike looked at the clock. “A couple of hours at the most.”
Peg stretched. “Okay. I’m cooking something special for supper.”
“Liver mush?”
“If that’s what you want, darling.”
“Surprise me.”
Mike put his bike on top of his car, and Judge jumped into the backseat. He drove along a rarely used country road that ran along the valley, climbed a few ridges owned by a pulpwood company, and then became a dirt road that disappeared into the woods. The only time Mike avoided the area was during deer season. He didn’t want a trigger-happy hunter mistaking the handlebars on his bike for a rack of antlers on a buck.
Parking the car at an abandoned farmhouse, Mike unloaded the bike and set a leisurely pace that wouldn’t tire Judge. The dog loped along beside him with his ears gently flopping up and down and his mouth slightly open. There were a few wispy clouds in the sky, and the mountain air refreshed Mike’s cheeks as it crossed his face. Within a few minutes, he’d left the stress of the day behind and settled into enjoying the world in which God had placed him.
The track turned west and he climbed the first ridge. Stopping at the top, he took a small drink of water and poured a larger serving into a plastic bowl for Judge. They’d only seen two cars and three pickups since starting the ride. Unlike drivers in town, those in the country didn’t seem to resent Mike’s presence and gave him a wide berth when they passed him.
He coasted down the dip between the ridges before climbing a longer, steeper ridge. Leaving the bike in a lower gear, he worked hard enough that his thighs began to burn. The harder the climb, the farther Judge’s tongue began to hang out of his mouth. They reached the top and turned off the road. A hundred yards from the road was a small burned-out area caused by a fire sparked by a lightning strike. With the arrival of spring, new growth had sprouted forth since the last time Mike had been to the spot. He sat on a felled tree and shared another drink with Judge.
The clearing faced east toward Shelton. He couldn’t see the town, but several roads and a few scattered houses were visible in the distance. From his vantage point, it was possible to make out the outline of the eastern edge of the paper company’s property. The privately held land was a hodgepodge of fences and mixed-use fields. The tree farm had order and symmetry. Some sections were filled with bushy young saplings peeking through the soil; others contained adolescent trees bunched close together as they fought for air and light; the remaining acres had already been harvested once, but the woodsmen left some of the best trees standing so they could grow even larger. It was quiet. Tree farming was a patient endeavor, measured in decades not years. It was a good illustration for the Christian life.
“But where will I preach it?” Mike spoke into the silent air.
No answer came. Mike continued to soak in the scene. Then a thought slipped softly into his mind.
Don’t preach it; live it.
Puzzled, Mike turned the words over in his mind. Before teaching others, he knew he needed to understand the truth himself. But understanding alone wasn’t sufficient if inconsistent with behavior. He sensed the words went beyond to something else. He mulled them over for several minutes. Nothing satisfactory surfaced. He whistled for Judge, who was crashing through the underbrush. The dog circled around and returned to the clearing from the rear.
“Let’s go,” Mike said. “Supper is waiting.”