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JOY STARED OUT THE window at the street. A bitter spring rain discouraged foot traffic. Despite that, Joy would have given her right arm for five minutes to run free in the out of doors. Forced to remain within Arnie and Anna’s house for three weeks now, she had never felt so confined, so oppressed in her young life. Or so bereft of God’s care and comfort.
Nothing in her world made sense anymore. Papa and Mama could not come. Arnie was working like a fiend on her defense. Anna and the boys were supportive—but Joy could tell that public opinion was treating them harshly. In many eyes, she already stood guilty. People were anticipating—some eagerly—the trial and her judgment.
Mr. Wheatley came to see her daily. Most mornings he stopped for no more than a cup of coffee and an encouraging word. He would pat her hand as they sat sipping coffee, the silence growing.
One morning he started talking, almost as if she were not there with him. “See, I told Mr. Grant that while he was gone, I would look out for you, I did. Course we did not know then . . . I mean we thought he would only be gone a few weeks.” He sighed. “But a promise is a promise.”
The silence lengthened but it did not seem to bother him. When Joy poured him a second cup, he went in another direction entirely. “See, I know how you feel, Miss Joy. I lost a sweetheart once.”
This was something Joy had not known, and for a change, her interest was piqued. However, Mr. Wheatley seemed to have forgotten or not realized he had spoken aloud.
Long minutes went by before Joy prompted, “You lost someone dear to you?”
“Hmm? Oh. Yes.” He gazed into the distance again. “I was a young man once, you know. It was, oh, I think fifty years or more ago now.” He chuckled. “You might not believe me, but I was a good-looking young buck once.”
Joy smiled at him. “I think I can envision that.” They both grinned and Joy felt her stress ease for a moment.
“Well, now, I was raised back in Pennsylvania, see. My uncle had a shop and I worked for him. One day a gentleman came in and had his niece with him—prettiest thing I had ever seen. As fresh as a flower and just as sweet as honey. I courted her and we fell in love. Then the war came.
“I was conscripted, o’ course, and went off to fight.” He shook his head. “Those were dark days, missus. Dark days.”
“You fought in the war?”
“Yes ma’am. I try not to think on it.” Then he was off again, lost in his memories, and Joy waited for him to return.
“Well. I was talking about Helen and me. She wrote me regular-like, and most times I got her letters. They kept me from losing my mind, I think. But then they just stopped. I did not receive a letter for two months, and I was crazy with worry.” He looked at Joy. “Got a letter from her mother at last. Helen had come down with a fever and passed after five days.”
He sighed and sipped his coffee. “Never did find anyone who could make me forget her. I used to see how you and Mr. Grant looked at each other, and I would think, ‘Why, that is just how Helen and I felt’ or ‘She used to look at me just like that.’”
Joy touched his hand. “I am so sorry.”
His aged face smiled back at Joy. “It is all right, you know. I know where she is. Someday I will see her again. Until then . . . well, I made Mr. Grant a promise, so I will be a-watching out for you.”
In addition to the confinement, Joy had too much idle time on her hands. Too much time to think . . . about Grant. About the loss of the store. About the outcome of the trial. About the shame she was bringing on her family, on Mama, on Papa.
Papa.
Letters from Joy’s mama arrived each week. She did not hide that Jan was limited to their little home; neither did she dwell on it. He suffered from pain in his back and knees and needed Rose’s assistance to move from bed to chair. Joy’s heart grew more anxious for her beloved Papa, but Rose’s penned words were filled with peace.
I cannot yet fathom God’s plan in all that has befallen you, our dear daughter. We stand in full confidence of your innocence and know without doubt that this attack is from the enemy of our souls. God will not be mocked. He takes very seriously every slander against his children. I pity those who have moved so wickedly against you, and we pray for them, even as we pray diligently for you.
While men and Satan may plot against us, our Lord, who knows the end from the beginning, has his own purposes in play. Trials accomplish great works in us, preparing us for those purposes. What must you learn at this time, my dear Joy? Learn to trust the One who will never leave you nor forsake you.
Someday, on the other side of this, we will learn those purposes and be better equipped to carry them out to fruition.
Do not give in to discouragement, I beg you, Joy. Hold fast. God works all things—even wicked things—together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purposes. You are called, dear one. Hold fast.
Joy read such words of encouragement with numb ambivalence. She saw them, but they made no inroads into her heart and provided little comfort.
—
June 1908
ROBERTSON SURVEYED the packed courtroom, his expression solemn. “I visited Michaels’ Tools, Hardware, and Farm Implements on April ninth, I believe. Yes, here it is in my appointment book.” He offered the prosecutor a small leather-bound book. He, in turn, handed it to the judge.
“I met with Mrs. Michaels just before closing time that day. Franklin and Chase made Mrs. Michaels a very handsome offer for her store and inventory. I have a copy of it right here.” He again handed something to the judge, what looked like a linen envelope. A familiar-looking linen envelope.
Joy’s mouth gaped. “No!” she whispered furiously to Arnie. “It was not an offer to buy; it was that ‘partnership’ offer, just as I told you—and he threatened me!”
Arnie shushed her, concentrating on what Robertson was telling the judge. Søren, sitting close behind them, reached out his arm and put a hand on Joy’s shoulder. She was grateful for that simple touch.
“We came to terms over the next two weeks and were set to sign papers, but then—” he paused, embarrassed. “Dear me. I really do not like to say . . .”
The judged fixed him with a stern eye. “I remind you, Mr. Robertson, that you are under oath in this courtroom. You will complete your testimony.”
Robertson sighed and nodded his obedience to the judge. “Yes, Your Honor. I apologize to the court.” As he turned to face the courtroom again his eyes drifted over Joy and she saw it. Something in the turn of the corner of his mouth. Something he wanted her to see.
So quickly did the glance pass that Joy knew no one else had seen it.
He continued. “Well, sir, we had asked to see the store’s books, of course. And on the surface, they were perfect: neat, well organized, complete. They reflected a thriving endeavor.”
Joy hissed to Arnie again, “He never saw my books! He is lying!”
Arnie bid her silent with a stern look.
“And that was a bit concerning, Your Honor. You see, the condition of the business seemed . . . just a touch too perfect, sir, if you take my meaning. When we looked more closely, we found . . . irregularities.”
“What kind of irregularities?” demanded the prosecutor.
“Well, sir . . . ah, the books reflected cash entries every week that were too similar—nearly the same amount each week. And not nearly enough overhead. Altogether, the debt-to-income ratio seemed too low and the overall profitability much too high. At first, we were suspicious, but then we became, er, convinced that the books were, uh, inaccurate, perhaps altered.”
Someone in the back of the courtroom jumped to his feet, toppling a chair at the same time. Joy looked back and was startled to see Mr. Wheatley, his tufts of gray hair standing on end, large red blotches on each cheek.
He shook his fist in rage and shouted in his papery voice, “Liar! You are a liar, Robertson! You are a lying—” The rest was choked off in a scuffle of bodies as deputies tackled him.
“Silence! Silence in the court! Silence right now!” The judge’s gavel banged over and over, and the din in the courtroom died.
Two deputies wrestled the old man from the courtroom, and, with great concern, Joy saw him slumping in their grasp.
“I will have silence in my court!” the judge thundered. He glared at Joy as though she had orchestrated the outburst. Horrified, she saw condemnation in his fierce look. Glancing around, she saw other stares, some reflecting similar judgment, some speculation.
Arnie gripped her elbow. “Steady, Joy. School your face.”
Joy forced herself to return the judge’s glare with unflinching calm.
The judge turned at last to Robertson. “Continue your testimony.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Well, once we knew the books were cooked—”
“Objection, Your Honor. No irregularities in my client’s books have been established.” Arnie’s tone was sharp. Commanding.
The judge harrumphed. “Mr. Robertson, please remember that you are testifying. Do not draw conclusions that have not been entered into evidence.”
“Of course, Your Honor. I apologize.”
Arnie knew the damage was done as far as public perception. Robertson had spoken of “cooked books” in such a factual manner, it would be difficult to convince the people in the courtroom differently.
“When we, uh, believed we had found irregularities, I met with Mrs. Michaels again and informed her that we were withdrawing our offer.”
“On what date did this take place,” the prosecutor asked.
Robertson made a show of consulting his appointment book again. “April 23, sir.”
“What did Mrs. Michaels do and say when you informed her that the sale was off?”
“Well, she was quite angry. I was surprised, actually, at the words she used. Not like a lady, if you take my meaning.”
Joy slumped in her chair. Could things get any worse? She fought to breathe, fought against the tide of panic rising in her breast.
“Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Robertson should testify as to what he saw and heard and not characterize my client.”
Robertson sniffed. “Mrs. Michaels threatened me, Your Honor. She told me that if I did not leave immediately, she would have me thrown out. She also said, and I quote, ‘It is of no matter, Mr. Robertson. I am quite capable of handling my own business affairs myself.’”
Exactly what she had told him when she scorned his intimidation and offer of “partnership.” Word for word.
Robertson ended his testimony and the judge excused him. She did not recognize the prosecution’s next witness.
“The prosecution calls Mr. Tom Percher.”
A slender man, perhaps in his early thirties, took the witness stand. He was dressed in new clothes and was, patently, uncomfortable. The judge swore him in, and the prosecutor began his questioning.
“Mr. Percher, tell the court where you work, please.”
“Yessir. I, uh, work for Kimball’s Market, over on Fifth and Grand.”
“What do you do there, Mr. Percher?”
“Well, I, um, stock shelves and do a bit of sweeping up. Whatever Mr. Kimball has for me.”
“I see.” The prosecutor turned toward the courtroom as he asked the next question. “On the night in question, where were you around 6 p.m.?”
Percher gulped and looked toward the floor. “I was, uh, walking home from my job.”
“And did your itinerary happen to take you by Michaels’ Tools, Hardware, and Farm Implements?”
Percher frowned. “My itinerary?”
The courtroom tittered and the judge banged his gavel and glared at the witness. Percher, now perspiring, slid a hanky from his pocket and wiped his face.
The prosecutor, all benevolence, smiled. “Mr. Percher, did you walk past Mrs. Michael’s store on your way home? Mr. Percher?”
“I, uh, yes. I walked by the store.”
“Would you please tell the courtroom what you saw as you walked by Mrs. Michaels’ store?”
Percher’s eyes shot around the courtroom as if looking for the nearest door. Just then a spate of coughing from the packed courtroom drew his attention. Robertson, a handkerchief held to his lips, murmured a quiet “pardon me” while staring at the witness. Percher paled and straightened in his chair.
“I saw, um, her.” Percher pointed at Joy. “She was, uh, coming out of the store.”
“You saw Mrs. Michaels, the woman on trial here today?”
“Yessir.” He paused.
The prosecutor, affecting a bored stance drawled, “And?”
“Oh! Um, she was locking up the store. Yes. That’s right. She was locking up the store but . . . she had this sack in her hand, see? She, um, looked all around her and then walked away from the store and over to the trash can on the corner.”
“What did she do then, Mr. Percher?”
“Well sir, she, um, put that sack in the trash can.” Percher wiped his face again.
“Then what happened, Mr. Percher?”
“Well sir, she walked away.”
The courtroom tittered again. This time the judge merely glared out across the crowded room.
“And then?”
“Oh. And then I was curious, see. And I went and fetched that sack out of the trash. To see what was in it. Cause I was curious-like,” Percher recited in a monotone.
“What did you find in the sack, Mr. Percher?”
Voice low and eyes on the floor, Percher mumbled, “An empty jar of gasoline.”
The courtroom erupted, but Joy could no longer take in anything around her. She heard voices but took no notice of them. Sometime later, Arnie helped her to her feet. Søren’s chair behind her was empty.
“Is it over?” she asked. She wondered vaguely about Søren, but her thinking was too muddled to ask where he had gone.
“For today. Tomorrow it is our turn.”
~~**~~
