49

I had never understood how my father could continue to be a defense lawyer even after my mother’s death. On Friday morning, sitting in traffic on my way to work, I considered that question again in a different light. Things that appeared innocent and even noble before now seemed more foreboding if Caleb Tate was telling the truth.

In the first few days after talking with Tate, I had refused to even consider the possibility that my father might have been corrupt. Even after I checked the results of his cases, I still chose to believe that there must be some innocent explanation. But as the week progressed, I found myself reliving past events, looking at them through the prism of this new information. And I began to wonder if my dad might have been keeping some very dark secrets.

I remembered, for example, a particularly poignant conversation at a P. F. Chang’s during my junior year of college. I had just ordered the chicken dumplings. My father was eating beef fried rice. My brother was there as well. I was home for winter break, and I had decided to go to law school to become a prosecutor.

“How can you still be a defense lawyer after what happened to Mom?” I asked my dad.

Chris grimaced. My dad and I always spoke bluntly with each other, but Chris didn’t like confrontation in the family.

My dad put his fork down and wiped his mouth. “Good question. And I’m not sure anything I say will convince you that it’s been the right thing to do, but you should at least know that I’ve given it a lot of thought . . .” He hesitated, then added, “. . . and a lot of prayer.

“Your mother fell in love with me when I was a defense attorney. Even after we were married, she would testify as an expert on both sides of cases. Her biggest thrill was working with me to defend someone who was innocent. So, Jamie, I know you want to honor your mom by being a prosecutor, and I think that’s noble. But I hope you can see that there’s some nobility on the other side as well.”

“In theory, I see that,” I had said, taking a bite of my food. “But when’s the last time you defended a person who was truly innocent?”

“Here we go,” Chris said.

My dad took a bite and started talking, as he always did, before he swallowed. And it was his answer that was tumbling through my mind now. “There’s no such thing as a truly innocent person, Jamie. Evil is part of our nature. Some learn to control the evil impulses. Others don’t. I represent the ones who don’t. But they’re really not that much different from us.”

“So Antoine Marshall and Chris are basically the same?” I asked. I played it safe and used my brother as the example of innocence, given my own somewhat-checkered adolescent history.

“Actually,” Chris said, turning into the preacher boy, “if you read the Sermon on the Mount, we are. Anyone who’s angry with his brother is the same as someone who murders. If I lust after a woman, I’ve committed adultery. Dad is right from a theological perspective. We’re all guilty if you look at our hearts.”

I loved my brother. But at the time, one year into his theological education, he was hopelessly preachy. “With all due respect,” I said, “I’m more of an Old Testament girl when it comes to justice. Let their children become fatherless and all that.”

“Funny,” my dad said, “you seemed to be a lot more enamored with mercy during your teenage years.”

In high school, I had been grounded a few times. Okay, quite a few. But that was different.

“In my logic class, Dad, we call that an attack ad hominem.”

My father’s words hadn’t convinced me that night, but I gave them some serious thought during my time in law school. I watched his law practice from a distance and admired the way he represented his clients. And I came to accept, at least at the time, that it was his own way of honoring my mom.

But now I had to ask the question. Could it possibly be that my father had been part of a corrupt system? Even thinking it, I felt like a traitor. How could I doubt my own father? But how else could that data be interpreted?

When my father died, I felt like someone had ripped out my heart. A part of me had died with him. But as Chris had reminded me, at least I had the memories.

Now I wasn’t so sure. It felt like a cancer was eating at the memories, turning every happy moment into something sinister. It was hard enough to lose a father’s love. It was harder still to lose a family’s legacy.