

BROKEN: a story of hope and forgiveness

by Kevin Mark Smith
BROKEN: a story of hope and forgiveness

Copyright © 2012

Kevin Mark Smith

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations are from:

The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

or

THE HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

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The LORD is close to the brokenhearted

and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

—Psalm 34:18
Prologue

The sun was sinking fast in the western sky as Landon drove his worn-out navy blue Toyota pickup truck down a curvy, flat, and unpaved northern Oklahoma road. He slowed the truck down to a creep as he pulled alongside the front lawn of a modest yet shabby ranch-style home on the outskirts of Darkwell. The off-white paint of the home was peeling terribly, and the front door, once bright red, was faded and peeling in places, too. There had once been a screen door, but the only thing left of it were broken hinges and a latch. There was a garage, but it was just the single-car type, and it was now stuffed with unused overflow from the house—things no one wanted any more but no one was willing to part with, either—so its resemblance to other garages was in name only. The cars meant for a garage were instead stored under the relentless Oklahoma sun's heat rays, which beat down on the home's smallish paved but seriously cracked and crumbling driveway. There were two pre-'70s era Chevy pickup trucks, an early '80s model Chevy Celebrity (which, though newer, was in much worse shape than the older pickups), and an inoperable 1978 Ford Crown Victoria that was now a dim shade of gray. Every space available in the driveway was occupied by American metal, which is why Landon was forced to park on the street.

As his truck came to a stop, he heard the barks of the family's German Shepherd/Labrador retriever mixed-breed mutts piercing the chain link fence that kept them corralled in the back yard, out of sight from the dirt road. Soon after, a cacophony of yelps, barks, and howls of the neighborhood's other dogs prodded along by their noisier neighbors' barks joined in the chorus.

Landon hated where he was, especially this time of year. Northern Oklahoma was in the midst of a multi-year drought. With the onset of summer all signs pointed to yet another uninterrupted dry and very hot spell. It was the final few days of May, just before the already unbearable dust and rolling waves of the "new dust bowl's" godless heat would really start to pour down from a typically cloudless sky, and gurgle back up from the reddish clay earth. At least it's not west Texas, he reflected. But the last thought wasn't enough to make him feel any better.

It was a place of extremes; hot and dry most of the time. When rain did come, it usually brought with it horrific thunderstorms and a tornado or two.

He glanced around the dimly lit cab of his pickup, a mechanically sound yet cosmetically trashed student car that he'd bought with money saved from various odd jobs the two previous summers. The interior was gunmetal gray. Its dashboard was chipped and cracked from years of harsh sun and its previous owners' failure to use Armor All or some other vinyl or leather protectant. The cushioning foam underneath its once supple vinyl covering oozed and flaked between the cracks and pits. The seats had long ago ceased being finely upholstered canvas and were now covered with cheap Dallas Cowboys blue and gray seat covers his mom had given him as his high school graduation gift two weeks before.

As he took inventory of his life, he realized that this worn out Toyota truck, with its new seat covers, was all he had in the world. "My life stinks!" he screamed within the solitude of the smallish cab of the truck. He thought he heard the side windows rattle from his yell and he hoped the rattle was just his imagination.

He popped the truck's floor-mounted gearshift into neutral, pulled the floor-mounted parking brake lever all the way up, and turned off the engine. Though he hadn't yet pulled the key out of the ignition, he had begun reaching for the door handle.

"No," he said to himself as he jerked his hand away from the handle. "I'm not ready for those rednecks yet."

Instead of opening the door, he leaned his head back into the headrest, closed his eyes, and silently wished he were back in Enid, Oklahoma, in his childhood home. It was the same routine he'd followed every evening about this time of the day for the past week.

His new routine had begun to wear on him already. He woke at the crack of dawn then threw on his work clothes without bothering to shower. His work clothes consisted of just three parts. Part one was three pairs of Wrangler jeans he'd bought just two weeks before, yet each pair already looked as if he'd owned them for years, with permanent grease and oil stains and a few holes here and there. Part two was a six-pack of white short-sleeved t-shirts he bought the same time as the jeans. They were unlikely to last the month since they were subject to the same wear and tear as the jeans, and they lacked the cowboy toughness of his Wranglers. And finally, the third part was one pair of steel-toed work boots, which were the only additions to his wardrobe that stood any chance whatsoever of making it through the summer.

He pictured himself wearing the then worn boots to class in the fall. The thought of the perceived toughness they'd imbue upon him might attract a few girls brought the only smile on his face he probably revealed all day. Girls like bad boys.

After girding himself up for battle in the oilfields, he would walk into the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee, scarf down a bowl of corn flakes, and hop into his truck for the ten-minute drive to the oil patch where the independent oil company his uncle worked for was busy drilling holes in the earth to take advantage of the recent run-up in oil prices.

Once on the jobsite, the grueling work began. Landon was a gofer for the more experienced workers, which meant that he did lots of heavy lifting. He fetched, carried, and hauled tools that weighed anywhere from 1 to 100 pounds, and sometimes more. The workers would send him on errands to other wells, and such errands often resulted in twice as much heavy hauling as he already had to do. He would lift and tote hundreds of pounds of tools and equipment each day for the men in the patch before, during, and at the end of his runs.

Still sitting in his truck with his eyes closed, he felt physically spent after working his sixth fourteen-hour day in a row. He wished he were a child of the rich, able to go to school, spend an allowance, and not worry about growing up until he had to.

"I won't survive this lousy job," he huffed aloud.

After five-or-so minutes of wallowing in self-pity, he opened his eyes, pulled the key out of the ignition, opened the truck's door, threw his legs out the side of the truck with the rest of his tired aching body following close behind, and pulled himself up on his feet. He slammed the door shut behind him—he didn't bother to lock it because there was nothing inside worth stealing. Slowly, he shuffled his fatigue-laden feet through the under-watered, crispy-fried yard of the house to its front door.

Every muscle burned.

Although the home was somewhat dilapidated on the outside (keeping it maintained was his uncle's and his cousins' responsibility, and the house's exterior was obviously not high on their priorities list), the inside, which was his aunt's responsibility, was well kept. The front door led into a decent-sized living room, which served as the family gathering place. A 40-inch big screen television sat in the place a fireplace would normally go. A longish sofa occupied the space to the left of the TV, his and her recliners faced the TV, and a love seat took up space to the right of it. Bottom line: the entire room was arranged around the TV and Uncle Ted's addiction to sports and cable news. Straight back from the front door and through a doublewide, door-less entryway was the kitchen, which was the only oversized part of the house. It had plentiful cabinet space, which was mandatory given Aunt Alice's addiction to cooking fat-laden southern-style meals, mostly chicken with an Uncle Ted-grilled steak or hamburger thrown in once a week, usually on Sunday evenings.

To the left of the living room was a hallway that led to the main bathroom and three bedrooms, all pretty small but at least big enough to hold two kids each, with one vacated by Ted's and Alice's grown-up girls two years before. It now served as Ted's hobby room and Landon's temporary living quarters. One of the bedrooms, the smallest one, was still occupied by Landon's fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boy cousins, who spent most of their time somewhere else. The bedroom at the end of the hallway was Ted's and Alice's, and it had its own smallish master bathroom.

As a veteran employee of Backwood Petroleum, LLC, and the supervisor of all field hands, including Landon, Uncle Ted usually arrived home about an hour before Landon. When Landon walked into the house on this particular evening, Ted was already reclined and watching a cable sports channel. He glanced up over his shoulder at Landon and chuckled. "So, college man, how was your first week?"

I think I hate you, Landon thought as he shot Ted a look of utter and absolute contempt.

Ted was a redneck (or, more accurately, a "roughneck," the designation earned by oilfield workers), both literally and figuratively. His skin was red and leathery after decades of working in the oil fields in Oklahoma and North Texas, and he carried with him an extra fifty pounds of beer gut that only disappeared when he lay down in bed or in his recliner. He was also a big NASCAR fan who displayed model stock cars and fan memorabilia in his hobby room, which really irked Landon since the room was now his bedroom. He had grown to hate Jeff Gordon and Jimmy Johnson in just seven days, and he vowed to never again watch a stock car race. He might even buy an open-wheeled formula car model as a present for Uncle Ted on his last day as a guest in his home, a gift certain to irk the man (and one that would likely end up in the garage or perhaps the trash can!). He made a mental note to buy a model of Danica Patrick's ride at the end of the summer; that would really make Uncle Ted mad.

You should know how the week went, Landon thought sourly. You're the one who worked me like a dog. Instead of making his feelings known, however, he bit his tongue; an odd mix of regret and gratitude at the opportunity his uncle had given him confused his thoughts.

"Speechless?" Ted pressed.

"No," he huffed. "It went just fine, I guess."

It was a lie. It was the worst week he could remember, but he refused to acknowledge that his combat-hardened, Marine Corps veteran uncle had broken him. Regrettably, he couldn't hide his exasperation as he shuffled behind Ted's chair to his bedroom, slumped over with his head down, which brought an even wider smile to the old man's face. Though he tried to avoid eye contact, he saw his uncle's smirk and heard a clear, meant-to-be-heard "harrumph" as he walked past. His vain attempt to make his uncle think he had finally grown into a man had failed, he was certain.

I know I hate you, he thought as he squeezed past the king's thrown. How did I let Dad talk me into this lousy job? He continued his silent meditations as he increased the distance between him and Ted. Sadly, he knew the answer before he asked it.

In rural Oklahoma, there was only one way to make $10.00-plus per hour straight out of high school in a short-term summer job—the oil patch. As he considered what his desperation for college money led him to do, whatever gratitude he once felt for Ted and Alice darkened into bitterness. Actually, he felt no bitterness at all for Aunt Alice. She was a saint; both for the kindness she showed him and the fact that she hadn't divorced Ted after all these years.

He opened the door to his room, walked inside, and slammed it shut behind him. The framed photographs of NASCAR drivers rattled with the impact. He stripped off his filthy work clothes and fell face down onto the bed, which was still unmade. He wanted to drift off to sleep for the rest of the night—and the weekend, for that matter—but he knew he couldn't. To do so would mean Ted had won the battle of wills. After a brief nap, one void of any pleasant dreams or unpleasant ones for that matter, he sat up in the bed, stood, and slipped into his makeshift running outfit, one piece at a time. It consisted of a pair of extra-long workout shorts, an old t-shirt, and a worn-out pair of Nike running shoes. He bent down to touch his toes, stretching out his weary muscles, and left the room, walking back through the house and past his still-smirking uncle.

"You're still alive?" Ted asked, still facing the TV. "I thought you died in there."

"Funny," Landon replied, quickening his pace to the front door. I can't take this place much longer, he thought for the umpteenth time. As he grabbed the front doorknob and pulled it open he added, "I'll be back in half an hour."

"Be careful," a pleasant, feminine voice said from the kitchen, out of sight as the voice's owner stood behind a partition just a few feet away from him. "And stay off the highway," she added as he left the house and shut the door behind him. He'd heard the same thing every evening as he left for his jog, and he'd grown numb to it by now, yet...

At least someone in that house cares about me, he couldn't help reflecting on his loving aunt's motherly comment as he transitioned from a walk to a slow jog, wanting to get off Ted's property but not quite ready to start running. He again felt the pain of aching muscles, wondering whether he would even need physical fitness once his classes began three months later. Just work and sleep in the interim sounded like a better option and much less exhausting.

By then the sky was pitch black with only an intermittent star shining through the moonless, partly clouded sky, telling him that far more time had elapsed than he'd thought while he napped in his bed, probably more than an hour. He looked at his rubberized digital sports watch to confirm his suspicion. It was 9:30 p.m. After the quick glance at his watch, he quickened his pace to a slow run, at least his nonathletic version of it—about a ten-minute mile pace, or just a little faster than a brisk jog. His muscles still ached, but the run felt oddly refreshing once his pace picked up. It was exercise on his terms, not evil Ted's or anyone else's.

Landon was smart, though not very athletic. He was average looking—crew-cut blond hair, 5'6" tall and 140 pounds—but made up for his physical slightness by working very hard at everything he did. In high school he avoided areas of weakness to focus on what he was good at; when he put his mind and efforts to the latter, he was impossible to keep down. Indeed, if there was any one character trait that was the secret to his success thus far in life, hard work was it, and such hard work combined with his intellect had set him up pretty well, regardless of how worthless his current state of being made him feel. He was the first member of his family, including Ted and his redneck cousins, to graduate high school with honors, and the only one, he was certain, destined to earn a college degree. He wouldn't be stuck working at the local Wal-Mart or barely making a living for twenty years farming infertile and bone-dry dustbowls like his dad had done. His dad's hard work had only resulted in bankruptcy and his family's ongoing state of poverty. No thanks. Neither would he break his back on oilrigs in some God-forsaken, dried-up patch of nothing on the fringes of Nowhere, Oklahoma.

The Monday after graduating Enid High School, Landon had started his summer job in the oil fields working with his uncle and oldest cousin. After only one week of work, he managed to save almost every penny he made by staying with his relatives and living off whatever concoction his aunt put together. With a full-ride academic scholarship to Oklahoma State University and the $5,000.00 or so he intended to save from the summer job, he was on the right track for a bright future—with the electrical engineering degree he was sure to earn at the end of that time, that is.

Yet life is full of surprises, and his life was about to be invaded by a most unexpected event.

As usual—at least as usual for the mere six days he had worked so far—he was exhausted, barely able to get motivated to go on his nightly jog, a habit he was beginning to realize might not last very long, regardless of good intentions. Indeed, part of him wondered why he bothered. Physical performance was not his forte, after all. A good book or an overly complicated crossword puzzle was more his cup of tea. Yet, after leaving the house he trudged on for the three-mile run that was sure to split his sides. He had read somewhere that the key to success was to "take your biggest weakness and make it your greatest strength," so the athleticism or physical fitness he had lacked in high school would be conquered, and jogging was all he had time for at the moment—that and lugging heavy oil-rig equipment back and forth to worksites.

Suddenly, his depressing revelations made his breath shallower and chest tighten up a bit, but he shook it off and forced himself onward.

With all sunlight gone and the moon nowhere in sight, his night vision enabled him to just make out a dim outline of the path in front of him as his feet pounded the dirt and gravel on the shoulder of the road time and again. Indeed, but for the white t-shirt and the tattered remnants of the almost worn out, reflective vinyl on the heel of his shoes, he was virtually invisible to passing traffic as he bounced up and down with each step he took alongside Interstate 35 South. A little more than a mile into his run, he felt a growing, side-splitting pain reminding him of his poor conditioning.

His favorite song, Rush's "Tom Sawyer," started playing on his portable music player, which made him forget about the pain momentarily. He huffed and puffed the first few words as his feet tried in vain to keep pace with Neil Peart's vicious pounding on the drums. "A modern day warrior, mean, mean stride, today's Tom Sawyer, mean, mean pride," he wheezed alongside Geddy Lee, Rush's lead singer. He then stopped singing and replaced the motivational lyrics with curses as he was forced to interrupt his rhythm to hop over an unexpected obstacle in his path. He saw it a few yards from the first northbound Darkwell exit off of Interstate 35, the highway his aunt told him to stay away from.

"What idiot would dump his trash here?" he huffed, as he leaped over the mass, unable to hear his own words over the 100 decibel music still pumping into his head.

It resembled a large, discarded trash bag in the dark of night. But the firmness of the so-called bag almost stopped his left foot as it drug just over the object's surface, giving him second thoughts as to its true nature. He stopped jogging and turned back to inspect the dark mass of something. A black tarp was covering whatever it was.

Probably fell off someone's truck, he thought.

Six months before Ted had salvaged a very nice leather recliner, the one he sat in each night after work, by conducting a similar inspection of a large crate sitting in the middle of westbound Interstate 40 just west of Tulsa. In just the few days he'd been staying with Ted and Alice, he'd heard Ted tell the story too many times to count, so he was not about to let such an opportunity slip by him. The thought of telling Ted that his luck had also taken a turn for the better made him smile. He grabbed the edge of the tarp and uncovered its secret.

"Jeez," he gasped as he realized what lay before him.

It was a human body lying face down; a man, no doubt, but the darkness made it impossible to discern much else, such as age or height. He nudged the unfortunate hitchhiker's side.

"You okay?" he begged, praying that he would elicit some sort of response confirming that the comatose mass was a passed-out drunk and not something more sinister.

The body groaned.

Relief cleansed his darkest thoughts, eliminating the possibility that the worst-case scenario had not and hopefully would not occur. Whoever it was, at least for the moment, it was alive. He knelt beside the not-quite-dead person to see exactly what he had stumbled onto. He turned him over on his back. "Looks like alcohol isn't the problem," he said, as he noted the absence of the smell.

Upon closer inspection—at least as close as the near pitch-black darkness would allow—the person appeared to be a relatively young man, probably no older than Landon, who had been beaten to the point of unconsciousness, or maybe hit by a careless driver.

"Can you hear me?" he asked.

The otherwise nonresponsive man let out another groan, but nothing more.

After shaking the stranger's shoulders for several seconds he stood up and looked back toward the oncoming traffic, hoping to wave down a car. He was in luck; a tractor-trailer rig was approaching as he jumped up and down, waving his arms like a maniac.
PART I

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him,

who have been called according to his purpose.

—Romans 8:28
Chapter 1

Triage

Nathanial Buford, or "Nate" everyone called him, friends and otherwise, was a crusty old man, at least the side he let strangers see, and his looks matched his attitude. He was big—tall and rotund—with a poorly groomed grayish beard to go with his sloppy, medium-length and graying hairdo; he looked like, as his friends put it, "Kenny Rogers with a hangover." He dressed like a cowboy most of the time, with black, worn-down, round-toed cowboy-styled work boots, various light-colored long-sleeved button-up shirts, and blue Wrangler cowboy-cut jeans—the only brand and style any true cowboy would be caught dead in, as far as he was concerned. Nate had been driving the I-35 run between Wichita, Kansas, and Dallas, Texas, for the last ten years of his twenty-five year career with the Alameda Trucking Company. Crusty as he was, he was still a loyal company man. Up until most recently, he would get so defensive of his employer that he often came close to blows with younger drivers when they bad-mouthed the company.

As he drove his rig yet again along a highway he had all but memorized, mileposts, rest stops and all, he listened to a Hank Williams, Jr. song blaring on the radio, with staticy bursts of trucker talk from the CB radio piercing the classic country vocalizations of Bocephus every so often. He pondered his future as his attention alternated between driving his rig, the periodic interruption of familiar lyrics on the radio, and trucker talk on the CB.

Twenty-five years of being a dependable company man, and for what? He was being forced to do what he dreaded more than anything else in the world: retire from a job he relished and decide how to spend the rest of his life. He could not bear the thought of not driving a big rig, so total retirement was hard to fathom, and sitting around in his easy chair was unthinkable. The inevitability of such a traumatic change took its toll, and he hoped that the day would come and go without anything happening at all, as if his unwavering loyalty to Alameda would compel the powers that be to change the company's retirement policy just for him. But he knew better. The day would come and he would be hung out to dry. Even the better-than-average pension he would draw did little to allay his concerns.

Nate found himself counting the days to retirement, wondering what else he could do to provide him with all that he wanted and desired, which wasn't much. All he desired was his monotonous, predictable, and somewhat boring job to go to day after day until the end of his days, with fishing and time with his wife sprinkled in throughout. Alameda was nirvana. It gave him all that and then some. He also made good money, and the work provided no chance for boredom since it was sandwiched between the times he spent with his wife and at the lake. He could see himself growing bored of the wife and the fishing if they took his job away—when they took his job away. At least he wouldn't sacrifice much income. His pension promised 80 percent of his salary and full health insurance benefits.

It was the thought of the inevitable change in his routine that really bothered him. He went from the loyal employee ready to fight for the company to an embittered old man with little more than a piece of cake and bowl of ice cream. The event was his twenty-fifth anniversary/retirement party.

"We are honored to offer you the option of retiring now after so many years with us," his boss told him as the forty or so employees of the company enjoyed their punch, cake, and ice cream, laughing and chatting as if Nate's retirement was a good thing for everyone. It was the first time he saw his boss for what he was: a slick college man who cared only about the bottom line, company profits. "Offering a retirement package" was really just a way to cut off experienced drivers like Nate. It was really all about trimming the payroll of high salaried drivers. He even doubted that the pension would last for long, that he'd be stuck with social security benefits and whatever he'd saved in his 401k.

The boss's insincere comment had lingered as Nate stuck his fork into the cake, lifted a bite to his mouth, and glared at Jack Strong's Wall Street apparel. A trucking company run by a three-piece-suited monkey, he thought, as he lifted his paper cup to his mouth to wash down the cake he just ingested. Times have changed. Nate had a hard time seeing forced retirement as honorable, despite the pension and the accompanying life of leisure that came with it. My best friends died after retirement, he thought as he swished the punch in his mouth before swallowing. I'm next.

After his thoughts shifted back to the task as hand, he reflected further on his boss. What a self-serving little twerp Jack is. He downshifted to slow his rig down for a traffic tie-up he saw a few hundred yards away. He further reflected on the moment the positive impressions he had of his boss were shattered: How can he punish my loyalty like that?

What a jerk . . . Whoa, bud, what's going on. . .He caught a glimpse of a jogger—at least it appeared to be a jogger, with running shorts and t-shirt—waving his arms frantically. He continued the laborious process of downshifting through numerous gears so he could slow down to a safe speed before applying the brakes.

In a few short moments he had pulled his rig to the shoulder and climbed down from the cab and made his way to the jogger in distress. Nate almost always offered a hand to those in need, especially other travelers. "What's wrong?" he asked the jogger in his deep, gravelly voice after walking the full length of his truck and trailer and a few extra dozen-or-so yards to get to him and whatever it was that upset him.

"It's some guy left for dead," Landon replied, as frantic in voice as he was in appearance from several hundred feet away.

Nate walked to the hitchhiker's side to verify Landon's assessment as his truck driver's Good Samaritan complex and his long-ago Army training kicked in. Before entering the civilian world forty years nefore, he had served as a medic for the 101st Airborne Division of the United States Army. He could field dress life-threatening wounds in his sleep at one time in his life; now, he hoped he could recall at least enough to determine the extent of the man's injuries. He removed his cigarette-lighter-sized Mini Mag Lite from its holster on the left side of his belt and twisted its end until the batteries ignited the halogen bulb. He crouched down beside the injured man and scanned the body with his eyes and light from head to toe. My Gosh, he thought after following up his scan with a few pokes and prods. This boy's got problems.

His brief examination revealed a bone protruding out of the skin near the stranger's right elbow, eyes so swollen they made his eye slits appear to be nothing more than lines drawn on paper with bulging tomato skins oozing out the edges, and bruises covering almost every inch of his exposed skin—arms, face, and neck included. Nate stood up, pulling a cellular telephone out of his shirt pocket as he did, and punched 9-1-1 into the flip-phone-styled telephone's Lilliputian keypad with his enormous left index finger. He doubted that an ambulance would make much of a difference; the man was as close to dead as he'd seen since the numerous mortally wounded soldiers he'd personally tried in vain to save in 'Nam.

Waiting for an ambulance and police cruiser to arrive, Nate forgot about his career dilemma. It seemed petty now. He was alive, blessed with a family that loved him, and living a relatively healthy life—not including the half-a-pack-a-day cigarette habit he held onto—with no legitimate concern in the world. Without a doubt the young man at his feet was far worse off than he, so he made a vow to himself to stop being ungrateful. Life had been good and retirement might not be so bad after all.

Landon silently thanked God for his circumstances, too. Hard work would do him good. Ted wouldn't break him, just make him stronger, and his future was much brighter than the beaten and battered man's who was dying at his feet.

"You mind if I borrow that?" he asked Nate after he finished talking to the 9-1-1 operator.

"Sure," Nate replied as he handed him the phone.

Landon punched in his aunt and uncle's telephone number. It rang once. "Hello?" Alice answered.

"This is Landon."

At first she was shocked, knowing that her nephew didn't own a cell phone, and even if he did, she was certain he wouldn't have it with him on his jog. "You okay?"

"Yes, I'm fine, but I'll be a little late."

"Why?"

"I'll tell you later," he said, not wanting to alarm her further. "Aunt Alice?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for letting me stay with you." He silently rehearsed his next words, not wanting to be misunderstood, or to have his sweet aunt take it the wrong way. The last thing he wanted was for Uncle Ted to think he actually liked him. "Please tell Uncle Ted that I'm grateful for the job and everything he's done for me."

Just then the ambulance and a couple of police cars arrived, sirens blazing. "I gotta go."

"What's that?"

"Nothing. I'll tell you about it when I get home."

"Okay. Be safe."

"I will."

Alice placed the phone back in its cradle just over the mini-desk that was built into the kitchen wall to the right of the sink. She walked around the partition separating the kitchen from the living room. "That's weird," she told Ted, who was transfixed on a Texas Rangers baseball game.

Not breaking eye contact with the TV, he replied, "What?"

"Landon told me to thank you for his job."

"Yeah," he chuckled, still watching the TV. "That is weird." That boy's got too much time on his hands.
Chapter 2

Flashback

Suddenly, the shortstop felt strangely disconnected from what was happening all around him. He was still in the game, but instead of his vision being sharp and senses tuned in to the things the shortstop of a baseball team needed to focus on, there was a constant haze around the edges of his sight. He knew what was going on; he just felt a bit odd, a little out of place. He had just gotten up off the ground after barely missing an infield hit that resulted in a double and had moved the man on first base to third. The front of his shirt and pants had a layer of dust that he brushed off with his gloveless right hand as he adjusted his shirt and pulled down the right leg of his pants. He looked over to the third baseman, then to second, then to the pitcher. He glanced back to the scoreboard mounted high above centerfield. It was the bottom of the seventh, the last inning to be played in a Kansas high school baseball game, and his team was up by just one hit with runners on second and third and just one out.

Even within his momentary disorientation, he knew exactly where he was. He was on the field at the Kansas High School State Championship game. His team, Stonelee High, was barely winning, with the tying run on third and the go-ahead run on second. He absorbed everything around him, something his coach told his players to do since playing in this particular game was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. He could smell fresh cut grass. He also felt a cool breeze against the back of his neck. He looked up and saw a cloudless sky with the sun halfway between high noon and the western horizon. He glanced down at his watch: a few minutes past 3:00 p.m. He knew it was Saturday. He guessed the temperature to be in the low 70s. All those observations told him that it was a perfect spring day, a great day to play the last high school baseball game of his career, though he hoped and prayed it would be a victory and that his screw up wouldn't be the most indelible memory he had of it.

"Sorry," he said loudly to his teammates. "I should have nailed that."

A few of the players nearest him just nodded. The pitcher shook his head side to side, but then smiled back. It happens, he seemed to be saying.

A new batter took his place to the right of home plate. The catcher crouched down behind the plate, protective mask, chest guard, and shin guards in place. The umpire stood alert behind him, he, too, fully armored with a facemask and huge black chest protector held out in front of him.

After the pitcher received his sign from the catcher's right hand (two fingers pointing down), he started his routine. The batter stepped back from home plate. This happened twice. The batter was clearly nervous about the pressure that had just fallen upon his very youthful and inexperienced shoulders. The umpire said something to him and he stepped back into position, dropping the bat halfway through his swing a couple of times then cocking it back behind his right ear, telling the pitcher that he was finally ready. The pitcher received another sign but shook his head side to side, telling him he didn't like the pitching choice given him by his catcher. He received another, this time just one finger pointing down. He nodded in the affirmative.

A fastball flew past the batter, the bat not moving an inch. "Ball!" the umpire yelled.

A curve ball came next, just catching the edge of the plate. This time the batter took a cut at the ball, but missed it by half an inch. "Steeeriiike!"

Another fastball flew over the outside of the plate. The batter swung. The hollow sound of the aluminum bat barely catching the edge of the ball told everyone in the ballpark that the ball wouldn't go very far. It didn't. In fact, it popped up about twenty feet and fell to the right of the rightmost foul line to the umpire's right. "Foul ball!" the umpire yelled, a little louder this time.

One ball, two strikes, and runners in position to either score or be cut down by the Stonelee team's incredibly effective infield play. The shortstop's mistake was not representative of the team's abilities, and certainly not his reputation. He focused all his attention on home plate with laser-like intensity. His peripheral vision kept a careful lookout on his left and right, just in case the third base runner tried something stupid like stealing home.

The right-handed pitcher cradled the ball in the glove on his left hand and nodded in the affirmative to the sign he just received. He then paused for a split second, kicked up his left knee to just under his chin for leverage, and swiftly flung his arm back and then forward with all his body's momentum, following through toward home plate. Nothing fancy on this one. It was just another fastball, though this time he had more heat on the ball than all of his previous pitches that inning. The radar gun clocked it at 92 miles per hour, really fast for a high school pitcher still throwing heat in the seventh inning after almost pitching a complete game—Kansas high school baseball games only go to the seventh inning, so a "complete" game for a pitcher is seven innings pitched.

The batter again caught only part of the ball with his bat, the top edge, which knocked it down just low enough to clip the pitcher's mound and sent it careening toward the left infield, right toward the shortstop. This time the shortstop's senses knew it was coming. He snatched the ball out of the air as the third base runner was flying toward home plate then threw it with such velocity that it could have been mistaken for a fastball pitch off the pitcher's mound. The catcher caught the ball, feeling a slight sting in his catcher's mitt as he did, touched home plate with his glove then rocketed it toward the first baseman just in time. The game was over and Stonelee had just won the Kansas State High School Baseball Championship. The stadium erupted in applause. Stonelee's players rushed the shortstop.

As he stood there preparing to take the impact of his teammates' tackles, elated that his catch had helped end the biggest game of their lives with the double play that followed, he felt a horrific and incredibly painful collision from behind. This wasn't a tackle from a person—he knew from experience. His body bent backward at the waste. His head crashed into something so hard that it caused his vision to blank out. For a split second he felt the most intense pain he had ever felt in his life, starting in his head and then spreading everywhere else. It ended almost as soon as it began as the elation of winning the biggest game of his life just stopped. Blackness engulfed him and all awareness of what had just happened ended when the pain grew too intense for his mind to remain conscious.

He knew then that he was just dreaming. What he couldn't figure out was why the end of his dream about a game he had actually played just two weeks before had just changed so dramatically.
Chapter 3

Code Red

Dr. Miles Thornbridge graduated Oklahoma State University School of Medicine just three years before the night that changed everything. On that night, he was deeply enmeshed in OSU's Emergency Medicine Residency Program as the Resident ER physician in the ultra-small Darkwell Memorial Medical Center. Thornbridge had hoped for a more cosmopolitan placement—Houston or Dallas would have been nice—but his poor academic performance had made such choices unavailable, at least for the moment. Too many of his more academically excellent classmates and graduates from more prestigious schools such as the University of Texas, Harvard, and just about every other North American medical school had wanted and had landed those spots, so he was stuck in Darkwell dealing mostly with farming-related accidents, a periodic honky-tonk bar fight injury, and a variety of other mundane, nonemergency procedures that did little to satisfy his passion for trauma medicine. Suffice it to say that the report of someone being beaten or run over and left for dead in need of medical attention was a welcomed change of pace for Thornbridge's mostly untested trauma medicine skills. He was excited that someone had almost died, and looked forward to the credit he would get after he saved the poor unfortunate soul's life.

The facility was abuzz with the news of the Code Red patient in transit to the ER—it was the first injury-related Code Red the hospital had seen in months, as opposed to the several cardiac and stoke patients transferred from the local nursing homes—and the entire ER staff, including Thornbridge and several nurses from the main hospital, was prepping for the worse-case scenario. Other staff members were hoping and praying that their normal routine—changing a bedpan of one of the elderly hypochondriacs or responding to the couple of overnight patients experiencing problems with the television remote control—would not be altered. Thornbridge fantasized in a rather macabre sort of way about the most heinous incident, one that was so dire that in the event the patient died no one would be surprised, and he would be free to practice his craft without the fear of a medical malpractice lawsuit. Risk-free medicine, that's what it meant to a first-year ER resident: an opportunity to practice on a cadaver-to-be with all the benefits of a pumping cardiovascular system, preferably one already brain dead. Thornbridge loved the feeling that came with saving lives—at least he thought he would when the moment arrived, a prospect that had eluded him thus far—but he was also thrilled with the prospect of being up to his armpits in warm intestines and hemoglobin.

As Thornbridge entered the well-lit trauma area, he barked, "Where's this so-called Code Red?" toward a senior nurse old enough to be his mother, who was standing on the other side of the nurses' station reviewing a case report.

"The ambulance is en route," Marge Blakely, RN, curtly replied.

I hate these smart ass know-it-alls, she thought, as she turned her attention away from the wet-behind-the-ears rookie doctor and reviewed the scant notes called in by the paramedic just a few moments before. You'll be gone in a year and we'll be left to clean up your messes.

Marge was the nursing supervisor as well as the most experienced trauma nurse at the hospital, so regardless of the condition of her personally assigned patients, she was brought down to the ER when a serious case came in—the total number of times for which she had been called in the last year she could count on one hand. After thirty years at the Center, Marge had grown accustomed to the chaos the occasional emergency brought with it. The facility experienced so few that even the experienced community surgeons and physicians were often at a loss as to the proper thing to do for any given emergency. Indeed, Thornbridge was the first dedicated ER physician, resident or not, to work at the hospital in more than five years, yet Marge still considered him to be more trouble than not—too inexperienced to do much good and cocky enough to do a lot of harm. He had much to learn, in her mind, especially in a smaller community like Darkwell. And lesson one was to know who the true boss of the facility was: Marge.

"What do we know so far?" Thornbridge asked as he snatched the report from her. His arrogant, condescending attitude miffed her greatly; regrettably, she could not, at the moment at least, do anything about it. He was the doctor, not her.

He adjusted his moderate-strength, wire-framed glasses and focused on the notes before him. At least he looked the part, Marge considered. He was of average height, 5'8", had a slight cowlick in his closely-cropped blond locks, and was of slight build due to a holistic, vegetarian diet and a limited exercise routine of twenty minutes of running three days per week. He clashed starkly with the local yokels' preferred redneck attire and attitude.

How in the world did you end up in my world? Marge kept her thoughts to herself, only the smirk on her face communicating them to several LPNs standing nearby.

"Has Dr. Baker been called yet?" Thornbridge asked, knowing that he was merely a resident who required the supervision of an experienced physician.

"He's on the way," she replied.

"Good," he said while hoping that the patient went critical in a hurry so he could go it alone.

Just then a siren blared through the double-wide glass ER doors and everyone inside rushed to the entrance to greet their new patient. Moments later the reinforced doors burst open as the paramedics slammed the gurney into them, their spring-loaded hinges giving way as they slammed into the walls on each side of the entrance.

Thornbridge went to work, rushing to the side of the rolling gurney, shoving the ER technician out of the way as he did. He pried open a swollen eyelid and flashed his pen light in the pupil to verify what he already knew—the patient was unconscious after experiencing severe head trauma. In the midst of his initial assessment the patient went into cardiac arrest. He slipped his pen light into the pocket of his surgical scrub shirt and pounded on the patient's chest for what seemed to Marge to be an eternity—it was actually no more than a couple of minutes—before the patient had at least marginally stabilized. Before Thornbridge had a chance to assess the severity of the man's other injuries and give him yet another chance to die, he knew he had to act. Time was of the essence.

He was critical, just as Thornbridge had hoped for, yet he felt a twinge of regret that he'd brought bad karma into the ER.

"Get a CT scan now and prep him for surgery!" he yelled with slight panic in his voice, as his cockiness gave way to the gravity of the situation. "We've got to relieve the pressure on his brain before we lose him for good."

Panicked or not, Marge sensed that Thornbridge might actually know what he was doing, so she complied, still hoping that Dr. Baker would arrive so she would not be forced to admit yet again that four years of medical school and a few months of residency trumped her thirty years of nursing experience.

* * *

Thornbridge sat in the break room nearest the ER sipping a fresh cup of coffee, black with no sugar. The so-called break room consisted of no more than a sink, mini-fridge, four-seat table with slightly worn plastic chairs, and a cheap coffee maker purchased at the local Wal-Mart with a modest selection of creamers, compliments of Dr. Baker's monthly mail-order coffee club. It was not the environment Thornbridge had pictured when he first chose medicine as his vocation.

There wasn't a Starbucks Café anywhere near Darkwell, and forget the metropolitan culture manifest in the opera and symphony music halls that he yearned for. Chicago, Dallas, Los Angeles, or some other major city working at a respectable medical center had been his life's dream, but he lost focus somewhere along the way, somewhere between scoring low on his medical school entrance exams and the point when he realized that a third-tier medical school in northeast Oklahoma was the only acceptance letter he was likely to receive. But at least he was a doctor, not a male nurse or physician's assistant, and his current assignment would end someday, he hoped.

Marge sat across the table from him; she was also sipping a cup of coffee, though hers had no similar dietary restrictions—lots of cream and five sugar packets. Unlike Thornbridge, she was exactly where she had imagined she'd be when she decided to become a nurse decades before. She was helping her fellow citizens in her hometown—modest goals for a humble person.

Thornbridge was exhausted after three hours of surgery. His head tilted back between sips of coffee, eyes closed, as he struggled to stay awake, yet he felt elated.

Dr. Baker had finally arrived. In spite of the Code Red status of the patient, he looked fresh and rested, as if he had spent precious time showering and shaving. He had been virtually useless in the operating room, regardless of his veteran status. He appeared to be a tired old man, confused yet sharp enough to realize he was out of his league. Thornbridge—sub-par grades and all—had deftly maneuvered the scalpel and sutures as he stopped the bleeding in the brain of his patient. Baker had merely watched with a deer-in-the-headlights gaze and offered useless advice to the would-be prodigy, his scalpel as far away from the blood and guts as he could get while remaining in the same room. The patient's brain would likely suffer some long-term damage, but Thornbridge had done as much as could be expected from all but the most experienced neurosurgeons. He had saved the man's life, stabilizing him just enough for the thirty-minute helicopter Care Flight to a much better equipped Oklahoma City facility. And both Marge and Thornbridge knew it, though Baker would be hard-pressed to acknowledge the young doctor's superior skills.

"Not bad for a rookie," was the only compliment Baker offered moments before he left the hospital to resume his slumber at home.

Marge was also tired and worn out, so she took a few minutes to unwind in the break room with Thornbridge. She was still alert, not wanting to take the chance of falling asleep when she had another two hours of work left in her shift.

"You were pretty good in there," she reluctantly admitted as she enjoyed a few moments of peace and tranquility, as well as a cup of coffee, while sitting across the table from Thornbridge.

"Thanks," he replied, eyes closed and head tilted back, doing his best to rest without actually falling asleep.

Marge had been surprised by the skill he had demonstrated during the operation. "What are you doing in Darkwell?" she asked.

"Good question," he replied, as he sat up straight and opened his eyes to look at his inquisitor. "I've asked myself that question a dozen times at least. I assume you haven't seen my transcripts."

"Partied too much in med school?"

"Yeah, and in high school and college"

"I'm glad you're here. You could teach these locals a thing or two, especially Baker."

"You say that to all the boys." He chuckled just before taking another sip from his cup. Marge laughed, too. A confused expression replaced his smile. "I thought you didn't like me," Thornbridge remarked.

"I didn't," she replied. "Still don't. But now I at least respect you. That boy is alive, thanks to you." He blushed from the embarrassment caused by her compliment. She added sternly, "Don't let it go to your head."

"Not as long as you're here I won't."
Chapter 4

John Doe

A few moments after the stranger went into surgery, two Sheriff's Department deputies arrived in the ER. One stood around gawking at a couple of cute nurses, fantasizing that one of them might actually go out with him if he only had the courage to ask. The second deputy appeared to actually know what he was doing. He was asking questions and examining the clothes and items stripped from the stranger's body shortly before the surgery began. Half-an-hour or so later—the surgery still going on—another officer arrived, one with a bigger badge and more attachments on his belt, and approached the second officer with an unmistakable aura of authority.

"Who is our victim?" Sheriff Mark Anderson asked.

"Don't know yet," Deputy Brock Brown replied, mouth smirking slightly then returning to normal as he did his best to mask the contempt he felt for his new boss of a mere two months.

Deputy Brown was in his mid-forties, yet he still resembled the image in his youthful police academy photographs from twenty years before, which showed a trim yet muscled 6'1" stature, as well as a head of thick, jet-black hair, though he now required a dab of hair dye every now and then. His work habits rivaled even those of the most eager trainee. He had been a loyal member of the department for twenty years, yet had been ignored by the governor when the prior sheriff had died from a heart attack six months before. Brown was a Democrat, and the governor had appointed a loyal Republican Party member with no law enforcement experience whatsoever. To make matters even less palatable, Sheriff Anderson had demoted him from detective to deputy to make room for the sheriff's nephew, who was grossly unqualified to investigate crimes, at least in Brown's eyes.

Standing side-by-side, the differences between Anderson and Brown were striking. Anderson was relatively short and at the top of his forehead the two sides of his hairline came together in a widow's peak. He had a beer gut made worse by poor exercise, and his breath often sounded like a wheeze. On the other hand, Brown was a specimen of masculinity, with a flat washboard stomach and the look and stature one would want in the county's number one law enforcement officer, at least that's what he assumed of the electorate's perceptions.

Brown sucked in his own gut and puffed out his chest as he pictured himself in the county's chief law enforcement officer's uniform and badge, then again scanned his boss's slovenly appearance. For the umpteenth time, he pondered whether he should run for sheriff in two years. The thought brought a smile to his face, which he shook off as he realized he had a job to do.

"Whoever did this stole his wallet and ID," Brown continued, "and his prints aren't on any national databases that we can find."

"Any missing persons' reports?"

Who does this guy think I am, Brown thought, a rookie? Though he managed to avoid letting his boss know his thoughts via a frown or grimace.

"That's the first thing I checked. Nothing from Nebraska to Texas; this kid's clean and mysterious."

"Stay on it."

"Will do."

"Have you seen Brad around here somewhere?" Anderson asked as he gazed around the room, his eyes periodically catching a glimpse of the same nurses the clueless Deputy was "investigating." Detective Brad Smith was the nephew who knew as much about police work as he did nuclear science, and also happened to be the department's chief detective, the position once held by Brown. Although department policy required all underlings to call him "Detective," Brown preferred the less respectful "Smitty," and most other deputies concurred, at least behind his and Anderson's backs.

"Not yet," Brown replied, trying his best to remain respectful, or at least not overtly insulting in his smirks and winces.

"Tell him to call me when you see him," he said. "I'm headed back to the station."

"Gotcha."

Anderson slipped out of the ER as quickly as he'd arrived. But Brown didn't mind. Maybe I'll solve this crime without you or your brownnosing nephew in the way. He didn't mind who got the credit, as long as the crime was solved. There would be plenty of time for bitterness after the work was done.

* * *

Other than a clear disrespect of his boss, Brown was a consummate professional, and he took his job seriously, perhaps a bit too seriously. When a report of a crime reached his patrol vehicle's radio, his mind immediately went into law enforcement mode. On the night of the John Doe incident, he received the call from 9-1-1 dispatch reporting a possible hit-and-run victim. He immediately radioed another deputy, the only one that he could still boss around, and told him to hit the area hotel, motel, restaurant, rest stop, and service station parking lots and inspect vehicles for telltale signs of vehicle-on-pedestrian collisions—blood, flesh, deep bumper indentions, etcetera. There were only two highway exits that qualified, with several such parking lots to inspect. The practical side of him knew that the perpetrator was unlikely to be anywhere within a 120-mile radius by then, but the remote possibility that the punk had realized he was in no condition to drive and therefore pulled over to rest, or perhaps rented a motel room to "sleep it off," was there, so they had to try.

"I'll show them," he said to himself as he slammed the steering column gearshift of his Ford Crown Victoria police cruiser into drive and jammed his foot down on the gas pedal. "They think they can suck the life out of me and force me to retire early, but I still have a little law enforcement left in me."

Brown wasn't sure how long he could put up with the current state of things; he seemed forever destined to do the hard work while others took the credit for his brilliant crime scene investigating. As a detective he had busted his butt to solve crimes, from simple hit-and-runs not too dissimilar from the current one to homicides, which occurred about once every five-to-ten years in Darkwell County. Usually, his duties involved busting drug dealers or methamphetamine manufacturing operations; the more petty offenses, such as accidents, were handled by uniformed deputies. Indeed, even now, after being busted down to uniformed status, he was the go-to guy on high profile incidents. The latter fact made his position even more humiliating. Let Smitty do it, he often thought when dispatched to crime scenes that had befuddled his younger brothers in blue.

Every time Brown got back into his police cruiser or even just put on his uniform, his angry, jealous thoughts nearly overwhelmed his mind, but the job often gave him the distractions he needed to make it through yet another humiliating day of doing other people's work.

"Unit 5," chirped the dispatch operator. "Unit 5, you there?"

Brown pulled the microphone off its latch on the dashboard as he glanced at the radio's clock. It was 1:00 A.M.

Third shift, he thought with a frown on his face. This crap's for rookies.

"Yeah," he replied. "Just left the hospital."

"Get to the Happy Days Motel. Deputy Lind may have the perp."

"On my way," he answered, a smile replacing the frown. He jammed the mike back on its latch, slammed on his brakes—the location of the perp was in the opposite direction—and drove over the curbless median of the four-lane thoroughfare. He then floored the gas pedal, causing the tires to squeal violently as the V-8 Interceptor engine's guttural roar shattered the peace and quiet of the night. He waited until the rear tires ceased squealing before he turned on his emergency equipment, the lights and siren demanding that all in his path get out of the way or suffer the consequences.

The 60-plus miles per hour he drove on the city streets, followed by 100-plus on the interstate highway for a grand total of five miles from the hospital to the motel, took just under three minutes. Brown laughed after the speedometer topped 120 and said, "I love this job!"

A half-mile from the exit that led to the motel, Brown slowed down and killed his lights and siren. He took the exit and drove under the underpass that led to the motel parking lot, which was right off the interstate. He then pulled into the lot, which was deathly quiet and rather dark at this time of night. He parked his patrol vehicle next to Lind's, which was in front of the motel office, and hopped out, careful not to make too much noise as he gently pushed the car door shut. Lind was waiting patiently inside the office.

"So what do you have?" he asked Lind as he walked into the office.

"We got a Chevy Caprice Classic with a bloody mess on the grill, and a dented front bumper," Lind answered as he pointed to the car just a few stalls away. "Stuff's dried up, but there's no hair and there appears to be cloth mixed with it. It's not a deer, that's for sure."

"Let's take a look."

Both turned down the volume of their walkie-talkies so no one would hear their approach and walked out of the office toward the suspect vehicle. Brown pulled a flashlight out of his holster and squatted in front of the vehicle, shining the light up, down, and across the bumper and grill. Placing his light on the hood of the car to free his hands, he removed a baggie and tweezers from his utility belt.

"Grab the light and shine it over here," he commanded his associate in a voice just above a whisper.

Lind was used to taking commands since he was the junior officer to everyone in the department, so he willingly did what was asked and picked up the light.

Brown pointed at what he wanted illuminated. "Look at that," he whispered. "I'll bet you a hundred bucks it's the swatch of cloth that kid's shirt sleeve is missing." He picked the cloth off the bumper with his tweezers and placed it, untouched by human hands, into the zip-lock baggie.

Brown stood up and they gravitated to the rear of what the district attorney office's Criminal Complaint would soon classify as "a deadly weapon," and Brown turned up his radio slightly to call dispatch, making sure his earpiece was in place so as to prevent anyone nearby from hearing the dispatcher's reply. "Unit 5 to dispatch," he said quietly.

"This is dispatch."

"We need forensics out here. We got blood and evidence. Tell the Sheriff we need a warrant to search the motel room and car."

He gave the dispatcher the car's description and license plate number, as well as instructions to name the owner of the vehicle in the affidavit of probable cause for the search. "I'll call back with the hotel guest's name."

Brown motioned Lind to follow him as he walked back to the office, entered, and rang the bell to get the receptionist's attention; he assumed she was sleeping in the back room at that time of night, which was a surprise since she had unlocked the door in the first place when Lind first notified her of their activities.

She better not have warned the perp, Brown instinctively thought. She was at the desk in an instant.

"May I help you?" A short Asian woman entered the reception desk area, looking more disturbed at their interference with her quiet time than interested in helping out Darkwell's finest.

"Yes," he replied, his tone guarded. In spite of how small and innocent she looked, she could have been conspiring with a felon just a few doors down. "Were you here when the driver of that white Caprice checked in?"

"Yes," she answered reluctantly. "It was a few minutes after dark, close to nine o'clock."

Brown smiled as he pondered what this bit of evidence meant. The time was about right given what the jogger and trucker—the only witnesses so far—had told them. "What's his name?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"He's a suspect in a crime, victim left for dead, that's all." He hoped telling her that the victim was left for dead might bring down her defenses, make her want to help the police and not the scumbag who was soiling her sheets and abusing her hospitality.

She typed the room number into the computer. "Michael Thomas."

"You have his social?" he asked.

She hesitated a moment, then wrote down the nine-digit number on a piece of paper and handed it to Brown.

"Dispatch," he said into his microphone. "The perp's name is Michael Thomas, social is 324-54-3386. Run Spider and tell me immediately what you find." Spider is a nationwide information database used by police that gives almost immediate information on prior criminal convictions. They stood in the waiting room for a minute or two, idly chit-chatting with the clerk as they waited for dispatch to respond with the suspect's information.

"Unit 5. Thomas positive for multiple DUIs and at least one person felony conviction."

"Roger," Brown replied, smiling toward Lind and the clerk as he did. He turned toward the clerk and said, "Do you mind coming with us with a key to his room, just in case we need it?"

Lind winced. He nudged Brown on the side of his arm. "Can I talk to you for a second?" he asked.

"Give us a minute," Brown told the clerk as the Deputies walked out the front door for a little privacy. "What is it?" he asked Lind.

"Shouldn't we wait for a warrant? There might be evidence in there. If we barge in now we've got problems."

"Who's the former detective here?" Brown snapped. "Last I checked, you were the rookie and I was the veteran. We've got probable cause in spades, and there's a very real risk that that scumbag is destroying evidence. You heard what dispatch said. This is the guy's modus operandi. He gets drunk, drives and then runs over civilians. The longer we wait the more chance he has to claim he got drunk after he made it to the motel. We don't have time. Besides," he added as a smile crossed his lips, "he might consent to a search."

Lind cowered back and shut his mouth reluctantly. No wonder they busted you down to street cop, he thought. He did not approve of his so-called superior's lack of professionalism. He tried to keep his disapproval from showing on his face, and he was thankful for the darkness.

"Are we done with this conversation?" Brown rhetorically asked.

"Sure."

They walked back into the office, where the clerk stood patiently behind the desk. "You have that key yet?" Brown asked.

She opened a drawer and removed a key. "Yes sir," she pleasantly responded. "What did he do?" she continued as she shut the key drawer and walked around the desk to join the Deputies.

"A hit-and-run accident."

"You sure he did it?"

"Yep, but we need to talk to him to be certain," Brown replied, then added, "and to see if he took any of the victim's things after he almost killed him."

"I'm here to help."

I doubt it, Brown thought.

All three walked out of the office and toward the suspect's room. Brown knocked on the door. Lind's instinct was to announce their identity, but Brown waved him off and nodded to the clerk, whispering, "Tell him you need him to open the door, something not unusual."

"What do I say?"

"Something harmless."

What would be harmless and not unexpected at this time of the morning? She considered. She knocked and yelled, "Mr. Thomas," with a slight Asian accent, "your lights are on!"

They heard a stirring inside. Both Deputies unsnapped their holsters but left their side arms holstered—safe but not stupid. Brown learned from experience to expect the unexpected, and Lind was fresh out of the academy and was trained to think the same way.

"Mr. Thomas!" she yelled again. "Are you awake?"

They heard the safety chain rattle and the bolt lock click open. A young man—probably in his mid-twenties—in boxer shorts and a t-shirt opened the door. "What is it?" he asked, bleary-eyed, lingering in a state somewhere between sleep and full consciousness, a condition made worse by the lingering effects of a twelve-pack of beer he'd downed several hours before at a friend's lake house just west of Wichita, Kansas.

"Deputies Brown and Lind of the Darkwell County Sheriff's Department," Brown barked. "Is that your vehicle?" Brown added, pointing toward the Caprice.

Thomas attempted to slam the door shut, but Brown jammed his foot in between the door and its threshold, toes protected by his steel-tipped shoes. With both deputies forcing their way in, Lind tackled Thomas and Brown fell on him with cuffs at the ready. After a few seconds their training enabled them to subdue the suspect with minimal damage to all, including the perp.

"Is he cuffed?" Lind asked, exasperated from the brief scuffle.

"Yeah."

Each Deputy grabbed an elbow and sat their suspect down on the foot of the bed.

"Why so combative?" Brown asked, a little winded from the fight. "You wouldn't be guilty of something now, would you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," he slurred, partly from the blurriness that still lingered from his interrupted slumber, partly from the waning affects of alcohol intoxication.

Lind searched the room for a light switch. He walked over toward the door, the clerk standing in disbelief just outside the entrance, and flipped on the switch, illuminating the entire room.

Brown scanned the room as he did a so-called plain-view search of its contents. In the corner of the bathroom area he saw a backpack, and a wallet sat next to the sink, which was odd since he had spotted another wallet on the right nightstand. Still standing after lifting Thomas to the bed, Brown smiled and walked to the sink. "Well, what do we have here?"

He picked up the wallet and opened it. "I thought your name was Michael Thomas," he said, smirking. "Does Robert Allen Baxter know you have his wallet?"
Chapter 5

Breach of Protocol

"What the heck were you thinking?" Sheriff Anderson asked as he sat in his large leather chair behind his government-issued metal desk. He was yelling at Deputies Brown and Lind in the privacy of his office with the door closed, but he was so loud that his voice could be heard by all throughout the investigations area on the other side of the door. The walls and door shook as he pounded the top of his desk for emphasis. A picture on the edge of the desk fell onto the floor, glass shattering. Wheezing, he glanced at the desk where the picture had been sitting and choked out an obscenity as he tried to catch his breath.

The Deputies were sitting in small wooden guest chairs across from him, side by side, facing their boss. Brown had an odd mix of anger and angst etched in his facial expressions, while Lind was smiling.

"Do you find this funny?" Anderson yelled at Lind, again, the reverberations of his rage seemed to shake the door and the room's only window.

"No," Lind replied. "I told him to wait, but he went in, anyway."

Anderson turned his gaze and the accompanying wrath toward Brown. "Is that true?"

Brown was tempted to do what all the deputies did when confronted with contradictions by defense attorneys: lie. Instead, he felt compelled to squirm out of the situation without actually lying, just giving his boss part of the truth. "That's not what I remember," he said.

Lind shook his head back and forth. "I told you it would mess things up," he said defensively toward Brown, then turned to look at Anderson. "What else should I have done? He is my supervisor."

Brown looked toward Anderson. "I didn't think we had a choice. Anyway, the blood, dent, and cloth gave us probable cause, and for all we know he might have been slamming down cold ones or gulping down shots of whiskey, so I made the decision to move in. Exigent circumstances. Any competent Deputy—" he paused and glanced at Lind "—would've done the same."

"I don't have to tell you how ticked off the DA is. Get out of my office so I'm not forced to fire one or both of you on the spot." He spun his chair around to the window, back facing the deputies.

Lind and Brown immediately stood, shoulders slumped, and walked out of Anderson's office. After leaving, Lind turned toward Brown, his face so close to Brown's that he could smell his coffee-tinged breath, and poked his right, very strong index finger into Brown's chest. "Thanks a lot."

"Ditto," Brown meekly replied, fear leaching through his words as he turned his back to Lind and stormed toward the exit. He hadn't expected such a response from a rookie.

This bites, Brown thought as he walked out of the building, a one-storied, five office annex to the County Courthouse.

He walked to his truck, got in, and sat silent for several minutes, so long, in fact, that he dozed off. Eventually, however, he awoke and drove home, looking forward to hugging his wife of fifteen years and kissing his babies: a twelve-year-old daughter named Elizabeth, and a five-year-old son named Elijah. They would take the edge off the anger he was feeling. They always did.
Chapter 6

A Marriage Made In Heaven

The church service was unusually edifying. Pastor Rick's appearance and countenance had mellowed over the years, helped in part by several extra pounds, a losing battle with the hair gods—he no longer tried to hide his diminished hairline and just shaved his entire head, except for a goatee on his chin and upper lip—and the satisfaction that came from raising ten healthy, happy children with his wife of thirty years. But his sermons never mellowed. Members of Stonelee Christian Fellowship had come to expect Holy Spirit-inspired preaching Sunday after Sunday for the more than twenty years of his tenure at the Fellowship, and visitors were either blown away by the unassailable truth in his preaching or driven away by the open spiritual wounds his sermons exposed.

This particular service had been surprisingly moving even to the members who always found Pastor Rick's sermons challenging. It had been preceded by the most spectacular praise and worship music they had heard in a long time. A guest performer had raised the roof and the entire Johnson clan was feeling jovial as each of them walked out of the church and to their cars.

After buckling into his white Chevy Suburban, with his wife Nancy sitting by his side and the vehicle otherwise empty, Charles Fleming, the grandfatherly figure of the family, commented to his wife, Nancy, "I was so blessed to meet you." He smiled widely through his fleshy face. His head was bald on top, and it perched on a very tall and rather rotund girth, though not so large as to detract from his odd cowboy/preppy aura—khaki slacks, slick and smooth tie, freshly cleaned and pressed blue blazer, and ostrich-skin boots. He completed the look with his black Stetson cowboy hat that he laid on the center console each time he sat down in what he called his "truck."

Nancy reached over the center console, just behind where the hat rested, and gently took hold of Charles's hand, squeezing it out of affection for the man of her dreams. She considered how incredibly lucky she was to be married to such a man. He was a well-respected attorney practicing criminal defense in Derby, Kansas, and she was a humble cosmetologist in a hole-in-the-wall salon in the very same city.

It was fate, Nancy was certain. Chuck—Nancy's nickname for her love—had a regular barber he had used for more than twenty years. On the fateful day their paths crossed for the first time, he arrived at the barber shop for his weekly hair cut and found the door locked with a sign reading, Gone for the week due to a death in the family. It was a big week for Chuck; he was in the middle of a major jury trial and looked forward to the psychological boost a clean cut and shave would give him.

After reading the sign and vainly attempting to change fate by rattling the door as if the mice and cockroaches behind it would open up and let him in, he let out a frustrated grunt, "You've got to be kidding!"

He backed up and looked up and down the retail strip center that the barber shop was smack in the middle of. Then fate caught his eye. The sign read Sue's Cut 'n Curl. He'd never lowered himself to a so-called "beauty shop cut" before, but he was determined to get his hair cut so he walked the three doors to the left to give it a shot. Upon further reflection, he knew it couldn't be too difficult to trim the little hair he had remaining on the sides and back of his head, and the top was as bald as the moon, so he walked over to the ultra-small, two chair salon and took a chance. After opening the door he was greeted warmly by an attractive lady who looked to be in her late-forties to early-fifties, probably no older than he.

"Welcome," the reddish-blond haired lady said with a smile. "Is this your first time here?"

"Sure is," he replied. "You have any openings?" he almost demanded. "I've got about an hour before I gotta be in court."

Nancy was at first put off by Chuck's commanding presence. Indeed, as far as she was concerned, he was in no position to demand anything. What a pompous jerk, she initially thought. She saw him as a fairly ugly man—fat, bald, and the last guy she would let buy her a drink, let alone marry. However, she needed the money, and her income consisted mostly of commissions and tips she got from cutting hair in the rented chair at Sue's, so she faked it and pretended to be pleased to meet the man who would turn out to be her future husband.

She motioned him to her chair, and replied, "I can fit you in."

He sat down and she shook out a smock and placed it around his neck, fastening it loosely behind the bulky mass, resisting the temptation to pull it too tight for comfort. She began her normal routine of spraying his hair with mists of water—normally, she would've shampooed it, but he had told her time was of the essence so she didn't bother. She combed the moistened hair straight, slicing the air with her scissors before she began running her fingers through his hair and trimming it ever-so-gently. She laughed to herself (only letting a slight grin appear on her face, which was clearly reflected back in the mirror she and Chuck were looking into) as she vainly tried to follow this routine with the few strands of hair that still grew on her new client's head.

"You from around here?" she asked, chitchatting. Who knows? Maybe he'll give me a good tip, she thought. It had just dawned on her that an attorney with money was sitting in front of her.

"Yeah," he said abruptly, and then he refocused his thoughts on mentally reviewing the opening statement he would soon deliver to the jurors and judge.

Come on, Nancy thought. I'm just making pleasant conversation to pass the time. Why the attitude? For a second or two she wondered why in the world she had chosen cosmetology as her second career. Then she reminded herself that the first one, waiting tables, really wasn't a career at all.

"What kind of lawyer are you?"

"Mostly criminal defense," he said, "with a little civil law on the side."

Really?" she replied, a little shocked. "I never met a criminal defense lawyer before. I like Matlock. Ever watch it?"

Chuck almost answered, "If you only knew that most professional criminal defense lawyers would take offense at such a question!" Matlock was anything but real, and it gave the average Joe—and potential juror—the impression that good defense attorneys only represented innocent clients. The truth, Chuck knew, couldn't be further from the myth. Indeed, excellent lawyers like Chuck had memorized a mantra that they casually referred to as the Defense Attorney's Prayer: "God, please save me from an innocent client." After twenty years in private practice, following ten years in the public defender's office, Chuck could count the number of truly innocent clients on two fingers, out of literally hundreds. Fortunately for him, the innocent ones walked, and many of the guilty ones did, too. The latter truth Chuck had learned to justify as the product of his solemn duty "to defend the Constitution," but the true fallout of such a career had been alcohol abuse and a dysfunctional family that had very little desire to spend with its husband and father.

Chuck reflected on his wasted life while Nancy snipped away. He wondered how his dearly departed wife had really felt about his absences, whether her death only two years before had brought her relief from her husband's drunken rages and her fearful declines into depression and sorrow. He considered whether his daughter's choice to remain celibate and become a nun in the Catholic Church was more an attempt to avoid marrying a man like Daddy than a reflection of her faith in God. He had more regrets and reasons now to get drunk and jump off a bridge than ever before. So why put up with this mess?

Meanwhile, waiting for a reply from her new customer, hoping it would build rapport between her and her new client, she pressed him for an answer. "Do you watch Matlock?" she said again, interrupting his depressing thoughts.

Chuck looked up at Nancy's reflection in the mirror and grinned. "Actually, I do. I've seen just about every episode. It's more comedy than courtroom drama, though. Don't believe everything you see."

As he looked at her reflection, he thought he saw a twinkle in her eyes, a spark of recognition. In a way, she reminded him of Beverly, his dead wife, but not the cold and bitter Beverly who died of breast cancer after living with a drunk for most of her life; rather, the Beverly he met while attending law school in Lawrence, Kansas. Since her death, he hadn't so much as carried on a friendly conversation with a woman, so the twinkle startled him somewhat.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Nancy."

"I'm Charles."

The ice was broken, and for the next ten-or-so minutes they carried on a warm and friendly conversation, punctuated by awkwardness not unlike the kind felt by two teenagers discovering an interest in the opposite sex for the first time. After the haircut was finished and Chuck paid the tab—with an additional twenty dollar tip to boot—he asked her out for coffee the next week, and she said yes. The substance of the man—at least what she could rather in a ten-minute time span—had overwhelmed his previously unpalatable style. A courtship followed soon thereafter, and they were married just six months later.

Was it her beauty that had attracted him to her, or perhaps her personality? Neither, he knew. It was something much deeper. They would speak to each other on the telephone for hours on end, and sometimes would linger in Chuck's Cadillac after their dates ended, just talking about life, about where they had been and where they hoped to be tomorrow. Chuck was amazed by how spiritually and emotionally intact Nancy was after dealing with the death of her first husband, losing herself in alcoholism and a less-than-admirable lifestyle immediately afterwards, then piecing it all back together after becoming a grandmother and surrogate parent at the same time. To think that it all came down to what he called "church" and to finally giving in to her daughter's desire for her to get a piece of what she had experienced—to live for God instead of herself—was amazing, he conceded.

"When did it hit you?" he said on a moonlit night the week before he proposed marriage, a mere five months after the haircut.

"What?"

"The realization that God was the answer."

"I was bitter," she shared as she stared out of the Sedan de Ville's sunroof, seat reclined, and fully pondered the question. "Jessie knew it right off the bat; the moment Pastor Rick told her that Christ was the answer, that He could shoulder her pain. She immediately accepted Him as her Lord and Savior. Me? I just knew it couldn't be that easy. After all we'd been through, just one awful thing after another, God was the last person I wanted to talk to."

"So what happened to change you?"

"Jessie changed," Nancy replied, as the moon reflected off pools of tears that were building in her eyes. "And not because everything got better after she accepted Christ. Things got worse, actually, at least for a while. Her boys got into trouble in school almost every day, she had to cut back at work, which made things much tougher financially, and I was mad at her all the time."

"How did she change?"

She looked up at the stars and pondered the question as if she needed time to get the answer right, and then looked back at him.

"Instead of judging me, staying bitter at the boys for the trouble they were always getting into, and lashing out, she reached out." Nancy almost blubbered she was so touched by her recollections. "She loved us, hugged us, and did everything she could to take care of us, no matter how difficult things got. That did something to me that I can't really explain, and the boys, too."

"When did you change?" Chuck begged. "I see that in you. I mean, I couldn't even look at another woman after Beverly died until I met you. I drank all the time, forgot about clients, got in trouble with the legal ethics committee, and almost lost everything to booze, until I met you."

"It sounds simple, but it really wasn't," she replied. "One Sunday Pastor Rick spoke to me, not literally, but I felt his message go right to my heart. There was this Scripture, something about what Jesus said, "My burden is light." I had been carrying so much on my shoulders for so long. I wanted something lighter, someone to help me with the weight of everything. So I went forward during the altar call, and Rick led me to Christ."

"Was it immediate?" Chuck asked, now appearing eager to know the secret, to get a piece of what Nancy had.

"Part of the feeling was. I knew I could make it through anything, no matter how tough, but part wasn't. I don't think anything is supposed to be easy. Maybe God wants us to struggle some so that we will go to Him all the time, not just when it suits our fancy."

This girl's amazing, he thought.

On that night sitting in Nancy's driveway, Chuck felt hope in his heart for the first time, hope for a fulfilling life without Becky, alcohol, or whatever other destructive appetites he had been nurturing to get through another hopeless day.

After he proposed marriage, she made him go to church with her; the "yes" was contingent on him being counseled, including both marital and personal counseling with Pastor Rick, and his acceptance of Christ as his Lord and Savior. It didn't take much convincing. He not only desired to spend the rest of his life with Nancy, but he hungered for the spiritual depth that she and her family had. So, just one week before the marriage, he went forward and made the same affirmation that Nancy's family had made long before. And ever since, Charles Fleming found himself seeking more and more of God, and less and less of himself. Life had never been so good.
Chapter 7

A Peaceful Interlude

According to some of his friends, Max Johnson was a victim of being too nice for his own good. He married his first wife, Monica, shortly after graduating high school, had three children with her, and slowly built up a nice little plumbing business in Stonelee, Kansas, over twenty or so years. One month after their youngest son graduated high school, Monica informed him that she had had enough, that she was tired of being married to a nice guy—she wanted adventure. He offered to sell the business so they could share her thirst for adventure together, but it wasn't enough.

Indeed, he slowly faced the truth: If she had been honest earlier and he would have been a little less naïve, the true meaning of her desire for freedom would have been crystal clear and would've saved both a lot of time. She didn't want to be anywhere near Max, or Stonelee, for that matter. The kids were grown and she was no longer weighed down by her desire to do the best thing for them. Max, as far as Monica was concerned, was the ball and chain keeping her from being what she truly wanted to be, which she still couldn't put a finger on. She was determined to live the rest of her life for herself, not others—even a husband and family that loved her dearly.

After the divorce Max was a financial, emotional, and spiritual wasteland. Half of his plumbing business was mortgaged to pay the divorce settlement, and he had to move into a one-bedroom apartment for the first year or so afterwards just so he could accelerate the payments on the mortgage to keep from losing everything. Fortunately, the strength he needed to make it through wasn't his own. Max's true love had always been, at least as far back as he could remember, Jesus. In fact, the thing that buoyed him up the most during the torrential downpour and accompanying devastation of divorce was his unwavering desire to work for God's glory in all he did, regardless of the voracity of the relentless storm. The suffering he went through reminded him of Job's, and he was strangely honored that God considered him worthy of such suffering in His name.

Then God led him to Stonelee Christian Fellowship—Monica sporadically attended his old church, and she was the last person he wanted to see on Sunday mornings. He started attending the Fellowship's adult singles Bible study, and through it he met Jessie.

The match was rather odd, he acknowledged. Jessie's unusual circumstances—she had been a single mom for more than fifteen years following a rather wild youth—combined with Max's relatively straight lifestyle prior to his divorce, made some skeptical that any resulting marriage would last. However, Max was first and foremost a child of God, and he knew that the Blood of the Lamb covered all sin, from the guilt he felt after a failed marriage to Jessie's long forgotten, sin-filled past. For Max, it was love at first sight: love for Jessie, and love for her two boys, Robert and Nolan. It was the family he had missed since losing his first love, and Jessie felt the same, though it took her a little longer—two dates—to get to the same place he was from the get-go. So they married, became a family, and the pieces of his broken life, from the business troubles to his emotional and spiritual well-being, gloriously came back together. Max, after too many years, felt complete once again.

On the Sunday morning before Pastor Rick's memorable sermon, Max did what he always did, even before marrying Jessie. He rolled out of bed from his right side as he faced away from the headboard, without the aid of an alarm clock, at 7:00 A.M., stood up clad in pajama pants and a t-shirt, and thought with a big smile on his face, Another glorious day to worship God. Before he married Jessie and she joined him in his bedroom, he would say it aloud in affirmation of God's grace. But the first couple of times he did so after marriage, it woke Jessie, so he modified his ritual to accommodate her desire to sleep until the last possible minute. Now his thoughts echoed the mantra.

He walked into the master bathroom, washed his hands in the sink, splashed some water on his face to bring himself to wide-awake status, and dried his hands. He then walked into the kitchen to prepare for one of his most favorite Sunday morning rituals: coffee, quiet time with God, and a few guilty minutes reading the Sunday paper. It was one glorious hour of alone time when all in the household but him, he knew from experience, would remain fast asleep and out of his and God's way.

Max pulled out the filter holder of the coffee maker, poured coffee into the gold filter basket, filled the machine with water, and pushed the start button. He glanced out the window directly above the sink, smiled, and said, aloud this time, "What a beautiful day."

Continuing the ritual, Max walked around the breakfast bar and to the front door. Moments later he was picking up the paper from the edge of the driveway, barefoot, as a neighbor glanced in his direction.

"Hey, Max," called Mike McDonald, a middle-aged father of two teenage girls, as he pulled his push mower out of the garage of the house directly across the street from Max's. "Looks like a good day for yard work."

Mike and most of the neighbors didn't share Max's faith. None went to church, though most had been raised in one. They usually went about their business each and every day without any so-called religious influences getting in the way. All were good, decent people; they just weren't into "church." And that was fine with Max. He would pray for them, and they would all enjoy the periodic block party together, as neighbors do.

He looked up at a cloudless sky and sucked in a deep breath of the 75-degree air. "Yes, it is. I'll be joining you in a few hours."

He turned around after picking up the paper and went back inside the house. He sat down at the breakfast table and opened the paper, scanning the headlines for whatever articles he might be interested in reading, which wasn't very many. He finished his superficial "news" reading in a few minutes, stood up, and walked to the coffee pot, which had just announced to him that it had completed the brewing process through the tell-tale sign of a hollow puff and spurt as the water reservoir fully emptied. He poured a fresh cup of hazelnut, his favorite flavored blend, and sipped off the top. "Good stuff," he said to himself.

Max scanned the room for his favorite nonfiction title, leather bound. His Bible was sitting near the phone at the breakfast bar; it was almost always in a different place since Max read it daily—in the bathroom, at the table, in his recliner, even at his desk at the shop—so it never collected dust. He picked it up with one hand and held his coffee cup in the other. He walked to the living room recliner, the one Jesse called "Max's throne." He sat down, kicked out the footrest, and cracked open the Bible to the Book of Matthew, which was bookmarked with the Bible's attached ribbon marker.

Before he began reading, he prayed. "Dear Jesus," he began with head bowed and eyes closed, "Please help me to understand your Word. Help me to see whatever message you want me to see. Help me to understand more deeply your purpose and plan for my life."

He paused for a moment then prayed about something that had been nagging his waking thoughts for more than a day, ever since his stepson, Robert, had left for Texas. "And please protect Robert on his journey. In your name, Amen."
Chapter 8

". . .Paved with Good Intentions"

Deputy Brown had a volatile lineage. His mom was half Irish and his dad an odd mix of Comanche, Mexican, and Italian, with some other non-specific Anglo-Saxon race mixed in. But his look and demeanor was fully Irish: closely cropped strawberry blond hair and a red-tinged complexion that served as a mood thermometer. When challenged, professionally or otherwise, his face would turn so red it looked like he had a serious case of sunburn.

Anderson called Brown and Lind back into his office at 6:45 the next morning, which was Sunday. Both knew there was trouble—neither was scheduled to work that day—so they reported to Anderson's office with trepidation. They had reason to be concerned. He was furious after a quick review of Lind's report, and he took with a grain of salt the one prepared by Brown, which was curiously void of the search and seizure violations Anderson had already been made aware of.

As expected, the unscheduled meeting did not begin well. The two deputies were once again sitting on the other side of Sheriff Anderson's desk, shifting in their seats, after Anderson had vented his rage at Brown's sloppy police work. Brown's Irish mood thermometer was fully engaged, his complexion a bright red tint. Lind, on the other hand, was calm as a corpse, totally satisfied that Brown's actions would ultimately result in a change in the power structure of the department. Maybe he would be Brown's supervisor? Indeed, while Brown was livid, Lind was smiling, as he had been the day before.

"Don't think you're the Boy Scout in this mess," Anderson snapped at Lind's apparent contentment with the situation. "You could have been more assertive and stopped things from getting out of hand."

The smile turned upside down.

"He's my superior," Lind replied. "I told him to wait, but what am I supposed to do? Tackle him and take the chance that I won't get slammed for it later?"

Anderson pondered Lind's reply. He nodded in agreement, but kept the angry look on his face. The rookie had a point, he realized. Besides, the kid was sharp and would go far if he played his cards right. And he was a Republican. That last point actually turned up the corners of his mouth. The expression was not really a smile, but it was no longer the look of sheer and unadulterated anger he had moments before.

"Fine. I suppose you're right."

Brown sat aghast. He was being ganged up on, he knew, and it would only get worse. "We had probable cause," he whined, doing his best to not yell at the turncoat sitting to his right. "He could have destroyed the evidence and made our job much tougher."

"We're done here," Anderson responded, more and more perturbed at a clearly non-repentant deputy who had already been demoted. "I suggest you do things right from this point forward. Standard Operating Procedures from now on, by the book, understand?" he ended, staring at Brown.

"Yes," Brown dejectedly replied.

"Starting with notifying next of kin," he said toward Brown. He then turned toward Lind. "I want you to take over the investigation." Glancing at both, he added, "Does everyone understand?"

Both nodded.

My days are numbered, Brown thought, as his feelings changed from anger to fear.

Anderson stood up, walked around the desk to his door, and opened it, motioning his visitors to leave with his free hand. The deputies stood up and started to leave, Brown in front. After Brown exited and Lind approached the threshold, Anderson placed his hand in Lind's way. "You stay," he said.

Brown, his complexion now a much lighter shade of red, glanced back at Anderson, who was now glaring at him. "SOPs," Anderson responded. "Now do your job the correct way."

Brown stopped just after he walked out the door, and Anderson shut the door behind him, with he and Lind still inside.

Standard Operating Procedures, or SOPs, as his military and law enforcement experiences taught him to abbreviate. They were a royal pain in the derriere as far as Brown was concerned. A professional officer followed only the SOPs he had to, he believed, and bent the rules just enough when they got in the way of his job; it was, after all, about catching criminals and preventing crime. If such a breach of SOPs meant a case might go away, he could just change his reports later. Most of the time, his supervisors never even knew just how much he bent the rules. As long as the cases Brown investigated resulted in convictions or pleas of guilty, no one cared. The problem came when he was no longer the darling of the department. The problem came when he had a backbiter riding shotgun in his patrol vehicle.

Lately, Brown's superiors were becoming more and more intrusive in their questions about his tactics. There was always someone in that other political party looking over his shoulder, waiting for him to screw up.

I'm getting sick of this garbage, he said to himself, as he walked toward his cubicle a dozen or so feet from Anderson's office. He was now relegated to the distasteful task of telling someone's family that their son was near death and might not make it. SOPs required him to contact the local authorities in Stonelee, Kansas, immediately, which was certain to take a tragic situation and make it worse. Those totally unconnected with the investigation would notify the victim's family of his situation and condition, both of which they were ill-equipped to fully understand. At 7:00 on a Sunday morning, it was likely that a Stonelee officer would rudely awaken the family with the news, creating far more anxiety than was necessary. So instead of following the SOP for such a situation, he stood up, picked up his keys and walked to the door.

"I'm not about to wake up his family at this hour, and I'll be damned if I delegate it to someone else," he said aloud. "It'll wait until later and do it myself."

Brown went home, grabbed a couple hours sleep, and returned to finish his commandment as directed, in spirit even if not according the SOP. While researching the location of Robert Baxter's family, he ran across a telephone number. Again, in yet another act of defiance, he arrived in his tiny office and immediately picked up his phone a little before 10:00 A.M., not even bothering to sit down, and punched in the numbers. As the phone rang, he pulled his chair out and took a seat. It rang three times.

"This is Deputy Brown of the Darkwell County, Oklahoma, Sheriff's Department," he began, as he considered what else to say into the answering machine, his southern twang more pronounced now than usual. "Robert Baxter was in an accident. Please call 405-345-6734 for details."

After finishing the message, he put the handset back in its place and glanced down to his cellular telephone, still clipped to his belt, to make sure the ringer was turned on. He preferred to talk to the boy's loved ones in person, not delegate such a sensitive task to a stranger, whether it was some local police officer in Stonelee or one of his own colleagues.

"What a stupid policy," he muttered after he verified that the cell phone was on.

Brown stood up, left the investigations office, and walked through the main foyer toward the jail's entrance. "Now let's see what we can get out of this twerp," he told himself as he considered what the suspect might say to speed up his investigation, totally ignoring Anderson's directive to stay out of the case. "What the heck does Anderson know? Rookie. He wouldn't know a good detective if he bit him in the butt."

He slammed the door shut and made his way to the jail. He'd crack the case if it was the last thing he did.
Chapter 9

A Day of Reckoning

Of all the wonderful things the Johnson family did together, church on Sunday was the one that bound them together more than any other. But for church and their shared faith, one might see them as the typical dysfunctional family, with one dead father, one dead grandfather, another dead grandmother, and more issues than God himself could sort through. Yet the Johnsons and Flemings shared something that healed all the hurts such tragic circumstances normally bring. They loved God and their Lord. Church gave them the opportunity to express to others everything that God had done for them, not to them. Their Sunday morning routine gave them comfort, no matter what they were going through at the time. And lately, their days were full of thanks to God, acknowledging that He had delivered them from their troubles and pain.

Jessie and the boys, both of them, had a hard time getting moving on Sunday mornings, so regardless of how regimented Max's morning ritual had become, it was up to Charles and Nancy to guarantee the entire family a prime worship spot in the multipurpose worship facility of Stonelee Christian Fellowship. They would drive to church in time for Bible study (the rest of the family skipped Bible Study due to their seeming inability to make it on time), and afterwards, save enough seats for the entire family to attend the service immediately following Bible study. The family would then praise and worship God, slowly leave the church in separate cars after spending half-an-hour or so greeting and meeting church members and visitors, and then meet up at the Johnson home for Jessie's incredibly delicious pancakes and eggs (she'd picked up a few cooking secrets while working in a diner many years before).

This Sunday started out as most others. After church, as always, the Johnsons arrived home first. Nolan ran for the 'fridge to grab an apple; Max threw his keys on the breakfast bar under the wall-mounted telephone and sat down at the table with the sports section in hand; and Jessie went into the kitchen and started banging pots and pans together as she made preparations for their pancakes and eggs ritual.

Then the unexpected happened. When asked about why she did what she did later, Jessie would say that she felt something in her gut, a sickening feeling that she couldn't explain. The feeling compelled her to look at the phone—the red light indicating "message waiting" was blinking furiously. She walked around the bar and picked up the phone, hit the "check messages" button, and quietly listened to the myriad of tones and instructions that were a familiar and usually comforting prelude to word that a friend or loved one wanted to talk to her—the unwelcome messages from bill collectors and Nolan's school counselors ended long ago. Hoping to hear her oldest boy's voice saying, "I made it to campus," she stayed on the line. Right when the name "Deputy Brown" was announced on the message, Jessie heard the front door open in the background and Nancy's all-too-familiar, comforting yet annoying "Yoo hoo" greeting. Then, Jessie's heart shot up into her throat.

"Oh God," she exclaimed aloud, punctuated with a gut wrenching sob that was merely a prelude to the tears and wailing that followed. Notwithstanding the tears and sobs, she picked up a pencil and vigorously wrote the name and number of the deputy on a utility bill's ripped open envelope. By now, Max was standing by her side, and Charles and Nancy were staring at her as they stood next to Max, all of them growing more concerned by the moment. As they tried to ask her what was wrong, all talking at the same time, she slammed the phone down, picked it back up, and began dialing as quickly as her panicked motherly instincts allowed.

"What's wrong?" Nancy asked, not waiting for anyone else to respond to the clearly unsettling news, whatever it was. Her grandmother's intuition told her that it had something to do with Robert.

"Robert was in an accident," Jessie replied as she cradled the handset to her ear and waited for an answer on the other end.

"Hello?" Brown answered.

"Hi," Jessie responded, now mostly in control of the sobs. "This is Jessie Johnson, Robert Baxter's mom."

Brown was driving down Darkwell's main street on the way to a local coffee shop when his hip-mounted cell phone chirped. After answering and listening to the distraught voice on the other end, he paused for a brief moment and pulled his cruiser to the side of the four-lane boulevard. He had told next-of-kin bad news many times before, but it never got easier. At first, he wasn't sure whom the number belonged to, whether it was a friend, roommate, aunt, uncle, or whoever. But now he knew it belonged to the boy's mom. This news delivery, he realized, would be more difficult than most. At least it's not the death of a child, he thought, only near mortal wounds and accompanying brain damage! Much more difficult, he knew. He decided to save that last bit of news for the doctors. He didn't have to tell her everything.

"Thanks for calling back," he said.

"What's going on?"

"Your son was hit by a car on the interstate," he began. "He was hurt pretty bad, but he's stable now and was flown to Oklahoma City for further treatment."

"Is he okay?" she begged.

Not wanting to lie but also not caring to deal too much with the grieving mom, he told a half-truth. "Like I said, he's stable. You'll need to call the hospital in Oklahoma City for more information."

With that he gave Jessie the number to the hospital and flipped his phone shut.

It seemed as if a million thoughts and emotions were flooding her consciousness. Who would do such a thing? Why now, when Robert was about to accomplish so much? Why did he have to hitchhike to Texas?

Jessie recalled the heated discussion she had with Robert when he told her about his last fandango to Texas. They were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table on a Saturday morning two weeks before his graduation from Stonelee High School. Robert was drinking a large glass of orange juice, and Jessie a cup of coffee that was heavily diluted with cream and sugar.

"I've always done the things everyone said I should," Robert insisted. "For you, Max, Grandma, and Grandpa. I studied hard, I practiced hard, and I worked out every day since middle school, and I always did what you and everyone else told me to do. I want this for me."

"Why?" she begged. "Why is it so important to hitchhike to Texas? It's not an adventure; it's stupid and dangerous. Do you know what happens to hitchhikers? There are killers out there. I don't want my baby to wind up dead in some rest stop in Oklahoma."

Robert thought some of her concerns were almost laughable. Robert was not the typical high school senior. He was big, real big, and not in the fat, overeater sort of way. He was six-foot-five, weighed just over 200 pounds, was pure muscle, and could mix it up with anyone but professional fighters. Indeed, he even boxed a little his freshman and sophomore years, never lost a fight, and didn't quit until his football and baseball coaches told him he was running the risk of injury that could mess up his high school athletic career. Bottom line: Any would-be assailant or mugger would think twice before tangling with such a specimen of young virile manhood.

"Don't be over dramatic. I'll be fine. I can take care of myself."

He puffed up his rather large chest, pretending to be bulletproof.

Jessie stared at him, her eyes piercing his soul. She wasn't smiling, or frowning, just staring blankly, as if trying to transmit her deep-seated fears into his heart via telekinesis. "Don't do it. I won't let you."

"I'm eighteen. I'm an adult. I'm paying for college, and I can make my own decisions. I'm doing this and there's nothing you can do to stop me."

The conversation ended with Robert pushing himself up from the table so violently that his chair shot out from under him, falling over into the china hutch directly behind. Fortunately, nothing broke. He didn't bother picking the chair up before walking away briskly, in a huff, toward and then out the front door.

He got into his late-model Ford Mustang GT and drove to his grandparents' house. There, he told Charles his idea; naturally, the former Marine thought it was a good one—he even offered to go with him. Both told Max later that same day, and all three ganged up on the women in the family and overruled their motherly concerns.

"Sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do." That was the general consensus shared by all three.

Thinking back about what led to Robert's accident, Jessie boiled inside. She wanted to say, "You jerks shouldn't have encouraged him to take such a foolish trip!" But she bit her tongue. She knew that Max and Charles felt terrible at the moment—they were probably calling themselves far more vile words than she would have used—and the time wasn't right for placing blame, as if it ever would be. The family sensed Jessie's concern, the motherly love for her gravely injured boy eliciting feelings of desperation and helplessness with so many miles separating him from her caring grasp. All moved in to embrace her; they embraced in a family hug as they shared in the tragedy and Jessie told them what little she knew about Robert's demise. Charles was the first one to act in a practical, less emotional way.

"We'll leave now," he said. "You three pack your bags and wait for us. We'll be back in a few with our things."

As Charles took action, Jessie regretted the awful thoughts she had previously said about him and Max. She felt as weak as jelly, and the washed out, chalky look on Max's face told her he did, too. Charles, on the other hand, had always been a pillar of strength. He had been the male role model her boys needed when they had no other; and he had always been strong. Now was no different. She knew that his encouragement of Robert's flight of fancy was meant to strengthen him, not harm him. At that moment, Jessie felt overflowing love for the man who, for lack of a better description, was her father. The warm thought brought a smile to her face, though it was tough to see through the river of tears.

"Okay," she replied. "Should we take two cars?"

"No way," he replied. "Neither of you has any business driving. The Suburban can handle all of us. Just be ready when we get back."

He and Nancy rushed out the door and drove home. Once they were alone, Nancy wasn't as forgiving as Jessie. "This wouldn't have happened if you two wouldn't have encouraged him to hitchhike," she said, as soon as they got in the truck.

As Charles started the ultra-large SUV and popped the gearshift into reverse, he replied, "I know," he said, fighting the urge to cry, knowing strength was more important now than weakness. "But we can't do anything about that now, can we?" It was more rhetorical than anything as he shot a searing look at Nancy and then spun the steering wheel to turn the nose of the truck around and slammed the shifter into drive.

Nothing else was said on their way home. It was a deathly quiet seventeen minutes, the longest time he and Nancy had spent together when words weren't spoken.

They returned to the Johnson home in less than an hour, having taken only fifteen minutes to grab their necessities and a change or two of clothing and throw them into a suitcase. Everyone was in the Suburban and they were all on the road within fifteen minutes after that, Charles driving, Nancy and Max fretting, and Jessie on the cell phone with the hospital every half-hour or so.

Nolan sat in the rear bench seat, alone, listening to his iPod belt out the latest Jars of Clay compilation. He feigned disinterest, looking as unconcerned as one could look, but he held in an urge to cry. His big brother meant everything to him. When things were darkest for their family, before Charles married his grandmother, he and his brother had each other. He wondered what he would do if he lost him. Between intermittent torrents of tears, Nancy and Jessie's need to use the restroom every hour on the hour, and Nolan's periodic teenage whining, it was a very long trip made worse by Jessie's need to make frequent calls to the hospital, as if Robert's status would miraculously change in such a short period of time.
Chapter 10

Blankenship's Bedside Manner

It was a disturbing conversation; they always were. Dr. Niles Blankenship was chief resident of the trauma unit of Oklahoma City Memorial Hospital, the only full-service public-funded hospital in the state. He had just spoken with Robert Baxter's hysterical mother, telling her that her son was in a coma and might never wake up.

Blankenship was one of the brightest graduates of his class at John Hopkins University School of Medicine—the best of the best. However, he had a horrific bedside manner. And he didn't see a problem with that. Indeed, he believed that physicians who coddled patients and family members were doing a disservice by not being totally honest. They gave patients false hope that only led to more heartache when the truth came out, he often said. It was also a sure way, he believed, to get sued by greedy trial lawyers—false hopes followed by death led to the logical conclusion that someone screwed up, at least in the mind of the typical ambulance-chasing lawyer.

Kristen Evans, RN, head nurse for the shift on duty at the time, heard every word of Blankenship's cold-hearted assessment. She disagreed with Blankenship's philosophy, and she had reason to disagree. It was the nurses, after all, who had to hold the hands, pray with, and console patients and loved ones left in the wake of his calloused attitude. Yet sadly, she had observed he wasn't the only doctor to follow such a disconnected, cold-hearted philosophy. Many of the other physicians at Memorial did the same thing, though most were older and had stopped caring only after seeing many of their patients die regardless of their efforts. So many condolences to pass on and so many times of bearing the weight of responsibility of losing their patients in spite of their best efforts had hardened their hearts. Kristen cringed at the thought of where the fairly youthful, cocky types like Blankenship would go after such disappointment. They were already hard; disappointment would only make her job that much more difficult and the heartache of loved ones and patients that much deeper. She shook her head as Blankenship walked away from the nurses' station and toward yet another room and another soon-to-be traumatized, deeply depressed patient. She wondered if his care left them better or worse at the end of the day, physical healing notwithstanding.

"I'm taking a break," she told one of her subordinates, a rookie nurse just slightly younger than she was, as she walked away from the station and toward the elevators a dozen or so feet away.

"Could you bring me back a bottle of water?" Jasmine, a cute and petite blond responded.

"Sure," Kristen replied as she punched the down button and waited only a couple of seconds for one of the elevators to ding its arrival.

She walked into the elevator, pushed the first-floor button and watched the doors slide shut. No one else was on the elevator with her, so she let out a sigh and leaned against the back wall.

"God," she exclaimed aloud with her eyes closed, exhaustion manifest on her face through her baggy eyes and drooping lips. "Please help me through this day. Amen."

Lately, most of her prayers were as short as the one she had just prayed, as the days grew longer and more burdensome. It wasn't just her new duties as head nurse, which had begun only two weeks before; she also had to deal with her job as a single mom of a teenage son, Adam. The adolescent headaches he caused her were almost as difficult as the ones she got from coddling obnoxious doctors and headstrong nurses. Fortunately, Adam wasn't any more difficult than the average teenager, and he was at least capable of raising himself when she wasn't around, a much welcomed change to the juggling she used to do before he got his driver's license.

After four floors passed, another ding of the elevator announced the approach of the first floor lobby, only a short distance from the cafeteria, which was an equal distance from the outside smokers' pit where non-health conscious doctors, nurses, and other staff members gathered to blow off steam and relax the old-fashioned way. Ironically, the smoking docs had better attitudes; she wondered if there was a connection. As the head nurse of her shift, Kristen knew she had just enough time to smoke an entire cigarette, drink a small cup of coffee, and return to the trauma floor with bottled water in hand. Before she was promoted, she had been lucky to finish half a cigarette in the smokers' pit before she downed the rest of her coffee on the way back to her floor.

As she lit up, Kristen wondered, as she regularly did, how long her faith in God would permit her to continue her self-destructive smoking habit. There are worse habits, she rationalized, as she considered Blankenship's annoying devotion to his herbal tea habit and warped sense of compassion. After all, what good are healthy habits if the person is morally and spiritually corrupt?

She walked the hallways to the cafeteria and through the welcoming double-wide doors that were propped open and approached the coffee and drink station to buy her coffee and Jasmine's bottled water. It was self-serve so she grabbed a small Styrofoam cup and filled it to the brim, pulled a bottle of water out of an ice tub next to the condiment area, and walked to the cashier. After paying for the drinks, she walked out into the smoking area, sat the drinks on a ledge next to a couple of male colleagues, and lit up a Marlboro non-filtered cigarette.

"What a day," she sighed toward two colleagues, one smoking and the other just standing there drinking a soda.

"How are things in trauma?" Six-foot-tall Vincent, an effeminate, slightly built Hispanic male nurse asked as he cradled his own cigarette, limp-wristed, while flicking an ash to the side. Waiting for an answer, he grabbed his own coffee cup off the ledge to take a sip with his free hand.

"Unbearable," she said, glad at the opportunity to vent her frustrations. "Some of these surgeons are so arrogant I'm beside myself. I'm not sure I can bite my tongue much longer. And it's tons worse as a supervisor; I have to nod yes and smile a lot."

"Sister," he said. "I know what you mean. I've been doing this for fifteen years and it doesn't get any easier. Just be thankful you get paid more to suck up to the blowhards than me."

They chuckled and took another feverish puff on their smokes. Jackson, an African-American male nurse slightly shorter yet more stout than Vincent, nodded along with them. "Who's the latest snob?" he asked in a deep, almost booming voice that seriously clashed with his light blue nursing scrubs.

"Blankenship."

The men looked at each and then rolled their eyes, the nods of agreement becoming more vigorous. "Tell me about it," Vincent gasped. "He is terrible. I worked with him when I was in trauma and I can't stand him. He's God's gift to medicine, so he thinks."

Still nodding, Jackson said, "I worked with him, too, a couple of years ago. I think he lost his wife or something. He didn't used to be that way, at least that's what Megan told me."

Kristen chuckled a little and sighed in disbelief, drawing another hit off her cigarette. Jackson continued, "Their families are pretty close; neighbors for years. According to her, he married his high school sweetheart while in college, and both went with him to medical school. Right before graduation, she was killed in a car wreck."

"That's terrible," Vincent replied, shaking his head and frowning, feeling bad that he'd thought such terrible things about the man, things not worth repeating. "Sometimes you can't know a person until you walk in his shoes."

"Yeah," Jackson agreed. "From then on, he became all business and shut himself off from everything and everyone. I guess he prefers the shield of his 'calling' to any real human contact."

"So Megan says," Kristen replied. "But I still have a hard time believing he was ever human."

Jackson stopped talking, wondering whether Kristen had heard anything he'd just said. He just sipped his coffee and watched the other two smoke their cigarettes. A few moments of silence passed. He then felt compelled to say something. "Y'all ever read the Bible?"

Vincent was stunned by the question. His childhood memories—adolescent memories, mostly—about church, God, and all things religious were bad, very bad. In fact, when he broke the news to his mom that he was gay, she turned her back on him and told him that there was a special place in hell for the likes of him. He was still haunted by her words, even several years after her death. Kristen was also a bit shocked, though for a very different reason. She went to church, and her son was very involved, yet for her it was about timing. There was a time and place for God, and this moment provided neither. She knew what Vincent thought about the subject; she had even invited him to church once, only to be chastised for being judgmental.

Vincent replied, "A time or two. Why do you ask?" He punctuated the question with a stare and a reddening of his cheeks.

Kristen said nothing, choosing instead to just nod in support of Vincent, recalling his reply to her invitation.

"It talks about judging others," he said. "Jesus said we shouldn't do it, since we're probably not as good as we think we are. Ever hear that verse where he asks something like 'Why do you see a see a speck in someone else's eye but you don't even notice the huge plank in your own?' Doc's not a bad guy, he's just hurting, been hurting for a long time." Jackson gazed down to the ground and slowly shook his head back and forth. "I can't imagine what I'd do if I lost my Mindy. The thought of living without her is impossible to imagine."

He looked back up at his colleagues, and said to both, "Did you know that he hasn't so much as looked at another woman since she died?"

Kristen felt bad—terrible, actually—but tried to hang on to her bad thoughts about Blankenship's attitude. Deep inside, though, slowly creeping up to the surface, she had a feeling that Jackson was right. She still hated the way Blankenship treated people, but she couldn't say for certain that she wouldn't act the same way if she had been through what he had. Indeed, her divorce had almost turned her into a bitter, angry person. But for God, she knew that everything about her would've been different: No nursing school (too distraught and angry to study), rebellious son (no firm spiritual grounding to smooth out the rough spots of growing up), and who knows what other detrimental side effects of losing the man she loved would have occurred? And she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Blankenship did not know God; indeed, he dismissed any thought of a Supreme Being who would allow his wife to die and leave him alone and hurting. If he did believe in God, she knew, he likely hated Him to the core of his being.

Vincent knew Jackson was right too, though he had little sympathy for the man. As far as he was concerned, his lifestyle choice subjected him to enough ridicule and harassment to generate almost as much heartbreak as Blankenship had been through. Where was the compassion he needed?
PART II

When the morning's freshness has been replaced by the weariness of midday, when the leg muscles quiver under the strain, the climb seems endless, and, suddenly, nothing will go quite as you wish—it is then that you must not hesitate.

—Dag Hammarskjöld
Chapter 11

Understanding the Pain

Jessie gently stroked the matted bangs that were once her firstborn's blond, silky-smooth, flowing yet conservatively cropped locks as she stood at the side of the slightly elevated hospital bed and considered how helpless she was. You were always such a beautiful boy, she thought, as she softly spoke soothing words to her struggling child, the only thing she knew to do, or could do, at the moment. "It'll be okay," she whispered. "Mommy's here to take care of you."

The Johnson family army had arrived at the hospital about two hours earlier, and the "troops" were dispersed on their special assignments. Nancy was in the cafeteria getting coffee and pastries for the girls—the timing of the news had given them no time for brunch. Max, Charles, and Nolan had left the hospital to find hotel rooms for the family to sleep in that night and possibly longer, as well as find a quieter, less distracting place for the immediate purpose of Charles making telephone calls to the law enforcement authorities in Darkwell. The plan was to make arrangements for the boys to travel to Darkwell on Monday so Charles could get some answers to the cause of their recent tragedy in the event that no substantial answers were gleaned over the telephone.

"Cops won't tell you squat long distance," Charles had remarked to Max and Nolan as he drove them to a nearby Holiday Inn. He had tried to use his lawyer credentials to pry more information from the detective over the telephone earlier in the day, but that only made the detective clam up even more. The only thing it did was confirm the old truism he'd shared with them on the drive to the hotel. Long-distance, telephonic investigations suck. It was even more applicable to their situation. The local police department was well aware of Charles's reputation as a criminal defense attorney, and no one was about to make his task easier, even if he was—for once—on their side of the law.

In the three hours that had passed since they received the news, Jessie had aged a good ten years. Her vibrant, youthful skin seemed more wrinkled than before, the once firm, olive brown complexion now interrupted by dark and slightly swollen pockets under her eyes. As she caught a glance of her weary face in the room's wall mirror, she reflected, this is what nonstop crying will do to a mom's looks. As Jessie stood by Robert's side, she felt very alone and desperate for an answer to the most important question in her life: Will her baby boy ever wake up? She avoided the even more horrendous thought: he might actually die.

In mid-thought, she didn't notice the door open as Robert's nurse, Kristen, walked in. "Can I get you anything?" she asked as she checked Robert's IV to make sure the medication was flowing unabated.

Startled, Jessie glanced up, looking disheveled and slightly perturbed. "No, thanks," she said with a slight frown on her face. Now recovered from her initial surprise, she added, "When can we talk to the doctor?"

When the shift ends and a more human doctor arrives, Kristin thought, catching her smirk and replacing it with a more compassionate, concerned expression as her nurse's instinct reminded her that a patient's mother was standing in front of her praying for hope. Prayer is good. Regrettably, Kristen knew what would happen if Blankenship talked to the grieving mom. He would also notice the praying, and then roll his eyes at the very moment the mom looked up to him pleadingly for an answer to the question. Knowing him as she did, she actually believed the man timed his body language and comments to coincide to the moment when the recipient or observer would be the most offended. The mom would feel like just another mom of a total stranger on a chart. Kristen had seen it happen that way before; she had no reason to believe Blankenship had changed his stripes, regardless of her newest revelation as to the source of his pain. More questions would result, and there would be far less hope at the end of the consult than before. How can I delay for just a little while longer? She considered.

Kristen looked at her watch, which was on her right wrist instead of the usual left, making it easier for her to perform her nursing duties such as checking blood pressure—she was left-handed. It was 3:55 P.M., only five minutes to shift change.

"Hold on a second," she said as she walked to the door, opened it, and glanced toward the nurses' station just three rooms down the hallway. Seeing a welcomed sight, she fully opened the door and glanced back to Jessie, smiling, before leaving. "I'll be right back," she said as she left the room and walked to the station.

A counter separated the nurses from the doctors, the latter standing on the other side as they reviewed the myriad of patient charts organized according to room numbers. At that moment Dr. Ann Cooper, the next shift's attending physician, was standing there, engaged in a professional conversation with Dr. Blankenship, which everyone on the floor knew was the only type of conversation she ever had with him, since he was as friendly to her as with most patients and nurses. The briefing was a regular routine wherein the departing doctor would briefly advise the arriving one of the problem cases that might need special attention. Kristen walked behind the station and waited for the briefing to end. The last thing she wanted was for Blankenship to discover her true intention: to rob him of the opportunity to break bad news to a grieving family. Despite the information shared with her by Jackson, she was still convinced that Blankenship reveled in breaking bad news to loved ones—he always seemed disappointed and angry when robbed of the opportunity. No matter what he had been through, such callousness was to be avoided at all costs, she believed. So she waited, pretending to review files that were on the nurses' side of the counter with her incoming replacement.

As soon as Blankenship finished and began walking to the elevators, she motioned Dr. Cooper to the side, away from Blankenship's eye and earshot. "Dr. Cooper," she almost whispered. "We have a sensitive situation in Room 220."

"How's that?" Dr. Cooper replied a little louder than a whisper.

"The patient's in a coma. His mom and grandmother are with him—" She considered what would accurately describe their predicament. "The prognosis isn't good."

Dr. Cooper wagged her head side to side, a pained expression spreading across her face as she processed the news. Kristen was thankful that she didn't tell Blankenship that the family was standing vigil in the young man's room. Dr. Cooper always seemed to care, and that meant a world of difference to the families of those facing such a grim diagnosis, she believed. The doctor glanced in the elevator's general direction, heard the chime indicating that Blankenship's ride had left the floor, and grabbed the unconscious patient's chart. She was just as certain as Kristen that Blankenship would have been disappointed if he knew he had missed an opportunity to break the heart of a grieving family. She walked toward the room with Kristen trailing behind, opening the file and briefly scanning the pertinent information she would need to know before introducing herself to whomever was waiting in the room.

They arrived at Robert's room. Dr. Cooper closed the file and gently knocked on the door to announce their presence and slowly pushed it open.

"Anyone in here?" she asked soothingly as they walked into the room together, her first, Kristen close behind, careful not to make too much noise, as if the unconscious patient could actually hear anything at all.

Somehow Nancy had slipped by the nurses' station with the coffee and donuts, so the room was a little more crowded than before, with Jessie still at Robert's side and Nancy standing by the window, picking up a donut to munch on as she observed what was happening.

Dr. Cooper and Nurse Kristen walked to the foot of the bed, careful to not disturb the grieving mom's bedside vigil. She had her head nodded and eyes closed, as if in prayer. Nancy walked toward them, clearly disturbed and still trying to process the terrible news that her oldest grandchild was struggling for life right in front of her. She guardedly permitted a smile to appear on her face, praying that the doctor's pleasant tone meant that hope had entered the room, that for the first time that day they would receive good news, not bad.

"Hi," Nancy said as she extended a hand toward Dr. Cooper. She had already met Kristen, whom she already viewed in a very positive light. She even smiled as she approached Cooper. "I'm Robert's grandmother, Nancy."

Dr. Cooper took Nancy's hand with her right one, the other grasping the patient file, and gave it a gentle squeeze, then broke the handshake as she flipped open the file to review its contents. She already knew what it said, but procedure somehow gave her comfort in such situations. Looking down at the file, now avoiding eye contact as she silently rehearsed the words she needed to say, she replied, "Nice to meet you." She then rethought her words, realizing that the circumstances were anything but nice. "I just wish it could have been under different circumstances."

She looked up at them and dared to smile, albeit an understated one.

Nancy nodded in agreement, while Jessie remained seated in the chair on the right side of Robert's bed, gently stroking his forehead.

"He feels a little warm," Jessie said.

Cooper didn't reply to Jessie's comment, but turned to Robert's most important chart, the one that told her whether Robert's brain was still functioning. The lines were jagged, which gave her something positive to say. She smiled as the words formed in her mind, this time with more empathy. "Hmm. That's good."

Nancy perked up, and Jessie turned her attention away from Robert and toward Cooper. "What's good?" she begged, hoping against hope that the situation would improve, that they would soon have something to be thankful for.

"His brain waves are fairly normal for someone in deep sleep, in a coma, that is," she replied. "I've seen much worse cases turn out great, as if nothing had happened at all, at least after lots of therapy and time."

"That is good," Nancy said, smiling in Jessie's direction, as she nodded her head and did her best to encourage her grieving daughter.

Feeling skeptical, Jessie replied, now looking at Cooper. "When will he come out of the coma?"

Cooper hated the question. She could sew up a person's guts and make him whole even after the most devastating of injuries, with or without the benefits of the most modern medical facilities. She had done so during two tours of duty in Iraq and one in Kosovo. But brains were different. The mysteries of the human mind perplexed even the most skilled neurosurgeons, even if few admitted it, given their enormous egos. And she knew that her general internal medicine surgical experience and training did not prepare her for such a complex issue.

Your guess is as good as mine, she thought then answered, "It's hard to say."

Nancy's enthusiasm deflated slightly.

Jessie sighed, turned back toward Robert, and resumed stroking his forehead.

"That," Dr. Cooper said, motioning toward Jessie's gentle touch, "your voice, and lots of prayer are probably the best medicine at this point."

"I'm sorry?" Jessie replied, not sure what Dr. Cooper meant, as she continued caressing her boy and looked back up.

"The chart tells me that he knows you're here," she smiled. "Everything you say and do can be sensed by him, I think. And if I may be so bold." She paused as she realized that she was about to say something that might be taken as offensive. Nancy and Jessie waited, their bodies leaning toward Dr. Cooper as if anticipating some profound thought to pour forth. "Miracles can happen, and the best source of those miracles is God. Pray without ceasing. Love him. Talk to him. Pray for him. And have confidence that we will do our part, too."

Jessie smiled. She hoped that Dr. Cooper would be with them 24-7. Nancy was still skeptical. She wanted more, and a fresh frown on her face showed it without any words as all. But she was not the type to not share her thoughts. "There's got to be something else you can do," she begged, glancing back at Robert.

Turning toward her, a grim-faced expression replacing the more encouraging, almost happy demeanor, the doctor replied, "The charts look promising, but the mind is still the last great mystery to medicine. We know when it's working, but not what exactly is going on in there. Comas are often more perplexing. Some hang on for years, some just a few hours or days. I suggest you do what you're doing." She paused for a moment. She knew she's already done too much by telling them to pray for a miracle, but something inside wouldn't let her stop. "Especially the prayer part."

Beads of sweat started to form on Dr. Cooper's brow as what seemed like an eternal pause between her extra emphasis on prayer and a response from her patient's mother and grandmother. The women seemed to glare at her, or so it seemed to the doctor. The glares told her that maybe she shouldn't have brought her faith into the room, or at least made it the focus of her counsel. "There's power in prayer," she answered, partly to support her position but mostly to cut through the tenseness that had settled in on the room. "If you want," she nervously added, "I'll even pray with you."

Jessie and Nancy smiled, and Nancy walked from the foot of the bed to Jessie's side and placed her hand reassuringly on her shoulder. Looking down at Jessie, Nancy said, "That would be nice."

Dr. Cooper let out a silent sigh of relief. Kristen had remained silent throughout the consultation. Now she walked around the bed and stood on one side next to Jessie and Nancy with the doctor on the other. Kristen and Dr. Cooper placed their hands on the grieving mother's and grandmother's shoulders. They all nodded and closed their eyes.

"Dear Jesus," Dr. Cooper began. "Please show this family your awesome grace. Spare them further pain by healing young Robert. Let your Holy Spirit fill this place and embrace him with your healing touch. You are the Great Physician, and we know that you give what is asked if it is your will. Lord, let it be your will to totally heal Robert."

She stopped for a moment. All were beginning to lose their composure as tears began to flow, not only from Jessie and Nancy, but also from the doctor and nurse. She continued, "Jesus, please show this family, and Robert, your purpose in this tragedy. Amen."
Chapter 12

Friends Who Serve God Together

Kristen had known Dr. Cooper, or Ann, as she called her away from work, for a very long time. Each had been Christians since childhood, and both believed it was their duty to use their professional skills in God's service. In honor of this belief, they would periodically travel overseas to serve as doctor and nurse in the mission field, most often together. They had been to Haiti a few times, Mexico many times, and once to El Salvador, all over the past ten or so years. Although they attended different churches—Dr. Cooper, Southside Baptist Church in Edmond, Oklahoma, and Kristen, Oklahoma City Pentecostal Fellowship—they became close friends while on their various mission assignments together. They were sincere followers of Jesus Christ who believed that every word in the Bible was true, and who did everything they could to let others know the depth of their faith.

Actually, this boldness had not always been a fully exercised character trait for either of them; both had often swallowed back what they really wanted to say in front of patients and colleagues, at least as far as their jobs at the hospital were concerned. For both of them that had changed the previous summer, shortly after they returned from their latest mission trip.

That assignment was to an orphanage in Mexico that was run by a very brave and daring young minister from North Dakota who often challenged the hypocrisy of the local churches that turned a blind eye to local drug traffickers, who were very generous, often giving thousands of dollars to local religious schools so they could enroll their own children in them. He never hesitated to tell others what his faith told him to say. The two women witnessed the young man being shot at during their time at the orphanage and they heard him laugh it off as a small price to pay to serve God. Kristen and Dr. Cooper vowed to each other that they would no longer shy away from telling those in need about the good news of Jesus Christ.

Once in a while they would go out together as best friends often do, eat dinner, and sometimes catch a movie. It was too seldom for two good friends, but it had picked up in frequency lately as both their children had reached teenage status and were therefore capable of watching themselves on their girls' nights out. The biggest obstacle to their open friendship was the unwritten no fraternization policy between nurses and physicians in the Oklahoma City medical community. Fraternizing could tarnish one's reputation—or so it was said. But Cooper didn't care about such things; such pretension was anathema to her as a Christian.

On one particular girls' night out about nine months before Robert's accident and a week after they returned from their latest mission trip, they sat together, one across from the other, in a tiny booth at a local café on the outskirts of Oklahoma City. It was a restaurant frequented more by blue-collar workers than nurses or doctors, and one that both preferred. It was cheap and cozy, with friendly waitresses and patrons. Sipping on her cola waiting for the meal, a cheeseburger with fries, Kristen worked up enough courage to ask Cooper a question that had nagged her since they had arrived home a week or so before. "Why aren't we doing more to minister to our patients here?"

The question sliced into Cooper's heart like a knife through butter. She had asked herself that same question almost daily for a long time, and almost continuously since they had arrived home. After years of such trips, it finally dawned on her how powerful her testimony could be when she shared her faith with patients unabated, which up to that point had clearly not been the case near home, only when she set foot in foreign lands. Why not? She thought. Because I'm afraid of what the Blankenships of the world will think of me.

The question and the thoughts that followed caused her to sigh and pout a bit. She looked at Kristen and shook her head side to side. "I wish I knew," was all she said.

"I'm not sure how long I can keep biting my tongue," Kristin said. "It's not right; to claim to be a Christian and know the truth, yet be afraid of what will happen to me if I do."

"You're right. To tell the truth, I've been thinking about that a lot lately. Do you know much about the Bray Clinic on the west side?"

"Not really."

"It just opened this year, and it's staffed by believers, all believers, who must affirm that they are Christians. They have to sign a statement that says they subscribe to the belief in the sanctity of human life and the clinic's pro-life position." Kristen could hear the rising enthusiasm in Ann's voice as she put into words her thoughts about the prospect of a mid-life change in career direction, a change that would let her exercise her faith every day and not just a few weeks a year in some third-world hell hole. "They must also commit to sharing the gospel with the patients, mostly indigents."

Kristen's eyes brightened, too. She had heard that the clinic was staffed with Christians, but there had been other such places she had volunteered at before and they were almost as secularized as the public hospital in which they worked. The management at those places had been more fearful that an individual's specific doctrine would offend than if a patient left the clinic without hearing the gospel message.

"Sounds too good to be true," Kristen said.

"I followed another doctor at the clinic last weekend. It's true."

Though initially impressed with the thought of an evangelical medical outreach in her own city, a disturbing thought replaced the hopeful one: She's going to leave me alone at the hospital, to fend off heathens like Blankenship.

Ann sensed the fear, one woman's intuition trumping the other's. "You can go, too," she said.

"When are you leaving?"

"I don't know," she replied, frowning a little. "Maybe never."

"If it's so good, why wait?"

So, for the next nine months, Ann had asked herself that question every single day. She would volunteer for the clinic every few weeks, and she took Kristen with her on a couple of her rotations. The director would try to talk her into joining Bray's staff each time, but she couldn't pull the trigger. Eventually, she had gotten back into her daily routine at Memorial and had stopped sharing the gospel altogether. Until, that is, Robert Allen Baxter was admitted and she got involved in his care. Then the question returned, more persistent than ever: What am I waiting for?
Chapter 13

A Miracle

No one expected it to happen so soon—not the doctors, nurses, family, or friends. And when it did happen, it occurred in a most surprising way; some would say it could not have been more disconcerting, more indicative of just how far they had to go before things were normal again, as if they ever would be.

By then, Jessie had called Janie, the girlfriend in Texas who was Robert's motivation to go there in the first place, to let her know about the accident. Dora, Janie's mother, Alex, her dad, and Janie herself had driven the three or so hours from Bedford, Texas, to be at Robert's bedside, at least for a few days.

When Robert's awakening occurred, the Monday morning following the accident at approximately 10:30 A.M., Jessie, Nancy, Janie, and her parents were in the room, quietly reflecting on Robert's life up to the accident. Janie had barely stopped crying since she and her parents had arrived just an hour before. Her parents were just standing in the back of the room near the bathroom, letting Janie vent her emotions and giving her a periodic pat on her shoulder or a hug. As for Jessie and Nancy, they still weren't quite sure why Janie was there at all; they barely knew her and thought that such a time should be reserved for true family, not someone whose contact with their boy was mostly limited to long-distance phone calls and a couple of weeks in church camp. But now was not the time for such negativity. It was clear she cared for Robert, maybe even loved him.

Regrettably, Charles, Nolan, and Max were back in Darkwell, camped out at the sheriff's department investigations division, with Max and Nolan providing backup to Charles's initially cooperative but increasingly combative attitude as even he, the seasoned veteran of criminal investigations and legal defense, kept getting brushed off by Darkwell's finest. So they weren't in the room when the moment happened.

As Jessie, Nancy, and Janie comforted one another, Dora and Alex simultaneously thought that they could be of better service elsewhere. "You want to get everyone some coffee?" Dora whispered to Alex.

"I was thinking the same thing," he replied as quietly, then turned toward the mom, grandma, and girlfriend. "You three want something to drink?"

"Yes, thanks. Coffee, black with two sugars," Jessie grinned and said.

"Same here," Nancy replied.

Janie shook her head no, fearful that anything she'd say would elicit more tears than she was already crying. Dora and Alex left the room and made their way to the cafeteria, while the others continued their bedside vigil. Janie remained silent as a church mouse; Jessie and Nancy were engaged in idle and very quiet chitchat, as if waking Robert would be a bad thing.

Suddenly and without warning, Robert sat up in his bed, ramrod straight, and almost yelled, "When's the game! I'm gonna be late!"

Startled, Jessie jerked her head toward him, at first unsure how to react. The first words shouldn't have surprised anyone. Sports had been everything to him, that and serving God (Janie was a recent addition). After the initial shock, Mom rushed to his side and threw her arms around his shoulders, hugging him tightly, though not so tight as to elicit pain in his severely injured right arm and shoulder.

"Thank God," she gushed as the fear of her baby never opening his eyes again washed away from her mind and spirit. "I love you so much."

Because he had been in a coma, he had not received the normal dose of painkillers that most conscious patients would have received under similar circumstances. Hence, the moment Jessie made him aware that things were amiss, his unconscious dream of being late to the state baseball championship was replaced by the absolute awareness that his throwing arm felt like it had been run over and crushed by the full weight of a semi-truck, an analogy not far from the truth. He winced and pushed Jessie away with his one healthy arm.

"Ouch!" he yelled, as he moved the hand of his good left arm to his shoulder in a vain attempt to comfort himself against the pain after his attempt to move the injured one sent shivers of pain up and down his spine. "What happened?" he begged, almost crying from the pain.

His head was also pounding, so his face was contorted to resemble that of an old man. His eyes squinted mostly shut as he winced from the pain, but they were open just enough to allow the tears caused by the pain to dribble out the corners of his eyes.

Jessie turned to Nancy and said, "Get the nurse and tell her to give him something for the pain." She was too elated at the moment to cry. It was time to be Mom, the one who springs to action first to help her baby, and only allowing tears to flow unabated after the immediate threat to her child is conquered.

Nancy did as she was told as she dabbed a tissue to her tear-dampened cheeks and pulled open the door with her other hand.

Robert, still wincing and grasping his bad shoulder, asked, "Where am I?"

"In the hospital," Jessie replied, still too happy for the gravity of the situation and the likely uphill battle to full recovery to let her give in to the urge to cry. Instead, she was smiling profusely, and pumped up with so much adrenaline that any feeling other than pure, unadulterated joy was simply impossible for her to feel. In the back of her thoughts she still feared brain damage or some other condition that would take her brilliant boy from the heights of intellectual and athletic achievement to that of a mental and physical invalid necessitating parental or institutional care for the rest of his cursed life. But for now, he talked as he always had, at least when the obvious intense pain was factored out of his words.

Robert couldn't remember the accident, or much else leading up to it.

"Why?" he said in response to Jessie's statement that he was in the hospital. He glanced back and forth to Nancy and Janie and then let his eyes linger on Janie, as he barely sensed a very vague recollection, a familiarity that he could not quite put his finger on. The look on his face said something much different; it was a totally puzzled, spacey look that expressed to those who saw it that he had no idea who he was looking at. To confirm the confusion, he said to her, "Who are you?"

Janie felt a stab in her heart. Instead of staying to help him work through what appeared to be head-trauma-induced amnesia, she momentarily broke down into tears and stormed out of the room, hoping to find her parents. Jessie paused for a moment or two after Janie's flight, her elation being replaced by fear and trepidation. The uphill battle was now manifest in her thoughts. She gently patted Robert's thigh and replied, "She's your girlfriend; the reason you were going to Texas."

Texas? Robert thought. Why in the world would I go to Texas? I hate the Longhorns.

He gazed down at Jessie's hand, which was still patting him with a mother's caress. He knew who she was, and even Nancy, his grandmother, but neither Texas nor Janie rang a bell. All he could think of was how the team would fare in tomorrow's state championship game, which had actually been played and won two weeks and two days before.

Why did this have to happen? Jessie thought.

What's going on? Robert thought, as if in direct response to his mom's thought.

Both had no idea what to do next, or when their questions would be answered.
Chapter 14

Janie's Story

The twenty high school freshman girls sat together in a cavernous basketball gymnasium on the first two rows of bleachers that were normally used to seat several hundred students during school assemblies and basketball games. They were hot, sweaty and looked utterly spent. The youthful exuberance and gossipy chitchat that had been present earlier in the afternoon was now all but dead. An intermittent conversation would break out every so often, but end before much was said. They were seated ten wide, two deep (one row behind and slightly above the other), in the middle of the thirty row, one-hundred-and-fifty person-wide bleacher structure. The various colored sweatpants, mussed hair, and baggy T-shirts masked the fact that all were aspiring to be the most popular and perhaps even the prettiest girls in school.

They had each completed the final of five routines for the Rock Flats High School junior varsity cheerleader tryouts, the first step to becoming a varsity cheerleader, and they were waiting to find out who had made the final cut. Janie sat in the middle of the front row, the most attentive girl there or on any row, and, up to that point in their freshman year, the most gifted and popular of the girls. It was two weeks after school began, the second week of September, and the final routines had ended just ten minutes before. The delay after the last girl performed and the varsity cheerleaders left the gym to deliberate with their faculty advisor had finally taken its toll.

"Can you believe they think they're so special?" a very cute and petite redhead sitting to Janie's right said to no one in particular.

Janie nodded her head in agreement, careful not to be heard actually saying a disparaging comment about the ten girls who would soon decide her fate.

More talking began from behind her and from both sides. The girl seated directly behind her said, "You're a cinch," another, "No, you are." Janie knew better. Neither girl thought the other had any talent to be a cheerleader or even on pep squad. She had heard both girls make catty and insulting remarks about each other when the other wasn't around. She rolled her eyes and smirked to herself, careful to not look to either side in case the backbiting girls might see her expression and guess what she was thinking.

Finally, Janie heard the large steel door to the left of the bleachers that the cheerleaders had walked through ten minutes before open. She looked toward the door, which was directly under the basketball goal and about ten yards behind it. The upper classmen walked through the door in a single-file line, precisely five feet separating each of them and the faculty advisor, Ms. Dowell, just inside the gym holding the door open for their entrance. A couple of the girls had slight smiles on their faces. The others did not. Most kept their eyes down to avoid eye contact with the freshmen. The one in the front, Jackie, a long haired brunette who kept her hair in a tight bun when practicing and cheering but long and flowing at other times, seemed to flash a very friendly grin toward Janie as she stepped directly in front of her. Jackie stopped there and turned toward the girls in the bleachers as the other older girls lined up behind her, about five yards back. They also turned toward the bleachers. The occasional chitchatting among the freshmen died down to total silence.

"It's been a very long two weeks," Jackie began, her loud voice almost booming off the walls and ceiling of the large structure. Janie understood how she had become captain of the squad. A cheerleader had to be heard and she had no problem with that particular job requirement. "You all worked very hard. Unfortunately, there are just not enough spots for everyone. Just ten of you will make the final cut. The rest will automatically be on the pep squad, if you accept the honor."

Janie looked to her sides and stole a glance behind her. She saw two girls three seats to her right who everyone knew wouldn't make cheerleader. They had been just terrible in the final routines. One was stoic. She grinned and nodded her head when Jackie mentioned the consolation prize. She would be happy no matter what. The other, who had been even worse than the first in the final routine, frowned. She would not be happy with anything short of Jackie's job.

Janie was just having fun, like her big sister, Sandy, had done when she cheered for their high school her junior and senior years. She had graduated the year before. Janie kept telling herself that the tryouts were fun in and of themselves, that's what Sandy had told her. Making the squad was just a bonus.

One of the girls behind Jackie stepped up from the back and stood to Jackie's right. Her name was Susan. She was a junior and would probably be the next captain after Jackie graduated. She had really short blond hair, was pretty though not beautiful, and was a little husky. She was usually at the bottom of the pyramid routines. Then the naming of the freshman cheerleaders began.

A name was announced. The girl named stood, smiled at her fellow classmates, and then walked to the group of cheerleaders behind Jackie and Susan. With each name those left in the bleachers became more and more deflated. After the eighth name most of the girls still seated had tears in their eyes. Sandy didn't make cheerleader her first year, Janie's thoughts would reassure her after each name was called. It worked. When the ninth name was read she still didn't have a tear in her eyes.

"Janie Richter," Jackie said as the tenth and final name. Relief washed over Janie as she heard her name. She felt the urge to cry but then heard the redhead to her left start bawling loudly. Instead of crying Janie just stood up and walked to the rest of the cheerleaders. They all hugged each other. The younger ones thanked the older ones. Soon the unsuccessful candidates went to the lockers to shower and change. There was a brief orientation for the new cheerleaders and they left shortly thereafter.

After it was over Janie showered, put her street clothes on, and left the girls locker room, which opened up into the gym. She then left the gym and sat down on an oak-tree shaded patch of grass next to the curb of the parking. She had fallen behind in her schoolwork so she decided to study while she waited for her ride. She pulled out her algebra book and reviewed that day's assignment. As she did, a varsity football player walked out of the boys' weight room, which was connected to the gym but had a door that emptied out into the parking lot. She didn't notice who it was at first. The only thing she knew for certain was that only varsity players were allowed to use the weight room at that time of day, just after 4:00, so it had to be a varsity player. She heard from behind her, "Aren't you Janie?" The voice was much deeper than the still-changing voices of the boys her age.

She looked up and behind her toward the manly voice. It was none other than the starting quarterback and team captain, Eldon McGraw. She knew from what her sister had told her that he wasn't exactly the All-American type. In fact, he was the quintessential bad boy. She blushed when she saw him and then quickly looked back at her book. "Yeah," was all she said.

"What're you reading?" he asked as he stood behind her.

Janie had always been attentive to her books and schoolwork. Her mom and dad were avid readers so it was only natural for her to pick up the habit at an early age. She began reading "chapter books," as she called them, by five years of age, and had read the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy by twelve. Part of her wanted to say something sarcastic like, "It's called a textbook. Ever seen one?" After just two weeks in high school, she knew that this particular jock was not known for academic excellence. But she refrained. For the first time in her young life, she wanted to be a part of the popular crowd, and popular kids didn't want to be known as bookworms. Instead, she shut the book closed and said, "Just math."

Before she had a chance to stand up so she could talk to the upperclassman quarterback on a more equal level, he sat on the lawn to her left. The book was still in her lap. He reached over and grabbed it even though she gripped it tightly, not wanting him to see it was an advanced placement algebra textbook. His strength won out and he pulled it away from her without much effort.

"So," he said, as he skimmed the cover and even flipped it open to chapter 3. "You're one of those brainy types."

She blushed and looked down into her lap. "Not really. Just doing what my parents tell me to do."

"I've never been big into pleasing the parental units."

She realized that her sloppy clothes and too relaxed appearance –she didn't bother putting makeup on after her shower—might be misread by the muscle-headed jock. Even though she knew that they had nothing in common, she strangely wanted to impress him. She allowed a smile to turn up the corner of her lips as she recalled her sister telling her once that bad boys were fun, but just for a little while, and to get them out of her system by the time she graduated high school. She looked over at him to make eye contact. She hoped her sea blue eyes and dainty facial features would divert attention away from her slightly disheveled, post-workout look. "Mom said I have to keep up my studies if I want to be a cheerleader."

He averted his gaze from her eyes to the rest of her. Her face had been very pretty since she was a baby, and now that she was blossoming into a young lady, some boys and men found her simply ravishing, especially when accentuated by those deep blue eyes. Now, her womanhood was just starting to show, so although Eldon was much more physically mature that Janie, he saw a beautiful teenage girl sitting next to him. Better still, a flower yet to be spoiled. "Cheerleader, huh?"

"Yeah."

"So," he stammered and stuttered for the first time, sounding a little nervous as he went from casual conversation to pick-up mode, "did you make it?"

"Yep," she replied as she sheepishly directed her gaze back down to her lap.

"Congratulations. You know that after a few games some of the JV cheerleaders move up to varsity?"

She smiled, realizing what he was trying to do. She was not only book smart, but very observant. The fact that he lingered long enough to engage in conversation with a "fish" told her that he saw something in her that he liked. She knew that boys like Eldon didn't like girls as friends. He was interested in her in other ways. Romantic ways. Now he was insinuating that he wanted to see her cheering for him at his games. Her complexion took on a deeper red tinge.

"You waiting for your ride?"

"Yeah."

"I can take you home."

She knew her mom would be mad, but at the moment she was more concerned that Eldon would not talk to her again if she said no. So she didn't. They stood up and he offered to carry her book and workout bags to his truck. She let him. That was how their relationship began.

*****

Janie's parents wouldn't let her date boys until she was a junior, so most of her time with Eldon was at school and in very brief increments. As expected, four weeks after the JV squad was picked, the time came for half of that squad to move up to varsity. Janie was petite but very athletic. She was also quite perky and energetic, loud and boisterous, and her enthusiasm was infectious. It inspired not only the fans to cheer louder for their team but also her squad members. Those qualities combined into her being one of the girls chosen to move up.

Weeks afterwards, Janie realized something: If not for the promotion things would have turned out very different. Her parents' rule against dating might have protected her for another year at least. Sadly, the time she spent cheering for the varsity football team on Friday nights opened up windows of time for Eldon and her to spend alone together, and that was not a good thing, but she didn't know it at first.

The first time Eldon was able to encourage Janie to go too far with him she put up no resistance. It was the first time a boy had been interested in her in that way and she liked the attention he gave her. The next few weeks she wanted it to happen again, but the opportunity just didn't come. They saw each other at school and stole a kiss or two, but they were unable to find any substantial time alone. Then something quite unexpected happened.

Janie waited for Eldon in the cafeteria. She told him between first and second periods that they needed to talk. She sat by herself, telling her friends to leave her alone when they tried to sit by her. She had already gone through the cafeteria line, so her tray of food was sitting in front of her, still uneaten. She was too nervous to take a bite. She just sipped water from her cup a few times. Then Eldon dropped his plastic food tray in front of hers. It slammed down on the table, startling her out of a daydream, and bounced a centimeter off the top of the table. "Hey, darlin'," he said as he slipped onto the bench seat facing her.

"Hey," she said. She was staring down at her food. Then she glanced back up at Eldon. She wasn't sure how to begin the conversation and hoped he would say something that would get it started.

"So what did you want to talk about?"

There it was. She had thought through what she needed to say and do for the past two days, ever since she found out. Eldon was handsome and for a time she had been truly smitten. However, there were too many things about him that only now made her worry about what any sort of future between them would bring with it. He smoked marijuana. He drank beer. Not just a little drinking, but a lot. Every chance he got, given his underage status. He was also not very smart. His grades were bad and even if he were to be able to go to college on a football scholarship, she knew school wouldn't last very long. Any future with Eldon, or anything that would force her to continue any sort of relationship with him, was unthinkable.

She looked up at him intently and said, matter-of-factly, "I'm pregnant."

When she shared the news with him he had just taken a bite of his hot dog. He stopped chewing. His mouth dropped upon and the bite of bun and wiener fell onto his plate. He hunched over his plate and motioned her to move her head closer to his, as if he was about to share a secret. After setting his hotdog down in his plate, he put his right finger up to his lips and said, "Shhh."

Janie was angry at first. She knew at that moment that the only thing that worried him was the damage impregnating a fifteen-year-old girl would do to his reputation. Then she realized what his attitude meant. He would probably agree with her solution to the problem.

She responded to his urging by moving in closer. Her concerned expression turned into one of anger. "Don't worry," she said almost in a whisper. "I don't expect you to marry me or anything. But I do expect you to help me while I'm pregnant and that you will sign off on an adoption."

His jaw firmed up and his eyes took on an intensity that told her he was no longer shocked. It was the same look of intensity he showed on the football field. "Adoption? I was thinking abortion."

"No. That's up to me and I won't kill the baby."

Janie told her parents that night. Her dad was furious. He didn't say a thing to her after she broke the news. He just stood up, grabbed his car keys, and left the house. She later found out he drove straight over the Eldon's parents' house and confronted them with the news. He threatened to report their son to the police for statutory rape, even though the offense was technically indecent liberties with a minor, still a felony and sex offense in Colorado. They threatened to make Janie's life a living hell by hiring an attorney and suing for custody. As Eldon had already suggested to Janie, they even suggested she get an abortion.

Ultimately, all agreed to the adoption. Eldon's life barely hit a speed bump. He went on to be selected All-State Quarterback, first team, and was awarded a full scholarship to play football for Colorado State University. No surprise to Janie, he lost the scholarship after just one season due to poor grades. Janie's future, though, was dramatically altered. She dropped out of school as soon as she started to show. Her mom did what she had wanted to do for years—she homeschooled her youngest child for the rest of high school, hoping it might protect her from further corruption. The following summer, just one month after she gave birth to a son and gave him up to two loving, adoptive parents, Janie was sent off to help with youth at a summer church camp, Desert Flats Youth Ranch, Colorado.
Chapter 15

Robert Meets Janie

Although Robert's journey from Kansas to Desert Flats was longer than Janie's, it was not nearly as traumatic. However, when he was honest with himself he knew that for claiming that he was just some "holy roller" who always lived for God and just decided one day to spend the summer in church camp hundreds of miles from home because God led him there would be a lie. He knew that his parents were sending him to camp for much the same reasons as he later found out Janie's parents had. There was not an unwanted pregnancy as the catalyst, but the things that led up to that outcome in Janie's situation were quite similar to Robert's. Only he was the jock, not the victimized teenage girl. For him it was more about his mother's belief that he was turning into his father's son and that was not a good thing in her eyes.

Jessie had been just a girl when she met Bobby Baxter, Robert's father. He was a senior football star and she was a freshman "stoner." Unlike Janie's jock, however, hers had already lost his ticket out of poverty and obscurity to a career ending knee injury. His family was very poor and the only chance he had of getting away from his broken home was football.

And then in his last game one unfortunate hit had taken that away. His knee was shredded and his dreams died with his football career. At this lowest point in his life he met Jessie and he took advantage of her just like Eldon did with Janie. Jessie chose to keep the baby. Robert never knew his biological father. He died before Robert was born, the victim of an unfortunate construction accident. Fortunately, a couple of years after graduating high school she met Max and they got married, and he was the only real dad Robert had ever known.

Robert started playing football at the beginning of his freshman year in his first position as tailback when the coaches saw how big, strong, and fast he was. He began partying with his teammates, the cheerleaders, and other hangers-on. He came home late. He even came home drunk one night. Simply put, Jesse saw her son falling into the same star athlete patterns his biological father had succumbed to. He also didn't seem to care much for church or even his own family. Jessie knew she had to act before things got out of hand. She told him that the only way he could continue to play football and baseball was if he helped out at a church youth camp in Colorado that their pastor had told them about. It was a sabbatical that she thought would help him get his priorities straight.

They borrowed a well-used, blue Chevy passenger van from the church for the drive to camp. They needed the extra space in back and the roof rack to bring supplies that the camp needed with them. Along with the supplies, the van held Robert, three teenage boys and one girl, and two adult chaperones who shared the driving from Stonelee to the camp more than 800 miles away. It was a long drive broken up by with several potty breaks, mostly to accommodate what the boys called "the girls' bladders, which must be about the size of a chipmunk's." They arrived at the camp just before dinner.

Robert expected mountains. It was Colorado, after all. In the distance they could see mountains, but they were really distant. The camp itself was flat and barren. There were several heads of cattle that he could see, but the terrain was very much a desert. Most of what the cattle ate had was hay brought in from more fertile places, or so Robert thought. As he stepped out of the van any excitement he had before about the prospect of this mini-adventure disappeared. It was dry and hot even in the jeans shorts he had on, and even the breeze that lapped against his bare legs brought with it more heat and dread than any relief from the oppressive and inhospitable climate. He looked back at his friends, who got out of the van after him, and saw the same look on their faces as he knew they saw on his. The look on the chaperones' faces wasn't much better, but at least they would be driving back to Stonelee the very next day.

"This is different," the girl who had come with them said. Her name was Julia. She didn't exactly look like the kind of girl who enjoyed roughing it. She was small and dainty, a pretty blond with hazel eyes and small facial features, and even though they had been on the road for hours, she had spent much time putting on makeup and doing her hair to make herself look prettier than she already did. She also wore shorts, but they were khakis and did not look particularly rugged. While the boys wore more appropriate T-shirts and hiking boots, she wore a pink-collared shirt and sandals that exposed most of the flesh on her feet to the rocks and dust that were everywhere. Julia wouldn't last very long as a missionary, Robert reflected.

One of the boys' frowns turned happy all of a sudden. He pointed toward a corral a hundred feet away and said, "Look! Horses!" He almost ran toward them.

The other boys ran behind him. Robert shrugged his shoulders. He didn't run, but he did walk swiftly in the direction the other boys went. It was either that or stand around long enough for the adults to ask him to help unload the van.

The camp was set up like a dude ranch. The camp counselors and workers arrived a few days before the kids to help them acclimate to the environment and give them time to attend various orientation and training sessions. They were introduced to the directors and the livestock, which included a hundred or so head of cattle, much more than Robert had originally thought, and two-dozen horses and ponies. There was also an assortment of other less popular farm animals like chickens and goats.

One group that consisted of ten teenagers from Janie's church had arrived before Robert's. They lived less than a hundred miles from the camp, which was the shortest distance of all the other workers. All these early arrivals were standing around the corral as one of the directors, a woman probably in her mid-thirties, held an impromptu exhibition of barrel riding for her audience.

Robert walked up to the right side of a pretty girl watching the director's demonstration and rested his elbows on the railing, slowing down as he approached the last five yards so he wouldn't appear un-cool to the other kids. He avoided a direct, staring glance at the girl. That would be too obvious.

Neither said a word for at least two or three turns in the race. Then the girl turned toward him and said, "Hi. I'm Janie." She smiled.

Robert barely glanced to the side, still relying on his peripheral vision to see who was talking to him. ""Hi," he muttered. "I'm Robert."

Both kept most of their attention directed to the horse and rider, though he was a little curious as to what the girl who owned the sweet and friendly voice that just greeted him looked like. He asked, "Where are you all from?"

" Rock Flats."

"Kansas?"

"Colorado."

"Cool."

They didn't say much else that first time they talked. They did steal a few casual glances at each other. Both liked what they saw. Janie saw a guy who was built a lot like Eldon, but he was much more clean cut. He looked like a nice jock, not the kind she had let herself get involved with. Robert had similar thoughts. Janie looked a lot like the cheerleaders he had been tempted by in school as soon as he got moved up to varsity. Those girls were more like groupies than cheerleaders, though. This girl seemed somehow different, deeper and much more intelligent.

Over the next two months Robert and Janie had lots of time to talk and get to know one another. Neither spared the other from what led them to camp. Janie told Robert about the pregnancy and adoption. Robert told Janie about the drunken parties he had attended, as well as the inappropriate encounters he had with a few girls. By the end of the summer they were inseparable.

Some might say long distance relationships are a bad thing. For Janie and Robert the distance was a very good thing. Instead of getting physically involved with each other or anyone else, the distance meant that they had many long talks on the telephone and got to know each other in a much deeper way than physical contact would have allowed. Robert practiced and played in his games and then he rushed home so he could either call Janie or wait for her call. Those phone calls became the high points of their days. Then Robert applied himself to the advanced classes he took and Janie worked through her home school curriculum. They both had more time to study than they would have if they had lived in the same town, and the result was that they each achieved high marks.

The next summer Janie flew to Wichita and spent two weeks at Robert's grandparents' house and the two went out on a few movie dates. By the time of their graduation from high school everyone knew where their relationship was headed. It was just a matter of time.

What happens now? It was the predominant question that kept running though Janie's mind. She almost felt guilty that she didn't feel more elated that Robert was awake. As she pondered what she might have lost, she prayed silently, "God, please get us through this. Please help Robert remember how much I care for him and he cares for me. Amen."
Chapter 16

Revelation

Charles was pounding his head against the proverbial brick wall and not making a dent. He had talked to two detectives, a lieutenant, and several deputies, trying to find out who was in charge of the accident investigation. Each step up the ladder in the sheriff's department led to a whole new bunch of egos to overcome. He suspected that no one was really in charge, that it was the typical good ol' boy network of local yokels, combined with the natural effect of giving people who had marginal intelligence the authority to bash heads of former classmates or anyone clearly smarter than they were who once wouldn't give them the time of day. They were riding high on a power trip in a one-horse county, he suspected, that wasn't likely to draw Oklahoma's finest. Those ended up in Oklahoma City and Tulsa, he surmised.

His latest troubles dealing with the Darkwell County Sheriff's Department reminded him of Sherlock Holmes and the incompetence he experienced dealing with Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, as well as Inspector Clouseau of Pink Panther fame. It appeared that incompetent law enforcement wasn't limited to fiction novels, movies, or foreign countries. He chuckled to himself at his meditations.

Charles was the last person to expect any cooperation, given his propensity to aggressively cross-examine the very same officers on the exact same biases listed above, including in a few cases in Darkwell County District Court. Yes, Charles had to admit—he had an established relationship with the department. It wasn't a good one. It was more similar to Winston Churchill's relationship with Adolf Hitler than any productive, positive fact-finding relationship between an attorney and investigator.

"Maybe they forgot," he said to himself, as he waited in the lobby with Max and Nolan for yet another different person to give him another different and equally less fruitful answer.

They were seated in '70s era, plastic-shelled, turquoise-colored chairs. Charles tilted his head back and closed his eyes, considering the obstacles they were facing at the moment, while Max sat quietly and Nolan played his handheld videogame. On three prior occasions, one a couple of years back and the other two so long ago he couldn't remember exactly when, Charles had butted heads with the local district attorney and had emerged victorious, the most recent one resulting in an acquittal in a felony drunk driving case and the other two dismissed after he won the suppression hearings. With all critical evidence suppressed, the prosecutor had nothing to present to the juries.

Unbeknownst to Charles, the desk sergeant recognized him as soon as they walked into the station, and did everything in his power to send him to the wrong people regardless of whether he was on the right side of the law this time around. The overweight officer thought: let's see how you feel now that the shoe is on the other foot. Charles suspected that in the end, his smooth tongue and persistent attitude combined with a finely tuned and trained legal mind would get to the bottom of things. He stood up and approached the sergeant once more, still not recognizing him as the arresting officer in one of his two felony DUI dismissals.

"How long will it be before we get to talk to someone who knows what's going on?" he asked, doing his best to hide his frustration and mounting contempt for small town justice.

Max and Nolan, still seated, also felt frustrated, although they lacked Charles's confidence that they would leave the station with some answers, and felt totally helpless since they were relegated to the sidelines and were totally at the mercy of Charles and a department that seemed anything but willing to help a grieving family.

Smirking, the rotund sergeant replied, "I don't know. I told them you were here."

Charles almost lost control of his temper, with the suddenly blood-reddened tone of his cheeks communicating to the sergeant that he was winning this battle of wills. The sergeant smirked and rolled his eyes in response to the reddening. They had already waited a good two hours, in between nonresponsive answers and seemingly endless referrals to yet more clueless people. Biting his tongue to keep from telling the officer what he really thought about him was getting harder and harder to do.

No wonder I won my cases down here, Charles thought, now much less enamored by his own lawyering skills than when the victories had come. It was incompetence on the other side, not his own skills, that had won the day, he now believed.

"This is ridiculous," Charles bellowed. "I want to see the sheriff, now!"

Sitting behind the booking desk, it was not the sergeant's turn to grow red-faced, and his face indeed grew redder. Sergeant Cassidy (it was the first time Charles had bothered to read his name tag), a twenty-year veteran of the department, finally leaked the reason behind the delay. "Feels a little different when you're the victim, doesn't it?" he asked rhetorically, punctuating the question with a grin. "Different than when you're defending those drunk bastards, that is?"

Charles's face reddened even more, so much so that a few normally invisible veins showed through the skin, which only happened when he totally lost control of his temper and that hadn't happened in years. He was a control freak, and prided himself on taking his intensity right to the edge but then backing off at the last minute. At the edge he was at his best. Over the edge he was just a jerk. It was one of his many secrets of success in the courtroom. The other side lost control, not Charles Fleming. But this was different. His judgment was clouded by personal feelings for his grandson, and the person he now faced was keeping him from helping his own flesh and blood. Struggling to maintain his composure, Charles glanced around the room, searching for something that would redirect his attention away from the worthless law enforcement officer sitting in front of him and back on his grandson and the family.

Bingo! He thought, as a sarcastic grin spread across his lips and confidence replaced frustration and anger. He saw a familiar face on a large portrait to the left of the booking desk. Anderson! He knew the sheriff, though the Anderson he knew was much younger and thinner. But he was once a close friend of Charles's back in college—they had been in the same fraternity.

"Is that how it's gonna be?" he asked rhetorically, the extra blood drained out of his face and along with it the intense anger, replaced with the same old confidence that had brought him victories in countless trials. He couldn't care less what answer he got. He was now about to take control and leave the worthless and spiteful desk sergeant in his wake. The smirk turned up to a grin as he considered whether the revelation he was about to share might turn into an official reprimand. "I don't think so. I know your Sheriff. He's a fellow OU graduate, and I am certain that he would have no qualms about firing your worthless butt if you insist on putting off one of his fraternity brothers. Either you let me talk to someone who knows about the Baxter case," he added as he paused for dramatic effect, unsnapping his cell phone from its belt holster as he revealed it to Cassidy, "or I'll call your boss and tell him how helpful you've been."

Cassidy's upper lip quivered. He wanted to leap over the counter and choke the arrogant, cocky defense attorney at least to the point of unconsciousness. Instead, he picked up the telephone and dialed a number, probably to talk to a supervisor or perhaps his lieutenant. Max and Nolan perked up and got out of their chairs, smiling as they did, with Max walking to Charles's side to support him in the latest salvo. Max, now on Charles's immediate right, exchanged a smile with the much taller, more intimidating man. He whispered, "Nice one." Charles winked back in acknowledgment, though he was actually mad at himself for not thinking about it before, for not recognizing a good friend from his past.

It was often the smallest observations that yielded the highest returns, in court and elsewhere. He silently chastised himself for letting emotions get in the way of his judgment. He hadn't even read the man's nametag until the end of their confrontation, for goodness sake! If he had let things get even more out of hand, he might have gotten them thrown out before he saw the portrait of his "brother." He made a mental note to not let such an oversight happen again.

Within five minutes Deputy Brown walked out of the hallway connecting the booking area with the squad room. He approached Charles, the only one with a lawyerly look, and offered his hand. "I apologize for the delay. It's been crazy around here."

Charles accepted the greeting and apology, shook Brown's hand, and replied, "I understand completely. Whatever it takes to get answers is fine with me."

Charles glanced over at Cassidy and winked. Cassidy frowned in response and dropped his gaze to a blank sheet of paper in front of him.

"Come with me and we'll see if we can't accommodate you," Brown said, as he turned around and walked back down the hallway with Charles, Max, and Nolan trailing not far behind.

As soon as they entered the squad room, Sheriff Anderson approached. "Charles Fleming!" he cheerfully gushed, extending his arms to offer a brotherly hug instead of the customary manly handshake. It was a habit of his Charles remembered, one that had irritated the snot out of him back in school and one that had apparently not abated with time. Not wanting to terminate the department's newly discovered spirit of cooperation, he reluctantly responded in kind and they embraced as only brothers could. Some sort of handshake ensued immediately after the hug, but by the look of it, thought Max, it was probably a secret fraternity handshake that no one else was privy to. It was weird and seemed to include a few extra gestures that made Max and Nolan wonder what the heck was going on between the two older men. Then Anderson remembered the purpose of the visit and let a frown replace his smile, recalling Brown's briefing with him just before Charles and his family members were escorted to the squad room.

"I am so sorry for what happened to your grandson," he said, one hand still shaking his old friend's, the other placed on a shoulder to comfort him.

Charles let sadness etch itself across his face as well, more an act this time, to win favor with the man in charge, and replied, "A terrible, terrible tragedy. He was on his way to Texas for college when it happened, baseball scholarship and a girlfriend waiting."

Sheriff Anderson was tempted to exclaim, "Texas!" but instead shook his head back and forth. "Bad, bad situation indeed." He looked over toward Lind, who had joined the group during the introductions, then back to Brown. He then told Lind, "Get the file and bring it to my office." He then glanced back at Charles, Max, and Nolan. "You three come with me."

They walked around the desks scattered about the room toward the only private office in the department. Anderson opened the door and entered the office, which belonged to the department's sole politically-motivated official. He pulled the door shut after all four entered. They each took a seat, Anderson behind his desk, the grieving family members on the opposite side. It was a rather humble abode, Charles silently observed. One that made it clear that public funds were being spent wisely, at least as far as office equipment and furniture were concerned. He wondered how much money sheriffs made in rural Oklahoma.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Anderson asked.

"Coffee would be good," Charles said, Max and Nolan nodding, the latter actually enjoying the stuff on occasion despite his young age. "Black and no sugar," Charles continued.

"Same here," Max replied. Not wanting to be the only non-manly one in the room, Nolan merely nodded his head in agreement, silently wishing Charles had asked for sugar, or at least cream.

Anderson hit the intercom button and buzzed his secretary. "Ann," he said, "please bring four coffees, black and no sugar."

"Yes, sir," she replied.

A few seconds later they heard a knock on the door. "Yes?" Anderson said.

The doorknob turned and the door creaked open slowly. Brown stuck his head through its narrow opening. "Come in," Anderson said, waving his hand in a reversed, open-palmed gesture, pulling it toward him as if such an action would suck Brown into his domain. Brown entered with file in hand. Lind did not.

I wish Lind were here, Anderson thought, recalling the uncomfortable exchange he had with the rebellious deputy.

Brown approached his boss and handed him a file and then sat down in the lone remaining chair in the far corner of the room, the one by the office's only window. Anderson flipped through the file, pretending to know its contents, realizing that only one law enforcement officer in the room knew the case intimately. He glanced at Brown. "Why don't you save us some time and brief Charles and Max on the case."

The door creaked open again, all the way open this time, and a frumpy, middle-aged woman entered with a tray of coffee cups. Anderson, Charles, Max and Nolan each took one off the tray. "Thank you," each said as she moved to the next. She left the room as quickly as she entered, never bothering to ask Brown if he wanted something, too.

After the door shut tight, Anderson looked at Brown. "Go ahead."

He acknowledgment his superior with a nod, stood up, and walked toward the desk, hand outstretched. Anderson handed the file to him without bothering to stand up. Brown returned to his seat and sat down, then opened the file, more out of nervous habit than necessity since he figured he knew the case like the back of his hand. He looked over to Charles, who, sitting in the chair closest to him, had shuffled his chair at an angle so he didn't have to look over his shoulder to see him.

Why are we helping this boob? Brown asked himself, recalling the embarrassment Charles put him through two years before. It was one of his cases that resulted in an acquittal after some of Charles's defense attorney trickery, at least that's how he saw it. Now he was expected to willingly help the enemy? What a snake, he added, stifling the snicker that was perched on the edge of his breath. Brown tried to recall the specifics of that case as he simultaneously gathered his thoughts for the briefing on this one. No specifics came to mind. He made a mental note to pull the file so he could remind his boss who they were helping, not a fraternity brother of old but a Benedict Arnold who had turned on his former friend by giving aid and comfort to the enemy.

His intermingled meditations must have occupied his mind longer than he realized. His boss was getting testy. "Is there something in there you want to share?"

Shaken out of his trance, Brown pulled his eyes out of the file, pausing for a moment. "Hold on," he said as his face twisted, his mind straining to process the information he was looking at. He had seen this name before, but where?

Until this very moment, he had no reason to suspect anything unusual, but he hadn't had time to run an FBI report, or search the name in the department's own computerized records. He looked back at the file, noticing something that he hadn't been privy to before that very moment. So much for knowing the case like the back of his hand, he silently reflected. A new wart had appeared. It was a newly printed Darkwell County arrest report that had been placed there by one of the department's secretaries who had failed to let him see it before putting it in the file. Some SOPs were a good idea, and the one that stipulated that the investigating officer review all paperwork before putting it in the file was one that he would have to remind the file clerk about as soon as he left Anderson's office. Now, taking a few more seconds to process, he realized something profound.

Oh my god! He thought. He had seen the name before! And he knew exactly where. He smiled, smirked, and let a slight laugh slip through his lips. Still looking at the sheet of paper, he said aloud, intending everyone in the room to hear it, "Unbelievable."

"What?" Anderson asked, growing even more impatient.

Not wanting to spoil the surprise or miss the look on Charles's face when he sprang the trap that was certain to rock the famed criminal defense attorney back in his chair and perhaps turn him off from his despicable profession forever, he replied, sarcastically, "What would you like to know?"

Anderson sensed Brown's cockiness returning. He had responded favorably to the earlier reprimand by walking on eggshells and saying "yes, sir" and "no, sir" to his superior and everyone else in the department, which he hadn't done since Anderson took office months before. In general, he appeared to have been sufficiently humbled, in a good way, from the experience. But the look on Brown's face at that moment told Anderson that he had something up his sleeve.

What are you up to? Anderson thought. Despite the little voice inside his head telling him—screaming at the highest octave possible, actually—to fire the bum on the spot and remove the file from his dirty, tainted hands, he didn't. You better behave, he instead thought as he vainly tried to stare Brown into submission and communicate his thoughts to him via the ether that hovered between them.

"What happened?" Max asked.

"Well," he began. "It appeared to be a standard hit-and-run by someone who was drunk or otherwise incapable of safely driving, so we combed the local motel parking lots and whatnot. And it paid off. We found a vehicle with a damaged and bloodied front bumper, verified that the driver had checked into the motel in question a few minutes after the accident most likely occurred, and inquired about the driver."

I'm gonna stretch this puppy out as long as I can, he thought as he stopped talking and just looked at the reports in the file in front of him.

"Was it him?" Max asked, partly afraid of the answer, whatever it might be.

"Probably," he said. "He had your son's wallet and ID on him, as well as his backpack and computer, although the computer was pretty trashed from the crash. We booted up the computer and verified that it is your son's."

"Did he admit it?"

"Not yet, but we're hopeful."

Charles interjected. "Was he drunk?"

"Probably," he smirked, looked at Charles, and added, "but I suppose you would know the answer to that question better than me."

Charles squinted his eyes, wrinkled his forehead, and glared at Brown, who glared right back. His battle-honed trial skills told him that Brown was about to spring something on him, which totally perplexed him. He was, after all, the victim at the moment, or at least related to the victim. "What the heck is that supposed to mean?" he said in a much higher volume than before, his baritone "trial" voice kicking in.

Instead of telling him the name, Brown gently tossed the file onto his lap, pages flipped over the top to reveal the suspect's name on top of the arrest report. Charles picked it up and glanced down at the file. Before actually looking, he felt a sick churning in his gut that told him that he was about to be shaken like never before. Brown said nothing; he didn't have to. He just stared at the enemy's eyes, not wanting to miss his ultimate moment of revenge, to make a vaunted criminal defense attorney finally see the error of his ways.

"What are you doing?" Anderson almost yelled. "This man's a friend of mine and you're treating him like garbage."

Brown continued to stare at Charles, not wanting to miss the moment that was coming at him like a high-speed train on a collision course with a brick wall. Charles was now scanning the page Brown wanted him to see. Brown acknowledged Anderson with the palm of his hand, not daring to look in his direction, as if to say, "Just wait. You'll see."

Charles held the file with his left hand while skimming it with his right index finger and eyes. It was a speed-reading technique he'd picked up in college. His finger stopped scanning and his hand moved up to his forehead, which he began to firmly but slowly rub, beads of sweat now bubbling to the surface so fast that it was all he could do to rub them dry. His normal, slightly-tanned complexion turning chalky, almost bone white.

"Oh God," he exclaimed. "Oh, my God."

Brown stood up and walked to the door. "I'll be at my desk packing my stuff," he said to Anderson, refusing to look back. "You won't have me to kick around anymore," he continued as he opened the door and started to walk out. He then turned around and looked at Max. "I am truly sorry about your son," he said, the cocky look replaced by one of genuine compassion and concern. "It's not you I have a problem with," he added, pointing a finger at Charles. "It's him."

"Get out!" Anderson demanded. "And don't touch your desk. I'll have it cleared for you. Ann!!!" he bellowed through the open door. Ann was in his office in a split second. "Escort former Deputy Brown off the premises. Take his badge and department sidearm before you do."

Flustered, Ann, now standing next to Brown in the doorway, meekly replied, "Yes sir," as she pulled the door shut and both walked toward the exit.

"I'm sorry about that," Anderson consoled his friend. Charles said nothing. He just stood up, leaving Anderson, Max, and Nolan sitting there. He threw the file on Anderson's desk, opened the door, and left the room, slamming the door from behind, not saying a word as he did.

Anderson, Max, and Nolan sat in silence, totally confused by what had just happened. Charles limped out of the building, feeling the pain of an old war wound in his left hip for the first time in years, but it was his heart that was the most wounded. He had always justified his profession by reciting his solemn duty to defend the Constitution and acknowledging for his own edification that it was his job to force the state to follow the rules, to do its part to uphold the sacred rights all Americans share, as only a criminal defense attorney could. But he somehow felt helpless now; he felt as if his entire career had been based on a lie, a lie that ultimately led to far more heartache and pain than any sacred constitutional right could justify.

Charles was now the criminal, he believed.

As he left the front door of the Sheriff's Department building behind him, his knees buckled. He melted to the ground and began to cry uncontrollably. "What have I done?" he asked, over and over again. It was all he could say until Max and Nolan finally realized he was not coming back and left the building, too. When they reached him, each kneeled down by his side, Max on the right and Nolan on the left, they put their arms around his shoulders, and hugged him, still clueless as to what had set him off, wondering what unseen power could shake the foundation of the strongest man either had ever known.

The family's rock had just crumbled into dust.
Chapter 17

Advocate for the Defense

It had been a relatively simple felony "driving under the influence" charge, but it turned out to be much more. Indeed, after Charles had initially agreed to represent Michael Thomas for a second-time misdemeanor DUI—his grandfather paid the legal fee, promising his troubled grandson that it was the last time he would be the recipient of Grandpa's largesse—he soon discovered that his new client had been somewhat less than honest with him. It was his fifth DUI lifetime, and his second felony DUI, which entailed much more work, from preliminary hearing to motions to suppress, to jury trial, and they had no choice but to fight it all the way since the district attorney refused to offer any special deals to habitual drunk drivers.

Charles Fleming, attorney-at-law, sat in a courtroom with his client, Michael Thomas, awaiting the jury's verdict on the trial that had lasted just two days. He stood up and walked to the back of the courtroom, where the prosecutor and Deputy Brown stood, chatting about the case. "Let's talk about a plea offer," Charles said, interrupting what appeared to be a heated conversation, as all had just been called back to court by the judge, indicating that the jury had finished deliberations after just one hour, or perhaps had a question that they needed answered before they could reach a decision.

The trial had gone relatively well, and Charles knew he had as good a chance as any to secure an acquittal, especially since the jury had returned a verdict so quickly (the shorter the deliberations, the more likely a defense verdict, Charles believed), but his client had a sickening feeling that he would be found guilty, and that the judge would throw the book at him, so he asked Charles to talk to the prosecutor one more time, to see if a deal could be cut before the jury closed all options.

"I told you already," Jack Stone, a second-year assistant district attorney in Darkwell County, replied. "No deals. Sorry."

"He might walk," Charles offered. "You know that, right?"

"Sorry. My boss won't deal. It's an election year."

You are a weasel, Charles thought, though he was actually grateful at the rebuffed request since acquittals are always better than pleas. Moreover, if he lost he was sure he could talk the old man into paying for an appeal, which would mean thousands more in legal fees. The ADA was short, about 5'4", skinny, and had pock marks all over his face. Absent the law degree, Charles would have guessed him to be no older than his oldest grandson, whom he was certain could beat the living daylights out of the sniveling punk standing before him. Jack had not prosecuted many cases, a fact Charles knew by instinct. The trial could not have gone better for the defense, a conclusion based in large part on Jack's incompetence; he could not have made more mistakes without even the most incompetent judge declaring a mistrial, though such a declaration was unlikely to occur at such a hearing and in this particular county. After all, judges there were elected officials, and they didn't get reelected when they set aside jury verdicts against drunk drivers.

Charles made the suggestion more out of courtesy than necessity. It was his attempt to build a little goodwill with the prosecutor after he had beaten the tar out of him in court, that and the need to do what his client asked him to do. Relationships, Charles knew, were critical for an effective defense attorney to secure good results for his clients, even if it was for a client who wasn't in the courtroom that day and hadn't even hired him yet. So he bit his tongue after Jack refused to deal. After all, the trial had gone well, and he was certain that if they lost, they at least had grounds for a rock-solid appeal, especially if the judge ruled against them on their motion for mistrial, which the judge was considering concurrently with the jury's own deliberations.

The issues raised in the trial were numerous, starting with the suppression hearing, which they lost but should have won. At least that's how Charles felt about it. First, and most important, an officer had not observed any erratic driving or traffic infraction. An anonymous tip had been called in to dispatch about a dark colored, late model American-made sedan. No tag number, make or model number, nor even a specific color, was included in the tip. The generality of the description, combined with Brown jumping the gun and stopping Michael's car before he violated the law in Brown's sight, was an issue that had already been directly addressed by the Oklahoma Supreme Court in another case several years before. The stop, Charles was certain, would be found illegal on appeal.

The other issue concerned the breath test. A videotape made it clear that Michael had requested to speak to his attorney and secure an independent blood test, both requests being denied by Brown. Again, the Supreme Court ruled in another case that such a denial left it no choice but to suppress the results of the test. Charles knew this, in part, because he had already won that very issue at the drivers' license review hearing, so a similar ruling in the criminal case was likely, as well.

After waiting for the judge to do a last minute review of relevant cases in his chambers, the court reporter walked in and announced his entry into the courtroom. "All rise," she announced loudly.

Charles and Jack walked past the gate separating the spectators from the attorneys and defendants. Each stood next to their chairs at counsel tables, Charles on the left side of the courtroom next to his client, who was standing at his side, and Jack on the right, alone. Brown, who had taken the chair beside Jack for the duration of the trial, remained in the spectator section—those chairs, he believed, were more comfortable.

Judge Mark Christianson sat in his ultra-large leather chair and pulled it up to his bench, which was elevated a good three feet from the floor where all the others were seated, giving him a bird's eye view of all he surveyed. "You may be seated."

He motioned to his assistant, who stood next to a door behind the jury box. She walked through the door and, moments later, twelve jurors walked in and took their seats.

"Since hearing arguments on a motion to suppress that the court heard last week and overruled at the time, I found myself questioning my decision throughout this trial. As more and more evidence came to light, I must say that I began to wonder if I had made the wrong decision entirely. Although counsels' briefs and research were quite voluminous, I did more research as we waited for the jury to deliberate, which it was still doing when I ordered all parties back to court."

Charles started to smile. Jack bowed his head, knowing that this could not be good. "After reviewing counsels' briefs and all relevant case law once again, and hearing facts come from the arresting officer's mouth that were totally different than what was presented to the court at the suppression hearing, I am disturbed," he continued. "I am absolutely convinced that Mr. Thomas—" He paused and looked toward the defendant, scowling, "is guilty as hell. He is facing a second-time felony DUI and is only one tragic incident away from killing himself, which might not be a bad thing, or someone else, a much more unfortunate probability. I emphasize probability because I am firmly convinced that he will kill someone if he continues to drive drunk."

Thomas squirmed in his seat, which was growing more uncomfortable by the second. Charles knew they had won. No judge could say such things in front of a jury and not have the verdict overturned, that is, a guilty verdict overturned. He fought the urge to smile broadly, knowing that they were about to win but not wanting to appear unprofessional, to openly gloat. Instead, he gently nudged his client with his left elbow and, when Thomas glanced over at him, winked. His joy was evident in the sparkle in his eyes if not the very slight upward turn in the corners of his lips. Judge Christianson continued, "Unfortunately, I was elected to enforce the law, for good and bad. And I now believe that case law is clear." He turned his gaze away from Thomas and toward Brown.

"You screwed up royally, Deputy Brown. And you lied in open court, either this week or last. I have no choice but to reconsider my earlier ruling sua sponte and sustain the defendant's motion. Does the state have anything further?" the judge asked rhetorically, not bothering to look at the prosecutor's table. Jack knew the standard procedure when a hearing resulted in all evidence disappearing with the slam of a gavel, though he was less certain when a motion ruling was reversed after a trial.

He sat in his chair clueless, saying nothing.

"Counsel?" the judge demanded, now glaring at Jack and growing impatient as seconds ticked away.

Charles saw the opportunity to help him save face. "Your Honor," he said. "Defense moves the court to find the defendant not guilty for failure of the state to carry its burden." And acquittal was much better than just a dismissal, especially if the state wanted to be a pain in the rear for the defense and refile charges.

Jack glanced back at Brown and scowled. He then stood. "The state objects."

"State's objection is noted and overruled," the Judge said. "Defense motion sustained." He turned toward the defendant. "Don't let me see you in my courtroom again."

"Yes sir, Your Honor."

The Judge then proceeded to apologize to the jurors for the state's regrettable waste of their time. It was one of a long list of sheriff's department blunders that would eventually result in changes in the department, including Anderson's appointment as sheriff, as well as the election of a new district attorney.

Reflecting on the first case of Michael Thomas as he sat in the middle of the sidewalk sobbing profusely with Max on one side and Nolan on the other, both doing their best to comfort him for some reason neither knew a thing about, Charles felt as if his entire life had been a lie. He claimed to be a Christian yet his actions had caused his grandson and his entire family more pain than he could possibly imagine, or they would ever understand. He had gotten his client off and now that very same client had almost killed his beloved grandson and ripped away any chance Robert had of realizing his dream of a college baseball career, and maybe more. Though that possibility was not certain, his heart told him it would not have happened but for his defense of a scumbag.

What next? He thought. How do I tell them what I've done, that I'm responsible?

Max and Nolan helped him to his feet and they walked to the car, both unwilling to be the first to ask the question they were dying to know the answer to: What did you see in that file? The answer would come soon enough, and Charles prayed silently that they would give him some reason to justify his role as criminal defense attorney, which had been the biggest part of his life the past thirty-or-so years.

He couldn't help thinking: How many others have I killed? How do I tell Jessie and Robert what I've done?
Chapter 18

A Joyous Celebration

The hugs and kisses had gone on for several minutes as Jessie, Nancy, and Robert thanked God that Robert had awakened from his deep slumber. Janie, still standing in the corner, was grateful, too, though she was now unsure whether she had a place in Robert's life anymore. After all, he had no idea who she was, and he might never remember her. Many minutes had passed since Robert's awakening, but not enough that Janie's parents had returned.

"We've got to call the guys and tell them the news," Jessie said, snapping back to reality, a reality packed with the challenges recovery would bring with it. The image of Robert's still very swollen, bruised and bandaged face, head, and body reiterated this reality.

"I'll do it," Nancy replied. She walked to a chair sitting by the room's only window, grabbed her purse, and fished out her cell phone. She dialed Charles's number. It rang four times before he finally answered.

"Hello?" a shaken and tearful voice replied.

Nancy was unsure how to respond. It sounded a little like Charles's voice, but it sounded broken, shaken by something terrible. She had never heard him sound that way before. "Chuck?" she asked.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Are you okay?" she asked.

The three were still walking toward the parking lot a dozen or so feet away from Charles' SUV when the call came. Charles was now under his own power with the cell phone held to his left cheek. The limp had diminished somewhat, though he still felt a tingle in his hip as he did his best to shake off the pain and hide the lingering effects of his old injury, which he'd managed to do for the past twenty years preceding up to his reading of the file. He couldn't help recalling the shocked expression on Nolan's face as the boy looked down on him as the older man cried like a baby; Nolan looked scared, afraid that whatever Charles saw would shake him even more than it did Grandpa. Max was disturbed, too, but he was a man, and Charles was less concerned for him than his youngest grandson, the most vulnerable of the two Baxter boys, and quite possibly the only person in the family who would ever talk to him again.

Considering Nancy's question, his first thought was, No, but he thought he should tell the family what disturbed him in person, and all at the same time.

"Yeah," is what he finally said, adding, "I'll tell you about it later. What's going on?" he asked as he reached into his right pant pocket to dig for his keys.

"Robert woke up," she burst out in excitement.

In an instant, Charles forgot about his problem. "Thank God," he said, letting joy replace the grief he felt about the role he played in the tragedy. "Is he—" he paused, afraid of what the answer would be, now recalling what led them to this moment "—okay?"

"Oh, yes," she gushed. "He's in pain, and he thought he had a game to go to, but he seems okay."

Charles felt a little better, but not much. "We're on our way back right now, after we grab a bite," he said, smiling in Max and Nolan's direction as he pulled out the keys and punched the keyless entry button. "See you in a couple of hours."

"Be careful," she said, thinking about the circumstances that had led to their predicament.

"Okay. Bye."

Max and Nolan opened their doors and got in. Charles did the same after he said a silent prayer: Please let him be okay. Amen.

After he started up the Suburban and began backing out of the parking stall, Max said, "So what's the news?"

Charles paused just long enough to slam the big SUV into drive and begin his exit out of the parking lot. He was anxious to put as much distance as he could between the Darkwell County Sheriff's Department and himself. He then replied, smiling through a tear or two, "Robert woke up."

"Thank God," was all Max said. Nolan, sitting in the back seat just behind Charles, sat back in his seat and leaned his head against the headrest, eyes closed tightly. He wanted to cry but refused the urge to give in. All he did do, over and over again, was say, "Thank you Jesus; thank you Jesus," quietly to himself, doing his best to keep his prayer of thanksgiving between him and the Lord.

Charles did the same, though his prayers remained in his head, locked away tightly so no one in the truck would suspect that his prayer was more out of the need to hide his secret until he had to reveal it than thanksgiving for sparing Robert. He also kept asking himself: What if he wouldn't have awoken? What if he would've died? The thought of such an outcome made it difficult to concentrate on the road.

"Can you drive?" he asked Max as he pulled into a gas station near the highway entrance ramp.

"Sure."

*****

By the time the boys arrived at the hospital, Robert had gorged himself with at least two trays of hospital food, ranging from roast beef to Salisbury steak. It tasted bad, he told his mom, grandma, Janie and her parents, but he scarfed it down anyway.

"We know you're back," Jessie said. "Your discriminating tastes are as bad now as ever."

They all laughed at the comment since all were quite familiar with his habit of eating anything put before him, tasty or not.

The men and Nolan walked into the hospital room amidst laughter and revelry. Just over two hours had passed since Robert woke up so they were still in a state of exhilaration, thankful that God had spared their beautiful young man from death or worse, in their view: a persistent, vegetative state. He was awake, alert, and appeared to have all his mental faculties intact, notwithstanding the lingering amnesia—he still couldn't recall Janie, though bits and pieces of their times together had begun to flash in his mind as all visited and Janie's voice began to ignite synapses that had been ripped apart by the accident.

"You sound ornerier than ever," Charles said right after he walked into the room, its door propped open with a doorstop. "Thank God you're awake," he added cheerfully as he walked to the side of Robert's bed and gave him a hearty handshake with his right hand and gently patted his shoulder with his left.

"Ouch!" Robert said as his right hand, dangling with the rest of his arm in a temporary sling and cast, radiated pain up his arm and into his shoulder.

"Sorry," Charles replied. "I'm just so thankful that you're awake."

"It's okay," Robert said, smiling through the pain.

Just then the telephone rang and Jessie picked it up, laughing. "Hello?"

Charles watched her facial expressions as the voice on the other end told her something that she clearly did not want to hear. "He just woke up a little while ago," she said, loud enough to tell everyone she was very perturbed at the unwelcome telephone call. "Come by in the morning," she finished as she slammed the telephone receiver on its base.

"Who was that?" Nancy said, leaning against the window air conditioning unit right next to the end table that held the phone.

Jessie rolled her eyes and looked at her mom and said, "Would you believe that a police officer wants to come by now to get Robert's statement?"

They all shook their heads side to side, except Charles. If I don't tell them now, the deputy will.

He glanced around the room and noticed that there were just enough seats for everyone to sit; he thought the news would be better received if no one fainted and fell to the ground after its delivery. Despite the deputy's unwelcome call, the mood was still jovial, and Charles regretted that he had to alter the mood, perhaps irrevocably so.

"I've got something to tell you," he said just loud enough to be sure all heard. "Please sit down."

They did as requested. As he thought, the laughter stopped and a couple of faces grew concerned, including Jessie's and Nancy's. Robert, still racked with pain despite the over-the-counter painkillers he'd been given (he refused the really strong, addictive stuff) couldn't smile well—even his laughs were tinged with a grimace. Max and Nolan continued to smile, though less than before.

"So what's this all about?" Nancy asked.

Better to lay it all out than delay, he thought, as he considered whether he should build up to a climax before breaking the news, to lessen the impact it would have on how the family felt about his role in the tragedy. But that was self-serving, and he felt worse about manipulating those he loved, so he let it rip. After all, Brown's stretching out the news ended up with Charles getting hit in the face with a proverbial two-by-four. "It's my fault," was all he said.

"Don't be crazy," Jessie replied, smiling. "I know why you told him to go for it. It's not your fault."

Charles shook his head side to side, knowing that Jessie thought his encouraging Robert to hitchhike was what he meant. The thought brought forth an unfortunate chuckle as he realized he played an even bigger part in the tragedy than the revelation at the police station revealed.

This will not go well, he thought.

"I'm not talking about that."

"What are you talking about?"

He pulled a monogrammed handkerchief out of his left pants pocket and dabbed the now-forming tears from his eyes. "The boy who hit Robert," he began, "was my client."

Only Max sensed where this was going; it dawned on him why Charles was so upset in Anderson's office. He went to Charles's side and put his arm on his shoulder. "It's okay," he said softly.

Charles's train of thought was broken as he looked into Max's eyes, surprised that Robert's dad was comforting him. He has no idea what I'm talking about.

"You don't understand," he blurted. "I got him off a DUI two years ago which saved his driver's license and kept him out of prison. He wouldn't have been driving that night if I hadn't helped him. Heck, he wouldn't have even been out of prison yet."

Charles broke down and began crying profusely. Instead of blame and bitterness, he found himself almost immediately surrounded by loved ones who hugged and loved him, telling him over and over again that they understood—it wasn't his fault. Robert tried to get out of bed to do the same, but the IVs and intense pain kept him from it. They then helped Charles to a chair and all prayed. Robert was alive and awake. At the moment, they had everything to be thankful for and had no intention of blaming anyone. There would be time enough for that later.
Chapter 19

Facing the Future

Robert's room was mostly empty. He had been out of the coma for two days and had improved so much that he had a decent chance of being released the next day, just as soon as the doctors were sure that his head injuries would not be a problem. Doctor Blankenship was leaning over the bed shining his penlight into Robert's eyes. "Good," he said as he waved the light into each eye then clicked it off. "Excellent responses."

Robert smiled. Charles did too; he was lurking in the far corner, doing his best to stay out of the doctor's way. No one else was in the room.

"What does that mean?" Robert asked.

"It means your head is fine. No outward signs of any lingering damage that might cause long-term problems. To be frank, I'm shocked at how little bruising there is, much less than just yesterday. The way you're healing, you'll have black eyes for a couple of weeks, but you should be looking fairly normal in a month or so. You've obviously taken care of yourself to snap back so fast. "

"Does that mean I can go home?"

"Not yet," Blankenship replied as he picked up his clipboard and Robert's file, pulled a pen from his pocket, and scribbled some notes on a chart in the file. "But you're close. I want to do a CT scan to make sure we're out of the woods. We'll take care of that this afternoon. We'll shoot for tomorrow, at the earliest."

Robert lay in silence for a few moments as his thoughts lingered on his most pressing concern. "What about my shoulder and arm?"

Blankenship, still standing at the side of the bed making notes in the file, dropped the clipboard to his side and looked up at Robert. He sighed impatiently. "You realize that you almost died, right?

"Yeah."

"And that you're lucky to be alive?"

"I know," Robert weakly replied.

Charles stirred in the background, growing tense as a result of Blankenship's insensitivity. To go from hopeful to more pessimistic so quickly was surprising to Charles, who always did his best to follow up his own "hard reality" talks with his clients with optimism, the opposite of what this character seemed to be doing. He walked to the other side of Robert's bed and stood, looking down at Blankenship, who was much shorter and smaller than he. "It's a fine question," is all Charles said.

What's with these people? Blankenship thought as he looked up at Charles and then back down at Robert, consternation etched on his face. We save the kid's life and you want more? "The point is," he said, "the most important thing, your brain, is intact. That is more than we could have expected given the extent of your injuries. To be frank, I've never seen someone recover as quickly and as totally, at least as far as your head injuries are concerned. Everything else is gravy. Will you be able to use your arm and shoulder again? Of course. They're still attached, and most of the muscles and tendons work fine."

"That's not why he asked," Charles said. "He's a baseball player. He's got a scholarship, and that's his throwing arm."

Blankenship's face grew grim. He was never much of an athlete, and he had to admit to himself that he tended to be a little jealous of such people. Concern was there, too, at least in the context of the doctor-patient relationship, regardless of how insensitive they might think he was. "I can't tell you much about that," he said, telling them a half-truth. "Time heals a lot, but only an orthopedist could tell you for sure. There's nerve damage, to be sure, and while the tendons and muscles that were torn from the bone have been reattached, the extent of your injuries tell me that you will experience lingering affects for years to come. I'll have one look at the charts and X-rays. A new CT scan and MRI will tell us more. Who knows?"

Why did I say that? Blankenship thought to himself. A question means there's hope, and he honestly didn't believe this kids had any chance of playing peewee baseball again let alone college-level ball. He usually shot straight with his patients, just told them the facts. He had always believed that putting off the inevitable just got their hopes up, and that led to a very violent and emotional crash back down to earth when recovery did not come as promised. So what had come over him? As Charles and Robert perked up with words that were very un-Blankenship-like, he continued to fight the temptation to shoot straight. Instead, he followed up his open-ended question with a profound statement he seldom used, "There's always hope," then left the room.

Once he left, Charles grinned in Robert's direction and said, "Nice guy."

"Yeah," Robert agreed as he looked down at his numb right hand, which was now in a soft cast with only the tips of his fingers exposed. He looked back up at Charles. "It's okay," he said softly. "If I never throw another baseball, it's okay."

Charles stumbled back a few inches, looked back in search of the nearest chair, and sat down. He didn't cry, but wanted to. "What do you mean?"

"Do you know why I chose UTA over the others?"

"No. I did wonder, though. It didn't make much sense to me. You could've gone and played baseball almost anywhere."

"God wants something else for me," Robert said. "I'm not sure what, maybe the ministry. I don't know for sure. But it's certainly not baseball, football, or anything like that."

"It's not Janie?"

"I'm still not sure who she is, to be frank. I only know that God was leading me to Texas. The rest is hazy."

"You want to pray about it?"

"Sure."

So they prayed—for physical healing, for direction, for Robert's memory to be restored—and then sat in silence as Robert drifted off to sleep and Charles considered where they'd both be at that moment had he not defended the guy who caused this mess. Charles knew the family had forgiven him. Indeed, they hadn't even seen anything to forgive him for, at least that's what everyone told him, yet he still felt responsible. He felt like he'd wasted his entire career putting guilty people on the streets to victimize more innocents. Before Robert got injured, they would come back time and again in need of more legal help, and he'd take their money, or the state's money for the court-appointed ones, which he still took on occasion. But although those cases sometimes involved innocent victims injured by repeat offenders, they were nameless, faceless strangers.

Now it was different; his own flesh and blood was paying the price for what was beginning to seem like an abominable vocation to him. Charles, the unassailable Rock of Gibraltar in the courtroom, was now unsure of who he was, of what he'd become over the years. He even doubted his Christianity, doubted whether any true Christian would do what he had done over the years: defend those he knew to be guilty. It was time to reevaluate, to go in a new direction. Charles smiled for the first time since breaking the news to the family. Tomorrow was a new day, and he was determined to make it a better one.
Chapter 20

Blankenship's Pain

So what do you think?" Blankenship asked Doctor Jonathan Christianson, who he regarded as one of the area's best orthopedic surgeons, though maybe not quite as good as the experts in the more metropolitan cities like Dallas or Chicago. They were looking at Robert's X-rays and periodically glancing at the CT images, all of which were clipped to florescent-lighted panels hanging on the wall of the otherwise vacant examination room.

"The bone damage itself is bad enough, but it looks like the cartilage and tendons are pretty bad, too." He shook his head. "I've seen worse cases turn out pretty good, but we need more data. Let's get that MRI and see what it shows us."

"What should I tell him?" Blankenship asked.

Brown pulled the film off the panel and slipped them back into Robert's file, then looked up at Blankenship. "Nothing." The last thing that boy needs is your bedside manner, he thought, barely able to hide his disdain for Blankenship's legendary callousness. "I'll talk to them. Leave orthopedics to me."

"Very well," Blankenship replied as they walked out the room, with Dr. Christianson the last to leave, flipping off the light switch as they exited.

Walking down the hallway, Blankenship said, "You want me to go with you to tell them?"

"No. I got it covered."

At the nursing station, Blankenship snatched a file off the counter and turned to the right, walking in front of the station, and made his way to the next bank of rooms, while Christianson continued walking forward toward Robert's room. Blankenship had to attend to an older patient who had broken his hip and had buzzed the nurse for pain killers, ones he wasn't prepared to authorize—the chart revealed to him a propensity to addiction. He turned his words of rejection over in his mind, trying to put them together in such a way as to give the patient some comfort, or at least prevent him from cussing out the good doctor. Regrettably, although Blankenship never intended to hurt his patients with his words, face-to-face contact just wasn't his forte, he knew, especially after his wife died. But this patient was somehow different.

Reviewing the man's chart, he knew that the more potent, narcotic-based painkillers would definitely be a problem, but he also wanted to give the man something that might help a little. He had met the gentleman a year-or-so before, when the man and his wife were in a car wreck. The wife died, and the man was hospitalized for three months as he struggled to recover from his injuries and the loss of his wife. Sadly, he was one patient Blankenship could relate to, and when he talked with this man Blankenship revealed a side of him few of his associates knew he had.

Holding the chart in one hand, Blankenship pushed open the door to the old man's room with the other. Smiling, he said, "Bernie, it's good to see you."

Bernie Steinberg was in his late seventies, totally bald, and short, only 5 feet 2 inches tall, and he seemed even shorter because he had a mild case of scoliosis. He was also extremely wrinkled, with his eyes barely visible through the folds of the skin of his droopy eyelids, probably the result, Blankenship speculated, of years of worry and wear. He replied in a raspy, old voice marked by his native Brooklyn, New York, accent: "What's so good about it?"

Blankenship couldn't help laughing. He knew the sarcasm well. He and Bernie had developed quite a rapport in his one of his many repeat visits months before, jabbing each other with what those not knowing about their unique relationship would swear to be insults. "If it was anyone else in that bed, I'd think the pain was talking, but my dear friend Bernie hasn't changed a bit," he added, as he offered his free right hand to Bernie for a handshake. Bernie grabbed it, smiled, and winced again.

"How long does a guy have to suffer here in pain before someone listens?"

"Now, Bernie," Blankenship replied. "You know the rules. If you've waited for any less than a day, it's not long enough."

"I believe that, I tell ya that much. I'd get better service at the County Health Clinic, for cripes' sake."

Blankenship shook his head back and forth, still smiling as a nurse walked in from behind. "You had to make it personal." He turned back to the nurse, Bettie Jacobs, and said, "Please give my friend Bernie two ibuprofens every four hours. That should do the trick."

"What?" Bernie said with a raised voice. "Why don't you just give me sugar pills?"

His tone turning more serious, Blankenship replied, "We'll start with the ibuprofen and see where that takes us, okay?"

"It won't help," Bernie winced. "I hurt, Doc. I hurt bad."

"I know, but we must start small and go from there."

"Fine. I coulda got that advice from the clerk at Kroger's."

Ignoring the last jab, Blankenship asked, "Have you been doing okay since I saw you last?"

Bernie shrugged his shoulders. He was tempted to say, "No, Doc, my wife of fifty-two years was killed in a car crash that I caused, and I've been a total mess ever since," but he didn't. Instead, Blankenship noticed a tear slide down Bernie's cheek as he replied, "I've been worse."

"Buzz the nursing station if you need anything else," Blankenship said as he and Bettie left the room.

As he left the room, Blankenship felt overcome with emotions so he walked around the corner and into the residents' break room. After entering, he made sure no one else was there, sat on a bench seat, buried his head in his hands and cried. He knew exactly what Bernie meant. He'd been worse, too, but not by much.

Upon further reflection he considered another possibility. Maybe it would get worse. He certainly didn't feel much better right now than the night he received the news of his wife's death. He felt helpless then and he felt helpless now. Suddenly and without warning he felt compelled to do something he had never done before. "God, if you're there, please help me to get over the pain. Give me something to help me to feel real hope. Something to make the pain go away."
Chapter 21

The End of the Dream

Dr. Christianson turned his words and thoughts over in his mind as he walked the dozen or so feet to Robert's room, considering whether he should be totally honest and forthright in his diagnosis—tell him that his cause was hopeless, that he should be thankful his mind and non-athletic faculties are in order instead of cry over the lost career that would have likely been nothing more than some college baseball capped off with a bachelor's degree and decent paying nine-to-five job, anyway—or say that there was a small, infinitesimal chance for a full and complete recovery and all that entailed, including a shot at the majors. He knew what Blankenship would have said, but he wasn't Blankenship. For him, hope was always better than a lack of it. He reached the room and pushed open the door, bracing for what was to follow.

"Hello there," he enthusiastically said to all in the room, which included everyone in the family as well as Janie and her parents. Robert was finally able to recognize her after another day had passed. "How are we doing today?" he asked, looking at Robert.

"Fine."

"Good," he said. "I'm Dr. Christianson, the chief orthopedic surgeon here."

Here it comes, Robert thought, knowing what was about to be said. His arm was so numb he couldn't feel his fingers. He tried in vain to lift his arm just an inch or so, to no avail. He had even snuck a peak at the wound left behind by the doctors after they pieced together the broken bones and tendons. He knew that he would be lucky if he could pick up a garbage bag again, let alone throw baseballs to home plate. "So what's the diagnosis? Will I be able to play the violin?"

"Only if you could play it before the accident," Christianson replied, knowing where Robert got the line. He was a Three Stooges fan, too.

"I'm impressed," Robert said. "You've got to be a good man if you're a Stooges fan."

They both laughed until Christianson's facial expression turned serious. "It helps to laugh when bad news comes," he said then paused to let his comment sink in. After Robert's smile waned, he continued. "You understand how serious this is, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"I understand you're a baseball player."

"Yeah," Robert replied, briefly daydreaming about his high school highlights, including starting and winning two state championships. "I was on scholarship at UTA."

"I also understand you're pretty smart."

"1450 on the SAT, so I get by."

"Good."

"What are you saying?"

"I heard once that the average person's body can earn a max of $500.00 a week, give or take a few dollars, but the mind's potential is unlimited."

"Tell that to Barry Bonds."

"Long shot," Christianson replied.

"I know."

Christianson, who had been standing at the foot of the bed, moved to Robert's right side, just next to him. "There's a chance for full recovery, but it's a long shot, a very long shot. You might be able to throw underhanded in a few months, but it's highly unlikely that you'll ever be able to play college-level baseball again."

"What are the odds? I like uphill battles," Robert chuckled, half serious, half sad.

"About 20 to 1. Better if you work like a dog during physical therapy. The damage was extensive and invasive, from cartilage to bone to muscle. Just one of the three would be tough to recover from, but all are probably insurmountable."

Robert said nothing.

"There's hope. I'm telling you this so you understand how much work you have ahead of you. Understand?"

"Yeah."

Hope was not something Robert felt at the moment. Reality, far from hope, began to sink in. He refused to cry, though everyone else in the room gave in to the urge, especially Jessie. Before Christianson told Robert the odds, the room had been mostly silent, except for their conversation and the periodic gasp from various friends and family each time Christianson gave yet another depressing assessment. His athletic career, Robert knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, had just ended. Dwelling on the inevitable was a waste of time, he believed. Though he didn't want to admit it to the rest in the room, he knew it was time to move on; it was time to find out what God's purpose was in this recent challenge.

This really sucks, he thought to himself. Now what?

Robert shut his eyes tightly and silently prayed as Christianson left the room and the family closed ranks around him, surrounding him with love and compassion.

Janie, now standing bed side, kissed him on his right cheek. He glanced over at her and felt an odd familiarity in her touch. I think I could love you, he thought, still looking at her, cheeks flushed.
Chapter 22

Seeds of Love

Janie wondered if she and Robert would ever get back to where they were before the accident: two kids in love hoping that God would bring them together for good. Robert could not recall a single memory of them together, and their families weren't sure what to do about it. Indeed, Robert seemed to be hopeless as far as their relationship was concerned, and Janie, still by his side while he lay in the hospital bed, was starting to lose what hope she had held onto. Yet until Robert's last night at the hospital, things had remained civil, and Janie had even participated in the numerous prayers the family engaged in while maintaining their vigil before and after he woke from the coma.

Robert still regretted his final outburst, the one that had almost spelled the end of their relationship, as friends or otherwise.

A couple of days before, the Monday that Robert had awakened from his coma, Jessie and Nancy had left Robert and Janie alone together for a few minutes. "We'll leave you two alone for awhile," Jessie had said, as she and Nancy walked out of the room. The guys hadn't yet made it back from Darkwell, so the only others they had to lean on were Janie and her parents, and a random nurse or doctor.

I wish Max was here, Jessie thought as she and Nancy left the room.

Janie's parents were waiting in the hallway. Once out of the room and the kids' earshot, Jessie said, "Robert doesn't remember a thing about her." She wiped a tear from her cheek. "She's such a sweet girl. You two did a wonderful job raising her."

"Thanks," Alex, Janie's father, said, adding, "Maybe it's for the best."

Jessie felt wounded at first, thinking that maybe Alex thought his girl was too good for her boy, but she was too tired to say anything, and Alex sensed her feelings.

"They are just kids, really," he added. "It might be good for them to go their separate ways, at least for awhile. She was so obsessed with their relationship; I was getting a little concerned."

"Yeah," Jessie replied, honestly. She, too, wanted Robert to take it slow, to not go to a school merely because his girlfriend went there, which is what she suspected motivated him to go to Texas in the first place. Texas: the beginning of their recent heartbreak.

"Maybe you're right. You want to walk with us to the café?"

"Sure."

Inside the room Janie moved toward the bed and looked at Robert, wondering if he'd ever remember who she was, what she once meant to him. "Are you feeling better?"

"A little. I might feel great if I'd take the pills they're trying to shove down my throat." He wanted to laugh about it, but it hurt too much. He learned an hour or so after he came out of the coma that he'd also fractured several ribs, and severely bruised his spleen (despite the head trauma, it was the bruised spleen that concerned the doctors most).

Janie reached over to touch his uninjured left hand. She tried to gently stroke it, to comfort him with a sweet, motherly touch. Robert had his eyes closed through the conversation so he didn't see it coming. As soon as she touched him, he jerked his hand away and shot an angry look toward her.

"Why are you here?" he angrily asked.

She stood still for a moment, shocked at his reaction. Inside, she felt wounded, stabbed by a barb from someone she loved—at least she thought it was love, though she hadn't yet told him, even before the accident. What hurt worse was that she had been the guarded one during their relationship. He had told her he loved her; she was still afraid to do the same, though the lingering look he had given her each time he told her made it clear that he had longed for her to say it, too.

When he burst out in anger from his hospital bed, she didn't move from his side and said nothing at first, but then replied, "I'm your friend." She wanted to say something else, but she just couldn't, not now. "Do you want me to leave?"

"I don't know." He looked up at her. She wasn't crying, but she was clearly hurt. "I don't even know who you are, really. What am I supposed to do? Tell you I love you? I don't know what I feel; all I know is that there was something I was good at that's probably gone forever."

He shook his head side to side and buried it in his one good hand, the one he had just jerked away from Janie.

She was tempted to leave, to walk away; it seemed to be what he wanted. But she didn't. Instead, she put her hand on his good shoulder and gently rubbed it, back and forth, letting him cry. He didn't jerk away from her this time. She wanted to cry, too, but she resisted, choosing instead to just be there for him, if not for the one she loved then for someone she knew needed more than words. He needed someone to care for him, unselfishly and without any desire to get something back, and that was one thing she was sure she could do. The thoughts and feelings going through her head at the moment, the ones gushing with compassion, were the same ones that had led her to pursue a nursing degree at UTA, so whether or not Robert eventually came around to love her as he once did was mostly if not completely immaterial to her decision to stay by his side.

Robert, still crying, reached up to touch her hand. At first, she thought he might stop just short of it, hesitating as he once again sensed that this girl standing by his bed was a stranger that he didn't want to be anywhere near. He didn't. Instead, he gently caressed her hand, looked up and said, "Thanks for not walking out after what I said. Whatever we had before, I'm glad you're here now."

Both smiled and Janie offered a comforting hug, which Robert accepted.

"Thanks for letting me stay," she said.

He looked deeper into her eyes and saw something he had not seen before. You are so beautiful and caring, he thought. I'm beginning to understand what must have drawn me to you.
PART III

Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God. Consequently, he who rebels against the authority is rebelling against what God has instituted, and those who do so will bring judgment on themselves.

—Romans 13:1-2
Chapter 23

The Truth Finders

"I'm taking over this one," Anderson told Lind as they sat in Anderson's office after Brown's unfortunate confrontation with Charles. Both were in full uniform, Anderson preferring its official look over a detective's more incognito tie and sport coat. Lind was still a mere deputy, so wearing street clothes wasn't even an option. "Chuck is a good friend, and I want the scumbag who almost killed his grandson to pay. But I'll need your help, understand?"

"Yes, sir. I'll do it right—that's a promise."

"I don't want a promise; I want professionalism, which this office has lacked for far too long."

"I understand. I will do the job right and the charges will stick, at least the ones Brown's bungling haven't already screwed up."

"You handle this right and you have a bright future in law enforcement, understand?"

"Absolutely."

A moment of reflection passed—too long a moment as far as Anderson was concerned. He threw the file at Lind, who was glancing absent-mindedly over Anderson's shoulder at a bird that was perched on the other side of the window. Instead of catching the file, he looked up too late as the file dropped into his lap.

"What are you waiting for?" Anderson demanded as Lind snapped back to attention. "Get to work."

Lind slid his chair back and stood. "Right," he answered, his face emotionless. He stuck the file under his right arm, walked out of the room's open door, and pulled the door shut behind him. He hurried to his workstation, not even breaking stride when he released the doorknob. There was work to be done and his job was on the line.

He made it to his desk and sat down. He considered the case, recalling as best he could the investigation training he received at the police academy. "First things first," he said to himself. He grabbed an unused yellow legal pad from his desk along with the pocket-sized notepad that he always kept in his shirt pocket, stuck the legal pad inside the file labeled "M. Thomas Hit-and-Run," put the notepad in his shirt pocket, and stood up. Carrying the file in his left hand, he dropped his right hand out of habit to his sidearm, a Glock 9 mm, which was safety secured in its holster. He considered whether doing well on this case would result in a promotion to detective. He pondered how he would look in a civilian tie and sport coat, with his sidearm in a shoulder holster and his badge clipped to his belt. He smiled at the thought.

"I hope this yahoo doesn't pull that Miranda garbage on me," he said with a huff as he stood up to leave.

He walked through the investigations division area and into the hallway connecting the sheriff's department with the jail. In a few moments he buzzed himself into the jail's booking area and approached the front counter, which was staffed with only one detention deputy and a diminutive blond but not very attractive female, the classification "detention deputy" telling him that this particular deputy's civil service exam scores had probably been very low, or perhaps he hadn't actually graduated high school and only had a GED.

Losers, Lind told himself. "I need Michael Thomas in the interrogation room, pronto," he ordered the two behind the desk with an air of disrespect. The DA had not even charged the perp yet and he had not yet invoked his right to counsel, so the hope was that the sheriff's investigators could get some sort of confession out of him before he lawyered up.

"Yes, sir," she replied.

She punched the intercom button and said, "Transport M. Thomas to the interrogation room."

"Will do," replied the scratchy male voice on the other end.

"Thanks," Lind said as he paced nervously back and forth, silently reviewing the questions he intended to ask the perpetrator of this most recent heinous crime.

Five minutes later the intercom chimed. "Thomas is waiting."

He didn't wait to be told by the stupid blond. He immediately walked the three or so doors to the right of the front counter and entered the room, which was easy to do since the doors were electronically locked from the inside only. The room was tiny, with just enough room for a table in the middle, which was bolted to the floor, and two similarly bolted down chairs on each side of it. The backs of the two chairs on the investigating officer's side of the table were exposed to the entrance he'd just walked into, and the other two were on the opposite side facing him. To the right side was a one-way mirror, which enabled other interested parties to view ongoing interrogations without suspects seeing them, though most knew someone was almost always there.

Lind knew that no one was on the other side at the moment so he was mostly free to say or do whatever he wanted. He also made sure that the audio and video recording equipment was turned off, which was evidence by the red light flashing above the window. Michael Thomas was already seated on the other side of the table, and he appeared to be very nervous, refusing to make eye contact with Lind and instead choosing to stare at the table's surface, which was understandable since he was still in chains after being transported from his cell. Although not in plain sight since they were blocked from view by the table, Lind knew that the chains linked Thomas's hands and feet together in such a way that if things got out of hand the most Thomas could do was shuffle at a snail's pace toward him, maybe bite him if he got close enough. It was a small risk since even Thomas knew that it would end with him getting his face slammed into the table, wall, or floor since he was mostly helpless with his appendages rendered useless by the restraints, as well as a new charge of assaulting a law enforcement officer. Thomas had a black eye already, so Lind knew that if he got combative the perp would shut up and say nothing. Lind grinned, knowing that he or Brown had probably given Thomas the black eye. In summation, Lind knew he had nothing to fear; the intimidation factor was already off the scale.

"What's up?" Lind said as he entered.

"Nothing," Thomas replied sheepishly.

He sat down in the seat opposite Thomas. "Are you being treated okay?"

"Yeah."

"Nervous?"

Thomas grinned, more out of continued nervousness than a desire to smile. "A little."

"I looked at your file," Lind began. "This can be easy or hard, depending on you."

Thomas looked up but said nothing. Lind pulled a piece of paper out of his file and slid it across the table so Thomas could plainly see it. "Can you read?" Thomas nodded "yes." "Good. Let me summarize. You have a right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have a right to counsel. If you choose to exercise these rights, we're done. Got it?"

Again, Thomas nodded.

"Good. Understanding these rights, as well as reading them on the sheet of paper in front of you, are you willing to talk to me?"

"Yes."

"Good." He pulled a pen out of his breast pocket and laid it in the middle of the paper. "Initial on the line to the side of each sentence, then sign at the bottom." Thomas picked it up with his right hand, briefly scanned the document then did as instructed. Afterwards, Lind retrieved the pen and paper, stuck the latter in the file, and pulled out his notepad for the interview, case file opened so he could review its contents. He glanced down at the file then said, "Two prior DUI convictions and one arrest that should've been a conviction," Lind said then looked up at Thomas. "Looks like you didn't learn much from the experiences, huh?"

Thomas still said nothing, and turned his gaze back down toward the surface of the table.

"I though you wanted to talk?"

Still nothing.

He slammed the file onto the table and almost screamed. "You almost killed that boy, you jackball!"

No response.

After calming down, he continued, glaring at Thomas as he did. "If you don't help us you're going away for a long, long time. Understand?"

Slowly, Thomas looked at Lind. "I'm not saying nothin'. I got a right to an attorney, and they won't let me call him. I want my attorney," he demanded.

"Fine," Lind said, frustrated, as he grabbed the file off the table and stood. "Call your attorney, but don't expect any favors from me."

He left the room, slamming the door behind him. "I should've gone to law school," he said after the door stopped rattling and he stormed through the booking area and toward the exit. "This just isn't worth it!" he almost screamed.

After he left, the blond said aloud, "What a jerk," as she continued about her business, which consisted of sitting in a chair waiting till the next shift began, with a periodic lawyer, probation officer, or law enforcement officer visit. She glanced at her watch and said, "Only six hours to go," shaking her head back and forth as she said it.
Chapter 24

Unfortunate Confrontation

Thomas got his phone call. He racked his brain for several minutes as he tried to remember the number. It was a 1-800-number that partially spelled out his attorney's specialty, but he wasn't sure if it was 1-800-CRIM-ATT or 1-800-CRIM-DEF. He tried the latter and the phone began to ring.

"Law Office," a pleasant voice said on the other end after just two rings.

"Hello," Thomas replied. "This is Michael Thomas. Is Mr. Fleming in?"

"Sorry," she replied. "He's out for the week on a family emergency, but he is returning calls. May I get your number and have him call you after he checks in?"

"Yes, please." He paused for a few moments and cupped his hand over the mouthpiece as he frantically waved a deputy over. "What's the number here, for my attorney to call?"

"He can't reach you in here. He'll need to set up a jail visit, or take your collect calls."

"Sorry," he told the sweet, familiar voice on the other end of the line. She sounded almost grandmotherly, as if she welcomed his call even though he doubted that she had any idea who she was. "I'm in the Darkwell County jail and I can't make bond."

"Mr. Fleming is in your area this week. I'll let him know you're there. Maybe he can drop by."

Thomas smiled, encouraged by Mr. Fleming's staff's professionalism and courteous demeanor. He knew he had the right attorney for the job, as he had learned in his last case. "That'd be great. Thanks."

He hung up the phone and told the deputy he was done. It was a few minutes before lunchtime so the deputy took him straight to the inmates' dining area. It was a drab, gray room with a windowless hole separating the food preparation area from the dining room. Beginning fifteen minutes before mealtime, guards would chain the inmates into their bench seats lined up on each side of the rows twenty-foot-long stainless steel dining tables. Then the jail trustees, other inmates who were given various jobs for good behavior such as the responsibility for serving other inmates their meals, would quickly set plates of globby, mostly nameless food in front of each so quickly that a bit of the glob would splatter on the steel tables.

Regardless of the likely outcome of lunch, a sick stomach that might wrench up much of what it was about to be filled with, he felt a glimmer of hope that his recent legal troubles might be coming to a happy end. The treatment he received at the hands of the two deputies didn't sit well with him, regardless of his guilt or innocence; his experience in the criminal justice system told him that a good attorney might be able to something with his case, maybe even get him off completely like the last time. He had yet to consider what Robert's family was going through.

Fleming got me off before, he thought, and he'll do it again.

*****

"Who?" Charles said incredulously into his cell phone, shocked beyond belief. He was standing just outside a coffee shop near the on-ramp of Interstate 35 on the outskirts of Darkwell. It was the day after the boys' trip to the jail. He had left them and the rest of the family back at the hospital while he did some more investigative work in Darkwell—despite his fraternity connection to the boss, Sheriff Anderson's underlings were not being very helpful over the telephone. He smoked a cigarette for the first time in more than a year while checking in with his office, using his cell phone just outside the entrance to the restaurant. Smoking was a previous nervous habit he didn't mind picking up again, at least for now, as long as no one else found out about it. He managed to buy the pack of cigarettes at the gas station just before they stopped for lunch while Max and Nolan waited for him in the car. Neither yet knew he had done so, and he intended to not let them know anytime soon. His intent was to take a few drags from the cigarette, then crush its tip on the sidewalk just before he walked back into the restaurant, killing his smoke breath with one last gulp of his coffee. A little less than an hour had passed since his unfortunate confrontation with Brown, and he noticed the hand holding the cigarette still shaking due to the adrenaline the revelation had dosed throughout his body.

"You've got to be kidding!" he said, immediately sticking the cigarette's filtered end back in his mouth and sucking in a much deeper dose of smoke and nicotine than he had since lighting it up a minute or so before. The hand holding the phone to his ear started to shake, too.

"I'm afraid not," Becky, his secretary, replied. "It looks like he really screwed up this time."

"You don't understand," Charles replied. "That's the guy who hit Robert. I just found out yesterday."

"Oh my gosh," she gasped.

"So it's a jail visit he wants," he said, calmer now, as a wry and almost wicked smile etched itself onto his face. His hands stopped shaking as his mind began to churn. While he was still personally devastated at the role he played in his grandson's accident, he couldn't help but feel anger toward the man who was directly responsible: the drunk who plowed the car into Robert's young body. As he had these thoughts, he had taken a few more drags from his cigarette, enough to burn off a fourth of its end.

"You still there?" Becky asked.

"Yeah," he replied, startled out of his deep, dark thoughts of vengeance and justice, things defense attorneys weren't supposed to think about. "I'll give him a jail visit he won't soon forget."

"Charles," Becky said. He knew she sensed his intentions; she had been around him too long to not. "Am I gonna regret telling you about this?"

Becky had been Charles's secretary/legal assistant for the last fifteen years of his thirty-year legal career. She was in her mid-fifties, a tad over five feet tall, and a little overweight, but otherwise an attractive brunette, though much of her hair's darkness came from a bottle, which covered up a substantial number of gray hairs. Widowed at the age of forty-nine, she still had one college-aged son at home with the last of her three daughters married off and living in Kansas City, Missouri, for most of the past five years. Regardless of her status as a mother (none of her kids had children yet, so she was not yet a grandmother), much of her satisfaction came from her association with Charles Fleming; the legal community believed that Becky was a big reason for Charles's sterling reputation. And that impression was absolutely true. He never missed a hearing, and it was Becky who made sure of it.

*****

Becky was usually soft spoken, mild mannered, and whatever other words apply to a humble servant. But she was a zealous protector of her boss's time and reputation, and she would get downright feisty if a demanding client insisted on barging in, either by telephone or in person, when Charles had more pressing matters on his mind and schedule. She also didn't hesitate to put Charles in his place when circumstances demanded, or to delay problem appointments when Charles's mental state wasn't quite up to the task. This situation, she knew, was by far the worst, and she did not want her own actions to cause more heartache and stress, which she sensed had just happened. Charles needed to deal with his family, not the typical scumbag who needed a quick legal fix, especially when "getting him off" meant letting the almost killer of Charles's own grandson go free.

I am such an idiot, she thought, reconsidering the wisdom of giving him Michael's message. I should have referred him to Jackson. Jackson Bailey was a fellow attorney who office-shared with Charles and who covered for him when he wasn't in town or was otherwise indisposed.

"Probably," he replied to her question, interrupting her thoughts as he did. "You regret everything," he continued, sounding almost spiteful that she would question his actions. "But don't you worry about it. It's time to put the fear of me into that scumbag."

Betty knew her boss, and she suspected his darker demons were beating down the humility he felt just a day before.

"Charles," she replied with a huff as she sat at her desk in the front of the office doodling on a Post-it note with the pencil in her right hand. The "doodles" started out as well-drawn circles, squares, and triangles, but degenerated into barely discernable shapes and the word stupid written in various forms, from block print to a mix between Old English and calligraphy, as Charles made it clear that his reputation as a consummate professional might soon take a devastating hit. Do attorneys get disbarred for intentionally meeting with defendants when clear conflicts of interests exist? She considered. She shook her head back and forth and felt her irritable bowel syndrome churn in her gut for the first time in several weeks. I don't need this stress. "You're gonna mess up the case if you're not careful."

"I know what I'm doing, so don't worry about it."

"Darn it, Charles, are you gonna force me to call the sheriff and tell him what you're up to?"

"Do that and you're fired," Charles said, raising his voice enough to tell Becky that he might actually mean it. As if reading her thoughts, he added, "And I mean it this time." He didn't, really, and Becky knew it. He had made that threat countless times before when his flesh and blood conscience in the form of a five foot tall legal assistant told him to calm down so he wouldn't ruin his pristine reputation when he felt compelled to leap before looking. "Fine."

"Anything else I need to know?"

"No."

"Okay. I'll check in again around five, got it?"

"Got it."

Becky hung up the phone and started scratching her arms, a nervous habit she exhibited whenever she lost control of a situation and felt the repercussions of such loss of control were potentially catastrophic. She stared at the phone, considering whether she should call the Darkwell County Sheriff, or let it lie, hoping that perhaps Charles might come to his senses and cool off.

"He won't do it," she finally said to herself as she got up to go to the restroom. Her IBS had reached critical mass. "He's not stupid."

* * * * *

Charles flipped the phone closed and slipped it into his blue blazer's inside pocket. He bent down to crush the tip of his cigarette into the sidewalk, then walked back into the restaurant and sat down at his table. His apple pie had been placed next to his now topped off coffee mug just before he sat back down. His thoughts focused on what he would do next—how he would use his well-honed trial attorney skills to put the fear of Charles and even of God into the man who was the source of all his immediate grief and angst

In a flash the image of his confrontation popped into his thoughts, from the initial encounter to the words he would say. He took a few quick bites of the pie, leaving half uneaten, then another sip of coffee. He stood up and walked to the cash register, pulling out a fifty to give the cashier. After paying the tab, Charles walked out the front door briskly, his limp from the previous day pretty much gone. He was soon in his SUV and driving toward the Darkwell County Sheriff's Department complex.

He pulled into a space right next to the front door of the complex. He sat silently for a few moments, taking most of the delay to pray for wisdom, despite the fact that something inside him told him that what he was about to do was not of God, and perhaps might actually be from the Enemy.

* * * *

As Charles walked to the jail's outside entrance, the only one that didn't force him to traverse the hallways of the Sheriff's Department, he rehearsed the verbal whipping he intended to give his former client. "I understand you need some legal assistance," he said softly to himself. "The only help you'll get from me is my relentless pressure on the DA to put your butt in prison for the next ten years of your life, you piece of garbage." He wished he could be more threatening, but the last time he'd defended someone in Oklahoma for a similar case, aggravated battery with a vehicle, the sentencing guidelines had topped out at ten years for habitual offenders. Regrettably, the law didn't view Thomas in that light yet, though he would've gotten a few extra years due to his previous DUI convictions if this case turned into a DUI-related offense, which he suspected it just might become, and would become if he had anything to say about it.

Four years max, he thought, shaking his head. Pity.

Part of him wished he wasn't walking into a law enforcement facility; a darkened back alley would have been preferred. Charles daydreamed of beating the snot out of Thomas, but he knew he had to resist such a drastic act given the circumstances.

He reached the door and punched the intercom button, waiting for the detention deputy sitting in the control room to acknowledge his presence and let him into the medium-security facility.

"Can I help you?" the crackling voice asked through the low-tech speaker.

"Yes," he said, "I'm Charles Fleming, attorney for Michael Thomas."

It wasn't a lie, really. Charles had represented him at one time in his criminal career, so the words flowed out smoothly, giving the recipient no indication of deceit.

"Hold, please."

He waited for what seemed like a very long time.

This isn't good, he thought, further thinking that the jig was up, that Becky had called Anderson and told him about his plans. She's such a busybody.

He heard the buzz and click that told him the door could now be opened. He pulled the handle; the triple-reinforced iron and steel door opened smoothly and Charles walked inside the chair-free waiting area and approached the counter that was shielded from the waiting area with bulletproof glass. The civilian and attorney side of the visitation area was much different than the one used by law enforcement, much more intimidating. He walked up to the glass and put his mouth near the speaker that was suspended in the middle of the glass wall. "I haven't been here in awhile," he admitted. "Do I need to sign something?"

It led to the same jail that Brown and Lind reported to for their short-lived interrogations, with the only difference being one of perspective: law enforcement officers go in the back way and don't have to deal with the little speaker and other security precautions. Also, the deputy behind the desk (and glass) wasn't the unattractive blond; it was an extremely overweight, sloppily-dressed older man, probably in his early fifties. No standards, Charles thought as he wondered what the guy ate for lunch every day and whether he would have any chance of catching a perp if one tried to get away. The latter fact was probably why he was assigned to a high security, locked-down facility. Can't run away if there's a steel door blocking your path.

"Please sign in on the clipboard," the deputy said through very labored, asthmatic breathing, as he slipped a clipboard through a slit at the bottom of the glass and just above a counter, which was approximately waste high to Charles.

Charles picked up the clipboard and pulled a pen from his pocket. He hesitated a moment before scribbling his illegible signature in the left column and Thomas's full name in the right one. Scanning the list, he noted that his name appeared to be the fourth name on it behind several other visitors who had been there days before, so the wait, he hoped, wouldn't be long.

"Thanks," Charles said as he slid the clipboard back through the slot.

"It'll be a few minutes."

"No problem," he said. It'll give me time to fine tune my speech, he thought as he grinned in anticipation.

Charles glanced around the waiting area. In addition to the reception station there was another equally imposing sight: a door even more foreboding than the one he had walked into just moments before. This one had a window-sized opening in the center about head high, but with the added touch of inch-thick steel bars. He pictured old cowboy movies where the convicts grabbed the bars of the jail cell door and shook them violently, demanding that they be fed something besides beans.

"You can go in now," the rotund deputy said through the crackling speaker. "Use the phone in cubicle three."

He turned to the side, said, "Thanks," and walked to the door, which buzzed when he reached for its handle. It pulled open as smoothly as the main door though it was a bit lighter.

As he entered the visitation area, he saw several rooms to the right, with one occupied by a police officer and a prisoner who wore a tan jumpsuit instead of the regulation orange, which Charles knew meant that the man was likely a trustee and not much of a risk, probably working out some sort of deal in exchange for testifying against a former friend.

He walked past another reception desk and nodded "Hello" to the blond-haired deputy as he took his seat at cubicle three. The attorney-client visitation area was a place he'd become familiar with the last time he represented Michael, although he only had to visit him there once—he managed to get him released on bond afterwards, so the jail visits ended with what was then their first and last jailhouse visit. There was a row of chairs on each side of a wall, each wall's top half consisting of thick glass and the bottom half built of cinder blocks. The chairs were separated by concrete partitions on each side, which created the feeling of separation between each cubicle. Those who didn't know better thought they had some modicum of privacy. Unlike the outside reception area, there was no speaker suspended in its middle. Instead, Charles saw the familiar wired telephone handset mounted on the concrete partition on the left of each cubicle, and a matching one on the inmates' side. Experience told him that every word of the conversation they were about to have would be recorded. He watched through the glass, waiting for Thomas to be brought out. His chair was a cheap orange plastic one similar to the ones in his law office break room. He let out a sigh. At least it wasn't bolted down like the one on the other side of the glass.

Moments later Thomas shuffled in with hands and ankles still manacled together, and took the seat on the other side. He looked at Charles with a strange mix of fear and excitement. He even smiled as he picked up the handset on his side of the glass as Charles did the same.

"Hey," he said. "Thanks for seeing me so soon."

Charles almost felt dirty. His role of advocate was conflicting with his desire for revenge. He did his best to put on his poker face by smiling and nodding. "Not a problem," he said into the mouthpiece. "So what are you in for?"

"Aggravated battery. They're threatening to add attempted second degree murder, felony DUI and felony theft charges."

Charles wanted to laugh. Apparently the investigating officers had not yet told Thomas that Robert was awake. In a different set of circumstances, if he actually were Thomas' attorney, he might have been angry at the oversight. He might have even filed a motion to suppress any resulting statements as the product of intimidation or false information (though he couldn't think of a case that supported such an argument). However, right now he was a victim, so anything the police could do to legally (or illegally, if his attorney was the typical court-appointed variety) get the guy to confess was fine with him.

Charles knew he had to be careful—the charade couldn't proceed so far as to actually have Thomas utilize so-called attorney-client privilege and divulge what had actually happened, no doubt incriminating statements, to a potential state's witness. Besides the obvious challenge it posed to the state's case against Thomas, professional ethics wouldn't allow it. The likely outcome of such a deception would be Charles's public censure by the Kansas State Supreme Court, or even disbarment.

You're not worth my law license, he thought.

"Stop right there," Charles said. "I'm not here to represent you."

"But I got money," Michael begged. "I'm in big trouble this time, and I need you."

"I don't give a crap about your problems," he replied. "I don't want you to say anything else. The boy you almost killed is my grandson."

Michael's shoulders slumped and the anticipation that had earlier appeared on his face evaporated as he became engulfed by the fear that had never completely left him. He almost broke down in tears, but he said nothing.

Charles slid his chair back and stood up to leave, the handset still held up to his face. He glared at Thomas and said, with voice raised, "If it's the last thing I ever do, I'll make sure you rot in prison. I gave you a shot, and you paid me back by destroying my grandson's future. He was set to play college baseball, full scholarship, and do something great with his life. You took something from him he'll never get back, and I will make you pay." He paused for a moment, reflecting on what Thomas had told him when he first spoke into the handset. "And if he dies—" He paused again, now looking up at the ceiling and then back at Thomas. "You better pray he doesn't."

He slammed the handset into its cradle and walked briskly toward the exit. The door was unlocked from the inside, so he turned the knob and pushed it open.

He was on the interstate and driving back to Oklahoma City less than ten minutes after he had arrived at the jail. His conflicted feelings of repentance and hate were battling each other for dominance over his soul, and he was unsure which one was winning at the moment. As he drove thought a couple of intersections and turned into the underpass to enter the highway that would take him back to Oklahoma City—he concluded that in his current state of mind he was in no condition to continue his independent investigation. For some reason he didn't understand he suddenly felt the urge to pray. It was short. "Please God, tell me what I am supposed to feel right now. Please help me to figure out what is going on inside me."

He was pleased that he had confronted the punk that did this awful thing to his grandson. But he did not feel peace. No matter what he told himself, he now saw himself the way he suspected others always had, at least those who didn't know the sum and substance of his heart.

He put murderers and reprobates back on the street for a living. Charles was part of the problem, not the solution. What will I tell Robert? He considered. What will I do when I go into the office Monday?

Charles turned up the radio, which was tuned to a nationally syndicated conservative talk show, and tried to forget what he'd done. He silently prayed that Robert and his family had actually forgiven him, as they had already told him they had. He wondered what God thought, whether all the reservations he'd always had about his profession had been the Holy Spirit telling him to stop, to seek a more worthy career, one that glorified God and not his own desire to win at all costs. He shook his head back and forth and focused on the road and radio. "And if you vote for the Democrats," the host said, "you're voting for the trial lawyers and everything they stand for, high crime, no individual responsibility, and a built-in welfare payment to those multi-millionaires every time you see your doctor, buy a car, or fill a prescription."

Charles chuckled to himself and said quietly, "So what the heck am I supposed to do now? Business law?"

He tuned the radio to a local country and western station and lost himself in the music. "You'll get through this," he said, a little louder than before.
Chapter 25

Cake and Ice Cream

It had been several weeks since Robert Allen Baxter had been released from the hospital. Many of the people who heard about his swift recovery remarked that it was nothing short of miraculous. In brief, stealthy moments that lasted no more than a few minutes, the staff on the floor where Robert had stayed dared to discuss God's involvement in Robert's healing. Then a physician of foreign descent or perhaps one whom all knew to be hostile to Christianity would walk by and all mouths would shut tight, afraid to create a hostile work environment for those less enlightened.

"Don't you think it's strange that Dr. Blankenship doesn't seem so prickly anymore?" Kristin asked Dr. Cooper one day when they were out for coffee.

"I've noticed that, too," Ann answered. "Have you noticed how his ears actually seem to perk up when someone mentions God lately?"

It was true that Blankenship tended to hover near the nurses' station until the conversations ended. And it was out of wonder and interest, not some other less-righteous motivation. Indeed, The hostility and sarcasm the women often heard emanating from him, verbally and otherwise, before Robert's stay at the hospital seemed to have left the building.

The new atmosphere made the workday much more pleasant than it had been. Still, Kristin and Dr. Cooper wanted more than the more spiritually free environment of OKC Memorial had to offer. They now knew that living for God was a twenty-four-hour-a-day proposition. It was no longer an option to just live as a light in the workplace and then pursue opportunities to share the free gifts of love, forgiveness, and transformation that God's Son had given each of them only when those opportunities landed in front of them on the proverbial silver platter. They wanted all that God had for them, to shout from the rooftops that Jesus had died for their sins and set them free from the petty travails of this world. They talked with each other about how they wanted to be encouraged and compelled to share God's promises with every single patient and colleague all the time, not just when they were certain it wouldn't end up with a reprimand or worse, termination of employment.

So both Kristin and Dr. Cooper tendered their resignations two weeks before. They would go together to Bray and minister through their medical skills in the workplace 24-7.

The floor's entire staff was gathered in the spacious break room. Painted bone white, it was brightly lit. Walking into the room from the hallway one found oneself standing in the center of the left wall's length. Perpendicular to that wall was a longer wall fitted with cabinets and a sink and dishwasher. The countertop was loaded with cake, ice cream, an assortment of finger foods such as cheese, crackers, and cold salami, and punch. Crepe paper decorated the room from corner to corner, and most of the nurses and doctors were wearing party hats. Kristin and Dr. Cooper walked into the going away party together. Dr. Cooper walked in first out of Kristin's stubborn deference to the doctor's authority, and in direct defiance of Dr. Cooper's insistence that there is no room for superiority between friends or even Christians. It was an old habit Kristin had that her good friend couldn't convince her to break, so she stopped trying.

"I didn't know you all would be so happy to see us leave!" Kristin said loudly, trying her best to be heard over the din of voices and laughter.

Standing nearest to the two departing colleagues, Blankenship broke out in an off-key rendition of Auld Lang Syne. Kristin and Dr. Cooper covered their ears. Kristin said, "Please stop torturing us and give us some cake!"

The laughter resumed. Nurses and doctors lined up for snacks and punch. Everyone present made it a point to tell both how much they would miss them. Over and over colleagues and coworkers stopped briefly to say, "We'll miss you! You've been here so long!" or "You're two of the friendliest employees on our staff."

It was the kind of festivity that brought to it more than just people who wanted free food. Kristin and Ann both knew that those who came to their party actually would miss their two colleagues. But what happened next was totally unexpected.

"Ann," a familiar male voice called from behind. She turned around and saw Blankenship standing close to her, close enough to be heard by her and her alone. By now Kristin had broken away from her good friend, so Ann was alone. "Do you have a minute?" he continued, a look somewhere between concern and curiosity etched across his face.

"Of course," she replied, standing still as she stabbed her chocolate cake and brought another bite up to her mouth. Blankenship said nothing. He moved his head to the left, toward the open door. She caught his meaning and nodded. "You lead the way," she continued, clutching the paper plate in her hands as she did.

Blankenship walked out of the room and down the hallway to their right, toward the doctors' smallish offices. Once at his own, he opened the door and walked inside, Ann close behind. Where is this going? She thought. Kristin had often joked with her about Blankenship's undisclosed crush on her. But it had always been just a joke, a way to relieve the tension that his off-putting style of professionalism always brought with it. Now she wondered if there might have been some truth in Kristin's comments. Had Blankenship, single for a very long time after losing his wife, finally built up the nerve to tell her that he was indeed interested in "getting to know her better?" She chuckled to herself at the thought. Still . . .

Blankenship didn't sit down, but did turn around to look at her. The look on his face was pained, certainly not the bashful, puppy love look you give to a woman you want to go on a date with, Ann observed. "There's something I've been wanting to talk to you about," he began then hesitated.

Oh my gosh, she thought. He's actually going to ask me out. This time the chuckle leaked out. She tried to hide it by coughing, then putting her right hand, the one still clutching her plastic fork, up to her mouth. "What's that?" she replied, hoping he didn't catch what she had just done. I might actually say yes.

"Do you remember the Baxter case a few weeks ago?"

Of course she did. It had been on her mind every day since. "Yes."

"You're a Christian, right?"

"Of course, but you know that. We've been working together for almost ten years."

He nodded his head and squinted his eyes together. "Yes, I do."

Suddenly a wave of joy swept over her. The Holy Spirit told her that this was the moment she had been asked to wait for. She knew the answer to the question before she even asked it. "What about Mr. Baxter?"

His eyes started to water up. He glanced away from her just long enough to wipe them dry with the sleeve of his lab coat. "I looked back at a few similar cases I've worked on before and since. Most had injuries not quite as severe as Mr. Baxter's. All of them took days, sometimes weeks, to wake up. None of them ever fully recovered. Most of the ones I've dealt with in the past five years are still in therapy."

She waited for his conclusion, the conclusion she expected him to reach. Come on, say it, she seemed to be thinking. Say that it was a miracle, that God healed Robert Baxter.

"How come God chose to heal the Baxter boy yet didn't save my wife?"

The room was already quiet. Now it felt like a funeral parlor, with death wrapping itself around her heart. Blankenship dropped into his modest but well-cushioned office chair and then laid his head on his desk, sobbing. The sobs turned into a wail, head and shoulders rocking back and forth, up and down in rhythm to the sadness that was overtaking him in ebbs and flows. "Why, oh God, why?"

Ann walked up to him and placed a hand gently onto his left shoulder, patting him as she did. She wanted to say that it was okay, but she didn't dare. She knew that grief was a very individual ritual, demanding very different responses for each person. Her experience as a doctor told her that Blankenship, who dealt with others' tragedies on a weekly and sometimes daily basis, wasn't ready for an "It'll be okay." Indeed, he wasn't ready for any words at all, just a sympathetic ear and the gentle caress of a friend.

She sat her cake down on top of the desk to Blankenship's left, then reached over his shoulders and lifted a square tissue box off the center of the desk. She took out two tissues and handed them to him, and pulled out one for herself, then returned the box to its original position. "Thank you," he said, as the sobbing died down.

He sat up and leaned back in his chair. Ann was still standing behind him. She looked behind her and saw a black, steel-framed padded office chair. There were actually two but the one on the left was full of stacks of files and papers. She invited herself to sit down in the empty one.

"I needed that," he replied. "I don't think I've ever cried so hard since her death."

Ann still said nothing. He spun his chair around so he could see her, wiping his eyes dry with the tissues as he did. "So," he continued, "why Robert and not my wife?"

She just shook her head side to side. "It's not a Scripture, but sometimes God does work in mysterious ways. Only he knows why one person is spared and the other not. I've read the story of Job a few times and still have a hard time digesting what happened. Do you know that one?"

"I know the name, but not so much the story."

"He was the godliest man in his time. Satan basically dared God to let him make Job curse him. God lifted his hand of protection from Job, his favorite son. Satan attacked full force and Job lost everything. His money. His wife and family. His children actually died. Until the very end of the trials, God forbid Satan from harming Job's body, but he even relented at the end and Job became diseased with sores all over his body. Through it all Job never cursed God. He remained faithful. As the Scripture says, 'God gives and takes away.' When Satan was finally proven wrong, he lost the wager, and God fully restored Job. More wealth than before. A new wife and family."

Blankenship stared at Ann. His frown turned into a slight grin. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Not really. It's just an illustration of how life's not always roses without the thorns. Sometimes a storm hits us and tears down our strongholds. Granted, God usually has nothing to do with it. Sometimes we're just in the wrong place and the wrong time. That Baxter boy is probably still asking God to tell him why everything he planned to be was torn away from him in one horrific accident. He may not see himself as being spared anything. I recall that he was an athlete who probably will lose his scholarship and all the opportunities that came with it."

He nodded in agreement. He seemed to be coming to terms with what she said, admitting that she had a good point.

"I prayed with that family. They were all believers, people who not only went to church every Sunday, but believed in God and Jesus with every fiber of their being. Want to know something?"

"What?"

"Just like Job, they never cursed God for putting their son and them through it. They praised him and thanked him for sparing his life. No bitterness at all."

Blankenship felt something strange come over him. At the time he had no idea what it was, just that something inside him was changing, maybe had already totally changed. He glared at Ann so intensely that it almost felt like he was peering into her very soul. Then he uttered the question that she had prayed he would ask. "How can I get that kind of peace in my heart?"

"A peace that surpasses all understanding?"

"Yes."

"Only with Jesus."

He leaned back when she said it. He smiled a little, but then his countenance grew very serious.

"May I ask you to do one simple thing?" she asked.

He nodded his head in the affirmative.

"Don't dive right into it yet. I can tell you're processing this for the first time. Go to church with me this Sunday. I'll save a seat for you and even buy you lunch afterwards, wherever you want to go."

The serious look disappeared. The smile returned. "It's a date," he said enthusiastically as he stood up and motioned for her to exit the office before him, the gentlemanly thing to do under the circumstances.

I knew it! She thought as a warm feeling enveloped her heart. Does he feel the same warmth I do? She further considered. She allowed her gaze to linger on his face for a few seconds longer than usual for just two people engaged in a friendly conversation. She realized at that moment that she had never seen him look so calm and peaceful, perhaps even happy.

About the same time that Blankenship approached Ann, Kristin found herself struggling with something she knew she had to do. By the end of her shift on this day, she would never be back to work at the hospital again. Shining like a light in the workplace meant nothing if she didn't eventually shine the light of truth on those who needed to see and feel it the most. She knew from experience how tough it would be for those left behind to witness to unbelievers. They might get offended, and that might result in reprimands or worse, termination of their employment. What good is a light if it's snuffed out by people who fear it? She, on the other hand, had nothing to fear. She would be gone and she could not be punished if she chose the bold route. So the night before she had prayed for this moment. She asked Jesus to give her the courage to boldly approach the one nurse she worked with day to day who would be most likely to complain the loudest.

She knew before she left work the previous day that he would be working on this day. She also knew that they were well enough acquainted, if not actually friends, that he would be at her party. Sure enough, as soon as Ann and Blankenship left the break room, Vincent walked in. He saw her as soon as he did and a very bright, pleasant smile spread across his face. "Hi, sweetie!" he almost yelled from across the room, as he quickly closed the distance and opened his arms up for a very friendly hug.

They embraced and he kissed her cheek.

"Hi there," she replied. "I was just thinking about you."

"You were? What, you didn't think I'd make it to your going away party?"

"Something like that."

Now what? She wondered. Sharing the good news of Jesus Christ wasn't something Kristin was very comfortable with. She mostly took advantage of really obvious, clear opportunities to share a word or two about Jesus, like telling a hurting or grieving person a Scripture or two that would obviously offer them some comfort in difficult circumstances. There was little risk then. Indeed, most of the times she recalled involved people who were already praying or reading a Bible. No risk at all, really. This was different. She was about tell a gay man, someone who had already told her and a few other nurses how much he had been hurt by so-called Christians, about the love of Jesus Christ. She knew he had already heard enough to last a lifetime from street preachers who used slogans such as "God hates fags" to tell him how unloved he was by their god.

It's now or never, she thought. "Can we step out into the hallway for a minute?"

"Oh sure," he replied. "I'd hate for you to get all teary-eyed at the thought of not seeing your buddy anymore."

She walked out first with Vincent close behind then shut the break room door shut behind them. Once in the hallway she turned around to face her friend.

"So what did we come out here for?"

"I really, really care about you," she began. She wasn't about to cry, but she did feel emotions welling up inside her making her want to.

"I know that. And I'll miss you, too."

She took a deep breath and then let it out. It was time. She had to get it out, all of it, now or lose the opportunity to tell him forever. "Vincent, I love you as a friend. But that's not what I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you the two commandments of my Savior, Jesus Christ."

He rolled his eyes. "I know, I know, it's a sin to be gay. Tell me something I don't know," he answered, with an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

"'Love the Lord your God' is one, and 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' Against these all other commandments follow."

He looked at her, and his expression changed from disbelief to confusion. Her words were not what he had expected.

"God loves you as much as he loves me. He wants you to experience his joy. The kind of joy that comes from knowing that you have a place with him in heaven." The emotion spilled out of her heart and tears began to flow down her cheeks. "Do you know this verse? 'For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son so that whosoever believeth in him shall not perish but shall have everlasting life.' He said it for you, Vincent."

*****

Part of Vincent wanted to walk away, as far away from Kristin or her party as he could. But he knew her heart. He knew she had never judged him for what he had chosen to do in his life. She was just nice. She was always nice to him. He looked down toward the ground, trying hard to avoid eye contact. "You're the first person who has talked to me about Jesus that I didn't want to punch in the face." He laughed after he said it. "People who say things like that usually call me bad words when they turn away. I've heard them do it before. I have really good hearing." He looked up at her and winked.

She nodded her head in response. "I know. But do you know what your mistake is when you let people like that keep you away from God?"

"What?" he asked. He knew he sounded defensive, but so be it.

"You're looking at other imperfect men as examples of Jesus Christ, not Christ himself."

"So are you saying it's okay to be gay?" Now this is getting interesting, he thought.

She gently shook her head. "No. Sin is sin. We can't escape its consequences. The apostle Paul said if you've committed the least of these sins you've committed them all. He also said that you will know the condition of your heart by the fruits your life yields."

He squinted his eyes tight in stern concentration on that she had just said. "Huh?"

"Jesus said, 'I am the way, the truth, and the light. No one gets to the Father but through me.' Accept him as your Lord and Savior and all your sins will become clear. When that happens your life will transform. Things both of us do will suddenly appear as sin and we will want to avoid making Jesus feel the pain of that sin that he felt at the crucifixion. By his stripes we are healed!"

An older woman nurse walked by and said "Hello. Congratulations!" and then left them alone to continue their conversation.

"It's a lot to think about."

"May I suggest something?"

"Sure."

"Come to church with me Sunday. I'll even take you out to brunch afterwards."

He nodded slightly. Hmmm. Maybe I will. He answered, "I'll think about it."

The party ended. Their shifts ended. For the first weekend in more than a month, Kristin and Ann were too busy to get together before Sunday service. They hadn't even shared the conversations they each had with their colleagues during the party. There would be time for that later.

Kristin was sitting in the back pew of the church waiting for service to begin. It was a relatively large church. It could hold over a thousand people sitting in dozens of rows of pews slanting forward so as to give each seat a relatively unobstructed view of the elevated speaker and choir. The seats and carpets were dark red. The walls that reached up almost fifty feet at the front and a few feet lower in the back due to the slant of the floor were painted beige and had upward pointing lights every dozen feet that resembled candles but were of the florescent variety. It was just five minutes before service was to begin and Kristin had not yet seen her friend.

Just then she saw someone else that took her by surprise. She grinned broadly. It was Blankenship. Sitting next to him was her friend Ann.

"So how does this work?" an effeminate male voice said from the seat to her right.

At the question, Kristin smiled even wider. She silently thanked God for Robert Baxter and the horrible tragedy that had opened doors to Blankenship's and Vincent's souls. She reached for a hymnal from its holder on the back of the pew in front of them as the choir began to sing the first verse. She opened it to Amazing Grace and shared it with someone she desperately prayed would soon be a brother in Christ.
Chapter 26

The Defense

The courtroom was packed. It was a Monday, the day reserved for jury trials, first appearances and plea announcements. A month had passed since the accident, and the docket on this day included the first bond appearance in State of Oklahoma v. Michael A. Thomas, as the caption on the court file read. The news coverage of the Thomas case had resulted in a larger turnout than usual. The headlines of the local newspaper read, "Grandson of defense attorney almost killed by his own client," and "Will drunk driver who victimized his own attorney's family get the justice he deserves?" It was the first story in a long time that garnered two separate articles.

So far, though, the brouhaha had been reserved for local media. Indeed, even the not too distant markets of Tulsa and Oklahoma City had not yet caught the scent of the rather unique and interesting case. Thus, there were just a couple of reporters from outside the county in attendance, just in case something interesting happened, such as an unexpected plea or dismissal. There were also several DUI victims' groups' advocates in attendance, and the entire board of the local Mothers Against Drunk Drivers (MADD) chapter. The rest of the seats were taken by the dregs who were there to ask the judge for mercy, or just beg him to let them stay out of jail while their cases were pending.

The swiftness of the State's action in charging Thomas was mind boggling for those knowledgeable of the criminal justice system, especially in rural Oklahoma—it usually took a good six to twelve months to investigate, secure forensic testing, and make the charging document bulletproof. This time was different, though great pains were taken to achieve so-called bulletproof status, at least. Charles had pressed his fellow fraternity brother, Sheriff Anderson, to expedite the process, to make sure that the scumbag who hurt his grandson (1) stayed in jail with an inordinately high bond, and (2) paid for his crime quickly, without delay. To accomplish both goals the DA had to file charges quickly. Charles had even done something that he wouldn't have done under normal circumstances (the conspiracy theorist/defense attorney in him didn't believe one should ever cooperate with the government): he had the hospital draw Robert's blood and test his DNA to match it with the blood on Thomas's bumper, which probably saved a good three months of waiting that would have otherwise occurred had the DA let the Oklahoma Bureau of Investigation do that part of the investigation. So, within a month of the accident, the DA had all it needed to charge Thomas with the crimes of attempted second-degree murder, aggravated battery, felony theft (for taking Robert's computer, cash and personal effects), felony driving under the influence of alcohol and/or drugs, hit-and-run, leaving the scene of an accident, and failing to report an accident. The first four charges were felonies and carried mandatory prison time; the last few were mere misdemeanors and were the least of his problems.

Charles was seated in the back of the courtroom, which was tiny compared to the courtrooms he was accustomed to. He made a mental note of the accoutrements, which had changed little from the time he had successfully defended Thomas two years before. The spectator gallery seated fifty people, with enough room around its edges to fit another twenty standing side-by-side like sardines packed in a tin can. On the other side of the railing that separated the spectators from where the action took place there was barely room to fit the two tables for litigants, one for a defendant and his attorney, and next to it an identical one for a prosecutor and his primary witness. Both tables faced the judge's elevated perch. To the left of these tables was the jury box, which had the generous accommodations of twelve padded, slightly worn swivel chairs in two rows of six each. The witness stand was to the immediate left of the judge, facing the same direction as the judge and to his immediate right, with the court reporter's space on the other side of the witness stand facing the same direction. Dark stained, oaken wood paneling covered the walls from floor to ceiling. The carpeting and upholstery of the padded chairs were also dark-colored, probably brown, hiding whatever former occupants had spilled or otherwise deposited on their surfaces. Overall, the courtroom décor was very bland and boring, an interior designer's worst nightmare.

Every seat was occupied, with in-custody defendants, including Thomas, occupying the jury box seats, several free defendants interspersed in the gallery, some standing and some seated. Observers, casual and otherwise, some seated, others standing, intermingled with reporters and with victims and suspects' families. Robert and most of his family chose to skip the arraignment, though Charles was there to report what happened, which he knew from experience would be nothing much.

Thomas sat in the back middle of the jury box wearing the mandatory orange jumpsuit and tattered plastic flip flops over sock-covered feet, all provided compliments of the Darkwell County Sheriff's Department. His parents had refused to pay his bond, instead choosing to pay an Oklahoma City-based defense attorney in hopes of securing better representation than the public defender.

As the judge rattled off the names on his docket, Charles looked over at his former client. He wasn't a bad looking young man, Charles reflected. He was of average height and medium build, and was normally clean-cut in appearance. He remembered the first time Thomas asked for his help. At the time he looked to be in his early twenties, had striking facial features—he could have been a model, Charles remembered thinking—and appeared to work out on a regular basis. He had medium-length black hair, and was very polite, always saying "yes sir," and "no sir" in response to questions. Back then Charles found it hard to believe that the clean-cut boy sitting before him was facing a felony DUI charge, but then his investigator looked into the matter. He'd had two prior DUI convictions within the previous three years and had barely escaped aggravated assault charges two years before that as a juvenile.

Charles thought back to the file on that previous arrest—the case had arisen from a fight allegedly started when the other boy hit Thomas in the stomach with a baseball bat—usually a good way to knock the wind out of someone. That is, unless that someone who happens to be your client takes the bat away from the boy and proceeds to smash him in the skull until it cracks open, which might have happened had Thomas not been pulled away from the other guy. Thomas also had a smattering of petty theft and drug possession convictions as a juvenile. Thomas' looks had been definitely deceiving back then. Not anymore. A scraggly, unkempt, longhaired punk sat in the jury box on this day. Charles shook his head and wondered what his parents were like. Were they the ones who inspired him to be the man he was on this day? Were they losers and drunks, too? His experience defending criminals told him the answer was likely yes.

"Michael A. Thomas," the judge announced.

A slightly built, short man with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail stood up from the left of the two chairs sitting behind the defense table. The ponytail contrasted sharply with his otherwise conservative dress: dark, pinstriped, three-piece suit and cordovan wingtips on his feet. "Defendant is present in custody and also appears through counsel, Jacob McAllister," Thomas's attorney replied.

"Stand up, Mr. Thomas," the judge said in the direction of the jury box.

Michael stood as instructed, his arms pulling up those of the defendants cuffed on each side of him for security reasons—it was harder to run if you had to drag two other suspects along with you. "Yes, sir," he said.

He's still polite, Charles thought. Not that it means anything with these liars.

Just a few weeks before, he was in the habit of giving his clients the benefit of the doubt. How things do change, he reflected.

"Please make your announcement, counsel."

Barbara Dixon, the Assistant District Attorney, was an athletic-looking, mid-twenties-aged, long blond-haired beauty about 5'8" tall. She stood up and handed McAllister a multi-page document, which he took. She returned to her seat once he accepted the document.

"Your Honor, we acknowledge receipt of the complaint, enter a plea of not guilty, and request a preliminary hearing. We also respectfully request that the court lower the bond to an amount more in line with the severity of the charges."

The prosecutor shot up from her seat much quicker this time and almost yelled, "We object. Counsel has not filed a motion for reduction and has not given our office proper notice. Also, Your Honor, this is not a minor matter. Mr. Thomas almost killed a teenage boy. He has multiple prior DUIs and other crimes of violence and is a menace to society. If anything the bond should be increased."

"Your Honor," McAllister begged. "I was just retained last Friday and have not had time to file a motion, and this prosecutor has a habit of making us give her the seven-day statutory notice. In the meantime, my client will have to sit in jail another week just because his family couldn't afford an attorney until now."

Judge Miles Bosco, part-time cattle rancher and full-time District Court judge, looked the part of a rural Oklahoma judge. He had a handlebar mustache and a slightly graying, dark, almost military-style crew cut. He looked to be in his late forties by Charles's estimation, and he was clearly not happy with the recent verbal exchange between the prosecutor and defense counsel. He glared at McAllister and said, "So, let me see if I hear ya right. The state legislature says this pretty little thing—" he gestured towards the grinning prosecutor and continued "— is to be given a seven-day notice, and you have a problem with that?"

"Your Honor, under the circumstances, I believe an oral motion is appropriate."

The prosecutor remained silent, though Charles suspected the "pretty little thing" comment gnawed on her. Winning the argument, which it was obvious she was doing, was the important thing, pretty or not.

"I disagree. Mr. McAllister, unless I am mistaken, the least of your client's felony charges, aggravated battery, carries a prison sentence of up to ten years. That sounds like a pretty serious charge if you ask me. The court needs more information to adequately address the public's need to feel safe and secure from the likes of your client. Motion denied. File a written motion and provide the prosecutor with the notice she's entitled to and I will reconsider, though I strongly suspect that if I see a response from the prosecutor asking me to increase the bond amount, I am just as likely to do that than to give your client a reduction." He paused and glared back and forth between the defendant and his attorney, winking at the prosecutor in between those less-than-friendly looks. "Preliminary hearing is set for July 20 at 9:00 A.M."

Charles stood up and left the courtroom. He was seated next to an exit so he did so without anyone noticing, even the reporters who had until that very moment been keeping a close watch on him. He nervously awaited an elevator in the three-level courthouse, hoping against hope that he would avoid the press gauntlet strung along the courthouse hallways, exits, and sidewalks leading up and out of the courthouse at least for the day. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the 2 key, holding it down to tell the phone's microprocessor that he wanted to dial his second speed-dial number. After it began ringing, he released the button. After two rings, a familiar voice answered. "Hello?" Jessie said.

"Hi," he replied. "It's done."

"Good. What's next?"

"The prelim is set for July 20."

"You and Mom coming over tonight for dinner?" she replied, trying to change the subject to a more pleasant one.

"I'll call her. Probably so, if that's an invite."

"You know it is," she chuckled. He laughed too, and their call ended.

The elevator chimed its arrival and Charles walked in after the doors parted. No press had seen him, so his escape appeared to be without a hitch. No one was in the elevator, so, as soon as the door shut he let out a belch and sighed with relief. He pressed the first floor button and leaned his back against the rear elevator wall, glancing up at the floor numbers lighting up on the top of the doors.

"I should call that number for alpaca ranching I keep seeing on TV, become an alpaca rancher or something," he said to himself, grinning. "It's gotta beat this darn legal business."

The elevator arrived on the first floor and Charles walked out and toward the front entrance of the late-nineteenth century rock structure. Once out of the modernized swinging glass doors that clashed violently with the rock façade of the courthouse entrance, he walked down its front stairs, a good thirty feet wide, and toward his SUV parked parallel immediately in front of the courthouse next to a meter. Still no press in sight, though there were a couple of television broadcast vans with satellite uplinks shooting toward the starts, so he assumed they were all still in the courtroom upstairs or fighting for a spot on the only two elevators available. He glanced at the clock steeple atop the courthouse and noted he still had a half hour on his parking tab but then he thought, I've been in Oklahoma long enough. He got in his SUV and sped off, constantly thinking about what he'd do with the rest of his life besides being a good husband to Nancy, which wouldn't change till they were parted by death, hopefully his and not hers. He loved her and her family too much, which further compelled him to seek another career before his overwhelming guilt led him to drastic action.

Out of a newly-embedded habit, he glanced ahead to the road and said, "God, please show me what you want to do with my life. Please give me a career I can take pride in, that won't make me feel as if I'm killing people just by going to the office every morning. Amen." It was a prayer he had recently begun praying at least a dozen times each day. It was a habit he told himself he would maintain until God answered him.
Chapter 27

Zealous Advocacy

Jacob T. McAllister, "Attorney & Counselor At Law," as his business cards and yellow page ads trumpeted, was sitting in a familiar place, one he found himself in at least once every couple of weeks. It was the jail's professional visitation area, which resembled most others in the state. He stared at the disheveled criminal defendant on the other side of the glass, wondering how in the world he could convince his client that a plea was his best option. They nodded at one another and reached for their respective handsets.

"Hello," Jacob said.

"Hi," was all Thomas could come up with, and it was a very disheartening "hi" at that, one that told Jacob, the seasoned advocate that he was, that all was not well with his client.

"You doing okay?" he rhetorically asked, already knowing the true answer.

"No."

Jacob nodded in agreement. "I understand."

Still holding the handset to his face, Jacob reached back to his briefcase and pulled out Thomas's case file and a yellow legal pad.

"You gotta get me out of here," he demanded halfheartedly.

Jacob shook his head back and forth. "I'm doing my best," he replied. "I filed a motion to modify your bond as soon as today's appearance ended, but it's not set for hearing until next Friday, so you'll have to sit tight at least 'til then."

"Can't my parents post the bond?" He knew the answer already. He had talked to his mom the week before. She told him that their part in his life would end with them writing a check to Jacob. They hadn't even accepted any more of his collect calls since then.

Jacob shook his head.

Thomas dropped his head to the surface of the counter in front of him. Jacob sat silent for a few moments and then broke the silence by shuffling the paperwork in the file, faking a cough, and pretending to read its contents.

"We need to talk about your case," he began. "There's good news and bad news. The good news is that your initial arrest and search of the motel room were illegal and we should be able to suppress the evidence obtained, including the victim's backpack, computer, and wallet."

Thomas sat up and smiled. "The bad news?" he asked, deflating slightly as he did.

"I'm afraid there's more of that. First, there's a DNA match with the blood on your bumper and the victim, and if that comes in, which it will, we have a big problem. It's evidence that is subject to the doctrine of "inevitable discovery," which means it isn't likely to be suppressed. Second, the tarp on the body hurts us. It indicates a clear intent to cover up the evidence, though it was a pretty poor attempt to do so. The state will argue that you tried to buy time, to delay the body's discovery 'til you were long gone and out of reach. It also won't help us if they put that boys parents on the stand and they testify that he had a backpack that was not with the boy when he was discovered, regardless of our success in suppressing the contents of the room. Third, and this may be the biggest obstacle, the officers claim in their reports that they smelled alcohol, and I suspect that the prosecutor will try to admit your priors if you take the stand to rebut the officers' testimony. In summation, you've got an uphill battle even with the investigation screw ups."

He'd heard it before, on two of his last three DUI cases. Only Charles Fleming had given him hope, and that case ended up disappearing.

"That's the best you've got?" he asked, sarcastically this time, with a hint of anger directed at his attorney. "I thought you were here to defend me, not prosecute?"

Jacob's complexion reddened as he sensed that his client had doubts about his lawyerly skills. He thought about the many cases where he'd fought tooth and nail for his clients, good cases that had ended up in acquittals or dismissals. (There were, of course, many others that had resulted in convictions.) He had practiced criminal defense for twenty years and had a sparkling reputation, or so he thought, and he couldn't help but think that the scumbag sitting in front of him was clueless.

"Let's be clear," he finally said. "I am here to defend you, but your background tells me that you know the difference between reality and fantasy. No case is better than its facts, and your facts stink, to put it bluntly. My goal going into every case is acquittal or dismissal, but police and forensic reports often change that goal into minimizing the time you have to serve, and that's what you've left me with, in my opinion."

Thomas sat still, processing what Jacob just told him, and then said, "I know. I was just hoping that you'd have a rabbit in your hat, something good to tell me."

"I'm meeting with the prosecutor in half-an-hour to talk about a possible plea. I'll be back tomorrow to tell you what she's willing to offer."

"Any feelings?"

"Not really," he replied as he closed his file and placed it back in the brief case. He then turned back to Thomas. "We'll get through this, one way or another."

Michael smiled and thought, At least he cares about me.

*****

"So what are your thoughts?" Jacob asked Barbara as he sat across from her at her desk, a very modest one made of solid oak and a high-backed swivel, cloth chair behind it. Two metal, four-legged chairs were on Jacob's side; the many blemishes and dings on the surface of the desk and the thoroughly worn cloth padding on the chairs told him that every piece of furniture in Barbara's office was not a day younger than twenty years old, and might possibly be older than the woman who worked there.

It was a quarter past eleven, and she wasn't in the mood for the confrontation that was sure to follow what she was about to tell him.

"You picked a doozy," she began. "Did you know the victim is the grandson of a friend of our newly-appointed sheriff?"

"No, I didn't."

He had been relatively straightforward, trying to exude a sense of confidence, no matter how hopeless the case might be for his client. Her question made him slump; the sheriff's personal interest in the case did not bode well for his client, he was certain.

"Yeah, it's true, and I've been given a very tight mandate from my boss. You're not gonna like it."

"Don't do this to me," he almost begged. "We've done a few cases together, and you've always been fair."

"Sorry. Your guy's gotta plead guilty on all counts. If he does, we'll join in a recommendation of ten years prison, the maximum for the aggravated battery charge. He's looking at double that if convicted by a jury. And that's if he gets the judge's sympathy, which I doubt. You're free to argue for probation."

Jacob seethed in his chair, afraid to tell Barbara what he really felt. She had always been fair to him and his clients in the past, and the last thing he wanted to do was let his advocacy of a penniless client bleed over to the cases of more lucrative ones, the kind that pay their own fees and don't rely on family and friends who promise that this will be the last time for such generosity. He shook his head vigorously from side to side. He squeaked out his reply—"That's no deal at all," which was much better than screaming it.

"Your guy's long history of drug and alcohol offenses, as well as DUI and a potpourri of other less serious offenses make me pretty confident that anything I get out of a trial will be much better than what I'm offering." With that she sat back in her chair and took a sip of the caramel latte on her desk. She allowed a confident smile to spread across her lips. It was a look she'd given Jacob before, and is almost always set him off, compelling him to lose his temper and storm out of her office. She expected no less this time.

Behind the smirk was the knowledge that her seemingly overconfident demeanor was actually a poker face, and that Jacob was woefully incapable of knowing all the thoughts that lay behind it. She had read the file, too, and knew very well that the deal she was offering was as likely as not to be the best outcome she could obtain at trial, as well. It was strategically employed to make Jacob believe her case was better than it actually was, a trick she had learned from Sun Tzu's Art of War, a book she had read cover to cover in its English translation when she was in law school.

Jacob's face reddened, much more than when his client had insulted his professionalism. "That's garbage, and you know it," he almost yelled.

"Sorry."

"You realize there are suppression issues here, right?"

"Not many; certainly not enough to seriously hurt my case, at least as far as most of the felonies are concerned, the ones that will put your boy in prison for a very long time." This much, she knew, was certainly true.

"What's the victim want out of this?"

"What do you think?"

Jacob, frustrated, grabbed his briefcase and stood up, turning his back to Barbara. He glanced over his shoulder and said, "Push me and you could end up with an acquittal."

Barbara didn't bother to get up to shake hands goodbye. She continued to lean back in her chair as her smile widened. "That's fine with me. Sounds fun. I haven't had a trial in awhile. I've been a little too generous with sweet deals."

Jacob left, slamming the door shut, and stormed through the hallway leading to the exit, which happened to pass by the open door of the elected District Attorney's office of Anthony Jackson, the man who was in charge of all prosecutions in Darkwell County.

Anthony Jackson was an oddball in conservative, white-bred Oklahoma—he was the only African-American DA in the state. But Jackson had two magical qualities lacking in most attorneys, regardless of race: he was a genius and a former first-string quarterback and field general for the University of Oklahoma's National Championship football team from ten years before. He had even played professional football for a couple of years before realizing he'd go a lot further with his mind than his athleticism. He was also an ordained minister, not to mention a rising star in the state's Republican Party. Indeed, most well connected members of the community knew he was merely punching his clock at the DA's office in preparation for a future run for national office, possibly for the United States House of Representative or Senate. The title "former tough-on-crime prosecutor" was an excellent first step.

After catching Jacob's huffing and puffing out of the corner of his eye, Jackson stood up and walked to Barbara's office. As he walked through the door, his physical stature was apparent. Standing roughly six-foot-seven and still built like a tank without an ounce of body fat, his bulk took up much of the space within the doorframe. In a courtroom such a naturally domineering presence had the effect of humbling even the most obnoxious and pretentious attorneys, and it often turned the shorter ones—those who tended to compensate for their lack of physical presence with extra loud, obnoxious voices and physical expressions via a sort of Napoleon complex—into total buffoons as their overcompensation grew even more grotesque in his presence. Genes, it seemed, gave him advantages on and off the football field.

"What was that all about?" his booming baritone voice asked Barbara after he let himself into her office; his voice seemed loud even when he spoke softly.

She grinned and sipped her lukewarm latte. "He's pretty miffed, huh?"

"I'd say so."

"Good."

Jackson sat down in the very same chair Jacob had been in. "So you stood by your guns?"

"Of course. You didn't give me much choice."

"You don't fool me," he chuckled, his voice rumbling behind closed lips as he tried to suppress all-out laughter. It seemed in bad taste given the circumstances. "You're the last person in this office who wants to cut deals. You wouldn't cut any if it were up to you."

"True, but I can blame this one on you, right?"

"If it helps."

"You up for lunch?" Jackson asked.

"Only if you're buying."

"Let's go."
Chapter 28

Victim Impact Statement

Barbara dreaded the conversation she was about to engage in, but she knew it had to happen. Thus far she'd taken her marching orders from the DA, and he had tied her hands somewhat, telling her that the defendant had to plead straight up if he was to be given any quarter at all. Regrettably, his attorney was a shark, one of the shrewdest she'd ever come up against, and he wasn't averse to taking the case to trial. She had just been served the defendant's motion to suppress, and it was pretty good. After she finished reading it, she stood up and walked to Jackson's office. After she glanced in his office to be sure he wasn't otherwise disposed, she gently wrapped the doorframe with her knuckles and asked, "You have a minute?"

"Certainly, come on in."

He motioned her to the chairs on the other side of his; they were a bit plusher and in better shape than the ones in her office, though they were just as old.

Tossing the motion in the middle of his desk, she said, "It's the Thomas motion to suppress."

Jackson picked it up and briefly glanced at the front page. "Any good arguments?"

"A few. I think he'll win the motion and get the minimum of what he's asking for. If not, there's a good case for appeal. Brown really messed up this one. The stuff in the motel room is history, and I must admit that we've got some Miranda issues with the defendant's initial statements."

"Deadly?"

"Not totally, but the investigation was bungled badly. If the evidence in the room goes away, all we have to prove up the aggravating factors is the tarp over the body. That's it. And that's a really shaky argument without fingerprints, DNA markers, or anything concrete tying it to Thomas. It would be great if we had some of his DNA on the tarp, but we don't. If I were his attorney I would argue that he thought he hit a deer or something. Without the evidence in his room and no direct links to the tarp, I would argue that no one can prove who put the tarp on the body, a passerby who panicked, whatever. It could conceivably result in an all-out acquittal. Those bozos didn't attempt to test his blood for alcohol or drugs. Even if they had, so what? No telling how long he'd been at the motel."

"Damn," Jackson said softly and then followed it up with a silent prayer asking God to forgive him for his momentarily untamed tongue. He saw the problems as clearly as she did, and he'd already told Anderson as much. "Any thoughts?"

"I'll get a conviction for hit-and-run, that's a no-brainer, but the odds of a conviction for aggravated battery and everything else will go down substantially if this motion goes to hearing. We can certainly kiss off the felonies."

Jackson shook his head side to side. "Offer him aggravated battery with all other counts dismissed, and recommend three years prison."

"Even the DUI?"

"Yeah. Your assessment is dead on. No blood test." She nodded in agreement as he said it.

"What about Anderson?"

"I'll worry about him. I want this kid in prison. Period."

"Gotcha."

Barbara walked out of Jackson's office, with Jackson close behind. After she left, he gently pushed his door shut and returned to his chair. He stared at the telephone for several minutes before picking it up and then punched in Anderson's direct line. It rang twice.

"Anderson here," he said.

"Hey, buddy," Jackson said with a tone of regret. "You have a minute?"

"Sure."

"Brown royally screwed up the Thomas case."

"I know that, but it's still a good one."

"That's what I called about." Pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts, he continued. "The evidence in the room is gone, you know that?"

"I suspected it would be."

"Without that, we've got a big problem proving the aggravating factors. A bad jury might buy the old 'I thought I hit a deer' defense."

"I don't like where this is going."

"It's not as bad as it sounds," Jackson replied. "I authorized Barbara to offer Agg Batt, with a dismissal of the remaining counts. That will put our boy away for a few years. Otherwise, we'll be lucky if we get a misdemeanor hit-and-run verdict. Got it?"

Anderson knew he was right; he just dreaded telling Charles. "You gotta do what you gotta do."

"We'll save you the trouble and clear it with the victim and his family."

"I'd appreciate that."

Both hung up their phones and sat back in their chairs. Jackson spun his chair around and glanced out his window into the parking lot. He shook his head side to side and said to himself, "Just two more years," referring to the time remaining before he ran for Congress.

Anderson had similar thoughts as he stared at his door; the blinds of his window were shut tight. "Just two more years," he said, referring to the time remaining on his appointed position, wondering if running for election was worth the headaches it would obviously bring.

It's just one case, he thought. Do I really want more of this?
Chapter 29

A Regrettable Compromise

It had been three months since the accident, and Charles's law practice had stagnated as he began refusing to represent every prospective criminal defendant he consulted. There was always something that compelled him to not accept a client, something that led him convinced that he couldn't believe a word he said. Once he had been unlike all other criminal defense attorneys: he had always given the potential client the benefit of the doubt, at least until the police reports, videotape or audiotape of their encounters with the police changed his mind. Now, the opposite approach was becoming the norm. It seemed that if a potential client's lips were moving, a lie was spewing forth. The burden to prove truthfulness rested on the client's shoulders from the get-go.

There was the case of a teenage boy who was given a ride to the mall by a friend only to have the friend pulled over for speeding and arrested for possession of marijuana. Both were charged with the crime, and the desperate boy, an honor student who had never been in trouble before, needed help. All Charles could do during the initial consultation was to call him a liar over and over again in his mind. There were many other more serious cases that he could have taken on—a statutory rape, an aggravated battery, and one attempted murder—and he found it easy to walk away from all of them, even the ones that had substantial reasonable doubts as to the potential clients' guilt. If they didn't do this crime, he reasoned, they most certainly deserved to pay for the others they got away with. In the meantime, the bills piled up, and the telephone messages left by bill collectors went mostly unanswered. He was thankful that he had socked away personal assets and investments so the law office's bankruptcy wouldn't make a dent in his personal fortune, a fortune built up with criminal defense blood money.

Then there was the first time DUI client who brought up all the emotions he had felt when he saw Michael Thomas's name on the police file in Darkwell. During the consult Charles went through the motions and silently, regrettably, noted several issues that would likely lead to a victory at the drivers' license hearing, but refrained from sharing them with the potential client. Instead, he told the boy that the department of motor vehicles would suspend his license because he failed or refused to take a breath or blood test. Moreover, even if he "got off" from the charge of DUI, he would still have his license suspended. At the end, the boy felt much worse than when he walked in, dejected and defeated already.

Charles couldn't get past the fact that this kid would drink and drive again if he, Charles, helped him "get off," and that might result in an innocent person getting hurt or killed.

"Stop drinking and get the hell out of my office!" he yelled at the kid at the end of the consultation. He shot up out of his seat, stormed to his office door, and ripped it open as he motioned the kid to leave. The poor kid almost cried as he did as directed.

At that moment it dawned on Charles that he was slipping into another habit his faith had compelled him to leave behind many years before— cursing. After the kid left the building, Charles shut his inner office door, locked it behind him, and returned to his desk chair. This time he turned away from the computer on the credenza and instead laid his head on his desk, sobbing into the crook of his elbow. When will this nightmare end? He wondered.

Charles had arrived at the point where he had a hard time believing anyone. And he had an even harder time justifying his profession. But for his modest collection of rental properties, he and Nancy would have had a difficult time weathering the dry spell. Indeed, he found himself sitting in a local Starbucks Café most of the time, and Becky was hard pressed to protect him from the many previously retained, disgruntled clients who felt like he was neglecting their cases, which he knew he was, while he stayed in what he called his "funk." As he continued to ponder how much he'd wasted his life, the depression and anxiety that came with his belief that he had almost killed his grandson grew deeper and deeper. So it was surprising that on the day DA Jackson called the office, Charles was actually there, sitting at his desk surfing the Internet and trying to at least look productive for the first time in months.

The intercom buzzed and Becky's voice interrupted his pity party. "It's Anthony Jackson from Darkwell on line one."

"Got it," he said as he picked up the handset. "Charles here."

"Hi, Charles," Jackson answered. "You have a minute?"

"Sure."

"Looks like your boy will be pleading guilty; nolo contendre is not an option."

Charles's eyes lit up and a smile appeared on his face. "As charged?"

Jackson was silent far too long for the news to be a good development.

"Dammit!" Charles exclaimed loudly, again realizing he had just let out a word that hadn't slipped through his lips in years. The smile the plea announcement brought back to his lips dissolved into a frown. "What the heck are you boys doing down there? You lettin' this guy get off with a slap on the wrist?"

"Calm down," Jackson said. "There's a problem with the case. I'm sending you copies of the reports and the defendant's motion to suppress so you know what we're dealing with."

He allowed him to slip back into defense attorney mode for a moment. He calmed down as he prepared to listen to what the DA had to say. There had to be a reason behind it. "What's the offer?"

"Guilty to aggravated battery, dismissal of the remaining counts, and three years prison. Based on what the triple-I report contains, he should go away for at least that long. And with Judge Bosco, who knows? He adds time to our recommended sentences all the time."

"Sorry I snapped at you. You mind telling me what changed your mind?"

"Sure. Deputy Brown, who, by the way, has been fired, screwed up the investigation. He barged into the man's motel room without a warrant and before there was much evidence to justify any search, let alone a warrantless one. Robert's backpack, computer and wallet will probably be suppressed, and that will give us fits on proving up the aggravating factors. I'd rather take a plea to the most serious charge than give the punk a three-day jury trial followed with some rinky-dink misdemeanor hit-and-run conviction. He'll max out at twelve months in county on that."

"Makes sense. I imagine I'd try the darn thing."

"I'm sure you would."

"Thanks for your help and the heads up."

"No problem."

After hanging up the phone, Charles said quietly, "Aggravated battery's not bad, not bad at all."

He picked up the handset and started punching in phone numbers of family and friends to tell them the news. He silently rehearsed the words, knowing that they'd all see the wisdom of a plea once he massaged the message a little bit, thoroughly washing out the clear compromise with the benefits of a guaranteed felony conviction. It felt weird doing so from the other side of the fence, but it was a necessary evil. He specifically asked everyone to not call Robert until after he did.

He saved the last call for Robert. He expected that it would be the most difficult. He doubted that he would be emotionally capable of even walking out of his office after delivering the news to the grandson he had helped to injure and almost kill.

"Hello?" Robert answered on his dorm telephone as he sat at his desk studying.

"Hi, buddy," he said, trying to sound chipper.

"Hi."

"I just got off the phone with the prosecutor. Thomas is pleading guilty, but not as charged." Charles explained to Robert what had been communicated to him, throwing in a little bit of information about how lousy the prisons are in Oklahoma, and how serving time in that state would make three years seem more like ten. The other end of the line was silent after he finished. "You okay with that?"

"I guess. He's going to prison, so that's good."

Charles sensed trepidation on the other end of the line.

"His attorney is very good. If this thing would've gone to trial, there is a very real possibility of the kid going free. That's not a good thing. This deal guarantees that he serves prison time, at least a few years' worth."

"I'm okay with it, honest."

"There's also restitution. It's a guilty plea, so that means we won't have any problem suing him for damages. I'll take care of the civil claim—" He smiled, seeing an opportunity for a lighter moment. "—I'll only charge you half my regular rate."

Robert let a chuckle come out, though he didn't feel much like laughing. "Funny, but it's just blood from a turnip. He's got nothing."

"I know, but we can keep any judgment alive indefinitely. Who knows? Maybe he'll inherit a million dollars some day. It could happen. Oklahoma has a lottery."

Both laughed, a little louder this time. Robert's laughter told Charles that his grandson would be okay, if not now, eventually.

"Thanks for calling," Robert said just before both hung up and went about their daily routines.

Janie was sitting on Robert's bed studying American history, trying her best to eavesdrop. After the conversation ended, she said, "What was that about?"

"He called to tell me that they're offering a deal to Thomas."

"That's a good thing, right?"

Robert shook his head side to side and shrugged his shoulders. "Probably."

Sitting at his desk tapping a pencil on a blank sheet of paper, Robert felt the urge to cry. His right arm, still protected in a sling most of the time and fastened tightly to his midsection so he couldn't move it, reminded him of the true cost of Thomas's crime. He silently reflected that he would pay for the rest of his life, while the criminal who did this to him would be done with paying his cost in a few years.

Their relationship was almost back to where it was before the accident, so Janie sensed that he wasn't telling her everything—he wasn't buying what his grandpa and the prosecutor were selling. She stood up and went to his side, her left hand gently caressing his shoulder, his good shoulder. "You okay?"

Robert looked up and smiled. "Yeah, I'm okay, but thanks for asking."

He gave her a quick hug with his good arm and both prepared to resume their studies, Robert thinking, No, I'm not okay. I'm a worthless cripple who has no idea what to do with the rest of his life. He did his best to suppress the snicker that accompanied the thought. Fortunately, Janie's back was turned as she walked back to the bed so she didn't see or hear it.
Chapter 30

A Day of Reckoning?

"I have to be there?" Robert asked the person on the other end of the phone line. He was making a quick call between classes, using a phone card his mom kept charged for him and placing the call on the dorm lobby payphone. He hadn't yet replaced the cell phone stolen by Thomas as he lay comatose on the side of the road, and decided to go "old school" by using landlines, at least until after the case ended and his property was returned to him. Since he was now a true scholar and no longer the athlete, he thought the fewer distractions the better.

"I'm afraid so," replied Barbara. "I've seen these pleas go south at the last minute many times, and the defendant's attorney is wavering on me, telling me that it's probably for plea but not definitely."

"I've gotta miss class when I might not be needed?"

"Sorry."

"That's just great. See you Monday," he said, almost shouting, as he slammed down the handset loud enough for anyone within thirty feet to hear him and know the call didn't end well. Several students who were visiting in the lobby turned their heads at the shout and slam, wondering what was so important that it had to disturb their relatively carefree lives. He caught a smile from a relatively cute blond coed (though not nearly a cure as Janie, he silently realized) just a few feet away whom he'd seen a few times around campus but never actually spoke to. He turned to her and said, "What's your problem?" the frustration of his own existence getting the better of him, making him flashback to the unpleasant, arrogant jock he was before his first church youth camp, the one where he'd met Janie.

Her companion, a brown-haired freshman boy of medium build and height, stood up and thrust out his chest, defending his woman. "Chill out," he replied, voice wavering a bit as his fear of the more physically imposing figure of Robert, right arm still hanging in a sling. The fear nearly got the better of him. Unfortunately, another part of him was thinking that the partly-handicapped jock looking at him was incapable of offering much of a physical challenge.

As the adrenaline pumped through the freshman's system, he thought, I'll pop him in the shoulder if I have to, and then glanced around the room looking for a chair or something else he could pick up if need be. "You're the one who's getting out of hand," he added.

He's not worth it, Robert thought. Just walk away.

Instead of listening to his inner voice of reason, he walked toward the couple and glared at the boy. "You think this sling'll protect your scrawny butt?"

The boy glared right back, though beads of sweat began to bubble up on his forehead. Robert was at least six inches taller and was much more muscled, though the incapacitated right arm hid much of his physical prowess. Looking up, a phantom crick twitching in his neck as he tilted his head upward, the boy said nothing, afraid that his nerves might cause his voice to crack yet again.

"I asked you a question. Do you think I can't beat the snot out of you with one arm?" he asked, as he lifted his good arm and flexed his sizable muscles through a tightly fitting T-shirt, revealing the muscle tone only a well-conditioned athlete could have at such a young age.

The boy considered his options: to fight and lose both the fight and the girl, or do nothing. "You're not worth it," he finally said.

"Ditto," Robert said as he turned his back to the boy and walked away.

As he walked toward the elevator, the boy looked over at his girlfriend, who had a frown on her face as she stared at Robert' backside, gaze directed toward his jeans-enhanced bottom.

Suddenly, without warning, the boy rushed Robert from behind and tried to leap on his back. Years of sports had conditioned Robert to react instantly, and the accident had apparently not diminished his well-tuned reflexes. He ducked and the boy glanced off him at an angle, ending up on the floor in front of the dorm's vending machines. The bum's rush attracted the attention of all those in the lobby, including two resident assistants. The boy was now lying flat on his back. Just as Robert was about to slam his left fist into the boy's face one of the RAs grabbed his injured shoulder to pull him back.

"Ouch!" Robert yelled as searing pain shot through his shoulder and into his spine. "Okay, okay," he begged, still being held back. "Let me go," he added as he shook off the RA who had grabbed his throbbing shoulder. The RA tumbled to the ground beside the cowardly assailant.

"He attacked me!" Robert protested.

The other RA was standing between Robert and the boy, doing his best to defuse an obviously heated situation. "Both of you," he said as he pointed, "to the office. Now!"

The cowardly boy stood up, unaided, and all walked toward the office just a dozen feet from where the melee had broken out, the RA who grabbed Robert walking between the two combatants with Robert bringing up the rear. After they reached the RAs' ultra-compact office—just big enough to fit a tiny metal desk and three chairs—the RA who seemed to be in command, a rather large black man around twenty-two years of age with a closely-cropped haircut, pulled the door shut behind them. He took the seat behind the desk. Robert and the boy sat side by side in the two seats opposite the RAs. The meeker, weaker RA, a very skinny and short Hispanic man around the same age as the lead RA, stood next to the door, apparently content to let his larger, more physically imposing colleague lead the discussion.

"What the heck was that all about?" Tony Brunson, the larger, head RA asked the boy.

"Why are you asking me that question?"

"I saw the whole thing. Are you a coward or something? Waiting till the man's back is turned; you ought to be skinned for being a weasel."

Robert did his best to suppress a smile, but the right corner of his lips turned up slightly.

Tony jerked his head in his direction. "Don't think you're not at fault, too."

Robert looked toward the surface of the desk, feeling at least a little embarrassed. "Sorry."

"So what are we going to do about this mess?"

No one said a word.

"The book says I should kick both of you out of the dorms and refer this matter to the dean of students, and that usually means you're both expelled from school in a week. What do you think?"

The boy said nothing. All Robert could think about was his pastor preaching the virtues of turning the other cheek. I should've walked away before saying anything.

"I'm sorry," Robert said.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I told you about the trial in Oklahoma. I was on the phone with the prosecutor, and she said I have to go to Darkwell Monday morning, and that the jerk who did this to me might not plead guilty after all, which means I might have to miss school for nothing. I just snapped, even though that's no real excuse. That's all, and I'm sorry."

"What about you?" Tony asked the boy.

He was also staring at the desk. "I'm sorry, too."

"Well then, what are you waiting for? Shake hands and we'll forget this happened."

They turned toward one another as Robert offered the coward his good hand. "Robert Baxter," he said. "No hard feelings?"

The boy grabbed Robert's hand with a sweaty-palmed, fish-like grip. "Jim Clemons," he replied. "None here. Same for you?"

"Of course."

"Glad that we could all meet and spend some quality time together," Tony said sarcastically. "You two get out of here and do something productive, like study!"

After Robert and Jim left the office, Tony motioned for Chris to shut the door behind them. He took the seat vacated by Robert.

"We could get in trouble for that," Chris said.

"I know."

"Then why'd you do it?"

"You're new to this RA thing. We've got to use our best judgment. Robert almost died a few months ago, so he's dealing with a lot of crap right now, and that punk wasn't totally innocent. So what're we going to do? Set one up for expulsion and let the other go? Can't do it. So we let 'em both off the hook one time. Give 'em a freebie. One more screw up, and they're gone. Understand?"

Silently, Tony considered telling Chris his real reason for letting the two freshmen off with not even a slap on the wrist. Tony had been a bruiser in his youth; he had even been part of a gang a few years before. Yet his Savior, Jesus Christ, through grace had saved him from that baggage and cleansed him of his sins. Weren't those two young men who weren't nearly as deserving of punishment as he was entitled to such grace? His thoughts lingered on the question. No, that's not right, he further considered. No one deserves grace. It was just something that's given, just as Jesus saved him from his own mistakes despite the fact that he deserved no mercy at all.

"Grace," was all he said to his colleague. "Just a little grace to get us through the day."

Reluctantly, Chris nodded his head in agreement. He was new, he had to admit. It was his first semester as a paid RA, and he had much to learn. He asked, "Won't they fire us if they find out?"

Tony laughed. "Not at all. We're part peer counselors and part RAs. It's our job to make judgment calls. If they posed a serious threat to life and limb, it's a different story. But they don't, so we move on."

Tony stood up and walked around the desk to the door. "Let's get out there and help some kids, okay?"

Chris stood up and walked toward the door. Patting Chris on the back with his right hand and turning the doorknob with his left, Tony opened the door and walked toward the soda machines. "Want a cola?" Tony asked Chris over his shoulder as he fumbled around in his pocket for loose change.

"Sure."
Chapter 31

State's Witnesses

"I thought you said the guy was pleading guilty?" Landon asked Barbara over the telephone. He was the one who had first seen Robert as he lay with critical injuries under the tarp so she needed him to be available just in case the defense balked at the pea hearing. If the defense insisted on a trial, the last thing she would allow to happen was the trickster defense attorney forcing her to take the continuance. So what if innocence civilian witnesses were inconvenienced? This was about justice for society; this was about putting a guilty man in prison regardless of the witnesses' feelings. She puffed out her chest at the thought that she was doing her part to lock up a man who was sure to kill someone else if given one more day of freedom than she had the power to prevent. At the moment Landon was sitting in his dorm room study covey with an A.M. radio schematic spread out in front of him, a preliminary assignment in his introduction to circuits class, with his smart phone held to his right cheek. Justice was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment. Making an "A" on the assignment was his only real concern.

Barbara had been calling and talking to State's witnesses for much of the afternoon, telling them all the same thing: that the case was for plea but the witnesses had to be available nonetheless. Again, her intent was to expect the best but plan for the worst. She had been around the block enough times to not trust defense attorneys. Some would do anything to get the advantage, she was convinced, and she had no intention of making their jobs any easier. The deputies and detectives were easy. It was their job to be in court when told, and they all lived within ten miles of the courthouse. They were just a telephone call away. It was the civilian witnesses that were difficult; she had to tell them to put their lives on hold for the sake of justice. It was one of the most emotionally trying parts of the job, but she knew it had to be done, for justice's sake.

"He probably is," she replied, vividly recalling the very same reaction the news elicited from Robert. She hoped that Landon's reaction would be less extreme—that he wouldn't slam the phone down like Robert had. "It's just a precaution. If we're not ready for trial, the defendant's attorney might pull something, like make us continue the case. The judge will only give us one continuance, and if we waste it and something happens to keep one of the witnesses from being at the next hearing, then we'll have to dismiss and re-file the case, which will only drag this thing on for another year or so. I don't think you or anyone else wants that to happen."

In her mind she kicked herself for not explaining it the same way to Robert. Maybe he wouldn't have been so angry. Oh well, she thought, water under the bridge.

"Yeah, I suppose."

"Just stay within a two hour drive of the courthouse. We'll call you if we need you to drive to court. You'll probably be released around 9:30. Okay?"

"Sure." He paused as a lingering thought tugged on his conscience. "Barbara?"

"Yes."

"How is he?"

"Who?"

"The victim."

"He's doing okay. His arm and shoulder are messed up, but he's coming along well."

"Good. I was hoping he'd be all right."

"I'll tell him you asked."

"Thanks," he replied. "Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

He turned off his cell phone and resumed looking at something that may as well have been a foreign language. He did pretty well in AP math classes in high school, but he was starting to wonder if that would be enough to get him through OSU's rigorous engineering program. But his problems were no more than little challenges in the grand scheme of things, he now realized. At least he wasn't that poor boy on the freeway. I wonder what he's thinking right now, Landon considered, what he's doing. It was a thought that dogged him daily, one that made him ever more grateful at the opportunities he'd been given. He bowed his head for the first time in his life and prayed, "God, I've never asked you for anything. But could you help that boy get through this? Could you please help me to understand how something like that can happen? Amen."

*****

"I thought I'd be hearing from you, but not this soon," Nate said after brief introductions on the telephone. His normally gruff voice and demeanor was somewhat less so now, tempered by the prospect of a couple of days at home with his wife.

"It is unusual," Barbara admitted, thankful that the seasoned truck driver wasn't as resistant to her request as the two kids she'd talked to earlier in the day. "But we managed to finish the investigation faster than usual and didn't see the need to put it off."

"That's a good thing, I suppose?"

"Yes, a very good thing."

"So does your call mean I need to be somewhere?"

"I'm afraid so. Just in case the defendant changes his mind about entering a guilty plea, we'll need you available for trial."

Nate's situation was a little different than Robert's or Landon's. He lived too far away to just be on call. He would have to be at the courthouse or at least in the same city as the courthouse the morning of the scheduled trial, just in case Jacob pulled a fast one and called it for trial. She told him so, and then gave him the address, date and time. Afterwards Nate said a rather pleasant "goodbye," much more so than Robert's and Landon's, anyway. He was sitting on his back porch with the telephone handset still in his hand. He thought about that Good Samaritan stop he had made several months before, and that memory led him once again to think about retirement, and life in general, for a few lingering moments anyway. He put the phone down on the wrought iron table next to the padded patio chair he had been relaxing in. Lucy, his wife of thirty years, was sitting in an identical chair on the other side of the end table between them.

"Who was that?" she asked, knowing from the conversation that it had something to do with the highway incident he had described to her weeks before.

"The prosecutor," he answered as he did his best to get his mind back to what it had been concentrating on before the call. Ah—his newspaper. He ruffled out the creases for the dual purposes of making it easier to read and suggesting to Lucy that he was in no mood to talk. He'd just returned a couple of hours earlier from a three-day haul and he was trying his best to unwind before retiring to the bedroom for a three-hour nap.

"What did she say?"

Can't you take a hint? He thought, still staring at the paper. He said, "I got to go to Darkwell Monday so the sniveling idiot defendant doesn't back out of his plea."

"Do you ever wonder how that boy's doing?"

All the time, he thought. "No," he lied.

She looked over at him and grinned. He was focusing on his paper. "It's okay if you have, you know?"

He looked at her with a frustrated look. "I know, but I still haven't wondered about him. I've got enough of my own problems. Why worry about his?"

Lucy picked her coffee mug up off the table and took a sip, gazing out into the yard, which had patches of flowers carefully planted and groomed throughout. "We've been married more than thirty years, raised four beautiful kids, and loved each other like no other two people could. Do you think I haven't learned how you think all these years?"

"Humph," he exclaimed in almost a grunt, following it with a deep, guttural laugh. He looked over at her and said, "Okay, so I think about him every now and then. I wonder if he's okay, and if not, if he's going to be okay."

"Why don't you ask the prosecutor? She'll tell you."

Turning his attention back to the paper, he replied, "I'll ask her Monday."

He caught a headline, Dallas Could Win It All, in the sports page. He was a diehard Cowboys fan, so he paused at seeing the headline and briefly scanned the article underneath it. For those few moments, his mind was pleasantly distracted from the case of the severely injured boy down in Darkwell. Lucy reached over the table and gently patted her husband's shoulder, then took another sip of her coffee as she admired her flowers. Both smiled, silently thanking God for all he had given them and spared then from. All of their kids had grown up under their care relatively unscathed, and a couple of them were raising families of their own without any major, life-threatening accidents occurring so far. Sure, they had a fair amount of cuts, bruises, and even a bicycle or sports-related broken bone or two, but nothing even remotely like what the boy in Darkwell and his family were dealing with.

For some reason as he sat reading the paper, the Bible story of Job popped into his thoughts. He wondered if that boy had ever read it.
Chapter 32

The Plea

At first glance it seemed like just another Monday docket. All the seats in the courtroom were occupied, just like any other Monday; the court reporter was sitting at her station with her fingers arched atop the reporter machine ready to make a record, just like any other Monday; and the judge's assistant was sitting at the opposite side of the judge's perch behind her own desk prepared to take notes and do the Court's bidding. Yet, on this day those present who knew about such things knew that this docket would be very different than the typical Monday. For one, only one case was on the docket with all others moved to the following weeks. All those seats normally occupied by attorneys and defendants were instead filled with reporters and interested citizens, many of the latter consisting of MADD or other victim advocacy group members. Thus, nary a drug-addled or otherwise criminal-looking person could be spotted amidst the mass of bodies. Despite the lack of defendants and attorneys, there were even more people present on this day than a typical Monday. Indeed, while one might conclude that it was not possible to fit more bodies in the tiny courtroom than were usually in attendance, this day was proof that it didn't take a bunch of clowns with a VW bug to defy the laws of physics by packing in more people in a tight spot than was safe.

The reason behind Darkwell County Court's newfound popularity was Michael Thomas. Between the arraignment and this day (probably immediately after the local newspaper headlines filtered through the Internet like wildfire, which led Bill O'Reilly of Fox News to rip into a system, in particular, Charles Fleming and other defense attorneys, that allowed twice-convicted drunk drivers to go free), word got out to every major news outlet imaginable that a former client of the semi-famous criminal defense lawyer Charles Fleming had almost killed the lawyer's grandson. Reporters from Oklahoma City, Wichita, Dallas, Chicago, New York, and a few places in between, as well as TV reporters from all the major TV networks, cable and otherwise, took up the entire front two rows of the courtroom gallery, and many of them had hundreds of pounds of camera equipment to boot.

The only people not in the courtroom for the plea were the victim and the state's witnesses. They were gathered in a quite pleasant and plush waiting area in the DA's office. There was a TV monitor in that room, which was tuned to Fox News, with most of those present sipping sodas and coffee and reading back issues of Sports Illustrated, Cosmopolitan, and Field & Stream magazines.

At around 9:00 A.M. the door leading form the judge's chamber creaked open and the court reporter stood up and announced loudly, "All rise," telling knowledgeable veterans of the judicial process that the judge was about to enter and that they better stand up or face the judge's wrath. Almost everyone simultaneously stood up, except for two elderly gentlemen of the local community who got their kicks from sitting in on trials. They had been engaged in a heated conversation with each other about nothing in particular and missed the call. Sitting in the back of the room when everyone else rose, they stood up slowly, looking as if their aged bones were creaking and groaning at the effort, once they realized what had happened. One looked over at the other with a very sour expression and said, "Pay attention, you idiot!"

"Huh?" he asked as he reached up to turn up the volume of his hearing aid.

"I said, 'pay attention'!"

Obviously hearing a much louder voice this time, both to others sitting nearby and in his own more sensitized hearing aid, the other slapped his elderly buddy in the chest with one hand, stuck his finger to his lips with the other, and said, "Shhhh!"

"You may be seated," Judge Bosco said as he pulled his chair out from under the bench and took his seat. He gingerly reached under the bench to make sure his insurance policy, a .357 magnum revolver, was still safely secured in its holster, which the bailiff had helped him attach just days after he took the bench for the first time after his initial election. "The matter of State of Oklahoma versus Michael Thomas will now come to order," he said in a voice heavily tainted by his southern drawl. "Please announce your appearances."

"May it please the court," said the prosecutor after she stood to attention. "Barbara Dixon appears for the state."

Jacob stood and said, "Your Honor, the defendant appears in person and through counsel, Jacob McAllister."

Looking down at the court file, Judge Bosco replied, "I understand we have a plea in this case, is that correct?" He looked in Barbara's direction.

Standing up, she replied, "Yes, Your Honor, there is an offer on the table, but I have not yet received defense counsel's answer, one way or the other. However, in the event that the defendant is not prepared to plea, the state has its witnesses and is ready for trial."

Jacob shook his head and winced, seemingly objecting to the prosecutor's spin on his intentions. He stood to reply, but was interrupted by the judge, who glared at him. "So what are we doing this morning, Mr. McAllister?"

"Your Honor, after explaining the offer to my client, he has decided to accept its terms and enter a plea this morning."

* * * * *

Michael Thomas sat still in his chair, head downcast and eyes locked on the handcuffs around his wrists. Because he and his lawyer had known the day before that he would be entering a plea this morning, Jacob hadn't bothered to get him a suit, so he was still wearing his orange jumpsuit. In addition to the cuffs on his wrists, manacles were around his ankles. The jumpsuit, cuffs and manacles made it clear to all participants in the judicial process that a trial would not happen that morning, so Barbara's venting and the judge's question were mostly rhetorical, both knowing what was about to occur.

Thomas was filled with fear, regardless of whether a plea was in his best interests. Of all the things he'd done wrong in his life, he'd only served ten days in jail, not counting the time he'd been in since the recent incident. It was a fact hammered home by Bill O'Reilly on his program, and the reason so many in the media had made their own appearances as well. Thomas knew how everyone in the courtroom felt about him. And it made him feel very lonely with the kind of isolation that made him drink and do drugs in the first place. The more legal trouble he got into, the less his prospects for living a respectable life were, so he drank more to escape from his pitiful reality, got into more legal and personal troubles as a result, and the cycle repeated itself over and over again. Each time he would end up even deeper in the hole he'd dug for himself. Except for the brief visit he had with his mom just before his parents agreed to pay for an attorney, he had seen neither hide nor hair of them. They, too, had told him they'd given up on their baby boy. It seemed that the only person he had left on his side was his attorney, the man who had advised him to plea to a charge that would, for the first time, send him to prison. Deep inside, he knew he needed more, but he wasn't sure what "more" consisted of.

"Mr. Thomas," Judge Bosco said. "Is this true?"

He nodded in agreement.

"Counselor, please escort your client to the podium. Mr. Thomas, no more nodding. You must say 'yes' or 'no' so we have a record. Understand?"

Before he stood up to walk to the podium, he said, "Yes."

The court was set up as usual with counsel tables facing the judge and just enough space between them for two grown men to walk side by side. Just in front of this space was a large yet portable dark colored walnut podium, It had a slightly back-angled Formica top with a lip on its edge designed to hold files, notepads, and whatever else counsel or parties needed in front of them. In this case, after leading his client to the podium, Jacob opened his rather thick file and laid it out, which revealed a fresh legal pad. Thomas stood to his left looking up at the judge. He wasn't hunched over as he had been at his earlier appearance since the chain that had connected the manacles on his feet to his hands had been removed for the proceeding.

Jacob pulled a disposable pen out of his pocket and removed its cap. Normally, he used a click-type pen, but after many court appearances in front of Judge Bosco, he had learned most of the many peculiarities of Darkwell County District Court's chief judge. In this case, Judge Bosco's prejudice against pen clicks—the clicking distracted the proceedings, he believed, and Jacob knew that just one such inadvertent click would likely elicit a reprimand from the judge and the pen's likely confiscation, so he chose to play it safe, using a pen that eliminated all risk of such embarrassment.

Judge Bosco opened the court file and sighed impatiently. "Counsel, I do not have a copy of the plea agreement." Lack of preparation for such hearings, including not giving the judge a copy of the plea in advance, was yet another of Judge Bosco's pet peeves.

"Sorry, Your Honor. May I approach the bench?" Jacob replied as he removed the signed copy from his file and motioned toward the judge.

"Yes."

Jacob sheepishly walked up to the bench and handed Judge Bosco the plea agreement, then returned to the podium. Michael resumed his humble demeanor, face once again looking down as if a glance at the judge might turn him into a pillar of salt.

At that moment, two reporters walked as stealthily as they could to the back of the courtroom and appeared to be attempting to leave. This attracted Judge Bosco's attention. "Bailiff," he commanded, "Please do not let anyone out of here 'til we're finished. Don't let anyone in either, understand?"

As the judge's assistant sat in the witness stand and took notes of the proceedings, a rotund sheriff's deputy who stood between her and the jury box nodded in agreement and walked across the courtroom, in front of the podium, and past the thigh-high gate that separated litigants from the gallery observers. The entrance consisted of double-wide doors in the center aisle, and the deputy positioned himself right in the middle of them. No one would go in and out until the plea was done, including the two reporters who were desperate to call in news of the plea to their respective news agencies.

Turning his attention back toward Thomas and Jacob, he continued, "That's better." He paused for a moment then looked back towards the gallery. "And if I see anyone looking down at their cell phones and typing with their fingers, 'texting,' I believe you kids call it today, I will confiscate your phone until the end of the proceedings . . . and maybe longer." He then nodded toward Jacob and Thomas, signaling that he was done reprimanding the reporters and everyone else in the courtroom.

For the next ten minutes Judge Bosco read every word of the five-page document, including the count to which Thomas was pleading guilty, and the ones the state dismissed. He also read of a litany of rights the defendant was giving up as a result of the plea, including the right to a jury trial and the right to appeal the plea itself, though his right to appeal a so-called illegal sentence was still intact. After reading it all, Judge Bosco asked, "Is this your signature at the bottom of the last page?"

"Yes, sir," Thomas meekly replied.

"Is this what you understand to be the plea agreement between you and the State?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did anyone make any promises or commitments not contained in this agreement?"

"No, sir."

"Do you still want to plead guilty to aggravated battery as this document states?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I accept your plea of guilty, and set this matter for sentencing in this courtroom on October 20 at 9:00 A.M. Is there anything else?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Jacob replied. "We intend to file a motion to depart in this case. Since we have substantial mitigating circumstances and there is a possibility of a non-prison sanction, we ask that the court reconsider its earlier refusal to reduce the bond."

Looking frustrated and turning his gaze back and forth between Jacob and Barbara, Judge Bosco replied, "Is that an oral motion to reduce or modify?"

"Yes."

"Denied." Turning toward his assistant sitting in the witness stand, he said, "I believe that's it for this morning's docket." He slammed his gavel on the surface of the desk and said, "Court is in recess."

Judge Bosco rose and walked out of the courtroom through his private door, which emptied directly into his office. His assistant and the court reporter followed closely behind. The detention deputy who had escorted Thomas into the courtroom walked back to him and motioned him out a side door.

"I'll set up a jail visit tomorrow," Jacob told him, not interfering with the deputy's duties.

Looking down, still near the podium but with his back to it, Thomas answered halfheartedly, "Thanks," and then walked in front of the deputy toward the door.
Chapter 33

One Little Victory; One Big Decision

Jacob quickly stuffed his files into his brief case, not bothering to be neat, and rushed out of the courtroom as fast as he could. He refused to say "bye" to the prosecutor, and waived off the press. Unlike most attorneys, he hated the media.

Barbara gingerly organized her stacks of files, all relating to the Thomas case, and carefully put them in her wheeled brief bag. After she finished packing up her files, she pulled a cell phone out of her suit jacket's inside pocket and dialed the DA's witness liaison office number. "Kimberly?" she inquired after the ringing ended.

"Yes."

"This is Barbara. Thomas pled so you can release the witnesses."

"Do you want to talk to any of them?"

"Only if they insist."

They didn't.

Barbara looked toward the back of the courtroom as she continued packing up her files. She loved the press and desperately wanted to give a statement, something akin to "Justice is served." But Jackson would have none of that. That was his job, one that would lead to bigger and better things for him at least. She saw him open the back door and wave to the reporters as he exited, which caused her to frown slightly as she imagined what it would be like to have a bunch of microphones and cameras shoved in her face. She silently rehearsed what she would say if she had her boss' job. "Justice is served," she realized, would just be her opening statement. She sighed as she watched the reporters rush out of the courtroom to take a statement from him, flashes going off everywhere and a sudden cacophony of voices shattering the solemnity of the courtroom. It was time for the consummate politician to score points with his constituents.

"I do the work and he gets the glory," she said quietly. "That figures."

*****

"So what's next?" Robert asked Charles as they walked out of the DA's office together, side by side. They had lingered there long enough for the press to give up its vigil—a statement from the grandfather who made this all possible made their proverbial mouths' water. It had been more than an hour since the hearing ended. The last thing Charles wanted was to be asked to make a statement in response to a question that would go something like, "How does it feel knowing what you did hurt your grandson?"

"He'll be sentenced, and I expect Bosco to send him to prison for as long as the law permits for this kind of a case. At least that's my experience with him. They're wasting time on a departure motion. Heck, I wouldn't be surprised if Bosco ignores the state's recommendation of three years prison and instead throws him in for the max."

"Good," Robert replied. A strange and unexpected feeling of guilt flooded his mind at the instant he realized he was experiencing joy at the idea of vengeance being served in the courtroom. He turned his eyes away from Charles, thinking his grandfather's unworldly ability to read the thoughts of defendants, jurors, and other lawyers might pierce though the veil of his own thoughts.

"Yeah," Charles agreed as they approached their vehicles, parked side by side in the parking lot. "Very good."

When they reached Charles's SUV, he stopped and Robert continued walking past it to his own car, which his mom and dad drove down to Texas when he decided to begin college as scheduled and not wait until he healed from his wounds. He needed the car to drive to and from the physical therapist's office.

"Hold on," Charles said from behind.

Robert turned around and said, "What's up?"

"I called a friend of mine yesterday. He's an attorney in Bedford, Texas. He could use a part-time runner."

Robert walked back to Charles. They now faced each other, just a couple of feet apart. Although therapy was going better than expected, Robert had overheard UTA's team physician telling the coach that he didn't think Robert would ever be able to play college-level ball again. It had happened at his first team meeting and had followed a few conversations he had with the coach and graduate assistants during which none made eye contact with him. Indeed, all appeared, at least to Robert, frustrated that he was taking up one of their valuable scholarship spots. Yet he held out hope, thinking that maybe his case would be different, that he'd defy the odds.

Logic told him otherwise. Standing there in front of his grandfather, Robert knew it was time to consider other career options. Being a lawyer had been good to his grandfather. He had already thought about law as a good path for his future. It was too early to say for sure, but maybe that was God's purpose behind the tragedy, to redirect his path to conform to God's will and not his own. It wouldn't hurt to see what a law office was like.

Robert didn't answer right away as he briefly considered Proverbs 19:21, one of his favorite Bible verses: "Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the LORD'S purpose that prevails."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Charles replied, handing him one of his business cards with a name and telephone number written in the back.

Robert took the card and stared at it for a few moments, then looked up at Charles. "Why did this have to happen?"

"I wish I knew. Maybe there's a purpose to it. I don't know."

He stuck the card in his back pocket and turned to walk away, saying over his right shoulder, "Thanks, I'll call him as soon as I get to my dorm."

"Do that."
Chapter 34

John Slate, Esquire

"Is Mr. Slate in?" Robert asked the pleasant-voiced receptionist on the other end of the telephone. "I'm Robert Baxter. Charles Fleming, my grandfather, told me to give him a call."

He had called as soon as he got back to his dorm room, waiting only long enough to grab a cola out of his mini 'fridge, pop open the top, and take a large gulp. He then sat the can on the end table squeezed between the left end of the futon and the wall. He then lay down on the futon and held the telephone handset up to his left cheek as he looked up at the ceiling, wondering what fate had in store for him next. Were even more changes around the corner?

"Hold, please. I'll see if he's available."

He waited for no more than thirty seconds. "Hello," a commanding voice said. "This is John Slate."

"Hi," a meeker voice responded. "This is Robert Baxter, Charles Fleming's grandson."

"Certainly. Chuck said you'd be calling. You interested in law?"

"Yes sir, at least I have been the last several months."

"I understand why. How's the recovery coming along?"

"Well, thank you."

"Are you doing anything this afternoon?"

"Not really."

"Good. Why don't you come to the office at 4:00 so we can talk about that job?"

"Thanks. I'm looking forward to it."

Both hung up. Robert sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and stood. He walked the three feet that stood between him and his study covey and pulled out the chair. He sat down, scooted the chair closer to the desk, and then reached up to turn on the brass-and green-glassed banker's lamp that he preferred when studying. Although it was daytime, the placement of the window limited the amount of light that reached his desk so the lamp was essential for studying, no matter what time of day it was. He pulled his advanced trigonometry notebook off the bookshelf above the desk and opened it to the course syllabus, reviewing his homework assignment for Tuesday.

"Wow," he exclaimed with a chuckle. "That's a lot of work." He looked at the digital clock sitting on the shelf over his desk: 2:00 P.M. He was tempted to take a nap for the next hour-and-a-half. The six hours of driving back and forth to Darkwell had left him spent, but he suspected that if he gave into the temptation he might not wake up in time to make it to the job interview. He decided to study instead. He estimated how long it would take to get it done, close to three hours, and proceeded to open the textbook and read the assigned chapter, essential if he had any hope of completing the dozen or so problems assigned for the next day's class discussion: an hour-and-a-half before the interview, and another after that should do it. He knew of a Starbucks near Slate's law firm, so he decided to study there instead, to fall back to a routine that would help him get the case off his mind. He threw his textbook, class notebook, and cracked laptop computer into his book back, pausing a brief moment as seeing the crack in the computer's shell reminded him how it got broken. "Didn't even get a new laptop out of the deal," he said, laughing, as he zipped up the bag, stood, and left the room.

Two hours later he was sitting in the plush waiting room in of Slate, Jones & Walker, P.A. The receptionist kindly offered him a soda, which he declined, asking for a bottled water instead (one cola a day was his limit—that and all the coffee he could drink!), so he sat in a very comfortable love seat sipping water and reading a three-month-old issue of Sports illustrated, waiting for John Slate to see him.

He didn't wait long. He heard a boisterous voice followed by laughter through the leftmost of the two large, solid mahogany, ornately carved doors that separated the reception area from the lawyers' offices. The door burst open and a grinning average height but athletically built man in dark green khaki pants, white shirt, black exotic skin cowboy boots, red tie, and brown blazer, closed the distance between him and Robert in seconds. His attire and boisterous demeanor reminded Robert of his grandfather, though in a much more compact package. Once in handshake distance, Slate shot out his right hand to Robert, which he awkwardly shook with his one fully functional appendage.

"Sorry about that," John Slate, Esquire, said, recognizing his mistake, as he stuck out his other hand for a more vigorous greeting. "Robert, it's good to meet you in person."

"Thanks."

"So . . ." he began, as he walked to Robert's side, placed his hand on his shoulder, and gently guided him back through the double-wide doors from whence he came. After the door they walked through closed behind them, he asked, "Are you interested in law?"

They were walking side by side as they made their way through two more corridors to John's office as Robert hesitated to answer. He was getting a little more comfortable, so nervousness wasn't the reason he didn't answer immediately. "Interested in law" just didn't seem to be the right phrase to describe his situation. "Accepting the consolation prize" seemed a more appropriate reason for him to be walking through the halls of a law firm while his teammates were hurling and hitting fastballs, and working on their fielding skills. Yet, instinct told him that no one wants to hire an employee who can't express himself enthusiastically, as in wanting to be in that particular place at that moment. So he smiled, puffed out his chest, and loudly proclaimed, "Absolutely." Suddenly and without notice, Robert realized that he actually believed his statement. The thought dawned on him that he had always wanted to be like his Grandpa Charles. Charles Fleming, the attorney who was admired and loved by everyone. He smiled even bigger at the thought.

"Good," John said as they arrived at a closed office door, which looked to Robert to be even bigger than the two double doors in the reception area combined. He turned the knob, pulled open the gigantic door, and gently pushed Robert inside in front of him. "Take a seat," John said, motioning toward a small round conference table to the left of his huge mahogany desk, which was directly in front of them. The back of the desk chair faced away from to a large plate-glass window overlooking what appeared to be a pond surrounded by trees and flowers. Robert silently reflected on how pompous and even obnoxious everything seemed to be at John's firm. It contrasted sharply with his grandfather's offices. Charles's office did have three suites and a conference room, but those accommodations were understated and quite dated. The carpet was a little worn, the furniture older and well used, and the doors were just doors. Charles often bragged about the great deals he got at various furniture auctions. He was frugal, and John and his partners clearly were not.

"What a view," Robert said enthusiastically.

"Thanks. It's the biggest office in the building, with the best view in Bedford, I'd guess. Of course, there aren't that many good views in Bedford."

Robert nodded.

"Who knows?" John replied as he winked his right eye at Robert. "Maybe someday it'll be yours."

Robert let out an slight chuckle. John did the same, though less awkward than Robert's.

"What do you think of criminal defense?"

"Grandpa's a defense attorney. I think it's necessary." He hesitated as he considered whether he felt the same about Michael Thomas. "They deserve the best defense they can afford, I suppose."

"We do some criminal defense, though mostly personal injury and plaintiffs' work. Do you think you can put aside any prejudices your recent situation may have created?"

Robert sat silent for a second, looking down toward the table's surface, seriously considering what was just asked of him. For some unknown reason, an answer popped into his head, one that gave him complete peace in what he knew he had to do. He looked back up at John, eyes piercing into the man's soul. "Absolutely."

John grinned.

"Then let's not waste any time. I need a runner right now. You'll report to work in the afternoons and file motions, petitions, whatever needs to be filed with the courts, and do errands for the attorneys and their assistants. Can you handle that?"

Looking a little disappointed, the smile now gone, he said, "Yes."

"After you've been here awhile, we'll make use of that impressive intellect of yours. I'll expect you to dip your toes into legal research, and perhaps write a legal memorandum or two. Understand?"

The smile returned. "You bet."

"Good," John replied, sticking out his left hand this time. Robert took it and shook John's hand firmly, vigorously sealing the deal.
PART IV

There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness.

Josh Billings (1818-1885)
Chapter 35

Ethically Challenged

It had been a month since Robert began his job as runner for Slate, Jones & Walker, P.A. and a few days longer than that since Michael A. Thomas had pled guilty. So, approximately four months after the accident, a little more than a month after Robert started classes at UTA, he waited for closure of the most traumatic event of his life. Regrettably, so-called closure was elusive. The closer it appeared, the more out of reach it became. News of the latest setback was delivered by his own grandpa, though Charles was merely the messenger and not the cause. He told Robert the day before that the defendant's attorney continued the sentencing for a competency evaluation, which meant yet one more postponement of justice. "The boy's acting like a loon," is how he explained it to Robert.

"Does that mean he'll get off?" Robert asked Charles on the telephone.

"No. Not at this point. It's just a delaying tactic. Thomas probably doesn't want to go to prison sooner than he has to. I guess jail food is better then prison food...and the companionship still platonic." He followed up his comment with a chuckle. He knew he was slipping into his pre-Christian attitudes as he considered what happened to young, physically slight boys in prison, but he didn't care. "He'll be the prison punching bag, and might just become someone's girlfriend."

He'll get what he deserves, Robert thought as he allowed a sinister smile cross his face, realizing just for a moment that his Christian attitude was being overcome by a desire for justice. His gut burned slightly. It felt bad but good at the same time. It wasn't justice he wanted, he realized not for the first time. It was vengeance. He wondered if this latest trick might not only delay Michael Thomas's day of reckoning but avert it entirely.

What Charles didn't elaborate on was how odd the timing of such an evaluation was. "Comp evals," as they are commonly referred to in the criminal justice system, normally occur long before the plea is entered. They are most often requested even before the preliminary hearing, and certainly long before a defendant pleads guilty. He told Robert not to worry, that it was just a formality, but it concerned him nonetheless. The idea that the scumbag who almost killed his grandson would go free just because a psychiatrist said he was nuts was distasteful at best and disgusting at its worst. He wondered whether Jacob had the funds to hire a psychiatrist from outside Oklahoma, the only chance he had of receiving an evaluation that would even remotely find him crazy, or even remotely fit his psyche within the legal definition, "competent to stand trial."

Such tactics seldom work, Charles kept telling himself. He told Robert a little more emphatically, "It's just a defense attorney tactic to make sure the attorney doesn't get censured for legal malpractice. It won't work, I promise." He almost said guarantee, but thought the better of it. Crazier things had happened. Instead, he said truthfully, "You'd be surprised how often the most loony, psychotic defendants are held at least competent enough to stand trial. All they have to know is that what they did was wrong and that they know they're dealing with it in a court of law. It's a very low bar."

Robert got the news on a Monday. After receiving the update, he left his dorm room and crossed the parking lot. He parked his Mustang GT at the far end of the lot to protect it from other students who drove less precious modes of transportation, such as Chevy Camaros, which meant he had several hundred feet to walk after he left the dormitory building. He hopped into his Mustang to drive to work, arriving at the usual time, around 2:00 P.M.

From the point when Charles told him the news up to the moment he arrived at the firm in Bedford, the most recent information shared with him about the case dominated his thoughts. Indeed, it was the only thing on his mind.

On the drive to Bedford he did his best to drown out his thoughts with the classic AC/DC song Back in Black blaring out of the speakers full volume. Janie introduced him to Christian hard rock bands early in their rediscovered relationship, but he had already discovered that it was hard to linger on unwholesome thoughts such as vengeance when the words of those songs were piped into his head, so he would crank up secular tunes that forced him to meditate on selfish, even bad images and feelings. As he drove to work and considered the conversation he had with Charles about Michael, he wanted to feel hate. He wanted to linger on images of Michael getting what was coming to him in prison. But it didn't work. As the words "Don't try to push your luck, just get out of my way. . .'cause I'm back in black," screamed through the car speakers, he actually felt the urge to pray. For a fleeting moment he actually wished he wasn't a Christian. Unsatisfied with the temporary adrenaline of AC/DC as well as his grandpa's assurances, as soon as he arrived he went straight to John's office.

In front of John's large and formidable door was an equally imposing secretarial workstation. No boring Formica-topped desk for Slate's secretary, Robert noted—that lucky employee got a large oak L-shaped desk with computer and printer on the side perpendicular to the main section with the front of the desk facing out to all visitors. A little to the left of the secretary's back was John's door, and there was just enough room between the edge of her desk and the wall for two people to walk past, side by side. Clearly, absent approval from the secretary or a personal escort from John, which was how Robert had entered John's office the first time he walked into the senior litigator's private chambers, no one would get past this desk. He chuckled as he wondered if he might be asked for a password or perhaps to solve a riddle. "What is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?" his mind wandered, thinking about the famous line in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

"Is John in?" he asked Martha Lane, John's heavily made-up, middle-aged, slightly chunky, bottle-blonde secretary/gatekeeper, whose personal claim to fame was being the named plaintiff in one of the largest class action lawsuits in the country involving breast implants. From what Robert could tell, she still had the implants, that or two rolls of toilet paper stuffed in her brassiere. He barely controlled a growing compulsion to giggle and to ask her, "What is your favorite color?" Yet another question asked by the gatekeeper in the aforementioned Python movie.

"Why, sweetie, he sure is," Martha answered in a pronounced Texas twang, winking her right eye at him. "Just let yourself in."

Lots of winking going on in the building, he reflected.

He walked past her, winked back, and whispered to himself the answer that always put him in a good mood: "blue, no, yellow," and then opened John's door. He walked into the sanctuary. At that moment it dawned on him that thinking about his favorite Monte Python flick had almost made him forget about his real-world concerns. As he pulled the door shut behind him, he heard Martha talking to herself, though not quietly enough to not be overheard by him. "That boy is one tall glass of water. If I were ten years younger, I'd go for that."

He blushed slightly and then thought, ten years? Try twenty.

John was initially startled by the interruption. He spun his chair around from the window to face Robert. His look of surprise was quickly replaced with a welcoming smile. "Hey, boy," he said. "I've heard some good things about you."

"Really?" Robert replied as John motioned him to take one of the two seats across his desk.

Robert took a seat.

"Yeah, really. Jonesey tells me that you found a case that saved him on a motion for summary judgment in an employment discrimination case. You're a life saver."

"Thanks."

"Is there something you need?"

Looking down, slightly embarrassed that he was about to ask someone not family for a favor, a big favor, he answered, "Yes, sir."

The idea he had was unconventional, he suspected, and considering the fact that it dawned on him in the middle of "Hell's Bells" during his drive to the office, he seriously doubted it was morally right. The net result was that now he had an audience with the one man he needed guidance from, someone who would keep his confidences and not tell his grandpa, he suddenly felt reluctant to say what he was thinking. He further pondered whether the action he wanted to take was par for the course for attorneys, one of those moral gray areas he had read about. Malum prohibitum, his grandfather had once described, or "bad just because someone said it was and not in and of itself." Or were his reservations just products of a kid's naiveté and inexperience?

John interrupted the silence as he looked down at his watch. "I have to get over to the courthouse in five minutes, son. What do you need?"

"I'm sorry," he replied, trying to avoid eye contact. "But you've got to promise to not tell Grandpa what I'm about to say."

John shook his head back and forth, frowning. "Am I gonna regret this?"

"You don't have to say yes to the request, just to telling Grandpa."

"Okay, I promise."

"It's about the accident. The sentencing was postponed for a competency evaluation."

"Don't worry about that. It happens all the time. Chances are that he will be sentenced and the judge will hit him a little harder at the sentencing for wasting the court's time. He'll be punished for claiming insanity, that's all. It's a good thing, if you ask me, especially since he's not my client." John laughed at the last comment.

"I know. Grandpa told me pretty much the same thing. But that's not what I need your help with."

"Go ahead."

"I want to see him, to ask him what he was thinking, why he did it."

The room fell silent.

*****

"Jeez!" exclaimed Brent Jones, Esquire, the Jones of Slate, Jones & Walker, P.A., otherwise known as "Jonesey." They were sitting in Jonesey's office, much smaller than John's. Jonesey was in his desk chair, similar to John's though a little smaller, and John was in one of the two plush and expensive leather client chairs across the desk from his. "I cannot believe you helped him do that. Do you realize how much trouble you might have caused us?"

"Don't worry," John told his friend of twenty years and partner for the past ten. He began to scratch the crown of his semi-balding head, which had just begun to itch incessantly, a familiar sign that he knew what he did was wrong. He chuckled, trying to brush off Jonesey's concerns. "He's not going in a representative capacity. In fact, I had a buddy of mine pull some strings and put Robert on the perp's family and friends list. Apparently, he is the only person other than the mom and dad who are on it. My inside man promised to erase all references to Robert once the visit is done."

"If you didn't know what you did was wrong you wouldn't have waited until now to say something," replied Jonesey. He glanced at the top of John's itching head. "Darn it, John, we could get censured for this, or worse. All of us, not just you, could pay for your stupidity."

"Trust me," John replied.

"Famous last words," Jonesey said.

John saw his friend wince at the idea of Slate, Jones, & Walker being subjected to public censure by the state bar or worse, for something so silly, so avoidable. But he said nothing. Instead, his mind began to churn out ideas about what legal maneuvering he could do to spare the firm the fallout that might arise from his lack of good judgment.

As if he could read the thoughts of his friend, thoughts tinged with condescension and moral superiority, John almost divulged worse things he had done in the past—things that would have most certainly earned the wrath of the state bar's disciplinary administrator. "I got away with worse things before, so chill out," he wanted to say, but he thought better of bringing those up. Still, he just couldn't leave his defense to just that. His trial lawyer instinct told him he had to say something to defend himself. "It'll be all right, Jonesey. Besides, what are you worried about? Who the heck cares about the Oklahoma Bar? Do you think any of us will ever want to practice in Oklahoma?"

It was a hollow argument, John realized, hoping Jonesey wouldn't catch the error in his logic. Simply put, censure or disbarment in one state would automatically result in equivalent discipline in another.

The anger vainly masked by Jonesey's somber look seethed inside, then burst forth. "Are you kidding me?" he yelled loud enough to be heard through the extra-thick, allegedly soundproof door that separated his office from his assistants. As with his chair and desk, the door was the same type that sheltered John's office, though slightly smaller. Two associate attorneys were walking by and heard the outburst. His secretary shuffled papers, pretending that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. She hoped that the associates would just move on. She even waved her hand in the air, motioning them to move along. They did.

"Do you think for a moment that an incident like this won't be reported to the Texas Bar?"

So much for Jonesey not catching my logic error, John thought, his frown betraying the otherwise masked machinations of his trial lawyer mind. "You're overreacting," was all he could think to say.

He glared at Jonesey. His concern over placing the firm in jeopardy was replaced by his own anger over a much younger and less experienced partner questioning his actions. He was the first name on their placard, after all, and didn't have to put up with such chastisement. His ego began to cycle through all the reasons Jonesey should not be questioning him. For one, more than half of the firm's fees came from John's clients. He placed his hands on the edge of the desk and stood, still staring at his colleague. "Back off, Jonesey. There's nothing to worry about. If something happens, I'll take the heat."

He turned to leave and started walking toward the door.

"When your boy gets back," Jonesey said loud enough to get his attention, "tell him to find another job."

The comment stopped John dead in his tracks, but he continued to face the door, head now tilted at an angle toward the floor. "No. He asked me to help him with something and I did. He had no idea there was a problem." Looking back at Jonesey, he added, "And there's not. A little advice for you, gratis: you will get a lot further in life by not worrying about problems that don't even exist yet." He looked back toward the exit and walked toward it, slowly, making sure Jonesey knew that he was still the only three-thousand-pound gorilla in the room.
Chapter 36

Facing Down the Enemy

It had been a week since Robert asked for the favor. While John and Jonesey sat in the latter's office arguing about the wisdom of John setting up the jail visit, Robert was sitting in a visitor's cubicle in the Darkwell County Detention Facility's visitation area. The telephone handset was still sitting in its cradle. He felt very uncomfortable, wondering what he'd say when the man who had almost killed him sat down in front of him, face to face. He silently prayed that God would give him the words he needed to say. He also asked God to give him the grace he needed to forgive him. The anger he'd been feeling leading up to the meeting had mostly waned. He felt periodic anger eruptions every time he tried to lift his right arm, which, although not in a totally immobile cast anymore, was still in a sling as the healing process continued. He felt even angrier when he considered the reality that he would never fully heal.

Suddenly, he caught a flash of orange out of the corner of his right eye. Butterflies churned in his gut. Anger mingled with nervousness. Robert kept his gaze fixed forward toward the empty chair in front of him. The orange blur grew bigger and clearer.

Why am I here? He asked himself. A voice in his head screamed, "Leave!" but he was frozen to his chair, immobile and paralyzed with anger, fear, and trepidation. "Leave!" the voice screamed again.

Too late.

Michael A. Thomas took the seat on the other side of the glass. He picked up the handset and placed it to the left side of his face. Robert sat frozen in time. Thomas didn't see anger, surprise, or whatever emotion one would expect to see on the face of a victim of a crime who was now facing the perpetrator. Instead, Robert just sat still, seemingly oblivious to the outside world, mouth agape. Thomas had to tap the glass with the handset to get his attention, to snap him out of his stupor or whatever it was. He mouthed "Who are you?" through the glass, and perhaps "Hello?" Though the glass was too thick for anyone to hear him on the other side without a handset to his ear.

Robert snapped to attention and slowly removed his handset. Like Thomas, he also placed it on the left side of his face, though he did so not because he was left-handed but because it was awkward to place it on the right side with his only usable hand, the left.

"Who are you?" Thomas said aloud this time. "They told me I had family here to visit. You don't look like family to me."

The man sitting across from Robert was much thinner and shorter than he was. Physically, Robert had nothing to fear, especially since the prisoner had manacles on his ankles and wrists and was sitting behind a two-inch thick, shatterproof glass wall. Still, Robert felt fear.

"I'm..." his voice cracked, and his throat suddenly grew very scratchy. He coughed loudly. "Sorry. I'm Robert Baxter."

Thomas' eyes squinted shut, then opened. "Why are you here?" he said, trying to not look impatient or fearful. He knew he wasn't the smartest bulb in the box, but he was certain that what was happening at the moment was not normal.

"I'm not sure."

"How did you get in?"

"I can't say."

"My attorney would be ticked. I don't think you should be here."

Robert smiled. "You don't look crazy to me," he said sarcastically.

*****

On the other side of the glass, instinct told Thomas to get up and walk away, but something else was in charge at the moment. He had a puzzled expression on his face and something intangible kept his rump rooted to the chair as he fought the urge to leave. He arched his eyebrows then placed his elbows on the table, staring at Robert intently. He had only heard about the boy he almost killed. He had lain awake in bed many nights wondering if the boy was okay, whether he would ever recover from the accident. Every now and then he told himself that no injury was worth a man spending time in prison. His eyebrows relaxed as he realized that it was this conflict between compassion for Robert and his own selfish desire to be free that compelled him to stay.

He wanted to talk to Robert as much as Robert wanted to talk to him. He wanted answers, maybe even forgiveness.

He laughed nervously. "You heard?"

"Yeah, I heard."

"Don't worry," he replied. "I'm not going anywhere. My attorney booked a Caribbean Cruise and needed another month to prepare. That's all. It made me mad as you."

"You're kidding?"

"Afraid not. My competency is being evaluated so my attorney can spend six weeks in the Caribbean, but please don't tell anyone I told you."

"That's ridiculous."

"Yeah, it is. Instead of going to prison and being put in a room that's made for humans, I'm stuck in this concrete box eating bad TV dinners for another two months."

Robert snickered at the last comment, causing Thomas to frown and tense up. "It's not funny, at least not for me."

"Sorry. Actually, it's something Grandpa said. He said you might want to stay in jail longer since the food was better." Thomas' tension released as he smiled, too.

The light-hearted moment almost led Robert to say he was sorry, but then he remembered why Thomas was behind the glass, a fresh throb of pain in his right shoulder punctuating this reality. Maybe an unpleasant concrete box is what you need, he considered. Then he remembered why he was there. "I've got to know something."

"What?"

"Why'd you do it?"

Instinct again told Thomas to get up and leave, but he felt heavy, immobile, and unable to move his feet, let alone stand. It wasn't the manacles that weighted him down. It was something else. Something he couldn't put a finger on. Guilt, maybe? Yes, that was it. He knew he shouldn't say a word, but something again compelled him to take this as far as possible. "I'm sorry."

Robert didn't know how to respond. He didn't want Thomas to apologize. Not yet anyway. That meant that he would have to forgive him, and he wasn't ready for that. He nodded but said nothing in response. He shut his eyes tight and shook his head side to side. He repeated, "Why'd you do it?"

"I don't know." He wanted to say, "I was drunk and don't remember a thing, except for the thud against the front of the car. I thought I hit a deer, or dog, anything but you." But he didn't. That, at least, he knew would bite him back. The poor privileged college boy, who up to that moment in his life had everything going for him, would run back to the prosecutor and tell him everything. The prosecutor would then use his own unrepentant words against him at the sentencing. For a moment he even thought that maybe this was a trick. The state had no intention of honoring the plea and would use anyone, even its own victim, to weasel out of it.

Just as Robert was about to ask again, he said, "I'm a mess. I've been doing stupid things for a long time." His eyes moistened. "I can't explain any of it. All I can say is I'm sorry. If I could take back what happened, I would. But I can't."

Thomas dropped the phone, which fell off the edge of the cubicle desk and dangled from its aluminum-sheath covered cable just inches away from the floor. He buried his head in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably.

Robert sat silent. He was stunned that the man who had almost killed him had a heart. Sure, he knew it might be an act. He might be acting broken so the boy whose body he had broken would ask the judge to go light on him. But the sobbing seemed so real, so genuine. He felt a stirring in his heart, a compulsion to say something, the one thing the man sitting in front of him needed to hear. He tapped his handset on the glass, knowing that nothing he said into the phone would be heard as long as the handset on the other side kept dangling from the wall. Thomas finally looked up. Robert pointed his handset to the wall mount of Thomas's. He responded by picking up his handset and then held it up to his ear.

"Do you believe in God?" Robert asked.

Thomas hadn't heard a question like that since just before his grandmother died ten years before. "What?" he asked as the puzzled look he'd had when this conversation began returned to his face, but this time a wide-open mouth accompanied the arched eyebrows. He seemed genuinely shocked by this peculiar question.

"I said, 'do you believe in God?'"

"I don't know."
Chapter 37

Hope in the Darkest Hour

The office light was out and the blinds closed. It was an understated office, just big enough to fit a desk, three bookcases, a filing cabinet and three chairs—a cushioned, swiveling one with wheels behind the desk, and two slightly padded, four-legged wooden ones on the other side. The walls were light green. The furnishings were inexpensive but not cheap, most donated to the church many years before by a church member who was closing his business. The most noticeable things in the office were the books—dozens, perhaps hundreds of them. Most were Bible commentaries, which came in handy when Pastor Rick Matthews prepared his weekly sermons. There was a smattering of spiritual growth books that he and his associate pastors handed out to church members whenever their unique problems fit the subject matter within the covers.

Pastor Rick was sitting behind the desk with his head lying on it in the crook of his right elbow, which served as a pillow. He had been praying and crying, but that stopped two hours before as exhaustion took control of his senses and lulled him into a deep slumber. He would've slept much longer, but the ringing and vibrations from the cell phone clipped to his belt startled him awake. It kept ringing as he glanced up at the green-lighted digital clock on the filing cabinet, the only light in the room. It flashed 4:00 P.M.

He detached the phone from his belt, flipped it open, and placed it to his right cheek. "Hello?" he groggily said.

"Pastor Rick?"

"Yeah," he replied, shaking his head vigorously, side-to-side, trying to shake the cobwebs out of his head and guess the identity of the faceless voice on the other end of the line. "Who is this?"

"Robert Baxter," he proclaimed enthusiastically.

"Hey, Robert," he replied, bubbling with excitement at the first uplifting emotion he'd sensed in someone else in days. "I haven't talked to you in weeks. How's school going?"

"Well."

"That's good to hear."

Pastor Rick silently reflected on Robert's recent challenges. He had been Robert's pastor for as long as he could remember. They had been through a roller coaster of emotions over the years—He had comforted the little fatherless boy who needed a male role model in his life and had offered a listening ear and nonjudgmental counsel to him when Robert's view of an omnipotent, compassionate God was challenged after the young man's accident. He was amazed that one so young could weather such storms with his spiritual well being intact. He pondered whether he, the Pastor, would have turned out as well had he not been sheltered in a God-fearing home with two Christian parents who raised their family in a home that was absent the storms inherent in the typical, or not-so-typical, dysfunctional family. Robert was a model Christian, despite or perhaps because of the difficult upbringing of his earlier years.

Pastor Rick also wondered if he would be making the change in his career direction recent events compelled him to make if he had been formed of the same mettle as Robert. The timing of the call could not have been worse, or better, depending on how one looked at it. It was good to hear a friendly voice. He knew from experience that his visit with Robert would be pleasant and not spirit-draining. In his line of work, the latter was far more common. "Spiritual vampires" were the bane of his calling, those who reveled more in depressing others with their problems than being made whole through spiritual and emotional healing. I can do all things through him who gives me strength, he thought, as he momentarily doubted whether the particular Bible verse was true. He mostly took such so-called counseling sessions in stride, shaking off their depressing effects by meditating on more uplifting Proverbs or other biblical passages. Moreover, such depressing meetings were vastly outweighed by the joy that came from helping other, less co-dependent types overcome the difficulties life entailed—at least, that's how it used to be. Recently, especially the most recent few days, the bad far outweighed the good.

Four funerals in as many days, and two of those were children, one baby just six months old, and one teenage boy who had been killed in an accidental shooting at his own home by his younger brother. How apropos that Robert, a victim of a no less tragic accident—he was near death, at least—would call him at such a time as this. He had been praying for strength when exhaustion had lulled him to sleep. He was too weak to make it through the strain of so much death in so short a period of time. Regrettably, the prayer did not give him the strength he initially sought. Instead, he decided that he would use what little strength he had left to tell the congregation at Stonelee Christian Fellowship that he was resigning as lead pastor, effective immediately. He had enough of the demands a full-time pastorate placed on him and his family. He had enough funerals and spiritual vampires sucking the life out of him in the past week to last a lifetime.

"So what's going on?" Pastor Rick asked, knowing that Robert never called unless he felt moved to do so.

"This will sound bizarre," he began, "but I talked to the guy who hit me, Michael Thomas."

"What do you mean?"

"You know. The guy who almost killed me? I visited him in jail."

Pastor Rick said nothing.

"I was hoping you would go down and see him."

"What for?"

"I think it's spiritual. He's been in and out of trouble most of his life, and he blames alcohol and drugs. But I think it's spiritual, that and parents who are almost as lost as he is. I even asked him if he believes in God."

"What did he say?"

"He said, 'I don't know.'"

"Does your mom know you visited him?"

"No."

"Your grandpa?"

"No. And you can't tell them. This is between us: you, me and Michael."

"Okay," Pastor Rick said after both sat silent for several moments. He wondered what transpired between the victim and his assailant to compel Robert to address the would-be convict by his first name. "I'll go see him."

"Thanks."

After hanging up the phone, Pastor Rick resumed praying. He stayed awake this time, interrupting his prayer time every so often to make notes for his resignation speech. He reached for his pocket planner on the edge of his desk, opened it up, and penciled in a jail visit for Michael Thomas in Darkwell County jail the next day.
Chapter 38

Spiritual Healing

It was 9:00 A.M. on a Tuesday, the day before Pastor Rick planned to tell his staff about his plans to resign, and the Tuesday preceding the Wednesday night sermon he would deliver to the congregation telling them the same thing. It would be his last sermon behind a podium. A feeling of guilt hit him as he wondered that the Elders would do to fill the pulpit the next Sunday. The thought made him sad and mad at the same time. The latter emotion momentarily moved him away from guilt and toward a much more selfish feeling. Forty-three years old, he had spent more than twenty years of his life preaching the gospel and it was about to end. He felt like he had wasted most of his life. Since he'd made the decision to resign, the finality was all he could think about. Though he was certain it was what he had to do, he had yet to feel any peace about it. He felt so uneasy that he hadn't even shared his decision with his wife and family. Indeed, his stomach churned every time he thought about a future without God being such an integral a part of his life. He did look forward to the month or so he intended to take off before embarking on his new career plans as an insurance salesman or perhaps real estate agent, but that was just about the only thing he looked forward to. For the first time in his life, Pastor Rick's spirit was deeply disturbed about someone besides a member of his flock—himself.

Sitting in an incredibly uncomfortable, hard plastic chair in the reception area of the Darkwell County Jail, Pastor Rick's uneasy spirit had another unintended effect. He was at a loss for what he would say to Michael Thomas, convict and soon-to-be resident of the Oklahoma penal system. He always knew how to share the gospel with those in need of salvation, and even those sitting in prison or jail cells. He had even made visits to inmates in jails and prisons on occasion. But this time was different. This time he was there to offer spiritual counseling to a man who had almost killed one of the sheep in his own flock. This time it was personal. Would a shepherd offer comfort to a wolf that attacked his own sheep? He chuckled under his breath as he had a brief, non-resignation thought, though the laughter was quickly replaced by the fear of not knowing what he would say when facing Robert's assailant for the first time.

"I can't believe this," he said to himself, not loud enough for anyone else to hear. "A hundred jail visits where I can't shut up and now I'm speechless."

A crying mother sitting next to him looked over and winced.

"Sorry," he said. "Just thinking out loud." He was tempted to ask her if there was something he could do to help her, pray for her maybe. But he didn't. He just look at the floor and closed his eyes.

He imagined a session with Michael filled with total and utter silence. Michael, a young man he'd never met before, on one side of a glass wall with a phone plastered to his ear, and him on the other, neither saying a word. One of the two hoping desperately for words of hope, though at the moment Pastor Rick was uncertain which of the two needed such words the most.

What am I doing here? His thoughts screamed.

He was grasping his well-worn, leather-covered Bible firmly in his tightly clenched, sweaty-palmed right hand, unconsciously hoping that God's Word would seep into his spirit via osmosis. He had no desire at the moment to open it, mostly for fear that God would tell him to stay at Stonelee. Turning back from his decision to resign was a prospect that terrified him more than the unknown direction his broken spirit was leading him.

He wanted to stand up and leave, but his rump felt glued to the chair.

He opened his eyes and looked at his watch. It was 9:25. "What's taking so long?" he said aloud, this time loud enough to be heard by everyone else in the room, including the tearful mother. They each rolled their eyes at one another. One actually responded, "Tell me about it."

He heard a crackle in the speaker implanted in the glass separating the visitors from the desk sergeant. "Pastor Rick?" the voice emitted.

He stood and approached the desk. "Yes?"

Motioning to Pastor Rick's right, toward a large steel door, he said, "I'll buzz you in. Mr. Thomas will be in cubicle four."

"Thanks," he said as he walked toward the door.

He waited for the buzz and then pulled the door open. Moments later he was sitting in a chair just like the one he'd been sitting in moments before. Michael was not yet sitting on the other side, so he sat, wondering if he would have to wait another half hour or more. Thinking he might have a few more minutes, he glanced down at his Bible. The book's worn and cracked spine was now soaked with nervous sweat. He opened the cover and read the very first passage his eyes caught. "Oh, my God," he gasped.

He heard a tap on the window in front of him and looked up. A young man, probably not much older than Robert, sat before him tapping the glass with his telephone handset. Michael put his handset to his right cheek and Pastor Rick took his off its hook and did the same.

"Are you okay?" Michael asked.

The question startled him until he felt a tear slide down his cheek and fall onto the Bible's opened pages, directly on the passage that had caught his attention.

"Yeah," he replied. "I'm fine. How about you?"

Michael shrugged his shoulders as pride put up its usual defense. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Pastor Rick Matthews," he answered as he wiped his face dry with a handkerchief that he'd just pulled out of his left pants pocket. "Robert Baxter told me you might want to talk."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"About what?"

"You tell me."

He didn't, not at first. For the first five of their maximum of fifteen minutes together per jail policy, they were mostly silent. The last ten, however, were very emotional, with Michael spilling his guts. He told him everything about his life, such as three different stepfathers over the years, two of which had abused him mercilessly, both physically and emotionally. He told him about the uncle that lived with him, his mother, and stepfather number two for three years beginning shortly after his tenth birthday. The uncle had begun molesting him in the middle of the night almost immediately, and didn't stop until his mom kicked him out for a wholly unrelated reason. He refused to share his drugs with her and her husband.

There was also the addiction problem.

At twelve Michael learned that he could sneak into his mother's whiskey stash and take daily swigs without her knowing. She drank out of it so often that she assumed it was her and no one else in the household consuming it. By the time he entered high school, he stopped remembering what it felt like to be sober. He was always at least a little buzzed.

It became harder and harder to numb the feeling of helplessness his horrible existence gave him. That's when illegal drugs entered his life. At fifteen the daily whiskey shots weren't enough, so one day he drank the whole bottle, too much for his mother to miss. The confrontation was violent and immediate.

"Michael!" she yelled when she pulled the bottle out of her top dresser drawer after arriving home from a long day at work.

He was sitting in the living room, almost unconscious, with MTV videos blaring through the speakers that were placed five feet from each side of a large-screen, rear projection television. The music was loud and obnoxious, but Becky, his mom, had stopped complaining years before. It was easier to get drunk and pass out behind her closed bedroom door than to argue with a rebellious teenage boy.

On this evening the music was louder than usual, though he seemed oblivious to the music or his mom's screams from behind. She walked into the living room, stepped in between the TV and her son, and glared at him. His eyes were glossed over, still staring straight ahead. "Michael!" she yelled again, holding the empty whiskey bottle in her left hand and pointing at him with her right index finger, jabbing at the air violently. "What are you doing drinking my whiskey?"

He felt numb all over, much more so than the relatively small amount he had previously drank daily had made him. He heard a rumbling in his ears that barely resembled his mom's voice, its definition made fuzzy by the incessant humming in his head, a humming that sounded like a hundred florescent lights buzzing at the same time. It was a surreal, distant experience that frightened and excited him at the same time.

He looked up but said nothing.

"Michael!" she yelled. "I'm talking to you!"

He heard that one. "Huh?" he said, barely audible over the din of a Metallica song blaring through the speakers.

She grabbed the remote control off the end table and punched the off button.

"I said," she repeated, in a normal tone of voice this time, "what are you doing getting in my stuff?"

He dropped his chin into his chest and closed his eyes as his body lost the ability to stay awake and alert. Back in the moment, Michael told Pastor Rick, "I could barely stay awake to answer her and I'm sure she must have seen how stoned I was. A normal mother would have feared for her son's life, right? But not Mom. Her only concern was replacing the whiskey. Maybe so she could close herself off from the mistakes of her past, I don't know. Maybe so she could do what I was doing already: getting drunk and passing out. She stormed out of the house and drove to the liquor store—"

Pastor Rick interrupted Michael's retelling of his tragic past. "Drugs, too?"

"Yeah. Mostly meth and pot, but I've never been in any trouble over that."

"It's all the same, you know?"

Michael pondered the question for a few moments, trying to understand what Pastor Rick meant by it. "I can walk away from the drugs, but not the alcohol."

Pastor Rick smiled quizzically. He knew better—he had seen the destruction in the shattered careers, families, and even lives of people he had counseled. He knew that methamphetamine was the most addictive substance on the planet and the most destructive. It not only took down the addict, but his family and friends. The meth head would do anything to get his hands on more meth, including making the drug in his own home, kids or not, and almost guaranteeing that eventually his kids would end up being raised by some other relative or perhaps social services. Then there are the unrelated, faceless victims, the ones whose homes are ransacked as the addict struggles to obtain the funds needed to buy the drug when making it isn't an option.

"That's a lie and you know it."

Michael didn't say a thing in response. He just shook his head in denial.

"Besides, that's not what I'm talking about," continued Pastor Rick.

"What are you talking about?"

"Addiction is about emptiness, and the addict's hopeless attempts to fill that emptiness."

Over his shoulder Pastor Rick heard the door open and a cough. He looked over at the source, a sheriff's deputy. "Your time is up."

"Okay," he replied. "I'll wrap it up."

"Sure, but keep it short."

He turned toward Michael. "It's spiritual emptiness."

Michael couldn't deny it, so he nodded in agreement.

"Do you want to pray?"

"Yeah."

Pastor Rick closed his eyes and nodded his head in reverence. "Dear Jesus, please help Michael see the purpose to his recent troubles. Help him to see that you are the only solution to his problems, not alcohol or drugs. Show him how this recent situation can lead him to find the only truth he can rely on, that his emptiness can only be filled by you. Amen."

They looked up at each other. Pastor Rick noted to himself that Michael's eyes were wetter now than before they prayed, though tears had yet to fall. "Do you want to have the love of Christ in your heart?"

He snickered, and that was all Pastor Rick needed to know that the time wasn't right.

"Would you like me to come back next week?"

"Yeah," he said, not hesitating. "That would be nice."

They hung up their handsets and stood. Michael waved goodbye as he turned around and walked to his exit.

Pastor Rick left the jail feeling something he hadn't experienced in a long time: a sense of purpose. After he sat behind the wheel of his white Oldsmobile Aurora and started the engine, he opened his Bible to the passage that had shocked him back to life.

He read aloud from Psalm 34:18: "The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." He sat in silence for a few moments and then bowed his head to pray. "Thank you, God, for showing me what I needed to see. Thank you for helping me see that all of us need you and that sometimes even your own children need to be broken to draw closer to you. And thank you for showing me that you're not yet done with me and my ministry. Amen."

He started the car and drove home. His time at Stonelee was not yet done. There were far too many Michaels out there needing to be saved, and he was the one God would use to save them.

* * * * *

As soon as Pastor Rick got back to his office he picked up his phone and called Robert. "Hey, Robert, I just got back from visiting your buddy."

Robert rolled his eyes. "Funny."

Both laughed uncomfortably.

"How did it go?" Robert asked.

"Okay. He needs guidance, that's for sure. He wants me to come back, so it's a good start.

"Yeah, I suppose."

An awkward moment passed without either saying a word.

"How about you?" Rick asked. "Are you okay?"

Robert was sitting in a chair he'd felt glued to for much of his short time at UTA, the hard wooden one in his dorm room's study covey. He had been trying to catch up on advanced calculus when the call came. He was feeling overwhelmed for the first time since classes had begun. The time he was now spending in Bedford at the law office and in Darkwell had finally taken its toll.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"No, seriously, how are you?"

"I'm fine."

"Don't do this," he said. "I know you better than you know yourself. How are you?"

Robert's eyes moistened, but he fought the urge to cry. More prying from Pastor Rick, he knew, would burst the dam, and he knew that "fine" wouldn't stop the inquiry. "It's tough," he finally admitted.

"In what way?"

"I believe in destiny. I believe that nothing happens without God's direction, either by letting things happen or making them happen, so I'm a little confused right now. I want to find God's purpose in this mess, but I can't, no matter how hard I pray or how much I read the Word."

"Gotcha."

"That's it? That's all you've got to say?"

Pastor Rick laughed, more genuine this time. "Sorry, I wish I had more. The good news is that you're searching. Most people wouldn't do that much."

"Great. So I'm doing what others don't, but how does that help me?"

"God will be faithful, that's all I know for sure. Keep searching. The answers will come in God's time."
Chapter 39

Jailhouse Conversion?

The night following Pastor Rick's first jail visit, Michael found himself lying sleepless in his jailhouse bunk. Each time he would start to doze off, memories of the accident and the body flying into his windshield would assault his thoughts with a violent fury. They seemed so real. Each time the memory would surface, the horror of it would startle him awake. A human head smashing into the windshield, what sounded like a giant egg cracking echoing in the car's cab, with human blood mixed with bug guts the only sign of an accident left behind that he could find at the time given his drunken state. He at least thought to clean off the windshield. Unfortunately, he didn't think to check the bumper. The first couple of flashbacks he just closed his eyes tightly and let the exhaustion take him under. The visions eventually faded. But then the memories became entangled with the things Charles and Pastor Rick said to him during their visits. Seeing the living, breathing victim staring at him through the bulletproof glass of the jailhouse visitation area didn't help, either. His sheets were now wet from the cold sweats his recent bout of disturbing visions had elicited, making it impossible to sleep comfortably, so he just lay there, sobbing softly at first, but then loud enough to draw the attention of his cellmates.

The jailhouse in Darkwell County, Oklahoma, was even older and more depressing than jails usually are. It was built in the early 1950s and had been remodeled just twice since then, the latest project involving the addition of a new cellblock with another thirty cells. Each cell in both the old and new cellblocks was built to house two inmates.

Due to the recent burgeoning crime industry in the county, mostly meth labs and the accompanying drug distribution enterprises, there were far more incarcerated inmates in Darkwell County than there was bed space. The county had hired a consultant several years before to analyze the jail's crowding and efficiency issues and make recommendations on how to fix its problems. It had paid the firm just under $100,000 to give a professional opinion. The solution? Put another two bunks in each cell, which the jailhouse's janitor, who made ten dollars an hour, had suggested to the sheriff's department captain in charge of the complex before the "expert" was hired. "I'll take my hundred grand and throw in cleaning the toilets for free," he had joked.

So that's all they did. Of course, this meant that the bunks were much smaller than before, just a hair smaller than a child's single width bed, and it also meant that very violent offenders would often be placed in the same cells as those who just had drug and alcohol abuse problems, like Michael.

"If offered a choice between bunking with violent offenders with anger management problems and other less violent persons, choose the latter"—that was the kind of no-brainer advice Michael would have given another inmate if anyone had asked. Regrettably, Michael himself wasn't given a choice. Something else to consider: If stuck in a cell with violent convicts don't let them hear you cry.

"If you don't shut up that bawling I'll stick a shiv in your belly and shut you up for good!" The booming voice echoed down from the bunk directly over Michael's. Michael had just met the man that day and it hadn't been a pleasant introduction. He made Michael "move" to the bottom bunk—as in "pulled him off the top one"—and threw him to the ground. His name was Jerome. He was a big African American man who was serving a jail sanction for one of his petty crimes, possession of marijuana, but he had served time for attempted murder five years before, or so the rumor had been circulated. The deep commanding tone combined with Michael's initial encounter with him told him that Jerome meant what he said. If he didn't hold back his crying, he would be dead. "Sorry," he whimpered.

The bunks on the other side of the room were occupied by a felony DWI convict on top and a petty theft probation violator on the bottom. The one on top chuckled just loud enough for Michael and the other bunkmates, including Jerome, to hear him.

"You think that's funny?" Jerome demanded. Michael heard the springs under the mattress overhead creak as he asked the question, telling him that Jerome had turned his body to face the interloper.

"No," the cellmate answered almost in a whisper.

"Then you shut up, too, and go to sleep before I stick all your heads down the toilets!"

Two things were certain that night. One, no one made any more noise, and two, no one but Jerome got any sleep.

The next morning the inmates were chained up and escorted to the cafeteria for breakfast. Their ankles were chained together, their wrists were likewise chained, and another chain connected the middle link of each of the chains on their ankles and wrists to each other, which made it impossible for them to go very far or very fast. This pretty much rendered chaining the inmates to each other in groups of six redundant and mostly useless, except, of course, for the humiliation factor it caused, but the guards did it anyway. After slowly making their way down one flight of steps and through two huge and heavy electronically locked security doors, they were seated on bench seats in the eating area, six on each side, with the last man of each group of six chained to the table by the ankle.

A man who looked a lot like a priest, with black shirt and white collar, stood up and walked to the front of the dining hall. "For those of you who don't know me," he began, "I am a visiting chaplain, Reverend Roush."

Michael just realized that in the past two days he had heard more preachers talk than he'd heard in five years previous.

"Before you receive your food we have a special treat for you. Today the Gideons are here to distribute New Testaments to anyone who wants one." At that several older men wearing civilian clothes walked up and down the rows between the tables handing tiny Bibles to all inmates who managed to lift their hands high enough, chains and all, to get their attention. As one of the men walked past Michael, he lifted his hand, too, as high as he could before the chain linking his wrists to his ankles stopped it from going any further. He accepted the Bible and said, "thank you." He didn't open it at first. He just looked at its cover, marveling at how good it felt in his hands.

******

Breakfast lasted thirty minutes. There was no time to pass the time of day afterwards. They were immediately escorted back to their cells. On the walk back to their cell Michael noticed again how depressing the atmosphere was. It was a dank, dreary place. The walls were cinderblock. For some reason "they" decided to paint the hallways and cell doors the exact same drab grey color that was the cinder blocks' natural color. Maybe they think that if they keep the inmates depressed they won't act up, Michael reasoned as his group of six inched their way up the stairs and to their level in the cell block, the oldest one. Each of the cells was just big enough for a door of iron bars to fit between rows of bars on each side, though the edges of the bunks went over the entrance by an inch on each side. In between the bunks and at the end of the cell was an aluminum toilet that was directly under an aluminum sink, so they had to wash their hands and brush their teeth directly over the same place they deposited their bodily waste.

It made Jerome mad when they used the toilet in the cell, so the other bunkmates used every opportunity they could outside of the cell to do their business, so to speak, mostly immediately before or after they showered, which carried its own unique set of risks. Jerome used the toilet anytime he wished, and the grunts he gave them afterwards made it clear that he wouldn't put up with any objections.

Soon they were back in their cells. As each entered his chains were removed. It was a relief to have the chains taken off, but the space was so sparse that all they could do was crawl into their bunks and lie down. It was inhumane, Michael considered, as he wondered if it would be this bad in prison. After the cell quieted down, he dared to ask, "So, Jerome, what's prison like?"

The other bunkmates took deep breaths as soon as he asked the question. Michael thought, I must have just asked the one question that's sure to uncork Jerome's rage. He heard Jerome let out his breath at the same time.

"Better than here."

Don't say anything else, Michael was pretty sure the other men were wishing.

"How's it better?"

It was as if Jerome had waited the week for someone to finally ask him for his expert opinion on the one thing he knew a lot about, like a kid asking a doctor at career day what it was like to deliver a baby. Suddenly, the threatening, growling tone of Jerome's voice softened to a more grandfatherly resonance. It was still deep and commanding, but more like a principal telling the students in his school that they shouldn't do drugs. "Better food," he began, "and much bigger living quarters. They even have weight rooms and recreation areas to play basketball and watch cable TV."

Michael smiled. "Really?"

"Yeah. The guards are nicer, too. They sometimes join in the card games. Nothing for money, but just cards for a diversion."

From that point forward Jerome was a lot easier to deal with. Michael and his other two calmer, less angry bunkmates just kept their distance and were careful about what they said. When the inadvertent politically incorrect comment set him off they would just ask another question about the big house. He would morph into his authoritarian, teaching mode and things would settle down. Michael was still really scared, but at least he knew he would survive.

Lying in his bunk after Jerome's last comment, Michael felt a bulge in his right pocket. He reached down and slid his hand inside to find the Bible. He pulled it out and opened it to a random passage.

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten son so that whosoever believeth in him shall not perish but shall have everlasting life," he whispered to himself. Those words came back to him from somewhere deep in his memory—he wasn't sure where, but they sounded somehow comforting. For the first time in two days his eyelids gently closed and did not open again for four hours, up until the time the guards took the inmates to lunch. The same thing happened again that afternoon after lunch, and again later that night, with the latter giving him more than eight hours sleep. Only when he didn't read his Bible did the bad memory of the accident return, so he made it a point to read his Bible every chance he got. Lying in a jail cell with nothing else to do with his time, he had lots of chances.
Chapter 40

The Sinner's Prayer

It happened sooner than Pastor Rick had expected. The next week, also a Monday, he managed to fit another trip to Darkwell into his schedule. As soon as Michael sat down behind the glass, he pulled the handset off its cradle and said, "I need Jesus."

Rick was at a loss for words. He had rehearsed his "sinner's prayer" speech many times during his hour-and-a-half trip from Stonelee, and things were now out of order, in need of spontaneity that he wasn't accustomed to.

"Really?" was all he could think to say.

"Yeah, really. I've been thinking a lot since we talked last week, and I now see it clearly. I need God in my life. I need Jesus. I've been searching for the answer to my problems and looking in all the wrong places, drugs, alcohol, sex, whatever, and I know I'll never find it there."

Pastor Rick was at first too shocked by the initial admission to notice the Bible grasped in Michael's free hand. He smiled as he looked at it. "Have you been reading that?"

"Yeah, all the time."

"Good. What can you tell me about it?"

"I know that Jesus loves me, that he says a lot about living right, and I know that I'm living wrong."

"But do you know what it takes to live the way he says you should?"

"I think so."

"Do you?"

"Yeah," he replied, frustrated. "I do."

Out of habit Pastor Rick opened his Bible to a passage he'd memorized many years before. Looking at the passage, he read, "'If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will find it.'" Pausing to let the message sink in, he added, "Do you know what that means?"

"I think so."

"Tell me."

"I have to live for Jesus and stop living for me."

He didn't expect such a reply. "Do you believe?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What do you believe?"

Michael opened his Bible to a passage he hadn't yet memorized, but planned to. He read, "'I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.'"

Both stared at each other for several seconds. Pastor Rick broke the silence. "Yeah, that's it. But are you ready to commit? Are you ready to give all you've got to Jesus?"

"Absolutely."
Chapter 41

The Call

Pastor Rick was back to his old schedule. The funk brought about by the week of death, as he privately called it, was now gone, obliterated by fate, circumstances, destiny, or whatever words could be used to describe the odd telephone call made to him about a would-be DUI slayer by the assailant's own victim. He did not believe in coincidence. Everything happened for a reason. He found himself remembering one of his favorite Bible passages, the Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes, third chapter, first verse, and it once again became a promise that spoke directly to his soul: "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven." He was firmly convinced that God made Robert Baxter call him. If not for the call, he would have already packed up his personal things in his church office and begun classes in real estate, insurance, or some other sales business where his "gift of gab" could provide a living for his family.

It was a Monday, 7:15 P.M. on the dot. He was sitting in his office a few minutes after counseling a troubled couple in the church about the sanctity of marriage. The man had just ended a lengthy cyber-affair that, thank goodness, was never physically consummated, and they came to him for guidance to get them back on track in their relationship. It was dark outside, about half-an-hour after sunset. All in all, it was a good day to be a pastor. He had led a young man in jail to the Lord and possibly saved a marriage. If he received another call from a needy soul at that very moment, late as it was, he knew he would be just as passionate about that person's needs as he was for the others he'd counseled that day. He silently prayed for his wife and kids and the time they would have to spend without him as he answered the call, wherever and however long it took him.

His passion for ministry was back. He nodded his head to say a silent prayer of thanksgiving for the peace God had given him. After the amen, he repeated aloud Romans 8:28, the most applicable Scripture he could think of: "And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

Ring, Ring! His office phone blared.

"Hello?" he said after picking up the handset and placing it to his right ear.

"What happened?" Robert asked from his dorm room 365 miles away.

He grinned, knowing Robert would be thrilled to hear the news. "He's now a child of God. It was amazing. He has been flipping through a Bible, reading Scriptures, and he gets it. He really gets it."

"So, he accepted Christ?"

"Oh yeah; we said the sinner's prayer and he gave his life to Jesus, fully and completely."

"It's not a jailhouse conversion, is it?"

The thought always dawned on Pastor Rick after helping a jailed parishioner find Jesus. He had seen it many times before. The crime-hardened convict would discover religion just to win the favor of the parole board or judge. As soon as he earned his freedom, he would go right back to the places and people that got him in trouble in the first place. "Salvation" only lasted as long as it took them to walk out of the jail and to the nearest bar or casino. Something inside him told him that Michael was different. He just knew that there was genuine repentance in his heart.

"I don't think so," he replied, hesitant to guarantee results. He'd been burned too many times in the past to say with certainty that this time was definitely different.

"I'm glad, Pastor Rick."

"Yeah. I'm proud of you, Robert."

"I'm sorry?"

"Without your forgiveness of Michael it wouldn't have happened. You almost died physically, but you may have saved that young man's soul for all eternity. You saved his eternal life."

"I hadn't thought of it that way."

"It's true. You should take some pride in what you've done. God does."

They said goodbye and hung up their phones. Pastor Rick shuffled papers for a few minutes to prepare for the next day, then turned off the lights and went home. Robert tried to get back to his business, doing complex mathematical word problems that only remotely resembled the real world, but he had a tough time concentrating. His thoughts kept gravitating toward something he'd been searching for since the accident.

"That's it!" he almost yelled, startling Janie out of her nap on the futon just a few feet away.

"What?" she groggily asked.

"I'll tell you in a second," he said as he picked up his telephone and punched in speed dial button number 2.
Chapter 42

Teaching an Old Dog New Tricks

Charles was still in his funk. Robert had not told him about what he'd been doing in Darkwell, or what Pastor Rick had done. Charles could see no real purpose in his brokenness. He was still struggling to keep his head above water, in more ways than one. Legal fees were down. Expenses were unchanged. Life had thrown him a sucker punch that he wouldn't have been able to duck if he had seen it coming. For the first time in many years he was forced to make a budget for his office and household expenses. Some things were sacred, such as Becky's salary, so he had to trim costs where possible to preserve funds for such necessities. At the end of his budgeting process he found himself living almost exclusively off his real estate rental income with just enough legal fees to cover indispensable office expenses such as Becky's salary, telephone service, rent, and utilities. Fortunately, he often reflected, Nancy was easy to please and did not have expensive tastes, so the cutback in income didn't bother her too much. Since they had no debt, it actually made their lives simpler and, in some ways, more precious. In Nancy's words, "The simple life is the good life." So, while Charles searched for meaning and purpose in his career choices, they made do with a much simpler lifestyle.

Nancy believed something deeper was going on as she watched Charles's spiritual and emotional depression show no signs of lessening. He slept a lot while home, and periodically walked around the house in his robe and slippers. He also gained another twenty pounds. He spent some of his time managing investments on the computer, but most of the time he just lounged around the house doing nothing. In truth, she suspected, his behavior at home probably wasn't much different than what he was doing at the office, except that he at least wore a shirt and tie while he napped on the couch there. Of course, that only happened when he seemed able to motivate himself to even go to the office.

When the phone call came Charles was in his study at the house reading My Utmost for His Highest, by Oswald Chambers, a habit that had only recently become a daily ritual. He hoped the daily devotional time would rekindle the fire in his belly, whatever that meant.

"Hello?" he answered.

"Grandpa?" Robert replied.

"Hey buddy, how are things in Texas?"

"Good."

"So what's going on?"

"I get it," he cheerfully replied.

Sounding confused, Charles said, "Get what?"

"Why I was hurt, why I can't play baseball anymore."

Charles squinted his eyes and wrinkled his forehead as he tried to guess where this conversation was headed. Nothing came to mind. "What?"

"The purpose to it, why God let it happen."

"I'm all ears."

"You've got to promise me you won't be mad."

"I'm not sure if I like where this is going."

"Promise."

Charles shook his head side-to-side and reluctantly said, "Okay, I promise, as long as it doesn't involve criminal activity."

"It doesn't, at least I don't think it does."

He paused for a moment, sensing that Robert wasn't kidding when he expressed doubts as to the legality of what he'd been up to. "Okay, so what's your revelation?"

"It's about leading criminals to Christ."

"Excuse me?"

"Have you ever shared the gospel with your clients?"

He thought hard about the question, trying to remember if he'd ever mixed his faith with his profession. His mind drew a blank. No, he realized. He had never thought such actions were appropriate. More to the point, he feared that telling his clients that he was a Christian and that they should live for Christ might lead them to believe he would sell them up the river, or worse, that they should move on to the next attorney who wouldn't let his or her faith be an obstacle to zealous legal representation, and give some other scumbag defense attorney their money.

Truth be told, he had been more concerned about legal malpractice claims than saving souls or even the money he'd lose when he told them about his faith in Jesus.

"I don't think so."

"Can you think of anyone else in more need of salvation than criminal defendants?"

He chuckled. "Certainly not."

"That's why it happened."

"I'm not following you."

"Remember your promise."

Charles waved his free hand, the left one, in the air, as if Robert could see the motion as reassurance that he was a man of his word. "Yeah, yeah, I won't get mad. Please, tell me what's up."

"I met with Michael."

"Who's Michael?"

"Michael Thomas."

Silence engulfed the conversation for several seconds. Charles's usually pasty-white complexion changed into his passionate, legendary redness that was often a precursor to an explosion of mostly-controlled and well-calculated rage. "Objection! Your honor!" he'd yell, redfaced, in the courtroom as he interfered with the prosecutor's sleazy attempt to elicit improper and inadmissible testimony from a witness. Although Robert had forgiven the man who almost killed him, Charles hadn't. The scumbag had robbed him of his career, his confidence, and almost killed his grandson. He gripped the handset so tight that the blood rushed out of his hand and the knuckles turned bone white. He opened his mouth as he prepared to tell him what he really felt, but then remembered the promise. Whatever had changed in him since the accident, he was still a man of his word.

"Grandpa?" Robert said, fearing that the promise would soon be broken.

"Yeah, I heard you. What possessed you to do that?" he asked calmly but did little else to hide his anger and consternation. Had Robert been in the room with him he would have seen his grandpa's face go from red to redder within a matter of milliseconds.

"At first I wanted to know why he did it. But after I met him in the jail, I realized the truth: he is a mess."

"You had to see him to know that? He was my client. I could've told you that. He's a loser and a waste of potential."

"You don't understand," Robert added. "It's spiritual. I had Pastor Rick visit him, and he accepted Christ."

Charles couldn't help being skeptical. "So God let you get hurt so Michael would be saved, is that it?"

"Not exactly."

"Stop dragging this on. What's the revelation?"

"I'm supposed to do what you do, but I'm also supposed to share the gospel with all my clients."

It sounded preposterous at first. But then Charles felt something stir inside him. The blood of anger drained out of his face along with the emotion behind it. Suddenly and without a clear explanation or understanding of why, he felt peace in his spirit for the first time since the accident. Whatever anger he had felt after Robert first shared the news of his clandestine jail visits melted away.

"Yeah," Charles replied, nodding his head in agreement. "Me, too."
Chapter 43

Rehab

It had been almost six months since the accident. There was only one week to go before the man who had almost killed Robert would be sentenced for aggravated battery in a rural Oklahoma courthouse. Justice would finally be served the Monday before Thanksgiving.

What a way to celebrate the Thanksgiving break, Robert had reflected ever since the court had granted the defendant's attorney's request for his very last continuance, an act that made Robert wonder whether Thomas would take responsibility for his actions after all. Closure? He dared to hope. He also felt conflicted the closer he got to the final hearing. Would he feel better or worse if the man who hurt him went to prison? What about forgiveness and grace? Wouldn't it be more "Christian" for Michael to get probation and a second chance? Such conflicting feelings dogged him daily, especially since he had met the man and seen a side of him he didn't expect to see, his humanity.

At the moment, Robert was lying, utterly spent, on the futon bed in his ultra-small, on-campus efficiency apartment at UTA. The dorm room's smallish size and practicality put its classification somewhere between a one-room dorm unit and decent single motel room (the $39.95 per night variety, not the nicer, more family-friendly types) with a hole carved out in one wall just big enough to fit a compact refrigerator, a three drawer chest of drawers just fitting under a tiny window that cranked open a couple inches, which helped clear out the smell of his dirty clothes that piled up in between trips to the Laundromat, and a recessed, built-in desk nook opposite the 'fridge just big enough to hold a laptop computer, one large textbook and a notepad.

He had just experienced his longest and most grueling day of physical rehabilitation yet. He had started working with his therapist as soon as the most recent surgery removed the pins that had been holding the brittle bones of his elbow together. He was amazed at how weak he'd become since the accident. He could curl an eighty pound dumbbell eight times with one arm at his physical peak, but now he was exhausted after doing a dozen or so repetitions of a measly eight pounds with his injured right arm. His left arm was a little weaker, as well, but he still had all the equipment on that side intact, while the right was a patchwork of transplanted tendons and reconstructed muscle and bone. He avoided gazing at his body in mirrors since his one shriveled arm made the other look almost freakishly big, at least it looked that way to him. Although he was still officially on scholarship with UTA's baseball team, each day of therapy made it clear to him that his future as a college-level athlete was over.

"Jesus," he sighed in a muffled voice looking up at the ceiling, partly in vain but partly with the hope that God would hear his pleas. "When will this end?" Every now and then he wondered if God had abandoned him through his ordeal.

Just then he heard a gentle rap on his door. It was a familiar sound that he'd grown quite fond of the past few weeks. "Come in," he said, loud enough to be heard through the metal faux-wood security door. "It's unlocked."

Robert turned his head to the side, but didn't get up. He knew she'd understand.

"You okay?" Janie asked in her soft, gentle voice as she walked in and sat down on the corner of the futon on the end Robert's feet were pointing, which happened to be the only place available to sit except for a wooden desk chair. It was, after all, a really small room. He didn't answer immediately but just lay there in silence. Janie gently put her hand on his shin and slowly rubbed his jeans-covered leg, up and down, in a very gentle, comforting way. She was in no hurry for a reply.

He turned his gaze back to the ceiling and clenched his eyes tight, fearful that he'd expose his fragile emotions. "It's been a tough week," he finally said.

"Can I help?"

What an amazing person, he thought. Robert had that thought many times since the accident. He still couldn't remember everything they'd been through together, pre-accident. He could only recall bits and pieces of their past relationship thanks to the lingering effects of his head injury that robbed him of most of their cherished memories of togetherness. But the ones he could remember combined with her Florence Nightingale treatment of him—she cared for him as if he were the only person in the world—made him realize how special she was. She gave him rides, helped him with homework when the mental blocks that followed traumatic head injuries robbed him of his normally razor-sharp reasoning abilities, and did for him whatever else his diminished capacity asked of her. He had come to believe she was the woman he might be able to spend the rest of his life with.

"You do too much already," was all he could think to say at the moment. His eyes were still shut.

"Nonsense." She even laughed after saying it, which served to loosen Robert up enough to chuckle, too.

He sat up and swung his legs off the edge of the futon, but looked down to the ground out of embarrassment. After all this time together, post-accident, they had yet to kiss. They just held hands when the opportunity arose. They were now sitting side-by-side, Robert looking at the floor, which was littered with an errant dirty sock, T-shirt, and at least one pair of dirty underwear. "I mean it. I don't know how I would have managed without you. I'm sure I would have crawled home to Stonelee just like Mom wanted if not for your help."

Janie hadn't stopped looking at him since she'd entered the room, though Robert had yet to look into her eyes. Although she felt something between them on a personal and spiritual level, she found his looks captivating—the facial bruising had abated many weeks before—and pain shot through her soul every time she knew he was in pain. At that moment, she was thankful that he was still staring at the floor. She silently cried as she considered all he'd been through in the past several months, and the past week in particular. Each time she called him on the phone that week or saw him in person, his voice and demeanor seemed worn and beaten. He had held up remarkably well till he began therapy, but something was about to give, and Janie wanted to do whatever she could to help him through it.

She sensed that he was carrying a great burden, perhaps a secret that he couldn't share. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he replied, still staring mostly at the floor, though his gaze did move up to the wall a moment or two at the few pictures of family and an 8" by 10" photo of Janie off to the side of the family pics that he had hung up on the sparse space. He lingered on the latter, wishing he had the courage to look at the real thing that sat beside him right now. Instead, he dropped his eyes back to the floor, as if embarrassed for allowing thoughts of lovers and marriage enter his mind every time he gazed at her image and let it linger in his thoughts.

She looked down at the floor, too. She wanted to say, "I know better," but didn't. "You can tell me, whatever it is."

He finally looked directly at her and noticed a tear running down her right cheek. He reached up to wipe it dry, rubbing the tip of his now moistened finger afterwards, wishing the feel of her tear and the emotions it held within it would remain after it dried. "I'm sorry about the things I said."

But the pain caused by his hurtful words wasn't the only thing on his mind. An inward struggle was churning within his spirit, one he couldn't fully understand. If he loved her he had to be honest and tell her everything. He had to tell her that the next chapter of his life couldn't begin until he forgave the man who took everything from them both. Not yet, he thought with a pained expression on his face.

As the last thought occurred to him, Janie was looking down toward the ground so didn't see his angst. Otherwise her response might have seemed a bit out of place. She laughed. "You're still thinking about that?"

"That" was mostly the comment made in the hospital about not knowing who she was. But there was more. A few times he had told her that he couldn't keep seeing her if he couldn't even recall why they started seeing each other in the first place. Each time he had said such a thing, at least half-a-dozen times since the accident, she would bite her lip, not telling him similarly hurtful things in response, and she'd just keep on helping him with his problems. She would instead tell him that she was fine with them not loving each other, but she still wanted to be his friend, and friends help each other. The last time she had told him that was after he had talked to his guidance counselor about transferring to another school, one closer to home, a conversation he had yet to tell her about. He was glad he didn't share that hurtful thing. Instead, he had waited, hoping against hope that deeper feelings for Janie would begin to stir. Finally, two weeks earlier, he had felt a spark of familiarity that made him see a future with Janie. He had torn up the application for transfer that same day.

"Yeah. I guess I can't help it. To think that I said such hurtful things to the one I love most in this world." He paused as she turned her gaze back on him. Both realized that it was the first time he'd said the L-word since before the accident.

The weight of the words pressed down on his heart.

They were still sitting side by side, but both were now facing each other. He reached over and took her hand into his. Their eyes flooded with tears of joy. To emphasize what had just come out of his mouth, to affirm that it wasn't just a slip of the tongue, he said, "I love you."

She melted into his arms and they hugged each other for several minutes. They stopped hugging and Janie looked back into his eyes and said what she'd been feeling since she first met him at church camp more than two years before. "I love you, too."
Chapter 44

Closure

The courtroom was packed at 8:45 A.M., this time on a Wednesday, a day reserved for sentencing hearings. Usually, several cases were on this particular docket, but on this day only one case was set: The State of Oklahoma vs. Michael A. Thomas. It was the day the entire Johnson clan had been waiting for, especially Robert. On this day the darkest year of their lives would come to an end. Robert was thankful so-called closure would arrive soon, but unbeknownst to the rest of the family, his relief was borne out of a different motive. He was tired of his private rehearsals, repeating time and again to himself and into a mirror the statement he would provide to the court as the victim of the crime. It was called a victim impact statement, and it was something he knew he had to do, that is, if he had any hope of putting this whole unfortunate affair behind him.

He was ready, more than ready. Indeed, his only fear was that his parents would break their promise to him that they wouldn't provide a statement once he had his say. "Please," he told his mom the morning of the sentencing, just before they left for Darkwell, "whatever happens, don't interfere." He was equally certain that Grandma would have a problem, too. He actually forced them to promise that they would remain silent during the proceedings, no matter what happened.

Waiting on the front row of the spectator gallery immediately behind the prosecutor's table, Jessie and Max on the right of Robert, Nancy and Charles on the left (Nolan stayed home), Robert silently prayed that everyone in the family would stay seated after he delivered his speech and, more important, that they would understand the true meaning behind his words. He was thankful that Charles was nearby, the only one privy to what was about to happen. He couldn't help smiling a little at the thought of Charles wrestling the women in the family to the ground if they felt the need to speak out or to cry more profusely than normal.

"All rise," Judge Bosco's assistant announced as she, the court reporter, and the judge entered the courtroom through the judge's private chamber door. Everyone responded by standing up in honor of the judge.

"Please be seated," Judge Bosco said as he took his seat behind the bench. He reached under the bench out of habit to make sure his weapon was still where he had placed it all those years ago. The feel of the cold steal elicited a brief smile, so brief that it was almost impossible to be seen by those in the courtroom.

He waited a few minutes while the court reporter settled in and loaded her machine with paper. There was rustling in the back of the spectator gallery and a baby held by its mother on the front row on the opposite side of the spectator gallery from where the Johnson clan sat cried. A burly bailiff traversed the five rows of seats between the courtroom's main entrance and the bar separating the spectators from the lawyers. He turned to his left and waved to get the attention of the crying baby's mom who was having a difficult time plugging the baby's mouth with a pacifier. "Ma'am," Robert heard him say just above a whisper, "either stop the crying or leave the courtroom."

Judge Bosco caught the exchange and nodded to the bailiff in agreement. His court reporter, the true source of any real animosity about courtroom noise—she could hear a housefly pass gas from a hundred yards away—was less cordial as she winced and wrinkled her nose in disgust. How dare an innocent baby disturb her peace! The baby didn't stop crying, so its momma stood up, said "excuse me" to the seven or so people who had to angle their legs to make room for her exit, worked her way all the way to the aisle that led to the exit, and left the courtroom with the baby in her arms.

Robert wondered if maybe Michael was the baby's father. The thought made him frown slightly as he watched her walk out the courtroom door.

Judge Bosco glanced at the prosecutor, then defense counsel, checking to see if all parties were ready to begin. Michael was sitting in the jury box in his orange jumpsuit, beige sandals and manacles on his wrists and ankles, once again linked together so he had to shuffle and contort his appendages in odd ways just to scratch his nose.

"Are we ready to proceed?" he asked.

"State's ready," Barbara said.

"So is the defense," Jacob agreed.

"Very well. Then let's take up the matter of State v. Thomas."

Judge Bosco nodded toward the jailer, indicating he was ready for the defendant to be escorted to the defense table. It was odd and awkward, the way he shuffled sideways out of the box, and then shuffled a little more easily walking from the box to the table. The entire courtroom was enraptured by the pitiful display of humility—or maybe really the lack of humanity. A man's freedom and dignity had been stripped away due to his own stupidity. Nancy and Jessie sniffled back their tears, doing their best to appear strong. Nancy grimaced in Michael's direction, furrowed her brows, and glared at him. Her look of contempt might have caused him to crumble to the ground had he seen it, but he didn't. He didn't look up at all as he avoided eye contact with everyone in the room as he completed his death walk to the defense table. The men of the Johnson clan sat quiet with no expression on their faces at all. Even Robert was emotionless at this point.

Michael finally took his seat beside Jacob.

"We're now on the record," Judge Bosco said towards the court reporter, who immediately began typing away every little word or expression uttered or expressed in the courtroom that could be translated into written English. "This is the sentencing in the matter of The State of Oklahoma versus Michael A. Thomas. Please announce your appearances."

Both tables complied. Jacob and Michael were directed to the podium in the center of the courtroom and Judge Bosco proceeded to cross the proverbial "T"s and dot the proverbial "I"s in his best effort to ensure that everything was done by the book. He wanted to ensure that this case would not be overturned on appeal, which is much more difficult than one would think for a plea. Only a sentence contrary to law would be appealable since Michael had waived all other rights to appeal when the plea was entered into the record.

Then the time for allocution arrived, the time during the sentencing proceedings when a defendant asks the court for mercy in his own words. "Mr. Thomas," Judge Bosco began. "Do you have anything you want to say before I pronounce the sentence?"

"Yes sir," he quietly began. "I'm sorry for the pain and heartache I've caused. I pray for Mr. Baxter every day and I would take back all my mistakes if it could give him back what I took from him." He looked back in the gallery at Robert. "I'm really sorry."

Nancy and Jessie lost it. They began crying uncontrollably, and the court reporter made no attempt whatsoever, verbal or otherwise, to display her displeasure with the unwelcome cacophony, even though anyone looking at her at that moment could tell that the cries and wails made it more difficult for her to hear everything going on in the courtroom. She tilted her head back and forth trying to focus her attention on the defendant and then jerked her head up and to the side, glaring at the judge in a vain attempt to draw his attention to her plight. Just then someone clicked a pen behind the prosecutor's table, drawing her attention away from the judge's bench.

This time anyway, the judge refrained from jumping to the defense of his court reporter's overly sensitive hearing. Instead, he paused a few moments to give the family and everyone else in the courtroom time to calm down. He then asked the defendant and his attorney calmly but loud enough to be heard by everyone present, including the court reporter, "Is there anything else?"

"Yes, sir," Jacob said. "Mr. Thomas's spiritual counselor would like to be heard."

"Very well."

With that invitation, Pastor Rick rose from his seat in the far corner of the gallery, far away from the Johnson clan. He sneaked in after the family took their seats as instructed by Robert and Charles. The pair knew better than to take any chance of Jessie or Nancy smelling a rat and thereby force them to disclose what they were up to. Max was also in the dark, but Charles and Robert knew he would eventually understand.

Pastor Rick awkwardly squeezed himself past the half-dozen observers who sat between him and the aisle leading to the other side of the bar. As he broke free from the chairs, Nancy glanced back, tissue in hand and dabbing the tears in her eyes. She let out a gasp, then whispered, "Oh, my God."

Charles kept his gaze forward and squeezed her hand gently, as if to say, it'll be all right. He wasn't about to admit he knew what was happening until after it happened.

Nancy moved her mouth to his ear and said, "What's Pastor Rick doing here?"

Charles shrugged his shoulders, pretending to not know what was going on, that Pastor Rick was about to offer a mitigating statement on behalf of the man who almost killed their grandson.

Only after Pastor Rick reached the spring-loaded, waste-high gate separating the spectators from the lawyers and defendant did Jessie see him. She squinted and stared at the back of his head. He sensed her gaze and looked back at her, over his right shoulder. He mouthed, "It'll be okay," and then glanced at Robert.

By now all in the family knew something was amiss. There was no way a pastor in Kansas would show up to offer spiritual guidance to a jail inmate in Oklahoma by pure coincidence, not to mention the even more outlandish possibility that he was pastor to both the victim and the assailant. Nancy and Jessie looked dumbfounded, as if wondering why in the world their own pastor was about to say kind words on behalf of a convicted felon and potential killer, and how he managed to get in touch with the man who almost killed their boy in the first place. Though neither woman yet knew the significance of what was happening, Charles felt calm. He was still in support of Robert's decision to help Michael, and Pastor Rick's, as well. Once he had understood what had led to this moment his attitude had changed. His only fear at the moment was what would happen to him when he got home. How would his own wife treat him when she found out he was in on the secret? Max looked surprised and somewhat shocked, too, but he was far less emotional than the women in the family, so the shock on his face disappeared in the time it took Pastor Rick to walk from his seat to the podium.

Jessie caught Pastor Rick's redirected glance toward her son and looked over to him. "Did you know about this?" she asked, not bothering to whisper.

Robert put his right index finger up to his lips and said, "Shhh," as he nodded his head yes. The sling was gone, and his substantially healed arm now appeared pretty much normal, as long as he didn't try throwing anything heavier than a wadded up piece of paper.

Jessie looked up to Pastor Rick, who now stood by Michael's side. He was now standing ramrod straight, wearing a dark suit, white shirt and red tie, gazing up respectfully toward the judge.

"Go ahead," Judge Bosco said.

"Thank you, Your Honor. I am Pastor Rick Matthews of Stonelee Christian Fellowship in Stonelee, Kansas," he began. "I have been counseling defendants and convicted felons for the past thirty years, ever since I was a student in seminary. I have learned from personal experience to be very skeptical about jailhouse confessions. If I had to guess, I'd say that less than ten percent of the men I counsel are genuine in their acceptance of God, as well as repentance. Most of the men I've counseled want me to make statements just like this one. I almost always say 'no.' Only the less-than-ten-percent bunch get the benefit of my courtroom testimony. Michael is one of these. Over the past few weeks he has been truthful, open and honest with me, and he has become a dedicated biblical scholar. He reads the Word daily, and I have been impressed by his dedication to learning why he did this horrible thing. Your Honor, Michael is an addict, and all of his bad behavior, in my view, is attributed to the spiritual emptiness he had in the past. But those times are past. Michael believes in God for the first time in his life. I am completely confident that, if given the chance, Michael will not repeat the mistakes of his past."

The judge fumbled with his pen, wrinkling his forehead as he did. He said, "Pastor Matthews, I don't normally grill character witnesses at sentencing, but I have a question for you."

"Yes, sir?"

"You don't know Michael well enough to say for certain that he won't screw up again, do you?"

"No, Your Honor, I don't. My opinion is based on what I've seen in my twenty-plus years of ministry."

"Thank you for your time. Counselor," he said toward Jacob, appearing to wave off Pastor Rick and his words as if they were no more than words. He didn't even bother looking at the pastor as he walked away from the podium and back to his seat. "Is there anything else?"

"No, Your Honor."

"Fine."

Judge Bosco turned toward the prosecution table and said, "Do we have any victims present?"

"Yes, Your Honor," Barbara said. She looked back at Robert and nodded her head.

Robert walked forward and stood just behind the gate separating the lawyers from the spectators. He looked puzzled, as if he wasn't sure where he should stand. Judge Bosco seemed to sense his trepidation. "You can speak from there if you'd like."

Robert looked over at Charles, who nodded his support.

"Thank you, sir," he began. "This whole ordeal has been tough. I was on scholarship with UTA to play baseball. I love the game. I'm not sure if I would have been that great, but I wanted to find out. Mr. Thomas took that away from me when he hit me with his car and left me for dead. I can't play baseball anymore. My throwing arm is destroyed. I was only recently able to lift my arm at all, and that hurts like the dickens." He raised his right arm to his side as far as he could, to demonstrate, which was only about a foot, and tried his best to bend his elbow, which bent a few inches more that he could raise the arm. "This is all the use left in it. I use to be able to curl close to eighty pounds with each arm. After weeks of therapy and lots of pain, I was finally able to lift twenty pounds last week, but only a quarter of the way due to the damage to the ligaments and bones. To make a long story short, I'm done with baseball, and the scholarship's gone, too."

He heard Nancy and Jessie crying from behind. He wanted to cry, too, but he didn't. Too much was at stake.

He wished he could tell the judge he had met with Michael. That would make what he was about to say much easier, and sensible.

"But I know that there is a purpose to everything, and I know that the accident happened for a reason, as well. I wasn't meant to play baseball. My experience through this whole mess has revealed to me a lot about me and others. I know that, for example, I wouldn't have decided to become a lawyer like my grandpa if I hadn't been hurt. And I also know that Michael didn't—"

Robert paused, realizing that he was treading on dangerous ground, just one slipup from revealing what he'd done with the help of his law firm and his grandpa. "Pastor Matthews is my pastor, too, and I've known him all my life. If he says Michael deserves another chance, I do, too. Healing begins with forgiveness."

His eyes moistened as he looked at Michael, who was sobbing quietly. "I forgive you, Michael."

Robert turned around and walked to his seat, doing his best to avoid eye contact with Nancy and Jessie. They were still crying, and Jessie was struggling with his words, fighting the urge to stand up and speak, to dilute the mitigating impact of her son's statement. Max sensed her feelings. He put slight downward pressure on her shoulders and whispered in her ear, "For Robert's sake, don't do anything, okay?"

She looked up at him, mad at first, but then understanding. She nodded and resumed crying.

Nancy was too upset to say anything. She was seething inside. Charles patted her shoulder and she turned toward him and glared deep into his eyes. He removed his arm from her shoulder and looked up at the judge. Now was not the time, he knew. He sensed a cold night ahead.

The courtroom grew silent after Robert's speech. A couple of reporters stood up to leave, to get a jump on the others reporting the story, but were barred from leaving by the bailiff. Whispers broke out throughout the room as those who heard Robert's words had time to process the shocking things he had just said. A man who had his life broken was almost grateful that it was. It made no sense to everyone in the room except for Robert, Charles, Michael, and Pastor Rick.

Judge Bosco waited for the courtroom to calm down. Several news cameramen were panning their cameras over the faces of those gathered in the courtroom to capture the moment for their viewers to see. A couple reporters managed to bolt out of the room after the bailiff was forced to walk up and down the aisle to hush the whispers and talking that had ensued after Robert finished, despite the judge's initial attempts to keep anyone from leaving until the proceedings ended.

"Do we have any other statements to present?" he asked of both sides. The attorneys shook their heads no. Michael sat stone still and did nothing in response.

"Very well. Is there any reason we can't proceed to sentencing at this time?"

"None from the state," said Barbara.

"None from the defense," the other side agreed.

"Mr. Thomas," he sternly began. "Although I understand that there are many in this courtroom who want mercy, even the victim, I believe there comes a point in a man's life when he must take full responsibility for his actions. Sometimes mercy must take a backseat to justice. The statements from you, Pastor Matthews, and Mr. Baxter have made my decision more difficult. That is certain. Further, I have a motion in front of me that spells out many reasons for a departure, many reasons to put you on probation instead of send you to prison. However, I am not compelled to accept those reasons if justice demands otherwise.

"I note those reasons, give them their due consideration, and summarily overrule the motion. You are to be taken into the custody of the Oklahoma Department of Corrections and serve sixty months in prison. I further order DNA testing so that your profile will be entered into the national database for convicted felons. Once released, you are not to own or possess a firearm or be anywhere near one. You should talk to your attorney about your right to expunge the conviction. There is no probation so I make no findings in that regard. That is the order of the court. We are in recess."

*****

Judge Bosco slammed down his gavel and stood, clearly perturbed that he had to sit through all those glowing statements that he knew were not reflective of the truth. Michael A. Thomas was a punk and would never walk the straight and narrow. As he walked to his private exit, he smiled as he considered how this case would impact his judicial career. The voters will love this one, he thought. He considered the headline, Tough on Crime Bosco Does It Again.

And the streets would be safer, but that was just a bonus.
Chapter 45

God's Will Defined

They walked from the courthouse to Charles's SUV in silence, with the two couples holding hands despite the anger the women felt toward the men (even toward Max, who had not been in on Robert's and Charles's plans). Robert walked closely behind his parents and grandparents. They were silent, with a latent sniffle every now and then, as they walked. Charles and Robert were afraid to say the first word, confident that it would set off a firestorm of yells and screams from Jessie and Nancy. Max wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but did know that Robert and Charles knew exactly what transpired and that there was probably a good reason for it. Jessie wanted to say something, to ask Robert what he had been thinking. Actually, she wanted to tear his hair out. Deep inside yet bubbling up to the surface, she was sure, was rage. She loved her baby boy, but felt nonetheless betrayed. To make matters worse, as they were approaching the SUV, Pastor Rick yelled from behind, "hold up," and caught up to Robert.

As soon as he made it to Robert's side, Nancy spun around and said, "That was a pretty clever thing you four pulled in there."

They stopped walking. The three rows they'd been walking in now broke down into two, Nancy and Jessie on one side and the men on the other. All the men but Max looked down to the ground.

Robert then looked up and said, "Don't blame Dad. He didn't know."

Max put his arm around Robert's shoulder.

Jessie pressed on, the partner to Nancy and her tag team. "Can you please tell me what happened?"

Robert looked at her. Pastor Rick and Charles kept staring at the ground. Pastor Rick said nothing while Charles fumbled with his keys. They were no more than five feet from each other as they faced off. Nancy backed off a foot or so. She was beginning to understand that Robert had his reasons. He was, after all, the one who almost died.

"I had to do it," he said, tears starting to form in his eyes. "For me to get on with my life I had to forgive him. If I would've asked the judge to put him away forever, I would have always wondered if that's what Christ would have wanted me to do."

"What about me?" Jessie demanded, more out of rage than compassion. "Do you think I could've gotten on with my life if the judge would've listened to that garbage you spewed?" She looked over at Pastor Rick. "And you," she almost screamed. "How could you?"

"Aren't you forgetting someone?" Charles, who was standing next to Max, asked.

Jessie smirked and huffed. "Don't bank on it. I knew you had something to do with it. I just wish someone would tell me why?"

Pastor Rick couldn't stay silent any longer. "Jessie, Robert did what he had to do, what I believe God led him to do. I can't say much else, only that I am very proud that Robert, as young as he is, sought God's direction throughout this ordeal. Do you want to know why he didn't tell you and Nancy?"

She nodded yes, stifling the urge to cry.

"He knew you'd react just as you are. He knew that if he told you before the sentencing that you and Nancy would stand up and say something to dilute whatever forgiveness took place in there. Would you want to take part in that? Would you want to play a part in permanently damaging the spiritual well-being of your son?"

"No."

"Think about it this way. What if Jesus's disciples had pulled him down from the cross before he completed his mission? That's why Robert didn't tell you. He had to know that his forgiveness meant something. Try to understand that and don't judge him. He did what he had to do, and he prayed about it before he decided anything."

Robert spread his arms out, inviting a hug from his mom. Her eyes moistened and her heart softened toward the boy she almost lost just six months before. She rushed to his arms and they embraced as only a mother and child full of love for each other can. Tears flowed, and hearts and bad feelings healed. As she melted into his arms, she felt the same forgiveness that her son felt for the first time since their ordeal had begun.

It was time to move on, to count their blessings.

They released each other and Robert looked into his mom's eyes. "It was meant to happen, Mom."

"Excuse me?" she replied.

"The accident," he answered. "It was meant to happen. It was a wakeup call. I had no idea what God wanted me to do with my life, but now I do."

The warm feelings were still there, the feelings of forgiveness and healing, so she didn't do what her mind told her to do: lash out and ask her boy what in the world possessed him to say such a stupid thing. Instead, she replied, "And now you do?"

"Yes, I do."

"What?"

Robert looked over at Charles, who was smiling broadly. Several cars had passed them by then. They were still standing behind Charles's SUV in the parking lot. A couple of police cars had slowed down and honked, the officers apparently wondering why six people were lingering in the lot for several minutes with no apparent place to go. If it wasn't in front of a courthouse, they might've thought a drug deal was going down.

"Criminal Defense," Robert replied with a wide smile on his face, which looked out of place given the tears that were still sliding down both cheeks.

Her jaw dropped as did everyone else's, except, of course, Charles, Robert, and Pastor Rick.

Charles knew that whatever good feelings the healing hug had created would soon wash away, so he pushed the unlock button on his key fob's remote. The medium-volume "beep, beep" told them that the doors could be opened and, as an unintended side effect, interrupted the tension Robert's revelation had birthed. No one said a word as all but Pastor Rick piled into the SUV to leave Darkwell for hopefully the last time.

As Charles pulled out of the parking lot, Jessie, sitting in the middle bench seat next to Max, asked over her shoulder toward Robert, who was sitting in the third row, "Are you sure about this?"

"Yes, absolutely sure."

"Okay. Just promise me one thing."

"Of course."

"If you wake up one morning and realize that you're wrong, that God wants you to do something else with your life, do it before you have to have another bad accident to make you." She smiled at him, which softened the sarcasm in her words.

"I promise."

Charles accelerated out of the parking lot onto Main Street. He smiled as he listened to the conversation in the back seat. He had always hoped that his children would follow in his footsteps one day. His only biological child's decision to become a nun had made that hope a distant memory. But now hope was back. He and Robert would someday practice law side-by-side, and do it for the glory of the Lord.

As he approached the highway entrance ramp, his thoughts were bombarded with the logistics of his new practice model. How would he bring God into his conversations with drunks, drug addicts, rapists, murderers, and whatever other depraved individual he consulted as an evangelical criminal defense attorney? He chuckled silently as he contemplated how long such idealism would last. Not long, he suspected.

The conversation in the back seat died down. Robert leaned his head back and fell asleep just after realizing that the rest of his Thanksgiving vacation would be best spent catching up on that sleep. The trials of the past six months had taken their toll, regardless of whether they led him to discover God's will in his life. He needed sleep; lots of it. On the ride home to Stonelee, he dreamed of Janie, the family they would have together, and his future life as an evangelical criminal defense attorney—it was the first time his dreams didn't involve baseball, and it felt oddly refreshing.

Back in Texas Janie was also napping, though she was in her parents' large ranch-style home, enjoying the life of a college student on Thanksgiving break. She was in the bedroom she'd slept in every night up until she went off to college. It was still decorated as it was when she was a little girl, with Barbie dolls scattered on various bookshelves and very pink, girly wallpaper and linens. She was curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed, dreaming of Robert and the family she prayed they would someday make together.

They sensed each other's dreams and smiled.
Chapter 46

New Attitude, New Dreams

The intercom buzzed and Becky's pleasant phone voice said, "You're two-thirty is here."

"Thanks," Charles replied. "Send him back."

Charles stood up and walked to his office door, which was propped upon by its flip-up doorstop. An elderly man, hunched over and hobbling through the door as if scoliosis had ravaged his body for years, walked into his office towing a wheeled oxygen bottle behind him with his right hand. The bottle's clear breathing tube was attached to his nose. He was grasping a plastic bag full of papers in his left hand. His breathing was labored, and Charles silently wondered if he would have to call 9-1-1 to resuscitate him before their half-hour consult ended. Following the potential client closely behind was a young lady who looked to be his caretaker or perhaps an adult child or older granddaughter.

Charles shot out his right hand and said, "Hi, I'm Charles Fleming. Very nice to meet you."

The elderly man wheezed his reply, "Frank," as he tilted the bottle to standing position and offered his hand to Charles. "Nice to meet you."

"Please take a seat," Charles replied as he motioned them to the two client chairs across his desk from his own. He circled the desk and took his seat. The potential clients sat down, too, although Frank took a little longer as he did his best to maneuver the oxygen bottle and his decrepit body around and between the chairs and desk. "Did you bring your paperwork?"

"Yeah," Frank said as he reached up and set his bag full of papers in the middle of Charles's desk.

"Very good. Just give me a second to review them."

Charles emptied the bag and sorted through a very messy bunch of documents, with no particular order to them, some wadded up like trash balls and others folded neatly. Frank was a potential DUI client, one who had clearly never taken full responsibility for his irresponsible and dangerous actions. Frank was seventy-two years old, and this was his eighth arrest for driving under the influence. The last conviction was more than ten years before. Frank had shared that tidbit of information with him over the telephone before the sit down appointment was set, but Charles was about to share news with him such that the relatively long time span between his last case and this one would bring little solace.

"I pulled your record before you got here," he began. He paused for dramatic effect. "So, Frank, what's your problem?"

"Excuse me?" Frank coughed his reply as the young lady sitting to his right rolled her eyes into the back of her head in disgust. Charles tried in vain to read her body language and facial expression—to interpret whether she was disgusted with Charles's question or the old man's attitude.

"Eight DUIs? Come on, Frank, did you kill anyone in your prior cases?"

"No."

Frank wheezed a little louder, which suggested to Charles he should stop agitating the dying man on the other side of the desk. Instead, he closely reviewed the paperwork for mistakes.

"After looking at your documents, here's what I see. First, I think there's a problem with the breath test. The officers screwed up. It has to do with protocol, but I need to get the reports to verify my assessment. Before you leave I'll prepare an administrative hearing request to see if we can't keep this case from impacting your driver's license. But first, why don't you tell me what happened?"

Frank proceeded to give his version of the facts. He was leaving a bar a few blocks from his home, which he shared with Lacy, his thirty-five year-old daughter who was sitting next to him in the office. While backing out of his parking space, his rear bumper clipped a police car, which naturally resulted in a DUI investigation. His tainted breath test said he was triple the legal limit, and the officers didn't bother doing any other sobriety tests, so suppressing the breath test would likely result in a dismissal of the case. Charles told Frank such an outcome was likely, though not guaranteed.

"So I've got a case?" Frank replied after the favorable assessment, smiling for the first time of his initial consult.

"Absolutely."

Frank turned toward Lacy and told her to pull out his checkbook. Whatever the price, he wanted the legendary Charles Fleming to represent him. Charles told him his fee, and, after a brief coughing episode, Frank instructed Lacy to write a check for the full amount.

As Charles turned around to prepare the administrative hearing request and attorney employment contract, he said, "There's one more thing I need to tell you."

"What's that?"

Charles spun his chair back around and began a speech he'd perfected exactly four years before, right after he and Robert discovered their shared evangelical criminal defense ministry calling. "I'm not like most defense attorneys. Please don't misunderstand. I will zealously defend you, and a dismissal is likely given what these papers tell me. However, my motivation is much different than the typical lawyer's."

"How's that?"

"I believe that your problem with alcohol has nothing to do with alcohol addiction. You're empty inside."

Lacy nodded her head in agreement as her eyes moistened.

"What do you mean?" Frank asked, his breathing much less labored than before.

"There's an emptiness inside that you've tried to fill with selfish lusts—alcohol, drugs, perhaps even sexual immorality—and it's only led to bigger problems."

Frank stared at Charles as his eyes also began to tear up.

"I've done hundreds of these types of cases, and there's a common denominator in most of them: the criminal defendants don't know God."

"Go on," Frank said as Lacy's tears could no longer be contained and drops began to cascade down both cheeks.

"The emptiness can only be filled with Christ."

As Charles had done in almost every criminal law consult since the revelation four years before, he recommended that his client obtain spiritual counseling with Pastor Rick or the preacher of his choosing. He knew Frank would probably not do as he recommended, but the suggestion had to be made. Charles no longer represented clients for himself, but for his mission. He would plant the seed and leave the rest up to God.

After Frank left, Charles sat down at his desk, leaned back in his chair, and contemplated the future. He imagined a thriving evangelical criminal defense practice with Robert and him working side by side. The buzz of the intercom interrupted his thoughts.

"It's Robert on line one," Becky said.

Without hesitation, Charles grabbed the handset off its base.

"Hey buddy," he bubbled.

"Hi, Grandpa."

"How are things in Virginia?"

"Great. Finals are just a couple of weeks away and we'll be home for Christmas in no time."

"Looking forward to it. The weather's been good—any chance of getting away from Janie for a few hours of golf with me and Max, that is, if the weather holds up?"

"Absolutely."

"Great. Any feelings about school?"

"Yeah. Bad ones. I suppose I'll do all right, but law school is a lot tougher than college. Graduating first in the class won't be easy, that's for sure."

"You'll do fine. Don't worry too much about grades, just work you rear off and you'll do great."

"Thanks."

Both were silent for much too long. Both simultaneously though the same question, the lingering question that had been on their minds for years, yet neither had dared to ask until that very moment. It was Robert who dared to ask first. "Do you ever wonder about Michael? How he's doing and what he'll do when he gets out?"

It had been four years since he went to prison, and another six months on top of that for the credit he received for the time he spent in jail leading up to his sentencing hearing. With good time credit that meant he would be released from prison soon.

"Yeah. Sometimes."

"Can you ask Pastor Rick to check in on him, to make sure he's not totally alone when he gets out?"

"Sure."

Robert heard the doorbell ring. "It's Janie. I gotta go. We're going to Williamsburg; one last hurrah before finals suck me into the abyss."

"Good idea. Tell her we love her."

"I'll do. Bye."

"Bye."

*****

College had sped by more quickly than Robert and Janie could have imagined when they first started at UTA. Four years felt like two. As planned, Robert and Janie had gotten married as soon as they graduated, had enjoyed a week-long honeymoon on a cruise ship in the Caribbean, and then moved to Virginia the month after their honeymoon so they could get settled in before Robert started law school. Then law school began. With a full semester under his belt, four "A"s and one "B," enough to vault him to a class rank of 8 out of 152, they were well on their way to realizing God's vision for their lives.

Their apartment was a very small two-bedroom unit. Rent was incredibly high in Virginia: almost $1,000 for a tiny apartment close to campus. The only benefit Robert could find from its Lilliputian status was the impossibility of one of them not knowing when the other came home. After his conversation with his grandfather that afternoon, he met Janie at the door with a long lover's kiss. "I love you, hon," he said.

"Love you, too," she replied, just as happy as he was. "You packed?"

"No."

They threw a couple changes of clothes into one oversized suitcase and were on the road in half-an-hour, looking forward to a weekend together. No school, no work at the nearby hospital for Janie, just two young married lovers renewing a commitment they had made to each other several months before when they married one month after their college graduation. They had promised to always find time for each other, no matter how many distractions their careers or even their family put in the way. This weekend was the first retreat they were taking since law school had begun the previous August, and it was together time they desperately needed.

Turning out of the apartment parking lot, Robert looked over at Janie and said, "I've missed you this semester."

She gazed out the windshield, smiling as she thought about the time they would soon spend together, uninterrupted time walking hand-in-hand down the snow-dusted roads of Colonial Williamsburg, drinking apple cider, hearing the jingling of the bells hung on the carriages, and breathing in the aroma of the pine and balsam swags and wreaths decorating the homes and shops. She turned toward him and replied, "Me, too."

"Do you regret marrying me?" he asked.

She reached over and grabbed his hand, squeezing as she did. "Of course not. I'm proud of what you're doing."

Robert glanced at her, then back at the road. He smiled broadly and thought, I can't believe she married me. "I'm proud of you, too."
Epilogue

"Dr. Jacobson is ready for you now," the nurse had announced a few minutes earlier. Robert was lying on a cushy dark green cloth couch in the office of Psychiatrist Rebecca Jacobson, in Chesapeake, Virginia, pulling tissue after tissue out of the box Dr. Jacobson had given him at the beginning of their latest session. She was sitting in a brown leather and well-padded chair to his right, deep in thought, and both were facing a relatively large plate-glass window overlooking a thickly wooded park. The park had a calming effect on her mentally disturbed, issue-plagued patients. She was a middle-age woman, a little younger than Robert's grandmother, and she had a grandmotherly appearance, slightly overweight and with hair that had just recently started to turn grey. She also wore dainty wire-framed reading glasses on the tip of her nose so she could easily glance over the top of the frames to look at her patients in between making notes in her notepad. Her disarming demeanor made it easy for even the most defensive patients to release their deepest, darkest secrets.

She was the best Christian psychologist in Virginia and Robert had issues that, despite the struggles he had after his near-death experience, had only recently come to light. And they seemed to have no connection whatsoever to that traumatic event.

The issues surfaced after his first semester of law school, after he and Janie returned from Williamsburg. Actually, they didn't come to a head until he received his latest class ranking: third of one-hundred-and-fifty-two. Then suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, the nightmares began, which led to a couple of isolated events wherein Janie walked into his study to find him curled up in a ball in the corner of the room crying like a baby. The fear of failure didn't seem to be the catalyst. He couldn't have asked for better grades.

After half-a-dozen sessions with Dr. Jacobson, neither had any clue as to what caused the nightmares or the crying episodes. She was starting to believe that there was some medical reason for his near total mental breakdown, something that only psychotropic drugs could cure. One more session and if no breakthrough resulted, she was probably going to refer Robert to a psychiatrist for a medical evaluation.

As he sat on the couch silent for several minutes, Dr. Jacobson looked down at her notes. She tabbed through a few pages and scanned the contents. She closed her eyes and meditated on what she'd written down during the past few sessions. It wasn't his performance in school or even the stress of law school that was the cause. It also wasn't the secular psychologist's old reliable fall-back position of a deep-seeded hatred of his mother or father that was at the root. It was something else. Something neither could put a finger on.

It was as if a latent memory had been rekindled by its Creator; a memory that had surfaced without any identifiable source. She had written her doctoral thesis on suppressed memories in child abuse cases, but the tags that were almost always present in those situations were wholly absent here. He loved his mom, but not weirdly so. He never knew his biological father, but his adoptive father was a much better dad than most biological ones, so that wasn't it. He had never been molested, or so it seemed after many therapy sessions, many more than it typically took to ferret out such incidents. Robert's case was truly, as Winston Churchill had put it, "a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma."

"What sparks the nightmares?" she asked for the umpteenth time.

"I don't know."

"Describe it for me again, with more detail this time. Try to remember the end of it. If you can do that we might get somewhere."

Robert closed his eyes and folded his hands on his stomach. He tried to concentrate, to force the disturbing visions to materialize in his waking mind.

"I'm in a doctor's office, an exam room, I think. There's a girl on the table with her legs spread open. They're strapped to something metallic. Her wrists are also strapped down to the sides of the table, leather straps with buckles."

"What's she wearing?"

"It's hard to tell. Maybe one of those backless hospital gowns they make you wear, but I'm not sure. It's really messy. Blood, I think, is everywhere."

His eyes were still closed. She had tried to get him to remember before, to tell her about his recurring nightmare, but it had never come out as clear as it was coming at this moment. Her senses were on alert as she leaned forward, suddenly realizing that they were about to have a breakthrough.

"What else do you see?"

By now, Dr. Jacobson was pulling the various recollections from this and previous sessions together. The vision of what Robert just described merged with his earlier descriptions: a health clinic, stirrups, dead babies, blood and gore. Finally, after three sessions, the picture he painted became disturbingly familiar to her, yet she needed more. Oh my God...

"Robert?" she prodded him again. "What else do you see?"

"Two men are at her feet. Both are in their fifties, one might be older, maybe his sixties. The younger one has wire-framed glasses and is wearing a doctor's coat, one of those white ones with a nametag, and maybe a stethoscope. He's got a knife in one hand, and he's laughing."

"What's the other one doing?"

"Just standing there. I think he's smiling, too."

"What about the girl?"

His face took on a disturbing countenance, very grim and frightened, so scared he wanted to cry but couldn't.

Dr. Jacobson sensed the change, though she wasn't looking at him when it happened. She sat up straight—she had been leaning forward, taking notes as best she could, but most of her attention was focused on Robert, with the rest committed to writing down every detail of his macabre vision. She turned aside from he notepad and toward Robert, gently placing her hand on his shoulder, to comfort him. "What's wrong?"

"She's dead."
Coming Soon

Has Robert Allen Baxter discovered God's ultimate purpose in his life, or does God have something bigger in store for him? Find out in Book II of The Chronicles of Life: Restored.

