The Witnesses Page 11

  Franz’s father always left the house before the meetings began. By the time he reached his teen years, Franz knew his father never warmed his hands at the fire of religious zeal, and any spiritual flame that flickered in the heart of Franz’s mother was effectively squelched by her husband.

  The worship music that came before the sermon at the start-up church in New Bern was unfamiliar to Frank. A woman with a guitar sat on a stool in front of a microphone and led the congregation of around 125 people in a series of praise songs with a solo ballad dropped into the middle. Frank didn’t try to sing, and none of the people with their eyes closed and hands raised seemed to notice. As an elderly man wearing a dark suit, Frank stood out in the congregation like a solitary green apple in a bushel of red ones. There was no doubt he was the oldest, most formally attired person in attendance. When the music stopped, ushers passed small plastic buckets down the aisles for the offering. The church obviously needed money, and Frank, who always carried several hundred dollars in his wallet, folded up a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill and dropped it in.

  The pastor of the church was a young man in his thirties named Eric. With his rimless glasses and prematurely bald head, the minister looked more like a college professor than a preacher. He spoke in a conversational tone with calm confidence that made it clear he believed he had something important to say.

  The sermon topic of the day was forgiveness, and the message included a PowerPoint presentation, photos, and a humorous video clip. It was informative and entertaining, and Frank found himself enjoying the talk. When Eric discussed forgiveness, he didn’t limit it to God forgiving the churchgoers; he also emphasized the churchgoers’ need to forgive those who’d wronged them. Holding grudges had never been a major problem for Frank. He’d seen too much during the war for a silly slight or minor dispute to sap his energy. If insulted or taken advantage of, he’d shrug his shoulders and go on. Eric closed the last slide, and Frank checked his watch. It was exactly twelve o’clock. Time to go.

  But then, instead of praying, the minister continued to speak. His tone of voice became more authoritative.

  “Unforgiveness is sin,” he said. “And the presence of sin in our lives is the ground from which guilt and bitterness grow. Right now some of you are thinking about instances of unforgiveness, ongoing resentment, and the crushing weight these unseen burdens cause in your lives. I don’t agree with the popular proverb; time doesn’t heal wounds. It only causes them to fester longer and grow deeper.”

  At the mention of guilt and the long-term weight it placed on the human soul, Frank perked up and leaned forward in his chair.

  “Guilt comes in many different shapes and forms. It has a thousand faces but only one solution, the blood of Jesus and the grace available through his sacrifice on the cross. Some people are understandably turned off by the idea of Jesus shedding his blood for our sins. It was a brutal and barbaric death that offends our sense of basic decency. But it also demonstrates the seriousness of our problem and the depth of God’s love in providing a solution for it. If you’ve seen anything as remotely horrific as what Jesus suffered, it’s not something you want to revisit.”

  Frank swallowed, but his mouth was dry. There was no shortage of dismembered and unrecognizable bodies of young men in his memory bank. Blood dominated many of those scenes. He blinked his eyes to dispel the images rapidly demanding his attention. The minister paused as Frank continued to fend off the mini flashbacks assaulting his brain.

  “One of the most foolish things we could ever do is arrogantly reject God’s offer of help. If you’re willing to humble yourself, today is your opportunity to take a first step in the right direction from the wrong path you’ve been traveling and begin the process of true healing and freedom for your heart and soul. If these words are speaking to the depths of your heart, this can be a day of life-changing freedom for you. Reach out and receive what Jesus has done for you.”

  Frank now knew why he’d come to church. If younger, perhaps he would have debated what to do or tried to rationalize away the relevance of the minister’s words. But Frank was an old man. There is a time for action in youth; there is a time for action in old age. The passage of decades removes the luxury of delay.

  He slowly raised his right hand. With every fiber of his being he wanted to be forgiven and free of the guilt he’d carried for nearly sixty years. He sat completely still, acutely aware of each breath entering and leaving his lungs. He closed his eyes, but the images of the dead stubbornly held rank and refused to retreat.

  Then, suddenly, the lifeless faces faded, replaced by a vision of a field of lush green grass with a bubbling stream flowing through it. Frank instantly knew it was a massive graveyard. And buried beneath the grass were those whose deaths were shackled to his heart by a massive chain of guilt. But no headstones reminding him of what he’d done marred the pristine landscape. The power of the guilt over the graves he’d helped to fill was gone. His culpability for all those lost lives so many years before could no longer haunt his present.

  He was free.

  As Frank continued to watch the peaceful scene, a single tear flowed from his right eye and down his cheek. And with that tear he understood the purpose of the stream. It was to restore his soul. More tears followed the first one. Sitting rigidly straight, with his arm extended in front of him, he let the tears fall from his eyes.

  The minister prayed a benediction, but Frank didn’t budge. He didn’t want to think or move or do anything that would make him lose contact with the place God had provided for him. He lowered his hand but didn’t stand up. People began to move out of the row. Frank bowed his head. The flow of tears slowed, then stopped. The vision faded, and he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder.

  “Are you okay?” a woman asked him.

  Frank turned and saw a young woman with blond hair sitting in the row behind him. He took out a carefully folded handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “I couldn’t help watching you,” she continued. “Whatever was happening was beautiful.”

  Frank smiled slightly but didn’t respond.

  “Are you visiting the church for the first time?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you alone,” the woman said, standing up. “God bless you.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Greg’s office door was closed, and Parker knocked lightly before opening it. His boss was staring at his computer.

  “I just got an e-mail stating that Thomas Blocker is going to defend the Mixon arbitration case,” Greg said, glancing up. “An associate in his office was handling the case, but for some reason Blocker wants to take over. That means we’re going to have to ramp up our preparation and run down every rabbit about Robert Lipscomb, the stockbroker, and Chesterfield Consolidated, the company whose stock took a massive nosedive.”

  Several thoughts flashed through Parker’s mind.

  “Maybe that’s why he was in the courtroom the other day,” Greg continued. “He wanted to evaluate me as a trial lawyer. I’m not sure when he left, but I think he was there long enough to see my fiasco during the opening statement.”

  “His daughter, Layla, was the photographer on the jury,” Parker added, interrupting Greg’s rambling.

  “What?” Greg replied.

  “That’s a more likely explanation of why he was there. Her name is Layla Blocker Donovan. Not that it wouldn’t be smart for her father to check you out so he can see who he’s up against in the arbitration.”

  “Are you mocking me?” Greg’s eyes narrowed.

  “You’re the one who said he’s thorough,” Parker replied, not cracking a smile.

  “How did you find out the photographer is his daughter?”

  “I took her to dinner last night after running into her at a friend’s wedding.”

  “I knew you had an ulterior motive in lobbying for her to be on our jury.” Greg nodded with satisfaction. “You have to be careful w
ith that kind of thing. Just because a woman is attractive doesn’t mean you should put her on a jury.”

  “That had nothing to do with it.”

  “And I don’t believe you.”

  “Do you want me to help you prepare for the arbitration?”

  “You read my mind about that.” Greg picked up a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to Parker. “Read this. It’s the exclusive remedy clause that mandates arbitration. Similar language is in every brokerage agreement in America. If an investor could go in front of a jury and complain every time he lost money and wanted to sue a stockbroker, it would be great for us but bad for them. An arbitrator isn’t going to be swayed by sympathy and will factor in the risk inherent in all investing. I took the case hoping we could scare a small settlement from the company for cost of defense, but with Blocker on the scene, that’s not going to happen.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Learn this stuff backward and forward. Don’t worry about your time. We took it on contingency. No fee unless we win.”

  “And you’ll be there to handle the arbitration, right?” Parker asked, suddenly suspecting that Greg was going to dump the case on him.

  “I’m not going to throw you to the wolves alone, at least not yet. And I’m curious to watch Blocker work, even if he’s trying to beat my brains out.”

  Parker took the file to his office. The clients were a retired husband and wife who alleged their stockbroker advised them to put a significant percentage of their portfolio in a volatile stock that quickly lost eighty percent of its value. The legal argument was straightforward—advising an older couple to buy a high-risk stock was contrary to a prudent investment strategy.

  Three hours later there was a knock on his doorframe. It was Greg.

  “Well?” his boss asked. “What do you think?”

  “You’re going to destroy Blocker, no doubt about it.”

  Greg rolled his eyes.

  The following morning Parker arrived at work early to resume his work on the arbitration case. Thirty minutes later Dexter, a cup of coffee in his hand, came by to see him.

  “What do you have going on tomorrow morning?” Dexter asked.

  It was the kind of question an associate attorney hears frequently. There was only one acceptable answer.

  “What do you need me to do?” Parker asked.

  “DUI case. You know I don’t handle them, and Greg’s gotten too high and mighty to accept them. This one involves a close friend of my wife.”

  Parker felt his parents peering over his shoulder from their photo on the credenza. He’d assumed Dexter knew about his family tragedy.

  “Dexter,” Parker began, “I’m not the right person to take on a DUI case—”

  “It’s only to enter a plea,” Dexter interrupted as he handed Parker the citation. “Here’s the ticket. It’s a woman, and they nailed her. She was clearly intoxicated and had no business being on the road. Her name is Donna McAlpine, and she blew .19 on the Breathalyzer, which is over two times the legal limit.”

  “Who is Clarisse McAlpine?” Parker asked as he read the ticket.

  “Her three-year-old daughter.”

  Parker looked up. “The little girl was in the car with her drunk mother?”

  “Yeah.” Dexter shrugged. “Donna is going through a rough stretch in her marriage and stopped off at a coworker’s apartment one afternoon after picking Clarisse up from day care. They drank some fruity stuff the friend whipped up in the blender. It was only a couple of miles to Donna’s house, but she didn’t make it. The officer pulled her over in her driveway. I know there’s nothing much you can do beyond hold her hand, but maybe you could talk to the DA about giving her a break on punishment.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  Dexter nervously checked his watch. “Do me a favor so I can get my wife off my back about helping Donna.”

  There was look of quiet desperation in Dexter’s eyes.

  “Will you promise not to ask me to do this again and back me up with Greg if he wants to drag me into defending a DUI case in the future?” Parker asked.

  “You got it.”

  “Okay.”

  “And don’t bill your time. This is pro bono.”

  “Greg expects me to record every second.”

  “I’ll say something to him,” Dexter said with a vague wave of his hand. “This one is off the books.”

  “Will your wife be happy if Donna is found guilty?”

  “Just treat Donna nice and act like you’re fighting like crazy for her even if you don’t have a chance. I’ll keep working on world peace along the home front.”

  “Having the kid in the car . . .” Parker shook his head.

  “I know. Missy has chewed her out repeatedly about that. Donna will be here in about an hour to meet with you.”

  After Dexter left, Parker shelved the arbitration file and took a crash course in DUI law. When Vicki buzzed to let him know Donna McAlpine was in the downstairs waiting room, Parker avoided a final glance at the photo of his parents before leaving his office to meet with her.

  If tearful remorse were a defense to drunk driving, Donna wouldn’t have to worry. She went through so many tissues that Parker had to get a fresh box partway through the meeting. But tears weren’t going to wash away the results of the Breathalyzer test or the fact that she’d had a previous driving-under-the-influence charge six years earlier. The new client had two aggravating factors—a prior DUI and a minor child in the car. The possibility of jail time was almost certain.

  “Would it help if Jasmine testified for me?” Donna asked. “She knows I was fine when I left her apartment.”

  “No,” Parker said with a shake of his head. “That might help a little, but we don’t want to listen to ten minutes of detailed questioning by the DA about the drinks you had at her apartment and the amount of alcohol in them.”

  “Jasmine was just trying to cheer me up.” Donna wiped her eyes with a tissue. “She and her husband have been good friends with Sean and me for a couple of years.”

  “She’s done her damage, and coming to court won’t fix it,” Parker replied. “I’ll try to catch the assistant DA in the morning and see what I can do. Be here at least thirty minutes before we have to be in court.”

  “If I go to jail, I’ll get fired,” Donna said through a final round of sniffles. “With Sean walking out on me, Clarisse and I could end up on the street.”

  Parker ushered Donna out after reassuring her of his commitment to fight as hard as he could for her. After she left, he felt like a hypocrite.

  Late in the afternoon Vicki buzzed Parker. He’d spent hours staring at the computer doing research and was glad for an interruption. He rubbed his eyes before picking up the phone.

  “Ms. Layla Donovan is here to see you,” Vicki said in a soft voice. “She doesn’t have an appointment.”

  “Is she downstairs?”

  “No, standing in front of my desk,” Vicki replied in a whisper.

  “Okay, just a minute.”

  Parker saved his work and logged out of his research project. When he stepped out of his office, Layla was talking to Greg near Vicki’s desk.

  “I appreciate the feedback,” Greg said to Layla. “Lawyers can get carried away with the performance aspect of a trial and forget it’s about connecting with the people in the jury box at a basic level.”

  Parker slowed so he could hear Layla’s response, but she turned toward him.

  “Sorry to barge in unannounced,” she said. “But I wanted to follow up on our conversation the other day about helping the firm with trial preparation.”

  “That would be great,” Greg replied. “But there’s one case you can’t help us with.”

  Layla gave him a puzzled look.

  “Your father is on the other side,” Parker interjected.

  “No one can help you beat him,” Layla said seriously.

  Parker suspected Layla was teasing but saw a surpr
ised look cross Greg’s face.

  “Where’s your office?” she asked Parker.

  “Uh, this way,” Parker replied.

  They entered, but he left the door open.

  “Were you joking about nobody beating your father?” he asked.

  “Only if you outwork him, and I doubt Greg will do that.” Layla glanced at the credenza. “Your parents?”

  “Yes.”

  Layla stepped closer and inspected the picture. “You have your mother’s eyes and your father’s curly hair. I’m not sure about the nose.”

  “It’s never been the same since I broke it playing football in high school,” Parker replied.

  Layla reached over and picked up the photo of Parker and his grandfather on the Aare.

  “My grandfather, the fisherman,” Parker said.

  “He looks vaguely familiar,” Layla replied. “And that’s a neat-looking boat with all the nets hanging down. I’d love to photograph a boat like that.”

  “Handling those nets was the hardest work I’ve ever done. The boat he has now is just for fun.”

  Standing beside Layla, Parker admired her profile in the light from his window.

  “Would you like to go out on my grandfather’s boat sometime?” he asked. “I’m sure we could find a few fishing vessels to photograph.”

  Layla faced him. “I’d like that very much.”

  CHAPTER 14

  The next morning Parker hung up the phone after talking to the assistant district attorney assigned to Donna McAlpine’s DUI case. Mercy was not going to be on the calendar when they appeared in court. Vicki buzzed him to let him know the client had arrived and was waiting in the downstairs conference room. Parker went out to the receptionist’s desk.

  “How did she look?” he asked.

  “She has a box of tissues in her lap and is filling up the trash can in the conference room.”