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  Mike’s office was at the back corner of an administration wing connected to the new sanctuary. He sold the leather-inlaid, walnut desk from his law office and let Peg decorate his new work space. She selected an effeminate worktable with Queen Anne legs and expensive antique furnishings. Typically, Peg ran over budget, but Mike bit his tongue and didn’t complain. He secretly paid the extra expense and viewed it as an investment in convincing Peg to accept the transition from lawyer’s spouse to minister’s wife.

  Mike put down a book about how to be an effective minister in a changing community and looked at the large clock on the wall. It was 11:15 a.m., and he’d only had two phone calls all morning. Compared to the stress of a law office, the pace of church leadership was like floating down a slow-moving eastern North Carolina river. At semiannual ministerial meetings, Mike heard other pastors complain about the hassle and pressure of their jobs, but he kept his mouth shut. Dealing with a church member’s concern about the condition of the flower beds in front of the old sanctuary or complaints about the choir director’s hymn selections was a lot easier than a four-hour deposition in which the opposing lawyer continuously raised spurious objections and a duplicitous witness refused to tell the truth. There was a light knock on his door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Delores Killian, the sixty-year-old church secretary, stuck her head into the office. A widow and holdover from the old guard, one of Mike’s early triumphs had been winning her support. His strategy was simple. He never asked her to do anything except what she’d always done, and she praised him to all her friends as an excellent administrator.

  “Someone is here to see you who didn’t have an appointment,” Delores whispered in a husky voice that revealed a forty-year love affair with cigarettes.

  “Who is it? I’m having lunch in Shelton with Dick Saxby, a man who visited the church on Sunday, and need to leave in a few minutes.”

  “Muriel Miller. She’s not a member of the church. Her husband is in jail, and she wants you to go see him.”

  “What are the charges?”

  Delores raised her eyebrows. “She didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask.”

  Mike waved his hand. “Don’t bother. I’ll talk to her on my way out.”

  During his legal career, Mike handled criminal cases and interacted with scores of men wearing orange jumpsuits, handcuffs, and leg irons. Since becoming a minister, he’d not visited the jail and had, in fact, ignored the squat gray building a couple of blocks from the courthouse. He returned to his book. It was an interesting chapter. The author offered several creative suggestions for bringing rural and cosmopolitan church members together. After several minutes, Mike dictated a memo of his findings for the elders. Mike was a hunt-and-peck typist, but Delores was even worse at transcribing dictation.

  After checking his hair in a small mirror beside the door, he walked into the reception area where he was startled by the sight of a small, gray-haired woman with a wrinkled face. She sat on the edge of a small sofa and wrung a tissue in her hands. The woman’s dress, a plain yellow cotton print, revealed her country roots. She looked up at him anxiously.

  “Oh,” Mike began. “You’re Mrs., uh . . .”

  “Miller,” Delores said. “Her husband—”

  “Is in jail,” Mike finished, regaining his bearings. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Muriel stood, and Mike shook her hand. Her fingers were small but her grip firm.

  “Reverend Andrews, would you visit my husband? He’s been in jail for almost three months.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “His name is Sam Miller. We live off McAfee Road. He has a lawncare business.”

  Mike thought for a moment but couldn’t connect the name with a face. McAfee Road was ten miles on the west side of Shelton, almost twenty miles from the church. No one that far away came to Little Creek Church.

  Muriel continued, “He told me you were a good lawyer.”

  “Not for over six years. I represented a lot of people when I practiced law, but I don’t remember your husband.”

  “Oh, he’s never gone to see a lawyer in his life.”

  “Then why contact me?”

  Muriel lowered her eyes and spoke in a soft voice. “He had a dream Saturday night and saw you coming to see him at the jail. When I visited him on Sunday, he told me to get in touch with you here at the church.”

  Mike’s jaw dropped open slightly. Delores leaned forward in her chair.

  “Excuse me,” Mike said. “Could you explain what you just said?”

  Muriel sighed. “Sam has a lot of dreams. The Lord shows him things that are going to happen and stuff about people he’s supposed to pray for.” Her voice grew stronger. “It’s nothing that doesn’t happen in the Bible. Jacob had a dream and saw angels on a ladder; Joseph had dreams about himself and interpreted dreams for others—”

  “I know the Bible,” Mike interrupted.

  “Of course you do,” Muriel responded quietly. “I just didn’t want you to think Sam was a nut.”

  Mike caught Delores rolling her eyes out of the corner of his vision.

  “I’ll walk out with you,” Mike said to Muriel. “I have a luncheon meeting in Shelton.”

  They entered a short hall. Mountain landscapes painted by Peg hung on the walls. Mike opened the door for Muriel. It was a warm but pleasant spring day. They walked down a brick sidewalk to the new parking lot. The asphalt sparkled in the sun. Mike had a reserved parking space marked “Senior Pastor.”

  “Why is your husband in jail?”

  “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  It had been years since Mike heard that familiar line.

  “I understand, but he must have been charged with something.”

  “They claim he took money from the church. But it’s either a lie or a big mistake.”

  “Embezzlement?”

  “Yes, that’s the word.”

  “Which church?”

  “Craig Valley. It’s a little place not far from the house. Sam was filling in as their preacher for a few months while they looked for a new man to take over.”

  “Is that your home church?”

  “Not really. We move from church to church as the Lord directs.”

  Mike glanced sideways at the strange remark. They reached his car, a Lexus holdover from his days as a lawyer that now had more than 250,000 miles on the odometer. Beside his car sat a red pickup truck with Miller’s name on the side. At least that part of this odd woman’s story was true. Mike faced her.

  “My sympathies are with you, and I’ll pray for your husband, but I’m not the man you need. You should hire a practicing lawyer who can request bail. Three months is a long time to sit in jail. If your husband hasn’t given a statement to the police, tell him to keep his mouth shut until he talks to an attorney. Confession is good at the church altar, not during a jailhouse interrogation.”

  Satisfied with his succinct and accurate counsel, Mike opened the door of his car. Muriel didn’t move.

  “Good luck,” Mike said.

  “Don’t forget the dream,” Muriel responded.

  Mike slid into the car seat and looked up at her.

  “Believe me. I won’t.”

  Three

  THE ROAD FROM LITTLE CREEK CHURCH TO SHELTON FOLLOWED the winding course of a valley nestled between two wooded ridges. Three times the road crossed a bold-flowing stream before climbing over one of the ridges and dipping into town. Mike and Peg’s house was on a street near the top of a ridge. When the leaves fell from the trees, they could see into the center of town, a picturesque view at Christmas when colored lights along the downtown streets twinkled and large angels with trumpets to their lips perched atop every other lamp pole. Mike liked to bundle up in a blanket, sit outside in a lounge chair, and enjoy the show.

  Mike and Peg bought their house when he first started practicing law and were on the verge of purchasing a much larger home when he decided to go to seminary i
n Virginia. So, instead of moving into a showcase home in the best area of town, they lived in a modest condominium for three years and rented out the house in Shelton. After completing seminary, Mike accepted the call to the Little Creek Church, and they returned home.

  Childless, their only house guest was Judge, an eight-year-old Hungarian vizsla. The short-haired, gold-colored hunter/retriever acquired his name the day Mike and Peg picked him out from the litter of a breeder in Highlands.

  “Look how that one barks at all the other pups,” Peg remarked as they watched the dogs tumbling around in the pen. “I think he’s the one.”

  “He reminds me of Judge Lancaster in Morganton,” Mike said.

  “Why?”

  “He spends all his time barking at the other lawyers.”

  “Then that’s what we’ll call him,” Peg replied.

  “Lancaster?”

  “No, silly. Judge.”

  Recently, Mike had suggested they might sell their home and look for a house closer to the church, but Peg cut him off. Her social orbit had the town, not the church, at its center. So, they stayed put. Mike’s salary from the church was barely enough to pay the mortgage and their other bills. Mike kept reassuring Peg that the growth of the church would soon justify a significant increase in salary. Her response was a slight twist of her lips that communicated skepticism more effectively than words.

  Mike drove down the hill into town. Shelton had twelve traffic lights. Each light had a number on a tiny sign above it that provided a convenient way to give directions—turn left at number six and right at four. The courthouse square was flanked by numbers one through four.

  Mike parked on the west side of the courthouse square, across the street from the law firm formerly known as Forrest, Andrews, and Lambert, the most respected law firm in Barlow County. The gold letters over the front door now read Forrest, Lambert, Park, and Arnold. Mr. Forrest claimed it had taken two lawyers to replace Mike.

  Mike entered the Ashe Street Café, a long, rectangular room with booths along two sides and tables down the middle. Waitresses brought plates of hot food from the kitchen at the rear of the room. Several men were waiting for a place to sit. He nodded in the direction of Butch Niles, the manager of the trust department for the Bank of Barlow County and a popular young representative in the General Assembly. Standing beside Niles was Jim Postell, the longtime county clerk of court and a savvy local politician.

  “Hello, Preacher,” said Niles, slapping Mike on the back. “I’ve been hearing good things about you. What are you going to do next? Run against me for the legislature?”

  “The only election I need to win is a majority vote of the church elders,” Mike responded. “And there’s no way a lawyer turned minister could ever be elected to anything. Half the people in Barlow County are mad because I sued them, and the other half wouldn’t vote for me because I’m not part of their denomination.”

  Niles chuckled. “What if I didn’t run and could get Jim to endorse you?”

  “Then I could be governor.”

  A table opened for Postell and Niles.

  “Why don’t you join us?” the clerk of court asked. “The regulars will be here in a few minutes. We’ll argue politics, but it won’t amount to anything.”

  “No, thanks, I have an appointment.”

  Other members of the legal and business community drifted into the café. There was no sign of Saxby. Mike looked at his watch and inwardly kicked himself for not confirming the appointment. He checked his PDA but hadn’t entered a contact number. He then called the church, but Delores had left and turned on the answering machine. He looked at the table where Niles and his cronies were sitting. There weren’t any empty seats. Everyone else in the café was preoccupied with lunch and conversation.

  Laughter came from the direction of the rear of the restaurant. Mike suddenly wanted to get out of there. After one more glance at his watch, he turned to the blond-haired woman behind the cash register.

  “Sue, if a man named Dick Saxby comes in looking for me, tell him I waited as long as I could but had to leave for another appointment.”

  “Sure thing, Mike. Do you want anything to go?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Mike breathed a sigh of relief. Walking down the sidewalk toward his car, he muttered, “I don’t have another appointment.”

  Blurting out a false excuse as a way to get out of the restaurant didn’t make sense. Bogus meetings had never been part of Mike’s strategy for managing his day, and he considered a lie an act of cowardice. He stopped at light number four and waited for it to turn green. No one was harmed by his misstatement, but it still made him feel uneasy. It would be awkward to return to the café, but—he stopped.

  He could visit the jail and make his statement true.

  The light turned green, but Mike didn’t cross the street. He glanced in the direction of the jail. Not visible, he knew it stood two blocks away, set back from the street with a small parking lot in front and an exercise yard surrounded by a high fence and razor wire in the rear. He looked again at his watch. He’d set aside more than an hour for lunch and didn’t have any reason to return to the church. He began walking slowly down the street toward the jail. Muriel Miller might not deliver his advice to her husband about keeping his mouth shut. It wouldn’t hurt to do it himself.

  THE VISITORS’ WAITING AREA HADN’T CHANGED IN SIX YEARS. Same plastic furniture and light green paint on the walls. Except for the presence of a thick metal door, it looked like the reception room for a cheap insurance agency. Mike knocked on a small glass partition in the wall. A young female deputy slid it open.

  “May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.

  “I’m Mike Andrews. I’d like to talk with a prisoner named Sam Miller.”

  The woman pointed to a sign on the wall next to the opening. “Visiting hours are Wednesday evening from 6:00 p.m. to 8:00 p.m., Saturday morning from 9:00 a.m. to noon, and Sunday afternoon from 1:00 p.m. to 4:00 p.m.”

  “Oh, I’m a minister,” Mike said. “Mr. Miller’s wife asked me to visit him.”

  “That doesn’t change the rules.”

  Mike hesitated. “I’m also a lawyer.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have a picture ID and your attorney card?”

  Mike took out his wallet and handed over his driver’s license and state bar association card. He’d maintained his law license by paying a small annual fee and attending a yearly seminar at the coast where he took enough classes to satisfy his continuing legal education requirement. Peg liked the beach, and in the afternoons Mike played golf.

  The woman disappeared with the items. Mike waited, tapping his finger on the counter. When she didn’t return, Mike began to wonder if she was calling Raleigh to find out if anyone had reported a suspicious man traveling across the state impersonating an attorney. Finally, she reappeared, joined by a familiar face.

  “Mike Andrews!” bellowed Chief Deputy Lamar Cochran. “What brings you down here?”

  “Hey, Lamar, nothing different, still pretending to be a lawyer.”

  “It’s okay,” Cochran said to the woman deputy. “Mr. Andrews practiced law before he went to preaching. Let him in.”

  An electric buzzer sounded, and Mike pulled open the metal door. Cochran waited for him on the other side. The two men shook hands.

  “You’ve kept your law license?” Cochran asked.

  “Yeah, once you pass the bar exam, it’s hard to give it up. There’s not much required to maintain good standing, but I may go inactive in a few years.”

  Mike followed Cochran into the booking area. A wire-mesh screen on one side of the room overlooked a broad hallway, the holding cell for drunks, and two interview rooms. The cell block lay behind another solid metal door.

  “How do you know Sam Miller?” Cochran asked.

  “I don’t. His wife stopped by the church and asked me to visit him. Is anyone representing him?”

  “I don’t think so
.” Cochran shook his head. “I’ve known Sam and Muriel since I was a kid. He’s a bit odd, but I always thought he was harmless.”

  “Embezzlement?”

  “Yeah,” Cochran said, lowering his voice. “But I hope it ain’t true. Sam is getting up in years and ought to be rocking on the back porch enjoying the mountains, not sitting in a cell block with a bunch of reprobates who broke the law while high on dope.”

  “What about bond?”

  “Too high for him to meet. I gave him the number for a bondsman but don’t know if he ever called him.”

  “Well, let me have a look at him,” Mike said. “I’ll try to steer him in the right direction.”

  “I’ll get him myself.”

  Cochran entered the cell block. Mike stepped from the booking area into the hallway. He’d forgotten the smell and feel of the jail. The odor changed depending on the day of the week. Mike had visited the lockup on Saturday nights when there was no escaping the stench of stale sweat and human waste. By Monday afternoon, the foul odors of the weekend had been replaced by lemony disinfectant. Today, the floors were clean, the drunk tank empty. The feel of the jail, however, never changed. Despair clung to its walls. Hopelessness hovered in the air. When he left the correctional center, Mike always celebrated his freedom with a deep breath.

  He opened the door to one of the interview rooms. It was empty. Glancing down at the table and chairs, he realized he hadn’t brought a legal pad. He thought about asking a booking officer for a sheet of paper but decided not to. He didn’t need to take notes. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come.

  The door to the cell block opened. Cochran returned, followed by a white-haired, rotund man wearing an orange jumpsuit. The older man stepped from behind the chief deputy, saw Mike, and smiled.

  “Hello, son,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Sam Miller. Thanks for coming.”