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  “Welcome, Preacher. Glad you’re here. I could use a character witness in a sentencing hearing for one of the Vinson boys. How much would it cost to get you to vouch for him?”

  “It says Not for hire on the back of my new business card,” Mike replied. “And I don’t think you want me giving my opinion of whether your client is a threat to society.”

  “You know Zane, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, I got him a deal for two years in and two years on probation when he was about twenty.”

  “He ran through that and has built more time in prison since. Two years at a work camp would be a blessing from heaven if I could get it today.”

  Mike pointed up. “You and Zane had better talk to my new boss if you want that kind of help.”

  Mike stepped through the opening in the wooden railing that ran across the courtroom. Passing into familiar territory, the butterflies in his stomach left. A short young lawyer with dark hair and angular features came over to him.

  “I’m Greg Freeman. How is Mr. Miller doing?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Mike replied. “I filed a motion to reduce his bond, but I’d still like to see him hire an attorney. I’ll keep working that angle with him.”

  Several chairs along the wall opposite the jury box were reserved for the attorneys. Mike sat in the second chair from the end and scribbled a few notes on a legal pad. People began to drift into the courtroom. Bobby Lambert and Maxwell Forrest walked down the aisle and through the gate. Mike stood up.

  “Good morning, Mr. Forrest,” he said.

  Mike never called the gray-haired, distinguished-looking senior partner by his first name and knew few people under fifty who did.

  “Good to see you, Mike,” Forrest replied with a smile. “Are you testifying as a character witness?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I forgot to tell you,” Bobby said to his senior partner. “Mike is representing a man pro bono. When he asked permission from the elders to do it, you’d have thought he wanted to bring a basket of snakes to the Sunday morning service.”

  “I’m saving the snake request for next month,” Mike said.

  “That should be easy compared to the other night. Convincing the other members of the session to let you help this man was one of the most difficult jobs of persuasion I’ve had all year.”

  “Sorry I missed the argument,” Mike said. “I could have learned something, but you kicked me out of the room for the debate.”

  “I didn’t want you to learn all my manipulative tricks. You might use them against me.”

  Forrest smiled. “If you boys had spent as much time thinking up ways to help our clients as you did upstaging each other, all of us would have made a lot more money.”

  The back door of the courtroom opened, and a sheriff ’s deputy brought in a line of four prisoners from the jail. Bringing up the rear and looking around the courtroom with a quizzical look on his face was Sam Miller. There was a visible bruise on his jaw where he’d been struck. The prisoners went into the jury box and sat on the front row. Mike walked toward Sam, but before he reached him, Judge Coberg came into the courtroom.

  “All rise!” an elderly bailiff ordered.

  Mike gave Sam an encouraging look before returning to the lawyers’ side of the courtroom.

  “Be seated,” the judge said as soon as he positioned himself behind the bench.

  It had been many years since Harris Coberg practiced law. His shoulders had started to droop, and his right hand had a slight quiver, but his piercing dark eyes retained the intensity that had made him a successful prosecutor long before Ken West arrived on the scene.

  “We’ll take up the criminal matters first,” the judge said in his deep voice.

  The judge glared at the table where the State’s attorneys sat. There was no sign of Ken West or anyone else from the district attorney’s office.

  “What time is it?” the judge barked at no one in particular.

  Mr. Forrest was immediately on his feet. “Five minutes after nine, Your Honor.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Forrest.”

  The side door leading to the DA’s office opened, and Melissa Hall entered with several files crookedly held beneath her arm.

  “Glad you could join us,” the judge growled. “When I’m presiding, court begins promptly at nine. Is that a problem for you?”

  “My apologies, Your Honor,” Hall replied. Mike could see the young lawyer’s face flush from across the room. “Mr. West was scheduled to handle this morning’s docket, but he called in sick.”

  “Are you ready to proceed?” the judge asked in a voice that dared her to request a postponement.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “State v. Hughes. Defendant’s Motion for Independent Testing of Alleged Controlled Substance,” Hall replied.

  Partway through the hearing, Judge Coberg glanced over at the lawyers’ section and nodded slightly at Mike.

  Mike settled into his chair and listened. Assistant DA Hall didn’t put up much of a fight to a defense request for independent testing of alleged cocaine found at the defendant’s mobile home.

  Greg Freeman handled the second hearing, a motion to suppress evidence of stolen merchandise found in the trunk of his client’s car. The key issue was the reasonableness of the initial stop of the vehicle. The deputy hadn’t figured out the nuances of the Fourth Amendment prohibition against unreasonable searches and seizures, and Freeman roasted him on cross-examination. Hall’s attempt to rehabilitate the deputy’s testimony only reemphasized his lack of probable cause to stop and search the car. The judge cut into Hall’s questioning.

  “Deputy, you can’t stop a car in Barlow County and pry open the trunk with a crowbar because you heard at a bar the defendant was involved in a burglary.”

  “But everyone knows he’s guilty,” the deputy protested. “And I found the stuff to prove it!”

  “Not in my courtroom!” The judge’s right hand shook as he extended his finger toward the witness. “Next time, do your job right!”

  The deputy silently appealed for help to Hall, who looked down at the paperwork on the table.

  “Do you understand?” the judge continued.

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  “I’m not sure you do, Deputy, but by the next time you appear before me, I hope the sheriff ’s office will have corrected the flaws in your criminal justice education.” The judge looked at Hall. “Tell Mr. West that I expect him to do a better job screening searches so the court’s time isn’t wasted with this kind of sloppy law enforcement.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr. Freeman,” the judge continued. “Draw up an appropriate order granting the motion to suppress.”

  Freeman returned to the lawyers’ section and whispered to Mike, “I don’t think the judge has granted two defense motions in a row this year.”

  “I’m next. I hope it’s three.”

  “‘State v. Miller, Motion to Reduce Bond,’” the judge read from the sheet before him, then glanced up at Mike. “Mr. Andrews, are you representing Mr. Miller?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mike moved to the defense table where Sam, still dressed in a jailhouse orange jumpsuit, joined him. The bruise on Sam’s cheek had turned from red to purple. The old man smiled at Mike.

  “Papa and I say ‘Good morning,’” Sam said.

  “Keep Papa out of this,” Mike replied.

  “Proceed,” the judge said.

  “Yes, sir,” Mike answered loudly. He handed certified copies of the real estate records to the judge and Hall. “I tender these records into evidence.”

  “No objection,” Hall responded.

  Mike continued. “Judge, this is an embezzlement charge with bond currently set at $100,000. Mr. Miller and his wife own property free and clear in Barlow County, and his residence and the surrounding land have a tax value of $65,000. We’d ask that the bond be reduced to that amount. Mr. Miller has lived in
the Shelton area for more than thirty years and operates his own lawncare business. He has no prior criminal record and doesn’t pose a serious risk of flight. He’s been in jail three months since his arrest.”

  The judge silently read the documents.

  “How is your jaw?” Mike whispered to Sam.

  “They sent me to the hospital for an X-ray. It’s not broke, but it hurts to chew.” The judge spoke. “Are you going to present testimonial evidence from the defendant?”

  “If you think it necessary,” Mike answered. “I didn’t want to take up too much of the Court’s time, and given Mr. Miller’s stable background, the records admitted are sufficient to support reduction of the bond.”

  “That’s an issue I’ll decide,” the judge responded wryly. “Before I do, I have a few questions for Mr. Miller. Ms. Hall may also want to inquire.”

  Mike turned to Sam. “Go to the witness chair.”

  Sam ambled to the elevated seat on the right-hand side of the bench. With his rotund belly and white hair, he certainly didn’t look like a threat to society. Mike’s concern was that Sam’s words would sabotage the motion. The judge administered the oath. Sam looked at Mike.

  “I’m ready when you are,” he said.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw Bobby Lambert suppress a laugh. Mr. Forrest sat stone-faced beside him.

  “Judge, do you want me to go first?” Mike asked.

  “Proceed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mike faced the witness stand.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Sam Miller.”

  “Tell the judge about your background.”

  “Which part?”

  “Your business.”

  “I cut grass, plant trees and shrubs, fertilize, trim, and do whatever needs to be done to a yard. I’ve cut the judge’s grass a few times when he was out of town and couldn’t do it himself.”

  Mike quickly checked Judge Coberg’s expression. His countenance remained inscrutable.

  “Do you have a criminal record?” Mike asked.

  “Nope.”

  Mike approached the witness stand and handed Sam a copy of the real estate records.

  “Do you and your wife own this property?”

  “Yep.”

  “Any mortgage?”

  “Not in a long time.”

  “If you’re released on bond, will you stay in Barlow County until the charges against you have been resolved?”

  “Unless the Master sends me elsewhere.”

  Mike’s jaw tightened. “But you’ll obey an order by the court instructing you to stay close to home if it’s a condition of your bond, won’t you?”

  Sam shifted in his chair. “I render unto Caesar, but Papa is my boss.”

  Mike tried to ignore the murmurings that rippled across the courtroom but quickly decided not to dissect Sam’s answer in an effort to explain it. The more Sam spoke, the more unstable he would appear.

  “Will you be present for all scheduled court dates?”

  “Yep, so long as I know about it.”

  “Subject to any redirect examination, that’s all from the defendant.”

  Mike turned over a fresh sheet on his legal pad and hoped for the best.

  “Ms. Hall, you may ask,” the judge said.

  “No questions.”

  Mike barely concealed his shock. Even an inexperienced prosecutor could make Sam look ridiculous and perhaps even delusional. The judge stared at Hall for a moment then turned toward Sam.

  “Mr. Miller, when was the last time you traveled outside Barlow County?” the judge asked.

  “Let’s see, Muriel and I drove over to Lake James about a month before I was locked up.”

  “Did you catch anything?”

  “No keepers. I spent most of the time sitting on a stump enjoying the view.” “If you get out on bond, will you have time to plant your garden?”

  “Muriel got everything started in the cold frame, but I need to transplant my lettuce, broccoli, and cauliflower.”

  The judge wrote something on the legal pad in front of him. For all Mike knew, it could have been a reminder to contact Sam Miller for fresh vegetables.

  “What happened to your face?” the judge asked.

  “A boy at the jail lost his temper and started swinging. I didn’t see it coming.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Brinson.”

  “Was he mad at you?”

  “Nope. I think he was mad at you. He mentioned your name along with some other words I heard all the time in the Marine Corps but don’t want to repeat today.”

  “And I’ve heard enough today,” the judge replied. “Motion granted. I find the defendant’s real property is sufficient collateral. Mr. Andrews, do you have an Order prepared?”

  “No, sir. Will you be in your chambers later today?”

  “Until three o’clock.”

  Mike accompanied Sam back to the jury box.

  “You did a good job,” Sam said.

  Mike spoke in a low voice. “I didn’t do anything. He was upset that you got hit.” Mike paused. “And probably wants to make sure you get out of jail in time to plant your garden.”

  The judge called out, “State v. Garfield. Mr. Lambert for the defendant.”

  “He’s partial to cauliflower,” Sam replied. “But I could tell he respects you.”

  “I’m not sure respect is in his vocabulary when he’s thinking about lawyers.” Mike pointed across the courtroom. “But did you see Greg Freeman in action? He’s a sharp young attorney.”

  “Yep, but you’re the one for me.”

  “You’re harder to convince than Judge Coberg,” Mike replied softly. “After the judge signs the Order, I’ll come by the jail. You should be home for supper. I’m sure your wife can fix something easy to chew.”

  Mike left the courtroom. He was halfway down the hall when he heard his name.

  “Mike, just a minute!”

  It was Mr. Forrest. He was leaning against the wall and breathing heavily. Mike returned to him.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you wanted to talk to me,” Mike said.

  The old man caught his breath. “It’s about Miller. I don’t think it’s wise for you to be representing him.”

  Mike’s jaw tightened. Anyone but Maxwell Forrest would have received a curt response. Mike took a deep breath.

  “It’s temporary, until he can find another attorney,” Mike said. “Maybe Greg Freeman could help him. I thought Greg did a good job this morning.”

  “A much better choice,” Forrest said, clearing his throat. “A young lawyer with no reputation to protect.”

  Mike narrowed his gaze. Forrest continued, “Jack Hatcher at the bank is concerned about this situation. There was a lot of money involved.”

  “I planned on contacting someone at the bank about the account. If the charges are the result of a data entry error, I wouldn’t do anything to cause public embarrassment for the bank.”

  “There’s no mistake, Mike,” Forrest said soberly. “I’ve seen the documentation. It’s embezzlement, although not a very artful attempt.”

  Mike shrugged. “If that’s the case, it will probably be a matter of working out a guilty plea. Could you call Mr. Hatcher and arrange access for me to the bank’s records?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Why?”

  “Your involvement creates an awkward situation.”

  “How?”

  “You’re no longer with the firm, of course, but our names remain linked in the minds of many people, and a possible conflict with the bank would be an undesirable scenario. As a minister, you hold a position of respect in the community that is above the unpleasantness of involvement in a criminal case. Trust me. I’m only trying to protect you.”

  Mike was puzzled. “Is there more to this than I know?”

  “Not really, except recognizing the wisdom of disengaging yourself from this matter so you can return to
what the good Lord called you to do.”

  Mike spoke slowly, “Mr. Forrest, I really appreciate your concern. It gives me a new perspective.”

  Forrest patted Mike on the shoulder. “Good. You were always a quick learner.”

  “WHY WOULD ANDREWS GET INVOLVED IN THE FIRST PLACE?” Jack Hatcher asked.

  Maxwell Forrest shifted the phone receiver against his ear and made a note about the call on his time and billing slip.

  “He’s always had a touch of crusader in him, but it doesn’t matter who handles the case. The evidence is ironclad.”

  “Could Andrews delay the case?”

  “Of course. No defendant wants speedy justice.”

  “The board of the bank wants a conviction, the sooner the better.”

  “I can encourage the process to move along.”

  “Do it.”

  Eight

  MIKE WENT HOME AND PREPARED THE ORDER REDUCING SAM’ S bond then returned to the courthouse. Two lawyers were vigorously arguing a motion for summary judgment in a civil case. With no spectators present, the attorneys were like gladiators fighting in an empty arena. Mike sat in the front row and listened.

  After the attorneys packed up their briefcases, Judge Coberg spoke to Mike. “Mr. Andrews, you may approach.”

  Mike came forward and stood in front of the judge.

  “I prepared the Order in the Miller case. Do you have time to review it before lunch?”

  “So long as you didn’t write it in Hebrew or Greek.”

  “Your Honor, my familiarity with ancient languages proved as fleeting as my understanding of the Rule against Perpetuities.”

  “Let me see what you have,” the judge said.

  Mike handed a single sheet of paper to the judge, who quickly scanned and signed it. The judge sat back in his chair.

  “I’ve missed seeing you in my courtroom. How’s the four-legged Judge doing?”

  “Still barking at anyone who doesn’t agree with him.”

  “I ought to name my new pointer Preacher,” the judge responded.