The Wedding Caper

by Janice Thompson

  “Never really paid much attention to what they were saying,” he admitted at one point. “Guess I didn’t feel like I needed what they were peddling. I just wanted a clean bathroom and a shave. Or a new shirt.”

  My heart nearly broke as he told his story. For several reasons. I wanted to ask him how he could’ve heard their words of hope and not responded, but he answered that for me.

  “I was too messed up to hear what they had to say, anyway. My mind was—” His hand flew up, as if in a sign of surrender. “—Shot. I was completely messed up by the drugs and alcohol.”

  He went on to talk about the countless bottles of cheap whiskey he’d purchased over the years, which he’d swallowed down between drug hits. I squirmed in my seat and tried to settle the ache in my “mama heart” by tracing circles in my now-empty pie plate with my fork.

  I thought, once again, about Nadine, and her work with the homeless. How wonderful, to give yourself so freely to those in need. But how difficult it must be to watch so many return to their habits, in spite of your encouragement and help.

  As Jake spoke, I wished a thousand times over I could bolt from this place and not look back. But something held me firmly in place. Lord, is this what you meant by street smart? To be honest, this isn’t quite what I had in mind. I could have lived the rest of my life without hearing all of this.

  On the other hand, I had asked the Lord for his help with the investigation. Perhaps something Jake might say would stir up an answer to the questions rolling around in my head.

  If you look for it as for silver and search for it as for hidden treasure, then you will understand the fear of the Lord and find the knowledge of God.

  Hmm. There it was again. That verse.

  Well, no point in beating around the bush. I might as well come out and ask the question that that had been on my mind all along. “I just need to know one thing.” I could feel the frustrating sting of tears as I interrupted him.

  His brow wrinkled as he looked my way. “What?”

  “If you had family here, what were you doing there? Why didn’t you just come home?”

  Jake and Shawna both gave me that you-wouldn’t-get-it look but I refused to let the question go unanswered.

  “I want to understand.” I offered up an imploring look, in the hopes that both would trust me enough to bare their souls. “I’m a mom. And all moms want to know what they could have done—” Dare I say it? “—Differently.”

  Shawna’s musical fingernails tapped on the tabletop. “It’s not always that easy to explain.” I took note of the strain in her voice. “I mean, I got along with my mom okay, but my dad—”

  “At least you had a dad,” Jake interjected. “With me, there was no one to talk to but my mom, and she just didn’t get me. At least not during the bad years.”

  I thought back to my conversation with Janetta Mullins. She had acknowledged making a few mistakes, not offering her youngest child the same discipline as the older ones. But was that really enough to send him running to a life in the streets?

  “So leaving was the best choice?” I asked.

  Jake’s gaze shifted to the table. “I’m not saying that. There are a lot of things I wish I’d done different. My mom. . .” His eyes clouded over here.

  Was he going to cry?

  “My mom did everything she could. I know that. She wanted me to just snap out of it. Like it was that easy. She even sent me to a counselor.”

  “Been there, done that,” Shawna whispered. “My parents sent me to a shrink. Paid a fortune.”

  I couldn’t help but notice the admiring gaze Jake cast Shawna’s way as he forged ahead. “After my dad left, I just kind of folded up—like a deck of cards. Shut down. It wasn’t long before a couple of my friends offered me something that took away the pain.”

  Drugs.

  “I knew I’d end up as messed up as they were.” He shrugged. “But to be honest, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anyone back then, especially not myself.”

  Whoa. Brutal honesty. I guess that’s what I got for asking God to show me His heart in all of this.

  Jake’s lips pursed and silence took over. He finally spoke, though a tremor now laced his words. “My dad obviously never cared anything about me. I didn’t figure I mattered to him—at least not enough to send a stupid birthday card or Christmas present. So I guess it made some kind of sense that I didn’t care about myself either. Like father, like son, you know?”

  How do I get rid of this knot in my throat without creating a scene?

  Jake’s face tightened as he finished. “I just wanted a way to kill the pain. And the drugs took care of that.”

  I noticed Shawna’s eyes brimming over. Apparently her heart was softer than it appeared. “How did you end up in Philly?” she asked.

  Is that tenderness in her voice?

  Jake took another swig from his coffee cup before answering. “The money. I figured I could deal drugs, like my buddies. They made it sound pretty appealing. But I’ve already told you how all of that ended up.” He cleared his throat and shifted his attentions out the window.

  My heart felt as if it would break. I wanted to wrap this young man in my arms, to tell him everything would be fine, that he could start all over again.

  Shawna interrupted my thoughts with a few thoughtful words. “Sometimes I wish I could go back and do things over.”

  “Me too.” Jake looked up and their eyes seemed to lock.

  For a moment I said nothing. When I did interject my thoughts, they came bathed in silent prayer. “Everyone feels that way at some point. We’ve all got stuff behind us we wish we could change. But it’s what’s in front of us that matters.”

  Jake gave a slight nod. “Looking back is hard. I don’t even like to remember what I was like in Philly.” Again, the gaze shifted to the table.

  I reached to squeeze his hand. “Jake, you’re no different from any of the rest of us.”

  His eyebrows arced in surprise. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. And I think you know it, too. I think you probably heard just enough from those street preachers to get you thinking. You’re not interested in going back. You want to move forward. That’s evident.”

  He leaned back in the booth and put his hands behind his head. “Maybe. But the police sure don’t seem to think I have any kind of a future—except maybe one behind bars. They took one look at me and assumed the worst. Didn’t even give me a chance.”

  My heart rate increased immediately. Oh, here we go. . .

  “What’s up with that?” Shawna asked.

  I leaned in as Jake responded, my need-to-know kicking in.

  “They said they found my fingerprints on the night deposit box. Big deal. So, I’m not a customer at the bank. What does that have to do with anything?”

  What, indeed? Probably hundreds of people have touched that box.

  “I told them I’d touched it. Even tried to open it. I was just messing around, waiting for my sister to show up. I’d been watching her for days and kind of figured she’d eventually turn up to make a deposit for my mom’s business.”

  “Did she?” Shawna leaned in, elbows on the table, in rapt attention.

  He shrugged. “From what my sister told me later, she made the deposit around one in the morning, but I never even saw her. I fell asleep around midnight on the backside of the building, just beyond the trees.”

  “Ah.” So that answered that question. “I feel asleep” probably hadn’t been the strongest alibi, to a law enforcement officer’s way of thinking.

  “The police must think I’m a lot smarter than I am. There was some sort of power outage, and I guess they figured I rigged it somehow.” He shook his head, clearly frustrated. “I can think of a thousand things I’d rather do that mess with anything electrical, I’ll tell you that.”

  Amen, brother. I hear ya.

  “And how in the world they think I rigged the night deposit box is beyond me. Supposedly they found s
ome scrape marks on the edges, but they’re really grasping if they think that incriminates me in any way.” He finished up the story with a smirk on his face. “I guess these local cops took one look at my record from Philly and made an assumption I stole the money to buy drugs. But I’ve been clean and sober for nine months. Nine months.”

  “Wow.” Shawna and I spoke in unison.

  I could see the anger in his eyes now. “The thing that really made me mad was the part where they said I did this to get even with my mom. They have no idea—” His chin quivered and Shawna reached to squeeze his hand. “They have no idea I came back to Clarksborough to make peace with my mom. I was coming home . . . for good.”

  The silence at the table grew a bit eerie and I finally snapped to as I looked at my watch. Four-thirty? No way. I glanced out of the window just in time to see Devin drive by on his way home from football practice. Even from here, I could see the smudges on his face.

  Oh, my son. My wonderful, innocent son.

  I thanked Jake and Shawn for their vulnerability and told them I wanted to stay in touch. Then I dismissed myself to return home. I spent the brief drive in a somewhat frantic, choppy prayer, pleading with God to reach down and touch Jake—to give him a new perspective of himself and his future.

  Lord, please help him see that you’re for him, not against him. Help him, Father. And if you want to use me in any way to bring him to you—

  I could see myself, now—reaching out to Jake, giving him motherly advice, offering counsel and encouragement. Perhaps I’d even go to the police and explain his situation, try to help them see beyond the circumstantial evidence to the truth.

  When the Lord interrupted my zealous ponderings to share His thoughts on the matter, I very nearly missed Him altogether. His words, familiar and poignant, took me aback.

  God grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, the courage to change the one I can—

  —And the wisdom to know it’s me.

  Funny, the Almighty sounded for all of the world like Sheila.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the morning after my encounter with Jake Mullins, I decided to stop by the Clark County Sheriff’s office for a little chat with his arresting officer. Mind you, I knew little about law enforcement and even less about criminal investigations—other than what I’d learned through the terrific courses at www.investigativeskills.com, of course. Still, I couldn’t shake the idea that meeting with “the big guys” would serve me well.

  Sergeant Michael O’Henry, a former Sunday school student of mine, met with me, albeit unwillingly. He didn’t seem keen on swapping stories about Clark County’s key suspect, but I tried not to take that personally. My gut told me the police didn’t have their man this time around.

  O’Henry, a rather rotund and red-faced fellow, led me into his cold and uninviting office. He took a seat behind the desk and I sat in the stark metal chair on the opposite side. Mental note: If anyone in the family ever decides to go into law enforcement, offer to decorate their office for them.

  The sergeant took a seat in the squeaky leather swivel chair, leaned back to put his hands behind his head, and the conversation began.

  “Well, Mrs. Peterson—”

  “Call me Annie.” I had to admit, it felt kind of weird calling him ‘Sergeant.” Weirder still to see him with a receding hairline instead of those cute blonde curls he’d always pushed out of his eyes while coloring pictures of Jesus and the disciples.

  “Fine. Annie, I’m not sure what else I can tell you that you haven’t already read in the papers or heard through the grapevine.”

  Grapevine? What does he think Clarksborough is, anyway? A rumor mill? Hmm. Then again . . .

  “Is Jake Mullins still a suspect?” I pulled out my notebook to begin writing.

  O’Henry pursed his lips. “I can’t really talk to you about that.”

  Oh, sure you can. “Why not?” I scribbled a couple of circles onto the page to make sure my pen was working. Just in case this fine law enforcement officer decided to spill his guts. “Obviously you’ve released him. Does that mean you don’t have a case against him, or are you just working to obtain more evidence?”

  The man didn’t even bother to blink.

  “We’re dealing with an on-going investigation here,” he explained. “And I can’t really divulge anything more than that.”

  I gazed through the glass into the outer office, distracted as the various officers came and went. The radios strapped to their sides blared out bits and pieces of messages, but I couldn’t make out any of them. Couldn’t figure out how they did, either. The whole thing was pretty dizzying.

  I regained my focus and slipped into Sunday school teacher mode. “Michael, you must know in your gut that Jake Mullins is innocent. All of the evidence is circumstantial. I’ve heard his story. I can’t imagine he’s guilty. Talk to his family. They’ll fill you in on why he was hanging around the bank.”

  Michael picked up an ink pen and twisted it around in his fingers. My keen observation skills clued me in on the fact that my words had made him nervous. Or possibly irritated. Still, his response surprised me.

  “Every snowflake in an avalanche pleads not guilty, Mrs. Peterson.”

  Good grief. Is everyone on the planet going to end up sounding like Sheila?

  With my most motherly voice in place, I went on to ask him how he knew so much about Jake Mullins. After all, poor Jake was just a kid in need of a mother’s love. Couldn’t O’Henry see that?

  His answer threw me for a loop.

  “I’ve been tracking that kid for nine years. Nine years. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff he got into as a teen.”

  My mind soared back to the conversation in the diner. Plenty of Jake’s stories had wowed me. Plenty.

  I noticed O’Henry’s brow creasing. “This is one messed up young man we’re talking about here,” he said. “And I owe it to the taxpayers to finally bring him to justice. He’s gotten away with too much over the years. Too much. And he’s made me look like a fool on more than one occasion.”

  Whoa. Do I smell a vendetta here, or what?

  “I know he says he’s changed.” O’Henry reached up with his palm to swipe it through his thinning hair. “But that’s hard to believe. And a little too convenient, to my way of thinking. Once a troublemaker, always a troublemaker.”

  “Interesting words, coming from the kid who set off a round of fireworks in the baptistery during the Christmas play. You were fourteen at the time, if memory serves me correctly.” Now I was the one leaning back in my chair, smug look on my face.

  Michael turned all shades of red. “I, um—”

  “A rough past doesn’t dictate a person’s future,” I prompted.

  “Listen, Mrs. Peterson, it’s like this. . .” The fine sergeant went on to tell me about Jake’s arrest history. He listed countless drug charges while Jake was in his late teens, and a case of breaking and entering at seventeen.

  “He’s been in and out of this jail more than I have,” O’Henry said with a smirk, “and I’ve worked in this building fifteen years.”

  Clearly an exaggeration, but I did have to wonder about Jake at this point. His “record” seemed to be heftier than I’d imagined. Of course, he had never minced any words about his past. He’d simply left out the parts where he had “done time” in the Clark County jail.

  O’Henry continued on. “Mind you,” he said, “I’m only free to mention all of this because it’s a matter of public record. If you go back through the local papers from a few years ago, you’ll find most of this same information. It’s all there.”

  Ouch. So much for playing at the role of “Super Sleuth Extraordinaire.” I’d never thought of looking through old newspapers for evidence.

  Sergeant O’Henry stood, and I followed his lead by standing as well. All the while, a strange mixture of thoughts tumbled around in my head. Maybe Jake hadn’t been completely up front in our diner discussion. But people
could change, couldn’t that? All of these things really were just a reflection of his past, not his present. Hadn’t we talked about that? What difference did a shady past make, after all?

  I tried to shift the conversation a little by explaining my reason for coming—at least one of my reasons, anyway. “I’m trying to understand the mentality of a young man who would turn to life on the streets.”

  “Why?”

  There must be a course at the police academy on how to give a piercing gaze, because his left me feeling more than a little cold.

  “I, um. . .”

  “Annie.” The officer extended his hand and I took it for a goodbye shake. “I think you’re better off leaving this to the sheriff’s office. That’s why you pay your tax dollars. And we’re here to serve you.”

  “I’m don’t doubt that. I just want to—”

  “I know what you’re trying to do.” He ushered me to the door as he carried on. “You’re soft-hearted and all that. Nobody ever wants to believe the worst, especially of a guy as young and innocent-looking as Jake Mullins. But someone stole that $25,000.”

  “Indeed.” My heart rate doubled immediately. “But this troubles me too. I’ve not heard you mention any other suspects.” None. Nada. Zip.

  “That’s right, you haven’t.” He gave me yet another cold, hard look. “And if we had other suspects, you still wouldn’t—at least not until an arrest had been made. As I said, this is an ongoing investigation.”

  I couldn’t explain the cold shockwave that rode down my spine as he looked into my eyes. It was almost as if Sergeant O’Henry could read all of my troubling thoughts at once. Mental note: Figure out how to give that stare. Very effective.

  Perhaps the Clark County Sheriff’s Office had shifted their sites to another suspect and I knew nothing of it. Maybe, even now, they were tailing my husband’s every move, in the hopes that he would slip up, make a mistake.