The Sacrifice

by Robert Whitlow

  When she left, Lester grunted, “She goes to my school. Does she know anything about my case?”

  “No. Your file has been in my office. Everything that happens here is confidential.”

  Lester shrugged. “It hasn’t been confidential at the high school. If the judge hadn’t told me to stay in school or go back to jail, I would have dropped out. Everybody is talking behind my back, and there has been some harassment.”

  He told Scott about finding the chain and note in his locker. “And that’s not all. Last Friday I went into the rest room in the gym near the end of the day. Someone came in behind me and turned out the lights. There are no windows in there so I couldn’t see a thing. I tried to find the door and two guys knocked me up against the wall. One of them punched me in the arm and told me not to come out until I had counted to twenty. Then they left.”

  Lester pulled up his sleeve. In the center of the lightning bolts was a deep purple bruise.

  “I think the guy had something metal in his hand to cause such a bad bruise.”

  “Did you recognize the voice?” Scott asked.

  “No, but I’m sure it was a black guy. They won’t come out into the open and fight one-on-one.”

  “Did you report it to the office?”

  “What good would that do? I’m the only one who is going to look out for me. I have a right of self-defense, don’t I?”

  “But you don’t need any fights,” Scott replied. “That will get you back to the YDC faster than anything else that could happen.”

  “I’ll do what I have to do,” Lester said flatly. “My chance will come.”

  “Let me bring you up to date on the case,” Scott said.

  He began with the phone call with Deputy Ayers.

  “That’s not the way I remember it,” Lester snorted. “They roughed me up before throwing me in the back of the patrol car.”

  “Okay. And the gun?”

  “Like I told you at the YDC. I was scared and tossed it in the creek. It shouldn’t be against the law to carry a pistol along the creekbank, but when they came roaring down the road with the siren on and the blue lights flashing, I panicked. What would you do if the police surprised you like that?”

  It was a good question, and Scott made a note on his legal pad. His client was barely seventeen and his conduct could be explained as an immature reaction caused by the stress of the moment.

  Lester listened closely to Scott’s summary of the conversation with Bishop Moore. Scott watched his client’s eyes when he reached the part about the person with the dark hair. Lester’s gaze shifted, and Scott couldn’t follow where the young man’s memory traveled.

  “Do you have a black hat?” Scott asked.

  “Uh, I have a black baseball cap, but I wasn’t wearing it when I was arrested. I’d shaved my head a couple of days before and didn’t have any hair at all. That means the preacher’s testimony will help my case, won’t it?”

  Scott nodded. “I think so, but there are other things you have to consider.”

  He outlined some of the strengths of the state’s case. Lester didn’t like what he heard.

  “You sound like you’re giving up.”

  “No. Just being realistic. If I ignore the other side, we are more likely to get blindsided. I have to get ready to try this case and want to give it our best shot.”

  “I’m not guilty. My father said it’s your job to prove it.”

  Scott decided not to mention that the state had the burden of proof. As a practical matter, juries often expected the defense to present a plausible alternative to the prosecution’s case in order to gain an acquittal.

  “Mr. Humphrey, the senior partner in the firm, is going to help at trial. He’s one of the best lawyers in this part of the state.”

  “Okay.”

  Scott hesitated. He’d intended to mention the plea bargain, but decided it would be better to end the conversation and bring it up when Lester’s father was present.

  “When is your father going to be back in town?”

  “I’m not sure. We never know until he shows up on the front porch.”

  “When he comes in, I’d like to meet with both of you. In the meantime, stay out of trouble.”

  Outside the office, Lester’s truck refused to start. He cursed, got out, and raised the hood. He didn’t want to run down the battery by turning the engine over again and again without effect. He unscrewed the wing nut that secured the cover for the air cleaner and set the round metal piece on the pavement. The carburetor was stained a deep brown but there wasn’t any obvious obstruction blocking the flow of fuel.

  “Need some help?” a voice behind him said.

  Lester turned around. It was a tall, African-American man with graying hair. He was dressed in clean blue overalls and brown work boots. He looked at Lester through rimless glasses.

  “No, I got it running a few minutes ago.” Lester went around to the cab of the truck and retrieved a screwdriver.

  The man took a step back but didn’t leave. Lester leaned over the engine and adjusted the idle screw. He checked again to make sure the carburetor wasn’t locked in the choke position and climbed behind the wheel. He turned the key. The engine rolled over and tried to come to life but couldn’t catch. When Lester got out of the truck, the black man was peering at the left side of the carburetor. He had Lester’s screwdriver in his right hand.

  “I don’t need any help,” Lester repeated.

  Ignoring him, the man pointed with the screwdriver. “Something is wrong with this spring. When you turned the key, it couldn’t bring the butterfly valve to the right position.” He reached around the front of the carburetor, unhooked the spring, and held it between his dark fingers. He rolled it back and forth. “See, it’s been twisted and doesn’t have the tension it needs to work.”

  Lester swore. “That’s what they did. When I find out—” He grabbed the spring out of the man’s hand. It flew from his grasp and rolled under the truck. Lester got down on his hands and knees and peered under the vehicle. The man joined him and in a few seconds said, “Here it is. It’s hard to see in the shadows.”

  The man handed the spring to Lester. “I’m sure you could get another one from Hill’s junkyard for a buck or two. They have several older model cars and trucks with the same engine.”

  “Yeah, I’ve bought some parts from them, but that’s four or five miles from town.”

  “I could give you a ride,” the man offered. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

  Lester hesitated. “Don’t you work?”

  The man smiled, revealing a shiny gold tooth in the front of his mouth. “I’ve worked plenty, but now I’m retired and loving every minute of it.”

  Lester had never voluntarily been in a car with a person of another race. “What are you driving?”

  “My truck. It’s parked down the street.”

  Lester was out of options. “Okay.”

  The man stuck out his hand. “I’m Thomas Greenway.”

  Lester shook the man’s hand. “Lester Garrison.”

  Lester lowered the hood of his truck and followed Mr. Greenway to the sidewalk. Mr. Greenway stopped in front of a dark blue Ford pickup that was the same year as Lester’s. It had been beautifully restored. Lester’s mouth dropped open.

  “Is that your truck?” he asked.

  “Yep. That’s why I thought maybe I could help you out. I know most everything about this model.”

  Lester ran his hand across the smooth paint on the hood. There was a narrow white stripe down the side and fog lamps beneath the front bumper. Mr. Greenway had replaced the standard wheels with chrome ones and put on larger tires than when the vehicle came off the showroom floor many years before.

  “How long have you had it?” Lester asked.

  “About five years. It wasn’t in as good a shape as yours when I bought it, but the frame was solid and the body wasn’t rusted. I’ve spent hundreds of hours on it, and more money than I could get back
if I tried to sell it.”

  Lester pressed the button on the shiny door handle. The door opened without a hint of a squeak. He sat down in the passenger seat. The vinyl was cleaner than a new plastic tablecloth. When the African-American man turned the ignition, the engine gave a deep-throated rumble.

  “What kind of pipes do you have on it?”

  “I changed it to dual exhausts and modified mufflers. I didn’t want it to sound like a Harley, but I don’t mind if people know I’m coming down the road.”

  He backed out into the street. Lester rolled down the window so he could hear the sound that escaped through the baffles of the mufflers. They drove north away from the center of town. Riding in the truck, Lester forgot to focus on the color of Mr. Greenway’s skin.

  The junkyard was on a two-lane road that wound past small farms and a subdivision that contained ten or twelve modest houses. The owner of the junkyard lived in a rambling, red-brick home. He had fenced off a large field behind his house and filled it with rows of wrecked vehicles in various stages of decay. A small sign on the road read “Hill’s Auto Salvage,” but the hundreds of cars in plain view made the sign superfluous.

  Mr. Greenway pulled into a gravel drive and stopped in front of the small wooden building Mr. Hill used as an office. Behind it was a larger metal building devoted to systematic cannibalism of the most valuable parts from the vehicles destined for the fields. At the sound of the truck, the proprietor came out of the metal building.

  “Howdy, Thomas,” Mr. Hill said. “What can I do for you?”

  “This young man needs a spring for a carburetor on a truck like mine. Do you have something in the shop or do we need to go to the field?”

  “Only a spring?”

  “I’m thinking that’s the problem.”

  “I don’t have that sort of thing inside. Go get one.”

  Lester and Thomas walked between the rows of automobiles and trucks. The old man walked briskly and took two turns without slowing down.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Lester asked.

  “Yeah. There’s a row of Fords toward the back of the lot.”

  The trucks were lined up like nursing home residents in wheelchairs enjoying the late-afternoon sun. Thomas raised the hood on one and took off the air cleaner. In a few seconds he held up a spring so Lester could see it.

  “What do you think?” he asked. “It looks tight.”

  Lester nodded. “Okay.”

  As they walked back to the shop, Thomas asked, “Have you thought about fixing up your truck?”

  “Not really.”

  “Where do you go to school?”

  “Catawba High.”

  “I didn’t make it past eighth grade at the old Autumn Hill school. I dropped out and went into the mills.”

  Mr. Hill charged Lester a dollar for the spring and in ten minutes they were back in town standing in front of Lester’s truck.

  Lester raised the hood. “I don’t want to mess it up trying to put it on.”

  “I’ll show you,” Thomas said.

  The two leaned over the engine. Lester held the spring between his white fingers stained by engine grime, and Thomas guided him with his weathered black hand to the correct spot.

  “Fit it here first, then it connects underneath.”

  Lester attached it on the second try.

  “Okay,” Thomas said. “Give it a try while I watch from here.”

  Lester got behind the wheel and turned the key. The engine turned over once and started running smoothly. Thomas looked around the edge of the hood and smiled. He reattached the air cleaner and handed Lester his screwdriver through the window.

  “Thanks,” Lester said.

  “I love these old trucks,” Thomas replied, patting the door. “If you decide you want to do some work on it, give me a call. I know almost everything about them.” He got out his wallet and handed Lester a card. “I don’t have a business, but my granddaughter made these for me on her computer. It has my name and phone number on it. Call me anytime.”

  “Okay.” Lester looked at the card. It had a row of tiny red hearts around the edge. He laid it on the seat beside him.

  Lester’s truck didn’t miss a beat as he drove out of town. When he turned down the road to his grandmother’s house, he glanced at Thomas Greenway’s card. Picking it up, he read it again, then tossed it out the window.

  19

  Are not all angels ministering spirits sent to serve those who will inherit salvation?

  HEBREWS 1:14

  Tao Pang learned quickly. He couldn’t read the labels on the different containers of cleaning solutions, but it didn’t take him more than two or three times of show and tell to remember how and where to use each substance. Larry Sellers was pleased with his work. He valued someone who came to work on time and did his job carefully more than an employee who put on a good show when the boss was in view but spent the rest of the day finding secluded spots in the building to hide from work.

  Tao’s favorite job was buffing the floors. After the students left for home, he would sweep a hallway with a long-handled dust catcher to pick up bits of paper and loose trash, then use the buffer and a spray bottle of polishing compound to make the floor shine. Back and forth, he would let the buffer work its way naturally down the hall. The rhythm of the machine formed the backdrop for melodies that Tao sang softly under his breath.

  The songs would have sounded odd to Western ears; they weren’t based on an eight-note octave. But the singsong style was perfect for the looping cadence of the buffer. Often Tao improvised, creating musical pictures from childhood memories of mountains and streams. At other times, spontaneous praise to Jesus flowed from his heart. People who walked by might catch a hint of his song, but they wouldn’t be able to decipher its message.

  During lunch period, Tao often assisted in the cafeteria: cleaning the floor, wiping off tables, and taking bags of garbage to the Dumpster. Whenever he worked in the dining hall, he looked for the holy assembly he’d spotted on his first day at work. One Tuesday, after the students began streaming into the room and the noise reached a high decibel level, Tao checked the table in the back corner. Several students were seated around the circle, but this time it wasn’t the students who arrested his attention; it was the attentive figures standing behind them.

  Tao had seen heavenly messengers in Thailand. After his conversion, he took a journey from the refugee camp to Bangkok. On the return trip he was accompanied one afternoon by a spry old man who listened to Tao’s many questions, answered a few of them, and shared a meal with the pilgrim from his brown food bag. At first Tao thought he was a holy man, but his fellow traveler didn’t have a pious look. He laughed too quickly and enjoyed the sights and sounds of the surrounding forest more than a person who held himself aloof from association with this world.

  After they finished their evening meal and Tao asked his last question, they lay down under the stars for the night. Tao was almost asleep when he briefly opened his eyes and saw the old man disappear from view. Tao was gripped with a sudden fear. He thought he’d seen a ghost, and all the superstitions sown into his mind from childhood swept over him. But the night air wasn’t filled with fear, and Tao knew the being was good, not evil. So he banished anxiety and slept peacefully, undisturbed by troubling dreams. In the morning, he rose up refreshed and continued on his way. Later at the refugee camp, Tao read about the activities of God’s holy angels in the Bible, and in the years that followed he occasionally discerned their unseen presence.

  Today, the angels stood around the table. They were clearly visible, and Tao counted eight of them. Their dominant characteristic wasn’t their appearance but their unrelenting focus. They were interested in nothing in the room except obedience to their assignment on behalf of the young people seated at the table. Tao picked up the soapy cloth he was using to wipe off the tables and tentatively came closer. One of the angels became aware that Tao had entered the edge of their realm and glanced
toward him. Tao stopped. He didn’t want to intrude or disrupt what was happening with the students. The angel looked away, and Tao’s quick prayer for guidance didn’t yield a negative response. He came closer. Two students who had been sitting at another table walked past him on their way to the drop-off window for dirty dishes and silverware.

  As Tao watched, one of the angels spoke to a tall girl with dark skin. The words out of the messenger’s mouth were like tiny flames of fire, and Tao saw the girl’s lips move in immediate response to the unseen prompting. Tao felt the brush of a gentle wind on his cheeks. Fire in one realm, cool refreshing in another.

  “Father,” Alisha Mason said. “We ask you to send your holy angels to our school to watch over and protect every student and teacher. We need your help. We want your help.”

  Janie Collins continued, “We pray for the students at this school who are confused and lost. We believe that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life for them. Please reveal yourself to them in ways they can understand and draw them to you. We ask you to do this for Frank Jesup and Leila Farner.”

  After swallowing a bite of his sandwich, another student continued, “We pray the same thing for Larry Bingham, Kimberly Griffin, and Lester Garrison.”

  On they prayed. Unaware of the guardians who stood watch over them. Oblivious to the helpers sent to guide them.

  Tao put his cleaning cloth on the edge of a table and picked up a paper napkin that had fallen on the floor. When he stood up, the angels were gone. Disappointed, he began wiping off the table. He finished and looked again in the direction of the table. Nothing. A couple of students left, and another one sat down. Then a cool breeze brushed Tao’s cheek. He smiled.

  Scott spent two hours Tuesday afternoon working on the mock trial materials. He couldn’t tell the students specific questions to ask on direct or cross-examination, but he could identify the most important issues and keep them in mind when critiquing the students’ performances. Likewise, he couldn’t provide a detailed outline for an opening statement or closing argument, but he could ask questions designed to guide the students in selecting the most persuasive points to emphasize.