The bishop led them to a table in the shade. Before Scott could get up to walk to the drink table, Rachel Moore came over to them.
“What would you like to drink?” she asked. “We have tea, lemonade, and water.”
“Lemonade sounds good,” Kay answered.
“Sweet tea for me, please,” Scott said.
Mrs. Moore returned and placed a large Styrofoam cup of tea in front of Scott.
“This is from my pitcher,” she said. “I’ve already squeezed some lemon in it.”
Scott was thirsty after the long church service and took a long drink.
“Aah,” he said. “Perfect. Where’s your pitcher? I’m sure I’ll want a refill.”
Mrs. Moore pointed to the drink table. “It’s the green-colored glass one on the end.”
Soon, Scott and Kay were surrounded by other people. On one end of their table was a family of five. The youngest child, a little boy, was pouting and sat in his seat with his arms over his chest, refusing to eat anything. Directly across the table from Scott and Kay was an older couple. The man had obviously lost weight. His shirt collar was too big for his neck, and the only hair he had left was a white fringe around his dark head. He nodded to Scott and mumbled a greeting when he sat down. His wife was an opposite personality. Rotund and jolly, she was dressed in white with a large, multicolored hat on her head. After she breathlessly put down her plate, she reached across the table and vigorously shook their hands.
“I’m Bernice Kilgore and this is my husband, Benny,” she said. “I rushed through the line so fast I’m not even sure what I put on my plate. I didn’t want anyone to get to you first.”
Scott looked at Mrs. Kilgore’s plate. What it lacked in organization, it made up in quantity. It was the work of someone who knew that all food ended up in the same place.
Mrs. Kilgore smiled at Kay. “It’s Kay, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It was wonderful having you with us this morning. I was in the choir on the second row.”
Scott recalled the face. Mrs. Kilgore didn’t sing a solo but her exuberance was obvious.
The black woman ate a few quick bites before continuing. “Did you get some of this corn soufflé? Margie Duckett brought it. She’s standing near the bishop.”
She pointed, and Scott looked over his shoulder. There was a crowd that included several women in the vicinity of Bishop Moore.
“I have some,” Kay responded. “It’s delicious.”
Mrs. Kilgore leaned across the table and whispered, “I gave Margie the recipe, but mine doesn’t taste as good as hers. How does she make it so fluffy? It’s like eating corn-flavored air.”
Scott held his fork toward Kay’s plate. “May I try some of yours?”
Kay balanced a small bite of the yellow confection on the end of his fork and he put it in his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds, then said, “Very tasty. Do you think it’s all gone?”
Before anyone answered, Mrs. Kilgore was out of her seat. She returned with a generous portion of soufflé and set it down beside Scott’s banana pudding.
“This is all that was left,” she said. “I had to rescue it from some hungry-looking folks that were coming down the line.”
“I didn’t want you to do that,” Scott protested. “That’s not right. Someone might get upset.”
Mrs. Kilgore laughed. “Look at that table. Nobody is going hungry today. If they do, it’s their own fault.”
Mrs. Kilgore knew a great deal of information about everyone in the church. In between quick bites of food, she told several stories about members of the congregation and mentioned names so fast it was impossible to keep them straight. Scott listened while he worked steadily through his meal. He shared his extra plate of corn soufflé with Kay who also sampled a few bites of banana pudding.
When Mrs. Kilgore took a break from storytelling, Scott asked, “Were you here on the day the shots were fired?”
“No, Benny and I were out of town visiting my old auntie in Kannapolis. She is 102 years old and still gets around without using a walker.”
Scott didn’t have any follow-up questions about Mrs. Kilgore’s aunt and returned to his banana pudding.
Mrs. Kilgore leaned across the table and patted Kay’s hand. “When I saw you come in the sanctuary, I asked the Lord to give me a word of encouragement for you, and I think he showed me something. Do you want me to share it with you?”
“Okay,” Kay said.
“While I was sitting in the choir, I believe the Lord showed me that you have been going through a time of great sorrow, yet in the midst of it, you’re experiencing a new joy. I know that doesn’t seem to go together, but I think that’s right.”
Kay’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Kilgore, that’s—”
The black woman held up her hand. “Just listen. You can ask questions when I finish.”
“I also want to reassure you that God loves you,” Mrs. Kilgore said. “I can see that you’ve started opening your heart up to Jesus and taken some big steps in your journey with him. Don’t stop. Go on. He’s been with you in the lonely hours and has a record of every tear you’ve cried. It says in the Psalms that he puts our tears in a bottle of remembering. Even when it seems that the nearest person to you was a thousand miles away, you’ve never been alone.”
Kay’s eyes now watered, and she quickly brushed away a fresh tear that pooled in the corner of her right eye. It was another drop for the bottle stored in heaven.
The black lady continued, “Your sorrow is real, but the joy is going to win in the end. It’s a powerful joy—the joy of the Lord, one of the fruits of the Holy Spirit. David wrote about it in the Psalms and Paul wrote about it in Galatians. This world can’t give it, and this world can’t take it away because it comes from another place. I believe you’ll face a great test in the future, so I’d encourage you to spend time reading in Psalms and the Holy Spirit will speak to you in a very personal way. If you open yourself fully to the Lord, he will put a new song in your heart that will drive out the sadness when it threatens to return.”
Kay’s mouth had dropped open. The last two bites of Scott’s banana pudding sat untouched on his plate.
“Finally, you’re something of a poet yourself,” Mrs. Kilgore said, “and the Holy Spirit will speak to you in the dark hours of the night. Put your thoughts down on paper; don’t trust your memory, because it may be gone in the morning. In the future, the Lord may use your writings to encourage other people by touching their hearts in the same deep way that he touches yours.”
Kay waited a few seconds, then asked, “Is that all?”
Mrs. Kilgore smiled. “Yes, I guess that’s about it. It’s your job to ask the Lord if any of these things are true and how they affect your life.”
Kay spoke rapidly, “I don’t know where to start. I’ve been going through a painful divorce, but over the past week or so I’ve had a lot of joy. I opened my heart to the Lord in a church service recently, and a few days later I heard a new song in my mind that stayed with me most of the day. I told Scott about it at lunch. He thought I was out of my mind—”
“I didn’t say that,” Scott interrupted.
“Don’t lie,” Kay shot back. “Mrs. Kilgore will know it if you do.”
The black woman laughed. “It’s not like that. I don’t know everything, just what the Holy Spirit shows me to encourage someone in their walk with the Lord. It’s a great comfort for most folks to know that God hasn’t forgotten them. He’ll send someone like me to tell them a few things so they’ll know they’re on the right path or help them see where it lies.”
“It’s like the call-in psychics on TV,” Kay started, then quickly added, “no, I’m sorry, I’m not suggesting—”
The smile didn’t leave Mrs. Kilgore’s face. “I know what you mean. I explain it this way. The gifts of the Holy Spirit are like money in the Kingdom of God. God’s children use the gifts to help people come to the Lord Jesus or grow as Christians.
But wherever there is real money, criminals will come along and produce something counterfeit. That’s the work of the enemy. He wants to deceive people. Even when his servants say something that’s true, it’s counterfeit. It’s supernatural, but it doesn’t bring people closer to the Lord. That’s the test.”
“Where did you learn about all this?” Kay asked.
“Mostly from my granny. Now she was a sight to behold. When I was a little girl, we would sit together in the evenings on an old porch swing at her house. She would put her hand on my head and pray and pray and pray as we rocked back and forth. After a while I would go into the house to drink a glass of water or go to the bathroom. When I’d come back, she’d put her hand on my head and keep on going like nothing had happened. Sometimes we’d sit there until the stars came out. People were all the time coming by to ask her to pray for them. She’d pray and tell them what the Lord showed her. I heard some amazing things on her front porch.”
“How did you know what to say to me?”
“Oh, it came a little bit at a time during the service. Then when I started talking with you, more followed behind. It takes faith to talk to someone like this, but you are so sweet that it wasn’t hard at all. You were willing to listen. Some folks are too afraid to come out from where they’re hiding to let the Lord tell them how much he loves them. Do you want some carrot cake? Gladys Hornsby brought it, and it’s almost as good as my sister’s recipe.”
After they finished eating, Scott talked to five or six other people about the shots fired during the baptism. Their comments were so similar that it all ran together. He never got the tape recorder out of his vehicle. It was midafternoon before he and Kay said good-bye to Bishop Moore and drove out of the church parking lot.
“Well, that was a bust,” Scott sighed as they rounded a curve and the church disappeared from view. “I didn’t find out anything new. I’d hoped someone at the church would give me a new angle to use in Lester’s case. I couldn’t even corroborate what I already know.”
Kay spun toward him in her seat. “What! This has been one of the most incredible days of my life! I wouldn’t have traded the time at the table with Mrs. Kilgore for ten thousand dollars. And the church service was good, too. Just because you didn’t find out anything about your case doesn’t mean there weren’t plenty of opportunities to find out about other important things.”
Scott started to reply but nothing appropriate came to mind. They rode in silence for several minutes.
When they reached the main highway and turned left, Kay spoke. “Why didn’t you ask Mrs. Kilgore if she had anything from God to tell you?”
Scott had considered it. But after dodging a bullet from Bishop Moore, he didn’t want to get winged by a word from the dessert-loving prophetess.
“If she’d had something, she would have brought it up.”
“When did you become an expert about these things?”
Scott kept his mouth shut. Lawyers can pretend to become experts about a lot of things, but it was time to invoke his Fifth Amendment right not to incriminate himself.
24
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
On his way to the office Monday morning, Scott passed the courthouse and wondered what his feelings would be in one week. If Lynn Davenport stayed true to her word, State v. Garrison would be the first case called for trial, and Scott would have the responsibility of choosing twelve people to decide Lester’s fate. On his desk at the office was a thick stack of questionnaires completed by prospective jurors. For some of them, jury service would be a twenty-dollar-a-day opportunity to be someone important. Others viewed the civic duty as a major disruption and called the clerk’s office with creative reasons to avoid serving.
Shortly before lunch, he made a final note on his legal pad about the questionnaires and stood up to stretch. Scott wouldn’t be able to flip a coin in the courtroom; he had to use a better system. He’d eliminated a few jurors from consideration because they’d been victims of a crime or had relatives who worked in law enforcement. There also might be people in the jury pool whose racial views ran parallel to Lester Garrison’s. As personally distasteful as that might be, Scott needed a subtle way to ferret out those persons and try to keep them in the jury box.
One of the people summoned for jury duty was the wife of Officer Bradley, the deputy whom Lester cursed and tried to kick at the time of his arrest. Mrs. Bradley would be excused for cause, and Scott wouldn’t have to use one of his strikes to remove her from the case. Many others remained in limbo. There were individuals who might not be favorably disposed toward a teenager like Lester, and the brief questionnaires didn’t provide enough information to make that decision. Mr. Humphrey was Scott’s most valuable resource. With his vast experience and personal knowledge of the people in Blanchard County, the older lawyer had promised to check the list and go over it with Scott later in the week.
Before he left for lunch, Scott stopped by Mr. Humphrey’s office to give him an update on the case. Leland Humphrey, his feet propped on the corner of his desk, was reading a deposition and dictating a summary of the testimony.
“How did it go at the church on Sunday?” the older lawyer asked. “I thought about you at twelve o’clock when I was walking out of church with my brother and his wife in New Bern.”
“We were at the midway point of Bishop Moore’s sermon at twelve o’clock.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“I learned a lot. Nothing about the case.”
Mr. Humphrey chuckled. “I’m sorry you had to go by yourself.”
“I didn’t go alone. I invited the teacher who is helping coach the mock trial team at the high school. She loved it.”
Mr. Humphrey’s left eyebrow shot up. “Who is the teacher?”
“An old classmate named Kay Wilson. She was Kay Laramie when we were in high school together.”
“Does she know Lester Garrison?”
“Yes, he’s one of her students, but I haven’t talked to her about the case.”
“Why not?”
“If she knew anything, she would have mentioned it. She has two hundred students a day.”
Mr. Humphrey ran his right thumb down the outside of his suspender. “I’d ask the teacher a few questions. Maybe check some of his papers to see if he wrote anything that would be relevant.”
“Is that wise? The e-mails Davenport showed us were enough to prove a conspiracy to commit murder, and I don’t want to uncover evidence that helps prove either one of the state’s cases against Lester.”
“I’m not talking about evidence that hurts us. The first rule of litigation is never do anything that will hurt you more than it helps you, but there may be some favorable evidence hidden out there.” Mr. Humphrey looked at his watch. “Are you on your way to lunch?”
“Yes, sir. I’m walking down to the Eagle.”
“I’ll join you.”
It was an overcast day, and the clouds held the threat of an afternoon rain. The Eagle was three blocks from the office, and the lunchtime business crowd was flowing through the front door by the time they arrived. Many business deals in Blanchard County were hatched over a plate of meat loaf, green beans, mashed potatoes, and corn bread. Some deals succeeded; others failed. A few ended up as lawsuits in the courthouse around the corner. But the food was never a point of contention.
In the back of the restaurant there were two long tables for ten. One was reserved for the Democrats, the other for the Republicans. There had been an upswing of Republicans in Blanchard County since the 1960s, and there was often a spirited debate between the two evenly matched camps. It wasn’t unusual for the men at the tables to argue back and forth on a specific issue, and each group had members whose voices carried over the din of the restaurant.
Several people in the restaurant recognized Leland Humphrey, and he and Scott worked their way through the crowd to a table near the Democrats. Mr. Humphrey didn’t aliena
te his clientele by becoming too closely identified with a single political party. He limited his political activity to influencing the selection of judicial candidates. His goal was to win in the courtroom, not at the ballot box.
They ordered their food, and Mr. Humphrey sipped his tea.
“Have I ever told you about my first jury trial?” he asked.
“No, sir, and considering what’s ahead for me, it’s probably the right time to tell the story. But I have one question.”
“What?”
“Is this going to help me or hurt me?”
Mr. Humphrey smiled. “You’ll have to be the judge of that.”
The older lawyer settled back in his chair.
“When I started practice in Catawba, there were only eight lawyers in the whole circuit. I went to work for Harvey Kilpatrick, a friend of my grandfather who did real estate and business work. I don’t think he’d been out of the deed room in years and never took a case if there was a chance it would end up in court. A baby duck mimics its mother, so when I started working for Mr. Kilpatrick, I began doing the same type of work. If you go back far enough in the records, you’ll see my signature as the notary on a lot of deeds.
“After about a year in practice, I was sitting at my desk one day when our secretary told me a man had walked in off the street and wanted to talk to a lawyer. Mr. Kilpatrick was out of the office, so I decided to talk to the prospective client. It turned out the fellow was new to the area. He worked at a cotton mill, grew a big garden, and raised cows on a few acres he leased along the railroad. One of his cows had been hit by the train on the way to Raleigh, and he wanted to sue the railroad. After I interviewed him, I agreed to take the case and filed suit against the Norfolk and Southern Railroad.”
Scott chuckled. “A big case. How much was the cow worth?”
Mr. Humphrey didn’t change his expression. “I don’t remember the exact figure, but it was the best cow he had, practically a member of the family. I think the original complaint contained over thirty paragraphs because I wanted to make sure I wouldn’t lose on a technicality. I had no idea how much dust my little lawsuit would stir up. Apparently, a lot of farmers were suing the railroad over dead cows that lined the tracks from here to Richmond. Rumor had it dishonest cattlemen were dragging carcasses of cattle who died from natural causes to the railroad tracks so they could be hit by the next train, then filing claims with the railroad. The railroad would pay instead of trying to fight, and the situation got under the skin of a corporate big shot who told his lawyers enough was enough and decided to make an example of the next dead cow case that came into the home office. That was my little lawsuit. The fact that I was a new attorney probably made the decision easier.”
The Sacrifice Page 23