by Randy Singer
And this morning Tiger made the entire trip to Green Run Community Church day care without spilling a single thing in Nikki’s car.
“We’re so glad you’re back!” Miss Parsons gushed to Tiger. She looked up at Nikki and winked, then back to Tiger. “We really missed you last week.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Tiger said unenthusiastically. Nikki knew that Tiger was not terribly excited about being back. Seems he was fighting a nasty sore throat and headache this morning. But he was here. And that was a start.
Throughout the weekend Nikki convinced Tiger that his karate lessons had made him invincible. Tiger showed Nikki his aggressive karate stance—one arm out, the other cocked next to his chest, fists balled up, knees bent. He had mastered a mean war whoop. He had even learned a couple of elementary moves, like a kick move with a punch combination. His leg didn’t get as high as it was supposed to on the kick move and would pose no danger to anybody’s face, but Nikki did notice that Tiger seemed to get his kick just high enough to do some real damage to a boy about his size.
Nikki allowed Tiger to knock her down a few times over the weekend and then pronounced Tiger ready. By now Stinky was also in on the gig. Nikki pulled Stinky aside and made her secretly promise that if Tiger got in a fight on Monday—if Stinky heard the telltale battle cry and saw Tiger coil into his karate position—she should immediately jump between the combatants and call for Miss Parsons.
To top off Tiger’s newfound prowess, Nikki had allowed him to put a Power Rangers tattoo on his right bicep. It was a temporary tattoo, and Nikki chuckled to herself as the small tattoo wrapped nearly all the way around the toothpick-sized arm of Tiger. But it seemed to do the trick. Tiger said it was “cool” when she first applied it, and later she caught him flexing, staring at the tattoo, and smiling smugly.
Just before she left him, Nikki grabbed Tiger’s arm around his skinny little bicep, her finger and thumb easily touching. Nobody was looking at them. “Give me a flex,” she said.
The little guy squeezed his arm up tight, producing no discernible bulge of muscle, not even a tiny little wrinkle in the Power Ranger tattoo. “Awesome,” Nikki whispered. “Nobody better mess with you.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
As she turned to kiss Stinky good-bye, Nikki whispered in her ear to point out Doughy Joey. Stinky pointed at a corner of the room, in front of some wooden cubicles, where the kids placed their lunch boxes. At that moment Tiger’s nemesis was the only one there.
Nikki walked up to Joey, grabbed him firmly by the bicep—his arms were twice the size of Tiger’s—and leaned down so she could whisper to him.
“You’re friends with Tiger, aren’t you?” She squeezed the arm hard as she whispered, digging her fingers into the puffy flesh.
“Yeah,” he said, trying to jerk his arm away. But Nikki squeezed harder, and Joey stood still.
“Good. I’m a lady from the court system who has custody of Tiger and Stinky right now,” she whispered. With her free hand, she reached in her purse and pulled out a wallet, flashing an ID at Joey like they did on television. “Can I talk to you for minute about Tiger?”
“S-s-sure,” Joey stammered, his eyes starting to water. “But can you let go of my arm first?”
Nikki dropped the arm, then lowered her voice even more. “Last week, some of the kids in day care were picking on Tiger about his dad being in jail, and I understand that Tiger almost got in a fight.” Joey’s head was nodding, a look of concern on his face.
“It’s a good thing he didn’t,” Nikki confided, “or it might have turned out like the last day care. Did you hear about that?”
“No,” Joey said in puzzlement.
“Mmm.” Nikki studied Joey, looking suspicious. “I thought someone said you were his friend.”
“I am,” Joey said defensively.
“Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t know. Tiger doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“Talk about what?”
Nikki looked around. Nobody was listening. Still, she pulled Joey more to the side and checked one more time, as if she were about to tell him something she had obtained directly from the head of the FBI.
“I’m going to tell you some top-secret stuff. It’s supposed to be for court personnel only. You promise not to tell?”
Joey nodded.
“At the last day care, some kid goaded Tiger into a fight and, well, Tiger is a karate expert you know . . .”
Joey’s eyes went wide; he hadn’t known this.
“Anyway, the other kid ended up with some permanent injuries, closed head injuries, that type of thing. He still has trouble talking clearly today.”
For emphasis, Nikki reached down and grabbed Joey’s arm again, squeezing even harder than before. Another glance around, then: “If you ever see Tiger go into his karate stance, jump in between him and the kid he’s going to hurt, scream for the teacher, do something . . . anything. But if you’re truly his friend, don’t let him hurt any more kids, okay?”
Joey nodded vigorously; he seemed to have gotten the point. Nikki rewarded him by releasing the arm.
“I don’t want Tiger to end up like his daddy,” she said in passing as she stood to go. “In jail for murder. They say even behind bars Tiger’s daddy orders hits . . . murders on those who give his friends or family a hard time. We haven’t been able to prove all of them, but we will. Just give us time.”
Joey’s jaw hung open, his eyes still wide. He closed his mouth and gulped. He was speechless, dumbstruck by these surprising revelations from this officer of the law. All he could do was nod.
“Have a nice day, kid,” Nikki said, as she turned to leave the Green Run Community Church day care. She would not worry about Tiger today. The little karate expert would be just fine.
48
THERE IN THE DISTANCE sat Denita in her judicial garb, high up on the bench—supersized, with a booming, echoing voice, laughing at him. “I’ve changed.” Hideous laughter. “Trust me, I’ve changed.”
Charles felt his stomach clench as he squeezed her hand tighter . . . her hand!—Nikki’s hand! He turned to her and saw the tears in her eyes, the laughter of Denita raining down on them. He reached out and put his arm around Nikki’s shoulder, drew her closer, felt her body sobbing.
Separating them from Denita were rows and rows of graves. All marked. All with wilted flowers. “Guilty!” Denita screamed. Then she stared at Charles and smiled. “Guilty!”
He knelt down with Nikki at the foot of the grave in front of him . . . saw the face of the little girl on the tombstone . . . Cosette’s grave.
That’s when the fog started rolling in.
Charles stood to object, leaving Nikki kneeling beside him, hardly visible in the fog, but the words stuck in his throat. He felt Nikki’s future, the responsibility for all these graves, his own judgment hanging in the balance. But his tongue was thick, and before he could form the words, he heard Denita banging her gavel out there in the fog, once, twice . . . “Order in the court!”
Nikki continued sobbing.
He heard Denita’s pronouncement—“Guilty”—over and over again. He objected, saw the officers of the court stepping out of the fog with handcuffs, then heard the music start to play . . . softly at first, then louder, then louder still . . .
He bolted straight up in bed, reached over, and silenced the radio alarm.
“Thank God,” he mumbled. The dream was so vivid, so lifelike, that he knew if he closed his eyes he’d see it all again. The graveyard, Denita, Nikki, little Cosette’s grave. He rubbed his face, searching for the meaning. He felt the sweat on his brow. He never did this, never had nightmares like this, never woke up in a cold sweat.
What did it mean?
Was God telling him something here? The graves. Were they the children who would die if Denita took the bench? And what of Nikki, holding his hand and crying? There was something strange about her, even for a dream. Her dress. That was it: her dress. Not th
e stock-in-trade Moreno miniskirt. It was a white dress, frilly, long . . . a bride’s dress.
Slow down.
He reminded himself that it was just a dream. Perhaps a warning he was starting to fall for her? Too fast. Perhaps a warning that she was falling for him? And where would it lead? More broken hearts? The death of Nikki the little girl? The end of Nikki’s happiness as Cosette?
It was all so confusing.
How could a relationship with Nikki end any differently than the one with Denita? The same underlying tensions—the incompatible religious beliefs—would be there. But Nikki wasn’t Denita. There was something far more enchanting about Nikki, far more endearing. Wasn’t that also the point of the dream?
What am I doing? he asked himself as he went about his morning routine. This is just a dream! You’re not some kind of soothsayer. If you want to know God’s will, go to Scripture!
With that thought in mind, Charles padded down to the kitchen table and opened his New Testament to the spot where he had left off yesterday, the gospel of John, chapter 11. The story of Christ raising Lazarus from the dead.
And since Charles didn’t believe in coincidence, he immediately knew that God was trying to tell him something. It was a story he had read many times before. But it just so happened to be the same story that had caused such a ruckus on Saturday night during his Bible study time at the jail.
The night had started slowly, with only a few inmates attending. Buster was there, leaning against the back wall, arms crossed. But as a changed man, he no longer coerced the entire ES into attending. As a result, the group was down to six members, and Charles was beginning to wonder if it was really worth his time.
Charles used the occasion to present Buster with his very own King James Bible, a brand-new, leather-bound version with gold trim around the outside edges of the pages. Though Buster did a good job disguising any emotion—“Thanks, Rev,” he said without even a smile—Charles could tell it meant a lot. The big man held the Bible gingerly, as if it were the original manuscript. With a little help from Thomas, he proudly turned to the Scripture passage that Charles used as his text.
But ten minutes later, about halfway through the Bible study, the second grand theological debate of this jailhouse group erupted. It seemed that after Buster was converted, Thomas instructed him to begin reading through the gospel of John. So Buster, now a Bible scholar for all of four days, had read the story about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead, found in John 11. And Buster was not buying it.
“Seriously, Rev,” Buster argued, “if he did it for Lazarus, why didn’t he do it for Dr. King? I mean, I ain’t dissin’ God’s Word or nothin’, but you know, dog, that can’t be right.”
Charles took him on immediately in front of all the other men. “Do you believe God raised Jesus from the dead?”
“Aw, man, ’at’s different,” Buster moaned, “and you know it. You da one told me Christ is God’s Son. ’At’s different, man.”
“That’s my point,” Charles said. “When we believe in Christ, we become God’s sons. God will raise every one of us at the second coming of Christ. He just raised Lazarus as a sign to show what He can do.”
“I dunno,” Buster mumbled, shaking his head. “I mean, I hear what you’re sayin’, Rev; I jus’ ain’t buyin’ it.”
From the front of the room, Charles eyed this sullen convert, this stubborn doubter still leaning against the back wall. The men tried not to show it, but they were listening closely. Their eyes were all on Charles.
Without another word, Charles weaved among them and walked back to where Buster stood. He stopped a few feet away.
“Give me your Bible,” Charles said, holding out his hand.
Buster gave it to him with a scowl. “Mess with it, Rev, and I’ll bust your skull.”
Charles opened the Bible to John 11, the story of Lazarus, and handed it back to Buster. “Rip it out,” he said.
“What you talking ’bout?” Buster asked, nodding his head indignantly, a snort in his voice.
“Rip it out,” Charles demanded. “If you don’t believe it, rip it out.”
Thomas jumped to his feet. “Don’t do it!” he said. “You do it, you’ll flat out bring all the judgments in that book down on your head!”
Charles and Buster locked eyes; then Buster looked down at the beautiful Bible in his hand. “No way, Rev. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I’d rip out other stories with it; they’re all on the same page.”
“My point exactly,” Charles said, looking around the room and changing his Bible study topic on the spot. “This book—” he grabbed Buster’s Bible and raised it up—“is God’s Holy Word. You can’t change it, cherry-pick it, or cannibalize it. You either accept the whole counsel of God or go follow some other religion. But don’t claim to be a Christian if you’re not willing to live and die by this book.”
For the next fifteen minutes, Charles preached about Lazarus and the inerrancy of God’s Word. That was then. And now here he was on Monday morning, not even two days later, confronted with this same passage of Scripture immediately after God had grabbed his attention with a horrific dream. It was no coincidence.
But after twenty minutes of prayer, Charles still couldn’t quite figure out exactly what God was trying to tell him. What did Lazarus have to do with Nikki and Denita?
He was not good at waiting on the Lord for direction. He was a man of action. But sometimes, God gave him no choice.
49
WAITING ON GOD was one thing; waiting on Nikki was another. Charles paced his office, wondering what was keeping her this morning. She was supposed to meet him at 8:00. He checked his watch and took another shot at the Nerf basket. 8:30. Where was she? Should he call her on her cell phone or would that appear too anxious? Was she having trouble finding his office?
If she didn’t hurry up, it would be too late. His next class started in half an hour. He and Nikki had to discuss the case and divide up the trial prep tasks. They had to talk strategy, witnesses, and evidence. And most important, they had to discuss their relationship. Charles had to make sure they were not getting ahead of themselves. He had to talk to her about Denita. He had to explain that he could not be “unequally yoked.”
He took another shot at the hoop and rehearsed his speech again, speaking softly to himself.
“Friday night was great.” Is great the right word? Is it strong enough? too strong?
“Friday night was awesome.” No, that’s way too much.
“I had a great time Friday night.” There. Much better. “Thanks for sharing about your dad. Sounds like an amazing man. And he obviously did a good job as an only parent.” Nikki would love that line.
Next, Charles rehearsed his pause, a big sigh as if he were spontaneously struggling with these words. He would reach out and touch her gently on the shoulder . . . No, that would be hokey. He would just look deep into her eyes . . . No, that wouldn’t work either. Those eyes could melt this next line away. Better to stare at the floor, stuff his hands in his pocket, and just say it: “Nikki, I feel like there’s a lot of great chemistry between us, so much that’s right . . .”
Or what about “Nikki, I really love spending time with you.” Should he say love? No, that would be overkill; chemistry was the right touch.
“And even though we’ve only been together a few times, I really value this friendship.” Friendship, that was the key. Use that word a lot. “But we’ve got to talk about a couple of things before this goes any further . . .” He knew he owed her that much.
“Hey,” Nikki said, bursting through the door. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem,” Charles said, trying to gain his composure. His heart was already racing. “But I’ve got class in thirty minutes.”
“Right, then let’s get down to business,” she said, plopping down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. “We’ve got so much ground to cover . . . now that we’ve kissed and made up.”
She cracked a mischievous
grin. Charles swallowed hard, his mouth dry. He smiled back nervously.
Nikki pulled a legal pad out of her briefcase and laid it on the desk. She began reading from a checklist. “I’m going to take today and tomorrow to further investigate Armistead. Don’t ask any questions about how. We can meet again on Tuesday night to discuss the results.”
Charles leaned against the window, arms folded in front of him, trying to look cool. “Okay.”
“If you get me a jury list, I’ll start investigating potential jurors on Wednesday,” Nikki continued. “In the meantime, you could work on the cross-examination of the witnesses and put together a draft of your opening. . . .”
Charles watched Nikki as she spoke, all businesslike as she mapped out a trial preparation strategy. His mind began to wander. He thought about Friday night, about Busch Gardens, and about how exhilarating it was just to be around her.
In the four years since Denita had divorced him, he had never really felt this way toward another woman. So tongue-tied and alive in her presence. And this issue about dating only those who shared his religious fervor—or at least other Christians—something he had been so firm about just a few short days ago, suddenly seemed so murky. Why would God give him feelings for someone he wasn’t supposed to be with? And wouldn’t she more likely be attracted to Christ if he nurtured this relationship instead of cutting it off?
But those were rationalizations, and he knew it. He thought about Denita and his undying hope that someday she might come to Christ and they might be reunited. And thoughts of Denita triggered feelings of disloyalty for being with Nikki at all. He knew that was stupid. And he knew that Denita herself had been with half a dozen different men since their divorce. But honestly, he still felt something for her. And he wasn’t sure that he ever wanted those feelings to go away.