Dying Declaration

by Randy Singer

  Nikki shook her head to clear her thoughts. Armistead died Sunday night, didn’t he?

  Charles took another shot and continued talking. “The will is pretty interesting. Names me as the executor and instructs me to keep the bequests as confidential as possible.” This time Charles missed. Nikki grabbed the ball from the floor and tossed it back to him.

  “So, Nikki, I’m telling you these things in strictest confidence, okay? I was debating whether I should say anything at all, but this document’” Charles stopped for a moment, a pained expression on his face—“it’s like fingers around my neck, choking me. I’ve got to talk to someone about it.”

  Nikki nodded. She would have promised him anything to find out what the will said. In fact, she would have strangled it out of him herself if he had refused to tell her.

  “Armistead leaves fifty thousand each to Tiger and Stinky to be used for their college education. He leaves 25K to Thomas Hammond to compensate him for time spent in jail. He leaves five hundred thousand—half a million bucks—to fund a ministry to drug dealers in New York City that will be associated with the Baptist Ministry Center on the lower east side of Manhattan. He specifically instructs that I should be the one responsible for hiring and firing anybody who works at the center under this new program. The rest of his estate—and there will be a lot left—he gives to Parkinson’s research.” Charles interrupted his Nerf basketball shots to look at Nikki.

  She scrunched up her brow, her head suddenly aching with all this stuff. “I get the Parkinson’s research, since it’s the disease that ravaged his wife. But the drug ministry? I don’t get that.”

  “Maybe this will help,” Charles explained. He dug into the same drawer and handed two other documents to Nikki. “Armistead not only sent his handwritten will to me, but he also sent an accompanying letter and an irrevocable trust agreement. The letter instructs me, if I should find it impossible to prove his death, to distribute his money the same way under this living irrevocable trust agreement as he specified in his will.”

  The tension in Nikki’s head and neck increased. Charles was placing this puzzle in front of her, piece by piece, but she couldn’t quite see how it fit together, didn’t quite have that big picture yet from the front of the puzzle box. She had always prided herself on being the first to figure these scams out, but this one . . .

  “Buster Jackson once told me that when he got out of jail, he wanted to start a ministry for drug addicts,” Charles continued, shooting baskets again. “‘Get them clean, get them jobs, get them saved,’ is the way Buster phrased it. And one more thing, the name of the ministry project in New York City, according to the will, is to be the Lazarus Fund. Get it? The Lazarus Fund.”

  “I don’t get it,” Nikki said. A will, an irrevocable living trust, a biblical allusion. What was going on? And now Charles was tying Buster to the death of Armistead. Maybe Charles knew more than he was letting on.

  “Buster and I once had a knock-down, drag-out argument on the biblical story of Lazarus,” Charles explained. “Lazarus is the guy Christ raised from the dead. Buster didn’t believe it at first, but I think I talked him into it.”

  “Okay,” Nikki said, trying hard to follow.

  “So here’s the big picture,” Charles said, stopping the constant motion of shooting baskets and leaning on the desk. “Armistead leaves a document he calls a dying declaration that ends up clearing Thomas Hammond in court. The concept of a dying declaration just happens to be something I told Buster about in a Bible study at the jail one night. Then Armistead leaves a will, or an irrevocable trust that works even if he’s not dead, in which he leaves a bunch of money for a drug ministry in New York City and then gives me the power to hire the people to work in that ministry—people like Buster. And then, to top it all off, they name the project the Lazarus Project, which seems like a clear signal to me that Armistead, who we thought was dead, is still alive.”

  Nikki’s jaw dropped open. It suddenly began making sense. The big picture coming into focus. She was stunned. Elated. Buster had kept his word. She was off the hook!

  “It all makes sense!” Nikki exclaimed. “The Monday postmark . . . everything.” She watched Charles shrug and miss another shot. Her own heart, lightened by this theory, suddenly went out to this guy. “But, Charles, if the Barracuda is behind bars and Armistead is still alive, why are you moping around like you just lost your best friend?”

  “For starters,” Charles said, plopping back down in his chair, “I got my client off by being an unwitting participant in a fraud on the court. Though everything in the dying declaration was technically true, even the title of it is grossly misleading.”

  “But that’s not your fault,” Nikki protested. “You couldn’t have known . . .”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Charles said earnestly. “In a way, it is my fault. Buster got saved in jail and needed someone to disciple him, someone to help him grow as a Christian. I mean, a man with any kind of spiritual maturity wouldn’t feel like he had to game the system to make it work. He’d trust God instead. But I was so skeptical of Buster, and so busy trying to make new converts on the streets, that I missed the opportunity to teach the one convert God had dumped right in my lap. I basically forgot that God called me to make disciples, not just converts.” He slumped in his chair, eyes downcast. “That’s my failure, not Buster’s.”

  Though she would never understand it, for some reason this confession affected Nikki in a way that no sermon, argument, or emotional appeal for Christianity ever could. She found it hard to resist this level of vulnerability. Here was authentic spirituality—a man who cared more about integrity and relationship than he did about the outcome of a high-profile case. Sure, he wanted to win, but he wanted to win the right way.

  But it also seemed that Charles was beating himself up pretty hard. Buster was a free man, not some kind of robot who did whatever Charles programmed him to do. “Charles, you may have a few faults, most of which I’ve already pointed out to you—” this brought a quick hint of a smile to his face—“but lack of spiritual intensity is not among them. I’ve never met anyone as focused as you on turning others into followers of Christ.” She tossed him the Nerf ball and watched as he leaned back in his chair and started bouncing it off the wall.

  “Thanks,” he said, but Nikki could tell he didn’t find much solace in her words. A couple of tosses later, he said, “That’s my theory, Nikki. Now what’s yours?”

  “Oh, nothing quite that elaborate.” Nikki shrugged. She could feel her cheeks burning. She smiled nervously as she tried to appear casual. “I actually thought that Armistead might really be dead.” No sooner were the words out of her mouth than a troubling thought hit her. She suddenly realized why Charles was so distraught about what Buster might have done.

  “If Armistead is still alive, whose body was that in his car?” Nikki asked.

  Charles stopped tossing the ball—frozen in time and space. She saw a troubled look grab his face, as if he had been wrestling with this same question for a long time but couldn’t quite figure it out, as if he had just completed a complex puzzle only to discover a couple of pieces still missing.

  “You tell me,” Charles said. “You tell me.”

  79

  THEY HAD BEEN DRIVING for hours and were now on the outskirts of New York City. Buster had bought the car they were riding in—a late model Oldsmobile with more than a hundred thousand miles on it—as soon as he had been released from jail. He bought it from a former “business acquaintance” with a promise to pay later. Buster’s credit was not so hot, so he couldn’t afford a car with tinted windows. This car didn’t even have power windows.

  Buster was driving, and the radio was blaring hip-hop.

  “You think the rev got our package yet?” Buster asked, raising his voice to be heard over the radio.

  “Either today or tomorrow.”

  “Tight.”

  Buster drove on without talking, jammin’ to the music
, replaying the whirlwind events of the last few days in his mind. He had been out of jail less than a week and had already committed enough crimes to revoke his probation forever. First, he had trespassed in Armistead’s house on Sunday night and assaulted the doctor. That same night, he and Armistead had retrieved the corpse—probably another felony of some type or another—then Buster broke into the dentist’s office to switch the dental records, undoubtedly another serious penal violation. So much for making like Mother Teresa.

  Buster thought about the drive to the Blue Ridge Parkway. He had made Armistead drive the Olds, while Buster followed close behind in Armistead’s Lexus, the corpse stashed safely in the trunk. When they arrived at Lookout Peak, they placed the corpse in the driver seat, pushed Armistead’s car over the cliff, then climbed to the bottom, where the car had landed. They doused the car in gasoline and started a huge fire. The body had been burned beyond recognition. They drove back to a hotel in Suffolk, Virginia, where they both stayed on Monday so they could monitor the trial on the local news. Next they started their nonstop trip to New York today—Tuesday.

  The plan was working perfectly. He and Thomas were free; the deputy commonwealth’s attorney was not. Life was good.

  “Can I ask you something?” Sean Armistead reached over and turned down the radio.

  Buster cast him a dirty look that Armistead didn’t seem to notice. Why do these white boys always have to turn down the tunes when they talk?

  “Why did you spare me on Sunday night?” Armistead asked.

  Buster thought for a moment—not easy to do in the silence—his eyes glued to the road. He re-created the events of that night in his mind. “I looked in your eyes, Doc, just before your body made like a rag doll, and I saw fear. I saw your eyes beggin’ for forgiveness, the same way I did when I knelt by the side of the road and gave my life to Christ. I didn’t deserve no mercy, and the thief on the cross didn’t deserve it either, but that didn’t stop Christ. I figured if Christ had mercy on me, I better have some on you. Christians don’t return hate for hate.” He paused and flashed a gold-toothed grin. “Guess God took my forearm off your neck.”

  There was another prolonged silence. “You cool with that?” Buster asked.

  “Yeah, Buster,” Armistead replied. “I’m cool with that.”

  You’d better be, Buster thought. Mercy did not come easy to him. Still, he was working on it, resisting the urge to finish the work he had started Sunday night. Christians don’t return hate for hate, he kept telling himself.

  “Whatcha gonna do when we hit the city, Doc—now that you’re a dead man and all?”

  “I’ll probably just see if I can get a new ID somehow and start life over. I might be able to still get my hands on some money from one of those Virginia Insurance Reciprocal accounts. And then—” Armistead paused, looking out the window—“I’ve just got to get alone for a while and think through some things.”

  “Tight,” Buster said, turning the radio back up loud enough so the cars in the other lane could appreciate it. The whole interior throbbed.

  Armistead reached over and turned the volume down again. Buster thought for a moment about breaking his hand. “One more thing,” Armistead said.

  “Better be good, Doc. That’s my song.”

  “I’ve been trying to get up the nerve to ask you this the whole trip.” Armistead fidgeted a little in his seat, then just spat it out. “Who was it we burned up in my car?”

  Before Buster answered, he thought about A-town and smiled. God was so cool. If A-town hadn’t bragged to Buster about where he had stashed his murder victim, if Crawford hadn’t double-crossed Buster when he tried to reveal the location of the victim’s body, if the victim hadn’t been about the same size as Armistead, if A-town hadn’t told Buster about where he hid the dude’s dental records so Buster could make the switch—there were a lot of variables. Only God could make them all work out.

  “Let’s just say,” Buster replied coyly, “that it helps to know where the bodies are buried.”

  Then Buster laughed’a big, baritone, gold-toothed laugh. And Dr. Sean Armistead, though he probably failed to see the humor, laughed right along with him.

  80

  IT IS, THOMAS THOUGHT, just as I remembered it, yet it will never be the same. He slumped down on the living room couch and stared at Theresa sitting in the recliner. The trailer felt at once comfortable yet depressing. Reminders of Joshie permeated every square inch.

  It was now four days after the miraculous acquittal, and Thomas and Theresa had just won the battle of the bedtime. Tiger, rambunctious to the end, had finally put his head down on the pillow and stopped squirming. Though he only had a twin-size mattress, Stinky had insisted on lying down with Tiger as she had for the past four nights. At some point in time, Stinky would have to go back to sleeping in her own room, but that was not a battle either Thomas or Theresa was ready to fight just yet.

  Even before the kids came home for good, Theresa had wisely taken the steps necessary for the family to try to get on with life. The room that Tiger had previously shared with Joshie was now just Tiger’s room. Theresa had packed all of Joshie’s stuff neatly away. And Tiger had wasted no time junking the room up.

  “What’re you looking at?” Theresa asked, as she turned her attention from the television to Thomas.

  “Nothin’,” he lied. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He had put her through so much and wondered if she would ever forgive him.

  “Yes, you were.”

  “I swear.” Thomas held up his hand, as if taking an oath. Then he slowly stood, walked over to the recliner, and tentatively reached out to massage Theresa’s shoulders.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For everything.”

  Theresa placed her hand on top of his. “I don’t blame you,” she said, her voice so soft that Thomas could barely hear the words. “But I don’t think I can ever stop blaming myself.”

  The blunt honesty of her reply paralyzed Thomas. It made him heartsick to think that Theresa shouldered his blame. What choice did she have when Joshie got sick? How he wished that he could just return to the first day of the sickness. He would seek medical help immediately, save Joshie’s life, and allow Theresa to smile again.

  Thomas loved this woman, after all these years, as much as the day they were married. Maybe more, after what they’d just been through. Together they would survive. But somehow he just couldn’t find the words to comfort her, the words he knew she needed to hear. He had never been good at speech makin’.

  “Daddy,” Tiger whined from his bedroom. “Daddy!”

  Thomas grunted. “That kid’s got the worst timin’ I ever saw.”

  “Wanna trade him in?” Theresa asked.

  Thomas didn’t answer. He was already on his way to the small bedroom.

  “Will you lay down wif me,” Tiger asked, “and tell me the story of Abe-ham?”

  “Shh,” Thomas said, holding his finger to his lips. “Your sister’s sleeping.”

  Stinky’s bright blue eyes popped open. “No, I’m not,” she said cheerily. “Please! Pretty please!”

  “Okay, okay,” Thomas said as he lay down on the floor next to the bed. He acted like he was doing them a big favor. But in truth, there was nothing in the world he would rather be doing. For the next ten minutes, he told the story of Abraham and Isaac, of the faith of an earthly father and the provision of a heavenly one. But then, as he got to the most exciting part, the moment when Abraham was raising his knife to slay his own son, the moment when God stayed Abraham’s hand and provided a ram for the sacrifice instead of Isaac, a funny thing happened. Thomas’s words started coming out slower and slower, and then they started to slur, and then he wasn’t making any sense at all. And then, right in midsentence, he stopped talking altogether and started to snore.

  Stinky nudged Tiger with her elbow and started to giggle. This, of course, got Tiger started too, and pretty soon the kids were both giggling like crazy.

&nbs
p; When they had giggled themselves out, Tiger sat up on his elbow and looked down at his dad. “Should we wake him up?” Tiger asked.

  “No,” Stinky said, “let him sleep. He’s had a long day.”

  “Me too,” Tiger said as he plopped his head back down on the pillow. He reached over the side of the bed and placed his hand on his daddy’s chest. Then Tiger closed his eyes and started thinking his happy thoughts.

  81

  DENITA SAT AT THE DESK in her study, paying bills. One eye was on the clock, the other on her cell phone. Friday night. This was supposed to have been the big day when Senator Crafton and a few other heavyweights met with the president to finalize the deal. Denita had talked to Catherine Godfrey at least five times yesterday just to make sure they had all their ducks in a row. Catherine had promised to call back today, no later than five o’clock.

  She was already three hours late.

  Denita thought about calling Godfrey again, leaving another message. But what good would that do? Instead, she stared at the phone and cursed under her breath. What could have gone wrong? What could possibly have taken so long?

  She thought about her one Achilles heel—the RU-486. But she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell there. That was history. And with Charles pledged to silence, it was history that had never happened.

  The phone rang, and Denita nearly jumped out of her skin. She answered it immediately, forgetting that she had planned on letting it ring a few times so she wouldn’t look too anxious.

  “Congratulations,” the voice of Catherine Godfrey said. “They all liked the deal . . . Your Honor.”

  “Your Honor.” Those words sounded so sweet. And oh, how she had earned them. Your Honor. The fulfillment of a lifelong ambition.

  “Thank God,” Denita sighed. She could hear the party in the background on the other end of the phone. “What took you so long?” she asked.

  Catherine made up a few weak excuses, then explained the process from here on out and assured Denita that the rest was just a formality.