The Trial

by Robert Whitlow

  “That’s enough,” Mac said. “Do you want to throw a load on your truck?”

  “Yeah. Sorry I don’t have time to help you stack this under the deck.”

  “I’ll do that another day. I’m beat.”

  Ray drove a shiny blue Ford pickup with a black vinyl bed liner and heavily tinted windows. They carefully stacked the wood until the rear of the truck sank to the frame under the heavy load. When they finished, Ray put his maul in the passenger seat.

  “If my grandson makes the all-stars, I want you to come to a game with us.”

  “Just let me know. Thanks for helping.”

  “And I might bring him out one weekend to play with the dogs.”

  “Only if you bring more biscuits.”

  “Sure.” Ray opened the door of his truck. “Oh, one thing.”

  “What?”

  “About the job. You know, coming to work for me.”

  Mac grinned. “Give it to me straight.”

  “You’re too old and weak.”

  Mac hit the side of the truck with the palm of his hand. “Just because you use a heavier maul than I do! That’s discrimination.”

  Ray smiled and rubbed his hands against the sides of his overalls. “Maybe so. But, seriously, you’re a good lawyer, Mac. You’ve got a gift, and God gives those gifts to be used, whether someone is a cop or an attorney. I’m sure there are challenges for you as a lawyer. Something you can do to help someone else.”

  “Thank you,” Mac said, remembering the same words from Laura’s lips many years before and his conversation with Judge Danielson the previous day. “Thank you very much.”

  3

  Go Dawgs!

  UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA SPORTS SLOGAN

  After Ray’s truck chugged down the driveway, Mac took a shower and positioned himself with a cold beer and a large bag of pretzels in front of the big-screen TV in the corner of the living room. Today was the annual bloodletting between the football teams from the University of Georgia and the University of Tennessee, and Mac didn’t want to miss a minute of the battle. Knoxville, Tennessee, the home of the Tennessee Volunteers, was closer to Dennison Springs than Athens, Georgia, but Mac considered any talented young football player from northwest Georgia who accepted a scholarship to play for Tennessee a traitor of the highest order. This year’s game between the two Southeastern Conference rivals was played before ninety thousand fans who filled Neyland Stadium in Knoxville with a sea of orange. The score was tied 7–7 at halftime, and Mac held on to hope for the second half. But two quick scores on long passes by the Tennessee quarterback in the third quarter buried the Bulldogs, and the Volunteers won 24–10.

  Tired from his morning of woodcutting, Mac went to bed early and slept soundly. No dreams disturbed his rest. When he awoke Sunday morning, he winced at the stiffness in his right shoulder and left knee. But after releasing the dogs for a morning run, his joints loosened, and he decided to go to church.

  Mac had attended Poplar Avenue Presbyterian Church since infancy, advancing through the ranks of nursery, kindergarten, confirmation classes, and Boy Scouts before his interest waned in his teenage years. When he returned to Dennison Springs and started his law practice, he successfully avoided all efforts to recruit him for leadership as a deacon or elder and slipped into the comfortable class of people known as nominal church members.

  Mac’s only religious commitment was to his Sunday school class, an all-male group officially listed in the church directory as the Westbrook Class. The class met in a sunny room on the second floor of the educational building named in honor of Horace Westbrook, a man who gave a generous donation to the church during the Depression. But the Westbrook class had, at best, a tenuous connection with the teachings of Jesus and virtually no interest in the meaning of true Christian discipleship. Instead, the group functioned as an unofficial chapter of the University of Georgia Bulldog Fan Club—Dennison Springs chapter.

  Open to any Bulldog male from college age up, the Westbrook class did not discriminate against anyone except those who attended Georgia Tech, Tennessee, Auburn, Alabama, or Florida. A non-Georgia graduate might come once to the class, but few persons other than Bulldog faithful endured a full fifty-five minutes. From September 1 through December 1, Mac rarely missed a Sunday morning, and if the Georgia football team played in a postseason bowl game, he maintained perfect attendance through the first weekend of January.

  Jim Lincolnton, the teacher of the class, bought two dozen donuts every Sunday morning and arrived at the church in time to turn on the coffeepot. As the members arrived, they drank coffee, ate donuts, and talked football. If Georgia won the previous day’s game, many of the men wore red sport coats in celebration of victory, and the assembled group looked like a reunion of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

  The class never discussed theology. No one knew or cared whether one, two, or three men wrote the Book of Isaiah. Instead, the Westbrook class saved its energy for down-to-earth issues—whether the coach of the Bulldogs should use one, two, or three wide receivers in a particular offensive formation or what was the best defense to employ against a talented running back for an opposing team. There was more enthusiasm about a hot linebacker prospect from Valdosta than interest in grappling with Paul’s letter to the Ephesians.

  After forty-five minutes of football talk, Jim told everybody to sit down. That took about five minutes. Then, he read a three- or four-paragraph devotional from a small magazine his wife received through the mail. When he finished, either Bill Dixon or Dr. Ben Swift volunteered to pray. No one else had to worry that they might be called on to speak to the Man Upstairs. The Sunday school dismissal bell rang about the time Bill or Ben said, “Amen.”

  Sometimes Mac stayed for the main church service. If Georgia won its game on Saturday, he took two coats: a red one for the Sunday school class and a blue or camel brown for the church service. The mood was somber this morning, the conversation subdued after the previous afternoon’s defeat.

  Dr. Swift stood next to Mac stirring his coffee. “I can’t believe I paid three hundred dollars for four tickets to that game.”

  “It was tough to watch on TV,” Mac responded. “I can imagine what it was like in person.”

  “All that Big Orange stuff; it hurt my eyes. And if I hear ‘Rocky Top’ on the radio in the next six months I may drive off a cliff.”

  “Did you know one of the Tennessee wide receivers who caught a touchdown pass in the third quarter was from Macon?” Mac asked.

  “Yeah. Someone should call his high school coach and chew him out.”

  Toward the end of the class, the group pulled itself onto a happier plain and looked forward to an upcoming home game against Vanderbilt.

  “Boys, have your red coats ready next week,” Jim said as the men stood to leave the room. “And remember what Scarlett O’Hara said at the end of Gone with the Wind.”

  “What did she say?” Bill Dixon called out.

  “‘Tomorrow is another day,’” Jim answered.

  Mac didn’t stay for the church service. He left the educational building and walked across the parking lot. Celeste Jamison pulled into an empty parking space beside Mac’s car and got out.

  “Good morning, Mac,” the small, sandy-haired woman said, walking around to the front of Mac’s car.

  “Good morning,” he answered. “Where’s Bob?”

  “At a sales meeting in Birmingham. He has a presentation in the morning and had to drive over early. How are you doing?”

  “Still recovering from the ball game yesterday.” he answered. Celeste didn’t seem in a hurry, so he asked, “Are you still helping at the juvenile court?”

  “Yes. I spend a couple of days a month serving as a guardian ad litem for deprived children. Did you hear Jeff ’s news?”

  Celeste’s son Jeff was the same age as Mac’s older son, Ben. The two boys had been friends growing up, and Celeste had spent a lot of coffee time with Laura. Mac and Bob Jamison played a round of
golf once a year in the Chamber of Commerce tournament, but the three of them didn’t have much contact anymore. Sitting at a table for four with an empty chair was too awkward for Mac. After graduation from Georgia Tech, Jeff went to work for an architectural firm in Charleston that performed a lot of renovation of historic buildings.

  “No.”

  “He and Sandi just found out she’s pregnant. The baby is due next spring.”

  “Congratulations.” Mac’s most enduring image of Jeff was as the first baseman for the Westside Rockets, a Little League baseball team that had included Ben and a couple of their other friends. Jeff was a long, lanky boy with his mother’s light-colored hair and his father’s quiet demeanor. It was hard to picture him as a successful professional and soon-to-be parent. “I guess you’ll be making a few trips to the coast.” Mac put the key in the door of his car and unlocked it.

  Celeste didn’t move. “Mac?” she asked.

  He turned toward her. “Yes?”

  “If Georgia had beaten Tennessee, would you be doing okay?”

  “Of course. Better than okay. We haven’t beaten Tennessee in Knoxville in ages.”

  “And besides football?”

  Mac gave her a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

  Celeste’s eyes grew softer. “It will be nine years in December.”

  Mac leaned against the car door. He thought he was the only one who kept close track of the time.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’m—” He started to say “fine,” but couldn’t lie—“busy at work. I’m getting involved in a major case that will take a lot of time and keep me out of mischief.”

  “Would you be able to come for supper sometime soon? We never see you anymore.”

  “Maybe. Give me a call.” Mac looked at his watch. “I won’t hold you up any longer. The church service will start in a couple of minutes. You don’t want to be late.”

  Celeste released him. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Celeste glanced over her shoulder at Mac’s car as she walked up the sidewalk to the front entrance to the sanctuary. She missed Laura. She grieved for Mac. He had been at the forefront of her prayers on several occasions during the past week. She hadn’t known exactly why. But up close she saw that the spark of life Laura fanned into flame in Mac had died down to a black ember that no longer smoldered. What could she do about it?

  She had asked Bob a few days earlier if he knew anything about Mac’s current situation. He’d looked up from his book and shrugged. “I’ve seen him on the street several times recently, but he was in another world and didn’t even speak to me. I don’t think he was intentionally rude. His mind was someplace else.”

  “What do you think?” Celeste silently asked the blue October sky as she walked up the wide steps to the front door of the church and into the spacious sanctuary. Nothing came, and she sat down on the deep crimson cushion in her usual pew. She closed her eyes to prepare for the service when a still, small voice spoke clearly within her spirit: “Hanging by a thread.”

  The message was so distinct that Celeste involuntarily looked around to see if anyone else had heard it. People around her were finding places to sit, reading the morning bulletin, and whispering with their friends. The organist began playing softly. She repeated the phrase over and over in her mind. Hanging by a thread. Hanging by a thread. What did it mean? Mac’s health? His sanity? His life?

  4

  For such a time as this.

  ESTHER 4:14 (NIV)

  Precisely at 9:00 a.m. on Monday morning, Mac buzzed Mindy Stockton, his receptionist. Mindy, a petite, strawberry-blonde twenty-year-old, started working for Mac the summer after she graduated from high school. She loved to talk, and the job as a receptionist seemed a perfect fit.

  “Please get Judge Danielson on the phone.”

  Mac leaned back in his chair and waited for the call to go through. In a few seconds, Mindy’s clear voice came through the speakerphone.

  “The judge is on line two.”

  “Thanks.” Mac picked up the receiver, took a deep breath, and dived in. “Good morning, Judge.”

  “Good morning.” Danielson didn’t waste time getting to the point. “What’s the verdict?”

  “I’ll do it,” Mac said simply.

  “Great.” The judge sealed the deal before Mac could change his mind. “Linda will fax you a copy of the order, but consider yourself on the case immediately.”

  “How long before it comes up on the trial calendar?”

  “It was tentatively set for two weeks from now, but of course I’ll postpone it because of the change in representation. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Probably a continuance in the Ketchem versus Trustmark Insurance case. It’s on the civil trial calendar next month.”

  “Who’s on the other side?”

  “Jerry Saylor.”

  “If Jerry has any problems agreeing to a continuance we can handle it on a conference call.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Try to file any additional paperwork on Thomason as soon as you can. Gene filed the standard motions.”

  “My next call is to him.”

  “All right. Thanks, Mac. After this is over, I’ll buy you a very cold, Friday-afternoon beer.”

  Mac dialed the number himself. He respected Gene Nelson, the public defender who brought the uncompromising zeal of a Bolshevik revolutionary to his job defending people too poor to hire a private lawyer. More than 50 percent of the men and women charged with misdemeanors and felonies in Echota County met the financial guidelines for a free attorney. Crime in north Georgia didn’t pay well or consistently. Most of Gene’s clients were factually guilty and deserved punishment, but the pugnacious little lawyer had cultivated what Mac called “criminal defense lawyers’ schizophrenia,” a learned condition that allowed him to disregard guilt and focus exclusively on mounting a vigorous defense in the face of often-impossible odds. Fortunately, most of his clients pled guilty. Otherwise, Gene would have been more frantic than a hamster stuck on a wheel.

  “Gene, Mac McClain. Do you have a minute?”

  “Yeah. I’m getting ready to go to the jail. I have a sackful of new misdemeanor cases and need to interview my clients. What’s up?”

  “Judge Danielson told me about your conflict in the Thomason murder case.”

  Gene grunted. “Yeah. I can’t believe my sister fell for a guy who works for the state crime lab. I guess it could have been worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “He could be a prosecutor from New York City.”

  “What about future cases?” Mac asked. “Won’t you have more conflicts?”

  “No, the crime lab knows to flag Echota County cases and keep them away from my brother-in-law, but this one came up before the word went out.”

  Mac shifted in his chair. “Now that you’re off the Thomason case, the judge wants me to represent him.”

  “You? Why not a younger lawyer?”

  “That’s a story in itself, but I called Judge Danielson this morning and agreed to take it. He’s given me a continuance so I can get up to speed, but I need to come over and pick up the file as soon as possible.” “Come now. My new clients at the jail aren’t going anywhere for an hour or so. I can give you a summary.”

  “Any good information in your file that will convince the judge to dismiss the case?”

  Gene gave a gruff laugh. “I haven’t had that type of evidence in months.”

  “Any confessions or eyewitnesses?”

  “Zilch. Mostly circumstantial.”

  “What about your new brother-in-law? Do you think he’ll be a good witness for the State?”

  “He’s carrying some baggage.”

  “What do you mean?” Mac asked.

  “His name is George Doolittle III, but my sister calls him Skip. He’s a chemist who has been on the job since January.”

  “The judge thought he was a pathologist. Is there a problem with his credentials or training?” />
  “No, but when he completes the requirements for his Ph.D. program next year he’ll be—”

  “Dr. Doolittle,” Mac finished the sentence.

  Gene chuckled. “Right.”

  After Mac hung up the phone he buzzed Judy Boyington, his secretary; Vicki Lorain, his paralegal; and Mindy and summoned them to his office.

  Vicki walked in the door, sipping a cup of coffee. In her midthirties, the tall, thin, dark-haired legal assistant moved to Dennison Springs from Birmingham, where she had worked for a big law firm, Kilpatrick, Baker, and Hyatt. Highly competent, Vicki didn’t have to be told twice how to do something. Judy and Mindy followed her into the walnut-paneled room.

  A conference in Mac’s office was not typical for a Monday morning. Leaning back in his chair, Mac quickly dispelled any hidden fears. “Nobody is in trouble. I have some news. Judge Danielson has appointed me to represent Peter Thomason, the young man charged with killing the Hightower girl.”

  Judy sat down in one of the brown leather chairs in front of the desk and sighed. Now gray-haired, she had worked as Mac’s secretary since the first year of his law practice, and they had weathered countless legal wars together. “A murder case. Couldn’t they find someone else to do it?”

  “No. Given my history with the Hightowers, I was the logical choice.”

  “Any possibility of a plea bargain?” she asked.

  “Don’t rush to judgment. It’s too soon to consider any plea. I haven’t even picked up the file from Gene Nelson or talked with the defendant.”

  “I think it’s exciting,” Mindy piped in.

  “It’s not like a two-hour movie on TV,” Vicki responded. “There’s a lot of tedious work and pressure.” Turning to Mac, she asked, “Is the State asking for the death penalty?”

  “No, but the Hightower family has hired Joe Whetstone as special prosecutor to help the D.A.”

  “Isn’t he the lawyer from Atlanta with the long ponytail?” Mindy asked. “He’s cool.”

  “No,” Mac said with a slight smile. “Joe Whitestone is the former assistant U.S. Attorney who sent Larry Fowler, the pornography kingpin, to prison for hiring someone to kill a competitor.”