“Did the camera pick up the driver?”
“Not from that angle.”
“Any license plate number?”
The little man shook his head. “Not that either. All I know is that it was a dark Lincoln.”
Ray patted the top of the camera for a job well done. “That’s very helpful.”
Oblivious to the swirl of events, Pete continued praying for Cal Musgrave. It had been six days since he started, and there had not been any tangible signs of progress in Cal. However, several things had happened in Pete’s heart as he focused his attention on his fellow prisoner. First, he discovered that he cared about Cal. Not fake, not sentimental, not manufactured. When Pete looked inside himself, he saw a genuine concern for the troubled soul next-door. Cal’s rantings now saddened him more than irritated him. Second, without any outward encouragement due to visible changes, Pete had developed a hope for Cal’s future. Pete didn’t label his hope, but others might call it a miracle-producing faith. Third, Pete was angry with a righteous indignation against the forces of darkness and evil that tormented Cal and tossed him about like a spineless rag doll. He knew those forces were from the pit of hell.
Cal had been quiet all morning. About nine o’clock, Pete was lying on his bunk with his eyes closed and heard someone call his name.
“Pete.”
Thinking it was the imaginary voice that prisoners occasionally hear, he didn’t answer. It came louder.
“Pete!”
“What?” he said. “Where are you?”
“It’s me. Cal.” The sound of the voice was so different from the various noises that had come from the adjacent cell, Pete double-checked to make sure he was awake.
“Hey. How are you?” he asked.
“I’m better.”
“That’s good.”
“I had a strange dream last night,” Cal said in a level voice that didn’t hold the threat of ranting and raving. “Do you want to hear about it?”
Pete got out of bed and sat down on the floor so he could be nearer to the opening to Cal’s cell.
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“I dreamed that a man came into my cell and put his hands on my head.”
“What did he look like?”
“Just an average-looking guy.”
“Did he do or say anything?”
“Yes, it was so real. He said, ‘Jesus is Lord. Be free.’”
Pete’s jaw dropped open. “Anything else?”
“Yes. ‘Go and tell.’ Then he left. Went right through the bars. Do you think I’m crazy?”
Pete leaned his head against the wall of the cell and looked through the ceiling of the jail directly into heaven. “No,” he said. “You’re not crazy. Not anymore.”
“Yeah. I feel like I’ve been somewhere else for twenty years and I just woke up.”
Pete smiled. “Rip Van Winkle.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. This is great.”
“Yeah.”
“Can we pray together?” Pete asked.
“Okay.”
As they prayed back and forth, Cal’s voice grew stronger and stronger. Pete read Bible verses to him, and they talked until lunchtime. When the food trays came at noon, the deputy quickly slid Cal’s through the slot at the bottom of his door and moved out of the way. Sometimes Cal would throw his food out into the hall.
“Thanks, deputy,” Cal said.
“What?” the startled guard replied.
“Thanks for lunch.”
“Uh, you’re welcome.”
The guard slid Pete his food and whispered, “What’s up with Crazy Cal?”
Pete pointed toward heaven. “Ask Jesus.”
On the glass-topped table was an Atlanta newspaper opened to an article about the assault on Alex Hightower. According to the report, the police believed a blunt object was used in the attack. Robbery did not appear to be the motive. Michael Stenson Conan, a.k.a. Mike, answered the cell phone and Bart Jackson Conan, a.k.a. Bart, came in from the living room where he was watching professional wrestling on TV.
An angry voice was on the other end of the line. “What did you use? A baseball bat?”
“Uh, yeah. A metal bat,” Mike said defensively.
“Maybe you should have tried a wooden one. Have you ever heard of a gun with a silencer? A bullet to the head?”
“Hey, we wanted it to look like a hit-and-run accident. We don’t want another murder investigation breathing down our necks.”
“It was an accident all right. A stupid, messed-up accident. You have $55,000 of my money, and I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”
“Finish the job.”
“When?”
“As soon as the heat dies down.”
“I don’t have time for that. I’ll finish this myself. If you want the other $55,000, do number three.”
“That will cost $100,000.” Mike looked at Bart, who nodded.
“No it won’t. Do it for $55,000 or forget it.”
“We’ll think about it.”
“That’s a good idea. Use your head for something besides a baseball cap. I’ll call back in a couple of days. No payment until number three is in the morgue. Understood?”
“Yeah.”
The phone clicked off.
“Let’s split,” Bart said. “It’s not worth it for $55,000.”
“I don’t know. I was saving my best plan for last. Simple, fast, impossible to trace.”
“What if he doesn’t pay?”
Mike shrugged. “We move to number four. I’d do that for nothing.”
44
Make the truth known.
YEATS
Her eyes bloodshot and rimmed in dark circles, Sarah was siting beside the hospital bed when Alex moaned and opened his eyes for the first time in three days. He turned his head and gazed at Sarah, trying to focus for a few seconds then lapsing back into unconsciousness. It would be another twelve hours before he made another effort to climb out of the depths of the chasm where his attacker’s blows had sent him.
Celeste began the meeting of the Mable Ray Circle by reading the journal entry of Laura McClain’s prayer for Mac and then told about Mac’s response to Archie’s sermon.
“Praise the Lord,” Naomi said, her eyes beaming. “We need to pray for the right follow-up. He’ll need encouragement and help.”
“That’s not all,” Celeste said. She told them about Anna Wilkes. “I think the Lord may be drawing them together.”
“Awesome,” Kelli said. “The idea of romance at his age.”
Naomi looked at Celeste and smiled.
“We should also pray for Alexander Hightower,” Kathy Howell said. “He needs a kidney transplant.”
“I saw the article in the paper,” Naomi said. “What about his younger brother as a donor?”
“I don’t know,” Celeste said, “But we need to pray for him as well. Naomi, will you begin?’”
There followed a time of thanksgiving for Mac and prayer for God’s involvement in every aspect of his future. Celeste almost laughed out loud at the excitement in Kelli’s voice when she prayed for Mac’s relationship with Anna.
Then they prayed for the Hightower family. When someone mentioned Spencer, Kathy Howell saw a mental picture of four small clouds that were absorbed into a massive thunderhead. Not knowing what it meant, she didn’t say anything, deciding not to mention it to the group until she had an opportunity to pray about it herself.
Early Tuesday morning, Mac and David met with Pete at the jail. There was a dignity in the young man’s countenance—like a soldier who has survived a major battle. The flat, lifeless look that had greeted Mac the first few times they met no longer remained. Now Pete seemed confident and mature.
“Tell me more about Mr. Hightower’s situation,” Pete asked when Mac finished.
Mac outlined the injuries mentioned in the paper. “So he’ll knit pretty well except for the loss of his kidneys. He’ll need a transpla
nt at some point in the future. That best donors are family members.”
“Spencer is the only brother?” Pete asked.
“Yes. If it weren’t so tragic there would be a sense of irony to the situation,” Mac said. “The man most able to help Alex is the man trying to kill him.”
“Why would he want to wipe out his brother’s family?” Pete asked.
Earlier, Mac and David had been discussing Spencer’s motivation. David answered. “With Angela’s murder, we thought Spencer acted out of anger and sick retribution, but now there may be a much simpler explanation. Money. With Alex, Sarah, and Angela gone, Spencer would be the sole heir to the Hightower fortune.”
“The police may consider Spencer a suspect in the attack on Alex,” Mac continued, “but he was out of the country when the assault took place. If something happens to Sarah, it would greatly increase the focus on Spencer.”
“How does this affect me?” Pete asked.
Mac shook his head. “None, yet. We need solid proof, not theories.”
Pete tapped his fingers on the metal table in the interview room. “I’d like to help Mr. Hightower if I can,” he said.
“Help? How would you do that?” Mac asked.
“I could give him one of my kidneys,” Pete said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Mac was speechless for several seconds. When he found his voice, he said, “A few days ago Alex Hightower asked a jury to send you to the electric chair!”
Mac looked at David for support, but the younger lawyer had a big grin on his face.
“What are you grinning about?”
“I can’t help it. I think it’s a great idea.”
“I can’t agree,” Mac sputtered. “I mean—”
“Look,” Pete said. “Could you arrange for the doctors to test me and find out if I’m a suitable donor? That would be the first step, wouldn’t it?”
“The judge would have to approve the donor suitability testing.”
“When can you ask him?” Pete asked.
“This is insane,” Mac stood up and walked back and forth across the narrow confines of the room. “You need to think it over a few days.”
“I can think it over while they do the test. You said they’re asking ordinary people in the community to consider donating a kidney. Why should I be excluded?”
Mac looked hard at Pete. “This won’t get you out of prison.”
“I understand. It’s not a question of brownie points; it’s helping save someone’s life. It’s making my life count for something even though I’m in jail.”
“I’ve heard that before.” David smiled.
Mac threw up his hands. “Okay. I’ll talk to the judge.”
Sarah Hightower took her desperate appeal to the only man with a proven ability to influence Spencer’s behavior, Dr. Louis Newburn. The psychiatrist ushered her into his office.
“Have a seat, Sarah. How can I help?”
Sarah sat in a large chair across the desk from the doctor and took a letter out of her pocketbook. Her hand trembling, she handed it to him. “Here’s a note asking Spencer to forgive us for the way we’ve treated him over the past few weeks. But after what he put Angela through . . .”
“I understand,” Dr. Newburn said gently. “You don’t have to explain. As long as I’ve known your husband’s family, I’ve always tried to help in any way I could. I’ll talk to Spencer as soon as possible.”
“Thank you,” Sarah sniffled.
“And I’m available as a professional resource for you.”
Sarah nodded. “I need to talk with you, but I can’t think about anything now except getting help for Alex.”
“Of course. Has he been conscious today?”
“For a couple of hours this morning. He said a few words and answered a couple of questions, but he still doesn’t know all that’s happened to him.”
“I’ll try to come by the hospital and see him. Hopefully, I’ll have good news for both of you.”
Dr. Newburn escorted her out of the office and walked with her to the elevator.
“Let me share some of this burden with your family,” he offered.
“Thanks, I need that,” Sarah responded with a tired smile.
After he absorbed Pete’s proposal, Mac enjoyed the consternation his client’s offer caused Judge Danielson. David went along for the show.
“I’ve never,” the judge started and stopped. “What about security at the hospital? Thomason has a life sentence.”
“Judge, that sort of thing is handled every time a prisoner needs medical attention,” Mac said. “And chances are small that Thomason is a donor match. I wouldn’t go behind your back and make a public appeal, but what if a newspaper or TV reporter found out you denied Thomason’s request?”
“Huh,” the judge grunted. “Would Alex Hightower accept a kidney from the man who killed his daughter?”
“If it was his best chance of survival, I hope he would. But we’re not asking you to order Alex Hightower to accept the offer.”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s not all,” Mac leaned forward. “I had a tidbit of jailhouse news you might be interested in. One of the officers at the jail told me Cal Musgrave is a changed man.”
“Cal? I was about to send him to the criminal detention wing of the mental hospital in Milledgeville.”
“Thomason has been in the cell next to Cal talking to him. Now they say Cal has the manners of a choir boy, and the officer credits Thomason with causing the change.”
“How did he do that?”
“Prayer.”
The judge took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Okay, Mac. I’ll allow the tests. Draft an order and I’ll sign it.”
Wednesday morning, Pete shuffled along in leg irons and handcuffs through the front door of Gregory Memorial Hospital. The first hurdle was blood type. Both Pete and Alex were A-negative. The next step involved tissue typing, a test that identified the genetic characteristics of an individual’s white blood cells. The most important aspect of a successful kidney transplant was not the surgical removal and attachment of a new kidney but the acceptance of the donated kidney by the recipient of the transplant.
Because white blood cells fight intruders, compatibility of white blood cells between donor and donee would be critically important to the success of a transplant for Alex Hightower. Tissue typing would isolate the key genetic markers in Alex and Pete called Human Leukocyte Antigens, or HLA, on their white blood cells. Because there are many different combinations of HLAs, even siblings can have different combinations that make transplants unfeasible. Each type of HLA has been assigned a number, and the different types identified and labeled through tissue typing.
Piedmont Hospital in Atlanta sent the data on Alex to the pathology lab in Dennison Springs. Six blood samples were drawn from Pete and analyzed. Alex’s HLA profile was 1, 8, 10, 2, 7, 11, and Pete’s was 4, 7, 12, 2, 7, 11—sufficient similarity to characterize Alex and Pete as a “one-haplotype match,” because they shared a common group of three HLAs in their white blood count “pedigree.”
The results in his hand, Dr. Matthew Watson, the doctor who performed the test, walked from the lab to the room where Pete was sitting on an examination table. A short man in his midforties with thick brown hair and dark brown eyes, Dr. Watson explained his findings to Pete.
“What next?” Pete asked.
“It’s up to you,” the doctor replied. “If you’re sure you want to go forward, there are more tests and the doctors taking care of Mr. Hightower need to be informed.”
“I’m sure. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it in my cell at the jail.”
“Okay. We have a sample of Mr. Hightower’s blood that was delivered early this morning by medical courier from Atlanta. We’ll mix some serum from his blood with a very small amount of your white blood cells to determine if there is a protein antibody in Mr. Hightower’s serum that would attack your HLAs. If his antibodies attack your blood cells,
it will let us know that your kidney would not be able to survive in Mr. Hightower’s body.”
“Do I wait here?”
Dr. Watson looked at the two deputies sitting by the door. “I would think so.”
Later, when he finished his analysis, Dr. Watson pushed his chair back from the microscope and wrote on the bottom of his report, “Good donor candidate—recommend acceptance.”
Spencer slouched down in the big leather chair in Dr. Newburn’s office. The psychiatrist peered over his glasses and blinked.
“I checked to see if you could be the kidney donor for Alex,” the doctor began.
“You did what!” Spencer sat up straight. “I didn’t give you permission—” “Hold on,” the doctor said. “Because your blood type is O-positive and Alex’s blood is A-negative, there is no way you could donate a kidney anyway.”
Spencer sat back in his chair. “That’s a relief. It should get Sarah off my back.”
Dr. Newburn opened a drawer in his credenza, took Sarah’s letter, and handed it to Spencer. “Sarah wrote you a letter and asked me to give it to you.” Spencer opened it and quickly read the two handwritten pages.
“She wants me to visit Alex in the hospital,” he said with a short laugh. “Says she’s sorry.”
“She’s under enormous stress, and a visit from you might help both of them.”
Spencer’s voice grew louder. “You think I should go? After what Alex did to me? I mean, he kicked me off the board of every family business and said he didn’t want to see me again.”
Dr. Newburn folded his hands. “Of course, I can’t make you do anything, but I think you should go. An apology from Sarah and Alex would make you feel better.”
“I’d rather have Alex grovel a little.”
“I understand how you feel.”
“Did you tell Sarah I couldn’t be a donor?”
“Not yet, but I’ll handle it,” the doctor said.
Spencer stared at the edge of Dr. Newburn’s desk for several seconds. “I’d be willing to visit Alex in the hospital, but there are practical things related to the family businesses that have to be worked out.”
“Of course. Why don’t I try to clear the way for a visit?”
Mac called David Moreland and read Dr. Watson’s report to him over the telephone. He then faxed it to Joe Whetstone with a request on the cover sheet: “Please call after you review the attached.”
The Trial Page 38