“At the Bowen house.”
“On Polk Street?”
“Yes. He’s worked for them since before Mr. Bowen died.”
Polk Street was a block from traffic light eleven. Mr. Bowen, an insurance broker, was a client of Forrest, Andrews, and Lambert for many years, and Mike had encountered him at the office several times. He didn’t know his widow.
The houses on Polk Street were built in the 1920s. Most had been remodeled and updated. Mrs. Bowen lived at the end of a street in a brick home with broad holly bushes and a small, neatly manicured front yard. Large shade trees stood along the edges of the lot. Mike pulled in behind Sam’s truck, which was parked beside Mrs. Bowen’s older-model Cadillac. Sam wasn’t in sight.
Mike walked up a driveway made of cobblestones covered by bits of moss. The backyard was enclosed in a fence. He could hear a small dog barking as he approached the white wooden gate. Mike looked into the yard, which was surprisingly large and sunny, with islands of flower beds in several places and two outdoor fountains. Near the house was an artificial pond surrounded by vines and exotic-looking plants. Mike could see why Sam would need to spend a lot of time in the yard. The yardman and a small, slender woman were standing at the rear of the lot.
“Sam!” Mike called out.
Sam and the woman turned around.
“Come in!” Sam yelled.
Mike unlatched the gate. The little brown dog nervously sniffed his ankles for a few seconds before running across the yard toward the woman. Mrs. Bowen faced him. Her gray hair was pulled back tightly in a bun, and she was wearing a dark skirt, blouse, and sweater. Sam stepped forward as Mike approached.
“Mike, do you know Mrs. Bowen?”
Mike extended his hand. Mrs. Bowen must have been at least eighty. Her fingers were slightly gnarled by arthritis, but she gripped his hand firmly. Diamonds glistened on several fingers.
“No, but I met your husband several times when I worked with Maxwell Forrest.”
“Humph,” Mrs. Bowen sniffed. “I still get letters from him wanting me to come in for a chat. Why should I do that? If I do, he’ll ask a few questions about my bulbs then send me a bill for estate planning!”
“It’s good to have your will reviewed from time to time,” Mike offered.
Mrs. Bowen narrowed her eyes. “Did Maxwell Forrest send you here? I’d better not get a bill in the mail for a house call!”
“No, ma’am. I’m a minister now, not a lawyer.”
Mrs. Bowen turned toward Sam. “Is that right?”
“Yep. He’s one of my boys.”
Mike started to protest but stopped when he saw Mrs. Bowen relax.
“Then the Lord surely is in the miracle business!” the old woman exclaimed. “A lawyer turned minister must make the angels scratch their wings in amazement!”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mike agreed and turned toward Sam. “Will you have time to talk before you go home?”
“Yep. I’m finished here. Mrs. Bowen and I were visiting for a few minutes.”
Sam reached into his pocket and handed the old woman a piece of paper. “Here’s my bill and a word of encouragement about one of your grandsons.”
“Billy?” the old woman asked.
“Yep.”
Mrs. Bowen blinked her eyelids behind her glasses. They walked toward the gate.
“You have a beautiful yard,” Mike said.
“I couldn’t do it without Sam. We’re growing old together, but I’m ahead on the race to the finish line.”
“I’ll be back toward the end of next week,” Sam said. “The grass is beginning its spring growth spurt but won’t need to be cut until then.”
The old woman went into the house. Mike and Sam stepped onto the driveway.
“So, I’m one of your boys,” Mike said.
“Which puts you on her prayer list,” Sam replied. “It’s a good place to be.”
“She ought to put Maxwell Forrest on it.”
Sam chuckled. “Do you think she’s bitter toward him?”
“Maybe. Or mad at lawyers in general.”
“I have no complaints about my lawyer. Papa picked him.”
“We had our meeting with Judge Coberg this afternoon,” Mike said.
Sam leaned against the side of the truck while Mike told him about the conference in the judge’s chambers.
“Yep,” Sam said when he finished. “The judge and I have also had a few talks when he gets his cauliflower. Did you know he’s studied all the verses in the Bible about being a judge?”
“No. I need to tell the judge and DA if you want a jury trial.”
“What do you think?”
“In almost all criminal cases, I recommend a jury trial.”
“Okay, that’s what I want.”
Sam moved toward the front of the truck.
“That’s not all,” Mike said. “The case will be on the trial calendar in a few weeks.”
The news of an impending court date stopped Sam in his tracks. He turned toward Mike.
“Then we’d better get ready. I’ll try to do my part and leave the lawyering up to you.”
“That’s what I’m doing. I went to the DA’s office and reviewed your file. I have copies of everything in my car.”
After retrieving his briefcase, Mike laid out the documents on the hood of Sam’s truck. “Here’s the statement you gave to Detective Perkins.”
Mike waited while Sam read it.
“Do you remember signing this?” Mike asked, pointing to the signature.
“Yep.”
“Didn’t you realize how the words could be twisted to make it look like you knew about misappropriation of funds from the checking account?”
“What?”
“That money was wrongfully transferred.”
“The detective told me what happened. He wasn’t lying.”
“But—,” Mike began then decided not to argue. “Anyway, the statement could give us trouble at trial.”
He took out the checks.
“What about the signature endorsement on the back of these checks?” he asked. “It looks the same as the one at the bottom of your statement.”
Sam held up the checks and squinted at them. “Yep. It looks like my handwriting.” “Is that your account number?”
“I don’t have the whole thing memorized, but the last four numbers are right.”
Mike waited. Sam put down the check copies but didn’t say anything else.
“Well?” Mike asked.
“What?”
“How are we going to explain your apparent signature on the checks?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Okay, I hope the handwriting expert agrees.” Mike put the papers in his briefcase, clicked it shut, and put his hands on top of it. He spoke in measured tones. “After I reviewed the file, I talked with Melissa Hall. If you agree to plead guilty to a misdemeanor charge of illegally borrowing money from a nonprofit organization, you would receive six months on probation with no jail time or monetary fine. The offer will remain open for ten days then it will be withdrawn, and we go to trial.”
“Say again?”
Mike repeated the basis and terms of the plea bargain.
“Do people do that?” Sam asked.
“What?”
“Plead guilty when they didn’t do anything wrong?”
“It happens, and there are court cases that allow it. The fear of going to jail is a strong motivator. Sometimes it’s easier to take something certain and avoid the possibility of a harsh sentence.” Mike paused. “There is also the danger of prison. You saw what happened to you at the local jail. A state facility can be a hundred times worse.”
“What are you trying to tell me? I hear fear in your voice.”
“Aren’t you afraid?”
Sam managed a weak smile. “I’ve been in tight spots in the past and always saw Papa come through in the end. Sometimes I suffered before help arrived; other times I escaped from the mouth of the lion. I’m not sur
e which kind of situation I’m facing. Have you ever told an innocent client to plead guilty?”
“I’ve had a few who told me they were innocent, but when the DA put an offer on the table they jumped on it. They were probably guilty but wouldn’t admit it.” Mike continued more slowly, “I’ve never advised an innocent client to plead guilty, but I wish I’d encouraged Danny Brewster to do so. He trusted me and would have done anything I suggested. There was an offer on the table prior to trial that would have given him twelve months in jail and the rest of his time on probation. If he’d taken a deal, he might be alive today.”
“Papa kept that boy in His hand and—”
“I know,” Mike interrupted. “But I can’t ignore what happened when he went to prison.”
Sam reached out and put his hand on Mike’s shoulder. “And you wouldn’t be a true pastor if you did.”
Mike looked into Sam’s eyes. “Do you want to consider the offer and talk it over with Muriel?”
“I’d best not mention it to Muriel. She’s so worried about me going to jail, she can’t rest at night. Most nights I wake up several times, but she’s always been able to sleep through anything. Now, she’s often awake when I come out of a dream.”
“So what should I tell Melissa Hall?”
Sam looked past Mike’s shoulder for a moment before answering. “Tell her Papa is going to turn her mourning into dancing and restore the song she thought she’d lost.”
“And after I deliver that message, do I turn down the plea deal?”
“I don’t see the apostles telling lies to get out of jail, and I don’t intend to start either. How could I lose in court? I’ve got the best lawyer in the world.”
“Don’t say that about me,” Mike replied.
Sam shook his head “If you think I meant you, think again.”
IT WAS TOO LATE IN THE AFTERNOON TO RETURN TO THE church, so Mike drove home. Peg and Judge weren’t there. Mike leafed through the mail then noticed the blinking light on the answering machine in the kitchen. He pressed the Play button.
“I know you’re recording this message, which is fine with me,” a voice said. “I like to record conversations, too. I’ll be at the office until six o’clock. Give me a call to set up a meeting.”
Mike dialed the direct number for Braxton Hodges’s desk. The reporter answered on the second ring.
“Where are you?” the reporter asked.
“At home.”
“What were you doing at the courthouse this afternoon?”
“Meeting with the judge on the Miller case. I didn’t see you.”
“I was driving by and saw you come out the front door. Are you in the mood for a hamburger tomorrow?”
“I don’t have to be in the mood.”
“Meet me at Brooks at noon.”
“Can’t you talk to me now?” Mike asked.
“No.”
The phone clicked before Mike could ask another question.
THAT NIGHT, MIKE LAY AWAKE WHILE PEG SLEPT PEACEFULLY beside him. He’d been able to get his mind off Sam’s case during supper and a quiet evening, but once he turned off the lights, various courtroom scenarios began flashing across his mind. He wasn’t sure of the best approach to take in defending the case, and trial strategy without focus was the grist of nightmares. So, he stayed awake, not wanting to process in an unconscious state what he couldn’t sort out while alert. It had been so many years since a criminal case kept him up at night that he’d forgotten the churning feeling produced by responsibility for the freedom of another human being.
And he’d never represented someone like Sam Miller. He and Muriel shared one primary goal—they didn’t want Sam to go to prison.
MIKE SPENT A BUSY MORNING AT THE CHURCH. TIME WORKING on the Miller case required more efficient performance of his duties as pastor.
“Delores, write the announcements for the bulletin after contacting the chairpersons for the finance, worship, and building and grounds committees.”
“I’ve never done that in the past,” she protested.
“You’re smart enough to handle it. I’ll proofread the text before we send it to the printer.” Mike checked his watch. “I’m late for a meeting in town at noon. Don’t forget to include notice of the session meeting on Tuesday.”
Mike heard Delores grumbling under her breath as he passed her desk but didn’t take time to slow down and unruffle her feathers.
BRAXTON HODGES WAS STANDING AT THE OUTDOOR TABLE unwrapping his food when Mike pulled into the parking lot.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” Mike called out.
“Take your time. I don’t like to talk with my mouth full of hamburger and onions.”
Mike entered the restaurant. It was packed with customers. He waited at the counter behind a large bearded man with “Paul” embroidered on his blue work shirt.
“Three hamburgers all the way, an order of fries, and tea,” Paul said.
“Not hungry today?” asked Dusty.
Paul pulled at his beard. “I had a snack a couple of hours ago.”
Mike placed his order and waited. One of the twins was manning the grill while the other cooked fries and poured tea. After paying for his food, Mike went outside. Hodges was on the last bite of his hamburger. Several other men, including Paul, stood along the long wooden table. Eating rather than talking was the priority, and the table was quiet.
“Eat,” Hodges said. “We’ll sit in my car for a few minutes after you finish.”
Hodges tossed his empty bag into a fifty-five-gallon metal drum. Mike ate as fast as he could and still enjoy his food. Hodges gave him a status report about the high school baseball team.
“They have two strong pitchers,” the reporter said, “but no middle relief, and once they get into the play-offs and need a third starter, there isn’t much there. The shortstop, a scrawny kid named Charlie Martin, will be the leadoff batter. I wouldn’t be surprised if he bats over .400. He’s impossible to strike out. The younger Hinshaw boy will get his share of home runs. His older brother was a brute, and he’s about the same size.”
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Coach Gott. I’m going to do a big feature on him since he’s retiring after this season.”
Mike ate his last french fry and took a sip of tea.
“I’m ready,” Mike said.
Hodges pointed toward his car.
“This is kind of a reverse of Woodward and Bernstein, isn’t it?” Mike asked as they walked across the gravel parking lot. “You’re the source; I’m the one needing information.”
“If you want to play that game, my code name is ‘Hamburger Chili.’”
Mike opened the passenger door of the plain-looking Pontiac and pushed aside a stack of old newspapers so he could sit down. The backseat was cluttered with notepads, envelopes, empty coffee cups, and individual scraps of paper.
“Sorry about the mess,” Hodges said. “In my world, deadlines come before either cleanliness or godliness.”
The reporter reached into the backseat and retrieved a brown envelope.
“What do you know about the Cohulla Creek watershed?” he asked.
“Uh, it’s one of the most beautiful areas this side of the Blue Ridge and a good place to catch trout on Thursday if the State Game and Fish warden stocks it on Wednesday.”
“Who owns it?”
“Part utility company, part state, with a little in the hands of private investors.”
“Did you know that in the 1930s there was a plan to dam the creek and create a lake at Horseshoe Bottoms to generate hydroelectric power?”
“No, I wasn’t born then.”
“Me either. But all those plans were scrapped when it became cheaper and easier to make electricity by burning coal than by harnessing water.”
“Which is good for fishing but doesn’t do a lot for the economy in general.”
“You’re ahead of me. Over the past three years, there has been a huge change in the perc
entage of ownership between utility, private, and state.”
“What kind of change?”
“Utility company ownership is down to a couple hundred acres on the south side. Private owners now hold options on two thousand acres, and the state controls about six thousand acres, including Horseshoe Bottoms. There has been discussion in the legislature about selling the state’s remaining share of the watershed to open the entire area for private companies that could create a deepwater lake surrounded by residential development.”
Mike opened his eyes wider. “That would be one of the biggest things that ever hit this county.”
“Yes. And a lot of money could be made by people in the right place at the right time. The options controlling access to Horseshoe Bottoms are already in place.”
“Who holds the options?”
Hodges held up the envelope. “Companies in Nevada and New York.”
“Who are the local contacts?”
“That’s where it gets fuzzy, but I have an opinion. I believe the initiative for this whole project came from within Barlow County.” Hodges paused. “Have you seen the new house Representative Niles is building?”
“No.”
“It’s a monster. Some would say a monstrosity. I’ve heard rumors of Italian marble, gold-plated fixtures in the bathrooms, and a bunch of other stuff a man who works in the trust department of a bank couldn’t afford. He’s telling everyone he hit a home run on an investment, some new stock offering he bought for pennies and sold a year later for dollars. But I’m skeptical.”
“Butch Niles is getting a cut for getting this through the legislature?”
“If I printed that, it would fall in the category of unsubstantiated allegations and would result in a lawsuit putting our puny newspaper out of business. However, if my guess is true, there has been a high level of coordination between people wanting to make a lot of money, those holding political influence, and politicians with enough inside information to let the group get ahead of the curve.”
“What about environmental concerns? I always thought Cohulla Creek would end up as a state park, not a huge subdivision.”
“You’re behind on that one. The developers’ plan includes dedication of a tract for public use, a nice little picnic and camping area, but without boat access for the unwashed masses. Only landowners get to ski on the pristine waters.”
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