Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  Mike didn’t respond.

  “What if we put our plea offer back on the table?” West asked.

  “Why did you withdraw it prematurely?” Mike shot back.

  West rubbed his hands together. “As you can see from the other lawyer in the conference room, there is interest in Mr. Miller’s case beyond the ordinary citizens of Barlow County.”

  “Then that should tell you something about my trial strategy. Perhaps officials at the bank know something about this case and the defendant that isn’t in the skinny file in your office.”

  “If so, they haven’t brought our office into the loop.” West picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “I have a list of the people you’ve subpoenaed. Most of the names are familiar to me, but who are Richard Bunt and Troy Linden?”

  “Real estate developers—and that’s all I’ll tell you.”

  “Out of state?”

  “That’s obvious from the addresses on the subpoenas.”

  “Did you obtain service?”

  “Yes.”

  West dropped the paper on his desk.

  “And Ms. Hall tells me you believe the checks were typed at the bank.”

  “I’m exploring all options.”

  West sat up so quickly his chair groaned loudly in protest.

  “Mike! Don’t be so obtuse! If there is a fatal flaw in our case, I don’t want to waste a week finding out!”

  Mike kept calm. “Given the political pressure already brought to bear, it’s hard for me to believe that opening my file to you is going to make these charges go away.”

  “Suit yourself. Ms. Hall needs trial experience, and as a preacher and lawyer you could give her a baptism of fire, but I’ve never been interested in prosecuting an innocent man.”

  Mike’s eyes flashed. “Tell that to Danny Brewster’s mother!”

  West stared hard at Mike for a few seconds then turned to Hall.

  “State v. Miller will definitely be the first case out of the gate on Monday morning.”

  Twenty-seven

  WHEN MIKE RETURNED TO THE CONFERENCE ROOM, DARIUS York was alone. The expert had taken out a calculator.

  “The other lawyer left right after you did.”

  Mike checked his watch. “Don’t expect the typewriters a minute early. Let’s go back to the library.”

  When they returned to the library, Mike checked to make sure they were alone. He sat at the table.

  “What did you find?” he asked.

  “The checks were signed with a stamp. Very carefully done to make it hard to spot at first glance, but once I put them under the scope, the ink pattern was obvious. If I could take a scraping of the ink, I could identify the type of pad used.”

  “And the stamp could have been manufactured from Miller’s signature on another check?”

  “Or more likely his signature card on file with the bank. If that matches the stamp, there will be no question in my mind what happened.”

  “Would there be collusion by the bank with the company making the stamp?”

  “Not necessarily. Usually a signature on a blank sheet of paper is used, but the bank could have sent the signature card and told the company it was acting with the customer’s consent.”

  Mike nodded. “I’ll send Sam to the bank to get his signature card. Will you need to examine it under the microscope to see if it’s a match?”

  “That will help, although the loop on the S and the way he leans back the e in Miller are so distinctive, it should show up without magnification. When can you get the card?”

  “I’ll try to reach him now, and send him to the bank.”

  York touched his catalog case. “I scanned the checks, so they can be blown up and projected as part of a PowerPoint presentation to the jury. I’ve already worked up fourteen points of similarity on the checks. That puts use of the same stamp on both checks at over ninety-eight percent, but it would be helpful to create a few slides incorporating the signature card as well.”

  Mike flipped open his phone and dialed Sam’s number. Muriel answered.

  “This is Mike. Where is he?”

  “In the storage shed working on one of his mowers.”

  “Please get him.”

  Mike waited, visualizing York’s display. If the signature card matched the stamp, it would make it harder for Hall to argue that Sam had ordered a signature stamp. Linking the bank’s typewriters to the checks would tighten the noose. “Hello,” Sam said.

  Mike told him what to do.

  “What if they won’t give me a copy of my signature card?”

  “Get the name of the person who refuses and let me know.”

  “Okay, I’ll give it a try,” Sam said with reluctance in his voice.

  “Are you nervous about going to the bank?” Mike asked.

  “Yep, I guess so. It’s been hard not worrying even though I’ve tried to keep my mind on Papa and kept busy tinkering with my stuff.”

  “I can meet you at the bank if that helps.”

  “Nope, I’ll head right over there.”

  “Then come to the courthouse. We’ll be in the library. It’s on the first floor.” While they waited, Mike and York worked through items to include in the presentation. The former FBI agent was what Mike called an automatic witness— swear him in and turn him on.

  A few minutes before the typewriters were to be delivered, Sam came into the library. The old man looked out of place surrounded by legal books.

  “Any problems at the bank?” Mike asked quickly.

  “Nope.” Sam handed a card to Mike. “I signed a new one, so they gave me the old one.”

  Mike and York ignored Sam as they leaned over the card.

  “That’s it!” Mike exclaimed. “It’s identical to the stamp!”

  York didn’t immediately respond but took a magnifying glass from his case. Mike watched as York turned the card in several directions before looking up.

  “You’re right. I’ll put it under the scope, but I think it’s a match.”

  Mike glanced up at Sam. “Do you realize what this means?”

  Sam shook his head.

  Mike rapidly summarized the information York had developed, then held up the card in triumph.

  “We’re one step away from breaking the back of the prosecution’s case. Once this comes into evidence, it opens the door for the other allegations connected with the bank to come in as relevant motivation to destroy you and your credibility.”

  York looked up at Sam, who was still standing near the door.

  “You’re an innocent man, Mr. Miller.”

  Sam didn’t look pleased. “But you’re not an innocent man, are you?”

  “What do you mean?” York replied.

  Sam touched his belly. “I saw bags of gold behind your eyes with writing on them in another language. The gold didn’t belong to you, but you took it anyway.”

  Mike held out his hand. “Sam, don’t be ridiculous. Mr. York is a former FBI agent. I’ve paid him to help us. He’s doing an honest job.”

  “I’m not talking about this,” Sam said, pointing to the information on the table.

  Mike looked at York, who was staring at Sam as if the old man had grown two heads.

  “Please, don’t take offense,” Mike said to York. “It’s just part of what I’ve gone through representing him. Sam has dreams and sees things that aren’t there.”

  “You didn’t talk like that when I told you about Jack Hatcher and Butch Niles,” Sam responded.

  Mike stood up. “Sam, let’s go into the hallway.”

  Mike grabbed Sam’s arm and steered him out of the room.

  “Why are you trying to sabotage our relationship with a man who is here to help you?” Mike asked furiously.

  Sam tilted his head to the side. “If you’d seen those bags of gold, you wouldn’t be getting mad at me. That man had better repent and make it right.”

  “That’s not our job,” Mike shot back.

  “Why not?” Sam r
aised his voice. “Is Mr. York more important as a witness in my case or as a soul who will live forever in heaven or hell? What if he dies without meeting the Master in this life? What answer will he give when Papa looks in his face? What answer will you give for not caring enough to help him?”

  Mike’s head was spinning. “He doesn’t want our help.”

  “How do you know? You hustled me out of there before we could find out.”

  Mike spoke in a softer tone. “I know you mean well, but you brought me into this case to defend you against a criminal charge of embezzlement. That includes finding and hiring an expert witness to testify to the truth. I’ve found one who is very competent and believable. Now, you’re trying to take over defense of your case and destroy my hard work. If you do, there’s no need for me to hang around.”

  “Why don’t we let Mr. York decide? If he doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll leave him alone. I can reveal the deeds of darkness, but conviction of sin isn’t part of the job description Papa gave me. That’s up to the Helper.”

  Mike didn’t know what to do. In a few minutes, York would need to examine the typewriters.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let me go in alone. Wait here.”

  Sam folded his arms across his chest. “That’s a good idea. You need to learn.” Mike felt his face flush but suppressed his anger. He reentered the library. York was sitting in his chair staring across the room.

  “Does your client claim to be a psychic?” York asked when Mike shut the door behind him.

  “No, I’m not sure what label he places on himself, but I’ve learned that I can’t control what he says. This latest outburst is causing me to rethink my whole trial strategy. I’d planned on calling him as a witness, but if he suddenly starts accusing someone on the jury—”

  “Can I speak to you confidentially?” York interrupted.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “At first, I didn’t know what he was talking about, but there was an incident in my past that fits what he saw. It happened so long ago that I’d pushed it out of my mind, but it’s not the sort of thing I could ever totally forget. Of course, the military statute of limitations has run out and it seems pointless—”

  The door opened and Melissa Hall stuck her head inside. Mike could see Sam standing behind her.

  “The typewriters are here,” she said. “We’re closing the office in thirty minutes.”

  “We’ll be right there,” Mike replied.

  When Hall left, Mike shut the door in Sam’s face and turned to York.

  “Are you still willing to help?”

  “Yes.”

  Mike breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks for being a professional and overlooking my client’s behavior.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get to the machines.”

  They left the library. Sam was waiting for them.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” Mike whispered to Sam as they walked down the hallway. “I’m smoothing things over with York.”

  There were three typewriters on the conference room table. Maxwell Forrest was present and accompanied by a man Mike didn’t recognize but assumed worked for the bank. Melissa Hall stood off to the side. Mike watched Forrest closely eye Sam as the old man entered the room.

  “Sit here,” Mike motioned to Sam.

  York opened his catalog case, took out a sheet of paper, and rolled it into the carriage of one of the machines. The conference room only contained a single outlet, and the cord attached to the machine wouldn’t reach from the table to the outlet in the corner.

  “Do you have an extension cord?” he asked Hall.

  “No,” she replied without hesitation.

  York picked up the machine and placed it on the floor near the outlet. Plugging it in, he turned it on and methodically hit all the keys, both lowercase and uppercase, along with all the symbols. After repeating the process, he typed the exact information contained on each of the checks and repeated it as well. Finally, he typed the serial number for each machine on the bottom of the paper. While he worked, everyone in the room watched as intently as if the former FBI agent were performing brain surgery. Forrest made notes on a legal pad. Mike realized the bank was possibly retaining its own expert. The idea sent Mike quickly down the path of deciding how to respond to a battle of expert witnesses if the bank’s expert was made available to the prosecution. York continued working until he finished and looked at his watch.

  “That should do it with five minutes to spare,” he said.

  Mike turned to the man accompanying Forrest. “Your name, please?”

  “Rick Post,” Forrest replied.

  “And his position?”

  “At the moment, custodian of these typewriters.”

  Mike left the sarcastic remark alone. Post put the typewriters in boxes, placed them on a set of hand trucks, and rolled them out of the office. Forrest motioned for Mike to come into the hall.

  “Do you have a minute?” Forrest asked.

  “Yes.” Mike turned to York and Sam. “Wait for me in the library. The courthouse doesn’t close until five-thirty, so we have a little bit of time.”

  Mike and Forrest stepped into the hallway.

  “Let’s go into the courtroom,” Forrest suggested.

  The main courtroom was empty yet expectant, an arena waiting for arrival of the gladiators and the roar of the crowd. Forrest spoke.

  “Mike, I’ve always held you in high regard as a person and a lawyer, and your move into the ministry was a great act of self-sacrifice that served as an inspiration to me. However, I know you’re bound and determined to embarrass the bank and try to drag as many reputable businesspeople through the mud as you can. Whatever I have to do to defend my clients isn’t meant to attack you personally. It’s strictly business. I’m sorry you let yourself be lured back into the fight, but now you’re here, and we’re all going to get a little bloody before this is over.”

  “I’ll stay within the rules.”

  “As will I, but mercy is limited to the walls of your church. When you come into this courtroom on Monday, mercy won’t be a word in the dictionary.”

  Mike looked at the wooden floor for a few seconds before looking up and responding.

  “And I sincerely hope you’re not involved in what may have happened in this case.”

  Forrest looked Mike in the eye. “Have you ever known me to cross any ethical or moral line?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then we go into this with an understanding of the past, which I hope won’t be violated in the future.”

  Forrest extended his hand, and Mike shook it. The firm grip that had greeted Mike’s arrival in Shelton when he graduated from law school was noticeably weaker. They returned to the hallway and went in opposite directions.

  Mike found Sam and York sitting across from each other.

  “It won’t be easy,” York was saying.

  “What now?” Mike asked.

  “Nothing,” York replied with a wave of his hand. “Let me set up and quickly check the typed samples. I’ll do a more extensive review at home, but I can give you a preliminary opinion before I leave.”

  He placed enlarged copies of the two checks on the table and set up his microscope.

  “Computers can do the same kind of analysis that I’m performing,” York said as he prepared his equipment.

  “But they can’t testify under oath and give an opinion,” Mike responded.

  “True, but I may run them through a program on my computer to bolster the credibility of my opinion.”

  York placed one of the sheets of paper under the microscope and began moving it from letter to letter. In a few minutes, he removed it.

  “It’s not this one,” he said. “The r and capital M are totally different.”

  He picked up another sheet and examined it, taking much longer. Mike looked at his watch. The courthouse would close in a few minutes. He really wanted an opinion before York left town.

  “I think this is it,” York said
without raising his eye from the viewer. “I’ve found identifiable marks on five of the letters and two of the numbers with several more letters to analyze.”

  “Where would that put the percentages?”

  York sat up straight. “Not sure, but by the time I finish, I should be able to convince a reasonable person that the checks were typed at the bank.”

  Mike broke out a smile. “It only takes one reasonable juror to stop a conviction, and a few strong ones for acquittal can usually carry the day. The signature stamp could have been explained away, but access to this typewriter is completely outside Sam’s control. This is huge.”

  York began packing up his gear. “I’ll do a thorough evaluation of the other typewriter as well and give you a call tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  When he was finished, York stood and looked at Sam.

  “Thank you, Mr. Miller.”

  “You’re welcome, but mercy comes from Papa’s heart.”

  After York left, Mike turned to Sam. “Mercy? What’s that all about? I thought you were going to leave him alone.”

  Sam held up his hands in surrender. “He brought it up, and I answered him.”

  “What did you say?”

  Sam rubbed his stomach. “I didn’t think you liked the water in my well, and now you’re asking for a drink the Master provided another man. What am I supposed to do with you?”

  Mike shook his head. “Okay, keep it to yourself. But it’s good to know there is still mercy at the courthouse.”

  MIKE DIDN’T REALIZE HOW TIRED HE WAS UNTIL HE’D LOOSENED his tie and deposited his briefcase in the downstairs office. Peg was in the kitchen sitting on a stool and preparing a large salad for supper.

  “We’re eating healthy for supper,” she said. “I want our baby to like everything I’m throwing into this salad.”

  “Fine with me; I’ll sleep soundly tonight whether my stomach is empty or full.”

  While they ate, Mike told her some of the events of the day. He left out Sam’s warning to Darius York. He suspected Peg would be upset with him for the way he handled the situation. When he described his conversation with Forrest in the courtroom, she spoke.