“What was he trying to do? Get you to quit?”
“No, I don’t think so. At first, I thought he was playing a mind game with me—a one-man good cop/bad cop routine, but now, I believe he was sincere.”
“In his desire to spill your blood on the courtroom floor,” Peg responded sharply.
“That part was just lawyer talk. It was the sentiment behind the words that came through in the midst of the blustering.”
Peg shook her head. “Maybe I’d agree if I’d been there, but to me, he was just trying every angle to exert his will.”
After supper, Mike sat in his recliner and closed his eyes. Within seconds he was in a large room without windows. The room was dark at first, but as his eyes became accustomed to the light, he could make out human shapes along the walls. Mike stood still and waited for one of the people to move or speak. Nothing happened. He waited a few more seconds then cautiously stepped toward the nearest figure. The closer he came, the more he expected a voice to challenge him, or perhaps an even more violent reaction. Two feet from the form, he slowly reached out his hand and touched it.
It was made of wax.
As Mike’s eyes continued to adjust to the hazy, unnatural light, he could tell that life-size wax figures lined the walls of the room. Mike recognized the familiar forms of Maxwell Forrest, Milton Chesterfield, Braxton Hodges, along with people he’d known in the past but not seen in years. Other figures were total strangers. Some of the pedestals were empty, and he wondered whether someone had stolen the statues. Sensing a presence behind him, he quickly turned around.
And woke up.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, MIKE ARRIVED AT THE COURTHOUSE THIRTY minutes early. The fact that Judge Coberg had denied the motion about the typewriters gave him confidence that Sam’s constitutional right to face his accusers would trump any privacy rights or arguments of inconvenience presented by Maxwell Forrest on behalf of the bank.
Mike entered an empty courtroom. Bowing his head, he dispatched a silent prayer thanking God for how well the case was going. When he opened his eyes, two other lawyers were entering the courtroom. In addition to motions and the call of the criminal calendar for the following week, the judge would receive guilty pleas for cases in which plea agreements had been reached. By the time Mike’s watch showed nine-thirty, approximately twenty-five people and seven other lawyers, including Greg Freeman, were in the room. Maxwell Forrest wasn’t one of them.
Melissa Hall was handling duties for the DA’s office. She placed a large stack of files on the table without looking in Mike’s direction. Several lawyers came up to her for quick discussions.
“All rise!” the deputy sheriff on duty announced.
Mike stood up as the door behind the bench opened. Judge Lancaster entered the courtroom.
“Be seated!” the deputy called out when the judge had taken his place on the bench.
Mike’s heart was pounding and his mouth felt dry. William Lancaster was a rogue judge—unpredictable and, at times, capricious. Mike had experienced uneven success before him. The fiasco with Danny Brewster obliterated any positive memories.
“Court will come to order,” the judge said in his slightly pinched voice. “Judge Coberg was called out of town on a family emergency. I will be receiving pleas as well as presiding over next week’s criminal trial calendar.”
“Proceed,” the judge said to Ms. Hall.
The young DA began calling cases. Individuals stepped forward, some with attorneys, others unrepresented. As the judge began receiving guilty pleas, Mike listened closely, not because he had any interest in the cases, but to determine if the judge was going along with the deals or rejecting them. Out of the first three cases, only one plea agreement survived intact.
Several attorneys sitting near Mike began to whisper. Mike couldn’t hear their conversations but knew they were discussing whether to seek a continuance in an effort to avoid facing Judge Lancaster. The same thought crossed Mike’s mind.
The requests for continuance began to flow, and Lancaster didn’t seem to mind. The judge wasn’t lazy, but his mood of the moment made him receptive to postponement of justice to another day. A few guilty pleas slipped through intact. When only a few people were left in the courtroom, the back door opened, and Maxwell Forrest entered. Bobby Lambert was with him. Forrest was a formidable foe, but Mike would rather face him than contend with his friend. The judge finished the first part of the calendar.
“Ms. Hall, how many cases are you placing on next week’s trial calendar?”
“Seven,” she responded. “First out will be State v. Miller.”
“I’m representing Mr. Miller,” Mike said as he stood to his feet.
The judge looked at him as if noticing him for the first time. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve maintained my license, Your Honor,” Mike replied, “and I’m defending Mr. Miller.”
“What’s the charge?” the judge asked Hall.
“Felony embezzlement from a nonprofit organization. The indictment charges the defendant with embezzling in excess of $100,000 from a church.”
The judge turned to Mike. “It wasn’t your church, was it?”
“No, sir.”
The judge grunted. “How long do you anticipate it will take to try the case?”
“One day for the State’s case,” Hall responded.
“Two to three days for the defense,” Mike said.
The judge leaned forward. “That’s virtually the whole week! Isn’t there a way to get this pared down so the court can handle more than one case?”
Maxwell Forrest spoke. “Your Honor, if I could interject?”
“Go ahead.”
“The primary reason for the excessive length of trial is a plethora of subpoenas issued by Mr. Andrews to people across the entire country and his demand for voluminous records from the Bank of Barlow County. Mr. Lambert and I are here to argue several motions to quash the subpoenas.”
The judge turned to Mike. “Explain what you’re doing.”
“We were going to argue the motions after the calendar call,” Mike began.
“But I want to hear the matter now,” the judge snapped, “since it may affect what I tell the rest of the lawyers on standby.”
Mike cleared his throat. “Yes, sir.”
Mike repeated his argument of the previous day. Every time he tried to speak in generalities, the judge interrupted with a specific question. As Mike talked about Troy Linden and Dick Bunt, he realized that Maxwell Forrest was smart enough to deduce Mike’s trial strategy.
“Is Representative Niles going to claim governmental privilege?” the judge asked Forrest when the legislator’s name came up.
“No, sir. The legislature is not in session next week. However, I think my client and the Court have a right to know why he’s being summoned. Representative Niles was not involved in the investigation into the embezzlement and had no contact with the defendant.”
The judge looked at Mike.
“That’s not true, Your Honor. Mr. Niles and Mr. Miller had a conversation within the past two weeks.”
“About the charges?”
“Not specifically. But there is a collateral connection that will be developed through the entire testimony I will present.”
“What type of collateral connection?”
Mike felt his face flush. “With all due respect, to answer that question, I would have to reveal my trial strategy.”
“Then you’d better decide what will convince me not to grant Mr. Forrest’s motions.”
Mike quickly gathered his thoughts. “The defendant possesses knowledge that may jeopardize business interests connected to Mr. Niles.”
The judge narrowed his eyes. “Are you contending these witnesses engaged in a conspiracy against your client?”
“That is an issue the jury should have a right to decide.”
The judge turned to Hall. Mike saw Bobby lean over to Forrest and begin whispering.
; “Does the State have a position on these subpoenas?” the judge asked the assistant DA.
“Abuse of the subpoena power of the court is not constitutionally protected activity. Therefore, we concur with Mr. Forrest’s arguments and hope the Court will not empower Mr. Andrews to engage in a spurious witch hunt.”
“That’s an interesting characterization,” the judge responded dryly. “Does the term witch hunt apply to men as well as women?”
Everyone in the courtroom stared at Hall to see how she would respond to the overtly sexist remark. Mike saw a red tinge travel from her neck to her cheeks.
“Yes, sir,” she managed.
“Court will be in a five-minute recess until I announce my decision,” the judge said.
Judge Lancaster left the bench. Maxwell Forrest and Bobby came forward to talk to Melissa Hall. Greg Freeman approached Mike.
“Any predictions?” Mike asked.
“This is my first look at Judge Lancaster,” the younger lawyer said, “and it’s not pretty. You saw what he did to my plea bargain.”
The judge had rejected the plea, forcing Freeman’s client to choose between letting the judge sentence him without any guaranteed result or going to trial.
“If my case takes all week, you can bring the plea deal before Judge Coberg when he returns to the bench.”
“That’s what I’m counting on. Are you sure your case will take four days?” “Yes. It always takes longer than you think.” Mike motioned toward Hall, Forrest, and Bobby, who continued to talk in earnest. “They’re trying to sell something to Ms. Hall right now, but I’m not sure what it is.”
Mike tried to stay calm, but inside he was wrapped tight in the turmoil of suspense. The next words from the judge’s mouth would dictate the scope of events for the next week and a half. A favorable ruling would allow Mike to proceed as planned; an adverse decision would force him to greatly restrict the scope of his defense. The judge returned. Instead of speaking, he wrote something on a sheet of paper in front of him.
“Motion denied,” he said without glancing up. “Mr. Forrest, tell the subpoenaed witnesses you represent to be here Monday morning along with the tangible items requested by the defendant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Mike added.
The judge ignored him and turned to Hall. “What is the call list for the remaining cases on the trial calendar? I want everyone involved in the number two and three cases here on Monday in case there is an unforeseen delay in the Miller case.”
“One other matter on the Miller case,” Hall replied. “Mr. Forrest has been talking to me, and, uh . . .”
Maxwell Forrest stepped forward and continued, “Mr. Lambert and I will be filing a request to serve as special prosecutors in this case.”
“That’s up to the district attorney,” the judge grunted. “But I’m warning all of you. Nobody is going to undermine the efficient administration of justice in my courtroom.” The judge looked at Mike. “That goes double for you, Mr. Andrews.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll notify you as soon as Mr. West makes his decision,” Hall said to the judge.
The judge waved his hand. “Go on. Give me the rest of your calendar.”
Mike didn’t hear Hall’s response. His heart rate slowed as he closed his briefcase. Forrest’s desire to be directly involved made sense. Never common, use of a special prosecutor occurred when the wealthy victim of a crime wanted to make sure the responsible person was convicted and hired the best trial lawyer in town to assist the State’s prosecutor. Jack Hatcher and those connected to him were scared—scared enough to spend a lot of money to guarantee a guilty verdict.
WHEN MIKE TURNED ON HIS PHONE AFTER LEAVING THE COURTROOM, he had a voice mail from Darius York. Mike punched in the expert’s number.
“I spent the morning running comparisons on the typewriters and the checks,” York said. “I’m going to blow up the individual letters on the checks and place them beside the ones from the sample sheet of the typewriter used. To emphasize the uniqueness of each unit, I’ll also include the letters and numbers from the other two machines. Several letters stand out strong.”
“Sounds good.”
“It is. The machine used is by far the most distinctive of the units. Your client is lucky.”
“I’m not sure he believes in luck.”
“Whatever he believes is different from anything I’ve ever encountered.”
“You don’t have to tell that to me.”
“He has a strong defense. I’ve rarely seen this type of exculpatory evidence. I know anything can happen in court, but Mr. Miller should walk away from this with a lawsuit against someone for causing him to suffer through this ordeal.”
“When can I preview your presentation?”
“I’ll have it ready by the end of the day on Sunday. I’ll send it to you via email as a PDF attachment so you can give feedback before I drive down on Monday.”
“Great. You won’t testify the first day of trial. It will take all morning to pick the jury, and the State’s case will fill the rest of the day. I suspect most of the evidence on behalf of the bank will take place during rebuttal. The bank president and his business partners want to use a special prosecutor to make sure their interests are protected.”
“I can’t blame them,” York responded. “The district attorney looked younger than my granddaughter.”
“This is her first felony trial. She may deliver the opening statement and handle the direct examination of the detective who interviewed Sam, but you’ll be cross-examined by an experienced trial lawyer.”
“It’s been done before. I can hold my own. Any word on their expert?”
“No, but the State has to serve me with an amended list of witnesses if they intend to use one.”
AS HE DROVE UP THE HILL TO HIS NEIGHBORHOOD, MIKE thought about the Little Creek Church. He’d been so occupied with the upcoming trial that he’d not dwelt on the shadow lands beyond the jury’s verdict. Several possibilities passed through his mind in quick succession, but he squelched them. For the moment, State v. Miller was his past, present, and future.
Peg was in the art room working on a sketch that would be the basis for another watercolor.
“Take a look,” she said.
Mike stood beside her. It was a bird’s-eye view of a 1950s-era beach house with a family on the sand between the house and the ocean. Several children splashed in the surf. Mike quickly counted.
“Five kids. Whose house is it?”
“A happy family’s.”
Mike pointed at the scene. “The father had better get off the beach towel and back to the office.”
“No. There won’t be a cloud in the sky.”
“I wish I could say that.”
“What happened?”
Mike told her about the specter of Judge Lancaster and Maxwell Forrest’s intervention.
“Was Sam there?” she asked.
“No, defendants aren’t required to be there. I hope he was cutting grass somewhere.”
“But wouldn’t it be a good idea for him to listen, so he can tell you what God is saying about the situation and the people?”
“That’s something I haven’t considered. Except for yesterday, I’ve kept Sam isolated so he wouldn’t say the wrong thing in the wrong place at the wrong time. One crazy slipup from him, and I can forget all my careful planning.”
“I still think it would be a good idea.”
“There won’t be another opportunity. Next time up is jury selection on Monday morning.” Mike paused. “I’ve never selected a jury for a client who believed he could uncover the secrets of another person’s heart. It should be an interesting process.”
MIKE SPENT THE AFTERNOON WORKING IN THE DOWNSTAIRS OFFICE. After several hours, mental fatigue began to crack his capacity to analyze and organize. He pushed away from the desk and rubbed his eyes. He stepped out of the room and found Peg lying on the couch in the g
reat room reading a novel.
“My brain is fading, but my body needs a workout,” he said. “Would you feel abandoned if I took Judge out for a romp?”
The dog, lying on the floor beside Peg, raised his head at the sound of his name.
“Go,” Peg said. “Both of you need the exercise.”
“Let’s go,” Mike said to him.
“How long will you be gone?” Peg asked.
Mike looked at the clock. “A couple of hours at the most.”
Peg stretched. “Okay. I’m cooking something special for supper.”
“Liver mush?”
“If that’s what you want, darling.”
“Surprise me.”
Mike put his bike on top of his car, and Judge jumped into the backseat. He drove along a rarely used country road that ran along the valley, climbed a few ridges owned by a pulpwood company, and then became a dirt road that disappeared into the woods. The only time Mike avoided the area was during deer season. He didn’t want a trigger-happy hunter mistaking the handlebars on his bike for a rack of antlers on a buck.
Parking the car at an abandoned farmhouse, Mike unloaded the bike and set a leisurely pace that wouldn’t tire Judge. The dog loped along beside him with his ears gently flopping up and down and his mouth slightly open. There were a few wispy clouds in the sky, and the mountain air refreshed Mike’s cheeks as it crossed his face. Within a few minutes, he’d left the stress of the day behind and settled into enjoying the world in which God had placed him.
The track turned west and he climbed the first ridge. Stopping at the top, he took a small drink of water and poured a larger serving into a plastic bowl for Judge. They’d only seen two cars and three pickups since starting the ride. Unlike drivers in town, those in the country didn’t seem to resent Mike’s presence and gave him a wide berth when they passed him.
He coasted down the dip between the ridges before climbing a longer, steeper ridge. Leaving the bike in a lower gear, he worked hard enough that his thighs began to burn. The harder the climb, the farther Judge’s tongue began to hang out of his mouth. They reached the top and turned off the road. A hundred yards from the road was a small burned-out area caused by a fire sparked by a lightning strike. With the arrival of spring, new growth had sprouted forth since the last time Mike had been to the spot. He sat on a felled tree and shared another drink with Judge.
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