Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  The clearing faced east toward Shelton. He couldn’t see the town, but several roads and a few scattered houses were visible in the distance. From his vantage point, it was possible to make out the outline of the eastern edge of the paper company’s property. The privately held land was a hodgepodge of fences and mixed-use fields. The tree farm had order and symmetry. Some sections were filled with bushy young saplings peeking through the soil; others contained adolescent trees bunched close together as they fought for air and light; the remaining acres had already been harvested once, but the woodsmen left some of the best trees standing so they could grow even larger. It was quiet. Tree farming was a patient endeavor, measured in decades not years. It was a good illustration for the Christian life.

  “But where will I preach it?” Mike spoke into the silent air.

  No answer came. Mike continued to soak in the scene. Then a thought slipped softly into his mind.

  Don’t preach it; live it.

  Puzzled, Mike turned the words over in his mind. Before teaching others, he knew he needed to understand the truth himself. But understanding alone wasn’t sufficient if inconsistent with behavior. He sensed the words went beyond to something else. He mulled them over for several minutes. Nothing satisfactory surfaced. He whistled for Judge, who was crashing through the underbrush. The dog circled around and returned to the clearing from the rear.

  “Let’s go,” Mike said. “Supper is waiting.”

  Twenty-eight

  PEG HAD FIXED A STEW, NOT LIVER MUSH. BOTH MIKE AND Judge licked their lips when they came into the kitchen. Mike lifted the lid of the pot on the stove.

  “How did you do it so fast?”

  “I cooked it yesterday. It always tastes better the second day, so I decided to make that the first day and this the second day.”

  “I’m not sure Judge understands you.”

  “All he cares about is licking the plates.”

  Mike and Peg sat together in the kitchen with Judge on the floor between them. The words Mike heard during his bike ride stayed with him.

  “I’ll clean up,” Mike said when they finished eating.

  He was scrubbing the pot when the phone rang. He dried his hands and answered it. It was Brian Dressler.

  “I have a conflict on Monday and won’t be able to make it to the trial,” Dressler said.

  Mike kept his voice level but firm. “You’re under subpoena. It’s not an optional appearance.”

  “I have serious personal business involving one of my grandchildren. I’ll be tied up all day Monday.”

  Mike leaned against the kitchen counter. He didn’t relish the thought of seeking a criminal contempt order against the former banker.

  “Could you catch a flight and be here on Tuesday?”

  “I thought the trial was on Monday.”

  “The first day, but the case will probably last the whole week. I didn’t intend on calling you until Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday morning.”

  “Why is the case going to take so long? It’s not that complicated.”

  “Your part is foundational for what follows,” Mike answered cryptically. “I know you can’t tie everything together, but after listening to you, the rest of my evidence will make sense to the jury.”

  “I haven’t made my arrangements.”

  Mike decided to probe for another reason for Dressler’s reluctance.

  “Has someone from Forrest, Lambert, and Arnold contacted you?”

  “No.”

  “How about the bank?”

  There was a moment of silence. Mike knew he’d touched something.

  “I spoke briefly with Hatcher.”

  “What did he want?”

  “He was trying to find out why I’d been subpoenaed.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I answered his questions but nothing more.”

  Mike glanced up at the ceiling. “Mr. Dressler, this could take a while if you make me drag it out of you.”

  “Okay, I’ll get to the bottom line. They know what you’re trying to do.”

  “That doesn’t tell me much. Based on our conversation at the newspaper, I’m not sure you know what I’m doing.”

  “I know more than I told you in Shelton.”

  “How much more?”

  “I’m not saying, but if you press me in court, I’m going to invoke the Fifth Amendment. I’ve already consulted a lawyer in Mobile.”

  Mike had been confident in his theory of the case, but to have it so dramatically validated by Dressler was still a shock.

  “What is Hatcher saying?” he managed after a brief pause.

  “I don’t know. But he’s scared. I could tell it over the phone. I’ve never heard him so nervous.”

  “Did he mention anything about Linden, Bunt, or Niles?”

  “No, and I didn’t ask. This could get ugly, and everyone is looking out for himself. I wasn’t sure if he was recording the conversation, so I let him do most of the talking. With all the publicity about high-level corporate misconduct the past few years, a scandal in a place as small as Shelton could still blow up higher than the surrounding mountains.”

  Mike’s mental wheels were turning.

  “It’s not my intention to make you look like a criminal. Your credibility is important to my case. What else can you tell me about the meeting with Hatcher when Sam Miller’s name came up?”

  “Not much. He didn’t call me in until it was almost over.”

  Mike had caught him in a lie.

  “I thought you weren’t there at all.”

  “Oh yeah, I guess that’s what I told you.”

  Mike waited. Once a witness started talking, it was often easier to obtain more information without prompting. Dressler spoke slowly.

  “I’ll verify that a meeting took place but obviously can’t relate what happened before I arrived. When I came into Hatcher’s office, he told me there was going to be an investigation into an embezzlement scheme by a man named Sam Miller and instructed me to meet with the victims at the appropriate time.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just a minute.”

  Mike walked quickly into the office and found the copy of the minutes Bobby gave him in the deed room. He returned to the kitchen.

  “Do you remember when this meeting took place?”

  “Not the exact date.”

  “When did you meet with the deacons from the Craig Valley church?”

  “Not long after. Maybe two or three weeks.”

  Mike placed the sheet of paper on the counter and stared at it while he asked his next question.

  “Would it surprise you to find out that the meeting in Hatcher’s office was four days prior to the date of the first check Sam allegedly wrote on the Craig Valley church account?”

  “Uh-oh, I’d better back up and talk to my lawyer about this.”

  Mike could hear the tension in Dressler’s voice.

  “But you didn’t have anything to do with the forging of the checks,” Mike said.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then you don’t have anything to worry about. The wrongdoing occurred before you entered the room. Did Hatcher talk to you about the meeting?”

  “No.”

  “Did you attend other meetings in which Miller’s name came up?”

  “I won’t answer that. Like I said, I need to talk to my lawyer.”

  Dressler’s refusal to respond to the last question told Mike what he needed to know. At some point, Dressler had known the charges against Sam were false.

  “I should talk to your lawyer,” Mike said. “Can you give me your contact information?”

  Dressler had hired a female attorney from a firm with five names in it.

  “Let Ms. Dortch know that I’m going to call on Monday during a break in the proceedings,” Mike said.

  “Okay, I’ll try to find out if there is a direct number to reach her.”

  “Will you
have your cell phone with you, so I can notify you about the court schedule?”

  “Yes.”

  Knowing Dressler was still hiding information, Mike didn’t want to hang up the phone.

  “One other thing,” Dressler said.

  “Go ahead,” Mike said, listening closely.

  “I’ll always appreciate what you and Mr. Miller did for Marie at the hospital. I’ll go as far in my testimony as my attorney will allow.”

  Mike hung up the phone, went into the great room, and sat down in his chair.

  “Don’t go to sleep,” Peg said.

  “I’m not sleepy. Did you overhear my conversation with Dressler?”

  “Enough to know that he hadn’t told you the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  “You’re right, and the truth looks more and more like the picture I’d imagined.”

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, MIKE WAITED ANXIOUSLY FOR MELISSA Hall to provide the names of additional witnesses who would be called by the prosecution. The State wouldn’t be content to rely solely upon Detective Perkins and Jesse Lavare, the Craig Valley church deacon. As the clock ticked closer to 5:00 p.m., Mike resisted the urge to call Hall, but at 4:55 the suspense became too great. He dialed the number for the district attorney’s office. He didn’t want to run the risk of finding out about supplemental witnesses on Monday morning and suffer an unwarranted verbal beating from Judge Lancaster when he objected to their right to testify.

  “Ms. Hall has left for the day,” the receptionist replied.

  “How about Ken? Is he still in the office?”

  “Yes.”

  Mike gave his name and waited. And waited. He was about to hang up when West picked up the phone.

  “Are you going to let Mr. Forrest and Bobby Lambert serve as special prosecutors in the Miller case?” he asked.

  “Can’t see a reason not to. It will increase the educational value of the case for Ms. Hall. Puts a bit more pressure on you, doesn’t it?”

  Mike ignored the dig. “I haven’t received a supplemental list of witnesses.”

  “Ms. Hall would be the one to give that to you.”

  “She’s not in.”

  “I guess she’s confident enough about the case to go home early.”

  It was pointless talking to West.

  “Do you have her home number?”

  “I’ll send you back to the receptionist.”

  Mike endured another long wait before the woman picked up the phone and gave him the number. He dialed it and a man answered. Certain he’d dialed a wrong number, Mike immediately hung up then carefully entered the correct numbers. The same male voice answered. This time it sounded familiar.

  “Nathan?” Mike asked.

  “Hey, Mike.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  “Helping Melissa fix an Italian dinner. How did you track me down here?” “I was calling her. Is she available?”

  “She went to the store to pick up a couple of ingredients we needed and should be back shortly. Are you at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll let her know.”

  A few minutes later, Hall returned the call.

  “Sorry to bother you at home,” Mike began, “but I didn’t receive a supplemental list of witnesses.”

  “I’m set, but Mr. Forrest is making the decisions about anyone else,” she responded crisply. “You’ll have to talk to him.”

  “Okay. Have a good time with Nathan. He’s a fine young man.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt him.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply—,” Mike began then stopped. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”

  The phone clicked off, leaving Mike with a dead receiver. He would enjoy destroying the State’s case. Melissa Hall carried a chip on her shoulder that needed to be removed. He phoned Maxwell Forrest’s direct number at the office. He knew from past experience that Forrest used voice mail to screen his calls. No one answered.

  MIKE SPENT SATURDAY ORGANIZING HIS OPENING STATEMENT. He knew the broad brushstrokes of the picture he wanted to paint for the jury, but it was also important to provide enough details to show he could complete his painting. Dressler’s phone call made Mike less concerned about concealing information from the prosecution. If Hatcher already knew Mike had unraveled the bank’s deception, it would be more important to clue the jury into what lay ahead than try to conceal it from Forrest and Hall as trial strategy. Late in the afternoon, Peg knocked on the door of the office.

  “Is your brain running out of oxygen?” she asked.

  “Yes, I need to come up for air.” Mike rubbed his temples and leaned back in his chair. “I worked hard on my sermons, but this is ten times more intense. Trying to anticipate every possible twist of the evidence in a case like this is impossible.”

  Peg stepped over and kissed him on top of the head. “Won’t part of it have to wait until you see what happens in court next week?”

  “Yes, but I’m developing contingency plans.”

  “Our supper isn’t subject to a contingency. Muriel and Sam are bringing it. What time should they be here?”

  Mike looked at his watch. “I need at least another hour. Did you feed Judge?”

  “A long time ago. His powers of concentration are focused on his food bowl.”

  AN HOUR LATER, MURIEL MILLER STEPPED ACROSS THE THRESHOLD and held up a large plastic bag filled with fish.

  “Do you like panfried trout?” she asked. “One of Sam’s customers caught a mess of fish and gave us way more than we can eat.”

  “I’ll get the cornmeal,” Peg replied.

  While Muriel and Peg fixed the fish, Mike took Sam into the office.

  “Would you like to hear the current version of my opening statement?” Mike asked.

  “Yep, although don’t expect me to criticize it.”

  “You mean critique?”

  “That, too.”

  “This is an opening statement, not a closing argument,” Mike said while he straightened his papers. “I have to save the yelling and armwaving for the end of the case. The judge will call me down if I get too excited.”

  Sam closed his eyes while Mike talked. The lack of eye contact was disconcerting, but Mike assumed it helped the older man concentrate. Mike concluded with one of the proverbs most familiar to trial lawyers.

  “The prosecution has the opportunity to call its witnesses first, but keep an open mind until all the evidence is presented. Proverbs 18:17 states, ‘The first to present his case seems right, till another comes forward and questions him.’ The more you hear from this witness stand, the more confident I am that, at the conclusion of the case, you will find Mr. Miller not guilty of the charge against him.”

  Mike waited for Sam to respond. The old man’s eyes remained closed.

  “Are you awake?” Mike asked after a few more silent seconds passed.

  “Yep,” Sam replied as his eyes blinked open. “I was trying to go ahead of you but had trouble finding the way.”

  “Go ahead? What do you mean?”

  “Feel the spiritual air that will be in the courtroom on Monday. It’s one thing to sit here in your office; it’s something else when our enemies are surrounding us. What you said sounded fine for now, but I wanted to see what your words would face on Monday. Your job is to talk. Mine is to pray that your speech won’t fall on ears that can’t hear. I like to be ready in advance. The Master often knew what lay ahead along the road.”

  “Okay, but did the opening statement make sense?”

  “Yep.”

  Mike waited. “Anything else?”

  “Nope.”

  “I mean, how did it make you feel?”

  Sam shook his head with sorrowful eyes. “Sad, very sad. But not because it isn’t good. You’re a fighter, and when you see something wrong, you go after it with a sword. Listening to your speech, I felt anger rising up inside me, but it wasn’t wearing the Master’s face.”

  “The injustice of it
all motivates me. I don’t feel bad about getting upset,” Mike said.

  “The Master got mad, too. But if I get angry, it will open a door for worry about Muriel that will drag me down into a pit. Papa knows how to deal with the men who have done this to me. The older I get, the more wickedness makes me cry.”

  “Supper’s ready!” Muriel called out.

  Sam managed a slight smile. “Doesn’t she have the sweetest voice on earth?”

  They ate in the dining room. The sight of the food on the table reminded Mike of meals his family enjoyed at his great-aunt’s house when he was a child.

  “Say a quick blessing, Preacher,” Sam said to Mike when they were seated. “The trout is sizzling and the creamed corn hot.”

  The fish was delicious, and Mike had never eaten better creamed corn and cornbread muffins. But the food was flavored with the upcoming trial—the slightly bitter apprehension of an impending fear. There wasn’t much table talk. When they finished, Mike helped Muriel clear the table while Sam and Peg went into the great room.

  “What is Sam telling you about the case?” Mike asked when they were alone.

  “Always the same thing. He’s trusting in you and the Lord.”

  “But what does he think is going to happen?”

  Muriel dipped the skillet used to cook the fish into soapy water and began washing it. “Having lived with him all these years, I’ve come to expect the unexpected. Predicting the future isn’t my job. That’s his department. Right now, I’m trying to keep my mind on my three main prayer burdens: healing for our grandniece with leukemia, health for Peg’s baby, and protection for Sam.”

  Mike didn’t ask any other questions. Trying to force Muriel Miller to analyze everything Sam dreamed, spoke, or believed wasn’t fair. Her simplicity was both a protection and a strength. Instead, she focused on prayer—the most important activity of any Christian.

  Twenty-nine

  MONDAY MORNING MIKE AWOKE EARLY, GRABBED HIS BIKE GEAR, and slipped quietly downstairs. He’d finalized his trial preparation before going to bed Sunday night, and a brisk ride with Judge would do more to clear his mind than staring again at his notes. It was a slightly muggy morning with low mist rising from the ground. He completed two quick circuits on the hill that left Judge panting. Returning to the house, Mike greeted Peg, who was in the kitchen with fresh coffee in the pot.