Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  “What?” Freeman replied so loudly that Melissa Hall turned around and stared at them.

  “Yes, and I want you to represent us.”

  “Is there a potential conflict of interest between Miller and you?”

  “No.”

  Freeman jerked his head toward the man sitting morosely at the defense table.

  “I have to fly this plane into the side of a mountain first. My client claims his cousin broke into the store, but the police officer and an unbiased witness disagree.”

  “How long will the case last?”

  “The prosecution should finish before lunch. I don’t have any witnesses except my client. The cousin didn’t want to come forward and confess. He’s a repeat offender who would face a life sentence for a three-strike felony. The jury should have the case by late this afternoon. A verdict?” Freeman shrugged his shoulders.

  “Okay.”

  “Has Miller been questioned?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I haven’t seen the statement, but nothing that isn’t common knowledge. I met him at the jail an hour ago and told him to keep quiet.”

  “Did they try to talk to you?”

  “Perkins and an arson investigator named Shactner came to my house. Ken West was at the jail.”

  Freeman raised his eyebrows. “West came to the jail?”

  “Professional courtesy. And they wanted my fingerprints to compare with those on a gas can found at the scene.”

  “Did you give them a card?”

  “Yes, otherwise, I think I’d be calling your office from the phone outside the cell block.”

  “Call me late this afternoon. Unless the jury gets confused by the evidence, I should be out of here by five o’clock.”

  Mike left the courthouse. He wanted to be doing something, not simply waiting for the sheriff ’s department to act. However, he wasn’t sure what to do. He drove home. Peg was in the great room lying on the couch.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She nodded in a way that didn’t convince him. “I was nauseous right after you left. I guess it’s better to face stress on an empty stomach. How did it go?”

  “Nothing new from Bobby. He either doesn’t know anything or is a good liar. After we met, I talked briefly with Greg Freeman and asked him to represent Sam, too.”

  Peg closed her eyes. Mike sat at her feet but stayed at the edge of the cushion.

  “It’s the inactivity I can’t stand,” he said. “There has to be something I can do to get to the bottom of this!”

  “Maybe you’re going to have to trust someone else to take care of it,” Peg answered wearily. “Just like Sam did with you.”

  “That would be very hard for me to do.”

  They spent the rest of the morning at the house. Every time the phone rang, Mike jumped, but it was always a member of the church calling about the fire. No one mentioned the police investigation. Apparently, word of the day’s earlier events hadn’t leaked out into the community. Bobby had honored his word, and the sheriff ’s department hadn’t issued a statement. Toward noon, the phone rang again. Mike answered it.

  “Sorry to hear about the fire at your church,” Braxton Hodges said. “Our photographer just showed me the pictures. Do you have a comment or two for the article?”

  Mike hesitated. “Are you recording this conversation?”

  “Yes, so I can quote you accurately.”

  “Turn off the machine. I want to come in and meet with you.”

  “Uh, okay, but this isn’t a Brooks hamburger day. I have a two o’clock deadline to get this story into tomorrow’s edition. Otherwise, it won’t make it until Saturday.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Peg lifted her head. “What are you going to tell him?” she asked. “I’m not sure it’s wise to talk to a reporter.”

  “This is different. Trust me.”

  MIKE AND HODGES WENT INTO THE SPARTAN CONFERENCE ROOM where Mike met with Brian Dressler. Copies of the minutes of the Hatcher meeting and the e-mail from Milton Chesterfield were folded in Mike’s pocket.

  “This fire hit you hard, didn’t it?” Hodges said as soon as they were alone.

  “Worse than you know.”

  Hodges placed a blank pad on the table. “I’m listening.”

  “You can quote me—‘As pastor of the Little Creek Congregation, I’m saddened by the tragic loss of our historic sanctuary but believe the members of the church will pull together and go forward with the ministry God has given us to the community.’ How is that?”

  “Typical. You could have given that to me over the telephone.”

  “From here on no notes. No recordings. This is between us and nobody else.”

  The reporter sat up straighter. “Mike, you have a trial lawyer’s flair for the dramatic. I’m listening.”

  “I’m going to tell you the explanation Ken West gave for dismissal of the embezzlement charges against Sam.”

  Mike quickly laid out the story placing all the blame on the former banker.

  “I don’t believe it,” Hodges responded when Mike finished. “It destroys my Pulitzer article.”

  Mike took out the memo of the Hatcher meeting. “Here’s the memo I told you about.”

  The reporter read the sheet of paper then looked up. Mike continued, “At first, Dressler denied being in the meeting but last week told me Hatcher called him in to discuss Sam’s embezzlement. That would have been difficult because the meeting was four days before the checks were written. Dressler either didn’t remember correctly, or the plan to bring down Sam came out of the meeting. Take your pick.”

  “You know my preference.”

  “I confronted Dressler with the inconsistency when we talked on the phone. His reaction was reference to the Fifth Amendment. He’s already hired a lawyer in Mobile.”

  Hodges leaned forward. “This is great! Hatcher must have found out that you’d gotten under their cover.”

  “I’m not sure. I never told anyone except Sam about the memo, but I believe the embezzlement charges went away because Hatcher didn’t want me rooting around the courtroom. He may be afraid I know more than I do.”

  Hodges grunted. “Miller looked like an easy victim until you got involved.”

  Mike reached into his pocket, took out the e-mail, and placed it on the table. “It’s not over. These people aren’t giving up. In fact, it’s worse.”

  When he summarized what had happened in the past twenty-four hours, Hodges’s jaw dropped open.

  “If you’re arrested for arson, I’ll have to report it,” Hodges said when Mike finished.

  “It will devastate Peg and ruin my career.”

  Hodges hesitated. “I can’t stop—”

  Mike interrupted. “I won’t blame you for doing your job, and I’m not here to ask you to censor the news. Does anyone suspect that you’re investigating Butch Niles and the Cohulla Creek development?”

  “No, I haven’t even mentioned it to our editor.”

  “Good, because you’d be at risk, too.”

  Hodges’s eyes opened wider. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “This is serious. Use caution. But don’t quit. I’m already limited in what I can do.”

  “Do you have an estimate on the timing or any arrests?”

  Mike shook his head. “No, but I was thankful when I left the jail this morning without having to call a bondsman. I’m going to hire Greg Freeman to represent me. I’ll keep you in the loop of information. This fight may not be won in a courtroom.”

  Thirty-three

  SATISFIED THAT HE’D TAKEN A POSITIVE STEP, MIKE DROVE AWAY from the newspaper office. When he arrived home, a sheriff ’s department car was sitting in his driveway. Taking a deep breath, Mike parked next to it and walked toward the house.

  Chief Deputy Lamar Cochran, a cup of coffee in his hand, sat in the kitchen with Peg and Sam Miller. Puzzled, Mike greeted the officer.

  “Hey,
Lamar. Are you here to arrest me?”

  “No. Sam asked me to come.”

  Sam spoke. “Pour yourself a cup of coffee.”

  “I don’t really want—”

  “Just do it,” Peg said.

  Mike obeyed and sat across from Cochran at the kitchen table.

  “Now what?” Mike asked. “Are we going to play cards?”

  “After I left the jail,” Sam began, “I went home and lay down to rest for a few minutes. I didn’t think I could sleep, but in no time I was out. I dreamed that you, me, and Lamar were sitting in your kitchen drinking coffee. We were having a nice conversation when a candle appeared over Lamar’s head. That means he’s going to get a good idea because we’re together. I called the jail, and he agreed to meet us here.”

  Cochran took another sip of coffee. “I was relieved when the embezzlement charge against Sam was dismissed, and I don’t believe he burned down the sanctuary at the Little Creek Church.”

  “He didn’t,” Mike responded. “We were together the whole evening. I wish you were in charge of the investigation.”

  “Show him the letter the elder sent you,” Sam said.

  Mike stared at Sam for a second. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea until we talk it over with Greg Freeman. I’ve asked him to represent both of us, and he’s agreed.”

  “I think we should share the letter with Lamar,” Sam replied casually.

  Sam made the e-mail sound as harmless as a cake recipe, and Mike could tell from the expression on her face that Peg wanted to walk out Sam’s dream. He stifled his objections and went into the office and printed another copy.

  “I thought it came from Milton Chesterfield,” Mike said, handing it to Cochran, “but it was sent from one of the local schools. Milton was in California. Someone wanted to lure Sam and me to the church and place us on the premises close in time to the fire.”

  Cochran handed the e-mail back to Mike. “I know Mr. Chesterfield. My father used to work for his company. Anything else?”

  “Not really.”

  “Tell him about your conversation with Ken West,” Peg said.

  Mike grudgingly obliged. When he reached the part about the 911 call from the convenience store, Cochran interrupted.

  “Was it Carrington’s One-Stop?”

  “He didn’t say, but that would be the right distance. The Burtons run a gas station two miles in the opposite direction.”

  “Yeah.”

  “There it is!” Sam said.

  “What?” Mike asked.

  “I saw a flash of light. I think it was coming from the candle.”

  “Did you see a candle?” Mike asked, not believing he was seriously asking the question.

  “Nope, but what else would put out light like that?”

  Mike turned to the chief deputy. “Can you tell us about your bright idea?” Cochran shook his head. “No, but I’ll keep thinking.”

  The radio on the deputy’s belt squawked, and he pressed the Receive button.

  “What’s your 20?” a voice asked.

  “East side of town on the ridge.”

  “Good. Do you know where Michael Andrews lives?”

  Cochran looked at Mike as he answered, “Yes.”

  “Go to his house. If he’s there, bring him in. The magistrate has issued a warrant for his arrest in the Little Creek Church fire.”

  Mike reached across the table and grasped Peg’s hand.

  “What about Sam Miller?” Cochran asked.

  “We’re sending Morris over to get him.”

  “No need. He’s on this side of town, too.”

  “10-4.”

  “Can I have a minute with my wife?” Mike asked.

  Cochran waved his hand. “Yes.”

  “And I need to call Muriel,” Sam added.

  Mike led Peg into the great room. His hand was sweating.

  He spoke rapidly. “Greg Freeman is going to call as soon as he finishes his trial. Tell him I’ve been arrested. He’ll know what to do about the bond. Ask him how much he needs as a retainer—”

  Peg put her index finger on his lips and looked deeply into his eyes. “Do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the most important thing I need to know right now.”

  “Okay.”

  Peg continued looking directly into Mike’s eyes. “Remember the look on my face if you start to worry about me.” Placing his hand on her heart, she said, “And I keep hearing the same words over and over—fear not, fear not, fear not.”

  “Fear not.”

  “Right. I’ll be here when you get out.”

  “It shouldn’t be long—”

  “It doesn’t matter how long it is,” Peg interrupted. “I’ll be here.”

  As Mike followed Sam and Cochran from the house, Peg’s words echoed in his mind and her face filled his vision. He and Sam got in the backseat of the patrol car.

  “Peg’s a fine woman,” Sam said.

  “Yes.”

  “And someday, what Papa has done in your marriage will be a bigger memory than the ride in this patrol car.”

  They rode in silence. Mike stared out the window. They passed landmarks known to him since childhood. Never before had they seemed so close, yet so far away. He could see a place but didn’t have the freedom to stop the car and go there. Cochran drove to the rear of the jail where the prisoners entered through a secure entrance.

  “I hope it’s a short stay,” Cochran said.

  Mike felt a numb detachment as he returned to the booking area. Cochran left. Mike and Sam stood beside each other.

  “We already have their prints,” a male deputy barked. “Glamour shots only.”

  Mike stood on a line and stared, unsmiling, into the camera. A deputy handed him an orange jail uniform and a plastic bag for his regular clothes.

  Mike had left his wallet and watch at home. He changed clothes in a room no bigger than a closet. When he came out, Sam entered.

  “Perkins wants them separated,” the deputy said when Sam joined Mike in the open area. “Put Andrews in the holding cell and Miller in cell block A.”

  “Brinson, the guy who knocked the old man out the last time he was in here, is in A,” a deputy said.

  “Block B is two over limit.”

  “There’s no need to put Mr. Miller in danger,” Mike said, stepping in. “You could move Brinson into B.”

  “Your opinion about administration of the correctional facility isn’t needed,” the second deputy snarled.

  Sam looked at Mike and shook his head. “It’s okay. Papa is giving me a second chance.”

  The door to the holding cell closed behind Mike. He was alone. The small, dingy, white room smelled of antiseptic. There were no chairs or bed. A toilet without a seat stood in the corner. Mike sat on the floor and leaned against the wall. There was nothing he could do now but wait for others to help him. His dogged persistence and fighting spirit couldn’t penetrate the walls that enclosed him. He was helpless. He closed his eyes.

  And saw Peg’s face.

  She’d been right. The love and concern that filled her eyes were much more important than the practical information he’d frantically tried to download into her brain. He examined every detail: her slightly upturned nose, rosy cheeks, welcoming lips, and insightful eyes. Tears, not of sorrow but of gratitude for his wife’s devotion, welled up and spilled down his cheeks.

  Another scene from the past rose in his mind—a picnic along the Blue Ridge Parkway, not long after they married. Peg fell asleep with her head in his lap. Mike had watched her for a long time, alternating between her face and the hazy mountains in the distance. He’d always considered the picnic an idyllic time. Now, he knew it lacked depth. They’d not yet allowed God to lay the foundation upon which an enduring marriage could be built. Sam’s words in the patrol car were true—the blessing on Mike and Peg’s marriage was a greater reality than the other challenges they faced.

  Mike normally considered
enforced solitude maddening. However, instead of pacing back and forth like a caged animal, he relaxed and let his mind travel through pleasant memories. He went back to his childhood, reliving moments that bore the marks of God’s grace: the Sunday school teacher who prayed with him when he was in second grade, a friend who would kneel on the ground and talk to God as if He were closer than the tree branches above their heads.

  As a boy, Mike loved reading illustrated Bible stories in which he placed himself in the company of Israel’s heroes. He remembered the vivid pictures and how the stories stirred him. During that formative time, a nescient faith entered his heart, a faith that matured into mountaintop experiences as an adult and altered the course of his life.

  Mike didn’t lodge an indictment against the Almighty. The goodness of God had been his lifelong companion. Unlike Job, he wouldn’t blame heaven for the evils that marked the human condition. Other events from his life surfaced: the church retreat when he was in high school, a prayer session with Danny Brewster, a redemptive encounter with a homeless man, an afternoon when he preached with power at a food kitchen in Virginia. Time after time, hindsight revealed a plan its present concealed.

  He stopped and wondered if he was losing his mind. Were these imaginary journeys the path to insanity? Like a man whose life flashes before him in the instant before death, Mike was watching an advance screening of his life’s story. Why? As soon as he asked the question he knew the answer—so he could be thankful in the midst of suffering. The door to the cell opened.

  “Supper time,” a deputy said as he placed a tray on the floor.

  “Thanks.”

  Mike didn’t ask the time of day. He knew jail inmates ate early so the outside kitchen workers could go home. He left his food untouched. He didn’t want to defile the memory of home-cooked meals until his stomach demanded it. More time passed. The deputy returned to take away the food tray.

  “Could I have a Bible?” Mike asked.

  The deputy didn’t respond, but in a few moments the door opened and the officer placed a plain black Bible on the floor. Mike picked it up and started reading about others who had been wrongly imprisoned. Confinement, whether briefly or for years, was not an abnormal way station in the lives of saints. Old Testament prophets and New Testament apostles learned eternal lessons behind prison bars. Mike’s jail had walls, not bars, but as he took time to carefully read about Joseph, Jeremiah, Daniel, Peter, Paul, and Jesus Himself, he entered into the exclusive fraternity of those who suffer imprisonment for doing good.