Pieces of Light

by Julie Cave

  Ferguson laughed. "Have you heard Sinclair's phone manner, Harris? He's worse than you!" With another guffaw, he hung up.

  Dinah allowed herself a wry smile. She started to read the lawsuit again, trying to figure out what the niggling in the back of her mind could be. It hit her, two-thirds of the way through the stack of paper.

  The bomber, in his last communication, had used three figures: $24,950, $88,400, and $55,000.

  Those very same figures appeared in the lawsuit, right next to three corresponding churches.

  Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church — $24, 950.

  First United Methodist Church — $88,400.

  The Heights Episcopalian Church — $55, 000.

  The federal government was currently funding charity programs within these churches, and the figures amounted to the annual government funding. This was the funding the lawsuit sought to cease.

  Okay, thought Dinah, leaning back in her chair. I've figured that out — but what does it mean? What significance does it have in the overall picture?

  A loud crash from the kitchen startled Dinah, and she suddenly realized that her guests were now washing the dishes in the kitchen, having been completely ignored by her for the past couple of hours.

  "I'm so sorry!" she cried, rushing into the kitchen.

  Andy and Sandra just laughed at her, and Dinah was once again thankful for these wonderful friends God had provided for her.

  * * * *

  The restaurant catered to high-powered politicians and business people, and discretion was assured. Senator Winters commanded the best table when he arrived and immediately ordered the most expensive bottle of imported red wine on the menu.

  His old friend Maxwell Pryor, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, slipped in about five minutes later. The waiter appeared instantly to fill the tall man's glass and then vanished just as miraculously.

  "How are you doing, buddy?" Winters asked jovially.

  Their friendship had started out as one of convenience — they'd both been trying to achieve the same objective when they met during the Smithsonian case. Where Winters was ruthless, Pryor was more likely to stick his head in the sand. Yet he knew when a problem had to be dealt with — even by murderous means — and he always supported the senator's plans.

  Now it seemed likely the Supreme Court justice would be doing him a favor.

  "Just fine. How are you?" Pryor asked, tasting the wine and apparently approving of it.

  "Just great. Trying to change the world, one step at a time," laughed the senator.

  "And you need my help?" Pryor asked, raising an eyebrow. The two powerful men didn't meet for small talk. Usually they got right down to business.

  The waiter took their order, and then Winters started to explain. "I'm supporting a lawsuit filed here in D.C. in the federal court," he told Pryor. "It involves the government funding religious organizations who expressly proselytize. It's a clear violation of the First Amendment."

  Pryor nodded slowly. "The district court will probably not rule in your favor," he opined. "Most district judges seem to leave the serious lawmaking up to the appellate courts."

  Ouch, thought Winters. "My research would seem to support that view," he agreed. "Of course we will appeal."

  "Where it is likely you'll win," said Pryor. "What do you need me for?"

  "I'm hopeful I won't need you," said Winters. "But I can guarantee you that the defendants will submit a writ of certiorari to the Supreme Court. They don't want precedents being set on this matter against them, if they can help it."

  A writ of certiorari was a plea to the Supreme Court, asking for their case to be heard. It was filed by the party that had lost in the appellate courts. The Supreme Court didn't accept every request that was filed; indeed, they usually chose cases that had broader implications for the law.

  Pryor nodded. "So you need me to ensure the Court accepts the writ of certiorari, and rules favorably upon it."

  "I guess it's a lot to ask," conceded Winters. "But I can assure you the reward would be great."

  Pryor had dealt with Winters enough to understand that by "reward," the senator meant money. He lived for nothing else, except perhaps power.

  Pryor thought about this quickly. "You understand, of course, that my fellow judges are all, without exception, very sharp, independent, and serious-minded individuals. I simply cannot try, or be seen to, unduly influence any decision they might make."

  "Let's start with the Court granting the writ of certiorari," suggested Winters. "There would be reward in itself for that."

  "I think I can deliver on that," Pryor replied. "I'm the Chief Justice. They hold my opinion in some degree of high regard. In any case, most of the justices are extremely interested in interpreting constitutional law. I only need the agreement of three other justices to grant cert, anyway."

  "Excellent." Winters poured another glass of wine without waiting for the attendant. "The second request is the most challenging, I understand that. I'm sure you have a good understanding of whether justices tend to lean to the right or left."

  "Certainly," Pryor agreed. In fact, he could usually predict the verdict in any case that was controversial — death penalty, human rights, or the Constitution. The conservative judges tended to vote conservatively, while the liberal judges tended to judge liberally. The side that won the verdict depended on whether the justices were in the majority liberal or conservative. At the moment, it was split. There were three conservative judges, three liberal judges, and Pryor, who would usually vote liberally. The remaining two prided themselves on being moderate, and therefore open to influence by either side in the debate. Pryor knew he'd only have to convince one of them to vote his way to ensure the Supreme Court decision was favorable to Winters. As Chief Justice, he certainly wielded enough power and respect to make a compelling argument — but he would never be able to guarantee a certain outcome. Justices of the Supreme Court of the United States were not appointed because they were gullible, easily influenced, or open to bribery.

  Pryor explained this to Winters.

  Senator Winters didn't want to tell his friend that part of his own reward money depended upon the Justice succeeding. For one thing, it wouldn't impress Pryor, and for another, it wouldn't advance the outcome for which he was looking.

  All he could do was hope that Pryor's greed became more pressing as the possibility of receiving such a windfall improved.

  In all likelihood, it would take about three years for the Supreme Court to receive the petition for a writ of certiorari, in a best-case scenario. In the meantime, Winters had to fervently hope the Chief Justice didn't have a heart attack or get hit by a bus.

  "Precedent set in other areas of First Amendment law seem to be favorable," said Winters at length. "By both the Supreme Court and district appellate courts."

  "Indeed," agreed Pryor. "I can't foresee much of a problem, except if the current mix of judges is interrupted in any way."

  That was a scenario outside of Winters' control, much to his disgust. He started to feel a surge of anger toward Cartwright for making demands upon him over which he had little power. Winters, onto his third glass of wine, decided his fee had just increased.

  They ate, talked about the prevailing Washington, D.C., gossip, and drank some more. Winters may once have commanded a platoon of Rangers, but it seemed his powers of observation and paranoia were beginning to fail him. He didn't once see the slight figure of Connor Eastleigh, his new intern, sitting behind him, pretending to eat dinner but in reality, listening to every word.

  * * * *

  Dinah reluctantly bade farewell to Andy and Sandra, who would remain in the city for several days, and then left the apartment herself to meet Ferguson and Sinclair at the nearby Starbucks. She took the thick wad of paper that made up the lawsuit with her.

  They were both waiting for her, somewhat impatiently. Instead of flashing her a deep, azure gaze, Sinclair stared solemnly at the table.

  Dinah
took a deep breath and commanded herself to act normally. "So our bomber has hit three of the five churches mentioned in this lawsuit," she explained, after coffees to keep them awake for several hours yet had been ordered. Thankfully, the belligerent sun was sinking, and the air cooled with every passing minute.

  "What's the link?" Ferguson asked, mostly for Sinclair's benefit, who was showing little interest in the case at the moment.

  "The case is essentially suing for violations of the First Amendment, namely separation of church and state. All three of our bombed churches are named as defendants, because they run charity programs which attract government funding."

  "What programs?" grunted Sinclair, as if he were just waking up from a deep sleep.

  "Uh ... the Catholic church runs a phone domestic violence counseling service; the Methodist church in Manassas runs a prison vocation and parole advocacy program; and the Episcopalian church offers professional services, like lawyers and accountants for free to people who wouldn't otherwise be able to afford them."

  "They seem like worthwhile programs," commented Ferguson.

  "That doesn't seem to matter," replied Dinah.

  "Who are the remaining two churches?" Sinclair asked.

  "Sixteenth Street Baptist Church and Calvary Holy Church," said Dinah. "The Baptist church runs a literacy class for homeless and transient adults, and the Calvary church runs a vocation program out at Waverly, Virginia."

  "Doesn't seem to be much of a link between the programs offered," said Ferguson. "They're all varied. Which church do you think he'll hit next?"

  "There doesn't appear to be an order, at least going by the lawsuit," mused Dinah. "The Catholic church that was hit first is listed right in the middle of the document, for example."

  "We can't take any chances," said Sinclair. "We need to send officers to both locations on Sunday, which" — he glanced at his watch — "is only one and a half days away."

  "All right, let's go for a drive," suggested Ferguson. "Talk to the fine fellows in charge of these churches."

  Ferguson drove, and Dinah had the backseat to herself, for which she was thankful. The awkwardness between herself and Sinclair was growing at a supercharged rate.

  Sixteenth Street Baptist Church was located, as the name suggests, on Sixteenth St., and it didn't take long for them to arrive. The Friday night youth program was in full swing, the church lit up with floodlights and the sound of excited laughter spilling from the doorway.

  Pastor Bobby Spring was supervising events, which looked like an obstacle course designed to wear out energized teenagers.

  When Ferguson showed him his badge, he left the youth group in the capable hands of the youth pastor and showed them to his cramped office. "Can I offer you a drink?" he asked, showing them to a corner, where he intended to sit on a desk chair, and the only remaining seating was a long couch. Ferguson declined on behalf of all of them, and the race to find the most comfortable position on the couch began.

  Unfortunately, Dinah was wedged between the bulk of Ferguson and Sinclair, and although he steadfastly refused to look at her, she was distracted by the lean heat of his arm, which pressed against hers, and the sheer closeness of his presence.

  "We're here because we believe your church may be under threat," began Ferguson.

  "By whom?" Pastor Spring asked.

  "You may have heard of a domestic terrorist targeting churches in the greater D.C. area," said Ferguson. "There have been three churches bombed, unfortunately resulting in loss of life and injury."

  Spring looked both horrified and shocked. "And you think we could be next?"

  "I'm afraid so," said Ferguson. "We've received some new information that leads us to believe it's a distinct possibility. We'd like to send officers to each church service you hold on Sunday. It'll cause disruption to your day, and I'll apologize in advance for that. However, I'd prefer a little inconvenience if it saves the lives of your congregation."

  Spring seemed to be having trouble processing this new information. "Of course, Special Agent. If you think it's really necessary, I'll happily comply. I ... I just don't know why we'd be a target."

  Ferguson seemed to be debating within himself how much to tell the pastor. Finally, he said: "We believe it has to do with a charity program. You run literacy classes for homeless or transient adults?"

  Spring nodded. "Yes. You don't think a homeless person ... do you?"

  "No," said Ferguson. "At this stage we don't believe it has anything to do with someone who's been through your program."

  Leaving the pastor to contemplate the sudden change in circumstances for his little church, the three investigators climbed back into the car and drove south on the I-95 to Richmond, Virginia. The interstate was pretty clear at this time of night, but they didn't arrive until after ten.

  The Calvary Holy Church was dark and quiet, any evening activities having long since finished. Sinclair rang the pastor's number, who invited them to his house, only two streets away.

  Pastor Dan Rockwell was middle-aged, round, and cheerful and asked them into his living room, which thankfully had plenty of individual seating.

  This time, the investigators all gratefully accepted coffee, and then Ferguson explained the reason for their visit. "The bomber has not struck outside the city of D.C. yet," acknowledged Ferguson. "But new information would lead us to believe that it's not the physical location of the churches that inspires our bomber."

  "Why would he choose us?" Rockwell asked.

  This seemed to be the most common question, one Dinah intended to ask the bomber herself.

  "It seems to have something to do with a prison vocation program," explained Ferguson.

  "One of the inmates was released?" asked Rockwell, wide-eyed.

  "No, we don't believe so," said Ferguson with a frown, though in all honesty none of them had thought of this as a possibility.

  Again, they left the pastor more disturbed than they'd found him — but at least the safety of both congregations was somewhat ensured.

  The drive home into the dark, warm night was quiet, with each lost in his or her own thoughts. Dinah tried to think of the case, but her mind kept returning to one thought, annoyingly playing over and over: How can I give up the only man I've come close to loving since my husband?

  * * * *

  The night drew late, but neither Michael nor Isabelle wanted to go to bed — or to go home, in Isabelle's case. She wondered what Scott was doing — whether he would appear at Michael's house, knowing that that's where she was likely to go. However, she thought he was probably quite cheerfully depositing her possessions on the curb and changing the locks.

  Michael's cell phone buzzed, for the umpteenth time. He glanced at it and deliberately pressed the cancel button.

  "Who is it?" Isabelle asked curiously.

  "Who do you think?" said Michael with a wry smile. "Mom."

  "Oh, she mentioned to me that she was trying to contact you," said Isabelle. "She was upset because she wants to be able to talk with you every day."

  "Yeah, well," said Michael, "there are times when I just can't deal with her drama."

  Isabelle sighed. "What do you think she'd say if I told her Scott decided to divorce me?"

  "She'd flip out," said Michael immediately. "Marriage is for life, you know that."

  "I don't disagree, but what if there is abuse within the relationship?"

  "You're asking the wrong person," explained Michael. "Mom was punched, shoved, and kicked on a weekly basis, but still played happy family at church on Sundays. You probably couldn't get a better excuse for divorce than the stuff she went through, yet she didn't leave him."

  "And by default, what we went through," added Isabelle, her mood darkening.

  They sat in silence for several moments. Michael's phone rang again and he turned it off, the screen fading to black.

  "Why don't you just talk to her?" Isabelle suggested. "She's probably ringing my phone after you. It must be bugg
ing Scott no end."

  Michael smiled. "Then I'm glad. Let her keep ringing him."

  "You really don't like Scott, do you?"

  Michael considered his older sister, still so naive and eager to please in many ways. "Let me put it to you this way. I spent my childhood watching the finest bully on earth wreak havoc in our family. I swore to myself I'd never let myself be bullied when I became old enough to do something about it. Hence my unsurprising intolerance of bullies." He paused for a moment. "Honestly, did you grow up in the same house I did?"

  Isabelle laughed. "Yes, but I think our reactions to our father were different."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "It made you stronger," explained Isabelle. "More determined to do the right thing. It made me weak, accepting of bad behavior, and clearly crazy." She pulled her sleeve up momentarily to display a scar.

  "I'm not stronger," said Michael quietly. "If Dad was alive and slapped Mom in front of me, I'm not sure I'd still be able to stand up to him."

  "What did you think about — you know — during the beatings?" asked Isabelle.

  There was silence for several long minutes.

  "I just imagined that one day I'd have the pleasure of doing the same to Dad," said Michael. He stared at his hands. "I fantasized about walking up to him and telling him that this was it, no more violence, and that if he laid a hand on any of us again, I'd kill him."

  Isabelle nodded, her eyes fixed on a point outside. The sun had disappeared a few hours ago, but light had only just given way to night. They hadn't bothered to turn on the lights and sat in the murky shadows of the kitchen.

  "What did you do?" Michael asked.

  "I figured there had to be something I could do to make it better," said Isabelle. "Be a better daughter. Get better grades. Be quieter. Stop making mistakes. I guess I always thought it was my fault."

  So what's changed? You think by being a good wife you'll stop Scott from hurting you? By becoming a gourmet cook? By being home precisely when he wants you to be? By resigning from your job?

  As if taking over from the voice in her head, Michael continued: "So you pushed the pain down, as far as it would go, and hoped it wouldn't surface. Yet it always did, and it was so immense that you had to distract yourself with something that was somehow worse. And not much is worse — except the sudden pain of cutting yourself. It gives you some feeling of control, of power over your pain, if only for a little while."