“And the investigators seem to be implying that they have some inside information that brings the solvency of the store into question.” He looked at her frankly. “Is there anything you are keeping from me, Joy?”
“No!”
He leaned his chin on his hand, pondering. “Something evil is at work here, I feel it in my bones.”
“What do you mean?”
“Too many things that don’t add up . . . too many ‘facts’ surfacing that are no more facts than my having two heads. I sense some sort of conspiracy.”
Joy’s heart thumped in her chest. “But why? Why me? Who?”
Arnie continued to ponder in a silence that stretched over several minutes.
“Why. That is the real question, isn’t it? Why burn you out?”
Joy had no response. Why hadn’t she told Arnie about Robertson?
“Arnie—I need to tell you something . . . something I realize I should have confided in you much earlier.”
Joy spent the next 30 minutes describing Robertson’s two visits and another 30 answering all of Arnie’s questions. At the end of it, she felt more than a little foolish. In fact, as Arnie’s face grew graver and his questions more pointed, she began to perceive how brash—no, how arrogant—her attitude had been. In spite of the conviction she had felt from the Lord regarding her treatment of her employees and family, she had not dealt with the root of the issue. Pride.
Pride goeth before destruction,
and a haughty spirit before a fall.
The verse came effortlessly to mind. Pride in her own accomplishments, pride in her self-sufficiency, pride in dealing with her pain in her own way. Yes, the pain had been the mask her pride had worn and used to rationalize her bad behavior.
If only she had allowed the Lord to help her deal with the pain! Instead, she had felt justified in her behavior because of her loneliness and pain—and all the while these were merely the facade that hid her pride.
“I-I should have come to you, Arnie, and told you about him, but I . . .” Joy stopped. “No, I’m still making excuses. If I am to be completely truthful . . . I must confess that, through my pride and presumption, I brought this on myself.”
Søren, Arnie, and Joy retired to Arnie’s study after dinner. It was two weeks since the fire. Søren had arrived that afternoon and they were still trying to puzzle out the “why” behind a conspiracy that seemed evident to them.
A pounding at Arnie and Anna’s front door interrupted them. Joy’s stomach flipped over as Søren took her hand. Arnie went to answer the door. They heard voices. They grew in volume, Arnie’s loudest of all. Then silence followed by muffled conversation.
Finally Arnie reappeared. His face was ashen. “The judge has issued a warrant for you for arson. The police chief is here . . . to take you in to custody. He says they will not keep you in the jail. The judge has agreed to allow you to be confined to my home in my custody.”
Joy swallowed. How could this be happening? Søren did not let go of her hand—until the officer placed his hand on her shoulder and firmly guided her out of the house and into the police wagon.
Joy endured the long process at police headquarters and was released hours later to Arnie and Anna’s home—now her jail—to wait for a court date. The chief indicated to Arnie, who would serve as her attorney, that the judge was inclined to bring her to trial quickly.
Arnie, huddling with the police chief while the clerk took Joy’s information and bail money, came away with information he began to share with her and Søren on the ride home. It was late. Theirs was the only buggy on the road.
“The insurance company is pressing for an early date. They want the court to confirm arson and your part in it so that they can deny and close your claim.”
Joy nodded, mutely.
“And something else.” Both Joy and Søren looked to Arnie.
“No one in the police department seems to think that you can be proven guilty of the arson. Not without hard evidence. If you were proven guilty, you would go to prison. Liberty Indemnity would like a guilty verdict, of course, but even if you are found “not guilty” and yet can’t be proven innocent of the arson—if the trial ends without determining who did set the fire—they can still refuse to pay the claim and take you to civil court. But—and this is the interesting part—even if you are acquitted at trial, the city has already decided not to issue you permits to rebuild.”
“What! Even if I am proven not to have done this?”
“He asked me not to disclose that this information came from him, but that is what the chief told me.”
“I don’t understand.” Joy’s head pounded furiously and her neck and shoulders were tight with stress.
“There is something more, isn’t there?” Søren asked.
“Yes. Our first clue.”
“You mean the ‘why’?”
Arnie nodded. “They may not have enough evidence to convict you, but in the court of public opinion, they no longer want you in Omaha. Seems that the city council already met and voted to condemn your property and put it up for auction.”
“Mighty fast, if you ask me,” Søren muttered darkly.
“How can they do that? How can they sell what isn’t their property?” Joy was astounded.
“The city has the authority. It’s the council’s way of labeling you persona non grata and forcing you to leave. You will receive the proceeds of the auction, of course, but they will force the sale.”
“Forcing me to leave . . .”
“Yes. But more importantly, forcing you to sell.”
“Ah!” Søren’s eyes gleamed. “So that’s the game. And?”
“And an interested buyer has already stepped forward.”
~~**~~
Chapter 7
Joy stared out the window at the street. A bitter spring rain discouraged foot traffic. Despite that, Joy would have given her right arm for five minutes to run free in the out of doors. Forced to remain within Arnie and Anna’s house for three weeks now, she had never felt so confined, so oppressed in her young life. Or so bereft of God’s care and comfort.
Nothing in her world made sense anymore. Papa and Mama could not come. Arnie was working like a fiend on her defense. Anna and the boys were timidly supportive but Joy could tell that public opinion was treating them harshly. In many eyes in the community, she already stood guilty. People were anticipating, some eagerly, the trial and her judgment.
Mr. Wheatley came to see her daily. Most mornings he stopped for no more than a cup of coffee and an encouraging word. He would pat her hand as they sat sipping coffee, the silence growing.
One morning he started talking, almost as if she weren’t there with him. “See, I told Mr. Grant that I would look out for you, I did. Course we didn’t know then . . . I mean we thought he would only be gone a few weeks.” He sighed. “But a promise is a promise.”
The silence lengthened but it didn’t seem to bother him. When Joy poured him a second cup, he went in another direction entirely. “See, I . . . know how you feel, Miss Joy. I lost a sweetheart once.”
This was something Joy hadn’t known and, for a change, her interest was piqued. However, Mr. Wheatley seemed to have forgotten or not realized he had spoken aloud.
Finally Joy prompted softly, “You lost someone dear to you?”
“Hmm? Oh. Yes.” He gazed into the distance again. “I was a young man once, you know. It was, oh, I think 50 years or more ago now.” He chuckled. “You might not believe me, but I was a good-looking young buck once.”
Joy smiled at him. “Oh, I think I can see that quite plainly!” They both grinned and Joy felt the stress ease for a moment.
“Well, now, I was raised back in Pennsylvania, see. My uncle had a shop and I worked for him. One day a gentleman came in and had his niece with him—prettiest thing I’d ever seen. As fresh as a flower and just as sweet as honey. I courted her and we fell in love. Then the war came.”
“I was conscripted, o’ cour
se. Went off to fight . . . Those were dark days, missus. Dark days.” He shook his head.
“You fought in the war?”
“Yes ma’am. I try not to think on it.” Then he was off somewhere in his memories again, and Joy waited patiently for him to return.
“Well. I was talking about Helen and me. She wrote me regularly, and most times I got her letters. They kept me from losing my mind, I think. But then they just stopped. I didn’t receive any letters for two months, and I was crazy with worry.” He looked at Joy. “Got a letter from her mother finally. Helen had come down with a fever and passed away after five days.”
He sighed and sipped his coffee. “Never did find anyone who could make me forget her. I used to see how you and Mr. Grant looked at each other and I’d think, ‘why, that’s just how Helen and I felt’ or ‘she used to look at me just like that.’”
Joy touched his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
His aged face smiled back at Joy. “It’s all right, you know. I know where she is. Someday I’ll see her again. Until then . . . well, I made Mr. Grant a promise, so I’ll be a-watching out for you.”
In addition to the confinement, Joy had too much idle time on her hands. Too much time to think . . . about Grant. About the loss of the store. About the outcome of the trial. About the shame she was bringing on her family, on Mama, on Papa.
Papa.
Letters from Joy’s mama arrived regularly. She didn’t hide that Jan was confined to their little home; neither did she dwell on it. He suffered from pain in his back and knees and needed Rose’s assistance to move from bed to chair. Joy’s heart grew more anxious for her beloved Papa, but Rose’s penned words were filled with peace.
I cannot yet fathom God’s plan in all that has befallen you, our dear daughter. We stand in full confidence of your innocence and know without doubt that this attack is from the enemy of our souls. God will not be mocked. He takes very seriously every slander against his children. I pity those who have done so wickedly against you, and we pray for them, even as we pray diligently for you.
While men and Satan may plot against us, our Lord, who knows the end from the beginning, has his own purposes in play. Trials accomplish great works in us, preparing us for those purposes. What must you learn at this time, my dear Joy? Learn to trust the One who will never leave you nor forsake you. On the other side of this, we will learn those purposes and be better equipped to carry them out to fruition.
Do not give in to discouragement, I beg you, Joy. Hold fast. God works all things—even wicked things—together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purposes. Hold fast, dear one.
Joy read such words of encouragement numbly. She saw them, but they made no inroads to her heart, provided little comfort.
June 1908
Robertson solemnly surveyed the packed courtroom. “I visited Michaels’ Tools, Hardware, and Farm Implements on April ninth, I believe. Yes, here it is in my appointment book.” He offered the prosecutor a small leather-bound book. He, in turn, handed it to the judge.
“I met with Mrs. Michaels just before closing time that day. Franklin and Chase made Mrs. Michaels a very handsome offer for her store and inventory. I have a copy of it right here.” He again handed something to the judge, what looked like a linen envelope. A familiar-looking linen envelope.
Joy’s mouth gaped. “No!” she whispered furiously to Arnie. “It wasn’t an offer to buy, it was that ‘partnership’ offer, just as I told you—and he threatened me!”
Arnie shushed her quietly, concentrating on what Robertson was telling the judge. Søren, sitting close behind them, reached out his arm and gently put his hand on Joy’s shoulder. She was grateful for that simple touch.
“We came to terms over the next two weeks and were set to sign papers, but then . . .” he paused, obviously embarrassed, “Dear me . . . I really don’t like to say . . .”
The judged fixed him with a stern eye. “I remind you, Mr. Robertson, that you are under oath in this courtroom. You will complete your testimony.”
Robertson sighed and nodded obediently to the judge. “Yes, Your Honor. I apologize to the court.” As he turned to face the courtroom again his eyes drifted over Joy and she saw it. Something in the turn of the corner of his mouth. Something he wanted her to see.
So quickly did the glance pass that Joy knew no one else had seen it.
He continued. “Well, sir, we had asked to see the store’s books, of course. And on the surface they were perfect—neat, well organized, complete. They reflected a thriving endeavor.”
Joy hissed to Arnie again, “He never saw my books! He is lying!”
Arnie bid her silent with a stern look.
“And that was a bit concerning, Your Honor. You see, the condition of the business seemed . . . just a tad too perfect, sir, if you take my meaning. When we looked more closely, we found . . . irregularities.”
“What kind of irregularities?” demanded the prosecutor.
“Well, sir . . . ah, the books reflected cash entries every week that were too similar—nearly the same amount each week. And not nearly enough overhead. Altogether, the debt-to-income ratio seemed too low and the overall profitability much too high. First we were suspicious, but then we became . . . convinced that the books were, uh, inaccurate, perhaps altered.”
Someone in the back of the courtroom jumped to his feet, toppling a chair at the same time. Joy looked back and was startled to see Mr. Wheatley, his tufts of gray hair standing on end, large red blotches on each cheek.
He shook his fist in rage and shouted in his papery voice, “Liar! You’re a liar, Robertson! You’re a lying son of a—” The rest was choked off in a scuffle of bodies as deputies tackled him.
“Silence! Silence in the court! Silence right now!” The judge’s gavel banged over and over, and the din in the courtroom slowly died.
Two deputies wrestled the old man from the courtroom and, with great concern, Joy saw him slumping in their grasp.
“I will have silence in my court!” the judge thundered. He glared at Joy as though she had orchestrated the outburst. Horrified, she saw condemnation in his fierce look. Glancing around, she saw other stares, some reflecting the same judgment, some speculation. Arnie gripped her elbow tightly.
“Steady, Joy. School your face.”
Joy forced herself to return the judge’s glare with an unflinching calmness.
The judge turned at last to Robertson. “Continue your testimony.”
“Yes, Your Honor. Well, once we knew the books were cooked—”
“Objection, Your Honor. No irregularities in my client’s books have been established.” Arnie’s tone was sharp, commanding.
The judge harrumphed. “Mr. Robertson, please remember that you are testifying. Do not draw conclusions that have not been entered into evidence.”
“Of course, Your Honor. I apologize.”
Arnie knew the damage was done as far as public perception. Robertson had spoken of “cooked books” in such a factual manner, the people in the courtroom were not likely to believe otherwise.
“When we, uh, believed we had found irregularities, I met with Mrs. Michaels again and informed her that we were withdrawing our offer.”
“On what date did this take place,” the prosecutor asked.
Robertson made a show of consulting his appointment book again. “April 23, sir.”
“What did Mrs. Michaels do and say when you informed her that the sale was off?”
“Well, she was very angry. I was surprised, actually, at the words she used. Not like a lady, if you take my meaning . . .”
Joy slumped in her chair. Could things get any worse? She fought to breathe, fought against the tide of panic rising in her breast.
“Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Robertson should testify as to what he saw and heard and not characterize my client.”
Robertson sniffed. “Mrs. Michaels threatened me, Your Honor. She told me that if I did not leave imm
ediately, she would have me thrown out. She also said, and I quote, ‘It is of no matter, Mr. Robertson. I am quite capable of handling my own business affairs myself.’”
Exactly what she had told him when she scorned his intimidation and offer of “partnership.” Word for word.
Robertson ended his testimony and the judge excused him. She did not recognize the prosecution’s next witness.
“The prosecution calls Mr. Tom Percher.”
A slender man perhaps in his early 30s took the witness stand. He was dressed in new clothes and was obviously uncomfortable. The judge swore him in and the prosecutor began his questioning.
“Mr. Percher, tell the court where you work, please.”
“Yessir. I, uh, work for Kimball’s Market, over on Fifth and Grand.”
“What do you do there, Mr. Percher?”
“Well, I, um, stock shelves and do a bit of sweeping up. Whatever Mr. Kimball has for me.”
“I see.” The prosecutor turned toward the courtroom as he asked the next question. “On the night in question, where were you around 6 p.m.?”
Percher gulped and looked toward the floor. “I was, uh, walking home from my job.”
“And did your itinerary happen to take you by Michaels’ Tools, Hardware, and Farm Implements?”
Percher looked confused. “My itinerary?”
The courtroom tittered and the judge banged his gavel and glared at the witness. Percher, now perspiring, slid a hanky from his pocket and wiped his face.
The prosecutor smiled benevolently. “Mr. Percher, did you walk past Mrs. Michael’s store on your way home? Mr. Percher?”
“I, uh, yes. I walked by the store.”
“Would you please tell the courtroom what you saw as you walked by Mrs. Michaels’ store?”
Percher’s eyes shot around the courtroom as if looking for the nearest door. Just then a spate of coughing from the packed courtroom drew his attention. Robertson, a handkerchief gingerly held to his lips, murmured a quiet “pardon me” while looking steadily at the witness. Percher visibly paled and straightened in his chair.
Joy on This Mountain (A Prairie Heritage, Book 2) Page 5