BEYOND JUSTICE

by Joshua Graham

  I found myself lying on my pillow, having just then opened my eyes. This was entirely too real to be a dream. The stain was gone. Had it ever been there? But to this day, I still remember the voice.

  And what it compelled me to do.

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  I kept my experience with the apparition of Christ to myself for the next couple of days. Who would believe it anyway? I hardly believed it myself. Still, it nagged me. Could it really have been a divine message?

  A week later I attended a service at City on a Hill with Rachel for the first time. She was glad that I had been the one to bring up going to church. Hiding behind an uneasy smile, I stepped into the church where several members came up to greet me. Alan and Samantha from the Bible study group waved from across the sanctuary as the worship band did a sound check. We took a seat and Rachel held my hand. "You okay?"

  "Yeah. Great," I said, almost truthfully.

  "You seem a little tense."

  "I was thinking about Lorraine." The arsonists were never caught, but they had made it clear why they hated this church so. I wondered how they felt about what they'd done—especially that Lorraine had died in the fire—when news of my exoneration came out.

  Rachel lowered her eyes. "It's hard to come into this new building every Sunday and not think about her."

  "And too, I haven't been in a church since I was a six."

  She patted my arm and leaned on my shoulder. The bandleader said a brief prayer and for the next half hour led us in a set of contemporary Christian praise and worship songs. There's nothing quite so uncomfortable as being clueless amidst a crowd of people singing their hearts out, clapping and dancing for joy to songs they all know by heart. Despite the lyrics projected onto a huge screen, the only song I could sing was their jazzed up version of Amazing Grace. I joined in the applause at the end of the singing as the leader pointed a finger heavenward. This wasn't half bad. In fact, it was kind of fun.

  It was the first time I'd seen Pastor Dave in his role as a preacher. He never stood behind the pulpit on the stage. Instead he preached in front of the pews, up and down the aisles, between them. He shared some amazing stories of how he and the mission team helped rebuild houses lost to flash floods down in Cabo San Lucas. After the sermon, he made some announcements—a deacons' luncheon at 1:00, Food and Clothes for the Homeless at 3:00 downtown. Then came the welcoming of visitors.

  I slid down into my seat. Rachel elbowed me. There were three people visiting. After they were introduced, a pair of ushers handed them welcome brochures and bestowed them with Hawaiian leis. "If there are no other visitors..." Pastor Dave said, scanning the sanctuary. He stopped right at me and his face lit up. "Well! Everyone, we have a very special guest with us today."

  The stigma of my criminal conviction warmed my cheeks. I sank lower, still. Rachel raised her hand, stood and pointed down to me.

  "Rachel," the Pastor said, "would you like to introduce our honored guest?"

  Ears ablaze, I stood and whispered, "Oh, you're so going to get it."

  She just winked and turned to address the congregation. "I'm sure some of you already know." She nudged me and I turned around. I might as well have been looking into a mirror, for just about every face bore the very uncertainty I felt.

  At that moment, Pastor Dave came to my side and patted me on the back. "Folks, this is the man you've spent the past three years praying for. Sam Hudson!"

  Instantly, eyes brightened with recognition. Smiles emerged. A wave of applause swept the hall. Dave shook my hand and welcomed me. All around, congregants filed in to meet me, squeeze my arm, shake my hand.

  "Welcome home, Sam," said an oddly familiar man. Then he took my hand and gave me a little brown paper bag.

  "Jerry!" The quiet man from the Bible study group who always carried a bag of pistachios with him wherever he went. He lowered his eyes to the bag and nodded. I wrapped my arms around him and gave him a massive bear hug. Timid as a church mouse, Jerry had been a quiet prayer warrior in all the time I knew him. In my darkest hours, he'd been there for me, along with the rest of the Bible study group. He smiled, picked a pistachio out of the bag and walked away. Rachel shrugged and giggled.

  And finally, Samantha and Alan. Their daughter was still in Sunday school but they promised to introduce her again, later.

  "Sam!" I said.

  "Sam!" she also said, and we laughed. I kissed her cheek, shook Alan's hand. They were welcoming me into the fold. For the first time in years, I experienced something that was missing since it had been torn from my life.

  Family.

  ___________________

  Lunch was at Pat and Oscar's in Mira Mesa, Dave insisted on buying. He invited Rachel and me along with Jerry and Samantha. Alan had to take their daughter to a play date. We ate al fresca and basked in the warmth of the sun, of new and renewed friendship.

  Samantha asked me about life in prison. While I described it, she covered her open mouth, trying not to appear overly incredulous. "Must've been just awful for you." She reached out and touched my hand. "You never told us it was that bad."

  "I didn't want to depress you guys. Would have spoiled your visits. But God’s been with me," I said and took a bite out of a breadstick slathered in butter. "I just… Aaron's got to come through."

  "Rachel's doing her best," Dave said, picking a proffered pistachio out of Jerry's paper bag. "But you know, this battle isn't going to be won in the courts."

  "How do you mean?" I said.

  "For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms."

  "Ephesians 6, right?"

  "You've been reading your Bible," he said with an impressed grin.

  "I've had some time on my hands."

  Rachel reached over and filled our cups with lemon water. She groaned an apology to Jerry, whose cup she'd knocked over. I got up to help her blot the spill.

  "Sam," Dave said, "I was wondering, do you believe that God can do anything?"

  "Well, if He's God, He can do anything."

  "Is there anything you think he can't do?"

  I sat and thanked Rachel for the water. "It's not a matter of if He can as much as if He will. Why?"

  Dave leaned in closer. "I sense that you're facing an impossible situation. There's something you think you can't do, yet must." Had he received a word of knowledge? Ought I to mention my dream—or was it a vision—of Christ speaking to me? "You know, come to think of it—-"

  "Turkey Club for you sir?" The waitress said, placing my plate down in front of me and taking my number card from its stand.

  "Thanks."

  Our dishes came out at the same time and the conversation was diverted. Dave said a blessing and we spent the next half hour enjoying our food and discussing lighter subjects. Sometimes a continuance is just what's needed.

  When the meal came to an end, I decided that I needed to ask someone about this dilemma that afflicted my sleep. Sooner or later, Rachel was going to ask why I looked so tired every day.

  "All right," I said, "You've all been Christians a lot longer than me." Rachel put her fork down and wiped the corner of her mouth with a yellow napkin. Curiosity filled her eyes. "We all believe that God can do anything, right?" I said.

  Nods.

  "And there's nothing that He can't do, even if it contradicts the laws of nature, of science."

  Yes.

  "We call those Miracles, right?"

  "Is there a point in there somewhere?" Rachel asked, squeezing my hand gently.

  "Okay, maybe I'd better just go ahead and ask," I said, my cheeks warm, and not from the sun. "Here's the deal." I went on and described in detail everything from the demonic nightmare, to the voice in the flames, to the face of Christ. When I finished, I anticipated a huge wave of laughter. Or uncomfortable smirks. "Couldn't have been real, could it?"

  Not a word
.

  "I don't know," Rachel said, her face static.

  I held my breath for a while and then exhaled. "I knew it."

  Samantha however, tapped my hand. "I think you're crazy to doubt it."

  "What?"

  "For one thing," Dave said, "the visions. Nothing you heard contradicts what scriptures teach. Forgiving ones enemies, while revolutionary in concept, is one of the pillars of Christ's teachings."

  "Maybe it was all my imagination."

  "I don't think so," said Samantha, looking around.

  Jerry crunched some more nuts. "Nope."

  "If it was," said Dave, "I'm sure you'd have imagined something more palatable. I mean, why would you conjure up something so distasteful?"

  Jerry said, "I'd imagine pistachios." More shells, more crunching.

  "Think about it," said Dave. "Have you a deep seated desire to forgive Brent Stringer?" I didn't answer. Of course not. "Is it unlike God to ask his people to do something that seems impossible, but to have faith in Him?"

  Moses led the Israelites out of captivity, parted the Red Sea. Jesus walked on the water and told Peter to walk out to join him. God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac. A chill went through me. "No. I guess not. It seems just like Him."

  "And finally," the pastor said, "the word of knowledge I've been given. From the moment I touched your shoulder back at church. I sensed you were facing an impossible challenge. You just confirmed it."

  "You're right. It is impossible." Moments like these, when you realize something awful, or awesome is going to happen, you expect to hear the low-pitched droning of an ominous orchestral movie score to underline the scene. Instead, I heard birds chirping in the trees above, a large UPS truck rumbling by Mira Mesa Boulevard. I realized then that it had been real.

  "God wants me to forgive Brent Stringer."

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  They all seemed intrigued by this epiphany, excited that I'd experienced God's supernatural manifestation. But not Rachel. Her features darkened.

  "I'm not sure I agree," she said. All eyes but Jerry's turned to her. "I mean, sure, God speaks to us. Once in a while, I get words of knowledge myself. But this?" She turned to me with apologetic eyes. "You want my honest opinion, right?"

  I nodded.

  "I'm not convinced that God would ask this of you," Rachel said.

  "Why not?" Samantha said, passing me a piece of devil's food cake.

  "Look, Brent Stringer is evil. I mean, he's got to be demon-possessed. I know Jesus preached forgiveness, but the Bible doesn't forbid capital punishment for those who deserve it." Rachel's agitation increased with her volume. The trial lawyer in her emerged. "And trust me, if you'd seen the evidence, seen the collection of fingernails, hair, photos and keychains, you'd be the first to pull the switch!"

  "It's okay. Take it easy." I pressed down on Rachel's shoulder, guiding her back down into her chair. She shrugged my hand away, turned away from the table and muttered something indistinct. "What was that?" I said.

  "I said, he needs to be punished!"

  Samantha reached a comforting hand to her, but I shook my head. Don't worry, she'll be okay. "I'm sorry everyone," I said.

  "Think nothing of it." Dave put down a gratuity for the servers.

  Rachel simmered with her back still turned to me. It was quite a shock to see her react this way, but I understood how she felt. Finally, she turned around. Her expression softened once again, she said, "Sorry. I'm not usually this—"

  "Oh please, sister," Samantha said. She reached out and took her hand.

  "I just can't...I just don't think you should jump to conclusions," Rachel said to me. "Unless you know for sure it's from God."

  I put my hand on her shoulder and caressed. "But what if it is?"

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Life was returning to normal, if you could call it normal. The fight to regain custody of Aaron continued daily, as did the search for a job with sufficient income to overcome the legal technicality.

  From a superficial glance, you'd never know I was unemployed. I kept myself well-groomed, my clothes, though three years out of fashion were clean, and I lived in a nice house. My résumé, however, was probably collecting dust in the offices of several law firms for whose positions I'd applied. A 'no thank you' letter or phone call, at least, would have been nice. Fine establishments such as McDonald's, Blockbuster Video, Ralph's and Walmart were much better about this. They rejected me on the spot.

  One victory, though: the restraining order was finally lifted. Though it wrung my heart to see him so fragile, so pale, I went to see Aaron daily. Hours breezed by just sitting with him, reading The Chronicles of Narnia to him and most importantly, praying for him. My hopes rose and fell like the Powell/Hyde line in San Francisco. And there was still the issue of Brent Stringer.

  From the moment I'd given myself to God, my entire life would be an act of faith. So, after a couple of weeks of struggling, against all human wisdom, against all the rage, I decided put my faith into action and try to forgive the man who murdered my wife and little girl. Try.

  The discovery stage of the Kitsune serial killer case was over. Voire dire had proven difficult and Jodi Bauer's motion for a change of venue was denied. The preliminaries were over in two days and the trial date set for next Monday. This meant that Stringer would be kept at San Diego Central until and during the trial. Much more convenient than visiting him at Salton Sea if and when he got convicted. Though I'd agreed to testify against him, I was torn. How could I do this and at the same time befriend him?

  I drove downtown in a faded blue Nissan Sentra that someone from church had donated. Not one person at the jail failed to show surprise when I asked to visit Brent Stringer. I had to answer a million screening questions.

  Yes, I'd consent to police monitoring.

  Yes, I'd consent to a weapons search, contraband, etc., I knew the drill.

  I was turned away.

  The inmate was not willing to see me.

  Fine. I'd done my part. Couldn't force Stringer, could I? My relief was short lived. I knew better than to whimp out like that.

  The next day, I sent Stringer a letter requesting a meeting. I meant him no harm, but I would really like to speak with him before the trial. I returned to the jail with hopes that my letter had helped. This time I got a hand written response: "Drop Dead." Is this some kind of joke, Lord?

  Over dinner at Rachel's place, she began to wonder if I should consider letting it go. "Why can't you just forgive him in your heart?" she reasoned. "Do you have to become his friend?"

  "I've got to do this."

  "If God really told you to, why doesn't he change Stringer's mind?"

  "I just have to keep trying."

  "Well," she scoffed. "If it makes you feel better."

  "Oh, thanks for all your support!" My neck tensed.

  She threw her napkin down, went to the kitchen and began to wash the pots and pans. We'd just started eating.

  Steamed, I said, "You know, if you're wrong—"

  "If you're wrong you'll be the biggest joke since where's the beef!"

  I slammed my cup down so hard on the table that the dishes and utensils rattled. Noir, her little ebony cat, bolted out from under the table and disappeared into the bedroom. I got up and walked over to the kitchen. "So, that's it. You're afraid I'll embarrass you!"

  "You're embarrassing yourself!" As soon as she said it, a twinge of regret appeared on her face. I didn't wait for her to say another word.

  I slammed the door behind me.

  ___________________

  What's the game plan? I wanted to know. Would I lose Rachel over this obsession to obey God? How was I supposed to befriend that freak, Brent Stringer, if he wouldn't see me?

  That freak.

  The very thought caused my blood pressure to spike. I finished praying and my fists were clenched so tight they'd gone cold. Given the opportunity, there was no doubt I could kill Stringer with my bare hand
s.

  Ironic, since I'd just prayed for the opportunity to speak with him.

  Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those...

  I didn't truly know what that meant. So, despite the late hour, I called Pastor Dave.

  "It's not as simple as forgive and forget," he said.

  "Good, because I can't forget."

  "God can't either. Not in that sense. You don't forget chronologically, you forget practically. You no longer hold it against the offender, nor do you seek vengeance."

  "Always thought I understood this. But it's entirely different when..." How could I possibly apply this to someone who'd murdered my wife and daughter?

  "It is different," Dave said. "And yet, it's not."

  "Do you think God can forgive someone like Brent Stringer?"

  "A really smart man I know once said, 'If He really is God, He can do anything.'"

  "Wise guy." The old family Bible sat open on the coffee table. Jenn's Bible, a pillar of her faith. Though all the answers seemed to be right there, in those pages, I still had to ask. "But would He forgive him?"

  "What do you think, Sam?"

  ___________________

  Parked outside San Diego Central, I sat in my car and wrestled with the toughest problem I'd ever faced. God allows that bastard to kill my wife and daughter, and now He wants me to forgive him? I'd tried and what did I get for my efforts?

  But the question kept revisiting. Do you trust me?

  Yes. I did trust God. But my faith was weak.

  An anguished tear streams down my face as I imagine myself the judge, Brent's fate resting in my hands. Will I exonerate him, though he is in fact guilty beyond a reasonable doubt? Though he's shown not a trace of remorse?

  Jenn, Bethie, and Aaron are standing in the gallery as I raise my gavel, about to pronounce my verdict. They smile and reassure me. To my own surprise, I pronounce him not guilty. He will be released from all culpability and punishment.