Song of Praise
Page 11
“Don’t look so disheartened, Solomon,” Dwight told him. “You did a bang-up job in the courtroom. If I ever need help like this again, I’ll be sure to call on you.”
When they pulled up to Dwight’s house, Dwight opened the door, but Solomon grabbed his arm before he stepped out of the car. “You might not want to go on a killing spree, because I quit. I will not represent you again.”
Pulling his arm away, Dwight laughed as he got out of the car.
Solomon slammed the door shut. “My office,” he told his driver.
During the drive, Solomon leaned back in his seat and did a mental analysis of how he had come to represent a killer—something he had always said he would never do. He was well aware that as a defense attorney, he was within his legal rights to represent the guilty as well as the innocent. But he never liked dealing with people who threw rocks and then hid their hands.
During his years of law school, Solomon had asked God to bless his mind and anoint him as an advocate for his clients. He had promised in return that he would not aid the guilty to get away with crimes against humanity but would use the wisdom with which God endowed him only to help the unjustly accused.
Too bad the law firm of People, Smith, and Harding didn’t care about the bargain Solomon had made with God.
As he got out of the car and headed into his office, Solomon was left to wonder what this would mean for his career with the firm. Would God still bless his mind so that he could help the innocent? Or had he burned his own house down by his inability to discern evil when it looked him in the face?
“Good morning, Mr. Harris,” his secretary greeted him, then handed him a few slips of paper. “Here are your messages. And your mother is waiting for you in your office.”
His mother rarely visited him at the office. She always told him how proud she was of the important work he was doing, and said that she wouldn’t dream of disturbing him during the day over trivial matters that could be discussed later in the evening. So, Solomon knew that something was troubling her.
When he opened his office door, he saw the nervous look in her eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked, closing the door behind him.
She patted the seat next to her. “Come sit with your mother.”
Solomon joined her on the black leather sofa, but he didn’t get comfortable. He couldn’t, with the way she was looking at him. “Tell me.”
His mother took a deep breath and put her hand over his. “It’s your father.”
Solomon furrowed his brow. “My who?”
“Don’t play coy with me. You know you have a father…and he’s dying.”
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