by Paul Spencer
“What did he say?” Tony said.
“He wants me to meet him there tomorrow at eight.”
“Are you sure you want to go there at night?”
“I doubt they’d try to whack me on their own doorstep. Besides, you’ll be there with me.”
“True, true. We need to find out more about this church, man. Let’s settle up and head back to my place, see what we can find.”
“Yeah. I want to call Casey, too. Maybe she can shed some light on this.”
“Good idea.”
We got our check and paid up, then Tony drove us back to his house. I did some more searches on my phone along the way. The more I read, the more I was surprised I hadn’t heard about the faith healing cases before. Most of them had come out after my collapse, but I still kept up with what was going on in the legal community, and these cases created a lot of buzz. The state government even passed a law two years ago to remove religious belief as an affirmative defense for homicide. Before that, like a lot of states, Oregon had laws protecting parents who practiced faith healing from prosecution. But Oregon’s law had been more liberal than most, granting immunity from manslaughter charges to parents whose children perished due to an alleged reliance on faith healing over traditional medicine. Now, thanks to the Servants of Christ cases, that law had been changed.
“Was Larsen like that when you represented him?” Tony said. I looked up from my phone. We were almost home.
“Pretty much,” I said. “maybe a bit more angry back then. But still strange.”
“That dude is creepy. I felt like we were talking to the grim reaper.” Tony pulled into his driveway and shut off the car. “No wonder you wigged out. Working with freaks like that would be enough to drive anyone to drink.”
Once inside, we agreed that Tony would continue some web searches while I called Casey. When she answered, I told her about the last couple of days: Larsen, the possible faith healing connection, and my conversations with Detective Buchanan.
“You’re not going to leave this alone, are you?” she said when I finished.
“No. Especially since someone wants to kill me.”
“I get that, but you need to remember what I said about interfering. Tread lightly.”
“Maybe. Listen, I want to find out more about these faith healing cases. Do you know who defended the families?”
“I’m not sure about all of them,” she said, “but the most recent one, the manslaughter case, was Jan Derks.”
“That figures. I’ll give him a call.”
I knew Jan from my time at the bar. Born and raised in South Africa, he'd spent his mandatory military service in the Special Forces, fighting ANC rebels on the border with Zimbabwe, up to his armpits in very bad people on both sides every day. Two years of that had let him with a healthy hatred of authority and a hole in his chest where his heart used to be. When he got out of the army, he somehow managed to obtain a working visa to America. Once here, he married a local girl, enrolled in law school, got his citizenship, and divorced the local girl. When he graduated, he joined the defense bar, and he'd been kicking prosecutorial butt ever since. We'd talked often, but we weren't close. I don't think Jan was close to anybody.
I pulled up Jan’s contact information on the state bar’s website, and gave him a call. No joy at his office, but he answered his cell phone. Judging from the hollow echo of background noise, I guessed he was in the cavernous halls of Multnomah County’s aging courthouse. Defense lawyers spend a lot of time on the old wooden benches in those halls, waiting for trial call, keeping clients calm, and frantically searching for witnesses who never showed up on time.
“Jan, it’s Mick Wray.”
“Michael! As I live and breathe,” he said, his thick Afrikaaner accent just as I remembered it. “I thought you were dead. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“It’s a long story, but I need to talk to you about the faith healing case you had a year or so back. The Servants of Christ one.”
“Those fruitcakes? What about them?”
“Like I said, it’s a long story. Look, can I buy you a drink?”
“As it happens, you’re in luck, my boy. I have one more DUI frequent flyer to save from the clutches of our so-called justice system, and then my day is done. Shall I meet you at the Lotus in an hour?”
“Yeah, that works. Thanks, Jan.”
Tony agreed to let me borrow his car, and I set off. The Lotus was downtown, only ten minutes away, but I figured there was no harm in being early. Besides, I hadn’t been there since I’d been disbarred, and I felt like catching up. As the closest bar to both the county and federal courts, the Lotus did a strong traffic in drinking lawyers. It was one of the few bars west of the river that could make a Top 10 Portland Dive Bars list, and to be honest, I missed the place.
When I arrived, I stood in the doorway, soaking up the atmosphere. The place still looked the same. Faded Oregon Trail mural above the mirrored bar, walls stained yellow by decades of nicotine, smell of stale fryer grease hanging heavy in the air. It felt like home. I didn’t recognize the bartender, but that wasn’t a surprise. Lawyers are hard to deal with when they’re alone and sober. When they’re drinking in large numbers, it’s a nightmare. Staff turnover was high at the Lotus.
I parked myself at the bar and ordered a beer. It felt good just sitting there. I could pretend I was still part of a world that was gone. Gone for me, at least. I sat there quietly, sipping my pint, remembering all the times I’d been in the same place. Celebrating victories, drinking away defeats. And the day my career as a lawyer ended. After Judge King had called security and had me removed from the courtroom, I’d come here and bought drinks for the bar. At first everyone loved me, but as word filtered through about what I’d done, the crowd thinned out much faster than usual. I used to think I lost a lot of friends that day, but later I realized I’d learned who my friends really were.
Jan Derks arrived about a half hour late, which counted as early by lawyer time. He was a stocky guy with big arms, his curly black hair starting to go gray. Jan kept his hair long and bushy, mostly to hide his ears, which sat on his head like the handles on a trophy. He sat down next to me.
“Well, I must say, Michael, you’re looking awfully good for a dead man.”
“Thanks, Jan,” I said. “Buy you a drink?”
“Silly question, boy. Macallan 12, on the rocks.”
I signaled to the bartender, ordered Jan’s drink and had her get me another pint. Jan looked at me curiously.
“Tell me, what is the great ghost of the defense bar up to these days?” he said.
“Currently trying to stay not dead.”
“That sounds intriguing. And how can an ex-comrade be of assistance?”
“You can tell me about the Servants of Christ. That faith healing case you had.”
“I had three of the bloody things.” He shook his head. “And let me tell you, they were the weirdest shit I’ve heard this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Those people are fucking freaks, Michael.”
Our drinks arrived, and Jan drained his at a gulp. He rattled the empty ice in the glass. The bartender came back.
“A double, please,” he said, and looked at me. “You’re paying, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, whatever. Look, I know about their crazy faith healing doctrine. But I need to know about any connection to the First Minister. Guy called Arnold Larsen.”
“Isn’t that the gentleman you were defending when you went off the deep end?”
“Yeah, it was,” I said. “Did his name come up in your cases?”
“You know I can’t tell you what my clients told me. Attorney-client privilege, and all that nonsense.”
“Come on, Jan. You know I wouldn’t ask you to violate privilege. And you know that I know how these cases work. There has to be plenty of unprivileged stuff you can share. Witness interviews, depositions, that kind of thing.”
“Michael, I don’t mean to piss in your pocket and tell yo
u it’s raining. You must understand, I found it very difficult to find witnesses who would speak out. I had to make a lot of promises to keep people’s names secret. And I intend to honor those promises. But I can tell you this. What’s happening at that so-called church goes much deeper than the cases I had. Your old mate Arnold Larsen is a bit more hands-on than a lot of preachers, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
“Then figure it out, man. You might want to start with the families involved. Some people left the church because of what happened. They’re laying low, but if you come at them right, they’ll talk to you.”
He drank his Scotch in one gulp, slammed the glass on the bar, and shook his head vigorously.
“And now I must go,” he said. “Call me when you work it out. If you play your cards right, I’ll buy you a drink.”
Chapter 19 – Never Believe What You Read
I drove back to Tony’s place, absorbed by Jan’s perspective. I understood the conflict burning inside him. He was stuck in the classic defense attorney’s dilemma. They drill it into you early in law school. You have a duty to zealously represent your client, no matter who they are, or how much you disapprove of their conduct. Normally, you don’t hear a real live person say “zealously.” In ethics class – yes, lawyers do take one – you hear it just about every lecture. So Jan was stuck between the rock of his duty and the hard place of a client he despised. The same conflict tore me apart, but Jan was made of sterner stuff. When you’ve seen teenage soldiers put a car tire over your squad mate’s head, fill it with gasoline, and set it alight, courtroom battles don’t trouble you much. But I’d known Jan for a while, and he didn’t used to gulp his Scotch down that quickly.
Tony was typing away on his computer when I got back. I told him what Jan had shared with me, his cryptic comment about Larsen being hands-on, and his suggestion about talking to family members.
“Sounds like a good idea,” Tony said. “Want me to start tracking them down?”
“Yeah, that would be good.”
“It might take a day or two. What are you going to do in the mean time?”
“You know, I’m going to go to work tomorrow. The last thing I need right now is to lose my job, and after skipping out the last couple of days, I’m on thin ice.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? Larsen and his errand boy are still out there.”
“What else am I going to do? Besides, no one’s going to kill me at the factory. I’ll drive instead of taking public transport. And I’ll look out for crazy people.”
“I’m serious, Mick.”
“I know you are. And I’m serious about being careful. But Larsen knows the cops are watching him now. He’ll back off.”
“I wouldn’t rely on that if I were you. He didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’ll back off.”
“Then we need to find out what’s going on. But I need to pay the rent too. Anyway, what did you find while I was out?”
“Oh yeah, you’re gonna like this.” Tony pulled up a web page and pointed at it. I leaned in to take a look. “There’s a blog post by an ex-Servants of Christ member, and the comments are a goldmine. A local freelance reporter posted that she was researching a story on the church, and asked for information. All kinds of people responded. I’ll email you the link. I’ll put the reporter’s name and number in the email too. You might want to give her a call.”
“Excellent. I’ll call her tonight.” I stood upright and stretched out my back. “It’s been a long day. Want to grab a bite to eat?”
Tony hesitated. “I can’t. I’ve got to go see someone tonight. I’ll run you back to your place and leave you to it.”
That was strange. Tony wouldn’t usually pass up a meal, no matter what he needed to do. I wanted to ask him what was going on, but the look on his face told me not to push it.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Back at my place, I took a pizza out of the freezer and put it on the counter. I started the oven, then checked the security camera feed while I waited for the oven to preheat. The only people coming and going in the hallway were residents, so I switched to my email and opened Tony’s message. It contained a link and the name “Linda Barton,” along with a phone number. I decided to check out the link first.
The blog post it led to was fascinating. In it, the author described her twenty years as a church member. Though she didn’t relate any specific incidents, she used words like “torture” and “betrayal,” and alluded to terrible abuse within her family. When she finally mustered up the courage to leave the church, she was abandoned by her brothers and sisters, who refused to even acknowledge her existence any more. There were two pages of comments, most of which were from church members vilifying the author. But some of the comments were supportive, and a couple of people hinted at similar stories. About halfway down the first page, Linda Barton had posted that she was a reporter investigating the church, and that she wanted to speak to anyone who was willing to share their tale. A couple of subsequent posters had provided email addresses.
I wanted to hear what she had learned, so I put my pizza in the oven, then sat on the couch and dialed Linda Barton’s number. It went straight to voicemail.
“Ms. Barton, my name is Mick Wray. I’m calling you about the Servants of Christ. I’m caught up in something with them right now. I’m not sure whether I can help you or you can help me, but we should talk.”
I left my number and hung up, then went to the fridge for a beer. My phone rang before I made it back to the couch. Linda Barton’s number.
“Hello, Ms. Barton. Thanks for calling back.”
“Who are you, and how did you get my number?”
“I got your name from a website where you were looking for information about the Servants of Christ. My friend is an investigator, and he got your number. To be honest, I’m not sure how. But that doesn’t matter. We need to talk about Servants of Christ.”
“Some guy calls me at night on my unlisted home number and expects me to trust him right away. Not going to happen. You’ve got thirty seconds to convince me not to hang up right now and call the police.”
“I’m an ex-attorney. I used to represent Arnold Larsen. A guy I knew who was in the church got murdered Friday night, and someone threatened to kill me. I’ve got good reason to suspect Larsen was behind both things. I know you’re looking into the church. I figured maybe we can help each other.”
There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone, and when Linda spoke again, the anger was gone from her voice. “Okay, I’ll admit, that’s good,” she said. “But I still don’t trust you. Tell me more, mystery man.”
“Did you hear about the body found in Mount Tabor Park on Friday night?”
“I think so. The guy was shot, right?”
“Executed. He used to be a member of the church. And I was drinking with him the night he died. I found out later that he was convicted of sexually abusing other children in the church.”
“Oh, they won’t have liked that.”
“Even churches don’t like pedophiles.”
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean they won’t have liked the police snooping around. When it comes to keeping silent, they make the Mafia look like Facebook.”
“Really? That’s weird. Because I went there today to confront Larsen. While I was there, another Elder slipped me his number and told me to call him. We’re meeting tomorrow night.”
“Are you serious? I’ve been trying to get an interview with an Elder for a year and a half. They won’t come near me.”
“Maybe he has a thing for mystery men.”
She laughed. “Maybe so. I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could tag along?”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. He seemed reluctant as it is. I doubt he’d say a word with a reporter present.”
“You’re probably right. I hope you’re going to record the conversation.”
“Of course I am,�
�� I said, even though the thought hadn’t occurred to me. I made a mental note to tell Tony to bring a recorder. “Anyway, tell me what you know.”
“Oh Christ,” she said, then giggled. “Sorry, no pun intended. Seriously though, I don’t know where to start. That blog barely scratches the surface. I started out thinking I had an article. It’s turning into a book. There’s a trail of crazy stuff going back a couple of generations. You know about the kid that died, right?”
“Yes, that and a couple of other cases. I spoke to the attorney who defended the church earlier today. He’s an old colleague. Look, maybe we should meet,” I said. “How about Thursday evening? I can tell you what Robbins wanted, and you can fill me in on what you’ve found.”
“Now mystery man is asking me out,” she said. “How can I refuse? Do you know the Teardrop Lounge?”
“Cocktail bar in the Pearl? Yeah, I know it.”
“Meet me there at eight on Thursday. Goodnight, mystery man.”
Chapter 20 – Back to the Grind
After Linda hung up I got myself another beer and sat back down. I felt exhausted. I tried to fight it by puzzling over what Larsen’s next move might be, but I couldn’t get anywhere. I still had no idea of the connection between Aaron and me. Was Larsen really behind the death threats? Why would he want me killed? Maybe Linda would be able to help me figure it out. I sure as hell couldn’t get any further on my own tonight. I gave in and turned on the TV, flipped through the channels for a while.
I settled on a Blazer game, with Portland down by a dozen late in the third. I nursed my beer and pizza until midway through the fourth quarter without the Blazers getting any closer, then flipped through channels some more. Nothing really stuck, so I switched back to the game, and left it on in the background while I cleared up.
Over the next hour I meandered my way through a couple more beers. I tried the TV for a while longer, but still I couldn’t find anything to hold my attention. I picked up a book and stared at the same page for ten minutes. The real world just kept seeming farther away, so eventually I gave up and went to bed.