The Sacrifice (24 page)

“Scott, that's wonderful.”

“No!” he said sharply. “You don't understand.”

“I only meant it was kind of you to do something for your friend's baby.”

“I know, but I don't deserve any credit. I didn't follow proper procedure, and a man was killed. I made a mistake, and it cost someone his life.”

Kay stayed silent.

After a few moments, Scott continued, “Amy forgave me and told me to go on with my life, but in some ways it hasn't been possible. Deep down inside, I'm always wondering why I'm alive and he's dead. Even if nobody else knows what happened that day, I have to prove to myself that I deserve to be alive.”

“How do you do that?”

“By trying to be the best person I can be. I didn't mention it to my boss or Dr. Lassiter, but it's one reason I agreed to help at the high school. I know that volunteering to help kids is a good thing.”

Kay shook her head. “I don't know, Scott. I believe we need to be good people, but the pressure you've put on yourself—” She paused. “I'm not sure you can live your whole life like this. I heard what you said about the bomb, and I'm not even sure it's your fault.”

“Don't say that! I know the truth. The experts who investigated the incident told us the bomb was designed to explode the next time the computer was turned on or the trunk was opened. There were three wires running along the wall. If I'd cut the right one before opening the trunk, there wouldn't have been any danger, but I didn't think the situation through and acted outside my training.”

“Okay, okay.”

“And Steve sacrificed himself for me.”

They sat quietly for a moment.

“Did you leave the army because this happened?” Kay asked.

“Yes. When my initial term of enlistment ended a few months later, I came home and went to college. I'd lost my desire to stay in the military, yet I didn't fit in with eighteen-year-old freshman who'd never been away from home. So, I studied a lot, made good grades, and went to law school.”

The waitress brought their pizza. All around them, young people were laughing and talking, but Scott and Kay were no longer carefree teenagers. They were an island unto themselves. They ate in silence, each in a world of thoughts far removed from a small town in North Carolina.

Sunday morning Kay rolled over in bed and hit the snooze button on her alarm clock before it could jar her to full consciousness. It wasn't set to go off, but she didn't realize her mistake until she woke up abruptly at 7:45 A.M. and thought she had to be at school in ten minutes. Sunday-morning panic attacks were taking their toll on her. She lay in bed for another half-hour but couldn't go back to sleep. She went into the living room, pulled back the curtains, and looked outside. Her apartment was on the second floor of the building, and she had a view of a narrow stretch of grass, a corner of the parking lot, and the wooded area that provided a buffer between the apartment complex and the highway. She opened a sliding glass door and took a breath of the morning air. It was going to be a clear day.

She brewed a cup of coffee and sat on the secluded deck outside her bedroom with her knees under her chin. She opened her notebook. Before going to sleep on Friday night, she'd captured in words some of the tears that fell on the grass of the football field in Lincolnton. The contents of a broken heart are easily poured out, and it didn't take long to write two pages. Reading the words again there wasn't much to change. She sighed deeply, but no tears rose to the surface. She thought about the death of Scott's army friend and wondered if she should try to capture with pen and ink the essence of his self-sacrifice. No. She didn't comprehend raw courage enough to put it on paper. Chronicling Scott's journey was beyond her understanding as well.

She flipped back a few pages and saw the poem she'd written after hearing about Ben Whitmire's unexpected trip over the waterfall. Her verbal images of the everlasting arms were more questioning than confident. Ben Whitmire had survived. She wasn't so sure about herself.

Kay drained the last drops of coffee from her cup and decided to go back for another installment of church.

The crowd hadn't grown in a week's time. When Kay walked into the back of the old gym, she felt a tug on her sleeve and looked down. It was one of Janie's brothers.

“Come sit next to me,” he demanded.

Kay followed the little boy to a row of seats. Janie saw her and waved from her place next to the overhead projector. The song leader picked up his guitar and began with one of the same upbeat songs Kay had heard the previous week. She stood and sang along. Less self-conscious than the week before, she thought about the words of triumph that were repeated in each verse. This group of Christians believed that God was on their side in the struggle of life. Another fast song followed, and then two new songs slowed the pace.

Many people closed their eyes during a final ballad that incorporated the word
Alleluia
as part of the chorus. Kay wasn't sure of the precise meaning of the ancient expression of worship, but repeating it over and over with slightly different inflections and pitches enhanced the beauty of its sound to her ears.
Alleluia.
She loved all kinds of words, but she'd never met one quite like this. Surrounded by more common terms, it stood out like a gem set in a ring.
Alleluia.
Each repetition was fresh in its own way. When the leader softly strummed his guitar for the last time and let the chord disappear into the still air, Kay felt a pang of regret. She wanted to visit the place where the music took her one more time. She felt cleansed.

Ben Whitmire, dressed again in khaki pants, a casual shirt, and cowboy boots, ambled to the front of the room and greeted the people. He caught Kay's eye and smiled at her in personal welcome. The sermon was about God as a loving Father who wants to adopt us as his very own. It was the first time Kay had heard the Supreme Being described as a heavenly daddy—Abba, Father.

She listened to every word.

And the longing to know God's love began stirring in Kay's heart so strongly that it made her chest hurt. She wondered how the other people in the room could stand the pressure of the moment. She swallowed, but her mouth was dry.

The minister looked across the congregation. “When I see your faces this morning, I see people of all ages and backgrounds who share a common need to be adopted into the family of God. He is your Abba, Father. He chose you as his very own before the foundation of the world. No matter what has happened in your life up to now, each of you has a destiny in his love. If you hear his voice calling to you today, how will you respond? Will you hold up your arms to him?”

Ben asked everyone in the congregation to close their eyes, and Kay squeezed hers shut. The minister's kind voice penetrated the darkness behind her eyelids.

“Some of you need to reach up to God this morning. If that is you, lift your hands as a physical sign of the inward desire of your heart.”

Kay didn't have to debate. Her fists, which had been tightly clenched by her side, opened, and she gracefully lifted her hands to heaven. She whispered, “Abba, Father.”

The ends of her fingertips tingled, but she didn't notice. The greater touch was in her heart.

18

And I blessed them unaware.

S
AMUEL
C
OLERIDGE

S
cott's phone buzzed and the receptionist said, “Lynn Davenport from the district attorney's office on line five.”

He pushed the blinking light.

“We've reached a plea bargain in the Anderson murder case,” the D.A. said in her clipped voice. “I'm moving Garrison to the next trial calendar. We're going to try the assault case involving the church first and the conspiracy case later.”

That was good. Scott wanted the trials separate to avoid the taint of one charge creating a bias against Lester on the other. The D.A.'s decision eliminated the need to file a motion to sever the cases with the judge.

“When?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks! I've got a lot of preparation to finish. I'm not sure I'll be ready by—”

“We're giving your client his constitutional right to a speedy trial. Our calendar has fallen apart, and we need cases to try. If you want a continuance, take it up with the judge.”

Scott set his jaw. “I'll consider my options.”

“Oh, one more thing,” the D.A. added, “if your client wants to plead guilty, we can talk about a reduced sentence.”

“How reduced?”

“I'd say five to seven years.”

“On probation?”

Scott heard Lynn Davenport laugh for the first time. It wasn't a pleasant sound.

“Jail time. Maybe five in and two out. Something like that. We'd have to work out a plea on the conspiracy charge, but if I know he's going to be in jail for a while, we could consider something to run concurrent with additional probation time after he gets out.”

Scott grunted, “I'll tell him but won't recommend it.”

“Suit yourself. It's the only offer I'm making.”

Scott called Thelma Garrison and left word for Lester to contact him as soon as he got home from school. Then he went downstairs to Mr. Humphrey's office. The senior partner's door was closed, so Scott stuck his head around the corner and asked the older lawyer's secretary if he was with a client.

“No. He just walked in a few minutes ago.”

Scott knocked lightly on the door, and the familiar deep voice called, “Come in!”

Leland Humphrey had his feet propped on the corner of his desk and was reading the local newspaper.

He looked over the top of the page at Scott and said, “Did you see this article? One of the new commissioners is going to make a motion that the county build a minor-league ballpark next to the fairgrounds. What would we call our team? The Catawba Crayfish?”

Scott sat down without responding to the serious ramifications of a rookie-league baseball team in Blanchard County. He had his own challenges.

“I talked with Lynn Davenport from the D.A.'s office this morning. They're going to put the Garrison case on the trial calendar in two weeks.”

Mr. Humphrey closed the paper. “We need to file a motion to sever the two cases.”

“Not necessary. She told me they were going to try the church case by itself. She also offered a plea bargain: five years in jail followed by two on probation.”

“For both cases?”

“Just the church case, but she said she would take a plea on the conspiracy case and run it concurrent with the assault charges. There wouldn't be any additional jail time.”

Mr. Humphrey ran his thumb down the inside of his right suspender. “The conspiracy case is weak. She must not have much beside the e-mails she gave us.”

“I haven't done any investigation on it, but it's a ridiculous offer on the assault charge. Bishop Moore's testimony is enough to create a reasonable doubt.”

“Don't get overconfident. All the chickens in the henhouse haven't been counted. You have other witnesses to interview.”

“I know, but the call irritated me. Davenport is so arrogant. I can't wait to get into court and knock her back on her heels.”

“Have you interviewed all the officers involved in the arrest?”

“Only Ayers. He was with Officer Bradley, a black man whom Lester insulted and tried to kick when they were putting him in the patrol car. I can't remember the names of the other two deputies.”

“See if they will tell you anything. There may be minor inconsistencies in their stories that can be brought out at trial. Who else is on the state's list of witnesses?”

“A few people who are probably members of the church. I should have asked Bishop Moore about the names the other day, but I was enjoying lunch so much I forgot.”

“That's correctable. Alfred will tell you how to contact anyone in his flock.”

“Should you call him?” Scott asked. “He trusts you.”

“No, now that he knows you, he'll talk to you.” Mr. Humphrey tapped his fingers on the edge of his desk. “One of the best ways to prepare for a case is to look at it through your opponent's eyes. Pretend you're the D.A. and tell me what you're thinking.”

Scott tried to mimic Lynn Davenport's accent. “Okay. I grew up in New York, and I've been a bully all my life.”

“Drop the accent and don't assume facts. What are the strongest parts of your case?”

Scott counted on his fingers. “Lester was caught running away from the scene. He threw the gun that may have fired the shots into the stream. He yelled racial slurs at one of the deputies who arrested him. He couldn't look more like a redneck racist if you hung a sign around his neck and put a Klan hat on his head. It's all circumstantial, but it makes Lester the most likely perpetrator of the crime—opportunity, motivation, presence at the scene.”