Now and Again (34 page)

“I'm not actually paying you,” said Maggie. “I'm working for you and devoting half of my paycheck to Tomás's fees. That was the deal.”

“Ah, yes,” said the attorney. “That's something anyway.”

“You told me that the arresting officer made a string of false arrests.”

“Now I remember!” said the attorney. “Now I know exactly who you are. I don't mind saying that I'm very glad to see you. I've been without an assistant for weeks.”

He took a stack of files from his desk and handed them to her one by one. “This man is serving twenty-five years for breaking into a church kitchen that had once given him food,” he said. “And this one stole some videotapes for his nieces and nephews, and this one helped two girls shoplift a set of sheets, and, well, the point is, they were all handled by the same dirty prosecutor. One of the defendants was just granted a new trial, so now is the time to strike! Unfortunately, none of them can pay. It would help your man if we pursued all of the cases together and tried to establish a pattern, but I have to take three paying clients for each person I represent for free. So if you could contribute anything in the way of fees for the others…”

“I have a little cash,” said Maggie, and without thinking it through, she opened her backpack and handed over the entire packet of rainy-day money she was saving for her ticket home.

“Hmmm,” said the attorney as he counted out the bills. “It's not much, but I guess it's a start. Yes, we'll establish a pattern of prosecutorial misconduct and see how it goes.”

The attorney showed her to a desk that was overflowing with loose papers and articles of clothing and unopened mail. “Why don't you start here,” he said. “I have to be in court, but if the phone rings, answer it and write a note on this pad. I'll be back around noon.”

Maggie left Lyle and Will a message saying she had arrived safely. Then she set to work imposing order on the chaotic office. When the attorney returned, he gave her two files and asked her to decide which case he should take.

“Can't you take them both?” she asked.

“He who takes on too much accomplishes nothing.”

“That's the way it is, isn't it?” said Maggie. “The minute you choose a person to help it means you're not helping someone else.”

“Yes,” said the attorney. “That's the way it is.”

Maggie spent the morning reading through the files and couldn't see that one defendant had a better claim than the other. First she thought it was the soldier who had given so much for his country, and then she thought it was the father who had five children to support.

“Let me show you a useful trick,” said the attorney. He took the files and hid them behind his back. “Which hand?” he asked.

After choosing, Maggie put the files in the proper stacks and didn't look at them. That way, she wouldn't know which person she had consigned to unrepresented limbo. “There are other attorneys who might help him, aren't there?” she asked.

“That's what we have to believe,” said the attorney. “Otherwise we'd shoot ourselves.”

“And of course he might be guilty.”

“Most people are guilty of something. Reminding yourself of that is another useful trick.”

Before Maggie left for the day, she asked the attorney if he knew Sandra Day O'Connor.

“Who doesn't?” he replied.

“I was thinking she could help us.”

“Darn right she could.”

Maggie pulled the map of Phoenix out of her pocket and asked, “Do you know where she lives?”

“Somewhere around here.” The attorney poked a bent finger at the map. “One day I was walking along the sidewalk right about there”—he poked the map again—“and what do you know? There she was, surrounded by people who wanted her autograph! Of course, that was a few years back.”

Maggie used a pencil to mark the places on the map. “I'll see you tomorrow,” she said. “What time should I be here?”

“Eight-thirty sharp,” said the attorney. “Do you have a place to stay?”

“I do for now,” said Maggie.

“And if you see Justice O'Connor, make sure to give her my regards.”

“I realize it's a long shot,” said Maggie.

“Everything's a long shot,” replied the attorney. “Unless you have money.”

“I'm afraid I gave you what I had,” said Maggie.

“In that case,” said the attorney, “what we need is luck.”

L
yle was alone when the police stormed up to the door with determined looks on their faces. He recognized the shorter of the two men, and it was obvious the man recognized him too, for his face flushed in embarrassment when he saw Lyle. “I'm sorry, Mr. Rayburn, but we need to speak to your wife.”

“It's Lyle, Ben. It's Lyle from church.”

“I know it's Lyle,” said Ben. “But this is official business. The sheriff doesn't like us to use first names when we're on duty.”

“Mrs. Rayburn isn't here,” said Lyle stiffly. He didn't say, She got out in the nick of time, but that's what he was thinking when the taller of the two officers said, “You don't mind if we take a look around, do you?” He took a step closer as he said it, which had the effect of pushing Lyle into the glassed-in alcove where he and Maggie and Will hung their jackets and stored their muddy boots. When the man took another step toward him, Lyle didn't say yes or no; he merely shifted to one side as the two men barged past him and stood with their hands on their hips surveying the living room. Maggie's bill-paying desk was pushed against the far wall, and the man who wasn't Ben said, “You take the desk, Ben. I'll look in the back.”

Lyle was vaguely aware that some defensive action was required of him, but he stood with his fists in his pockets and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as Ben pawed through the neat stacks of bills and receipts. It finally occurred to him to call Jimmy Sweets for advice. When Jimmy didn't pick up, he called Lily De Luca and said, “Lily, it's Lyle. The police are here, and my house is being searched.”

“Do they have a warrant?” asked Lily.

“Do you have a warrant?” asked Lyle, but Ben appeared not to have heard him. “Do you have a warrant?” he asked again.

“It's best not to make trouble,” said Ben.

“Are you under arrest?” asked Lily.

“Am I under arrest?” asked Lyle.

Ben muttered something about stolen documents just as the larger officer came back from the kitchen and reprimanded Ben for chatting.

Lyle remembered something Maggie had said in relation to the prisoners, and it frightened him a little that he was considering using words that usually pertained to brawny felons. “You're violating my constitutional rights,” he said.

Once the words were out of his mouth, the fear started to change into something else. He was almost shouting when he said, “Get out of my house, Ben. You and your friend need to get the hell out of my house.”

“Or what?” said the big man from the mouth of the hallway. “Or you'll call the police?”

Ben said, “Come on, Reilly. We can get the warrant and come back later.”

“And let us know if you hear from your wife,” said Reilly. “You need to tell us right away. Obstructing an investigation is something we can arrest you for.”

“What investigation?” asked Lyle. “What investigation are you talking about?”

“You know we can't tell you that,” said Ben as he hurried out the door.

Lyle rubbed his hand across his eyes as the sleek cruiser backed into the road and sped down the hill and around the curve toward town. Across the street, the hayfield was dotted with big round bales, left there after the summer cutting. If he didn't hurry, he'd be late for work, but he stood a little longer contemplating the familiar scene, which had always seemed friendly to him but now seemed indifferent and bleak. Lyle wished he had a dog so the two of them could sit on the stoop together watching the cars go by, or he could pat its head and say, Now what the hey was that all about? and not be talking to himself. As he stood gazing into the distance, a car came into sight. Instead of passing, it turned in at the drive. Darned if it wasn't Lily, stopping by on her way to work to find out what was going on.

“What do you think it was about?” she asked. “You don't have some secret life I don't know about, do you?” She gave him a smoky look before laughing at how unlikely that was.

“What if I do?” asked Lyle. “Am I as predictable as all that?” He was thinking of the time he had followed Lily home, but then he dropped the pretense and said, “It's Maggie they're after. I know you've heard the rumors…”

“People always gossip when someone doesn't toe the line,” said Lily. “That's something I know about firsthand.”

“Well, some of the rumors are true! She's the one the
Sentinel
was referring to in that series on innocent prisoners! The reporter didn't use her name, but everyone knows it was her.”

“Hmm,” said Lily. “Don't tell me where she is, then. It's better if I don't know.”

“I don't know where she is,” said Lyle, but he said it a little lamely.

“That's good,” said Lily. “That's exactly what you need to tell people. And next time you talk to her, tell her not to come home until you're sure the coast is clear.”

It had been three weeks since the Glory Dayz celebration, three weeks since the official end of summer and the day Maggie had said, “I'm leaving tomorrow. I'm only taking the rainy-day savings. I'll send money when I can.”

Lyle had been shocked by the announcement. But now he could see how everything that had come before had been leading up to it.

“It's now or never,” Maggie had told him. “I started something, and I have to see it through.”

They had been standing in the kitchen discussing the baseball game: Will's home run, a brilliant play at third, the heartbreaking loss—at least he had been discussing it—when Maggie pointed to a list of instructions she had taped to the refrigerator. Her eyes were bright in the darkness, reflecting the moonlight that came in at the window, but also, Lyle decided now, a burning inner conviction.

“Will told me you were serious, but I didn't think you were,” Lyle had said. Now he wished he had asked more questions, but it hadn't occurred to him, and he still wasn't sure what those questions should have been.

Maggie had said, “Sleep well, honeybun. See you tomorrow.” But when he awoke the next morning, the bed beside him was empty and she was already gone.

W
hat would Maggie Rayburn do?”

Beads of sweat were dripping into Pastor Price's eyes, but he was on fire with the Holy Spirit. The arc lights had been installed when the television show was only a faint glimmering in his consciousness, and now he congratulated himself on his foresight. Here he was, on the last Sunday after Pentecost, preaching the word to the faithful, seen and unseen, his message blasting out across the radio waves, across the visible spectrum, beaming down from satellites and blazing along broadband and fiber-optic cables—who knew how far the signal spread? He could feel the spirit lighting up within him. He felt it burning down from above until he wanted to cry out with the beauty and torment of it. Tears were streaming from his eyes as he spoke the words of the Old Testament:
“Woe to the shepherds who destroy and scatter the sheep of my pasture!”

He was filled with pain and love as he preached, but also with a righteous anger when he thought of Fitch's innocence series and how, instead of condemning Maggie for stealing prisoner records, some people were turning her into a hero. Didn't she realize she could go to jail? And then the question burst out of him again: “What would Maggie Rayburn do?”

He let the words echo according to the calculations of the acoustic engineers who had mixed resonant surfaces with sound-absorbing wood. A chord from the magnificent organ quivered and died. Then silence and only the hushed rustle of clothing as a thousand parishioners caught their collective breath to hear the answer to the very question they had been asking each other and themselves.

“I've heard some of you say it. I've heard that question fall from the trembling lips of the elderly as I held their fragile hands. I've heard it from the rosebud lips of little children and from the lipsticked mouths of the mothers who only want the best for them. I've heard it from parents and teachers who have held Maggie up as an example of righteousness, an example of someone who put the needs of others before her own needs, someone who gave up everything to do what she thought was right.”

Now the pastor adopted a conversational tone. “It sounds good, doesn't it? Self-sacrifice. Duty before pleasure, others before self. Following the still, small voice instead of the crass and shouting crowd.

“Don't get me wrong—I believe in those things. But whose version of the story are we listening to?”

Now he let his tone become honeyed and intimate, as if he were gossiping to a circle of friends. “Haven't you ever been in a situation where one friend tells you something her spouse or another friend did to her, and you come away hopping mad that such a kind and beautiful person could be treated so unfairly? You're ready to shun the lout who did this to your friend. You're ready never to talk to him or her again. And your righteous anger lasts…oh, maybe it lasts all the way until you hear the other person's side of the story, at which time you are equally outraged and convinced.

“Well, whose story are you listening to now? To Maggie's story or the Lord's?”

The pastor waited—one beat, two beats, three.

“Those of you who aren't from our community might well wonder who I'm talking about.” Here, Pastor Price gave a nod to each corner of the church, where the television cameras were barely visible poking out through the acoustic slats, and then to the adjustable boom that was being operated from a control room on the balcony. He raised his eyes to the heavens—there was a camera there too—and said, “But Maggie's story isn't so special. We all know people who are put on a pedestal, people who are revered because they were blessed with wealth or athletic ability or good looks or charisma. We all know people like that, people who are considered good and righteous only because of superficial things and without regard to the truth of their characters.