Authors: RANDY SINGER
“I don’t need your attitude.” Jason’s father stood, staring at Jason with disgust. “You’ve been here five minutes and you’re already starting in with this crap.”
Jason lowered his gaze to the table, seething. He had physically squared off with his dad just once, a few months prior to leaving for college. His father had thrown Jason to the ground and scrambled on top, pounding Jason until he begged for his dad to stop.
His dad had stood towering over Jason for a few seconds afterward. “You think you can beat the old man?” he taunted. Jason had lain there on the ground, gingerly touching his lip, blood streaming onto the carpet. He shook his head meekly.
“Clean up the carpet,” his father had said. Then he walked away.
His father was quicker and stronger than he looked. Every time they argued, that fight came cascading back, relodging itself so strongly in Jason’s memory that he could almost taste the blood. But then there were times, like right now, that Jason was so angry he didn’t care. Plus, Jason was older now. Stronger. His old man had undoubtedly lost a few steps.
In the heat of the moment, Jason wanted to jump up and start something, either beat the old man once and for all or force him to beat Jason so severely that it would end their relationship forever.
“You want to try the old man?” The words were taunting, echoing from eight years ago. They knew each other’s hot buttons.
Jason looked up, tears stinging his eyes. “What do you want to do, Dad? You want to hit me again? Go ahead and hit me.” Jason stood, holding his hands out to his sides, palms open. “Will that make you feel like a real man—beating up your kid? Maybe you can do some permanent damage this time.”
His father stood there, rage coloring every feature. Jason half expected the fists to fly at any moment. This time, he wouldn’t even defend himself. He would let his father do whatever damage he wanted. He would make him pay by never speaking to him again.
The face-off only lasted a few seconds, and then his father nodded his head a little, as if he couldn’t believe what a jerk he had raised for a son. He sat down in his chair, scoffed at Jason, and took another drink of beer.
Jason walked away, heading down the hall toward his bedroom.
“Where are you going?”
“To bed, Dad. Merry Christmas.… Thanks for making it so special.”
For Kelly, there was comfort in going to church. She sat in the second row with her family—her mom, two older brothers, and two younger sisters. Of the Starling family, only Kelly remained unmarried, though the church members had been doing their best to set Kelly up since she arrived home a few days earlier. Who needed dating services when you had a whole church full of scouts and matchmaking geniuses?
Four grandchildren would enliven the Starling household tomorrow, reminding the adults of the simple joys of Christmas. Four was plenty, in Kelly’s opinion. She loved her nephews and nieces. But she also loved leaving the little rascals behind when she left her family’s chaotic home in Charlottesville and headed back to D.C.
Tonight, on Christmas Eve, there was a kind of somber peace inside the ornate church where Kelly’s dad served as pastor. Traditions, especially religious ones, had a way of soothing the spirit and bringing eternal perspective. The carols, the liturgy, the candles, and her dad’s short homily on hope all had a way of distancing Kelly from the turmoil of her legal practice. She hated the fact that Christmas snuck up on her at the law firm—her once-favorite season lost in a blur of billable hours and
pro bono
projects. Year-end reviews and bonus checks competed for attention with the baby in the manger.
Kelly felt a little guilty, sitting in church as part of the pastor’s perfect little family, knowing that she had probably cost her dad goodwill with some of his more conservative parishioners. Being one of the pastor’s daughters had always put her in the spotlight here, but it was compounded this year by publicity about the Crawford case. Unlike the
Washington Post
article chronicling her work with victims of human trafficking, this case had the potential to split the church—liberal social activists versus hunters and gun enthusiasts. But out of respect for her dad, even the church members who secretly hoped Kelly would lose the case had not said a negative word to her.
The service ended this Christmas Eve, like every Christmas Eve before it, with her dad leading in Communion. At the appropriate time, the attendees would file to the front of the church, be handed a small wafer, and take a sip from one of several chalices.
Kelly could still remember her first Communion, after she understood the true nature of repentance and the role of Jesus Christ in her salvation. Her dad had explained how Christ had commanded His church to take Communion as a remembrance of His sacrifice. The Communion elements, he explained, were powerful symbols of the body and blood of Christ.
Her eyes had filled with tears the first time she walked forward with her mom. “The body of Christ, the bread of heaven,” her father said as he handed her the wafer. She walked a few more steps and dipped it in the cup. “The blood of Christ, the cup of salvation,” one of the church leaders said. Kelly nodded solemnly and ate the wafer. She had returned to her seat and watched the rest of the church file forward, many seeming like they were only going through the motions. She had promised herself then, as a thirteen-year-old girl, that she would never take Communion lightly.
Her father’s words punctured the memories, bringing her back to the present. “We welcome anyone who has accepted Christ’s salvation to participate in this symbolic ceremony we call Communion. Remember that the baby who came to give the world hope is also the Savior who died to give the world life.
“But we also urge you to remember the words of the apostle Paul. Nobody should participate in Communion unworthily. If your heart is not right, or if for some other reason you don’t wish to participate, just come forward and fold your arms across your chest. Instead of Communion, one of the other leaders or I will pray a blessing over you.”
They began the liturgy, her father reading, the congregation responding. The first part of the liturgy contained a prayer of repentance.
“Let us confess our sins against God and our neighbor,” her father said.
The congregation responded in unison, “Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against You in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.”
The prayer continued, but those first few words lodged in Kelly’s heart.
By what she had done. By what she had left undone.
For five years, Kelly had carried the burden of what she had done and the knowledge of what she had left undone. She hadn’t confessed it to anyone, not even her dad. She hadn’t tried to make it right with the authorities. God had become distant, prayers infrequent, church attendance all but nonexistent.
She was busy. She was tired.
And honestly, she was running from God.
As her row stood and marched forward, Kelly found herself sandwiched between her two brothers. As always, they lined up in front of her dad. Last year, she had taken Communion, compounding her guilt. She had brushed off the warning of the apostle Paul for a few days so she could enjoy Christmas, but later the guilt had come charging back. Along with regret. And hypocrisy.
By what we have done. And by what we have left undone.
She stood in front of her father. He had a wafer in his hand, waiting for Kelly to cup her hands and receive the symbol of Christ’s broken body.
Instead, she crossed her arms.
Her dad didn’t flinch. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, closed his eyes, and asked the Lord to bless her.
On the way home, Kelly’s dad arranged it so she rode with him. She welcomed the chance to be alone with him for a few minutes before they hit the pandemonium of the house on Christmas Eve. It reminded Kelly of high school, how her dad would get up early every morning and drive her to swimming practice, even though she had her own license.
“Did you like the homily?” he asked.
“Fifteen minutes. What’s not to like?”
“People don’t want a long sermon on Christmas Eve. They just need a reminder. They need a chance to take a breath and remember.”
“It was great, Dad. They always are.”
Her dad kept his eyes on the road. “I’m really proud of you, Kelly. You’re an exceptional young lady.” He paused. She could sense a
but
coming, and he didn’t disappoint. “But you’ve always been so hard on yourself.”
This from a man who knows how to pile on the guilt.
Her dad had a gentle, soft-spoken way, but he knew how to trip-wire every emotion. Especially remorse.
“I’ve had a good teacher.”
He gave her a knowing smile. Her dad was too honest to argue the point. Nobody was harder on himself than Kelly’s dad. “Is there something you need to talk about, Kelly?”
She let the question hang in the air for just a second. It was tempting to tell her dad everything. Somehow, after the initial shock, she knew he would understand. But something more powerful held her back—maybe the pain it would cause him; maybe her own shame at what she had done; maybe the fact that time had started to dim the memory and she didn’t want to fully open the painful wound.
“I’m fine, Dad. I’m just not in a place where I can take Communion right now.”
This brought a prolonged period of silence. It was an old trick that Kelly had wised up to in college. Her dad would just wait her out. Sooner or later, she would confess, driven by her overactive conscience and the deafening sound of silence. But she was older now. Wiser. A lawyer.
“I’ll work through it, Dad. It’s one of those things I’ve got to do on my own.”
On Christmas morning, Jason’s father woke at ten, had two cups of coffee, and downed a few ibuprofens for his headache. Then he apologized.
“I didn’t mean what I said last night,” he managed, speaking quietly with a thick tongue. “That was the booze talking.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You’ve got a job to do. Give ’em hell.”
“I intend to.”
Jason fixed pancakes, though his father didn’t have much of an appetite. They went for long periods without saying anything, emphasizing the fact that they no longer had much in common. By noon, it was time to open gifts.
First, they both unwrapped presents mailed by Jason’s sister. Afterward, Jason pulled a small package out of his briefcase.
“Thanks,” his father said, unwrapping it gingerly. The man had big hands, and Jason noticed they shook a little, making the gift opening more of a chore. His dad eventually got down to the single piece of paper at the center of a small box.
“Based on what you said last night, you might want to trade it for another model,” Jason offered.
His dad pulled out a picture of an MD-45, the gun Jason had fired at the shooting range. Underneath the picture was a gift certificate to the Bulls Eye Marksman store in Cumming, Georgia.
“I called the store and found out how much the MD-45 would cost. That gift certificate is for the exact amount. But seriously, Dad, I won’t be disappointed if you get a different gun. You can use that certificate for any gun in the store.”
“I never said they didn’t know how to make a good gun,” his father said. He looked at Jason, a spark of pride in the bloodshot eyes. “I never thought I’d see the day that I got something like this from you.”
Jason opened his father’s presents next. A new briefcase—soft leather. A gift certificate to Office Depot and another to S&K Menswear. Jason had to admit—his dad had tried.
“What kind of guns do you own?” Jason asked his father.
His dad perked up at the question and rattled off a list of the weapons in the Noble family armory. Then he had a brilliant idea.
“If you’re going to be the Great Defender of the Second Amendment, it might help if you knew how to shoot a gun. Your mother never let me take you when you were little, and by the time middle school rolled around…” Jason’s dad looked a little melancholy. “Well, we didn’t spend much time together. You want me to see if I can get us into the Fulton County shooting range this afternoon?”
Jason thought about it for a minute. They could sit in the house and risk another argument. Or they could spend a few hours at the shooting range. Maybe he would learn something that would prove useful in the case. Plus, it would serve his dad right—loud noises to exacerbate the hangover.
“Sounds good. I just need to be at the airport no later than eight.”
One month later
Judge Robert A. Garrison Jr. had been presiding over Virginia Beach Circuit Court, Courtroom 8, for the past seven years. Short, pudgy, pale-skinned, and bald, he looked more like an accountant who had just survived a hectic tax season than a judge. But with the power of the gavel, the man transformed into a monarch. He ran a tight ship, routinely starting court one or two minutes early. He liked to lecture criminal defendants and their lawyers, favoring prosecutors blatantly enough that nobody could accuse him of being soft on crime.
Garrison had a knack for finding the spotlight and ran into controversy a time or two over his unique ideas about proportional punishment. Two eighteen-year-olds accused of vandalizing public schools were told to return to his courtroom when they each had a half gallon of gum they had scraped off the bottom of public school desks. To make sure they didn’t cheat, Garrison appointed a deputy sheriff to supervise. Another defendant, accused of violating the noise ordinance with his car stereo, had been sentenced to twelve straight hours of Barry Manilow, again supervised by a poor deputy sheriff who hadn’t done a single thing wrong.
Garrison’s main qualification for the bench was not his intellect, demeanor, or trial experience. Instead, it was his daddy. Old Man Garrison was one of the most successful developers to ever bulldoze trees and destroy wildlife in Hampton Roads. Fortunately for his son, he used his largesse to patronize local Republicans now serving in Richmond. They returned the favor by appointing Robert Jr., a nondescript real-estate lawyer, to an open slot on the Virginia Beach Circuit Court bench.