by Ron Levitsky
The third man was McCrae’s cousin from Nashville, James Johnston, and, indeed, they were the city mouse and his country cousin. Johnston looked about the same age and his face bore a striking resemblance to McCrae’s. However, he wore an embroidered cowboy shirt, jeans, and Western boots. Besides having a slighter build, Johnston wore his hair long like a rock star’s and sported a gold earring.
“Call me Popper,” Johnston said, grinning, while pumping Rosen’s hand. “Everybody else does.” Johnston was an easy man to read, the kind whose soul carried a sample case.
Rosen said, “Reverend McCrae, we’d like to speak to you about the case.”
Old Tucker shook his head. “Didn’t you hear what I said ’bout Brother Lemuel?”
“Even if the boy recovers, there’s still the charge of violating the state ordinance against using poisonous snakes in a dangerous manner.”
“But the boy . . .!”
“That’s all right, Tucker,” McCrae said. “You and Sheba tend to Brother Lemuel. Mr. Rosen, let’s us all go to the back porch. Popper, I expect you’ll want to set with us. This way.”
In the kitchen several women were washing dishes and mixing pitchers of lemonade. McCrae stopped beside one of them, a petite blonde who smiled weakly. There were lines under her eyes and her hair was disheveled.
Taking the woman aside, he spoke to her softly. “You shouldn’t be here, Sister Claire. You already done enough. Best go home.”
She shook her head. “I told the Lord I was going to stay all night or until Lem gets better. Everybody in this house is a witness to my promise. Ain’t his pain been caused by me?”
“You stop such talk.”
“If Ben hadn’t called the police, then maybe . . .” She swallowed hard, her eyes glistening. “No, it’s more than that. I’ve been bad, Reverend. Unclean.”
“What’re you talkin’ ’bout? What’s happened ain’t your fault or your husband’s. It’s all God’s will, you know that. Now I don’t want our church to come between you and Ben.”
“I don’t wanna go home . . . can’t. Ben’s working late anyway. Ain’t nobody for me to be home for.”
The Reverend put his hands gently on her shoulders. The woman seemed so fragile that McCrae’s powerful grasp would crush her. Instead, his hands seemed to uplift Claire. She stood straighter, and some color returned to her cheeks.
He said, “Go home ’n’ get some rest. Make peace with your husband.”
“But I promised. . . .”
“The Lord don’t want that kind a’ promise, seein’ the pain it causes you. You go on home.”
She nodded. “In another hour or so, I promise. Thank you, Reverend.”
“Lord bless you, child,” he replied, then led the other men through a screen door to the back porch.
They sat in creaking wooden chairs around a card table. Above the screen door a single naked bulb, obscured by dirt and swarming flies, filtered a grayish light over the men. Rosen could barely distinguish McCrae sitting across the table but felt the Reverend’s eyes staring into him. In the backyard fireflies intermittently pinpointed the darkness, reminding him how tenuous his existence was in the great black void of God’s endless night. A man like McCrae walked through that void certain that, in the valley of the shadow of death, there was no evil to fear, for God walked beside him. Rosen’s father had walked with that same certainty, as Rosen once had, but so long ago he barely remembered.
Jesse said, “Nate is with a civil liberties group, the Committee to Defend the Constitution. He came here at my request to help defend you against what happened in church last Friday evening.”
McCrae replied, “We’re simple folk and don’t wanna agitate the law, but nothin’s gonna stop us from followin’ the word a’ God. It’s all in the Bible, plain as day. If’n we gotta fight for the Lord’s way, His will be done.”
Popper said, “Amen. Gentlemen, you don’t know the hardship Gideon’s faced preaching the Word. His church was burned down in West Virginia. Why even here in Earlyville, there’ve been problems. Tell them about the break-in.”
“Weren’t nothin’,” McCrae said. “Last week, when we was at church, somebody broke in here. Messed up my room ’n’ Sheba’s. Turned some drawers inside out. They didn’ take nothin’—ain’t got nothin’ worth stealin’.”
“Just more harassment. Ain’t that a violation of our First Amendment rights?”
“Possibly,” Rosen replied, taking the transcript of the tape from his inside coat pocket. “Reverend McCrae, I don’t think you’ll have to go to court, not unless you want to.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Did you know that Jesse tape-recorded the service?”
“No, but we got nothin’ to hide.”
Flipping several pages, Rosen leaned close and could barely read the words in the gray light. “This section . . . after the police chief and his deputies entered the church. Up until that moment, no one was hurt by the rattlesnakes . . . is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Then Chief Whitcomb told everyone to stop, that they were violating the law. He’s handed a shotgun by a policeman and says he’s talking about ‘the law against using them rattlers to endanger anybody’s life. Now I’m done talking. You best do what I say.’ It’s at that moment Lemuel Banks is bitten. Did Whitcomb make a menacing gesture with the shotgun?”
McCrae said, “Mister, a man holdin’ a shotgun on you ain’t exactly the Christian kiss.”
“I understand he struck a chair, startling Mr. Banks and making him lose his concentration.”
“That’s right.”
Rosen stretched back in his chair. “There it is. Jesse has already scheduled a nine o’clock meeting tomorrow morning with the district attorney. If we present this transcript, a copy of the tape, and depositions signed by Jesse and those others who attended the service, I don’t think the state of Tennessee will want to take this case to court. We can argue that the service was peaceful, orderly, and nonthreatening until the police came. That, in fact, by his aggressive words and actions, Chief Whitcomb actually caused Lemuel Banks to be bitten. That would leave his department open to several potential lawsuits, including defaming the church and its minister, as well as a suit for personal injury by Lemuel against Whitcomb. Not that it would ever go that far. As I said, once the district attorney sees the potential damage to the state, he’ll back off.”
For a minute no one spoke. Finally McCrae said, “Ain’t sure I follow you. You’re sayin’ there ain’t gonna be no court case?”
Jesse nodded. “That’s right, Reverend. Once we have your permission, all Nate and I have to do is speak to the district attorney. There shouldn’t be any trouble at all.”
McCrae spoke directly to Rosen. “Nothin’s ever easy as it seems. A minute ago you said, ‘. . . if we present the transcript. . . .’ Why wouldn’t we? Why the ‘if’?”
Rosen almost smiled; there was something much more to the man. “Jesse told you I work for a civil liberties group. I was sent for the sole purpose of constructing a First Amendment defense—that the Tennessee statute against serpent handling is itself a violation of your constitutionally protected religious freedom.”
After a few moments of silence, McCrae said, “You wanna put the law on trial. That it?”
“That’s it exactly. Or that was it, until I heard the tape and a probable way of avoiding a trial altogether.”
“Makin’ your trip down here for nothin’.”
Rosen shrugged. “Tomorrow morning Jesse and I will talk to the district attorney and—”
“Does it have to be that way?” Popper Johnston asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Couldn’t Gideon go ahead with that freedom of religion defense and have his day in court?”
“Of course he could, if he wanted to ignore the police chief’s actions and agree to make this a test case of the statute. We’d probably lose in the Tennessee courts but appeal as far as possible
, even to the U.S. Supreme Court. It would take a long time, years, and require quite a personal commitment on Reverend McCrae’s part. What’s your interest in this case, Mr. Johnston?”
“Call me Popper.” His fingers drummed the table. “Guess I could tell you a pack of lies but, as Cousin Gideon knows, I’m done with lying. Lying, smoking, drinking, gambling, drugs—done with all them, thanks to Cousin Gideon and the church. He saved me, just the same as pulling me out of the fire.”
“The Lord saved you,” McCrae said.
“Well, you were sure His instrument. And it’s my intent to help you spread the Lord’s word the best way I know. This here trial Mr. Rosen’s talking about could help.”
“How’s that?” Rosen asked.
“I used to work in Nashville managing singing groups. Maybe you heard of the Taylor Family, the Jonesboro Outlaws, Grandma Sara Salter. No . . . well, I made good money handling them. One thing I learned in the music business, it pays to advertise. Last few months I’ve been trying to convince Cousin Gideon that religion can work the same way. You seen all them preachers on television who don’t have near the power of the Lord over them. I’m working right now on a deal with a local network that could send Cousin Gideon’s message to thousands of folks. And that’s only a start. Course, it’s hard for a newcomer breaking in.”
Rosen said, “That’s where a court case could be very useful. All that free publicity . . .”
“Yeah.”
“. . . putting Reverend McCrae at the forefront of the struggle for religious freedom. All those news articles, talk shows . . .”
“Exactly!”
“I can just see him and his snakes with Geraldo Rivera.”
Popper clapped his hands. “You understand my meaning exactly.” Turning to his cousin he added, “See how this could spread the Word of the Lord? See what this could do for all of us? What do you say?” His fingers drummed the table nervously.
McCrae looked at Popper, until the other man’s hands fell to his sides. Then he said, “I appreciate what you’re doin’ for the church, as long as you never forget that it’s for the church ’n’ not any one man in it. As for this here trial, like I said before, I ain’t one to go botherin’ the law. A man’s gotta fear the Lord first, then respect the law, otherwise what kind a world would there be? You see enough a’ Sodom on any city street Drinkin’, gamblin’, women dressed like whores ’n’ call it fashion, fornicatin’, men layin’ with men—shameless, all shameless! It’s a wonder God don’t wash the whole world away like hosin’ out a stinkin’ garbage can.”
He stopped to rub a shirtsleeve across his forehead, while his breath grew slow and heavy. Coughing loudly, he added, “Let these here gentlemen fix things quiet-like so there’s no fuss.”
“But Gideon . . .”
McCrae shook his head. “‘But he made hisself of no reputation, and took upon him the form of a servant, and was made in the likeness of men. . . .’ If our Lord and Savior chose to humble hisself, then that’s the path we all must take.” To Rosen, “I want to thank you kindly for your help, you and Mr. Compton. Will you need me to come down with you to the district attorney?”
“No, but Jesse and I had better be going. We have that nine a.m. meeting with the D.A. If all goes according to plan, the charges against you should be dropped. That means I probably won’t be seeing you again.”
The four men stood; once again he shook McCrae’s hand. The Talmud said never rush to judgment, and Rosen hadn’t. Still, he hated to leave town without knowing the kind of man McCrae really was. The man who wound serpents around his arms for the same reason that he, as a boy, wound the leather phylacteries around his. Was that same God he had fled still so close? Looking into McCrae’s deep, dark eyes, did Rosen see mocking him that old reflection of himself?
Chapter Five
monday morning
District Attorney Paul Grimes was a thin man with hands like talons. His balding pate accentuated a large hooked nose and, sitting behind a mahogany desk, he moved his head from side to side while reading, as if both eyes couldn’t focus together. His eyes were the color of autumn drizzle.
Across from Grimes, Jesse lit a cigarette and was glad that Rosen sat beside him. The D.A. had admitted them immediately; that was the least he could do, since he and Jesse belonged to the same country club. Grimes seemed a bit nervous, idly jotting a few notes. It was damn awkward. At least Rosen could do most of the talking and take care of this unpleasantness as quickly as possible. Closing his eyes for a moment, Jesse thought of Bathsheba and how, after dropping Rosen at the airport, he’d drive to her house with the good news. They would go for a walk, perhaps he’d ask her out and she’d agree. The movies, if her church permitted it, then . . .
“Sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting,” Grimes said, folding his hands on the desk. His fingers didn’t quite fit together. “Hello, Jesse. How’s your mamma? I hear she’s still in the hospital.”
“Doing as well as expected. Pneumonia is very dangerous at her age.”
“What isn’t?”
They both smiled.
Grimes said, “I must admit my surprise at finding your name as defense counsel for this . . . Gideon McCrae. I didn’t realize you still practiced law. It’s been years, hasn’t it?”
“I’ve always thought that law was like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you never forget.”
“Yes, well, I mean, in a case like this . . .”
“Paul, this is my friend Nate Rosen. He works for the Committee to Defend the Constitution.”
“Don’t believe I’ve heard of that organization.”
Rosen said, “It’s similar to the ACLU.”
The D.A’s smile faded like snow under a hot sun. “I have another meeting at ten o’clock. Shall we get down to business?” He turned to Jesse. “I take it you’re representing this Gideon McCrae.”
Rosen said, “Reverend McCrae.”
“I’m afraid my department’s going to pursue this case. It’s more than a simple disturbing the peace. Your Mr. McCrae was in clear violation of Tennessee law by bringing poisonous snakes into his church. That’s assuming Lemuel Banks doesn’t die. If he does, then the charges may—”
“Banks’s condition is improving,” Jesse said. “He should make a full recovery.”
“Let’s hope so. If you’re here because McCrae wants to plead guilty and save the state some time and money, maybe we can talk about a reduced sentence. But he needs to stop breaking the law. We don’t want any more trouble from him or his church. In fact, he might consider leaving the county.”
“Reverend McCrae has assured us that he doesn’t want to make any trouble.”
“Well, he’s showing good sense.”
Rosen asked, “Mind if I play through?”
“Excuse me?”
“I get the feeling you both think you’re at the country club and regard Reverend McCrae as a little unpleasantness, like a shower on the eighteenth hole.”
“I really don’t understand. . . .”
“Why is it so important to bring this case to trial?”
The D.A. shuffled some papers as his skin slowly turned the color of cold shrimp. “He broke the law.”
“There’s more to it than that. Reverend McCrae and his people weren’t even disturbing the peace. They were inside a house of worship minding their own business.”
“You’re an outsider, Mr. Rosen. Where’re you from . . . New York?”
“Washington, D.C.”
He shook his head. “What’d you think when you first heard about McCrae and his rattlesnakes? I’ll tell you. ‘What do you expect from a bunch of redneck crackers?’ Well, that’s not what we want folks thinking of Tennessee. We don’t go rolling ’round on the floor, frothing at the mouth, ripping off our clothes and screaming ‘Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!’ That kind of behavior’s more common to the crackheads of Washington, D.C. Heroin, cocaine, street gangs with Uzis—you got yourself a real jungle there.”
Je
sse said, “Now, Paul, you must admit we have our share of problems in Earlyville. What about that story in the paper about a man arrested for selling marijuana two blocks from the courthouse?”
“I’d hardly equate a little problem with marijuana to the hell that’s breaking loose all over the country.”
“I didn’t mean . . .”
“Besides, that’s not the reason you’re here.”
Rosen said, “I agree. We’re here to discuss the Constitution and Reverend McCrae’s First Amendment rights.”
“Don’t give me that crap. Want to play first-year law school? What if your religion commands you to make human sacrifice? We’re talking about a man who endangers others with poisonous snakes. You know damn well any freedom can be restricted when you threaten the community.”
Grimes and Rosen stared at each other like two gunfighters.
Jesse crushed a cigarette butt, then lit another. “Nate, shouldn’t you show Paul the transcript and my deposition?”
From his inside coat pocket, Rosen handed the papers to the D.A., as well as a copy of the cassette. “Jesse was at the church Friday night. As part of a research project, he recorded the entire service, which has been transcribed. We’d like to call your attention to pages sixteen and seventeen, where I’ve marked them, as well as the last page of Jesse’s sworn deposition.”
Grimes reworked the crease down the center of the papers until the manuscript lay flat. He began with page one, bending forward and shifting from eye to eye every few pages. After he finished, he returned to page sixteen and reread the next two pages. Then he carefully reviewed Jesse’s deposition.
The intercom buzzed, and his secretary said, “You’ve got that ten o’clock appointment with the zoning commission over at the courthouse.”
Rubbing his eyes, he replied, “Tell Bud Henshaw I might be a few minutes late. Hold any calls.” He looked at Rosen. “I don’t see this making a bit of difference. On the contrary, it establishes that poisonous snakes were used in the service conducted by Gideon McCrae and that Lemuel Banks was bitten by one of them.”
