Maxwell jerked his head and stared at the phone when a sharp click on the line announced that Christine had hung up on him.
He returned his attention to the TV and turned up the volume. It didn’t take long before he’d heard too much. The irritating call was easier to shake off than the troubling thoughts about Deacon Burton. Maxwell got up from his chair, schlepped across the room to the bathroom, and turned on the faucet. The cold water ran down the drain until he shoved his hands underneath the fixture. He allowed the water to run over his hands and then his wrists, hoping his pulse would slow and his rapid breathing would calm. Finally, he bent over the sink and splashed the cold water on his face. He stood up and faced the man in the mirror, with water dripping from his chin.
He was tired of hearing how sad the community was to lay such a beloved man to rest. The TV news and the newspapers were making Deacon Burton out to be a saint. His thoughts chased one another. There were no saints, dead or alive. Maxwell was sick of dealing with charlatans. He shut off the water and snagged a hand towel from the cabinet under the sink. He wiped his face dry and shifted his tie into place.
Back at his desk, he shut off the TV, made a few phone calls, and answered some e-mails. He tried diligently to shift into that single gear that allowed him to concentrate diligently on a task until it was completed, regardless of the obstacles or interruptions. After several failed attempts, Maxwell realized he wasn’t able to concentrate. A nagging feeling that he should be somewhere else would not release him. After a quick check of his watch, he put on his suit jacket. Maxwell stopped at his assistant’s desk on his way out.
“I need to run out for a bit. I’ll be back soon,” he announced.
Minutes later he was in his car, zipping down the expressway and trying not to think of what he was about to do or why. Especially since it wasn’t the wisest thing he’d ever done. Nobody could see him. There would be no way to explain why he’d shown up in the parking lot. He pressed a button on the steering wheel, and music filled the car. He raised the volume a couple of notches. Drowning out his doubts had to be possible somehow.
Maxwell exited the expressway and drove the short distance to a destination that beckoned him like water on a hot day. There stood the tall edifice, which he’d recently visited. A line of cars crept along, seemingly searching for a parking spot. A black limousine was quite a ways in front of him. He assumed the deacon’s wife and sons were inside it, and probably Sonya too. Maxwell gripped the steering wheel tighter. He was almost at the entrance, where the parking lot attendants in orange jackets directed traffic. He grabbed his Ray-Ban sunglasses from the console and slid them on. He felt a bit less recognizable behind the dark lenses.
Driving slowly, he saw the limousine stop at the front steps of the church. Maxwell was forced to wait until the car in front of him eased up a few more inches. Maxwell tapped his fingers on top of the steering wheel. A couple of minutes later he was two car lengths away from the limousine when the driver got out, opened the back door, and extended his hand. The deacon’s wife stepped from the car, dressed in black and wearing a netted veil. Her two young boys climbed out of the backseat behind her.
There was only one car in front of Maxwell now. He could see his targets clearly. The shorter boy, who looked to be the youngest, flung his body into his mother. She appeared thinner than he remembered her being in the courtroom last year. The boy seemed to be shaking as Maxwell inched his car closer. He pushed his sunglasses down toward the end of his nose and peered over the top of the rims. He watched Mrs. Burton lift the veil from her face and kiss the young boy’s cheek as she dried his tears with a white handkerchief. The two boys positioned themselves on each side of her. She held their hands as they climbed the steps together.
Maxwell’s gaze was fixated on the family, and then the piercing car horn behind him jolted his attention back to the line of traffic ahead of him. It had moved, and he had not. He inched along while watching the widow and the deacon’s sons walk through the large polished wooden double doors until they were out of sight. Maxwell reflected on the feeling of loss and abandonment that awaited them inside the church and that would stay with them for days to come.
Peering ahead, he saw that news reporters were talking to some of the people as they approached the sidewalk near the entrance. Camera crews were snapping pictures. He couldn’t risk being seen and having his picture end up on the front page of the paper, with some crazy caption. He had to scope out a quick escape. A man in an orange jacket frantically waved his hand for Maxwell to stop holding up traffic. After adjusting his shades to be certain his identity was concealed, he made the nearest exit his destination. He removed his foot from the brake pedal and pressed forward. He maneuvered his way out of the congestion and past the reporters. He was pleased to have made a clean getaway. No one would know he’d been there; no one except him.
Chapter 23
Early morning offered a whisper of humidity, which promised to turn into a cloak of sweltering heat by noonday. Maxwell left his home, the place where he slept, stored his valuable artwork, and showcased a piano that he hardly ever touched. Troubling images from yesterday rode along with Maxwell on his drive to the office. Glimpses of the televised funeral procession meshed with images of the deacon’s sons climbing the steps into the church gnawed at him. After a fifteen-minute ride and a brief stop for coffee, he was at his firm downtown. He hustled to his suite on the fourth floor. The office was lifeless, and he was grateful for an hour of solitude. He opened the window blinds, plopped down into his chair, stretched out his legs, and planted his heels on the corner of the desk. With his eyes shut, he drank in the peace and quiet his sanctuary offered. Ten minutes later, he was ready to tackle the day.
He picked up the stack of mail sitting in the middle of his desk and sifted through it. The manila envelope with no return address stopped him. He turned it over and found nothing on the back side. He slid a pearl-handled letter opener under the flap and broke the seal. An obituary clipping fell out. Deacon Steve Burton’s wide smile consumed the page. He flung the obituary onto his desk as if it were on fire and had scorched his fingertips. His coffee fell over when he snatched his feet down from the desktop.
“Shoot.” Maxwell shouted as he brushed the coffee from his pant leg and reached for the tissues on his desk. Pacing the floor, he wondered who’d sent the envelope and why. He scratched his head. Could it be Bishop Jones? Although he was in prison, the bishop could have had someone mail it for him. Maybe it was that shifty Minister Simmons, who was locked up with Jones. Maxwell didn’t know what to think.
The pacing came to an abrupt halt. He loosened his tie, got paper towels from the bathroom, and wiped up the spill. Then he stuffed the obituary back into the envelope and dropped it into the wastebasket. Within seconds, he retrieved the envelope. Somehow it just seemed disrespectful to toss it in the trash, but there needed to be distance between him and the deacon’s haunting image. The box housing leftover Greater Metropolitan files was a good place to put it to rest. He tucked the paper away as a gnawing discomfort in his gut would not settle down. That was it . . . done. He had no control over that man’s destiny, good or bad. Just then Maxwell’s last meal climbed up his throat. The foul, bitter taste of a pending eruption sent Maxwell dashing to the bathroom.
An hour later, his firm was in full swing. His paralegal, his assistant, and a parade of clients spoke to the fast-paced environment that he loved. Preparing for an upcoming court appearance, Maxwell sat in the quaint law library and reviewed a brief that had been prepared by his paralegal. He marked it up with a red pen, made notes in the margins, and read it over twice. With his fingers tracing along the document and head shaking back and forth, he punched a button on the intercom.
“Would you come into the library please?” After he’d taken a long, cool drink from a water bottle, his paralegal joined him.
“Yes, Mr. Montgomery? Did you need my help?”
“Have a seat. Is this the final
draft of the brief you prepared for the Graham case?” He pushed the brief across the table to her.
She flipped through the pages and responded, “Yes, it is.”
Maxwell reached for the brief. “I mentioned some specific case law that I wanted you to include, which you did not. The summary is weak. The main problem is your lack of precedence. There were plenty of previous rulings that you could have cited and didn’t.” The unsatisfied attorney poked the brief with his index finger. “I need to be able to rely on you. I don’t have time to redo your work. If that’s what I have to do, then I don’t need your services. Can you do this job or not?” Leaning back in his chair, he flung his right leg over his left knee, and his foot bounced up and down as he awaited her response.
She rested her hands, with threaded fingers, on top of the table and looked into his eyes. “I am twenty-seven years old, and this is my second job as a paralegal. My former employer gave me a great recommendation, which you said was impressive and was one of the reasons you hired me. I’ve tried to do a good job for you, although nothing I do seems to be good enough.” She stared at the legal brief in front of him. “I know you had a great paralegal before me. You said that yourself, and I hear the same thing buzzing around the office whenever you are not pleased with my work. May I be candid?”
“Please do.” Seeing that she’d already been candid, he couldn’t imagine what else there was to say.
“I think it’s because you expect me to step in and pick up where your other paralegal left off. The fact that you have no confidence in me isn’t fair. You have me double-and triple-check everything, and then you still check it too.” She pulled her hands down into her lap. “I hope I am not out of line, but you reprimand me at every turn.” She cleared her throat and folded in her bottom lip.
The courage she exhibited in speaking her mind was unexpected. He stood, stepped quietly over to the window. Sunlight rushed into the room. Maxwell needed a paralegal he could count on now more than ever. He wouldn’t admit it, but he had an escalating concern about making a mistake with each case. For that reason alone, he would not rip her apart. “There is never a reason for mediocrity. In this law firm, we go above and beyond.” The sun cast a shadow on the conference table, making Maxwell appear taller than his five feet eleven inches. “Relax. I’m not the big bad wolf. I’m not trying to make you nervous. I do, however, expect you to be loyal, hardworking, and an expert in your field. So if there is something you need from me that will help you to be better prepared, let me know. Going forward, I expect you to deliver a quality product ten times out of ten, with no exceptions. Are we clear?” He held her gaze with a powerful silence.
“Totally.” With her body turning slightly in the chair, the paralegal followed him with her eyes from the window back to the head of the table. “Thank you, Mr. Montgomery. I will digest the notes you’ve made and will provide you with a revised brief. You won’t be disappointed again.” She scooped up the brief from the table and made a hurried exit.
His day had begun with an obituary and the picture of a dead man thrown in his face. It was midday, and his employee had implied that he was intimidating, hard to please, and unsure of himself. What was next?
Chapter 24
The muggy air was interrupted by an occasional cool breeze that swept in to offer temporary relief. Maxwell placed his shades on the bridge of his nose while walking down the courthouse steps. His case was one court date away from a guilty verdict. Maxwell had already added it to the win column of his undefeated record. He strolled two blocks before reaching the city hall building. After filing the documents, he had enough time to make it back to his office for his afternoon meeting. It was shaping up to be a great day.
When Maxwell was a few steps away from the parking garage, he wiped the sweat from his brow. He couldn’t wait to blast the air-conditioning in his vehicle. Perhaps the cool air would gently usher him toward the meeting he was headed off to. He took a quick swipe at his forehead, brushing away the beads of sweat resting there. If only wiping thoughts of the deacon from his mind were just as easy.
Maxwell was determined not to be late and stepped up his pace. He gripped the handle of his briefcase tighter as he rounded the corner. Maxwell’s eyelids widened as he gasped and jumped back a couple of steps to avoid crashing into a man who was coming around the corner from the opposite direction. The man stopped mid-stride.
“Well, if it isn’t Attorney Maxwell Montgomery. What a surprise running into you, literally,” Pastor Harris said, humored. “How have you been?”
“I’m good. Just busy.” Maxwell extended his hand.
Pastor Harris shook his hand without overthinking the encounter. He’d stopped trying to figure out why God kept putting Maxwell in his path. He wasted no time wondering. He would just follow God’s lead when it came to Maxwell Montgomery.
“I’m in a hurry. Good to see you, but I better get going,” Maxwell added.
“Okay. Then I’ll catch you another time.” The pastor began walking away but then turned back. “The doors to the church are open anytime you want to visit. We’d love to have you. In the meantime, I’m praying for you and your family,” Pastor Harris told him. Then he turned and trotted down the sidewalk.
There was no response given. Maxwell didn’t need his prayers. Didn’t the good preacher have enough folks to pray for? According to Garrett, Faith Temple was taking in over a half a million dollars a week in collections. His prayers could be directed to the paying customers, and he could leave Maxwell out of it. Pastor Harris didn’t know it yet, but his glory days were coming to an end. And when Maxwell was finished, the pastor would be concentrating his prayers on himself, with none to spare.
Ten minutes away from his office, Maxwell gave in to what he called curiosity, as he refused to label the emotion as anything else. He made a quick phone call first. “I need you to push my two o’clock meeting back a couple of hours. Something’s come up. Give me a call back if you have a problem rescheduling.”
“Sure, Mr. Montgomery. You’ve got several messages and a package that was delivered.”
“It will have to wait until I get in.” He ended the call and made a hard U-turn as his tires squealed loudly. Then he cranked the volume of the radio louder than usual. Perhaps the noise would drown out the loud voice telling him to go back and forget about what he was about to do. If Maxwell gave it too much thought, he might not do it.
What could he say when he got there? Would she listen to him? Would he even be able to get past the doorstep? For once, he had no plan of attack. He simply felt compelled to drive to the house on Stenton Avenue, and the closer he got to his destination, the stronger the pull became. He pressed down on the accelerator. The sooner he got there, the better.
He drove through the neighborhood. Nice homes, nothing fancy, but the homes and lawns were well kept. He turned the corner and reduced his speed. His car’s navigational tool took him to the address he’d recalled seeing numerous times in the case files last year, before turning his evidence over to the prosecutor. As Maxwell approached a house in the middle of the block, he saw two boys playing basketball in the driveway. He wanted to get a closer look. The basketball rolled toward the end of the drive. The shorter boy of the two ran after the ball. Maxwell turned his head away and glanced across the street.
Why did he do that? He didn’t typically avoid any challenge or uncomfortable situation. Surely, he could look a little boy in the eyes. He’d stared down plenty of crooks in his line of work. He parked the car at the curb, shut off the engine, then took the uneasy steps that placed him at the front door. Ironically, he was standing on a doormat that said WELCOME. He was sure that didn’t apply to him. He heard the doorbell ring inside the house when he pushed the button.
“Hey, mister. Who are you looking for?”
The boys had stopped playing basketball. The taller, older-looking boy had spoken, forcing Maxwell to face him. “I’m looking for Mrs. Burton. Is she your mom?” His gaze shi
fted to the other boy and then back to the boy who’d spoken to him.
“Yes. She’s in the house.”
“Is this your brother?” Before Maxwell could get the answer he wanted, the wooden front door flung open.
“Don’t you talk to my boys. Don’t you dare talk to my boys.” Her hands flapped in the air. “Go in the house. Right now. Go,” she told her sons.
Maxwell waited until the boys were out of sight. Then he said, “I’m Maxwell Montgomery, and I—”
“I know exactly who you are. You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here. Haven’t you done enough? Did you come here to get my sons too?” She stepped from the doorway and onto the welcome mat, forcing Maxwell to stumble backward to get out of her way. Her head jerked from left to right. “Did you bring the police with you? I guess you came to arrest me next.”
The unwelcome visitor wondered if the neighbors were watching. He didn’t need anyone recognizing him. “Can we talk inside? I promise to be brief.”
“Ha. Your promises aren’t worth a rusty penny. You promised Steve you would help him stay out of prison. The world can see what that promise was worth.” Mrs. Burton spread her arms wide in front of her, forcing him backward another step.
Maxwell sucked in a deep breath that stung his chest. His words were much softer than hers. “I know I could have handled things differently. I’m not saying that your husband was innocent. I’m simply acknowledging that I could have referred him to a defense attorney, discussed his options with him, or taken his call one of the several times he tried reaching me.”
Maxwell’s stare slumped, along with his body. He lifted his hands in front of him, making something akin to the gesture of surrender. He’d talk fast before she cut him off again and possibly slammed the door in his face. “It was my job to build a case with the evidence that I had. I honestly believed that evidence was used to prosecute the guilty parties. I had no control over that. I regret that your sons will grow up without their father. I truly do.” His voice cracked. “I lived through something similar myself.”
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