Mac handed the envelope to David, who silently looked at each one then put them back in the envelope.
“Do you still want to defend Thomason?”
“I’m hoping he didn’t do this.”
“What if he did?”
“Has he told you that?”
“No. So far, he consistently says he doesn’t remember anything.”
“Then he needs lawyers to represent him through the process.”
“Good enough. Here is a key to my office so you can come and go to do research as you please. What kind of secretarial support do you have?”
David held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Forty-eight words a minute with only two errors.”
Mac shook his head. “No. Judy Boyington, my secretary, can handle all the typing. Here’s a tape recorder and a pack of blank tapes.”
David put the recorder and tapes in his coat pocket.
“My paralegal is Vicki Lorain. She can do most everything we do except sign pleadings and appear in court. Of course, you’ve met Mindy.”
“Yes.”
“This weekend I want you to do your own review of the file and prepare a detailed memo identifying every legal and factual issue that you think is important and relevant. At this point I’m not as interested in answers as making sure we know all the questions.”
10
I have set watchmen upon thy walls, O Jerusalem.
ISAIAH 62:6 (KJV)
Mac spent all day Saturday at the office working on his “other business,” the term that now applied to everything except the murder case. David didn’t show up, and Mac concluded the young lawyer probably decided to spread the Thomason case papers across the floor of his apartment.
While he worked, Mac listened to the Georgia football game on a small radio he kept in his office. In Mac’s opinion, listening to the game on the radio was better than watching it on television. Larry Munson, the “legendary voice of the Georgia Bulldogs,” could create a scene with words that was more graphic in the imagination than what could be seen with the natural eye. Mac could still replay Munson’s description of the hysteria of the crowd after a final score by the Georgia team against the University of Florida many years before.
Today, Georgia easily won its game against a weaker opponent, and that settled Mac’s plans for the following morning. He would put on his red sport coat and go to church.
When Laura and the boys had been alive, the McClain family’s commitment to church was not linked to the fate of a football team. Laura McClain—together with Celeste Jamison and a few other women—was a member of the Mable Ray Circle.
Since time immemorial, Presbyterian women have met together in small groups called “circles,” so named because the ladies often placed their chairs in a circle. There were morning circles, luncheon circles, afternoon circles, and evening circles. Some of the circles were the female counterparts to Mac’s Sunday school class, and the women who attended had more interest in gardening than God. But for ten years before her death, Laura belonged to the Mable Ray Circle, a gathering of five to seven women who met in a small study adjacent to the main sanctuary every Tuesday morning from 9:00 until 11:00.
The Mable Ray Circle began in 1942. Mrs. Ray and four other women met together once a week for one purpose—prayer. No donuts, no coffee. Just prayer. It was a serious time; the world was at war, and the women focused their intercession on behalf of the men and women from Dennison Springs serving in the armed forces during World War II. For three years they prayed diligently on behalf of those in harm’s way. It didn’t matter whether the soldier, sailor, or airman was Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, Pentecostal, white, black, brown, rich, or poor—the women prayed. At Mrs. Ray’s suggestion, they recorded in notebooks the prayers offered for each person. After the war ended, the answers to their prayers came to light. Men and women returned to Echota County and told about their wartime experiences. Time and time again the prayer journals revealed precise prayers for specific individuals at crucial times—undeniable proof of the involvement of the Holy Spirit in the prayers of God’s children. Mrs. Ray died in 1948, but the prayer group did not die with her, and the women voted to name the circle in her honor and memory.
Other leaders arose, but the focus of the circle remained true to Holy Spirit—inspired, specific prayer. In the 1950s, the group interceded for those who served in the Korean War. In the 1960s, they prayed Dennison Springs through the racial tensions surrounding integration of the schools and societal recognition of equality between the races. In the 1970s, the group prayed earnestly for the children and teenagers who faced the advent of drugs to the area. Many young people’s lives were spared, saved, and changed because of the prayers of a small group of women in a Presbyterian church. Occasionally the circle touched on national or international issues, but the bread and butter of their activity remained prayer for the Dennison Springs area. The prayer notebooks, neatly organized and indexed, stood as witnesses to their faithfulness on shelves in the room where they met.
Mac had been aware of the Mable Ray Circle before Laura became involved. As a boy, he’d heard some of the wartime prayer stories, but the notion of prayer as an active force in the affairs of men and women did not fit within his outlook on life. Laura’s involvement puzzled him, and after she started going to the meetings, Mac noticed that she talked about Jesus in a different way, as if he lived two houses down the street.
After a joyous time celebrating Georgia’s victory in Sunday school, Mac stopped for a drink at the water fountain in the hallway. When he raised his head, he saw Celeste Jamison exiting her Sunday school class. Celeste’s eye caught his, and she waved her hand.
“Mac! Do you have a minute?” she called out.
Mac waited until she made her way to him through the crowded hallway.
“I read in the paper that you’re representing the man charged with killing the Hightower girl.”
“Yes. You won’t read much more because the judge has ordered a media blackout. Of course, I can’t say anything about it anyway.”
“Oh, I didn’t want to ask you questions about the case,” Celeste replied. “I wanted you to know that we are praying about the situation on Tuesday mornings.”
“You are?”
“Yes, we discussed it at our meeting and everyone believes the situation needs our prayers.”
Mac’s mind raced in a couple of directions at once. What would the women pray? For Pete’s acquittal? For his conviction? For Joe Whetstone? Did they really believe their little group could make a difference? If they could, did he want them meddling in the situation?
He settled on the most noncommittal response that came to mind and said, “That’s interesting.”
Celeste continued, “If there is something specific you want to pass along to us for prayer without violating the rules, give me a call.”
Clueless about what that might be, Mac said, “I’ll do that.”
“Don’t forget,” she said, turning toward the stairwell that led to the sanctuary.
Mac left the building and between the exit and his car promptly forgot what Celeste Jamison had said.
Mac drove directly to his office. Several hours later he was finishing a memo to Ray Morrison when the doorbell rang. He looked out the window. On his front step stood Anna Wilkes, dressed casually in a University of Virginia sweatshirt and jeans, accompanied by a dark-haired boy of ten or eleven with his mother’s eyes and nose. Mac opened the door.
“Come in. I meant to unlock the door.”
Anna greeted him with a smile and introduced her son. “Mr. McClain, this is Hunter.”
Mac shook the boy’s hand. “Have a seat in the library,” he said, leading them into the former dining room now lined with bookcases. A computer terminal nestled in the corner. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.
“We’re going to eat lunch as soon as we leave here,” Anna said.
“I’m thirsty,” Hunter said. “Could I have something?”
“Do you have any spring water?” Anna asked.
“In the refrigerator,” Mac answered, wondering if he ought to buy stock in the bottled water company.
While Hunter drank his water, Mac asked Anna, “Where do you want to go?”
“Are apples in season?”
“They should be.”
“Where are the best orchards?”
“About an hour from here.” Mac spread a map out on the table.
“I’d like to take Hunter to a big orchard. Maybe someplace where we could pick our own.”
“That should be easy enough to find.” Mac put his finger on the map. “We’re here. You will take Highway 53 east until it intersects U.S. 411 south. Go south several miles until you pass a lumberyard. There is an intersection with a convenience store on the left and a place where a man in old, blue overalls boils peanuts in a big iron pot over an open fire beside the road. Buy some peanuts to eat in the car.”
“Boiled peanuts? I’m not sure about that.”
“You want Hunter to have a comprehensive, north Georgia mountains cultural experience, don’t you?”
“I’ve never eaten a boiled peanut,” Hunter said. “What do they taste like?”
Mac rolled his tongue in his mouth. “A good boiled peanut is hot and salty on the outside with a little bit of crunch left in it when you bite down to chew. Once you start eating them it’s hard to stop until the bag is empty.”
Anna smiled. “I’m still not sure about boiled peanuts.”
“Just something to consider. Turn left at the peanut pot and go a few hundred yards to an intersection. You will see a historic marker on the right. Turn right. You are now on a road that follows one of the original Indian trails across this region. After passing the marker you will drive under a very low railroad bridge. The bridge is old, and I would not want to be under it when a train passed over.”
“Okay. Stop before the bridge if there is a train in view.”
“You will come to Highway 282.”
“Where are we going to eat lunch?” Hunter interrupted.
“That’s easy,” Mac said. “There is a great restaurant on the way. It’s before you reach the boiled peanut spot, so you can have the peanuts for dessert.”
“Is that where you ate lunch?” Hunter asked.
“Uh, no. I’ve been working. I haven’t eaten lunch today.”
“Why don’t you have lunch with us?” Hunter asked. “You could make sure we find the man who sells the boiled peanuts.”
“Well—”
“That’s a good idea,” Anna said.
Mac hesitated. “I’m not trying to intrude on your time together.”
“Not at all. I know you’re busy, but it would do you good to take a break for an hour or so.”
Mac smiled. “Is that your advice as a psychologist licensed in the state of Georgia?”
“If that’s what you need to hear—yes.”
Mac stretched. “Okay. Talking about boiled peanuts has made me hungry.”
Mac locked the front door. “The after-church crowd should be clearing out of the restaurant by now. You and Hunter can follow me in your car.”
Josie’s Restaurant didn’t serve lunch on Sunday in the fall and winter, but Mac had more than one restaurant on his fine-dining menu.
The Rock Springs Restaurant sat comfortably beside the main route from Dennison Springs to the mountains in the east. Unlike Josie’s, which featured a self-service buffet line, the Rock Springs Restaurant employed waitresses who took orders and brought customers generous plates of food. The owner of the eating establishment—a large, older woman with a gray, beehive hairdo—always sat at the cash register surveying her domain.
“Hey, Mac,” several employees called out as the threesome made their way to a table for four.
“You’re something of a celebrity,” Anna commented.
“Not really. Watch what happens to the older couple that followed us in from the parking lot.”
In a few seconds, an elderly man and a woman with a cane walked in and were welcomed by name with a similar chorus of hellos.
The menu was a single sheet of paper with the meat items listed at the top, the vegetables underneath, and desserts at the bottom.
“What do you recommend?” Anna asked.
Mac put on his glasses and reviewed the day’s offerings. “The meat loaf is tasty. The broiled fish is consistently good. But the fried chicken livers are outstanding. Crisp, not too greasy, with a light brown crust. They melt in your mouth after a few seconds even if you decide not to chew them.”
“Is that what you’re going to order?” Hunter asked.
“Have you ever eaten a chicken liver, Hunter?”
“No, sir. I don’t even know what it looks like.”
Mac looked at Anna. “What have you been feeding this boy? He’s never eaten a boiled peanut or seen a chicken liver.”
Anna laughed. “I didn’t realize he was deprived.”
Mac turned to Hunter. “I can tell you with confidence that the first man who ate a chicken liver did not make his decision based on appearance.”
“It was a brave man who first ate an oyster, too,” Anna added.
Mac nodded. “Different region, same principle. People in the South started eating chicken livers because they could not afford to waste any part of the chicken. It’s the same with gizzards and necks, although that is another story. Food was scarce and no matter how they smell or taste, livers are edible.”
“If you order them, I’ll try one,” Hunter said.
“It’s a deal.” Mac looked at Anna and raised his eyebrows. “Chicken livers for two?”
She shook her head. “I’ll pass today.”
Mac ordered the livers, Anna selected the fish, and Hunter chose a fried chicken breast. Hunter declined the carrots that came with the meal and instead selected mashed potatoes with no gravy and green beans.
When their waitress set the platters of food on the table, Anna asked, “Do you mind if I pray?”
“Go ahead.”
“Father, thank you for this day and this food. Bless Mac in every aspect of his life and work. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
While Anna prayed, Mac stole a peek at Hunter, who sat with his eyes squeezed tightly shut.
As soon as Anna said, “Amen,” a very hungry Hunter dove into his plate.
“Are you ready for a chicken liver?” Mac asked in a couple of minutes.
“Okay.”
“You might want to put ketchup on it,” Mac suggested. “Here’s a small one.” He scooped up the liver with his spoon and held it out for Hunter to spear with his fork.
Hunter held up the dark morsel and looked it over thoroughly. “Does it have any fat on it?” he asked.
“No; it’s pure, nutritious meat.”
Hunter dipped it in ketchup. Mac and Anna watched as the bite disappeared in the young man’s mouth. He chewed for a few seconds and swallowed.
“How was it?” Mac asked.
“Not bad. I don’t think I’d want to eat it every day.”
Mac patted him on the back. “That’s fine. In time you’ll enjoy a plateful and wish you had more.”
They concluded the meal with pie. Coconut cream for Mac and Anna—peanut butter for Hunter.
“This was good,” Hunter said. “I’d like to come back.”
“We might do that,” his mother said.
“If you come with us, Mr. McClain, we can both order the livers.”
“It’s a deal,” Mac said.
Mac pushed back his plate and drew a map, complete with a small black pot, on a paper napkin. “Is this clear enough?” he asked when he finished.
“It’s great. I don’t think we’ll have any problems.”
Mac picked up the check. “Lunch is on me.”
“No, I’ll pay our part,” Anna said.
“Let me,” Mac insisted. “It was worth it to watch Hunter eat his first chicken liver.”
Anna
and Hunter turned left from the parking lot. Mac turned right. He looked in the rearview mirror at the quickly receding car and smiled. Hunter reminded him of his younger son, Zach, at that age. Zach was always willing to try something new to eat, while his brother, Ben, stuck to a steady diet of hot dogs and hamburgers. When Zach was twelve, he ate black caviar on a cracker at a political fund-raiser in Atlanta. Mac smiled, remembering again the look on Zach’s face when the caviar hit his taste buds.
It had been fun being around a boy again and nice to get out of the office. Mac wondered where Hunter’s father lived. Anna Wilkes didn’t wear a wedding ring.
11
My heart’s in the Highlands.
ROBERT BURNS
Mac arrived at the office Monday morning and found David Moreland working in the library.
“How was your weekend?” David asked.
“Better than usual.”
“I just finished dictating the memo you wanted,” he said.
Vicki stuck her head into the library.
“Vicki, this is David Moreland.”
David stood. “Pleased to meet you. Mr. McClain speaks highly of you.”
“That’s good to know,” she said, smiling.
“Have you found a lab to retest Thomason’s blood?” Mac asked.
“Yes,” she answered. “I talked with Peachtree Forensic and Chemical Services on Friday. I’m going to fax them the information this morning.”
“How soon will they be able to run the test?”
“I told them what you were looking for, and they can provide results within two to three days after receiving the blood sample.”
“I’ll call Bert Langley at the D.A.’s office to arrange transfer of the blood from the state crime lab.”
“Okay. I’ll let the lab know it’s coming.”
Turning to David, he said, “I’ll ask Judy to type your report first thing this morning. Have you two met?”
“No.”
“Come with me.” Mac led the way down the hall and introduced them.
“Thanks for helping,” David said, handing her the tape. “Let me know how to improve the clarity of my dictation.”
Obviously surprised, Judy said, “Uh, sure.”
The Trial Page 9
