The Trial

by Robert Whitlow

  “And when you taste the Lord, what happens? You receive food for your spirit. Food that fills a hunger within you that only the goodness of God can satisfy. Those who skip a few meals during Lent know that the first few bites of food after not eating are an exhilarating experience. Imagine the thrill to your soul of a taste of divine goodness after months or years without a morsel from heaven.”

  Archie stepped away from the pulpit and held out his hands to the congregation. “How hungry is your soul this morning? Are you hungry enough to come to the table the Lord has prepared for you? God is not in the force-feeding business. He extends an invitation to dine. Do you hear his invitation this morning? How will you RSVP? Let us pray.”

  His head bowed, Mac felt an unfamiliar nervous tightness inside his chest. In his prayer, Archie asked the congregation to open wide their hearts to the goodness of God, and when he said, “Amen,” Mac found himself offering a softly spoken, “Amen” of his own.

  On his way out of the sanctuary, he stood behind Celeste and Bob Jamison.

  Mac tapped Bob on the shoulder. “How’ve you been, Bob?”

  The Jamisons turned around. “Fine,” Bob said. “And you?”

  “Up and down. That was a good sermon, wasn’t it?”

  “In what way?” Celeste asked.

  “Oh, I’ve never thought about tasting God, but Archie did a good job of explaining it to me. It sounded almost as good as the creamed corn at Josie’s Restaurant.”

  Bob laughed and excused himself to join a small group of men that included his younger brother, Don.

  “Is your circle still praying for the people involved in the murder case?” Mac asked Celeste.

  “Yes.”

  “Uh, thanks.”

  Mac stepped toward the door and shook the minister’s hand. “Good sermon, Archie.”

  Celeste watched Mac disappear into the throng outside the door. Catching Bob’s eye, she pointed toward the prayer room and held up five fingers for five minutes. Bob nodded.

  Celeste had smiled when she read the title of Archie’s sermon. She was in the middle of the sixth day of her fast, and she knew what it meant to feel hunger, both physically and spiritually. Several times over the years she’d gone without food for a day. Twice, she’d fasted for three days. But this was new territory for her. When she told Bob the Lord had called her to an open-ended time of fasting, he listened then went to the exercise room in the basement, where he prayed. Thirty minutes later, he came upstairs and said, “I’ll support you.” Since then, he’d eaten out or fixed his own meals, thus freeing her from the need to prepare food for him while doing without herself.

  The ache in her stomach was not continuous; her body had gotten the message that no food was on the way. Her hunger pangs, like a spiritual barometer, only returned when she asked each morning if she were to continue the fast for another day. Saturday afternoon, she’d felt weak and dizzy and asked Bob to pray for her. After he prayed, the dizziness left, and by Sunday morning she felt a little bit stronger.

  Unlocking the bookcase in the prayer room, she opened the index for “M” and found “McClain.” There were multiple references for Mac, Laura, Ben, and Zach.

  She placed several journals on the table and began reading. Celeste and Laura spent six years together in the group, and as she read, she could almost hear Laura’s soft voice carefully choosing her words as she talked to the Lord. Recorded on the yellowing pages was the group’s prayer for Ben before he attended a church camp when he was fourteen and the answer after he returned and told his mother that Jesus had come into his heart. Later, a similar prayer for Zach was answered when he started meeting with a group of Christian athletes at the local high school. Opening another volume, she found the oldest entry that specifically mentioned Mac. It was Laura’s prayer voiced almost twenty years before. “Father, reveal your goodness to Mac. Let him come to know your love. May he taste and see that the Lord is good.”

  Tears quickly clouded Celeste’s vision and she closed the book. God is good. God is faithful. He will answer the prayers of a loving wife. Even after she leaves earth for heaven.

  25

  A few good men.

  U.S. MARINE CORPS RECRUITING SLOGAN

  Harry O’Ryan swallowed a perfectly seasoned bite of mashed potatoes and gravy fixed by Peggy Morrison. Ray had picked Harry up from the motel and brought him over for Sunday dinner.

  “I got a little stir-crazy in my room yesterday,” Harry said. “If I’d had some wheels and cash I might have hit the liquor store.”

  “I was worried about you,” Ray said. “Old demon rum is a stubborn rascal to evict once he gets inside the house.”

  Harry cut a piece of roast beef. “I was thinking about getting some help while I’m here. I don’t have anything better to do.”

  Ray looked at Peggy and raised his eyebrows.

  “I know the man who runs the local Alcohol and Drug Abuse Center,” Peggy said.

  “Would you like us to contact him for you?” Ray asked.

  “I don’t have any money to pay for it.”

  “It’s funded by the State, a typical twenty-one day program for problem drinkers,” Ray responded. “Peggy could take you in the morning, and I’ll pick you up in the afternoon.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Peggy said.

  Harry nodded. “I’ll think about it. Coming here to try and make things right with Pete has taken a weight off my shoulders, and I wouldn’t mind losing a few more tons of the baggage I’ve been carrying around on my back.”

  Later, Harry waited in the den while Ray and Peggy cleared the table. A big brown recliner with its cushions permanently compressed to match Ray’s posterior sat in a corner of the friendly room. On a bookcase shelf were some pictures of Ray and Peggy’s grandchildren. Harry stepped over to take a closer look. Next to a photograph of a chubby, dark-haired boy in a football uniform was a picture of a slimmer, younger Ray Morrison standing ramrod straight in his Marine Corps dress blues. Beside it in a small frame was a silver star and two purple hearts. During the long ride from Ohio, the private detective never told Harry he was a fellow Marine, much less a Vietnam war hero.

  Pete Thomason put a single potato chip in his mouth and chewed it slowly. Sunday lunch in jail was just another milestone of monotony. Pete couldn’t order what he wanted from a menu at a nice restaurant or gather with family for a leisurely meal. He ate a processed American cheese sandwich, eight potato chips, applesauce, and chocolate cake without icing. His meal was not enlivened by interesting conversation or the spontaneous entertainment of children or grandchildren. Instead, every so often Crazy Cal pushed his face against the bars of his cell and screamed at the top of his lungs. The sound echoed off the concrete walls of the short hallway. The guards couldn’t threaten Cal with further punishment if he refused to be quiet; he was already in isolation.

  It took Pete an hour to eat his lunch. He took small bites, chewed slowly, and didn’t leave a bit of food on his plate. Falling back on the prisoner-of-war training he received in the military, he adopted a strict routine soon after he arrived in the isolation unit. He brushed and flossed his teeth after every meal, made his bed better than boot camp specifications, and didn’t allow a speck of dust to rest in his ten-by-ten-foot cubicle. Twice a day, a guard took him to the basketball court. Pete turned the court into a private parade ground and practiced different types of slow, fast, and double-time marching. He would get into a rhythm and repeat some of the chants used during his training. To a casual observer, it looked more and more like Pete belonged in a cell next to Cal Musgrave.

  And Pete started reading his Bible. Following Mr. Gallegly’s recommendation, he studied the Book of Romans in the morning. In the afternoon he read one of the Gospels and in the evening focused on Psalms and Proverbs. Eventually, Cal’s ranting faded into the background, and Pete paid as much attention to the noise as he would to the air conditioner cycling on and off at his apartment. Pete even started to pray, writing down
prayers on pieces of paper with a stubby pencil and reading them back to God while kneeling on the cold, hard floor.

  At 10:25, a deputy came to take Pete from his cell.

  Cal screamed, “They’re taking you to the chair, boy! It’s your day to die!”

  “Shut up, Cal,” the deputy said. “It’s Monday morning. He’s going to church.”

  “Boy, don’t believe him! They’re going to shave your head, strap you in, and turn on the juice!” Cal’s voice faded as they closed the door to the isolation block.

  “How do you stand it?” the deputy asked as they walked down the hall to the basketball court.

  Pete shrugged. “Mostly, I tune it out, but sometimes he reminds me of a drill instructor I had at Parris Island.”

  The guard unlocked the door to the assembly area and let Pete in. Mr. Gallegly came over and shook Pete’s hand.

  “The sheriff said you could keep coming to these meetings, and he agreed to let me spend some time with you by myself.”

  “Thanks,” Pete said. “Every opportunity to get out of my cell for a few minutes is worth more than you know.”

  The preacher of the day was a tall, young African-American man named Francis Young who had served six years as a missionary in Togo, a small, French-speaking country in west Africa. In Togo, Francis saw a brand of Christianity similar to the events recorded in the Book of Acts, and it changed his life. He was a popular speaker with the men at the jail, many of whom had never heard an African American preach.

  Opening his Bible, he turned to the Book of Hebrews. “In Hebrews 7:25 it says that Jesus ‘ is able also to save them to the uttermost that come unto God by him, seeing that he ever liveth to make intercession for them.’ Uttermost is an old-fashioned word that means ‘completely,’ and the verse is telling you that Jesus is able to completely and totally save you.”

  Francis closed the Bible and looked directly at the men before him. “But the enemy of your soul has a boast this morning. He is boasting about some of you in this room. What is he boasting? What is he claiming? He’s not boasting that Jesus can’t save you. He knows that Jesus saves. He’s not claiming that the blood of Jesus can’t cleanse you from sin. He knows it can. What is his boastful lie?”

  “You can’t live it,” a voice said.

  “It won’t work for you,” another added.

  “That’s right. The devil is saying to the Son of God, ‘You can save them, but you can’t change them. You can keep them out of hell; you can take them to heaven, but you can’t make them fit to live as Christians on earth.’”

  His voice rising, the preacher asked, “Does the testimony of your life prove the devil’s case? Could he call you to the witness stand to prove that Jesus can’t change a person from the inside out? That’s not what God wants for your life. It says in Hebrews that Jesus is able also to save to the uttermost those who come to God by him. The power of Jesus Christ in your life can deliver you from every evil thought, word, and action. Jesus is able to save ‘to the uttermost.’ That means all the way, without limit, no matter what you’ve done or how much you need to be changed. There is nothing too deep, dark, or devilish to be beyond the ability of Jesus to reach in and forgive, cleanse, and change. Now, that’s good news!”

  One of the volunteers, a man from Francis’s church, called out, “Preach it!”

  Francis didn’t need much encouragement, “Jesus has the power to save! Jesus has the power to change! It says in the Book of Philippians that ‘he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ.’ It is the promise of Jesus Christ that he will continue working in you to change you according to his pattern and purpose for your life. How serious is Jesus about helping you? What does the rest of Hebrews 7:25 say? ‘Seeing that he ever liveth to make intercession for them.’ Jesus is not up in heaven kicked back in an easy chair eating a powdered donut.

  “He is working hard,” Francis said, then added with emphasis, “praying for you. How many of you haven’t had a visitor or received a letter since you were locked up?”

  Half the men raised their hands. “Jesus knows your address, and he is talking to some of you this morning. Will you listen to him?”

  Francis put his hand on his chest. “All of you. Put your hand over your heart and realize Jesus is praying today for the man who lives inside your body. Does God the Father hear and answer the prayers of his Son? Of course, he does. Would anyone listening to me like to agree with the prayers the Son of God is praying for him? Does anybody in this room hear the voice of God calling them to believe that Jesus is able to save to the uttermost—no matter what you’ve done, no matter how much you need to change? If you know the message this morning is for you, stand up and claim it.”

  Two men stood up immediately. “God bless you. Speak out and ask Jesus to save and change you.”

  “Jesus, save me; change me,” one said, his words cracking with emotion.

  “Jesus, save me and change me,” Pete Thomason said in a calm, confident voice.

  When the volunteers began to mix and talk with the men, Charles Gallegly came over to Pete and was rewarded with the first smile he’d seen on the prisoner’s face.

  “It happened,” Pete said. “I heard the voice of the Lord calling me.” He pointed to his chest. “Just like you told me.”

  “That’s the way it works.”

  “But something had already been happening to me all week. It was like a coffeepot percolating. I’d read my Bible, stop and think about it, and go on. Different sections began to have meaning to me.”

  “Any part in particular?”

  “I’ve been studying Romans every afternoon since they transferred me to the isolation cell. I mean, it’s as if it were written for me.”

  “The words leaping off the page?”

  “Yeah. And I’m changing. Even the isolation cell has been a positive thing. I’m focused, disciplined, and organized—all the qualities that helped me in school and in my job before I ended up here and gave up.” “God has spoken to a lot of people in jail.”

  Pete hesitated. “There’s something else I’d like to talk to you about . . . privately, without anyone around.”

  Mr. Gallegly checked his watch. “Time is almost up, but I’ll ask if I can stay after everyone leaves. We could go to one of the interview rooms.”

  “That would be better. This may take awhile. I need to tell you some things that no one knows.”

  26

  For we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him,who have been called according to his purpose.

  ROMANS 8:28 (NIV)

  Vicki had put together multiple copies of the 126 names on the potential juror list from the courthouse. She, Mac, and Judy went over the names one by one in the library. After talking to Mindy in the reception area for a few minutes, David joined them. As lifelong residents of Echota County, Mac and Judy collectively knew more than one-third of the prospective jurors.

  “Number 6, Maynard Johnson is a no,” Mac said. “I sued him for failing to finish the work he started on a client’s house. He was real sour about the deal.”

  “Number 18 lives two doors down the street from me,” Judy said.

  “What’s she like?” Mac asked.

  “Independent and opinionated. Once Mrs. Kidwell makes up her mind she would be tough for either side to move.”

  “Number 24 is Doug Kendrick’s eldest boy,” Mac said.

  “What’s your connection with him?” David asked.

  “Doug is a local plumbing contractor and longtime client. He’s a good man, but I don’t know his son very well.”

  “Number 39 worked for years as a housekeeper for Cecil Hightower,” Judy said.

  “What will you do about employees of Hightower-controlled companies?” Vicki asked.

  “Good question,” Mac responded. “I will probably keep current employees off the jury unless I have a stronger connection with them as their attorney or from representing a m
ember of their family. Former employees could be good for us, especially if they believe they were mistreated in some way by the Hightowers.”

  “Here’s one of those,” Judy said. “Number 34, Lyman Bakerfield. I know he lost his job at Dalconex when the Hightowers took over the company.”

  “Make a note on him, Vicki,” Mac said.

  “Number 97 died three weeks ago at the nursing home,” Judy said. By the time they finished, they had twenty-one former clients or personal acquaintances checked as favorable and nineteen individuals with close connections to the Hightowers or other significant factors listed as unfavorable.

  “It only takes a couple of strong jurors to turn the rest of them,” Mac said.

  Gazing out the window of his corner office on the fourteenth floor of the Peachtree South Office Tower, special prosecutor Joe Whetstone lit a cigar. After their last meeting, Alexander Hightower had sent over a box of Davidoff “double-R” Dominican cigars. At twenty-two dollars apiece, the cigars were a rich man’s substitute for a ten-cent stick of candy. Joe and his staff had just finished going over the Echota County jury list. Mac’s methods of jury research were musket ball and muzzle-loading rifle; Joe’s techniques were computer-guided Tomahawk missiles.

  On his desk were 126 neatly stacked sheets of paper, each sheet containing a wealth of known and lesser-known information about each juror. Joe was already aware of ten people Mac had represented in the jury pool. They would be eliminated. But he also had a detailed summary of other types of data regarding every juror’s personal and public life— what organizations they belonged to or supported, where they worked, the extent of previous jury service and the result of that deliberation, their relationship with anyone associated with the case, whether they or a family member had been victims of a crime, how much they owed, and other details that revealed a bias for or against the prosecution. Joe knew which former Hightower employees to avoid. He was not worried about Lyman Bakerfield; in fact, he hoped Lyman made it on the jury. It was true Lyman lost his job when Hightower & Co. bought Dalconex; however, he had received a severance package that had tripled in value because of the increase in value of shares he owned in other Hightower-related companies. Lyman had written a note of appreciation to Alexander Hightower two years after he lost his job and thanked him for the way in which the termination of his employment was handled.