“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said. “If you want to come.”
“Okay.”
Anna gripped the steering wheel so tightly her hands hurt. The other cars on the highway were blurs. Not since her struggles with Jack had she felt such a heaviness of heart for another person. “Please, God,” she prayed. “Help him.”
Mac kept his promise and pulled into Anna’s driveway at three o’clock the following day. Anna came out before he could ring the doorbell. She was dressed in jeans and a sweater.
“Good afternoon,” she said with a hint of uncertainty at his mood. “Jean has taken Hunter to a friend’s birthday party.”
“Okay,” Mac said flatly. “Where to?”
“A surprise. I’ll drive,” she responded.
Circling to the south, they drove for several miles along a highway that followed the broad expanse of the Tennessee River.
They rode in silence. Mac was numb. The morning light had not dispelled the darkness that lay like a blanket over his soul. Anna took the Lookout Mountain exit.
“We’re not going to Rock City, are we?” Mac asked. “I’m not in the mood to visit a tourist attraction.”
“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Anna replied. “I know you’re hurting.”
Lookout Mountain was the name given to the end of a long ridge that stretched eastward for many miles from its beginning in Alabama to its end above the Tennessee River at Chattanooga. Driving higher, they passed homes built to catch glimpses of the spectacular views that gave the mountain its name. Many of the older houses were made from rocks chipped away from the sides of the ridge and reshaped into human dwelling places.
The most prominent feature on top of the mountain was Covenant College, a small Presbyterian school. The college’s trustees had converted a bankrupt resort hotel and casino into a place of higher learning. The main casino, built in the early 1900s, housed the cafeteria, and the blackjack tables had given way to the faculty dining room. The bar where illegal liquor flowed during Prohibition now served iced tea and 2-percent milk. Some of the best spots for viewing the surrounding area were from the college campus, and unlike Rock City, there was no charge to see seven states. It was sunny and warm in the late afternoon sun. A light breeze stirred the few remaining dead leaves on the trees.
Anna parked the car, and they walked along a path that ran behind a dormitory to an overlook point on the east side of the ridge. They sat down on a concrete bench. From their vantage point, they could see the massive shadow of the mountain inch forward across the city and valley that stretched out before them. Neither spoke as they let their eyes roam back and forth across the panorama.
Anna turned toward Mac. “Can we talk?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Mac sighed. “I won’t bite off your head. There’s not much fight left in me right now.”
“Do you like the view?” she asked.
Mac nodded. “There’s no place like a mountaintop.”
“This is another place of perspective,” Anna said. “Like Missionary Ridge. When I come here, I see the things of life as very small and God as very great.”
“I see the small part,” Mac grunted. “People are very small—too small for God to notice or care about.”
“Are you saying that because of the trial?”
“Yes,” he said, staring straight ahead. “And other things . . .”
Anna sat quietly for several moments. “It’s your family, isn’t it?”
Mac nodded without looking at her.
There were many things Anna Wilkes could have said, but out of the stillness of her spirit came the answer for Mac McClain.
“Mac, you’ve been wounded beyond the ability of the mind to comprehend. I don’t have an explanation for what has happened in your life, but I believe God wants to heal you.”
Mac stared at the ground. “It’s not possible.”
Two tears streaked down Anna’s cheeks and made tiny dark spots on her jeans, but when she spoke, her voice remained calm. “Let God touch you,” she said slowly.
And Mac’s world stopped.
Let God touch you. The right words in the right time have the power to change the course of a human life. Let God touch you. Something inside Mac reached out its hand to grasp heaven’s healing for his broken heart. He stood and took a couple of steps forward. It wasn’t an explanation he needed; it was a touch. But how? He began his usual process of internal debate. How did it work? What would replace the pain that had become such a familiar companion? Familiar pain can be better than an unknown alternative. Letting go of brokenness held its own fear. But the divine message cast down every opposing argument. Let God touch you. Although he couldn’t analyze it, Mac knew this was his chance to come out of the darkness of depression and into a sunrise of hope. Four simple words halted the suicidal lunacy that had been hurtling Mac toward self-annihilation.
Looking along the tree line, he saw a hawk perched on top of a twisted old hickory tree. The bird spread its wings as if to take flight but only fluttered them for a few seconds before folding them back in place. Mac watched and waited for the bird to leave the barren limb and launch out over the valley below. The bird didn’t move. Mac knew the bird was meant to soar above the earth. But it refused to let go of a dead branch and glide on the wind over the valley. You can do it, Mac thought.
You can do it, came the internal response. Mac pondered the reply for a moment and made up his mind. He had nothing to lose but the pain that had threatened to destroy his life. Taking a deep breath, he silently prayed, Lord, touch me.
And God answered—washing away in a river of healing the ancient heartache of Mac McClain’s soul. In a moment of unhindered insight, Mac realized that lifeless, dead sorrow didn’t honor his wife and sons or nurture his memories of those he’d cherished. God touched him.
When Mac opened his eyes, the bird had risen, sweeping in a broad arc through the air, sustained by unseen currents beneath its wings. And a weightlessness entered Mac’s soul. He knew that he, too, could release his grip on the pain of earth. Healing flowed. Hope followed. Peace settled into his spirit. Stress and tension flowed out of his body. Turning, he faced Anna, her outline framed by the setting sun behind her.
“You’re right.” he said, putting his hand on his chest. “He did it. God touched me.”
40
A covenant with death and an agreement with hell.
WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON
Mike and Bart Conan sat across from each other at the glass-topped table in the furnished apartment. The brothers had eaten a late lunch: two frozen microwave Salisbury steak dinners with mashed potatoes, green beans, and a soggy dinner roll. Piles of lottery tickets covered one end of the table. In four months they had spent $20,000 playing every game available at the convenience store near the entrance to the apartment complex. Currently, they were only down $8,000. The two men bought so many tickets some of the regular customers complained to the manager about waiting in line, but nobody had the nerve to say anything directly to the brothers. This week the eight-state jackpot known as the Big Game would reach $40,000,000, and they were going to buy $2,000 worth of tickets. On the counter in the kitchen were the keys to a midnight purple Lincoln.
“He was convicted but didn’t get the chair,” Mike said, looking closely at the article in the Atlanta paper.
“Life without parole?” Bart asked.
“Naw. With parole.”
“Ricky Banner only served twelve years on his life sentence.”
“But that was armed robbery, not murder. Nobody in my cellblock with a life sentence for murder served less than twenty years.”
“Well, whatever time he does, I think we need to drink to his health.”
Bart went to the kitchen and poured two eight-ounce tumblers of whiskey.
“Here’s to hard time at Hardwick Correctional Institute,” Mike said, referring to the facility where prisoners Pete’s age were kept until they turned thirty.
&n
bsp; A grim-faced Alexander Hightower backed out of Spencer’s driveway for the last time. Devastated and distraught by Angela’s letters produced during the trial, Sarah Hightower had come home and not left the house since the verdict. Alexander had a colder, but no less intense fury.
“Okay,” Spencer said, stepping back from Alex, who had barged through the front door as soon as it opened. “I’ll never come over to your house again. I won’t phone either.”
Alex pointed his finger at Spencer’s chest. “I don’t want you on the boards of any of the family businesses. I never want to walk in a room and see you again. I’ll pay your director fees, but don’t come to the meetings. You can live off your trust income. Do you understand?”
“Yeah.”
“As of today, forget you have a brother.”
Spencer held up his hands. “Okay, but don’t make me sound like I was the murderer.”
“I don’t know what you are, Spencer,” Alex said with disgust. “I just want you out of my life—forever.”
Shaken, Spencer called Dr. Newburn as soon as Alex left and told him what had happened.
“Alexander may cool down after time passes,” the psychiatrist said, trying to calm the waters. “I’ll wait for a good time to talk to him and Sarah, too.”
“The sooner the better. In the meantime, I want you to increase my monthly distribution.”
“Why?” the doctor asked. “You receive a generous allowance already.”
“Because I want more money. I’m not in high school. And who knows, Alex may change his mind and cut off my other sources of income.”
“Why do you want more money? Is there anything you need?”
“It’s not what I need; it’s what I want. I’ve had some extra expenses recently.”
The doctor hesitated. “I’ll have to think about it and get back to you.”
“What is there to think about?” Spencer said angrily. “I’m old enough to make my own decisions. There’s no way my rate of withdrawal has touched the main portion of the trust.”
“Of course not.” Dr. Newburn reassured him. “I need to get an update from the investment people, but you’re set for life. The stock market has been going through the ceiling.”
“Then, follow my orders,” Spencer demanded.
“I have a responsibility to protect you,” the doctor said, making one last effort to reason with the beneficiary of the trust.
“You can fulfill your responsibility by doing what I tell you to do with my money.”
“I hear you,” the psychiatrist said soothingly. “I’ll check and get back with you.”
Spencer paused. “And you’d better calm Alexander down before he changes his will.”
“Did he mention that?”
“No, but I don’t want him changing the spillover provisions of his trust into my trust.”
“That trust would never come into play unless Alexander and Sarah were killed in a common disaster. Something like a car wreck or plane crash.”
“I know, but people need to plan ahead.”
“Okay,” the doctor said. “I’ll talk with the investment firm and call you back later in the week.”
Late Sunday night, Mike answered the cell phone they kept in the apartment. Only one person had the number.
“What?” he asked, motioning for Bart to come closer and put his ear near the phone.
“Are you ready for number two?” the voice asked.
“So soon?”
“Things are happening that could cause problems.”
“We need to talk before we do anything else,” Mike insisted.
“What do you mean? We had a deal—$100,000 each plus the car.”
“Well, the car makes me nervous. I read in the paper that they lifted a paint sample from the pickup that almost ran us off the road.”
“That was stupid, driving like moonshiners up the mountain. Just sell the car and buy something else.”
“If I sell it, I’ll take a big loss and can’t get anything as nice.”
“Okay. I’ll toss in another $10,000, but no more. I can get someone else to do this for less than you two.”
“Some crack head maybe,” Mike said.
The speaker ignored the comment. “Leave the car unlocked tonight. There will be $55,000 in a briefcase waiting for you in the backseat in the morning. The balance when the job is done. And I want it done quick.”
“You’re the man.”
The phone clicked off.
“Are we really going to sell the car?” Bart asked.
“Not yet. I need it for one more job.”
Monday morning, Mac came in late to the office. The weight was gone from his chest, and the new hope he’d received on Lookout Mountain had not fled as he feared. God’s touch remained.
He opened the top drawer of his desk, took out the bottle of pills, and held it in his hand for several seconds. Their power was broken. He dropped the bottle into the trash can. In a few seconds they were joined by the bullets from his father’s pistol. Case closed. Mac shut the drawer, checked the time on the old grandfather clock, and began the rest of his life.
The phone buzzed. “Judge Danielson phoned earlier and wants to see you this morning,” Mindy said.
“Thanks. I know what he wants. Call David and ask him to come over here immediately. I want to talk to him before I see the judge.”
Mac walked down the hall to the library. In a couple of minutes, there was a knock on the door and David came in.
“Have a seat,” Mac said. “The judge wants to see me this morning. My guess is that he is going to relieve us from further representation for Pete. Now that the trial is over and questioning Mr. Doolittle is no longer an issue, Gene Nelson can handle the appeal. What do you think?”
David shook his head. “The case isn’t over.”
Mac nodded. “I agree. But the county will not pay us to do an appeal when Gene is already on the payroll.”
“So it would be pro bono?” David asked.
“Only in part,” Mac answered. “I want to make you an offer you can’t refuse. I’m going to hire you to assist with the appeal and pay you $5,000 to write the brief for the appellate court. The county will give us the transcript of the trial free since Gene would have needed one anyway.” David’s mouth dropped open. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Try, ‘yes.’ Can you use an extra five grand?”
“I don’t have to think about that.” David smiled broadly.
“Okay, it’s a deal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s go talk to the judge together.”
When they were seated in the familiar office, Judge Danielson said, “I didn’t want to waste any time approving payment for your work and releasing you from the Thomason case. You both did a good job.” Leaning back in his chair and, looking at David, he added, “You’re going to be a fine lawyer, Mr. Moreland.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mac spoke, “Judge, David and I talked this morning. We’d like to keep the Thomason case and handle the appeal pro bono.”
Surprised, the judge sat up. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want to think about it for a few days and decide after the trial gets out of your system?”
Mac shook his head. “We believe we need to keep going.”
“All right,” the judge said. “File your motions, and I’ll have the transcript prepared at county expense. Mac, you’ve made Gene Nelson’s day.
Again.”
Mac dictated a motion for a new trial and spent the rest of the morning opening mail neglected the previous week.
He called Ray Morrison.
“Yeah,” the detective said, “I read about the verdict in the paper. Tough loss, but you can’t ever tell with a jury. Did you talk to any of them afterward?”
“Only an alternate who said he wouldn’t have convicted.”
“That figures.”
“I’m going to handle the
appeal,” Mac said. “Would you have any interest in further investigation? You’d be working for me, not the county.”
“Could I get my new investigator to help if it doesn’t cost you extra?”
“New investigator? I didn’t know you were thinking about hiring someone.”
“It came up kind of sudden,” Ray drawled. “The guy needs a temporary job, and I was tired of waiting on you to make up your mind.”
“Who is it?”
“He’s new to town, but he’d be a good one to work on the Thomason case. It’s Harry O’Ryan.”
Mac laughed. “You’re another Mother Teresa, taking in homeless kids off the street.”
“Her group has their hands full in India, so I thought I would pick up the slack in Dennison Springs. Harry is finishing up the alcohol treatment program and will be able to start as soon as I need him.”
“Okay. Let me give you your first assignment. You remember the Italian Restaurant where Pete and Angela ate the evening of the murder?”
“Yeah, I talked to the manager a couple of times on the phone. He said it was a busy place and no one remembered anything.”
“I want you to visit in person.”
“Sounds good. I like spaghetti.”
“Get a double order, but keep Harry away from the vino.”
Monday evening Charles Gallegly visited Pete.
“How long will it be before you’re eligible for parole?” he asked.
Pete sighed. “Mac said the minimum is about eighteen years, but it could be longer. Right now, a year seems like forever. I read in the Bible this morning that each day has enough trouble of its own. That’s the way I feel.”
“Take it one day at a time.”
“I know that.” Pete tapped the table with his fingers. “I’ve also been thinking a lot about the closing argument David made in my case. You know, about doing something good while I’m in jail.”
“Any ideas?”
“Cal Musgrave. Have you ever tried to talk to him?”
“I remember one of the first times he was locked up,” the older man said. “It’s been at least fifteen years ago. He was angry back then and wouldn’t have anything to do with me. From what I hear he’s in worse shape now than he was then.”
The Trial Page 35
