Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  “What in the world are you doing?” Peg asked. “It looks like a new dance step.”

  “I felt something when I crossed the threshold into the sanctuary,” Mike responded. “It left when I stepped back.”

  Before Peg could ask another question, Sam and Muriel came from the sanctuary.

  “Thanks for waiting,” Sam said. “It’s been a good day in church.”

  They went outside. Peg and Muriel walked ahead; Mike and Sam lagged behind. Mike mentioned what he’d felt.

  “Papa is letting you know that He’s in the house. The weight you felt is the glory. Look it up in your concordance. I had to search that one out myself.”

  “Did you feel it?” Mike asked.

  “No, but it happens to me a lot.”

  “I wanted to go back into the sanctuary and stay there,” Mike said.

  Sam smiled. “Yep. What did King David say? ‘Better is one day in the house of the Lord than a thousand in the tents of the wicked.’”

  They reached Sam’s red pickup at the far end of the parking lot.

  “Are you still interested in giving the church a quote on cutting the grass?” Mike asked.

  “Yep, but before I name a price, I’d like to cut it once and see how long it takes.”

  “Okay.”

  “Would you like to have lunch with us?” Peg asked.

  “No, thanks,” Sam replied. “I’m still chewing on what your husband said this morning. I think that’s all I’ll be eating for the rest of the day.”

  Muriel stepped forward and gave Peg a hug. “You look lovely.”

  “I’ve been doing what you suggested,” Peg replied.

  Muriel rewarded her with a wrinkled smile. “I can see it in your face. It’s showing a lot quicker than the baby.”

  Sam and Muriel drove out of the parking lot. Mike took Peg’s hand as they turned toward their car.

  “What do you think about the Millers?” Mike asked.

  Peg was silent for few steps. “They’re simple, yet complicated. Harmless, but a little scary.”

  Eleven

  MIKE WAS AT HIS DESK MID-MORNING ON MONDAY WHEN Delores brought in the mail.

  “I hope you’re not in trouble,” she said. “You have a letter from Judge Coberg.”

  She’d placed the envelope from the superior court judge on top of the stack. Mike picked it up.

  “No, it’s something I expected.”

  Delores stood in front of his desk while Mike opened the envelope. He stopped and looked at her.

  “Is there anything else?” he asked.

  “Where do you want me to file the things you get from the court?”

  “Uh, since we’re not running a law firm here, I’ll keep the correspondence and letters at home. I have to protect the attorney-client privilege with Sam Miller.”

  Delores sniffed as she turned to leave the room.

  “Unless it’s something that’s part of the public record,” Mike called after her.

  Delores closed the door without further comment. Mike realized she’d been somewhat aloof all morning, but the reason for her coolness would have to wait. He turned his attention to the letter addressed to him and Ken West with a copy to Melissa Hall. Referencing the State v. Miller case, the judge briefly wrote:

  Counsel for the State and the defense are hereby notified that on several occasions the defendant, Sam Miller, has provided information to the Court about pending cases. Should the State or the defense desire to schedule a hearing regarding specific information, please notify me.

  Mike put the letter in his briefcase. He picked up the phone, not to dial the judge’s office, which would be an improper ex parte communication, but to contact the district attorney.

  “Ken West, please,” he said. “It’s Mike Andrews.”

  Mike waited. In a few seconds the familiar, booming voice of the veteran prosecutor came on the line.

  “Mike, why would the minister of the church beat up my newest assistant in court on Thursday?”

  “You’ve mixed me up with Greg Freeman. Have you read your mail this morning?”

  “No, I’m still working on last Thursday.”

  “Pull out a thin envelope that came today from Judge Coberg and open it.”

  Ken West weighed almost three hundred pounds, and Mike could hear the prosecutor’s chair squeak in protest as he swiveled it.

  “That’s not it,” the veteran prosecutor muttered. “Okay, here it is. I assume you mean the one regarding the Miller case.”

  “It’s the only case I have.”

  “Humph,” West grunted after a minute. “What is this supposed to mean?”

  “That’s why I called you. I wanted to find out your position.”

  “I don’t know enough to have one. You’re not going to waive your client’s right to a jury trial and let the judge decide the case, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then the jury will determine the facts, assuming we don’t work out a plea bargain.”

  “Correct. Do you want to meet with the judge?”

  “Probably, but let me talk with Ms. Hall so she can be involved in the decision. I’m not going to jerk this case away from her. It will be good experience for her to respond to the different strategies you’ll use in an effort to manipulate her.”

  Mike ignored the dig. “Did your office perform any independent investigation of the factual basis for the charges against Miller? Ms. Hall wouldn’t let me manipulate that information out of her.”

  “Good for her. I’ve been knee-deep in the Anson murder case and trying to rework our budget proposal for the next fiscal year. I don’t recall much about this file except that it involved a church and met the $100,000 felony threshold.”

  “Could you take a look at it and get back to me? The judge is going to expect a response from us.”

  “I have a case review meeting with my assistants later this week. I’ll put it on the agenda and get back with you.”

  SEVERAL VISITORS HAD ATTENDED THE CHURCH ON SUNDAY. Part of Mike’s Monday morning routine was to work through the visitor cards and thank the people for coming. Sometimes routine calls uncovered immediate needs in the lives of people desperate for someone to talk to. Today, one woman spoke with him for thirty minutes about her teenage daughter. Mike promised to ask Nathan to make a special effort to reach out to the young woman. When he crossed off the last name, Mike stood up, stretched, and went to Delores’s desk.

  “I had quite a few calls to visitors this morning,” he said.

  “I’ve been getting a lot of calls, too,” Delores replied.

  “What kind of calls?”

  “About your sermon on Sunday.”

  “I know I went longer than usual, but I didn’t get any negative feedback from folks as they left the church.”

  “Well, my phone rang quite a bit Sunday afternoon.”

  “Who called?”

  “Different people.”

  Mike didn’t pressure Delores for names. Eventually, she always revealed her sources of information.

  “What was the complaint?” he asked.

  “That you didn’t sound like yourself, and the stories you told were weird.”

  “Anything else?”

  “One person was upset when she found out that Mr. and Mrs. Miller were in the sanctuary.”

  “Why do you think it’s called a sanctuary?” Mike asked testily.

  “Don’t get mad at me. If you don’t want to know—”

  “Was it a member of the session?”

  Delores didn’t respond, but Mike easily interpreted her expression as a yes.

  “Well, Libby Gorman made her wishes known at the meeting,” he said. “And Sam Miller had a business reason to be here. I asked him to look at our property and submit a bid to cut the grass. Our current service does a sloppy job, especially in the cemetery.”

  “But they don’t have any criminals working for them.”

  Mike stared at her for a moment, decided no
t to remind her of the presumption of innocence until proven guilty, and returned to his office. He didn’t come out until Delores left for lunch.

  After she had gone, Mike fielded a phone call from a church member wanting to know the charge for a nonmember to rent the old sanctuary for a wedding. A few minutes later, the phone rang again.

  “Little Creek Church,” Mike said.

  “I didn’t know the pope answered his own phone,” Braxton Hodges responded.

  “I don’t think I’m qualified for the job.”

  “You don’t seem afraid to multitask,” the newspaperman replied. “Preacher on Sunday, lawyer for the people on Monday. Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

  “Sure. The answering machine will pick up the calls.”

  “I’m working on an article about your client, Sam Miller.”

  “Good. What have you found out?”

  “That when I left a message for Jack Hatcher this morning, he didn’t immediately return my call.”

  “He’s a busy bank president. Even if he wants you to write an article, he’s not going to drop everything to talk to a reporter.”

  “But Maxwell Forrest did. He phoned me ten minutes after I told Hatcher’s assistant that I wanted to ask a few questions about the Miller embezzlement case.”

  “That makes sense. After all, it is a legal matter. What did Mr. Forrest say?”

  “Nothing worth printing. He rolled out a nebulous comment or two that the pertinent information had been turned over to the proper authorities. I could tell he was processing me toward a quick end to the conversation until I asked him if there had been any correspondence between Miller and Jack Hatcher.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Do you want to listen?”

  “You recorded the conversation?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “No, so long as you’re a party to the conversation.”

  “I already knew that, so don’t send me a bill for your opinion.”

  “Are you recording this conversation?”

  “Not unless you change your mind about running for pope.”

  “No chance. Turn on the tape of Mr. Forrest.”

  “Actually, it’s digital, which makes it a lot clearer. I’ll start at the beginning.”

  Mike pressed the receiver close to his ear, but it wasn’t necessary. The voices were clear. He could easily recognize Hodges’s nasal tone and Forrest’s carefully modulated Southern drawl. In every conversation, Maxwell Forrest chose his words with skill.

  “I think you’re doing the community a service,” Forrest said. “Many people don’t follow the results of the criminal docket, and an article might deter someone thinking about mismanaging church money in the future.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Hodges replied. “One other thing. Did Mr. Hatcher receive any correspondence from Miller prior to the filing of the embezzlement charge?”

  “I’d have to check with Mr. Hatcher about that.”

  “Could you do that and let me know?”

  “Mr. Hatcher gets a lot of correspondence.”

  “People who get a letter from Sam Miller usually remember it.”

  There was a long silence on the phone.

  “Mr. Forrest? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. Any newspaper article should focus on the circumstances surrounding the criminal charges, not the bank.”

  “Which it will. But are you aware that Mr. Miller writes letters to people he doesn’t know? I received a note from him myself a few years ago and still keep it in my desk.”

  “Are you going to include your note in this article?”

  “No.”

  “Have you met Mr. Miller?” Forrest asked.

  “No.”

  “Does Mr. Miller contend that he wrote a letter to Mr. Hatcher?”

  “You’re asking a lot of questions, Mr. Forrest. Could we go back a few steps? Would you check with Mr. Hatcher and find out if he received a letter from Sam Miller?”

  “I’ll run it by him, but I still don’t see what it has to do with your article.”

  “Embezzling money from a local church is a serious charge. That alone is newsworthy. When combined with Miller’s odd personality, I think I have a story a lot of people will be interested in reading. When should I expect to hear from you?”

  “In due time. I’m late for an appointment. Good-bye.”

  Mike heard a click.

  “You know Maxwell Forrest,” Hodges said. “What did you think?”

  “He’ll vigorously protect the bank’s reputation. It’s the firm’s biggest client.”

  “Do you think a letter exists?”

  “If it hasn’t ended up in the landfill with the ones Sam sent the newspaper.” “Did Forrest know more than he told me?”

  “Maybe, but he’d be naturally cautious. When faced with an unexpected problem, he slows down and reconnoiters before moving forward.”

  “I’m not going to write an article, but from what I’ve seen from Sam Miller over the years, trying to interpret one of his weird, Bible-verse-filled letters wouldn’t qualify as serious journalism.”

  “It depends on what it says. Let me know if Mr. Forrest gets back in touch with you.”

  “I’ll record every word.”

  MIKE SPENT PART OF THE AFTERNOON TYPING STANDARD MOTIONS to file in the Miller case: a request for a list of potential witnesses, a copy of the statement given by Sam to interrogating officers, and the disclosure of any exculpatory evidence that might assist in establishing Sam’s innocence. Mike felt especially uneasy about the signed statement taken by Detective Perkins. Few items of evidence were more damaging to a defendant than a written confession the prosecutor could wave in front of a jury during closing arguments. Mike hoped Sam’s persistent obfuscation of reality flowed over into the statement.

  There was a knock on the door. Nathan Goode entered.

  “Good job on the anthem,” Mike said. “And thanks for cutting the final hymn short. I ran way over.”

  “I check my watch as you come in for landing.”

  “What about the youth group last night? Nobody called complaining, so I assume there weren’t any problems.”

  “Not a hitch. The Gaston boy showed up with his buddy who plays guitar. The kids liked it. I enjoyed it, too.”

  “What are you planning for this week’s Sunday morning service?”

  Nathan outlined his idea. “The anthem has a soprano solo. I thought I’d invite a guest soloist.”

  “A high school student would be fine. The girl on the flute did a beautiful job.”

  “I’ve been spending time with someone recently who could be for the soprano section what Peg is to the altos.”

  “What does spending time mean? Are you giving her voice lessons?”

  “She’s way beyond me. She was a voice major in college then decided to go to law school.”

  “Who is it?” Mike asked, sitting up straighter in his chair.

  “Melissa Hall. She works for the district attorney’s office. She grew up way back in the mountains just over the line in Tennessee. You’d never guess her interest in classical music by talking to her, but she can sight-read like a pro and hit the high notes without a problem.”

  Mike visualized the young prosecutor with a microphone in her hand serenading a crowd. It was a radically different venue from the Barlow County Courthouse.

  “Where did you meet her?”

  “At the Shelton community theater tryouts. We’re going to perform Oklahoma! at the end of the summer. Nobody could touch Melissa’s voice for the female lead.”

  “Hmm,” Mike responded. “Does she know I’m the pastor of the church?”

  “No.”

  “You should let her know. She’s prosecuting a man I’m representing pro bono in a criminal case, and she might feel uncomfortable at the church.”

  “If she’s willing to sing, do you have a problem with
her coming?”

  “Me? Of course not. The church is open to everyone.”

  PEG, DRESSED IN HER RUNNING GEAR, ENTERED THE GARAGE with Judge on a retractable leash as Mike pulled into the driveway.

  “Are you going to keep running?” he asked when he stopped the car and got out.

  Peg brushed a few stray strands of blond hair from her eyes. “Until the day before delivery. Judge and I both need regular exercise, and I can’t imagine taking a total break from running for nine months.”

  “Did you ask the doctor about it?”

  “Yes, she told me it would be fine for the first two trimesters so long as I felt okay. After that, we’ll have to discuss it, but Jodie Wheeler ran five miles less than a week before her daughter was born.”

  “Jodie Wheeler ran the Boston Marathon a few years ago. Be careful.”

  Peg kissed him on the cheek and patted her abdomen. “Our baby is going to be in shape from day one.”

  They entered the house. The mail was jumbled on the counter in the kitchen.

  “There’s a small roast with potatoes and carrots in the Crock-Pot,” she said.

  Mike stood at the counter and began sorting. The bill pile was disturbingly high. Peg picked up the lid. Judge, who was standing beside her, barked.

  “Yes, it smells good,” she said to the dog.

  Mike reached the bottom of the stack. The last item was an envelope from Forrest, Lambert, Park, and Arnold.

  “Something from the old firm,” Mike said.

  Peg glanced at him. “I saw, but since it was addressed to you, I didn’t open it.”

  Mike tore off the end of the envelope. Inside was a letter from Maxwell Forrest. Mike read it, furrowed his brow, and then examined it more slowly. Peg came over to him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Mr. Forrest is ordering me not to come to the office or discuss the Miller case with anyone at the firm. I talked with Juanita last week, and she must have mentioned it to him.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “Partly. I don’t have the right to go beyond the reception area. That would be trespassing. But a private gag order as to firm personnel is way out of bounds. I wouldn’t expect anyone to violate the attorney-client relationship with the bank, but my duty to Sam involves investigating the facts, no matter who has the information.”