by Gregg Loomis
"What?"
"Get your bag. We're leaving."
"Leaving?"
"There're always taxis around hospitals. One can drive us to Ankara."
"Why did we not do that before?"
"Because the police were watching us. There was good chance they would have followed a cab, stopped us before we got far. I doubt they've had time to figure out where we are now."
"Once the inspector finds we have left the city, the police will question cab drivers until they find the one who has driven us to Ankara."
"By that time, we'll be halfway home."
Chapter Six
I.
Over the North Atlantic
That Night
For once, Lang's flight-induced insomnia was a benefit. He had left Gurt snoring gently in the Gulfstream's stateroom. As is so often the case, proximity to sudden and violent death had stirred a passion that had resulted in wild and noisy lovemaking shortly after the stewardess cleared the dinner dishes. In fact, it had taken some restraint to wait until the woman had discreetly retreated to the galley before both made a dash for the plane's bedroom as they undressed en route. Now Lang looked around in case some of Gurt's more intimate garments might, yet be decorating the seating area.
Occasionally Lang wondered if he and Gurt were the
subject of gossip among the crews of the world's biz jets. He didn't necessarily care, he just wondered. But not tonight.
He was far too engrossed in the translation he held in his lap. He was surprised at its length, only a few pages. It seemed very little to have cost the lives lost since its discovery. He reread the first lines. It seemed to be a letter.
Since you asked me to send thee a secret book which was revealed unto me and Peter by the Lord, I could not refuse thee. I send this with wishes. Peace be with thee, Love from love, Grace from grace, Faith from faith, life from Holy Life. But inasmuch as thou art a minister of the Salvation of Saints, endeavor earnestly and take care not to recount this book to many—this which the Savior did not desire to recount to all of us.
Us? Who was "Us," Lang wondered. The disciples? No, hadn't Francis suggested James, this James, Jesus's brother, had not been a disciple, that he had probably stayed at home to run the family business?
The ever-annoying indefinite antecedent. But he read on.
This book was revealed only to Peter and me, James, brother of Our Lord.
Now we were sitting altogether at the same time, and remembering what the Savior had said to each of them, whether secretly or openly, they were setting it down in books. And I was writing what was in my book—lo the Savior appeared after he had departed from us and five hundred and fifty days after He arose from the dead. And we said unto Him, "Have you gone and departed from us?"
And Jesus said, "No, but I shall go to the place from which I have come. If thou desirest to come with me, come."
They all answered and said, "If Thou biddest us we will come" He said, "Truly I say to you, no one will ever enter the Kingdom of Heaven if I bid him but rather because you yourselves desire it. Let me have James and Peter that I might speak with them privately."
"Coffee?"
Lang was jolted back into the present. The stewardess was standing in front of him, holding a tray with a pot and a cup and saucer with the foundation's logo on it.
Coffee would ensure he didn't get even a few minutes sleep but the woman had clearly made fresh brew just for him.
"It's decaf," she chirped.
Tell my nerves that. They can't distinguish. And how can anyone be that perky at this hour of the night? But no sense being churlish.
"Sure. Thanks for going to the trouble." He had hoped she would pour a cup he could leave ignored on the coffee table before him. Instead, she hovered like a sommelier uncertain of his wine selection.
He took a sip. "Thanks. I really appreciate your going to the trouble."
She flashed him a megawatt smile. "That's what you pay me for."
True, he mused as he watched her retreat to the galley, but how many employees ever gave it a thought? Setting the steaming cup down once she was out of view, he resumed reading.
And when He called us two, He took us aside and commanded the rest of them to busy themselves with that with which they had been endeavoring.
When we were alone, the Savior said, . . .
Lang noted the next twelve lines were highlighted in yellow, the missing lines, he assumed.
"It is time that James lead my church."
And Peter protested, saying, "Lord, didst thou not say, 'Upon this rock I shall build my church,' meaning me? Hast thou not called my name as Cephus, the rock?"
And the Savior answered unto him, "Didst thou not thrice deny me as was prophesied? Would a master have a servant that denied him?"
And Peter grew wroth, saying, "Lord, who would serve you better?"
And the Savior answered, "James," whereupon Peter became even more angry, demeaning James as a coward and one who had not forsaken his family to follow the Savior as had Peter.
Lang reread the lines before continuing. The rest contained homilies on reaching heaven, the duty to spread the word and assurances the unknown "they" would reach heaven. Nothing to really distinguish it from the known quotes attributed to Jesus.
On the last page, the patriarch had also highlighted several lines with a note in the margin:
Shifting in his seat, Lang read the final paragraph and jerked up straight with surprise.
And after the Savior departed, Peter considered these words and his anger increased so that by the second day his anger could no longer be contained. And he went forth, seeking James. And when he had found him in the temple in Jerusalem at prayer, he threw him from the temple to the ground below. And Peter accused James of stealing the Savior's affection from him, saying to those who had gathered, "Look upon the face of a man who has betrayed our Savior." Whereupon they stoned the Lord's brother.
Lang reread the paragraph to make sure there was no mistake. Peter, the supposed anointed leader of the early church as usurper and murderer? He recalled the expression of rage on the saint's face as depicted by the mysterious fresco. No wonder the spectators had been ordered into silence. That an early gospel had noted James, not Peter, had been chosen, let alone what amounted to a theological coup...
And the missing lines... well, they could set the church back on its velvet-slippered heels! Since the pope claimed his title through Peter by apostolic succession, the pontiff and all before him would be no more than pretenders. Apparently someone already knew of those lines, someone like whoever had painted that picture in the Vatican, someone like ... like the people who wanted him dead. The papers in his lap might have been the first the patriarch had seen that included those lines but they existed somewhere else, too. Or had existed. The question was, where? If he could ascertain who knew of Peter's wrath at being essentially demoted, he would have the answers he needed. There was, he supposed, a way to find out. But first, he had business back home. More important, he had a son he felt he hadn't seen in forever.
II.
United States District Court for the Middle District of Georgia
Macon, Georgia
Two Days Later
Courthouses, hospitals, prisons and other institutions trafficking in human suffering have a certain intimidating air about them. In the case of the former, this is not by accident. To induce apprehension if not outright fear is the first commandment of government. That is why judges wear black robes, like priests of some somber but powerful religion whose acolytes speak in mystical tongues, words like "hereinafter," "alleged" or "tort feasor." The courthouse lobby might be marred with some form that is "art" by the loosest of definitions, smears of color chosen by the lowest bid. An alternative might be a plaque commemorating someone or some event in most cases otherwise forgotten.
The courtrooms themselves are interchangeable. This is particularly true with the federal judiciary because the taxpayers who fund the
cheerless decor are spread from Alaska to Florida rather than concentrated in a single county where local voters are likely to note and complain about excess.
Lang sat alone at counsel table, pondering who had decided the apricot carpeting went with the dark-stained wooden paneling. Who had been responsible for choosing the slime green plastic cushions that did little to mollify the painfully hard wooden chairs? He was convinced that somewhere in Washington, D.C. was a Bureau of Vile Taste, a permanent board that furnished federal courts and other places where justice was dispensed, or, just as often, dispensed with.
He turned at the sound of an opening door behind him.
A young man was wheeling into the room a small cart loaded with files, each of which was stuffed to the limit with papers. An assistant US attorney, no doubt. And a very junior one. Lang glanced back at the slim attaché case he had brought. Lawyers who worked for the government equated quantity with quality. Of course, so did many of their private-practice counterparts. If you generated enough paper, there was bound to be something good in there somewhere, right?
The young man parked his cart at the other counsel table and walked over, hand extended. "Sam Roads."
Lang stood and shook. "I bet they call you Dusty."
The assistant US attorney stopped in midshake. "How'd you know?"
"Same way I'd guess if your last name was Waters, you'd be called Muddy. I'm Lang Reilly."
The assistant US attorney smiled. "Coulda been 'Country.'"
Lang nodded. "Or 'State' or 'Federal' but it's always 'Dusty."'
Dusty eyed Lang's single attaché case and his grin faded into suspicion. "You have a reputation even this far from Atlanta."
Lang's turn to smile. "Calumnious lies, I swear."
Dusty wasn't so certain. "You ready?"
Before Lang could reply, the door opened again, this time admitting Larry Henderson with a burly US marshal on either side. Detention life didn't look like it agreed with him The man had lost a dozen or more pounds. His color was that ashlike complexion Lang associated with inmates of much longer duration. It was as if the gray of prisons' concrete walls rubbed off on those they contained. He wore a Day-Glo orange jumpsuit and a pair of leg shackles.
He smiled when he saw Lang, probably the first friendly face he had seen since Darleen's last visit. Lang felt a twinge of guilt. He guessed those visits had been limited during the time Manfred had been staying with her.
Larry's escorts moved to the courtroom's door and Larry hobbled toward counsel table.
Lang spoke cooly to the marshals. "The leg irons need to come off."
"Not till the judge comes in," growled one of them.
It was hardly a major issue, but Lang knew the importance of not acceding to the slightest infringement of clients' rights. Likewise, he was aware of jailers' tendency to intimidate their charges whenever possible. "The rules say restraints come off in the courtroom without a specific order to the contrary. Don't make me file a formal complaint."
The guard who had spoken before shot Lang a poisonous glare before producing a key and removing the shackles. Lang caught a satisfying whiff of a muttered, "Goddamn smart-ass Atlanta lawyer."
From her private entrance, the judge appeared on the bench like magic. Short blunt-cut steel gray hair, little if any makeup. Before sitting, she fluffed her robe, the sole feminine gesture she would make. Although he had never seen her in person, Lang had done his homework on Judge Linda Carver. Like all federal judges, she was a political appointee, this one from the Reagan administration. She had served as one of the then rare Republicans in both the state senate and house as well as vice chair of the Georgia Republican Party. Although never as important in the appointment process as the politics, her legal abilities were reflected in the fact she had been a partner in a major mid-Georgia law firm when female associates, let alone partners, had been rare. Even though her experience had been more in the boardroom than the courtroom, she had surprised a number of unwary lawyers with a knowledge of evidence, procedure and the other arcanum of the trial practice. She had a reputation of being fair but hard-assed, the description usually given to a judge who suffered fools poorly and the unprepared worse.
Judge Carver lowered half-moon glasses from her forehead and studied the papers in front of her before looking up. "You are Mr. Langford Reilly?"
Lang, still standing, nodded. "Guilty, Your Honor."
A trace of a smile flickered and disappeared across the judicial countenance. Score one small point for the good guys.
"Welcome to the middle district, Mr. Reilly. I understand you practice mainly in Atlanta."
Lang wasn't the only one who had done their homework.
"You have already met Mr. Roads, I see."
"Yes, ma'am."
She was still scanning the papers in front of her. "We are here today for a formal arraignment, plea and scheduling. Is that you gentlemen's understanding?"
"And application for bond, Your Honor," Lang added.
Roads was on his feet. "Your Honor, the defendant is charged with trafficking in narcotics, a serious felony..."
She silenced him with a frown and a cocked eyebrow. "Have a seat, Mr. Roads. It's customary to hear the defendant's plea before a bond application."
Flustered, the assistant US attorney sat back down and began thumbing through one of the file folders.
Judge Carver began reading the charges, a long, repetitious list of misdeeds and offenses. When she finished, she looked up. "How does the defendant plead?"
Lang was still standing. "Not guilty, Your Honor."
There was a tug at the back of his suit jacket. Larry had a question.
"May I confer with my client?" he asked the judge.
After receiving an affirmative nod, he knelt beside Larry.
"I done it, done what they said. I unnerstan' from the
folks down to the jail you get a lighter sentence, you admit what you done"
"I didn't say you didn't do what they charge," Lang whispered. "I said you were not guilty. Believe me, there's a difference. Besides, if we have to, we can change our plea."
"But how—?"
Lang held out a hand for him to be quiet. He understood Larry's discomfort. His fate in the hands of a system he did not comprehend, he understandably relied on what he knew usually worked: honesty and candor, two traits virtually unknown to the judicial system.
"Do we still have a 'not guilty'?" the judge asked impatiently.
"We do, Your Honor. Now, if I may, I'd like to ask the court to set bond. Mr. Henderson is a lifelong resident of Lamar County, where he was born and grew up as did both his father and grandfather. He owns considerable real estate and has family there. As far as I know, this is his first brush with the criminal justice system. He has been incarcerated since his arrest. I don't understand why he wasn't promptly brought before a magistrate a week or so ago."
It never hurt to point out your client's rights had already been compromised.
Judge Carver was scanning the file in front of her, presumably verifying what Lang had said. "It says here your office informed the clerk you were out of the country. For once the glitch wasn't in the system."
Whoever kept the file on this case did a more meticulous job than Lang was used to. He made a mental note to go easy on the righteous indignation in the future.
"Mr. Roads?"
Dusty was already on his feet. "The government opposes, Your Honor. Mr. Henderson was using his 'considerable property' to grow marijuana. Under the law, he stands to forfeit every square foot of it as contraband. He has no incentive not to flee."
Lang started to reply but the judge silenced him with a wave of the hand. "Bail is set at one million dollars, cash or property. Does Mr. Henderson possess a passport?"
Lang looked at Larry, who shook his head.
"No, Your Honor."
"Very well, then. He may bond out anytime after this hearing."
Dusty half stood. "But—"
"And, Mr. Roads, don't even think about the government interfering with Mr. Henderson putting his real estate up as collateral. You might be able to condemn it as contraband under the law, but not unless and until he's convicted. Understood?"
A hangdog. "Yes, ma'am."
Judge Carver glanced at her watch, seemed satisfied the time so far had been well spent and said, "Now, then, scheduling. Mr. Reilly, what do you propose?"
With his client about to be freed on bond, there was little incentive for a speedy trial. In fact, just the opposite. "Motions in ninety days, trial in six months?"
Again, Dusty was about to stand. The judge waved him back into his seat. "A little prolonged, Mr. Reilly. All motions will be filed not later than sixty days of today." She consulted a computer terminal on the right corner of the bench. "We will begin striking a jury sixty days thereafter."
"That's mighty quick, Your Honor," Lang complained mildly.
"We move a little faster here in the middle district, Mr. Reilly. We don't have the caseloads judges have where you practice. Anything eke gentlemen? No?" She stood. "Good. I'm glad we're all in agreement."
Then she disappeared.
Dusty intercepted Lang in the hallway. "Don't suppose you're interested in discussing savin' the taxpayers the cost of a trial, seein' if we can make a deal?"
Lang shifted his briefcase from his right hand to his left and punched the elevator's "down" button. "You're right, I'm not."
Dusty studied his face a moment as if trying to ascertain if he were serious. "You shittin' me? Your man was growing marijuana, acres of it. We got witnesses, photographs. He's guilty as hell."
The elevator door pinged open and Lang stepped inside. "Maybe. Question is, can you prove it?"
Dusty s expression of incredulity was erased by the closing door.
Lang was certain of the course his defense of Larry would take. There would be no point in challenging the government's case but every reason to prevent them from proving it. The bird-watcher was the obvious starting point.
