Cast the First Stone (Red Lake Series Book 2)

by Rich Foster

  Back in the hall, rather than exiting the hospital, she went to the lobby. A small gift shop met the needs of last minute visitors, vending gifts, flowers and cards. Inside, the gray haired women whose pink volunteer smock read “Harriet”, sold her a single envelope and stamp. Calley neatly printed a name and address, affixed a stamp, and on her way out, dropped the letter in the post.

  *

  Friday evening was perfect. The sun settled gently into the horizon, like a bather sliding into a warm tub. Enough stray clouds streaked the sky to pick up the colors of sunset and bounce them back to earth below.

  On the lake, a dozen sailboats ghosted their way back to port catching the faint sunset breeze. An occasional water skier made a final run for the day, cutting hard, sending up a shimmering wall of water that rose as silver and fell into white foam.

  Teenagers cruised up and down Main Street performing that ritual of youth. The restaurants were jammed elbow to elbow with summer tourists who by now had sloughed off the sunburns of June and were achieving a golden tan. Parking was at a premium. Cars circled the downtown blocks looking for an opening.

  Bailards and Son’s lot was the exception. All but three spaces were empty. An occasional driver parked, but if they began heading away from the carved doors of the funeral parlor, the lot attendant hailed them with the warning they would be towed. Reluctantly, with mumbled curses, they would move their car.

  On the street, was the hustling and bustling noise of life. Inside Bailard's, life was muted by the soft rumble of the air conditioning and by the silence of death. Recorded organ music faintly played. It was music that had no beginning and no end, drifting on eternally like the afterlife.

  From six until seven o’clock Grace sat quietly reading a book. The wing back chair was comfortable, though, the light was a little dim for her eyes. She was accompanied by a large floral arrangement of white lilies, sent with condolences, signed by the board of the New Life Redemption Church.

  Lester was laid out in a bronze casket, with bright brass hardware, and a creamy white silk lining. Grace thought he looked quite comfortable. It was true there was something slightly odd about his face, even though, the mortician had done a wonderful job with the makeup. If anyone came they would certainly say he looked peaceful. The starched shirt collar and tie nicely covered the rope burns on his throat. Yet he still looked different; Lester’s face seemed too full.

  In his breast pocket a pair of reading glasses protruded. The undertaker put them in, as a prop, to create the verisimilitude that he was merely asleep. Grace reached into the coffin and removed the glasses. She put them on Lester’s face. She looked at him, shook her head slightly, before nudging the glasses down the bridge of his nose. She smiled, pleased with the results.

  Two or three persons wandered in to murmur their regrets. They left as soon as it was polite. Will and Jessica Farron arrived, followed by two other members of the board. Jessica sat down beside Grace and they chatted lightly about everything except death.

  A short ways away the three men held an impromptu board meeting not far from Lester’s coffin. It was the first board gathering he did not dominate. They found his silence a welcome relief.

  When they finished talking the men took a moment to pause in front of the coffin, and think whatever silent thoughts they might have about the Reverend. Then with much patting of the widow’s hand, and a few platitudes, they were gone, hoping to see the end of the game on TV.

  Jessica and Will lingered, wishing they could leave, but feeling it was wrong to leave Grace alone.

  “I’m sure it’s just a little early Grace,” Jessica volunteered. Grace smiled back.

  “You can go. I’m sure you have things you want to do. This really isn’t so different than many nights in our home. Lester often went for hours without speaking to me, just sleeping in his chair or working on his sermon notes.”

  “We’ll stay,” Will heard his wife say as he inwardly groaned.

  He excused himself and slipped outside for a smoke. He had quit ten years before. During the last two weeks he had taken it up again. What a week of death it had been, he thought. He drew deeply on the cigarette as if trying to swallow down some unspoken emotion. The faces of the dead floated across his mind. Their lives were as ephemeral as the puff of smoke he blew out. It swirled and was gone. Will hated funerals. He disliked being reminded of his own mortality.

  A car pulled into the lot. Lucas James stepped out, leaving the windows down. He looked around the lot perplexed. Will watched as he smoked near the door. Lucas strode across the lot moving easily, his back straight; his shoulders squaring the jacket he wore.

  Will put out his hand. “Thanks for coming.”

  “I thought I had the wrong place.”

  “Maybe it’s early. I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  “Well, I never met the man, but I’ve preached in his church. Coming tonight seemed to be my duty.”

  Will was certain that “duty” played a major part in the man’s character. “Do you have a moment before you go in?” he asked.

  Lucas nodded, “Sure.”

  “I was talking to some of the other men on the board. We need someone to take Lester’s place, at least for a while. I suggested we ask. Are you interested?”

  Lucas was thoughtful, “I don’t know. I’ll need to think about it.

  “Well if you need a little incentive it doesn’t pay a heck of a lot!”

  Both men laughed. “Seriously,” Will continued, “I’m not cut out for this sympathy and hand holding. I’m generally “a half full glass” sort of guy. Lately I feel like someone keeps kicking the glass over. Just this afternoon, Kevin Daniels was admitted to the psych unit at St. Catherine’s. I didn’t hear all the details but, when they picked him up, they pried a gun out of his hand.”

  “He shot himself?”

  “No, he’s a head case, post-traumatic shock or something. Jessica heard he never said a word. His landlady is screaming because he was supposed to be out of his place.”

  Lucas shook his head. Will stubbed his cigarette out in the sand filled ashtray beside the door. He put a hand on Lucas' shoulder. “At least think about staying. Will grasped the door handle. “Let’s go inside.”

  Will introduced Lucas to Grace and seized the opportunity to make his excuses for leaving. Outside, Jessica and he were relieved when the funerary doors closed behind them.

  Grace motioned to a chair. Lucas sat down.

  “I was fond of your uncle, I thought of him as a friend. Elijah was a good man.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I suspect he was also a generous man.”

  “Why, do you think that?”

  “Elijah had the gift of listening. People told him things. I can think of several times when I mentioned some need in the church, or someone who needed financial help, and then the need was miraculously filled. There were prayers thanking God, I think perhaps they should have been thanking Elijah,” she said with a half smile.

  “If it was my uncle perhaps it was God using him?”

  “I don’t know. I find it quite easy to believe in God, right up until someone begins explaining how he works. Any god whose “will” you can explain is too small for me.”

  Lucas found talking with this woman quite pleasant. The room was cool and quiet. With no one to disturbed them, he said, “Tell me a little about yourself. How did you and your husband meet?”

  “A trace of a smile passed across Grace’s face as a memory from an earlier and happier time formed. “It was at the church picnic…” she began.

  Lucas and Grace chatted easily. She told him stories of her life with Lester, some good and some bad. She talked of her self-discoveries on the road. Quite quickly an hour passed and Mr. Bailard stood clearing his throat by the door. When they looked up he came over. With a hushed voice he said, “It’s time. We will see you tomorrow for the internment.” He moved away.

  Grace smiled at Lucas. “You have your uncle’s gift. Thank y
ou for listening.” Standing, she walked over to the casket and touched Lester’s cheek. She lifted the glasses back off and returned them to his pocket. Grace pulled her hand away and said, a single word, “Sleep.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday morning, Lucas drove to the Beaumont Airport. He turned his rental car in, to a bored clerk who lacked both the looks and the charm of the woman on his arrival. As he walked to the terminal a breeze pushed from the east. It was a warm and humid wind. He could feel the heat beginning to build. It would have been a good day to be at the lake.

  The Beaumont Airport was small. Regional carriers served the city. Turboprops flew to a number of local airports around the state. Fifty seat commuter jets flew interstate flights into Denver, Seattle, and Minneapolis.

  Lucas passed through security, while wondering how much safer this made America. ”In God we trust, all others please remove your shoes,” he thought smiling to himself.

  There was time for a cup of coffee. While sipping it, he mulled over the previous two weeks. There had been a lot of private grief. He had attended more funerals in a week than he sometimes saw in a year. He thought about his uncle and the people in Mason Forks. Mostly, he thought about what he had told Will Farron about the job offer. Lucas hoped he had made the right decision.

  The words, “Flight 1580” interrupted these thoughts. Listening, he heard the loudspeaker repeat, “Final call for flight 1580 to Seattle.”

  Five minutes later he was seated on the plane, pleased that the seat next to him was empty. Then a man in his thirties dropped into the empty chair, breathlessly saying, “Whew! Barely made it.”

  While he was still buckling up, the air blowing through the system was suddenly cooler and the plane began to rollback.

  Lucas looked out the window as they taxied. The plane swung right onto the runway. The jet engines wound higher in pitch. The plane accelerated. Objects on the ground flashed by and then fell rapidly away as the plane lifted off. Moments later he felt a soft thump on the cabin sole as the wheel wells closed.

  The plane climbed steeply into the morning sun. Beaumont lay spread out in the valley below. The plane made an easy bank to the north. Lucas could see the mountains he crossed that morning driving from Mason Forks. From the perspective of the airplane it was a beautiful range. Traces of snow capped the higher peaks. The landscape was rugged. Rock layers were uplifted, making jagged ends to the ridge lines.

  “I’d hate to crash down there,” he said softly to himself. The man next to him leaned forward, to peer out the port window.

  “I spent six weeks lost down there without supplies!”

  Lucas looked at his fellow traveler with a new interest. The man said it matter of factually, as though it were a vacation anyone might take. He was certainly fit; but Lucas knew only a few men in the army who would be able to do it.

  The man continued to stare intently at the hills below. He went on, almost to himself, “While I was there I met an old man who ate his own leg.”

  “Really?” asked Lucas, looking over and expecting to see the fellow was jesting. From his expression, he decided, he was not.

  “That’s a story I’d like to hear! I’m Lucas James,” he said putting out his hand.

  “Eric Chandler.”

  They shook. The plane banked as they passed over the top of the range, briefly they could see Red Lake sparkling far below, and then they were headed west. For the remainder of the flight Eric Chandler told a tale that was hard to believe, but Lucas knew it rang true. The man was a survivor. He hoped the people of Mason Forks were too.

  Lucas didn’t know it. But that morning he had been within a few feet of his uncle’s killer. In Red Lake he pulled alongside a Sheriff’s van at a traffic light. Horizontal bars ran across the windows and inside he could see the hunched shoulders of men wearing orange jumpsuits. The deputy driving continually looked up in his mirror scanning the back.

  Robert Goodman was seated with his back to Lucas' car. The van rolled forward and then turned left. The prisoner next to him tilted against Goodman. He slammed his elbow into the guy’s ribs. Chains rattled as he hissed, “Get off of me!” The man muttered “Sorry,” and tried to shift as far away as possible. Everyone in jail knew who Goodman was, they had little doubt he was a psycho.

  “Knock it off back there! You want to talk save it for the judge.” They drove on toward the courthouse.

  The previous week, Robert sought a lawyer for his arraignment. The only ones he knew were public defenders and Samuel Stein, who was a pathetic loser. He called Stein anyway. Who wanted a lawyer who could only get a job with the government? Those court assigned losers were just glorified welfare pigs.

  From the jailhouse phone he rang Stein. His secretary put Goodman through, much to Samuel’s annoyance. He wanted nothing to do with Goodman’s case.

  “I practice civil law. I don’t try criminal cases,” he said.

  “Well who would you recommend?”

  Samuel couldn’t think of anyone he despised enough to sic Goodman on. The guy was broke.

  “Call Johnny Cochran.”

  “Isn’t he the O.J. guy?”

  “Yep,”

  “I thought he was dead?”

  Stein was tempted to say, ”So are you,” but didn’t. Goodman whacked six people including a kid, a retard, and a judge. He wasn’t the sort of nut he wanted to piss off. He hung up.

  Robert looked at the phone and shrugged. He called information for Los Angeles, waiting until the recoded voice finished and a human came on. He hated electronic voices; he also hated a lot of humans.

  “Yea, I want to reach a lawyer in L.A. Johnny Cochran.”

  “You mean the OJ guy?”

  “Yea, that’s him.”

  “Very funny, he’s dead!” The operator disconnected.

  Stein’s such a loser, Goodman thought, recommending dead guys. No wonder he lost my case.

  The van pulled up outside the courthouse. Two deputies, who obviously spent too much time in doughnut shops, marched them inside. The prisoners were taken to a holding cell beside the courts where they were left to wait until their case number was called.

  Robert spent an hour staring at the wall. If he thought about anything it did not show. He barely moved. At last it was his time. They passed down a short corridor, the deputy opened a door and when he stepped through they were inside the court.

  The room was banal compared to the drama of a multiple murder case, Formica tables and fluorescent lighting. Behind him were rows of stackable chairs that now held few people. All would be taken when he came to trial.

  “All rise,” the bailiff ordered. “The Superior Court of Canaan County is now in session. The right Honorable Elizabeth Mannering presiding.”

  Judge Mannering was an attractive woman and stunning when it came to judges. She was in her mid-forties. Her dark hair, split neatly down the middle, hung loosely to her shoulders. It was a style woman her junior had already given up. Her half-cut reading glasses made her look older.

  She scanned the documents before her. A close observer would have noticed a slight tightening around her mouth. It was the only sign of her distaste. “Call the next case, bailiff.”

  “The People vs Robert Goodman. Docket number K-09-1267-2”

  “Are the People ready?” She asked.

  “We are your honor,” said the assistant district attorney.

  The judge looked at Goodman, “Do you have counsel, Mr. Goodman?”

  “No.” said Robert.

  “No, what?” the judge leaned forward on her desk.

  “No, I do not have counsel.”

  “You will address me as Your Honor or I will find you in contempt of court!”

  “So what? I’m already charged with murder!”

  “I am warning you for the last time, Mr. Goodman.”

  “Was Kellner a friend of yours? Is that what’s biting your ass, Your Honor?” Robert stretched the last two words out, sarcastically.


  “I find you in contempt. That’s a five hundred dollar fine!” The judge’s voice rose and she slammed her gavel down.

  “Do you think killing a judge would especially heinous, Your Whorenor?”

  “That’s a thousand dollars.” She was shouting. Goodman appeared to be losing control as he stood and yelled, “Do you hate me, Judge? Do you hate me for what you’ve decided I’ve done?”

  Judge Mannering beat her desk with the gavel. “Order in the court. Order.” She shouted. “Bailiff, remove the defendant from the courtroom.”

  Deputies grabbed Goodman’s arms and forced him toward the door. He was not foolish enough to resist. The judge could only fine him. A deputy could make life in jail, hell. In the hall the deputies eased off and let him walk. “Nice show!” one said to the other and then they both began to snicker.

  Elizabeth Mannering caught her breath.“The court orders Mr. Goodman to be provided an attorney from the public defenders list. This case is continued until a week from Thursday for a preliminary hearing. We will take a ten minute recess.”

  The words flowed with a rapidity that left the court stenographer behind.

  The surprised bailiff called, “All rise,” but Judge Mannering had already left the room. She moved as quickly as she possibly, while still appearing judicial. Her heels clicked loudly on the tiles as she hurried to her office. Entering by the side door, she went straight into her private bathroom, slamming the door. In the mirror her face was flushed. The man had undermined her authority. She had lost her composure. The court was secretly laughing at her and she knew it.

  She took ten deep breaths, exhaling slowly, trying to slow her heart down. She watched herself in the mirror. That was better. Even so, when she smoothed her hair down with her hands, they were trembling. How could she lose it like that? She worked so hard to get where she was, why let some loser get under her skin? Goodman had nothing to lose; he was going down, she thought. If it went like this during the trial it might harm or even destroy her career. Silently, she hoped the public defender would ask for a change of venue.