by Randy Singer
She huddled inside her windbreaker. The breeze was stronger here as the prevailing winds skimmed across the vast, open sea. She stayed there for a while, grateful for the day’s events, thanking God and sorting things out, her spirit calmed by the steady rhythm of the waves. And she stared for a long time at the smooth wet sand spread out before her, polished by the waves, where once there had been footprints and sand castles and words scribbled in the surf.
EPILOGUE
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
Paige wore a blue-and-white flowered sundress on Memorial Day, her dark hair pulled back with clips. She sat next to Bill Harris at the Arlington Memorial Amphitheater, listening to the president’s speech. She thought about how much things had changed.
The president had survived a vote of confidence, but the Republicans had managed to push it past the election that occurred less than a month after the president’s address. The controversy had helped Republicans gain a greater majority in the House and control of the Senate.
As the president had requested, there was a new council, including members from all three branches of government, that determined when somebody could be added to the kill list. And the CIA’s firepower had been severely clipped. But the secret court proposed by the president had been voted down by Congress.
Kilpatrick and Marcano did not fare well. They were removed from office and roundly criticized from the left and right. U.S. Attorney Mitchell Taylor lodged perjury charges against Marcano for lying in his deposition. And after Harry Coburn from the New York Tribune spilled the beans on Kilpatrick, the former chief of staff was convicted of the unauthorized disclosure of classified information. Wyatt Jackson, of course, parlayed that conviction into a full day of circuit riding on the cable TV shows.
Both Marcano and Kilpatrick served sixty days behind bars and were given two-year suspended sentences. They settled the Anderson case and the case filed by Gazala Holloman, but they continued to deny all liability. It was hard for people to take them seriously when they each paid over $500,000.
Justice Deegan was quickly making a name for herself on the Supreme Court. And Kristen’s boys, who were sitting just a few rows down from Paige at the memorial service, had become stars on their respective soccer teams.
The weather was hot and muggy that day, the thin, wispy clouds giving little relief in the ninety-degree heat. It didn’t keep Bill Harris from wearing a proper sport coat and tie, the perspiration trickling down his brow. And during the prayer at the end of the ceremony, he reached over and placed a hand on Paige’s forearm. She had spent a few days over Christmas vacation visiting the man, and she loved him with all her heart.
Paige cried only twice that day. The first time was at the close of the ceremony in the amphitheater. The speeches had been given, the prayers had been said, and there was a flyover with a missing pilot. That was followed by an honor guard firing three volleys in the air and the playing of taps by a lone bugler. It was during that song, while the families sat in reverential silence, that young Justin Anderson, all of five years old, sprang to his feet and saluted. Paige looked down the row and saw the brave young man standing at attention, his bottom lip quivering, and the tears began to flow.
When the ceremony was over and the people began filing out, Bill and Paige headed for Patrick’s grave. Only about half of the SEAL families had made the ceremony this year. For some, the emotions might have been too strong. Others might have decided to remember their loved ones in more private ceremonies in hometowns scattered around the country. Bill and Paige, on the other hand, had vowed that they would make the journey together every Memorial Day. It was the least they could do.
Paige thought about the magnificent procession during the memorial service for the SEALs—the twenty flag-draped caskets and the gleaming caissons pulled by sleek white horses. She remembered the thousands of people lining the streets of the cemetery, the servicemen and -women with their uniforms sparkling in the sun. She remembered the children on the shoulders of their dads and the men with their hats over their hearts.
Today there was none of that. She and Bill walked quietly together down the roads of Arlington, past the thousands of white grave markers, all neatly and perfectly spaced, past the other families stopping and bowing at the graves of loved ones. She smelled the freshly cut grass, and it reminded her of the year before and the brutal sorrow that had ripped at her heart. On their right, they passed a grave where a young woman had opened an umbrella and propped it on its side so it provided shade for the tombstone and the area just in front of the grave. She had placed a blanket there and was lying on her side on top of the blanket, flowers in her hand, tears streaming down her face.
When they reached Patrick’s tombstone, his grandfather knelt, and Paige knelt beside him. Bill said a short prayer, thanking God for giving him a grandson of such great courage and honor, a grandson who was willing to sacrifice his life for the freedom of others. He thanked God for the full assurance that he would be with Patrick again soon, and he ended his prayer in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
He and Paige had chatted like best friends earlier that day, but now they were both at a loss for words. They knelt there for a long time, alone with their thoughts, until Patrick’s grandfather placed a hand on the headstone to help him rise to his feet.
“Guess I’d better be going,” he said. “Come up and see me again.”
Paige assured him that she would, and she gave him a long hug. Her heart ached as the old man slowly walked away, his shoulders stooped from the sorrow life had thrown at him.
She watched him for a very long time and was not at all surprised when he stopped at the grave where the young woman was lying on the blanket. He said a few words and sat down to talk with her.
Paige, alone at Patrick’s grave, wanted to do a little talking of her own.
She sat in front of the tombstone, ran her fingers over the inscription, and thought again about the tragedy of a good man like Patrick dying so young. There were so many things he would never do, but she kept herself from going there. She reminded herself that men could live to be ninety and never accomplish half as much.
She knew she probably looked pathetic sitting there, but she didn’t really care. “I know you’re not here,” she said. “But I also know that you can hear me, so this is as good a place as any to get a few things off my heart.
“First of all, I might not have said yes the night before you left, but you knew it was going to happen. I loved you more than any man who has ever been in my life, and I can’t imagine ever loving anyone like that again.”
She was sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees, sunglasses on, feeling the warm sun beating against her bare shoulders. She looked into the distance, a sea of headstones with people milling about. She sniffed back some tears for the second time that day and continued.
“Thanks for helping me find the courage to be who I am and to embrace my faith again. It took somebody like you to teach my heart to trust.
“You might have heard, but we didn’t do half bad in our case. And I know this might surprise you, but I’ve got a little announcement to make. After everything I went through last year, it’s hard to get excited about private practice. So I’ve decided to join the Navy and be part of the JAG corps.”
She had been thinking about this for a long time. She had been inspired by the loyalty of the SEAL team families and the sense that they were fighting for a higher cause. There was nobility in sacrifice; Patrick had shown her that. She would never be a SEAL, but she had other skills. She was a born prosecutor, and she would put those skills to work in the JAG corps, trying cases, protecting the integrity of the Navy and its commitment to honor and discipline.
“So that’s it. I’ve already signed the papers. You’re not the only one who can look good in a uniform.”
She stood, kissed her fingers, and placed them on his name.
“We would have made a good
team, Patrick,” she said. “We would have made a good team.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Randy Singer is a critically acclaimed, award-winning author and veteran trial attorney. He has penned more than ten legal thrillers and was a finalist with John Grisham and Michael Connelly for the inaugural Harper Lee Prize for Legal Fiction sponsored by the University of Alabama School of Law and the ABA Journal. Randy runs his own law practice and has been named to Virginia Business magazine’s select list of Legal Elite litigation attorneys. In addition to his law practice and writing, Randy serves as teaching pastor for Trinity Church in Virginia Beach, Virginia, and teaches classes in advocacy and civil litigation at Regent Law School. He and his wife, Rhonda, live in Virginia Beach. They have two grown children. Visit his website at www.randysinger.net.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing novels is the easy part. This is the hard part—finding the right words to thank the people who make it possible. Nevertheless, I will try.
Inspiration. People ask me where I get the ideas for my books. There is nothing like real life to inspire fiction, and this book is no exception. I live and I watch.
Lately, as a lawyer, I’ve had the privilege of representing families in lawsuits against state sponsors of terrorism (like Iran and Syria). Many of these families have lost loved ones who served our country valiantly. They have shown me how God can bring good things out of the ashes of tragedy. So much of this story is their story.
Living in Virginia Beach, I also have the privilege of being a pastor in a church with a large military contingent, including members of the Special Forces. It may sound clichéd, but they epitomize duty and valor, never hesitating to risk their lives for our freedom. They know the meaning of sacrifice. The least I can do is write about it.
Gratitude. It takes more than inspiration to write a novel. In my case, it requires an entire team to keep me straight. I’m especially grateful to be part of the Tyndale team and to have editors like Karen Watson and Jeremy Taylor. Their skill is equaled only by their unending patience, and believe me, I’ve tried it. They don’t just doctor the words; they capture the vision and help make it reality. Without Karen’s unflagging enthusiasm for this story, it would never have come to fruition.
I’m also grateful for those who help in the earliest stages. For this book, Mary Hartman, Denise Wood, and Andrew Cleveland provided great critique and feedback before I even sent it to the folks at Tyndale to perform their magic. Also, my friends in a Bible study group called Tactical Side Bar (named for the military members and lawyers in it) will probably take credit for this book (as they do my sermons), so I might as well beat them to the punch. Thank you, gentlemen.
Grace. My church, my law firm, and my family bear a disproportionate burden when I launch out on one of my fictional escapades. Every hour spent in the fictional world means one less hour in the real one, and somebody has to pick up the slack. Thank you, Trinity Church, for realizing that writing is a ministry, and for supporting me in it. Thank you to the lawyers and staff at Singer Davis for keeping the real cases on track while I spend energy battling fictional ones. And most of all, thank you, Rhonda, Rosalyn, Joshua, Alisa, and Andrew for putting up with the idiosyncrasies of a fiction author in the family. I have fun writing. But my real joy is knowing that the people who know me best still love me most. That requires no small amount of grace.
Fiction
Directed Verdict
Irreparable Harm
Dying Declaration
Self Incrimination
The Judge Who Stole Christmas
The Judge
previously published as The Cross Examination of Oliver Finney
False Witness
By Reason of Insanity
The Justice Game
Fatal Convictions
The Last Plea Bargain
Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales
The Advocate
Nonfiction
Live Your Passion, Tell Your Story, Change Your World
Made to Count
www.randysinger.net
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