ACCLAIM FOR ROBERT WHITLOW
“Part mystery and part legal thriller, Whitlow’s latest novel is definitely a must read!”
—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 4 STARS, ON THE WITNESSES
“Whitlow’s characters continuously prove that God loves the broken and that faith is a lot more than just showing up to church. [This] contemplative novel is a fine rumination on ethics, morality, and free will.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, ON THE WITNESSES
“Highlights not only Whitlow’s considerable skills as an author of legal thrillers, but it is also a gripping story of family dynamics and the burden of alcoholism.”
—CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES ON A HOUSE DIVIDED
“Attorney and Christy Award–winning author Whitlow pens a character-driven story once again showcasing his legal expertise . . . Corbin is highly relatable, leaving readers rooting for his redemption even after family and friends have written him off.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY ON A HOUSE DIVIDED
“Christy Award–winner Whitlow’s experience in the law is apparent in this well-crafted legal thriller. Holt’s spiritual growth as he discovers his faith and questions his motives for hiding his secret is inspiring. Fans of John Grisham will find much to like here.”
—LIBRARY JOURNAL ON THE CONFESSION
“Whitlow writes with the credence of a legal background and quite adeptly incorporates intrigue, romance, and redemption in its many forms into his book. Recommend to young adults and older readers with a penchant for unexpected twists and unanticipated outcomes.”
—CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES ON THE CONFESSION
“Whitlow has weaved a well-constructed and engaging mystery with a crisp, concise style of storytelling, authentic, gritty characters, and a well-defined plot. Strong tension and steady pacing add to this stellar read.”
—RT BOOK REVIEWS, 41/2 STARS, ON THE CONFESSION
“Whitlow intertwines legal drama with spiritual highs and lows in an intensely exceptional read.”
—DALE LEWIS, NOVEL CROSSING, ON THE CONFESSION
“Readers will find plenty to love about this suspenseful novel as they watch its appealing main character juggle personal, professional, and spiritual crisis with a combination of vulnerability and strength.”
—CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES ON THE LIVING ROOM
“. . . an intensely good read.”
—BOOKLIST ON THE LIVING ROOM
“In The Choice, Robert Whitlow crafts a moving tale of a mother’s love for her unborn children cast against the specter of the culture wars. Fans of Whitlow’s courtroom drama will not be disappointed, but here, too, the human drama of which we all become a part takes center stage. Every page entertains and inspires. I dare you to put this book down. Heartrending and triumphant, Whitlow at his best.”
—BILLY COFFEY, AUTHOR OF SNOW DAYS AND PAPER ANGELS
“Whitlow captures the struggle of many women trapped in the battle over abortion in a truly sympathetic and affecting way.”
—BOOKLIST ON THE CHOICE
“Author Robert Whitlow combines Grisham’s suspenseful legal-thriller style with the emotional connection of a Hallmark made-for-TV movie.”
—CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES ON WATER’S EDGE
“. . . a solid, suspenseful thriller.”
—BOOKLIST ON WATER’S EDGE
ALSO BY ROBERT WHITLOW
The Witnesses
A House Divided
The Confession
The Living Room
The Choice
Water’s Edge
Mountain Top
Jimmy
The Sacrifice
The Trial
The List
THE TIDES OF TRUTH SERIES
Deeper Water
Higher Hope
Greater Love
THE ALEXIA LINDALE SERIES
Life Everlasting
Life Support
© 2017 by Robert Whitlow
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.
Thomas Nelson titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail SpecialMarkets@ ThomasNelson.com.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com. The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.®
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-7180-8376-2 (HC Library Edition)
Epub Edition August 2017 ISBN 9780718083748
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Whitlow, Robert, 1954- author.
Title: A time to stand / Robert Whitlow.
Description: Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2017.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017012470 | ISBN 9780718083038 (softcover)
Subjects: LCSH: African American lawyers--Fiction. | Women lawyers--Fiction.
| Race relations--Fiction. | GSAFD: Christian fiction. | Legal stories.
Classification: LCC PS3573.H49837 T56 2017 | DDC 813/.54--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017012470
Printed in the United States of America
17 18 19 20 21 22 LSC 6 5 4 3 2 1
To everyone willing to take a stand for racial reconciliation and unity founded on the love of God and the power of the gospel of Jesus Christ
“There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”
—GALATIANS 3:28
CONTENTS
Acclaim for Robert Whitlow
Also by Robert Whitlow
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Acknowledgments
Discussion Questions
About the Author
PROLOGUE
THE CORNSTALKS WERE waist high, poised for the explosion of growth that would bring them to head-high maturity under the smiling Georgia sun. Six men, hoes in hand, reached the end of their rows with choreographed efficiency. The corn stretched out over three hundred yards in every direction. Rooting out
the weeds that competed for nutrients was the work of several days.
“Dinnertime!” called out the tall, angular man who served as informal field boss, a carryover from his role in the days before a man named Lincoln in a faraway place called Washington, DC, declared they were free.
The men placed their hoes on their shoulders and made their way to the cluster of shade trees surrounding the freshwater spring at the edge of the field. The land had once been part of the large farm where several of them worked without wages. The soldiers in blue uniforms who occupied the center of Campbellton for over a year after the fighting stopped had put an end to that arrangement. Now the men labored as sharecroppers. The landowner, Harold Grayson III, provided the mules, plows, seed, and guano fertilizer necessary to farm the land in return for a healthy percentage of the profits when the crop made it to market. Accustomed to working together for decades, the men banded together for the common good. The arrangement had worked well three out of the past five years. The other two years had put them in debt. Mr. Grayson cut the debt in half.
Raphael, wearing a homespun shirt and loose-fitting trousers secured with a piece of cotton twine, removed the straw hat from his head and wiped his dark brow with a red kerchief. The men sat down on the grass and shared a battered tin cup to drink cool water from a small spring that had been marked and protected by a ring of stones. Nash County had many natural springs that were created when subterranean rivers bubbled to the surface.
“Mr. Rafe,” said the youngest of the black men, a broad-shouldered nineteen-year-old. “Has the Lord told you if it’s gonna rain? If it does in the next week or so, this corn will be shooting up to the moon.”
“I’m still praying on that one, James,” their leader replied.
“While you’re talkin’ to the Lord, tell him to make it rain on our land and not on Master Benfield’s farm,” said Lanny, another one of the laborers.
Francis Benfield had earned the reputation of being the cruelest slave owner within fifty miles of Campbellton. Lanny bore scars on his back from a whipping he’d received when he was fifteen years old.
“The rain falls on the just and the unjust, Lanny,” Rafe replied. “In his mercy, God doesn’t give any of us what we deserve. And he’s told me to be a-praying for all of Nash County, black or white, rich or poor.”
“Here comes dinner,” said one of the other men.
Above a slight rise at the edge of the field came two teenage girls and a young boy. The girls carried straw baskets, and the boy had an earthen jug in his right hand with his left hand beneath it for added support.
“Don’t be droppin’ that!” called out Lanny.
“No, sir,” replied the boy as he came closer.
Rafe was father to the boy and the older of the two girls. The young people reached the men reclining on the grass beside the spring. The boy handed the jug to his father, who tipped it back and took a long drink.
“Still cool,” Rafe announced, wiping the white line of buttermilk from his upper lip.
He passed the jug to the man beside him. Each man took a long drink while the girls laid sticks of baked cornpone in a pile on a ground cloth. Beside the cornmeal dinner, they dished out a large mound of soft, salty butter onto an earthenware plate. The men dipped the cornpone into the butter and then washed it down with the rest of the buttermilk and more freshwater from the spring.
“Eat, young’uns,” said Rafe.
“Mama and Missus Kate fed us before we left the house,” said Sally Ann, who was Rafe’s slender, bright-eyed daughter.
“But I’m still hungry,” said Moses. “That jug was extra heavy today.”
James dipped a stick of cornpone into the butter and handed it to Moses, who quickly took a big bite. James was sitting as close to Sally Ann as Rafe would allow.
“What do you say?” Rafe asked his son.
“Thank you, Lord Jesus,” Moses mumbled, his mouth full. “And you, James.”
After he finished eating his corn bread, Moses began to pick tiny yellow honeysuckle blossoms and squeeze out drops of juice. Sally Ann sat with her bare feet beneath her and her hands folded on her faded yellow dress. James dipped the tin cup into the spring and held it out to her. Their fingers touched slightly when she took it from his hand. Rafe saw it and smiled.
“James, did you hear what the preacher said on Sunday about the sins of the fathers landing on their children to the third and fourth generations of people?” he asked.
Wide-eyed, James cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. I did hear him say that.”
Lanny spoke up. “Mr. Benfield’s younger son, Frederick, died of pox when he was ten years old, and his older boy, Morgan, got hisself shot and killed somewhere up north during the war. And his daughter got left at the altar and is sitting there alone without a husband in that big house.”
“That’s all in God’s hands for his choosing,” Rafe said, keeping his eyes on James. “But do you remember what the preacher said about the children of the righteous?”
“I think so,” James said, cutting his eyes toward Sally Ann. “But I can’t recollect it just this minute.”
“He said the Lord’s blessing will run for a thousand generations on them that love him and obey his commandments,” Sally Ann said.
“That’s a long time, ain’t it?” Rafe asked.
“Yes, Mr. Rafe, it sure is.”
The air around the spring grew extra still. The men and the young people, even Moses, fixed their eyes on Rafe. And something bubbled up inside Rafe as real as the water in the nearby pool.
“Everything we do, and believe, and pray doesn’t stop when the breath leaves out of our bodies and they lay us in the ground,” he said. “It travels down through time until everybody but the Lord loses sight of it.”
ONE
STANLEY JACKSON WATCHED the six young men milling around in front of the drink coolers at the Westside Quik Mart. The convenience store clerk often worked the third shift alone. At six foot three and 245 pounds, he was only ten pounds heavier than when he’d wreaked havoc as a defensive lineman for the Campbellton High Colonels. Stan had received scholarship offers from a handful of small colleges, but he’d injured his right knee in a motorcycle wreck the summer after graduating from high school, and the opportunity to play football in return for a free education evaporated like the mist on a May morning in Georgia.
The store clerk glanced up at the surveillance camera that was aimed at the back of the store. The video feed linked directly to the security company headquarters in Atlanta. The unblinking eyes of the cameras recorded a twenty-four-hour-a-day reality show boring enough to cure insomnia. There were two cameras inside the store and one outside. The camera that was supposed to cover the cash register hadn’t worked in over a month.
Stan recognized two of the teenagers: Deshaun Hamlin, a quick and agile point guard on the high school basketball team; and Greg Ott, a regular customer who often came into the store with his stepmother. The other young men were strangers. One of the strangers opened the door of the cooler and took out a thirty-ounce bottle of malt liquor.
“You have to be twenty-one to buy beer!” Stan called out. “And that means a valid ID!”
Deshaun left the group and placed a plastic bottle filled with orange sports drink on the counter in front of the cash register.
“What you up to, Deshaun?” Stan asked. “I haven’t seen you down at the rec center recently.”
“I’m trying out for a summer league AAU team next month if my left shoulder is healed up by then,” he said.
“What happened to your shoulder?” Stan asked.
“Dislocated it going up for a rebound a couple of weeks ago. Worst injury I’ve had since I broke my arm when I was a kid.”
“You’re still a kid,” Stan answered with a smile. “And I can dunk on you anytime I want to.”
“Only if I didn’t steal the ball first,” Deshaun replied. “Wait a second. I need to pick up a snack for my grandmother.”
<
br /> Deshaun stepped over to the nut rack. The other four young men had scattered, making it impossible for Stan to keep an eye on what they were doing. The oldest of the strangers approached with the bottle of malt liquor. Tall and lanky with a small goatee, he appeared to be in his midtwenties. He placed the alcohol on the counter with a five-dollar bill beside it.
“Ring it up,” he said in a slow, deep voice. “You can keep the change.”
“That’s not how it works,” Stan replied. “You show me an ID, and you keep the change.”
Stan glanced past the man as two of the other teenagers came together in front of the meat snacks. Petty shoplifting was a constant problem at the store, and the expensive meat products were a popular item to steal. The man at the cash register took a battered wallet from the rear pocket of his jeans and fumbled through it. Stan could see a thick stack of twenty-dollar bills.
“Dude, I must have left it at Greg’s house,” he said. “We walked over here together. That’s where my car is parked.”
Greg Ott came over to the counter. “He’s cool, Stan,” Greg said. “He works for a trucking company hauling freight to Birmingham. He’s got his CDL license. You know I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Maybe so,” Stan replied. “But I still need to see his license if he wants to buy this bottle.”
Deshaun returned to pay for his sports drink and a bag of pistachios.
“Let me know when the season starts,” Stan said as Deshaun gave him a ten-dollar bill. “I’d like to come watch a game.”
“We’ll be playing our home games at the Franklin Gym.”
“Cool. Did you walk over here?”
“Yeah.”
“You’d better get going. A storm is coming.”
“Remember, I’m fast,” Deshaun replied with a grin. “I can outrun lightning.”
“Get outta here,” Stan said.
When Deshaun moved out of Stan’s line of sight, the clerk saw one of the unfamiliar teenagers slip a pack of premium beef jerky into a pocket of his baggy black pants.
“You have to pay for that!” Stan called out.
“Calm down,” the man with the goatee said, raising his hand. “Bring that up here, son. I’ll pay for it even if this clown isn’t going to sell me anything to drink.”
A Time to Stand Page 1
