Layla insisted they meet at the restaurant, so instead of picking her up and finding out where she lived, Parker pulled into the sandy parking lot at 7:30 p.m. and went inside. Layla hadn’t arrived. While he waited, Parker read the special entrées written on a blackboard in brightly colored chalk surrounded by freehand art. He was standing there when Layla walked through the door wearing a yellow-and-blue dress with a camera slung over her shoulder. Her hair hung down her back. With sandaled heels on her feet, her nose was level with his chin.
“Is this a working dinner?” Parker asked.
“Yes.” Layla patted the camera. “Strictly professional.”
His question answered, Parker followed Layla as the hostess led them to a table for two in a quiet corner of the noisy room. Layla slipped the camera from her shoulder and placed it on the table. Parker eyed it.
“Are you going to photograph our dinner?” he asked.
“Don’t worry,” Layla replied with a smile. “I won’t take your picture without express permission.”
A waitress arrived and took their drink orders.
“What do you recommend?” Layla asked Parker as she scanned the menu. “I’ve not been here before.”
“The turtle stew is good even though they leave out the turtle meat. It’s made with shrimp and andouille sausage in a spicy red sauce.”
“Hmm,” Layla replied as she read the menu. “I’m leaning more toward the mango fish.”
“I haven’t tried it, but it sounds good and looks tasty.”
“That settles it,” Layla said as she closed the menu. “Presentation is huge to me.”
The waitress returned with their drinks and took their food orders.
“Do you know the owner or manager of the restaurant?” Layla asked Parker when the waitress left.
“Is something wrong? They haven’t even brought out our food.”
“No, it has to do with this,” Layla replied and touched her camera. “One of my specialties is photographing food for magazines and websites.”
“Okay,” Parker said slowly.
“But that’s not what you wanted to talk about.” Layla put her hands on the table. “You’re interested in the law, and I won’t make you cross-examine me. My father is a trial lawyer. We don’t talk much, but he happened to phone me before I left my apartment, and I told him about our conversation. He was curious about you and wanted to know why you lobbied so hard for me to serve on the jury. Did you do background research on the members of the jury pool? I didn’t say much during voir dire except my name and what I did for a living. In big cases my father puts together a dossier on every juror before he walks into the courtroom.”
“Branham and Camp is a small law firm,” Parker said, shaking his head. “We’re not that sophisticated. I didn’t know anything about you.”
“Then what was it?” Layla persisted.
“I had a strong feeling that you would be an influential juror. It was a hunch, really.”
“A hunch?”
“Yeah, I have good instincts about people.”
Layla nodded. “An intuitive lawyer. Combine that with diligent preparation, and you could be a courtroom powerhouse.”
Layla suddenly grabbed her camera and left the table. Parker watched as she approached a nearby couple who had just received their meals. Layla quickly took several pictures and returned to the table.
“Don’t you agree that a gorgeous picture of food can make you want to take a bite out of the page of a magazine?” she asked.
“No.” Parker laughed.
The waitress brought their dinners. Layla asked to speak to the manager and told her why.
“I’ll let him know,” the waitress promised before she left.
“Don’t touch anything!” Layla exclaimed when Parker picked up his spoon and prepared to take a bite of his turtle stew. “I need the bay leaves in one place for the best shot.”
Slightly embarrassed, Parker pushed his chair away from the table and looked around as Layla positioned the large bowl and took several pictures. She then pointed the camera at her own dish, which had a yellowish-orange theme due to the mangoes.
“I love this restaurant,” she said when she returned to her chair and put her napkin in her lap.
“You haven’t eaten a bite yet.”
“You know what I mean,” Layla replied with another smile. “And thanks for being a good sport. I caught a glimpse of the dessert tray when I was at the other table. There were three kinds of cake. I hope they’re as luscious as they look.”
Parker ate a piece of shrimp immersed in the broth from the stew. The flavors were vivid.
“If a person loves something, there’s no reason to hide it,” Layla continued. “Photography and cake are two of my passions.”
Parker suddenly wondered if the photographer liked to juggle. There were three small bread rolls in the center of the table, and he could see her grabbing them and tossing them in the air.
“What do you love?” Layla asked. “You know, what makes you get out of bed in the morning?”
Parker thought for a moment. “I know it sounds boring, but right now I guess it’s figuring out how to be a good lawyer.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that so long as the rest of your life is in balance. What else do you love to do?”
“I like to work out. Several days a week I do something called parkour at a playground near where I live.”
Parker then described the European exercise program that involved a fluid, unbroken circuit of jumping over picnic tables, swinging into trees from low-lying limbs, and using the metal supports on playground equipment for rudimentary gymnastic moves, all interspersed with pull-ups, push-ups, and burpees.
“I’ve never heard of it, but it sounds cool,” Layla replied. “I’m a power walker myself, especially on the beach.”
Parker suspected the long-legged photographer could rapidly cover a lot of ground.
“But if I take my camera on a walk, there are too many interruptions.”
“I also like spending time with my grandfather,” Parker said, taking a sip of water. “He’s a retired commercial fisherman, and sport fishing with him is my favorite way to relax. He has a twenty-two-foot skiff that we take on the river or into the Sound.”
“I haven’t been on a boat since moving to New Bern,” Layla replied. “What about the rest of your family?”
“My older sister lives in Florida with her husband and two kids.” Parker paused. “My parents were killed almost nine years ago in a car wreck involving a drunk driver.”
Layla’s expression changed. Parker was used to similar reactions when he shared the tragic news.
“It’s one of the reasons I decided to become a lawyer,” he continued. “You know, so I could help people who’ve been hurt. Personal injury work is a growing part of our firm’s practice.”
They ate in silence. Parker glanced at Layla’s left ring finger. He’d noticed it was bare at the wedding, but he suspected that hadn’t always been the case. Suddenly Parker saw himself standing in the back of an unfamiliar courtroom as Layla and a tall man with dark hair stood before a female judge.
“The mangoes in this dish are perfect, not too mushy even though they’re cooked,” Layla said. “Would you like a taste?”
“Sure,” Parker said, shaking his head to dispel what he was witnessing in the unfamiliar courtroom.
She deposited a generous portion on the edge of his plate. Parker took a bite.
“It’s good,” he said with a nod.
They ate in silence for a few moments.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” Layla said.
“I don’t bring it up often, but you asked. What about your family?”
“I’m an only child. My parents split when I was twelve. My own divorce was finalized fourteen months ago. That’s when I moved from Atlanta to New Bern and started the photography business. I needed a change of scene, and after growing up in Wilmington, I’ve always l
oved being near the coast.”
They finished the meal, and the waitress, accompanied by the manager, brought out a dessert tray.
“I can’t make up my mind,” Layla said to the manager. “Should I have the carrot cake or chocolate cake?”
“What was your entrée?” he asked.
Layla told him.
“Carrot cake pairs nicely with the mango dish.”
“Sounds good,” she replied. “Would you like to see some of the photos I took this evening?”
The manager stood behind Layla’s shoulder as she scrolled through the pictures. Parker watched the man’s eyes and the obvious interest revealed in his body language.
“I’d like to put together a portfolio for you,” Layla said when she finished. “You could use it in advertising, especially online. A text-only menu is classier for diners who come into the restaurant, but people like a visual presentation when searching the Internet for a place to eat.”
The manager left with Layla’s card and a promise to call her within the next few days. The waitress brought a thick slice of carrot cake and a dish of raspberry sorbet for Parker. He started to bury his spoon in the sorbet and then stopped.
“Sorry,” he said. “I guess you want a picture of the sorbet.”
“No.” Layla shook her head as she put the first bite of cake in her mouth. “It’s too generic. And this carrot cake is scrumptious. Thanks for inviting me to dinner, but I’ll pay for my meal since this evening is going to generate business.”
Parker started to protest, but Layla Donovan seemed to have nonnegotiable reasons for what she said and did. After they finished dessert, Parker walked her to her car, a small imported sedan that looked like it had traveled a lot of miles.
“Oh,” he said. “I forgot to ask. Where does your father practice law?”
“He’s based in Wilmington where I grew up, but he travels all over the country,” Layla replied. “His name is Thomas Blocker.”
CHAPTER 12
Frank woke early Sunday morning. While waiting for his morning coffee to brew, he logged on to a computer Parker had helped him buy and set up for him. Frank rarely used the machine except to check the soccer scores for the German Bundesliga, the division in which the best teams competed. Frank played soccer as a boy and still considered it the purest form of competitive team sport. As usual, Bayern Munich occupied first place, but Frank always rooted for one of the underdog teams that might dethrone the perennial power. This year, that team was Wolfsburg in Lower Saxony. After finishing an article about a recent match, Frank checked his unread e-mails. Virtually all of them were advertisements, and he might go weeks between cleaning out the spam.
Frank clicked open his in-box and began deleting messages. Many of them were repeat offenders, and he resolved to ask Parker how to cut down on the volume of unsolicited inquiries. An e-mail from Germany caught his attention, and he opened it.
It was from Conrad Mueller.
The former soldier had returned to Germany and was thanking him again for seeing him. Frank wondered how Mueller got his e-mail address, but then he realized that Parker would have given it to him without asking questions. Included in the text was an invitation to attend a veterans’ reunion for Army Group G the following spring in the Black Forest region with a link to find out more information and register for the event. Frank opened the link but didn’t provide any personal information before closing it. He didn’t want his Internet footprint to extend beyond the end of his driveway.
Logging off the computer, he stared at the blank screen. He had nothing to do at the house, and he didn’t relish the prospect of staying inside the four walls all day. An unanticipated idea crossed his mind. He immediately dismissed it, but it popped back up like a bobber momentarily jerked underwater by a curious fish. Frank pushed his chair away from the computer and checked the time.
If he got ready quickly, he could go to church.
While shaving, Frank considered his options. Lenny’s church was an obvious possibility, and Frank knew he had an open invitation to church followed by a delicious lunch. But if he went to the service it would create an expectation that he come back the following week. Better to go someplace where he could remain anonymous and uncommitted.
Frank owned a lonely dark suit that he wore to funerals. Putting it on with a white shirt and maroon tie, he got in his car, not sure where to go. However, the closer he drove to New Bern, the more options there’d be. He reached the outskirts of town and began passing churches familiar from his many years in the area. None of them called out to him. He stopped at an intersection and decided to turn right. Two blocks down the road, he saw an invitation in front of a new tan-and-brown metal building: “Looking for a church?”
He smiled to himself. His ability to see into the future was rusty, but even in his old age a sign could still be a sign.
This early on a Sunday morning, Parker had the playground to himself. It was a cool day with low humidity, and he enjoyed moving rapidly from one activity to another. Today he added a few new wrinkles into his routine involving a fire hydrant and a brick wall.
After getting home from his dinner with Layla Donovan the night before, Parker had researched her father. Thomas Blocker went to college at UNC–Chapel Hill and then attended an Ivy League law school. Upon graduation, he returned to his hometown of Wilmington, where he joined a small firm. His courtroom reputation grew quickly, but instead of relocating to a metropolitan area or joining a big law firm, he stayed put and eventually went out on his own. Clients came from all over the country to hire him. Blocker practiced law on his own terms and made the rest of the world come to him. The Wilmington firm now had six partners and ten associates, with satellite offices in Raleigh and Atlanta. It was an impressive accomplishment. Nothing on the law firm website contained information about Blocker’s family or personal life.
Parker was taking an exercise break to drink water from a large bottle when Creston Keller pulled into the parking lot.
“I thought I’d find you here,” Creston said when he got out of the car. “I’m meeting Melinda for a morning run in thirty minutes.”
“Melinda?”
“The girl I took to dinner last night.”
“This must be serious,” Parker said, eyebrows raised. “An intimate, candlelight dinner is one thing; going out for a morning run takes things to another level. Are you moving too fast?”
“We’ll find out when I start to push the pace about two and a half miles into the run. If she can still carry on a conversation without getting into oxygen debt, she may be the woman of my dreams.”
“It’s so easy for you to decide.”
“What about the photographer?” Creston asked, stretching one of his legs by propping his foot on a wooden bench. “What’s she like?”
Parker told him about the evening. Creston’s eyes widened as he listened to the account of Layla flitting around the restaurant taking pictures of dinner entrées.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were making this up,” he said when Parker finished.
“It was odd, but I liked her. She’s different but interesting. And then, when she was about to get in her car to leave, I found out her father is a very successful trial lawyer in Wilmington. He was in the courtroom when we selected the jury in the case she served on last week. At the time it didn’t make any sense why he would be there. Now I guess he was watching out for his little girl.”
“Whoa, an overprotective father who’s a lawyer. You need to steer clear of this woman. He’ll slap a restraining order on you if you splash water in her face while playing in the surf.”
“I don’t think so. There’s distance between them, probably because her parents broke up when she was twelve.” Parker paused. “And Layla’s divorced too.”
“Dude,” Creston said as he changed legs and continued to stretch. “You’re way too young to date a divorced woman. Don’t take another step until you find out why they split.”
&n
bsp; Parker reached up and grabbed a pull-up bar. “You sound like a paranoid parent. Do you want to see if you can keep up with me on a circuit?”
“No, I’m not interested in playing Tarzan. I’d better get going. If you see a blur running down the river trail, it’s me chasing Melinda.”
“That will really motivate her to run faster.”
Creston left, and Parker performed a different series of maneuvers that emphasized upper-body strength. After several minutes, he could feel the pleasant burn in his muscles that let him know he’d reached a training effect. He finished and jogged back to his apartment where he showered and read the news online until it was time to fix a sandwich for lunch. Checking his watch, he drove to the office. Greg’s car was parked in its usual spot. Relieved that he’d decided to go to the office, Parker unlocked the door and went inside.
The only Christian meetings Franz attended as a child took place in his home in the 1920s, and it had been years since Franz had scrolled back in his mind to the informal gatherings that occurred when his grandfather came to town for a visit. Franz wasn’t sure how the news went out that Herr Haus had arrived in Dresden, but on Friday or Saturday night a group of twenty to thirty people would cram into the house for a time of singing, praying, and listening to Franz’s grandfather teach from the Bible. Franz would be hustled off to bed while the meetings continued into the night, but for the last two years of his grandfather’s life, he was allowed to sit in the corner of the room so long as he didn’t do anything to disrupt the gathering.
The most interesting part of the evenings would be the private, individual conversations people had with Franz’s grandfather after the teaching ended. From his seat in the corner, Franz couldn’t hear what was said, but the intense emotional reaction by the normally stoic Germans could be dramatic. Franz’s mother reassured him that the tears were good tears and the occasional verbal outburst an expression of appreciation to God for his goodness in speaking to his people. None of it made sense to Franz, but he couldn’t deny the goose bumps that would pop up on his own arms or the shivers that ran down his spine when his grandfather would place his hand on a person’s head and begin to pray for them.
The Witnesses Page 10
