"That's okay, sir. I can handle it."
"Tell you what, Tank, the first step is that LSAT. I'll have my secretary call and get the forms. When they arrive, you can get together with her and complete them. I suspect the test will be available sometime this fall and you might be able to get into school by January. That suit you?"
Johnny Bob almost climbed over the judge's desk to shake his hand, saying, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Two weeks later, with the help of the judge's secretary, Johnny Bob completed the forms, and the following month he drove to Dallas where he took the test along with several hundred other lawyer hopefuls. In November, he got the results. While he didn't quite understand everything that he read, it was clear that he scored in the bottom third of the examinees. When he took the results down to Judge Arbuckle, he was in for a disappointment. The judge looked over the test results and then looked up with a solemn expression.
"Son, I'm afraid this score and your college grades won't get you into any law school in the state." He could see the dismay on the face of the big old boy sitting across the desk.
"Well, sir, I guess I better get down to the railroad yard and try to get on there. I appreciate all that you did for me." As he rose to leave, Judge Arbuckle stopped him.
"Tank, let me try one more thing. The dean down at South Texas is an old classmate of mine. Maybe with my recommendation, you could get in on probation. Hold on there a minute while I see if I can get him on the phone."
The judge turned and thumbed through a Rolodex until he found the right number. When he got the dean on the phone, they exchanged pleasantries, talked about their families, kids, and grand kids, and then Judge Arbuckle got to the point. "Dick, I've got a young man sitting across from me. His name is Johnny Bob Tisdale. I've known him and his family all his life. He wants to be a lawyer but his college grades and LSAT, frankly, are piss-poor. If I gave you my solemn word that he's willing to work his ass off to be a lawyer, would you let him in on probation for just one semester? If he doesn't cut it, kick his butt all the way back up here to Palestine."
After listening to the reply on the other end, he gave Johnny Bob a thumbs up, thanked the dean and hung up the phone. "You're in, son. It's probationary. If you don't make it the first semester and every semester thereafter, you're out on the street. I put my name on the line for you and I damn sure don't want to be eating crow because of you. You start in two months. You best get on down to Houston, find yourself a job and get settled in. Classes start in January. You understand all that I've said?"
"Yes, sir, and I won't let you down," Johnny Bob replied as he circled the desk and came close to pulling Judge Arbuckle off his feet as he grabbed the judge's right hand.
Johnny Bob moved to Houston in a matter of days. Unfortunately, Johnny Bob's law school grades were no better than those he earned at East Texas. He managed to attend most classes, studied as much as he could with the work schedule that he had and scraped by. Other than passing his courses, his only law school accomplishment was placing second in a mock trial competition. He graduated in the four years Judge Arbuckle said that it would take. He was in the bottom quarter of his class, but he had a law school diploma. Three months after surviving the petrifying experience of the bar exam, he had a license to practice law.
After getting the results, Johnny Bob put on his best suit and started interviewing with the big firms in Houston. A waste of time. They took one look at his law school grades and decided that he wouldn't make it in a major Houston law firm. He couldn't compete with the top graduates of the best law schools hired by such firms. Besides, his East Texas redneck appearance and vocabulary would make it tough to sell any case to a jury.
After two months of job-hunting, Johnny Bob began to think that he had wasted four years, a lot of money and even more grief in law school. He was faced with staying where he was, working at a menial job. Tail between his legs, he drove home to Palestine to see if Judge Arbuckle had any ideas. After spending the weekend with his mom and dad, he showed up at the judge's office on Monday morning. It hadn't changed. Mable, the judge's loyal secretary, typed at the Underwood. The same uncomfortable chair. The same ceiling fan. He waited until the judge arrived. Arbuckle greeted him like a prodigal son.
"Tank, my boy, how goes life in the big city? Come on in."
Johnny Bob didn't waste time in getting to the point. He explained why he hadn't landed a job and asked for suggestions.
"Well, Tank, your timing may be just perfect. I'm retiring from the bench at the end of this year. My pension is enough to live on, but I enjoy the law and want to keep my hand in it. I've rented some space in the bank building across the street with an extra office. It's not much. I'll let you have it for nothing if you will help out on whatever business I bring in. I'll try to throw you some overflow when I can. It won't amount to much at first, but it's a start. Interested?"
Johnny Bob could not suppress a grin. "Judge, that's the best offer I've had so far. I'll take it. When can I move in?"
"Up to you, son. I've got three more months on my term, but the bank says the space is available and I can have it now."
A week later Johnny Bob moved some used furniture out of his old pickup and into the tiny back office on the third floor of the bank. His office was so small that his size filled it almost to capacity, but it was his and he was now a lawyer. Judge Arbuckle came over at lunch to see how he was doing. He found Johnny Bob hanging his law license on the wall behind the desk.
"Well, Tank, looks like you're settling in. Mable will start moving my stuff over here little by little. In the meantime, if you have anything for her to type, just ask. Now we're going to need to put our names on the hallway door, mine on top, of course. How do you want yours to read? John Tisdale? Johnny Bob Tisdale?"
"No, sir. I've been thinking about that. I'm a professional man now, and people in this town need to know that old Johnny Bob is now an attorney. They may still call me Johnny Bob or Tank, but from now on they need to know that my professional name is J. Robert Tisdale, Attorney at Law."
So it was. The judge arranged for the bank's painter to put the two names in gold on the glass-paneled door: "Arthur 'Buck' Arbuckle and J. Robert Tisdale, Attorneys and Counselors at Law." When the painter finished, Johnny Bob sat on the floor outside the door and stared at the sign for an hour.
From that day forward he never introduced himself as Johnny Bob again. It was always J. Robert Tisdale. When he appeared before a judge, it was "Your Honor, J. Robert Tisdale for the plaintiff." When he met a client for the first time, it was "Name's J. Robert Tisdale. Pleased to meet you." Even when he met his future wife, he handed her his card and said, "I'm J. Robert Tisdale, attorney at law."
After he moved in, he put an ad in the local newspaper:
J. Robert Tisdale
Attorney And Counselor At Law
Is Pleased To Announce
The Opening Of His Office For
The Practice Of Law
Palestine State Bank Bldg.
Phone: 868 5562
Palestine, Texas
On the day after the ad ran, Johnny Bob arrived early, wearing his best suit, white shirt and tie, halfway expecting people to be lined up out in the hallway. It was deserted. The young lawyer waited around until late morning, convinced that the phone was going to ring any minute. Instead, all he heard was the sound of silence. Having nothing better to do, he crossed the street to the courthouse and found the judge arraigning prisoners who had been arrested over the past couple of days.
As Johnny Bob took a seat in the courtroom, now in one of the chairs in front of the rail with the other lawyers, Judge Arbuckle called the name of the next prisoner, a skinny, middle-aged man dressed in jeans and a dirty white tee shirt. He pled not guilty to a charge of theft. Johnny Bob saw the judge looking at him before returning his gaze to the prisoner.
"Well, sir, can you afford a lawyer?"
The prisoner put on his most pitiful expression and repl
ied, "No, Judge, I ain't got enough to feed my family. I cut timber for a living when the weather's good and we been havin' too much rain lately."
"Then, sir, I'm going to appoint one of the finest young lawyers in this part of the country to represent you. Mr. Tisdale, would you approach the bench?"
Thus began the legal career of one J. Robert Tisdale, Attorney at Law.
CHAPTER 11
The return of The Chosen was imminent, though not without problems. The Board of Directors of The City, called the Miracle Governors, faced a major dilemma. Jimmy Witherspoon had performed ably as "Temporary Pastor," growing into his role more than anyone had a right to expect. Only the king had returned and made it clear that he expected to reclaim his throne. A special board meeting was called for a board that would make General Motors, Exxon, Microsoft or the Carnegie Foundation jealous. Composed of thirteen seats, the chair at the head of the giant conference table remained vacant, awaiting the return of The Chosen. It was originally T. J.'s idea to have twelve governors other than him. The symbolism did not have to be explained. Among the twelve were a former President of the United States; the heads of two major international foundations; two retired chairmen of Fortune 500 corporations; a four-star general of the U. S. Army, retired; an African American woman who had risen to prominence in the Republican Party; one of Hollywood's wealthiest producers; the chairman of the largest e-commerce corporation in the world; a third generation West Texas rancher who just happened to be the only descendant of a family near Wichita Falls, Texas and also owned two million acres of land as well as all of the oil under it; the host of the most popular conservative talk show in the country; and Jessie Woolsey, a rich widow, Lucy's aunt, and the only board member from Fort Worth.
While each of the twelve members had their individual reasons for serving on the board, they had certain common interests. They were part of the political and religious right. They believed that the left wing media dominated the country. They believed in the Second Amendment and were supporters of the National Rifle Association. They were concerned about the power of the United Nations and the possibility of one world government. They supported Republican candidates from dogcatcher to president since they never met a Democrat that could be trusted. They believed that prayer belonged in schools, as long as the prayers ended in Jesus' name. They fought to keep the government out of private lives except in one area: abortion was murder and the federal government, acting through good Christian conservative congressmen, had the duty to overrule Roe v. Wade. If Congress couldn't get it done, they intended to use their considerable power to elect a Republican, pro-life president and pray that he could put a pro-life majority on the Supreme Court during his term in office.
The special meeting of the Miracle Governors began at ten a.m. on a Saturday morning. The Governors came from all over the country, most landing their Lear jets on the private landing strip adjacent to The City. They were met by limousines and taken to their private suites in the Miracle Tower to freshen up for the meeting. The Board Room filled the floor directly below the Penthouse that was designed for The Chosen and still occupied by Reverend Witherspoon and his family. An architect, who had been a James Bond fan since his youth, had designed the room. The Board Room would make one of Bond's adversaries proud. It occupied twelve thousand square feet on the nineteenth floor with windows facing all directions. The view of the sunset reflecting on the hills west of Fort Worth was spectacular.
A giant oval table, twenty-five feet long and eight feet wide, dominated the room. The table was made from pecan, the Texas state tree, and stood on pedestals of pink granite, chiseled from a quarry in central Texas. The leather on the thirteen chairs came from the hides of cattle born and raised in Texas. The floor was polished Texas oak. Under the table was a giant white oval carpet with red trim. Perhaps a little out of place, the intent was to glorify the purity and blood of Christ. Gold curtains bordered the burnished bronze windows. In front of the Governors' table was a sitting area facing a giant fireplace, furnished with couches and easy chairs.
Jessie Woolsey was the only board member who didn't arrive by jet. She merely drove her Jaguar from the Rivercrest section of Fort Worth west to The City of Miracles. She arrived early and sat in the Board Room alone, drinking coffee, reviewing her packet of materials and contemplating the decision facing the board.
The second to arrive, ten minutes before the scheduled time, was General Horace Mallory, tall, silver-haired, lean and in his sixties, with a military bearing that commanded attention the moment he entered a room. The remainder of the board, some coming straight from limousines and some from their personal suites, followed him. As the Chairman of the Board, the General called them to the Governors Table, the General at one end with the others seated in order of seniority on his right and left. After making sure that each governor had an appropriate drink, he excused the staff.
"Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I know that you all have busy lives and too much to fill your days. It's an imposition to ask you to attend these meetings monthly and to serve on our various committees. However, it is the opinion of the executive committee that this is a matter that needs immediate attention. We are faced with a critical dilemma, and, I might add, a most remarkable one at that. For twelve years, we have hoped that The Chosen might rejoin us. I don't think that there's a person in this room who really thought that it was even a remote possibility. We received advice from the best doctors in the world. They considered it hopeless. Why he didn't die is one for the books."
"Well, I, for one, can tell you why he didn't die," interrupted Berlina Symonds. The only black person on the Board, she never hesitated to state her opinions, whether behind closed doors or appearing before Congress and the nation. "All you have to do is read the Good Book to know that God has a plan for this man. He isn't about to let The Chosen die until He is good and ready. It's apparent to me that He just let Reverend Luther sleep until we needed him again. While I'm talking, let me point out, Mr. General, that you started this meeting without even one word of prayer. Asking for a little guidance from above might make our job easier."
"My apologies, Mrs. Symonds. My mind was occupied by the matter at hand. Would you be so kind as to lead us in prayer?"
"Be happy to, Mr. General," Berlina Symonds replied as she looked around the table to make sure all heads were bowed. "Let us pray. Most kind and loving Heavenly Father, we all have many reasons for your guidance. On this occasion, it is particularly important. You have returned Your servant and our spiritual leader, The Chosen, to us. Those of us assembled here have to make decisions that could affect him, our ministry, our nation, and even the world. It's a big job and we need Your help. Grant us Your wisdom throughout this day and the coming months. Amen."
"Thank you for those inspiring words, Mrs. Symonds," the general said. "As I was saying, we have a most unusual dilemma. If you haven't seen them, in the packet before you are the latest reports on the health of The Chosen along with the most recent press releases from him. He wants to take back the ministry as soon as he is able, which appears to be any day now. You also have a letter from Reverend Witherspoon. He expresses his desire to remain as our primary minister and lays out very convincing arguments supporting his position. I have purposely avoided discussing this matter with either of them, thinking that we needed to have this meeting first. We need to make a decision and I invite your comments."
A discussion ensued. Jimmy and T. J. each had their champions. As the debate continued, voices were raised. Tempers flared. One side argued the ministry wouldn't have existed without The Chosen. Now they were positive that he had divine guidance. Reverend Witherspoon's friends argued that without him, the ministry would have failed long ago. With him as their spiritual leader, not only was the ministry one of the top five in the world, but the political strength of The Right Side became more powerful with each election.
As arguments filled the room, the former President of the United States said n
othing. History would place him as only a mediocre president upon being defeated after one four-year term. Yet, twenty years after leaving the White House, he stayed involved in international charities and served from time to time as an interim ambassador. On more than one occasion, he had been the President's personal envoy, negotiating peace in those parts of the world where war was an everyday part of life. When he spoke, his soft voice carried the authority of making life and death decisions for twenty-five years.
"General, may I say a few words?"
The governors stopped their discussion and turned to the president.
"Yes, Mr. President. We were wondering when you might offer us the benefit of your experience."
"Thank you, General. A strong case can be made for either of these fine servants of the Lord. Both have proven that they can do the job. Judging from the comments in this room, the issue is divisive. In addition to our ministry, we must also think about what is best for the country. If our decision caused a split among our followers, the ministry could probably recover. However, it could set our political agenda back several years. I propose that we ask both of these fine ministers to remain; that they be co-ministers or something of that sort; that they share the pulpit, alternating services. Maybe it will work for the long haul, maybe not. With two ministers of their stature, certainly there is hope that they could carry our message even further. Still, I don't want to be unrealistic. There is a good chance that one will eventually leave, hopefully, though, not until after the next election."
"Thank you, Mr. President," replied the general. "I certainly agree that is a solution, and it would certainly be best for all concerned if we could advise the press that our decision is unanimous. Anyone opposed to the president's plan?"
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