So Help Me God

by Larry D. Thompson

  "How about changing one person's face for another?"

  "Again, no problem. Watch this." Jerry pulled up a video of Reverend Witherspoon and clicked a couple of times, replacing his face with that of Mickey Mouse talking with Witherspoon's voice.

  After they had a good laugh about Mickey preaching about hellfire and damnation, T. J. asked, "Is that very difficult?" He paused and then continued, "I mean, if I wanted to surprise a friend on his birthday, could I learn how to do that?"

  "Rev, it's a snap. Pull up that chair and I'll teach you in an hour." An hour was a start, but it took several more weeks, showing up after midnight when the technicians had gone home, before T. J. perfected the craft. Late one evening, he left The City, driving a new, white Lincoln Continental, bearing his favorite custom license plate, Chosen 1. Disguised only with his dark glasses and a Texas Rangers baseball cap to cover his silver hair, he drove to downtown Fort Worth and then out North Main toward the stockyards until he found an all night adult video store. He parked in the dark parking lot, feeling a little conspicuous about driving a new Continental, and entered through the rear door. Relieved that the place was almost deserted, he evaluated a few of the videos, selecting several and paying with cash. He kept his head down and never exchanged a word with the attendant.

  Over the next several nights, he dismissed the servants and retired to his bedroom where he watched the movies until he found the ideal one. Even after choosing it, T. J. played the videos again, no longer searching for a certain one. Instead, he enjoyed the sensations that coursed though him and settled in his loins as sipped a California Syrah and amused himself by trying to count the number of sexual positions on the videos. The feeling in his loins told him that his recovery was complete. Fortunately, his God did not preach celibacy. Soon it would be time to find a woman to share his bed, at least for an evening. The next night, waiting until long after midnight, he put the video in the pocket of his jacket and walked to the studio. He sat at the mixer and cued up one of the most pornographic scenes, featuring a blond woman with big breasts performing oral sex on a well-endowed young man. It would be easy to substitute the face of Jimmy Witherspoon for that of the man on the video. T. J. cued up several of Jimmy's sermons until he found just the right look of ecstasy. Taking a view of Jimmy's head, T. J. worked until five a.m., replacing the head of the porno star with that of the Reverend Jimmy Witherspoon.

  CHAPTER 15

  With a smug look, the attorney in the expensive Armani suit concluded the direct examination of his client, the CEO of GreenForest Utilities, a major Houston energy trading company. The federal court case involved allegations of manipulation of revenues, called round-trip trading, and alleged fraudulent accounting practices that caused the company's stock to tumble to the basement in only a matter of weeks. The plaintiffs in the lawsuit were stockholders trying to recoup their losses from the company and the man on the witness stand. His lawyer was surrounded by a cadre of associates who were barely able to conceal their awe as their senior partner led his client, seemingly unscathed, through the labyrinth of alleged shady dealings.

  As he was about to start his last series of questions, he heard sounds of a briefcase opening and papers being moved at the adjoining counsel table. Tod Duncan, the attorney for the stockholders, had lifted his heavy briefcase to the table, opened it and, one by one, he noisily emptied it of briefs, depositions and assorted papers. Noticing that the company lawyer was glaring at him, he fished into his briefcase once more as he said, "Oh, I'm sorry, Your Honor. I found what I was looking for."

  No one noticed the twinkle in his eye as he moved the briefcase from the table and the questioning continued.

  "Mr. Fitzgerald, I want you to look each one of the jurors in the eye," GreenForest's attorney said. "Tell them whether you knowingly permitted fraud of any kind, were dishonest in any way, or personally engaged in any wrongdoing."

  The man on the witness stand drew the attention of the hushed courtroom. Dressed in his three thousand-dollar suit, his gold Rolex watch reflected an overhead light as he adjusted his glasses. As chairman of an international conglomerate, he expected complete attention to his every word. Further, he expected to be believed. He turned in the witness chair so that he could face the jury as he responded:

  "I grew up as the son of a widowed school teacher. I worked my way through college as a busboy and waiter. I started GreenForest from nothing and spent thirty years building it. Until the unfortunate series of events of the past year, it had been number ten on the Fortune 500 list of companies. I provided thousands of jobs to people in this community and around the country. I chose GreenForest as the name because I also wanted to protect the environment and endangered species. I have served on the boards of at least a dozen charities. I have donated millions of dollars of my own money to provide for the poor, the sick and disabled."

  He paused for dramatic effect.

  "The fraudulent acts of our accountants were what brought my company down. I trusted them to audit operations within GreenForest. Instead, they encouraged practices that, in hindsight, should never have been permitted. By the time those practices were brought to my attention, it was too late."

  He took off his glasses to permit the jury to observe the credibility in his steel blue eyes. "At no time did I do anything dishonest or fraudulent. Nor did anyone else at GreenForest. We were honest and forthright with our stockholders and the public. I permitted nothing less."

  His lawyer knew Mr. Fitzgerald had ended his speech. They had practiced it at least a dozen times, including the gestures with the glasses. The lawyer rose, "No further questions of this witness, Your Honor."

  Ben Hand, the senior judge in the Southern District of Texas had unruly white hair and a goatee. He was known as a legal scholar and a judge who gave considerable latitude to attorneys when it came to jury trials. He enjoyed the drama of the courtroom.

  "Let's take our mid-afternoon break. See you all in fifteen minutes. Mr. Duncan, you'll be coming to bat when we return."

  Tod Duncan appeared to be mismatched in this battle with the army of lawyers at the other table. In his late forties, he looked at least ten years younger. Others described him as boyish. Only the gray in his mustache and the need to pull reading glasses out of his coat pocket to glance at his notes gave away his real age.

  Tod turned to his associate and his paralegal and said, "Wayne, you and Joyce clean everything off the counsel table. Get rid of every notebook, pad, pencil and paper clip. When we get back, I want you to take a seat out in the audience. I don't want anything to distract the jury from this little show I'm about to put on."

  Puzzled looks crossed the faces of Wayne and Joyce as they followed his instructions. Tod excused himself and left the courtroom. A few minutes later he was rearranging the chairs around the counsel table when Judge Hand returned and his bailiff called the court to order.

  When Tod left the courtroom, a woman in the audience stepped into the hallway, pulled her cell phone from her purse, and dialed a number. "Let me talk to T. J. Make it quick," she whispered. After a brief conversation, the spectator returned to the back bench.

  As Tod took his seat, GreenForest's lawyer remained standing and addressed the court. "Your Honor, this is most unusual. I object to the demeanor of opposing counsel."

  The judge covered his mouth to hide an amused look. "Well, Counsel, I don't see that Mr. Duncan has broken any rules yet. We'll see where this goes. Your objection is overruled."

  "Mr. Fitzgerald," Tod began. "During the last year before your company's collapse, you cashed in three hundred million dollars in options and pocketed the money, didn't you?"

  "Mr. Duncan, that was part of my compensation package. I earned every penny of that money because our stock rose over fifty dollars during that time."

  "The biggest reason that it rose so dramatically, Mr. Fitzgerald, was because of those phony trades that we all learned about after you had sold your stock?"

  "Sir, I never s
aw anything to indicate that those trades were improper at the time. I learned about them at the same time as everyone else did."

  "Mr. Fitzgerald, we've heard about all of your charitable contributions; however, you still managed to have enough left to maintain a mansion in River Oaks here in town and a ten million dollar house in Vail?"

  "Yes, sir," the witness replied, a slight smirk accidentally appearing on his face as he thought that no one else in this courtroom could afford the bathroom in one of those houses.

  "And, let's see." Tod glanced at the paper in his hand. "As I understand it, you also own a villa in the South of France."

  "I do, sir."

  Glancing at the paper again, Tod continued, "And a beach front house in Maui?"

  "I travel a lot, Mr. Duncan."

  "Matter of fact, Mr. Fitzgerald, you travel so much that in that last year, you were never in the corporate office when your quarterly earnings were reported, were you? Always off in some exotic place and unavailable to talk to your shareholders, the media or Wall Street?"

  Small beads of perspiration began to form on the witness's bald head. "There was no need for me to discuss the earnings reports with anyone. I had public relations people and staff to handle those matters."

  The company lawyer rose in an effort to break the flow of Duncan's cross-examination. "Again, Your Honor, I must object to the demeanor of counsel."

  Judge Hand smiled at him. "Sir, if that's the best objection you can muster, it's overruled. Mr. Duncan's questions seem to be quite easily understood. I don't see that he is disrupting this courtroom. Proceed."

  "Did you even review those financial reports before they were released?"

  The CEO took a handkerchief from his coat pocket and nervously swiped it around the edges of his glasses. "No, sir. I was quite satisfied that they were in order."

  Tod looked down at the paper in his lap again. "How about this, Mr. Fitzgerald. We've established that you didn't study the financials and that you were always unavailable to talk about them. Before you left for Vail, or Maui, or the south of France at the end of each quarter, did you call your vice-presidents and those outside accountants into your office for a discussion of what you were going to report to the public?"

  The witness shifted in his chair as he sputtered, "Mr. Duncan, I didn't find that necessary."

  "Sir, isn't it true that the ultimate responsibility for running GreenForest rested with you. As Harry Truman used to say, 'the buck stops here'?"

  "Counsel, I wish I had known then what I know now. If my outside accountants had only done their jobs. By the way, Mr. Duncan, could I see what you are reading from? It's very difficult for me when you are seated, facing the rear of the courtroom with your back to me."

  Tod grinned as he rose to face the witness, the judge and the jurors. "Why, Mr. Fitzgerald, all I'm looking at is the sports page of this morning's Chronicle. I turned my chair to face the back wall, though, to illustrate what I understand to be your defense. Isn't it true that your defense in this lawsuit is that you were looking the other way the whole time and all of these shady dealings were done behind your back?"

  Several jurors laughed out loud as Tod turned his chair to face the witness.

  "No, sir, it is not." Fitzgerald tried to regain some composure.

  "Mr. Fitzgerald, you can't have it both ways. Either you turned your back as your company collapsed or you were like the captain of the Titanic, taking full charge as you ran it into an iceberg. Which is it?"

  "Objection, Your Honor. He's harassing the witness."

  This time, the judge looked sternly at GreenForest's lawyer.

  "Overruled. Mr. Duncan is entitled to an answer. Also, I might add, so are the shareholders and the jurors."

  Turning to gaze at his lawyer for help and receiving none, Fitzgerald said, "I don't know the answer, Mr. Duncan. You'll have to ask my lawyer what our defense is."

  Tod slowly tapped a pen on his empty table, giving the jurors time to assimilate everything they had heard. "One last thing," he then added.

  " Isn't it true that you play classical guitar, Mr. Fitzgerald?"

  "Sir, I'm not sure of the relevance of that question, but the answer is yes. I've done so for many years. In fact, I keep one in my office and play it frequently at the end of the day. It helps me unwind."

  "Then, Mr. Fitzgerald, as I understand it, your final defense is that you were in your office, door closed and strumming your guitar while your accountants were cooking the books. Kinda like Nero fiddling while Rome burned, right, Mr. Fitzgerald?"

  "Objection, Your Honor."

  "Never mind, Judge," Tod smiled. "I withdraw the question."

  In the crowded courtroom, a big man left his seat on the back row. J. Robert Tisdale took an elevator to another courtroom where he was scheduled for a hearing, chuckling to himself at Tod's cross-examination, he thought: I couldn't have done better myself.

  CHAPTER 16

  Jimmy and T. J. rarely saw each other except on Sunday mornings when they went out of their way to smile and act like long lost friends. Otherwise, it was like two people who occupied the same apartment building in New York City, living across the hall from one another, with each one never knowing the other's name. That came to a halt after four months of sharing the pulpit. At the conclusion of the Sunday morning service, T. J. invited Jimmy to meet with him in his penthouse on Monday.

  Promptly at ten a.m. on Monday morning, Jimmy knocked on T. J.'s door. Dressed in jeans and a white golf shirt, T. J. opened the door with a smile. "Reverend Witherspoon, please do come in."

  Jimmy entered the quarters that had been his for twelve years and took the seat that T. J. offered.

  "Can I get you a cup of coffee, Jimmy?"

  "No, thanks, I'm just fine," Jimmy said as he surveyed the apartment, looking for signs of anyone else.

  T. J. took a seat across from him. "Well, then, let me get right to the point…if you don't mind my avoiding meaningless polite conversation. You've been living in my home for the past twelve years. I appreciate all that you have done to carry on my ministry while I was gone. However, I have been resurrected for a purpose, and that purpose does not include you. To put it in the terms of my earlier life as a two-bit mobster, it's time for you to hit the road, to establish your own ministry. This one's mine."

  Jimmy stared back at T. J., just as confident and replied, "You're wrong, T. J. This one is ours. I spent twelve years building it. I'm fifteen years younger than you. The word that I get from my friends on the board is that in three years they are going to ask you to retire, to assume the role of Pastor Emeritus, and the pulpit will be mine. I'm willing to wait it out. If that means playing second fiddle for three years, so be it. I'll inherit one of the biggest teleministries in the world. It's worth the wait."

  T. J. sat in silence for so long that Jimmy began to think that he had won so he rose to leave when T. J. responded. "Well, my friend, I suppose that means that it's hardball time. I didn't really want to play this card, but you give me no choice." T. J. turned on the VCR and watched as Jimmy saw himself starring in a porno flick while a voluptuous blond with enormous breasts performed oral sex on what appeared to be his erection.

  Jimmy's eyes first narrowed, then widened. As a shocked expression filled his face, he shouted, "T. J., you know that's not me. I'm a happily married man with four children."

  T. J.'s expression didn't change and his face was a mask of determination, as he countered, "Jimmy, I don't deny your marriage. I can only tell you that this arrived in a brown envelope, marked 'Personal, to be opened only by The Chosen.' Those of us who are servants of the Lord are also victims of the flesh. I prefer not to have to use this video; however, if you force my hand, it will arrive in an unmarked envelope at all the major networks next Monday. It's your choice. I would suggest that it's time that you find your own pasture."

  "Fuck you, T. J.! I've got more friends on the board than you do. Let's see what they have to say."

&
nbsp; T. J. only smiled as he pitched another envelope on the coffee table in front of them. "Okay, if that video is not convincing enough, take a look in that envelope. It's a detailed analysis of your stock trades and profits in GreenForest Utilities along with your emails to our investment managers, pushing them to buy GreenForest stock. Only, you didn't tell them to sell when you did. I'm sure the board and maybe even the Feds would be most interested in how you participated in driving the stock up, particularly since it cost The City ten million."

  On the following Sunday, Reverend Witherspoon announced his resignation.

  CHAPTER 17

  Like so many other preachers, T. J. never really understood the healing part of his ministry. When it happened the first time while he worked as an assistant healer with Jerry Abraham and the blind woman claimed that she could see again, Jerry gave him his best advice about the subject.

  "Don't matter, boy. I don't know how it works either. Not our job to figure it out or to check tomorrow to see if the healing is still there. Could be temporary, could be that the ailment was more in the mind than in the body, could be our preaching gave them the strength to overcome whatever ails them, could be they'll wake up tomorrow with the same aches and pains that they said were healed tonight, could be tomorrow they will be dead. And it could be that God has something to do with it. Whatever the reason, healing is what draws them to us like insects to a porch light. Don't matter what you do. Just follow the script. The people will think the afflicted are healed and they'll fill the offering buckets."

  T. J. followed Abraham's advice and found that he was right. He also discovered that the better the show, the more the healing and the bigger the take at the end of the night. So, T. J. started giving his followers a show full of lights, sound, thunder, and lasers, topped off with a generous dose of charisma. Still, he was more than slightly shocked when he started having people line up at the stage to receive his healing touch. The first time he cupped his hands on the head of a woman with migraine headaches, demanding that the headache devils be gone, the woman passed out at his feet. He worried that she had stroked on him right there on stage. Soon, it became so common that he had ushers standing behind the person who was accepting his healing, knowing that there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that he or she would pass out for a few seconds or minutes. They even had blankets available to cover the prostrate bodies until the people awakened.