God's Not Dead 2 (20 page)

SINCE I PICKED UP
Grace today and brought her to the courthouse simply to save her the headache of dealing with any wandering reporters, I drive her back to her house after Pastor Dave’s dramatic departure. We’ve talked about the case on the way. She’s uncertain as always and wonders what the jurors are thinking and what the impact will be if we end up having to get another jury member. I don’t want to go over the cliff of despair with her right now. I’m still her lawyer and need to be positive. I need to believe, at least in front of her. Later on tonight I’ll have a nice, festive pity party.

“We don’t know if the pastor is gone or not,” I tell her. “But we have to operate as if he will be.”

“And what does that mean?” she asks in the seat next to me.

I look over and notice for the first time that Grace doesn’t wear much makeup. She doesn’t need it to look good. She has near-perfect skin, few lines around the eyes.

And why are you thinking about this?

I focus back on the street in front of us. “I think it means we just keep to the plan.”

“I thought you said there’s no plan,” Grace says.

“Yes. Absolutely. So we stick to that.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“You know I’m joking.”

“This isn’t a joking matter, you know.”

I look and see her eyes swollen with doubt. “I know it’s not. That’s why I brought in the two new witnesses. They’re going to help.”

“But? You sound like you have a
but
somewhere in there.”

“But there still needs to be some kind of
aha
. The arguments
 
—I don’t know. It’s like they’ve all heard this. The biggest excitement came from the guy keeling over today. And that’s not good.”

“Do you think the other witness will help?”

“Jim Wallace is going to help, for sure. He makes a strong case and has an interesting backstory. But I don’t want the jurors thinking they’re hearing some teacher blabber on.”

“
I’m
a teacher.”

I laugh. “Yes, but I’m sure you never blabber. Or yabber. Or blather. Or jibber-jabber.”

“Are you done?” she asks.

“Chatter. Gabble.”

She ignores my third-grade humor as we arrive at her house. I park in front of it and leave the car running. Grace looks at me and I suddenly feel a bit lost as to what I should say or do.

“Would you . . . Are you hungry or anything?” Grace asks.

I look at her, the blonde hair brushing her cheeks, the uncertainty all over her face. It’s such an obvious thing, this moment, and I know I need to just admit it. Even if I’m the only one feeling it. “Hey, listen
 
—I should tell you something.”

“No, look, Tom
 
—I wasn’t trying to
 
—that invite wasn’t meant to be anything
 
—”

“I know,” I interrupt. “What I’m saying is this: In a normal world, if I was here dropping you off, I’d ask you out to dinner. Really. Whether someone considered it a date or not
 
—I don’t know. I don’t care. I enjoy your company. You laugh
 
—at least some of the time
 
—at my jokes. And it’s not like I’m going back home to someone or even heading out to see someone. And I know . . .”

“I live with my grandfather,” she says. “Enough said.”

I laugh. “See what I mean? And it’s obvious, you know. I like you and it’s normal to want to spend more time with people you like.”

“I was just wondering if you were hungry,” Grace says in her very matter-of-fact way.

“I know, I know. I don’t take it as anything more. It’s just
 
—maybe I’ve avoided relationships for a while. Any attempts I’ve had at them have just gone wrong. And I’m not saying
 
—I’m not talking for you. I’m just saying
 
—”

“What
are
you saying?”

I look at the grin on her lips. She’s enjoying this. “I don’t know, to be honest.”

“I hope your closing argument is a lot better than that.”

I laugh and shake my head. She does have a good point even if she’s teasing me.

“Well, listen, Tom. It’s my grandfather’s birthday tomorrow. Would you like to come to the party?”

“A birthday party?”

She nods. “Yes. So far there are two people attending. You’d be the third.”

“It’s a deal. As for tonight, I’m going to eat something really unhealthy and then stay up trying to find the silver bullet.”

“Well, if you need any ideas or information or anything, you know how to contact me.”

With that, she says good-bye and gets out of the car and heads into the house. Very classy. Very adult. Very mature. She never really responded to any of the blabber/blather I was doing. Instead, she sidestepped the whole conversation and moved along.

Maybe I’m just imagining this connection between us.

I drive off wondering whether I’ve been so far removed from having relationships, especially with women, that I don’t even know how to objectively look at them anymore. She’s probably inside going,
What was he talking about?
It’s not like we fit together anyway. We don’t even share the same beliefs. Even though I’m defending her faith, at the end of the day I still don’t share it.

I don’t buy it. I get it but don’t subscribe to it.

It turns out I skip the dinner that’s bad for me. I skip dinner altogether. I decide to head to my office, where I can go over previous case files and pull out some of those dusty law books to try to find some kind of inspiration or idea. Thankfully Roger’s car isn’t in the parking lot. The afternoon turns to evening, and by the time I start thinking about leaving, the sunlight outside has mostly disappeared.

I’m shelving a few of the books I’ve been going through when I hear the door to the building open. Then I hear approaching steps.

I’m tired and am not in the mood to see Roger.

The figure at the open doorway isn’t my partner. He’s much too
tall and lean and leering. There are far too many wrinkles around the eyes, and they’re finding far too many faults in mine.

“You actually reading those ancient books that belong to your delinquent partner?” my father asks me.

“I spend about half the time on the computer.”

Dad studies my office. He’s been here before, but not recently. Not that it’s changed even slightly since I first moved in. “I like what you’ve done to the place.”

I didn’t pick up many traits from Daddy Dearest, but sarcasm is one of the few.

He walks in and picks up the
People
magazine that’s on a stack of folders on a filing cabinet. “Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie,” Dad says, looking at the cover. “I’m sure this comes in handy for educational law.”

I’m
really
in no mood to talk to Dad. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I just wanted to check and see if you got the same bug juror number twelve had.”

“You were there?” I ask, looking up from the reports I was collecting before leaving.

“Of course.”

“I’m not in the mood for a critique.”

Dad is still studying my office. Or more like snooping around. “You know, I remember Kane from the days I worked. I hated that man. Makes lawyers look bad.”

Ah, the irony.

I decide to keep my mouth shut.

“Of course, he definitely has control of that courtroom. He does have a presence.”

I stuff the files on my desk into my leather briefcase. It’s been getting a workout lately.

“Find any solution this afternoon?” he asks like a normal partner might ask me.

I rub my temples and close my eyes for a moment.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him again.

“Just a father visiting his son.”

I look over and study him and cannot for the life of me figure out what he wants. “So
 
—do you have some bright idea you want to offer me?”

Dad finds one of the books I was just leafing through on my desk. He picks it up and gives it a sad sort of smile.

“This is the Bible I gave you when you graduated from Stanford. I’m surprised you still have it.”

I actually am not sure whether to believe him. “Are you sure?”

He opens it up and looks at the first page. “Yes. Dedication page is still just like it was after I filled it out.”

“Mom gave me cash. That came in pretty handy.”

Those eyes
 
—cruel machines that used to wreak havoc on others in a courtroom
 
—settle on mine and simmer. He places the thick leather Bible back on my desk. “This might have come in handy when you were working for your judge.”

I have to keep myself from picking up the book and hurling it at Dad’s head. Or at least expressing exactly what I think he can do and where he can go.

“I have to leave,” I tell him, closing the flap of my briefcase.

“Do you think it was accidental that you got this case?”

Huh?
“Sure
 
—there were a handful of lawyers Len could have called. He knows Mom taught and that I’d probably have a soft spot for this teacher. He also knows I could use the work.”

“Certainly looks like that,” he says.

I know my father wanted to be a judge. And because he never
had the talent and the temerity to actually pull it off, he decided he could at least be Judge Endler in the court of his family. Turns out in Mom’s case she got thrown out of court. As for me and my sister
 
—my self-serving younger sister who was still trying to find herself as a young thirtysomething
 
—we simply got held in contempt.

“Did you just come here to gloat? Because I know you sure didn’t come to offer any sort of professional advice.”

“Would you take it? Have you
ever
taken it?”

I just want to get out of here. To run before this starts going south.

It’s already heading down.

I put both my palms on the top of my desk and lean over as if I’ve just finished running sprints and I’m out of breath.

“God’s working on you, Tom.”

My hands curl up in balls now. “Does this have to be about God?”

“Well, the case does happen to be about
 
—”

“You know what I mean. Stop being so
 
—just . . . Why? What do you want?”

The lack of emotion and empathy and anything that a normal father might convey to his son is all there on display like it’s been my entire life. Dad doesn’t like to be cut off.

“I’m saying that maybe you need to reconsider the one you’ve spent your whole life running away from.”

I’m taller than this man, but I swear he’s looking down at me. It’s as if he’s growing or I’m disintegrating somehow right before him.

“Look
 
—just because this case has to do with God and the woman I’m defending happens to believe in him doesn’t give you any right to come preaching at me. You got that?”

“Do not be disrespectful,” he says. It sounds like a threat.

“I don’t want to hear any more from you.”

“You never have. And that’s exactly why you were fired and why you got into those troubles
 
—because you never want to hear anything.”

I just shake my head and close my eyes. When I reopen them he’s still there. The boogeyman hasn’t left.

“I just don’t get it,” I say. “What makes you so afraid?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“No? Because this is what I think. What I
believe
. Things like judging and cynicism and hate and jealousy all come from fears of a certain kind. So what’s yours? The fear of being judged in the afterlife? The fear of not looking like the right father or husband? Or the fear of me not converting to your religion?”

He’s silent because I’ve wrapped my hands around a nerve. Now I’m going to shake it.

“So many of the fears I have come from growing up afraid of you. Afraid. I mean
 
—what’s that? A child is supposed to feel
safe
around their parents. I’ve never felt that. Ever.”

“Are you done?” he says.

“No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You’ve used your faith like a lawyer objecting to every single thing I’ve said and done my whole life.”

“Look at you,” he says, then holds out a hand toward my office. “Look at this place. Can you blame me?”

I shake my head. “I honestly believe that I’ve lost both parents. And that Grandma makes far more sense than you do.”

“At least I believe in
something
, Tom.”

“Well, gee, that really makes me want to rush to a church. Sign me up for
that
kind of love.”

He walks away and I almost follow him out because I want to keep this going. Instead I just crumple in my chair, still numb from his words, still in disbelief.

I’d rather love and not believe than believe with so much hate.

My teeth tighten and clench. A bad habit I have. But it’s better than other bad habits. I look at the Bible on the desk, then pull it to me and open it to the dedication.

To Thomas William Endler

The laws in this book will govern your life and guard your heart.

“Seek the Kingdom of God above all else, and live righteously, and he will give you everything you need.”
 
—‍Matthew 6:33

My father’s signature is below this inscription.

This is just like him. I work my tail off and achieve something he never managed by graduating third from Stanford University, and he gives me a Bible with these words in it.

Believe in God and live a perfect life and everything will be wonderful.

But if you don’t do that, Tommy my boy, all hell’s gonna break loose.

Inhale through nose. Teeth still clamped down. Then exhale slowly.

I pull over two fingers’ worth of pages in the Bible. It’s like I’m playing Russian roulette here.

I’ll probably get the verse about the wise man building his house upon the rock. Or wait
 
—is that a song?

I read the first verse my eyes go to in the middle of the page.

But you, O Lord, are a God of compassion and mercy, slow to get angry and filled with unfailing love and faithfulness.