Missing Witness (25 page)

I'll make it up to her,
he thought.

That morning he looked over her log of notes from Randolph Willowby's diary. When he saw her painstaking detail, that's when he really felt guilty.

The diary made clear that Willowby had become, in the last months of life, a convert to Christ. He apparently had always had a mild interest in family genealogy. But as the end got closer, it became a near-obsession. He tried to study everything he could about his link to the Joppa line—through Elisha Willowby's marriage to Myrtle Joppa almost three hundred years before.

And he wondered about Reverend Malachi Joppa…and what caused Isaac Joppa to run away from his home and family…and whether he had been wrongfully accused.

Toward the end, he talked about his contact with Jonathan Joppa. He attended one of his church services, but found it uninspiring. “Joppa's sermon had no passion, and little Bible in it.”

Willowby noted that after the service he had introduced himself to Reverend Joppa and invited him to take a boat ride to Stony Island some time soon.

That was a month before Willowby's death. He had to be in pain and great discomfort. Why a boat ride to the island?

And why with Jonathan Joppa? Will could only speculate that Willowby, who was childless, had felt some inexplicable responsibility for Jonathan.

Fiona's review of the diary did seem to raise some possibilities about Willowby's motive in requiring Jonathan to prove Isaac Joppa's innocence. But beyond that, Will saw no relevance to the issue of Isaac's
actual
innocence.

So after that, Will spent the day sifting through the information produced by Virgil MacPherson in response to his discovery demand.

Will had received a phone call from Boggs Beckford's law office indicating that a delivery had arrived for him. He had been told that it was from MacPherson's law firm in Raleigh.

“You got a truck?” the secretary had asked Will.

He had thought she was kidding.

She hadn't been.

There were seven large banker's boxes full of information. Will had to use Fiona's Saab to pick it up, because he couldn't cram even one of the boxes into the tiny trunk space of his Corvette. After doing a cursory inventory of the boxes, he figured that MacPherson had produced around ten thousand documents.

But after his initial review, Will had also reached another conclusion. Nearly all the records appeared to be irrelevant—and worthless to his case.

Three full boxes contained the court papers, transcripts, pleadings, and correspondence from the
Bold Venture
salvage lawsuit in federal court where MacPherson had been representing Blackjack Morgan.

The other four boxes contained copies of every conceivable newspaper, Internet, and magazine article about ocean treasure-hunting, ship salvage, the history of piracy, the early American shipping industry, the patterns of coastal tides, ocean routes from the Carolina coast, the variations of sea shells, fishing regulations, intercoastal highways, tourist information for the Outer Banks, and even listings of ocean real estate properties for sale or rent.

But Will was finally able to appreciate the full extend of Virgil MacPherson's audacity when, amid the thousands of documents, he found fully photocopied versions of Robert Louis Stevenson's
Treasure Island
and
Kidnapped
!

MacPherson knew that Will was down in the Cape Hatteras area in a semivacation mode—miles away from his law office and the support systems that it provided. It was clear to Will that his opponent was trying to divert him—to bury him in a mass of irrelevant documentation he would have to spend countless hours personally reviewing.

So he found himself on the porch of their sea cottage, buried in documents.

Inside, Fiona, having returned, was plunking on the piano, finally gaining inspiration for some new music compositions.

As he listened to Fiona, who was working on note combinations in a slowly emerging melody line, he gazed longingly at the swimmers and sunbathers down along the hot, white beach just a few hundred feet away—just down from the sand dunes where their little house was perched. Down where they were jumping into the surf, laughing, walking dogs, sleeping in the rays of the summer sun, or reading under big colored umbrellas.

Will had the sinking feeling of an unlucky schoolboy who had to take summer school classes—while his friends were all down at the city swimming pool.

Then he had a thought. He needed to connect with his client. Will called Joppa at his house, but he got only his voice mail. Then he tried the church. His secretary, Sally, answered. She was a little evasive at first. Will pushed.

Then she opened up and said that Jonathan's son was in the hospital, and her boss was spending quite a bit of time at the hospital visiting him. She gave Will the hospital room number for Bobby.

“If Jonathan isn't in the room, then check in the little prayer chapel in the hospital. It's on the first floor, just off the main lobby.” And then she added, “This has been a very tough time for him.”

After Will finished with Sally, he stopped at the piano long enough to wrap his arms around his wife, give her a kiss, and explain where he was going.

Fiona looked up from the keyboard. “Is it serious? What happened?”

Will shook his head and said he would find out at the hospital.

At Dunes Memorial Hospital, Will peeked into Bobby's room, but the bed was empty.

“He's downstairs getting some tests done,” a nurse said, walking by. “You family?”

“Not exactly. I'm the lawyer for part of the family…” Will replied. Then he made his way to the tiny chapel.

The door was made of imitation stained glass. There was only one person in the tiny room—in the front pew. It was Jonathan Joppa.

Will sat down next to him but didn't talk at first. He just studied him.

The lawyer could see it—the desperate, longing confusion of a soul in disarray. He had seen the look on the faces of other clients over the years. But this time it was different. In Joppa's discouraged posture, troubled
brow, and searching eyes that seemed overwhelmed by an ocean of questions, Will recognized himself just a few years before.

After several minutes of silence, Will spoke up.

“I'm sorry your boy is having medical problems.”

“Drugs.”

“Oh?”

“He's had a drug problem for several years,” Joppa said quietly. “Cocaine. Someone, and I'm sure it was Blackjack Morgan, gave him a free delivery of some highly refined, very potent stuff. He snorted it—he overdosed. He's lucky to be alive. I never told you…but I'm sure one of Morgan's dealers first got my boy into drugs. So, back then, I reported him to the police. They couldn't pin anything on him. But he retaliated against me…by mocking me. By changing the name of his tavern to
Joppa's Folly
. He says it was a reference to the history about Isaac Joppa. But I figured it was meant to insult me as well.”

Will was quiet, then he spoke again.

“You say Bobby's lucky…but how about you? Do you consider yourself lucky?”

Joppa eyed his lawyer for a few seconds. It wasn't that he didn't understand the question. Rather, he did not want to talk about the answer.

“Maybe not…But I'm a minister. I'm not supposed to talk about luck. I'm supposed to talk about faith. And God's mysterious plan. I'm sure you know the whole routine…”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I know about you. Your Aunt Georgia told me a little bit. But I've read about you too—some interviews you gave about some of your cases…and your Christian beliefs.”

“You know, Jonathan, the job of a pastor is one of the most demanding professions in the world. My father-in-law was one. You've got to wear twenty-five hats—sometimes all at once. Counselor, advisor, preacher, administrator, teacher, corporate controller, project manager, building and grounds engineer, fund-raiser, and master theologian—all wrapped up in one. Tough job…but putting that aside for just a few minutes…when you are here, in the hospital…with a son who is trying to get the demons from hell off his back…this has got to be so very lonely for you.”

Joppa nodded, staring at his hands, which were folded in his lap, and fighting back the emotion rising in his throat.

“You learn to get along…as best as you can…” Joppa said, his voice a little unsteady.

“So, how are you doing it—getting along?”

Joppa leaned back into the wooden pew. After a moment of thought, collecting himself, he spoke.

“In seminary, I had this New Testament professor. He used to laugh when he told us what he really believed about the Gospel stories. He said they were contradictory…couldn't be harmonized…and lacked basic historical credibility. Yet he said that when he went out to preach at various churches, he would always preach directly from the Gospel stories about the life of Christ…See, he never told the people in the pews what he really believed.”

Will studied him closely. “Did you ever ask him why?”

“Sure. You know what his answer was?”

Will waited.

“He said that some guys were in the business of selling cars—he was in the business of selling hope. That life is pretty tough. People need hope…just to get through…”

After reflecting, Will responded.

“On the other hand, hope has to be anchored to something—to a transcendent reality. To a real spiritual power.”

Something in what Will said caught Joppa by surprise.

“You know, you talk about power. I've got a twenty-one-year-old kid in a hospital room here…He's about to be discharged and transferred into a drug rehab program…
again
. He looks at me and says, ‘Dad, I don't have the power to get this monkey off my back. It's killing me…but I don't have the power.'”

Joppa paused.

“I thought I knew what that word meant—power—way back when…Before seminary—when I was young—my real dream was to play major league ball. I had two pretty good seasons in the triple-A farm leagues. My first season I batted three-oh-one. I could hit the long ball too. But then I decided I needed something more than just power hitting. I really focused on
placing
the ball…
directing
the power when I connected with the fat of that bat. The next season—guess what my average was?”

Will shook his head.

“Three-forty-three,” Joppa continued. “But my sprinting time was a little too slow for the majors…and my fielding was only very average, so that sort of ended my baseball career. I decided to go into the ministry. Maybe I figured I could focus my personal power on doing something good for people. Back then I felt that God was there in the middle of
everything I was doing. But then some things happened—and the spiritual fire felt like it was going down. The power for living seemed to be missing. I know this is starting to sound like true confession…”

“What I know about that spiritual power,” Will said, “is pretty simple. Really. In my own life I had a personal resurrection of sorts…from a life that was bordering on complete disaster…into a new kind of life. And what I do know is that the power certainly didn't come from me.”

“Are you preaching to a preacher now?” Joppa asked wryly.

“I suppose I am,” Will said, smiling. Then he had a thought. “You know, I was thinking about that cemetery back on Stony Island.”

Joppa nodded.

“There was a gravestone there—really remarkable. Looked as if it was placed too close to an oak tree. The tree must have been just a seedling back when the grave was dug and the marker was set. Anyway, I keep thinking back to the stone gravemarker—tilted sideways, being sucked right into the growing trunk of that big oak tree over the course of the years. Almost entirely enveloped by the tree. What a picture…”

“Of what?”

“A picture of power,” Will replied. “You know the Bible verse as well as I do—
‘Death is swallowed up in victory…'”

Just then a nurse appeared in the doorway of the chapel.

“Sorry to disturb you, Reverend Joppa, but we are getting ready to discharge Bobby. I understand you'll be driving him over to the rehab unit?”

Joppa nodded.

After the nurse disappeared, Will rose and put his hand on Jonathan Joppa's shoulder.

“Being a father,” he noted, “you're the veteran…You'll have to give me some pointers. Fiona is carrying our first child. I'm getting into the fatherhood game a little late, compared to you.”

Joppa stood and smiled at Will. “Thanks for talking.”

Then he walked quickly out of the little chapel and toward the place where his son would be waiting for him.

38

I
T WAS LATE, AND THE WATERS OF THE SOUND
were calm. The skiff that was guided by Carlton Robideau also carried Blackjack Morgan and Orville Putrie. It made its way to the edge of Stony Island.