Relentless (24 page)

It was day three in the ICU for Maxwell's father. The unit was a cold, quiet place unless someone was coding. Maxwell walked through the glass double doors as they slid open for him. He'd stayed overnight in the hospital waiting room with his mother and sister since the day his father was admitted. The second day was more of the same. The ladies had seen him, prayed for him, and kissed him good night. Not Maxwell; he had remained close by but hadn't mustered sufficient courage to see his father. He was headed back to Philadelphia today. Having said good-bye to his family, Maxwell had to get back to the legal arena, but not before he talked with his father.

He stopped outside the nurses' station, a few feet from his room.

“Good morning. How is . . . Mr. Montgomery, today?” Maxwell stumbled almost saying, “my father,” but swallowed it.

“There's a slight improvement, but the good news is that he's holding his own. His blood pressure is quite high this morning. We'll keep a close watch in order to get it down to a safe level.”

“Is he on any life preserving equipment?”

“Nothing major; he's still on a heart monitor. We also put him on oxygen since he has been experiencing some trouble breathing. He seems comfortable.”

“I'm going in to see him.”

“He's very weak. So, please keep your visit brief,” the nurse requested with the corners of her lips halfway turned up. “He's sleeping; try not to wake him.”

Maxwell nodded and headed toward his father's room. He stopped in front of the door and peered into the dim room through the thin panel of glass. A minute later, he pushed the door a quarter of the way open and assessed the man in front of him. There was Paul Montgomery, Sr. lying there, helpless. His eyelids closed, oxygen tubes in his nose and several wires sprouting across his silver-haired chest. He entered the room and stepped to the bedside. The salt-and-pepper hair, thin frame, and wrinkles spoke to the transformation effect of time, which made Paul Sr. look like a stranger. The tiny apple-shaped birthmark on the left side of his neck told Maxwell the man in front of him was indeed his father.

Maxwell pulled the chair from the corner up a couple of feet near the bed. Sitting down, he looked up at the monitor. Red lights, numbers, and squiggly lines were outside Maxwell's comfort zone. He was just as uncomfortable speaking to his father. Lacing his fingers together, Maxwell leaned forward, planting his elbows into his knees. His heart searched for the appropriate words.

His elbows were needles stabbing his knees. He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he didn't know how to start the necessary conversation with his father. The quiet was sliced away by a strange sound.

“Son, my son.” The weak voice and the words caught Maxwell off guard.

“Hi, how do you feel?” Maxwell muttered, getting up from the chair.

His dad coughed and grunted a couple times. “I'm alive, thank God,” he whispered.

After watching his father lick his lips and swallow down a gulp of air, Maxwell replied, “Yes, you are.”

Their gazes were locked on to each other. Neither said a word for a long minute. Then Maxwell noticed a tear fall from the corner of his father's eyelid and slide down into his ear.

“Son, I'm sorry. I made a mistake that hurt you badly.” His eyelids opened and closed as he spoke. “It cost you so much, and it cost me a price I didn't know I would have to pay.” His voice was low, his words spaced out too far apart. “It cost me . . . my son.”

Paul Sr. coughed seeming to struggle for his next breath even with the oxygen intact. “I'm so sorry.”

Maxwell was quiet. He hadn't expected a remorseful and apologetic start to their conversation. He expected his father to be firm, unregretful. Had the years lost between them or the near-death experience changed his father? Maxwell didn't know. Something was different, and it wasn't just the weak voice delivering his father's words. He'd never seen his father shed one single tear.

Paul Sr. inched his hand toward the edge of the bed, motioning for his son to move closer. Maxwell stood there, one hand shoved into his pants pocket. He wasn't sure if he wanted to move. He could see his father just fine. Coughing and sucking in hard for air, his father beckoned again for Maxwell to move closer. Maxwell's feet felt like they weighed a hundred pounds as he shuffled them within inches of the bedside.

“Don't punish your mother for my mistake. You've stayed away long enough.” His voice stayed low and words still spaced too far apart.

Staring down at his father, Maxwell's thoughts took him back in time. He remembered loving his father and wanting to tag along behind him as a little boy. Like a whisper in his ear, Maxwell could remember his father saying, “You're going to be a great man one day. Be a godly man as well, and don't carry bitterness in your heart.” Growing up, his father said those words to him often. The hallway outside the door came to life with a gush of panic sweeping Maxwell's thoughts back to the moment.

Voices, people scurrying called Maxwell's attention to the door. A nurse pushing a small cart and a doctor both whisked by. In that moment, the door opened and the bright light from the hallway spilled into the room, blinding Maxwell for a few seconds.

“Sir, Mr. Montgomery needs to rest,” the nurse advised.

“Sure,” Maxwell responded, squinting his eyelids to regain his focus. He turned to see tears streak down the side of his father's face. Maxwell pondered the moment. A man he'd never seen cry before, and today there it was. Without thinking about it, Maxwell rested his hand on top of his father's. Paul Sr.'s eyelids parted halfway. He gazed up at Maxwell.

“I'll see you soon,” Maxwell said squeezing his father's hand. He didn't know how to bridge the valley of distance. How could they fill in all the missing years and create a father-son relationship where one hadn't existed? He didn't know. The gnawing ache crawling around in his belly, and the clarity he now saw his father with, infused him to consider the possibilities.

It was early afternoon by the time Maxwell left the hospital and steered his car into his private parking stall at the office. Over the past three days in Delaware, his thoughts had weaved in and out, up and down. Maxwell considered his father's heart attack and the expression on his mother's face when she saw him at the hospital. Christine's words echoed in Maxwell's mind with an annoying frequency. “It's a shame it took a life and death crisis to get us all in the same city.”

The distance between Philadelphia and his past no longer felt like thousands of miles apart. The ding of the elevator, when Maxwell reached his office floor, flipped a switch in his mind. He stepped out of the elevator and headed toward his office. His energy, passion, and drive were rejuvenated just by entering his corner of the world.

“Mr. Montgomery, you're back,” the receptionist announced, standing.

“Yes, and I need to get caught up quickly. Hold any calls for the next couple of hours,” he directed never breaking his stride. He passed her and around the corner Sonya was in his sights.

“Good, you're back. I've got a list of questions about the Greater Metropolitan civil suit and some mail you need to see right away.”

Sonya moved and talked at Maxwell's speed. She was the only paralegal who worked at his pace, able to anticipate his needs, and knew his priorities. He'd gone through plenty before hiring her. Maxwell forged into his office with Sonya on his heels. “Have a seat and let's get right to it,” he told her, tossing his leather briefcase to the side and claiming his high-back chair. “Bring me up to speed.”

Sonya spent forty-five minutes briefing Maxwell on everything that had taken place in his absence and gave a thorough update on the Greater Metropolitan case. She handed him a blue stack of small papers. “Here are your messages. They're sorted by priority. The first eight will need your attention ASAP. By the way, the temp told me about the personal emergency you had the other day. Is everything okay?”

Maxwell glanced up at Sonya then back at the messages, continuing to sift through them. “Ah, yeah, I think things will be okay. I'll just have to wait and see.” Maxwell kept sifting through the papers. “Anything else I need to know about?”

“Yes, one more thing.” Sonya pushed a pile of mail bound by a thick rubber band across Maxwell's desk.

Just as he picked up the bundle, Sonya announced, “You might want to read this one right away.” She held a single white envelope in her hand. “It's a letter from Deacon Steve Burton at Greater Metropolitan.” Sonya stretched her arm across the desk almost shoving the envelope at him.

His gaze swept over the name on the envelope; then he placed it next to the other mail. “Okay, I guess we're done for now. I may need you to take some notes later.”

“You're not going to read it?”

“I'll get to it later.” Maxwell riffled through the other pieces of mail.

“Deacon Burton keeps calling, and you know he dropped by the office before you left town. It seems like he really needs to speak with you.”

“Okay, okay. I've got to get caught up first.” Maxwell handed Sonya a piece of paper from his briefcase. “Can you check on the case law surrounding these charges and the precedents for monetary awards?”

“Sure,” Sonya answered getting up to leave. She had to calm herself and be realistic. He'd been out of the office and needed to get his head around things. He'd read the letter, commit to helping her uncle, and then she could continue working for this man. Her patience was nearly depleted.

She'd kept busy, but time seemed to inch by, while she struggled not to bolt into her boss's office and ask, “Did you read Deacon Burton's letter yet?” Hours had passed and Sonya couldn't wait any longer. She needed to know and only Maxwell Montgomery could satisfy the aching curiosity slithering through her body. With a manila folder in hand, she rapped on his office door.

“Come on in,” she heard.

Sonya entered Maxwell's office hopeful and with a pleasant countenance. “I have the case law and information you asked for earlier.”

“Thanks; just put it on top of the pile.”

As she did so, Sonya scanned the desk for her uncle's letter. It wasn't in view. “So, did you find out what Deacon Burton wanted?”

“Ah no, not yet.” Maxwell didn't take his eyes off the document he was working on.

“He might be trying to tell you something about the case. I mean, you never know.” Sonya fidgeted with the bangle bracelet on her wrist as she stood with her hands behind her back.

Maxwell stopped writing instantly. “That's a thought,” he said glancing up at Sonya. He pulled the letter from his desk drawer and ripped into it. Sonya watched his head move from line to line. Halfway through the letter Maxwell sounded off with a loud grunt. Sonya anxiously waited as her palms sweated.

Maxwell read the last few lines and folded the letter. She was stunned when he stuffed it in the envelope and dropped it into the trashcan beside his desk. He looked up at Sonya. “More of the same; he wants my help to get out of this jam he's in.”

“Didn't you promise to help him?” Sonya's hands fell to her side.

“Why would I? He's not my client.”

“He's been trying to reach you for weeks now. He seems to think you promised him your help, and apparently he needs it.” Sonya folded her bottom lip in and filled her lungs with a deep breath. She turned away from him, marching toward the door.

Maxwell's words pierced her like a dagger. “Why are you so concerned? He's just another criminal. He'll have to pay the cost for his sins just like the rest of the bunch.”

Sonya spun around abruptly almost losing her balance. “My uncle is not a criminal.” The retort flew out of her mouth with no filter.

Maxwell fell back into his chair. “Your uncle?”

“Yes, my uncle. When he told me about his suspicions at Greater Metropolitan, I told him to call you. I believed you would get to the bottom of things, and he could trust you. I had a lot of respect for you. I saw you as a man of integrity. I thought you genuinely cared about the truth. Now I—”

“Sonya, what in the world are you rambling about? I had no idea he was your uncle. Another little something you weren't completely honest about,” he said pressing his thumb and index finger into his temples with eyelids shut tightly. “And, I don't care who he is, guilty is guilty. That's what I do: uncover the corrupt actions of snakes lying beneath the surface.” He stared at her harshly. “Don't blame me because your uncle got swept up in the net when arrests were made.”

“You promised to help my uncle avoid criminal charges if he told you what he knew. He helped you build a case against the bishop and the other people. You didn't have a case before he got involved,” she snarled. “Now thanks to you, my uncle was arrested for something he didn't do.” She stepped closer to Maxwell's desk. “He and my aunt had to get a second mortgage on their house to bond him out of jail.” Her nostrils were flaring in and out to the rhythm of her heartbeat. “This is crazy, and it's just wrong.”

“Young or old, the guilty parties have to suffer the consequences of their actions. I didn't make out the arrest warrants. If he's in jail then the authorities must feel he deserves to be there.”

“That's just it; he doesn't deserve to be there.” Sonya snapped back with her head wobbling. “You make me sick standing there in your tailor-made suit. I can't believe I admired or respected you,” she told him with a creased brow and narrowed eyelids. “What was it you said in one of those ridiculous interviews of yours? ‘Work together to restore the integrity of the community and the church.' Yeah, right. That's what my uncle was trying to do and look where it got him.” Sonya turned around in a full circle, taking in a panoramic view of his fancy office, and pointed her finger at Maxwell. “I see how you got to where you are, railroading innocent people into prison.”

Maxwell leaned forward, pressing his palms hard into the top of his desk. “Just who do you think you're talking to? Obviously, I should have fired you when I found out you didn't tell me about your membership at Greater Metropolitan. You can believe—”

This time it was Sonya's strong voice taking charge. “Oh, you don't have to worry about it. Unlike you, I have a life and family outside this place. My family means more to me than this job.” Sonya shoved her hand down into her skirt pocket and yanked out her office keys. She flung them onto Maxwell's desk. “You can have this job. My loyalty and integrity aren't for sale.” Shaking her head, she said, “I feel sorry for you. Your life is defined by what you do for a living. You don't have any family or friends who want to have anything to do with you. That's why all you have is your relentless and heartless attack on churches.” Stabbing the air with her forefinger, Sonya shouted, “My uncle isn't guilty of anything but the poor judgment of trusting you.” She bolted from Maxwell's office leaving his door standing wide open.

Maxwell scooped up Sonya's keys and tossed them into the air. Then he pulled out his desk drawer and threw them inside, slamming the drawer shut. Mechanically, he moved to the door, closed it, released a frustrated breath that filled his cheeks, and then counted to ten in his head. He trekked to the trashcan and fished out Deacon Burton's letter, rereading it. Now standing at the window, Maxwell stared off into the distance not really pinpointing anything with the letter crumpled up in his hand.

Had he done the right thing by not helping Deacon Burton? Was he just an innocent bystander who was caught in the crossfire of corruption around him? Maxwell thought about his parents, their innocence, and the price he and his family paid for his father's efforts to do the right thing. He unrumpled the letter and ripped it into small pieces tossing them into the air. The pieces of paper lay scattered on the floor about his feet. Deacon Burton would have to pay the cost. He would get no more mercy than Maxwell's father had received. The decision was made and there was no turning back as long as Maxwell had anything to do with it. He'd had the last say thus far . . . or was God about to show His hand? Only time would tell.