The Sacrifice (3 page)

Scott managed a wry grin. “It sounds like the verdict was predetermined. Are there grounds for appeal?”

“No, but I have a second reason for encouraging you to volunteer.”

“What's that?”

“It's not just to help the kids. In teaching them, you'll end up teaching yourself. Learning to make things simple and understandable is a key to courtroom communication. If you can show teenagers what to do in a legal case, it will help develop your own skills.”

As usual, Leland Humphrey was right.

“I'll do it,” Scott said simply.

Mr. Humphrey stood up. “Good. Give Dr. Lassiter a call before you leave today; he's expecting to hear from you.”

Scott returned to his office and phoned the principal. Dr. Lassiter had a packet of materials for him about the program, and they agreed to meet at the school for lunch the following day.

Shortly before 3 P.M., the receptionist buzzed Scott and announced the arrival of Harold Garrison. Scott straightened his tie and picked up the legal pad on which he'd taken notes during their brief phone conversation earlier in the day. Generally, the lawyers in the firm didn't meet with clients in their offices but used one of the three small conference rooms adjacent to the reception area. When he opened the door and saw Harold Garrison, Scott knew it had been pointless to adjust his tie.

“Mr. Garrison,” he said. “I'm Scott Ellis.”

Harold Garrison was a gruff-looking man with an unshaven face, dark curly hair, and a prominent stomach that was only partially covered by a shirt missing several buttons.

“Come into the conference room,” Scott said.

The conference room Scott selected contained a cherry table with a tiny inlaid design around its edge. On one wall hung a painting of a ship approaching the Cape Hatteras lighthouse and on another a portrait of General Robert Frederick Hoke, a Civil War hero from North Carolina who became a major general in the Confederate army at the tender age of twenty-six. Harold Garrison sat down in a chair covered with ivory-colored upholstery.

Scott sat across the table from Mr. Garrison.

“Before I ask you about the case, I need some background information.”

“About what?”

“Your family. In juvenile court, a defendant's home life is often as important to the juvenile court judge as the issue of guilt or innocence.”

The saga of the Garrison family could have been the lyrics to an old-time country music song. Harold had divorced Lester's mother after she ran off to Phenix City, Alabama, with her boyfriend. Lester was seven years old at the time, and they moved in with Harold's mother. Since then, Harold stayed on the road about twenty-six days a month and drove all over the Southeast and Midwest for a regional trucking company, but avoided Phenix City.

“If I ever see either one of them,” Harold said, “I'll probably end up in the chain gang.”

“And Lester stays with your mother?”

“Yeah, she's got bad sugar and lost her sight a couple of years ago. I depend on Lester to look after her when I'm on the road.”

“What year is Lester in school?”

The question stumped Harold for a few seconds. “I think he has one more year to go. I only made it to the eighth grade, but Lester is pretty smart.”

Scott turned over a fresh sheet of paper. “What can you tell me about the arrest?”

“They claim Lester fired some shots at a bunch of blacks getting baptized in Montgomery Creek.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No, but they had to find someone to blame. And the police will always accuse a white person if there is a complaint by a black church.”

Scott ignored the racial slur and focused on the facts. “Was Lester in the area?”

“Yeah, but he hangs out along the creek all the time. Some jerks in a patrol car saw him walking along the road and picked him up.”

Scott flipped back to the first sheet of his pad. “Do you know why he was charged with criminal damage to property?”

“I think some cars got hit with bullets. But none of this has anything to do with my son. He's the scrapegoat.”

Scott wrote “scrapegoat” on the sheet in quotes and put down his pen. “Okay, let me tell you about the juvenile court process. It's not like a criminal proceeding in superior court. There isn't a jury; it's more informal. Everything is tried in front of a judge who makes a decision and recommends disposition.”

“Huh?”

“Punishment.”

Harold raised his voice. “Punishment! You make it sound like he's already guilty. I told you I want a fighter.”

“Don't take me wrong,” Scott said quickly. “I'm just explaining the process. Even though it's in juvenile court, the state still has to prove its case. I will investigate everything and, when the time comes, attack from every angle the law allows. But first, I need to meet with Lester. Tomorrow is Friday. If you hire me, I can go see him in the morning.”

Harold calmed down. “That's more like it.”

“So, do you want me to take the case?” Scott asked.

“Yeah. I have the money.”

Harold reached in his pocket and pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar bills.

2

As thy days, so shall thy strength be.

D
EUTERONOMY 33:25 (KJV)

S
everal days a week, Scott lifted weights at Dixon's Body Shop, a local gym owned by Perry Dixon, his best friend and former high-school classmate. The storefront facility was a throwback to the days before health spas were dominated by rows of stationary bicycles and electronic treadmills. The gym had plenty of barbells, dumbbells, benches, and weight racks, but only two treadmills and a single stair-stepper. Full-length mirrors lined two walls of the main exercise room. No TVs tuned to afternoon soap operas competed with the sounds of metal discs clanging together and the conversations of men who were working out. The gym was open to women for a couple of hours in the morning, then for the rest of the day it was a male-only facility. Perry welcomed everyone from beginners to those who enjoyed watching themselves flex in front of the mirrors.

Scott had little fat on his five-foot-ten-inch frame, and he enjoyed lifting weights, but he went to Dixon's as much to hang out with Perry as to pump iron.

Scott slowly pushed the barbell up from his chest. “Twenty-eight,” he said through clenched teeth.

Perry was spotting for him. “Come on, two more. Match your age.”

His face red from exertion, Scott arched his back slightly, and his arms, like slow-motion pistons, gradually straightened.

“That's good,” Perry said. “One more.”

The barbell came down, and Scott took two sharp breaths before pushing up with all his strength. Drops of sweat ran off his forehead and into his eyes. He blinked and his arms trembled as he fought to release the large discs on the ends of the black metal bar from the gravitational pull of the earth. The barbell wobbled as it went up farther on the right side than the left, and Perry, standing behind Scott's head, put a hand out to steady it. Scott continued pushing until his arms passed the point of greatest resistance and pressed upward until his elbows locked in a perpendicular line to his body.

“I guess that will have to do,” Perry said as he helped guide the bar onto the supporting rack.

Scott slid forward and sat up. “Whew,” he said. “I don't have a thing left. Those last two squeezed out all I had.”

Perry threw him a towel. “Good effort. How's the hand?”

Scott opened and closed his right hand. “It cramps, but I can bear it. Let's get something to drink.”

The two men walked to the corner of the room and sat down in front of a large floor fan. Scott rubbed his face with a towel. The young lawyer had clean, chiseled features and a square jaw. With sweat running off his face and his muscles expanded from the workout, he could have been a poster boy for the American jock; however, his dark brown eyes revealed a deeper level of both intelligence and feeling.

Perry took a quart bottle of sports drink from an ice-filled cooler and filled two large paper cups. The sandy-haired owner of the gym handed one to Scott and sat across from him in a plastic chair. The fan blew cool air over the two men.

“What's new in the legal business?” Perry asked.

Scott took a long drink from the cup before answering. “Not much. I'm going to be helping with a mock trial program at the high school.”

“Mock what?”

“Mock trial. It's a pretend case. The students act as lawyers and witnesses and compete against other schools based on facts given to them. I did it in law school.”

“So this is for kids who want to be lawyers?”

“Not necessarily. Most of the students will have witness roles, but they all get a taste of the legal system. There is a teacher who recruits the kids, then I come in and throw lawyer dust on them and hope some of it sticks.”

“Is the teacher anyone who taught us in school?”

“The letter didn't say. I'm going to have lunch tomorrow with the principal and find out. Usually, it would be a history teacher.” Scott rubbed his head again with the towel, then looked up. “What if it's Mrs. Willston?”

Perry chuckled.

Mrs. Delia Willston had taught American history to generations of students at Catawba High School. Rumor had it that the skinny teacher with a voice that grated worse than fingernails on a chalkboard had lived through the Great Depression. Whatever her age, there was no question that creating depression for students was her specialty. It would be a unique challenge relating to her as an adult.

Perry gave a credible imitation of the teacher's voice calling out, “Mr. Ellis! Mr. Dixon!”

Scott grimaced. “What if I have to deal with her?”

Perry smiled and patted him on the back. “You can handle it. A lot has changed since high school.”

The following morning Scott stopped by the law office for a few minutes then drove to the Blanchard County Youth Detention Center for his first meeting with Lester Garrison. The YDC was in a wooded area near an industrial park on the east side of town. From the street the modern, brown, brick building looked like a small school, but at the back of the facility there was an open exercise area enclosed by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence topped with a large coil of razor wire. Scott opened the front door and stepped into a spacious reception area that was only crowded on Sunday afternoons when parents and family members came for weekly visits. Today, the room was empty except for a young African-American woman sitting behind a metal desk.

“May I help you?” she asked Scott.

“I'm Scott Ellis, a lawyer. I'd like to see Lester Garrison.”

She checked a sheet of paper on a clipboard on her desk. “He's in isolation for fighting. I'll have to check with one of the correctional officers to see if he can be brought out to the interview room.”

“Thanks.”

Scott waited while the woman went to a solid metal door, punched a sequence of numbers on an entry pad, and went into the secured area of the building. It was several minutes before she returned. He passed the time reading certificates on the wall that recognized the accomplishments of the center's employees and wondering why Lester Garrison got into a fight.

The door opened and the receptionist returned with a large man in a deputy sheriff 's uniform.

“Mr. Ellis?” the deputy asked.

“Yes.”

“I'm Deputy Hicks. The Garrison boy was in a scuffle at breakfast, and we had to put him in a lockdown cell. I'm not sure he's stable enough to talk with you.”

“I'd like to try.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The deputy looked Scott over. “Okay. May I look inside your briefcase?”

Scott put his briefcase on the edge of the desk and popped it open. All he had inside was a legal pad containing his notes of the interview with Harold Garrison.

“Thanks. Please don't let the kid borrow your pen. Follow me.”