The Sacrifice (41 page)

“They talked about me behind my back in the church and around town. They criticized what I said, accused me of things I'd never thought of doing, and generally made my life miserable. During my sermons, they would take notes, and later repeat what I said out of context and crucify me over the telephones and in kitchens all over the area. The ringleader of the group was the richest member of the church—her father had started the biggest bank in the area—and no one was willing to take up my case against her. After a year, they convinced my secretary to quit, then wrote letters to denominational leaders asking them to kick me out of the ministry because I couldn't administer the staff of the church.

“I didn't respond very well. I asked God to take them to heaven, which was my religious way of asking him to get them out of my life. That didn't happen, so I prayed that they would leave the church, the town, and the state. That didn't happen, either. Week after week, month after month, they came to the services, sat toward the front, and glowered at me. I lost count of the number of ways in which they were able to create problems for me. This went on for two years until I was whipped. They had won, and I began making other plans for the future. I bought a book so I could learn how to sell life insurance when I left the ministry.”

The preacher paused. “Then one night I had a dream. In the dream I was sitting in the lap of my Heavenly Father. I couldn't see his face, but I knew who it was because of the love I felt in his presence. There was an open space in front of us containing a large block of beautiful marble.

“‘
Do you know what that is?'
he asked me.

“Somehow I knew that a block of marble wasn't the right answer, so I replied, ‘No.'

“‘
That's you
,' he answered.
‘The person I want you to be is hidden
inside
.'

“At that point hands appeared out of the air and began to chip away at the marble. It reminded me of an old Walt Disney movie. The hands were moving almost faster than my eyes could follow, but it wasn't fast enough for me. I wanted to see the finished product.

“‘Make them go faster,' I said.

“‘
Are you sure?'
he asked.

“Not taking my eyes from the scene before me, I cried out, ‘Yes! Faster!'

“The hands worked at a furious pace. In no time, I could distinguish a body with a head. Then the arms and legs took shape. The rough outlines were refined, and the facial features were revealed from their secret place within the rock. When it was finished, I couldn't believe the beauty of the new creation. It put Michelangelo to shame.

“‘Is that me?' I asked, not fully believing that it could be so.

“‘
Yes,
' he answered.

“‘Thank you,' I whispered in awe.

“‘
You're welcome
,' he answered, then added,
‘but don't you want to
thank my helpers?'

“I knew he was referring to the hands. ‘Yes! Let me see them!'”

Ben Whitmire smiled. “I'd never seen an angel before and my anticipation was high. Maybe angels had hands as well as wings. Then from behind the magnificent statue appeared the smiling faces of my tormentors— the three women from the church. They waved to me, and I woke up. God wasn't using angels to do the work of changing me; he was relying upon my enemies.

“I didn't sleep the rest of the night. I paced the floor, arguing and debating, until I came to terms with the lesson he wanted me to learn. The difficult people and circumstances in life are often the tools God uses to bring forth the enduring beauty of Christian character. If we want to be transformed, we have to be changed. One of the ways God uses is the challenge of difficult relationships.”

The minister continued, “You're probably wondering what happened after I realized the truth. Well, the next Sunday I went up to the women before the service and thanked them for coming. They gave me a strange look and started whispering furiously after I walked away. Nothing changed, the gang of three continued their activities. They gossiped, criticized, and plotted my downfall. But my heart was free. Time after time, I went out of my way to show kindness to them, and when one of them lost a brother to cancer, I drove a hundred miles to attend the funeral. Eventually, she quit the group. The other two never let up and badgered me until I left town for a larger church. But when I packed the moving van and drove down the driveway of our house for the last time, I didn't take any negative baggage of bitterness with me. Instead, I went to my next church with a few sizable chips knocked off the block of marble that was becoming a person who looked more and more like Jesus.”

Ben took off his glasses. “Today, I call people like those women ‘grace-growers.' When I see one coming, I don't run or fight; I ask God what part of my life is going to be refined and transformed through this person. Do any of you have any grace-growers in your life? They may not be exactly like the ones at my church, but they are God's instruments for your good.”

Kay didn't have to think long.

From the time he was a little boy, the bomber had never had a normal life. He came from a womb of contention and lived in strife from his earliest years. Environment plays a powerful role in shaping character, and as a product of hate, he bore the imprint of those who molded him. Upon reaching the age of moral accountability, he made the influences of childhood his own. From then on, blame for who he was and what he did could not be shifted entirely to others. It lay at his feet.

The student sporadically intersected with a basic routine of home and school, but none of his classmates would have characterized him as normal. He was different. He had no friends. No one knew his true thoughts, and he kept hidden from everyone the deepest levels of darkness that had inhabited his soul.

Recent upheaval in his circumstances could have diverted him from continuing to plan his attack, but they didn't. His problems reinforced his resolve to go forward. Circumstances caused delays, but he continued to construct a device capable of destroying the main school building.

In the meantime, no one suspected. No one knew about the coming ball of fire.

32

And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument.

K
ING
H
ENRY
V, A
CT 3
, S
CENE 1

S
cott spent Sunday at the office finishing his trial preparation and then went home to practice his opening statement in front of the long mirror in his bedroom. He paced back and forth, gesturing with his hands and experimenting with different levels of volume in his voice. Nicky served as the lone juror. Eventually, the little dog went to sleep on the floor.

According to Scott's calculations, the Garrison trial would last two days. Monday morning would be devoted to selecting the jury, followed by opening statements and at least partial presentation of the state's case in the afternoon. The rest of the case would take place on Tuesday. Since Lester wouldn't testify, the defense case would be Scott's closing argument. He'd written an outline of his jury summation, leaving plenty of blank spaces on the pages to add helpful information that came out during the trial. He hoped there would be tidbits. Mr. Humphrey had assured him that the state's witnesses never presented a monolithic wall of consistent testimony. There were always cracks and crevices that an attentive lawyer could use to his client's advantage.

He'd been over every aspect of the case a hundred times, but there was one thing lacking in Scott's preparation. Passion. He'd anticipated his first jury trial since the early days of law school. Now that it was at hand, he was having trouble psyching himself up for the battle. It was more difficult than he'd expected to divorce himself from the hate-filled premise of Lester's beliefs and the unsavory aspects of his client's character. Intellectually, Scott knew that professionalism prohibited his per- sonal feelings from influencing his obligation to defend his client with a zeal that protected those accused of crimes from arbitrary adjudications of guilt. However, the importance of the Constitution seemed faraway when Scott listened to Lester's racist venom and considered what Harold Garrison had done to his son. He needed an emotional boost, and despite what he told Kay, feeding his competitive ego and venting his animosity toward Lynn Davenport weren't the kind of motivating factors he wanted to rely upon.

During a fitful night, Scott dreamed about the Garrison case. The images that flashed through his mind were random and disconnected. It wasn't as if the case began efficiently and moved to an orderly conclusion. It simply spun around like a merry-go-round that never stopped.

Bleary-eyed, Scott awoke thirty minutes before his customary 6:30 A.M. and fixed a pot of strong coffee. Nicky scratched at the door to his cage, and Scott let him out to run across the dewy grass in the backyard. Sipping his coffee, Scott stood on the back step and watched Nicky's morning antics. When the little dog saw him, he ran as fast as he could from the back corner of the yard and greeted his master by shaking his entire body. Life wasn't complicated for Nicky. The only frustrating images in his dreams probably featured fat rabbits who disappeared under fences.

Scott didn't eat any breakfast and arrived at the office before 7 A.M. Dressed in his best dark suit with a striped tie, he'd combed his hair in a way he hoped would make him look a little older. Mr. Humphrey wanted to walk over to the courthouse no later than 8:30 A.M. so that he and Scott would have plenty of time to shake hands and exchange pleasantries with as many jurors as possible. The lawyers couldn't mention the case, but there was no prohibition against being friendly.

Scott had finished putting all his papers in the appropriate folders when Mr. Humphrey came into his office.

“Beautiful morning, isn't it?” he boomed.

Scott hadn't noticed the weather.

Mr. Humphrey continued, “Are you ready? I was thinking about the case at breakfast and told my wife I almost wished I could try it myself. You have a great shot at winning this one.”

“Then why am I feeling so flat?” Scott asked.

Mr. Humphrey's right eyebrow shot up. “Ah, pretrial malaise.”

The older lawyer sat down across from Scott's desk. “Don't worry. You only have so much emotional energy at your disposal. The fire will come when the battle really begins. If you waste it anticipating the trial, it won't be available when it counts—in the courtroom.”

“I hope so.”

The receptionist called Scott over the intercom.

“Mr. Garrison is here.”

“Father and son?” Scott asked.

“No, sir. Just the son.”

“I wonder where Dad is this morning?” Scott asked.

“Maybe he's gone fishing at Montgomery Creek,” Mr. Humphrey said.

The two lawyers walked downstairs together. Lester was pacing back and forth in the reception area. As instructed by Scott, he was wearing a white shirt, a tie, and his newest pants. His shirt and pants were wrinkled, but it was the best Scott could hope for under the circumstances. Lester's face had improved, but it still bore signs of its collision with the tree limb. The sight of the young man's obvious nervousness had a calming effect on Scott.

“Good morning, Lester,” he said. “Let's go into the conference room for a minute.”

They sat down and Lester began popping his knuckles.

“Where's your father?”

“He dropped me off so he could go by his work and pick up his paycheck. He'll be here in a minute.”

“That's okay,” Scott replied. “Because I want to talk to you about the dark-haired person at the creek.”

Lester sat up. “There wasn't nobody else! She's lying! I've been thinking about it all weekend, and I think you ought to let me tell my side of the story to the jury.”

Scott didn't debate. He wasn't sure how much time he had before Harold arrived.

“Was your father with you?”

Lester gaped at Scott for several seconds.

“Do they have a witness claiming my father was there?”

Scott glanced at Mr. Humphrey to see if the older lawyer wanted to take over. He shook his head.

“No,” Scott said. “But the presence of a dark-haired figure made us suspect that you may have been with your father. Both Bishop Moore and Alisha saw a dark-haired person.”

Lester laughed. “That's crazy.”

Surprised by his client's response, Scott leaned forward and spoke with intensity. “Lester, this is not a joke. If your father fired the shots, he should be the one on trial, not you. When this was a juvenile court case, the most that could have happened to you was a slap on the wrist. Now it's in superior court, and in a few minutes you're going to trial and can be sentenced as an adult. I don't think the D.A. is going to have an easy time convicting you, but if the jury decides that you're guilty, you could be sent off for a long time.”