“It’s true. Peg saw the doctor yesterday. But I’m not picking out pacifiers. I discussed the Sam Miller situation with the session, and I’m going to help him until another lawyer can be hired. I have several stops to make and won’t be at the church until this afternoon.”
“What should I tell all the callers?”
“Take messages. I’ll get back to them before the end of the day. Oh, and I need Muriel Miller’s number.”
“I put it on a slip and gave it to you.”
“Remember, I dropped it in the trash. Check your records.”
Mike waited.
“Here it is,” she said.
Mike wrote down the number on a pad he kept in the car.
“You’re not going to ask me to type any legal papers, are you?” Delores asked.
“No, but I can’t think of anyone better able to keep the church running when I have to be away for a few hours.”
Delores hung up without responding.
Muriel Miller didn’t answer the phone. Mike listened to a brief message about Sam’s lawncare business and asked her to call his cell phone number as soon as possible. He hung up as he turned into an empty parking space in front of his old law firm.
None of the law firms in a small town like Shelton had reception rooms filled with expensive antiques and fancy Oriental rugs, but Forrest, Lambert, Park, and Arnold had the nicest waiting area in town. Two leather couches and a pair of leather armchairs gave it an old-club feel. A tightly woven tan carpet covered the floor. In the center of the room rested a low coffee table covered with an assortment of magazines bearing Mr. Forrest’s address. Rustic paintings of primitive mountain homesteads by a local artist decorated the walls. The receptionist sat behind a shiny wooden desk at the far end of the room in front of the door leading to the offices. The firm kept the reception room refrigerator cool on even the hottest days. When Mike entered, a new female face greeted him behind the desk. He introduced himself.
“I used to be a partner in the firm,” he said. “I need to see Bobby’s secretary for a minute.”
“Yes, sir. I know who you are. I’ll let her know you’re here.”
The receptionist answered a call and waved him through. Beyond the door, a long hallway extended to the rear of the building. Every room, library, conference area, secretarial suite, law office, and the kitchen opened onto the hall. The first door to the left was the conference room. It was empty. Next, he passed Mr. Forrest’s office. The door was closed, and Mike didn’t knock. The senior partner only shut his door for a good reason and didn’t want to be disturbed except for a matter of life, death, or a visit from Jack Hatcher, the president of the Bank of Barlow County.
Mike’s former office was now used by Jeff Park, the lawyer moving to Charlotte. Jeff was on the phone with his back to the door. Juanita Jones, the secretary Mike hired and later shared with Bobby Lambert, worked in the next office.
Despite her first name, the dark-haired, middle-aged secretary had no connection to any Spanish-speaking area of the world. Her family had lived in Barlow County for more than seventy-five years, and she only knew enough Spanish to pronounce the items on the menu at the local Mexican restaurant.
“Are you on break?” Mike asked.
Juanita glanced up at the sound of his voice. “Hey, Mike, I’m so sorry.”
“About what?” Mike asked in surprise.
Juanita put her hand over her mouth. “Didn’t you hear about Danny Brewster?”
“No.”
“He was murdered in prison. Stabbed by another inmate with a homemade knife. It happened a couple of weeks ago.”
Mike’s face fell. Early in his career he’d represented the mentally limited young man who was charged with multiple counts of burglary. Mike didn’t believe Danny knew the difference between being invited into someone’s home and breaking and entering, but Judge Lancaster denied an incompetency motion. Ken West offered a plea bargain, but Mike went to trial, confident he could pin responsibility for the crimes on Danny’s older brother, the person who sent Danny into the houses. The jury didn’t buy Mike’s theory and the judge sentenced Danny to ten years in prison. Mike spent two years appealing the conviction but lost.
“He was supposed to get out in a couple of months,” Juanita said.
“I thought he was in a special unit,” Mike said numbly. “Not with the general prison population.”
“I don’t know. After you moved to Virginia, nobody kept tabs on him.”
“I thought about him the other day but didn’t follow up,” Mike said, shaking his head. “Is his mother still in the area?”