Bobby’s car wasn’t in sight at the law firm when Mike returned to town. The trip to Asheville would probably consume most of his friend’s day. Mike filed his notice of representation in State v. Miller at the clerk’s office. He was now officially on the case. He walked upstairs to the office suite used by the superior court judge currently serving Barlow County. Judges rotated across western North Carolina on a circuit designed to lessen the likelihood of favoritism to local lawyers and citizens; however, judges like Harris Coberg still held court in their home districts.
A young man Mike didn’t recognize sat behind the clerk’s desk in the waiting area for the judge’s chambers. Mike introduced himself.
“Who’ll be on the bench this week to hear a bond motion in a criminal case?” Mike asked.
“Judge Coberg has started a six-month rotation,” the man responded.
“Great. When can you give me a fifteen-minute slot?”
The man glanced at his computer screen. “Tomorrow at nine-thirty.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Unless you want to move it to next week.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll take it. Is the judge in his chambers?”
“No, he’s at lunch.”
Mike filled in the date and time on the notice and dropped off a copy at the district attorney’s office. As he left Shelton and drove to the church, Juanita Jones called him on his cell phone. “Are you on your way to the golf course?” she asked.
“I haven’t thought about a golf ball all day,” Mike replied. “Did you locate the number for Danny Brewster’s mother? I really want to extend my condolences.”
“Got it right here.”
Mike flipped open his PDA and entered the number while driving with his knees.
“Thanks for letting me know,” he said. “And I won’t forget your comments about Sam Miller. I want to do the right thing.”
“I know. That’s the reason I always considered you the best. You had both the will to fight and the desire for truth. I’ll be praying for you.”
When he reached the church, he phoned Danny’s mother. A shaky voice answered the phone.
“Mrs. Brewster, it’s Mike Andrews. I just found out about Danny and want you to know how sorry I am.”
“I didn’t have the money to get him brought home, and they buried him in the prison graveyard,” Mrs. Brewster replied. “He didn’t have a proper funeral or anything.”
“I wish I’d known sooner.”
“It’s my fault for not calling you.”
“No, you’ve had too much on your mind.” Mike paused. “Would you like to have a memorial service here in Shelton?”
“It’s been almost two weeks since he died. I guess it’s not too late to do something.”
“No, it’s not. Danny was a fine young man, and those who loved him ought to have a chance to get together to share their sorrow and remember the happier times.”
“I’ve been working on Sundays and haven’t been regular at the church down the road. They have a new preacher who doesn’t know our family at all—”
“I’d be honored to serve as the minister. I could look for a place on your side of the county to have the service.”
“Danny sure did think a lot of you. He saved every one of your letters and read them over and over. They were in his things they sent to me from down yonder.”
Mike felt a knot in his throat. He’d corresponded regularly with Danny for several years but slacked off during his time in seminary and had only written twice since returning to Shelton. Danny faithfully replied to every communication. His letters always listed what he’d eaten that day and a Bible verse written with a red pencil. On the back of each letter, he included a crude drawing of something at the prison—his cot, a basketball goal, the guard tower, even the toilet in the corner of his cell. The drawings made Mike both sad and angry.
“I didn’t write him enough, Mrs. Brewster,” Mike said. “I’d like to do this for him if you’ll let me.”
“Danny would be glad about that. He was awful proud of you becoming a preacher.”
Mike looked at his calendar. “What day of the week is best for you?”
“Wednesday is my day off. We’ve got kinfolks and neighbors who would come.”
“Then we’ll do it next Wednesday afternoon. I’ll get back to you tomorrow. Do you have an answering machine on your phone?”
“Yes, sir.”
MIKE WAS EMOTIONALLY DRAINED WHEN HE WALKED THROUGH the door of the house and plopped down in his chair in the breakfast nook. Peg was cutting up tomatoes for a salad.