“If I promise to get one, will you agree to answer a few questions without getting off track?”
“Go ahead.”
Mike told Sam about the conversation between Braxton Hodges and Mr. Forrest.
“If it still exists, getting a copy of the letter you sent Jack Hatcher is going to be difficult,” Mike concluded.
“Why do you need a copy?”
“Your testimony about the letter wouldn’t prove that it existed or was delivered to Jack Hatcher. He could deny any written communication from you, and there wouldn’t be anything I could do about it. Without verification, your story about hatchets, baseball bats, and glass beads would sound ridiculous.
And there may be something in the letter you’ve forgotten. You’ve had lots of dreams and visions since that night.”
“True,” Sam agreed. “Can’t you file one of those subpoena things?”
“Yes. There is a procedure to request documents held by a third party in criminal cases. I’ll do that at the proper time and see what turns up. But first I need to interview some folks from the Craig Valley church. What’s it called?”
“Craig Valley Gospel Tabernacle.”
“Have you had any contact with them since the charges were filed?”
“Nope. The young detective who met with me at the jail told me not to talk to anyone from the church. He said it would look like I was trying to harass them, and they might charge me with something else.”
Mike felt a spurt of anger at the detective’s intimidation tactic. He would like to teach Perkins a lesson, but nothing allowed by the law or his faith immediately came to mind.
“That’s not true. You’d have to actually threaten someone to cross the line. Do you think any of the church leaders would talk to me about the case?”
“Yep.”
“Who would be the one most likely to cooperate?”
“Larry Fletchall is the head deacon. His daddy was a preacher and a friend of mine.”
“Do you have his phone number?”
“Yep, but I think it would be best to meet with the other deacons, too.”
“How many are there?”
“Four.”
“That’s a manageable group. Set it up for any evening this week except Wednesday. I have a memorial service for Danny Brewster, the former client I told you about who died in prison. The service is in the afternoon but might run late.”
“I know some Brewsters who live on the west side, but I don’t recall Danny.”
“Same family. Call me after you contact the folks at Craig Valley.”
“Okay. And I’ll come to your church before the end of the week to cut the grass so everything will look nice on Sunday. I could really use the business. Several folks have called and canceled on me. This should be one of my busiest times of the year, but I didn’t have anything to do this afternoon except work on my equipment.”
“Are people giving you a reason?”
“Nope, but you know there’s been talk. People are nervous about having someone who’s been in trouble with the law on their property.”
AFTER MIKE HUNG UP THE PHONE, HE TURNED ON A BASEBALL game, but his thoughts returned to Danny Brewster. Mike’s memories of most clients he’d represented had faded, replaced by people who needed his help in the present. But his memories of Danny endured. Mike could still recall details of his investigation, conversations with Danny, questions to the witnesses at the trial, even a few lines from his closing argument to the jury. Anger without an outlet rose up in him. He could try to convince Braxton Hodges to write an article for the paper about Danny, but he doubted the prison death of a young man convicted of multiple counts of burglary would warrant public interest.
Mike continued to stew until another vivid memory of Danny, an antidote for anger, rose to the surface and forced him to smile. While in the local jail, Danny made a large cross from toothpicks in a craft class, painted it with bright colors, and gave it to him. Mike still had the cross in his desk drawer at the church. The colors had faded, but the love behind the gift remained.
Judge pattered into the room and sat beside the chair with his head on the armrest so Mike could rub the area of wrinkled skin on the dog’s forehead.
Mike put his hand on the dog’s head and started scratching. A few minutes later, Peg, wearing her pajamas and a painting in her hand, joined them.
“Remember this?” she said, turning the painting so he could see it. “Don’t you think she looks like Muriel?”
It was an oil painting of an older woman wearing the type of plain dress worn by Muriel Miller and standing in a field of wildflowers. The area where the woman stood was filled with light, but she teetered at the edge of total darkness that covered a third of the painting. Peg portrayed the woman in profile with hair the same length and color as Sam’s wife’s.