“So we can help each other.”
“Help each other?” Mike asked in surprise.
“Yep.”
“You’re the one in jail, Mr. Miller. How are you going to help me?”
“There are all kinds of jail. One of the worst is the prison of wrong thinking. I spent many years locked up there before I found the key and opened the door.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, I’m jumping ahead. We have so much to talk about.”
“Don’t you want to talk about the reason you’re here?”
“Of course,” Sam answered, patting his stomach. “You’re one reason. But first you can ask me anything you want. I don’t want to rush anything.”
Mike decided to humor him for a few minutes, then make a quick exit. He could call one of the judicial assistants at the courthouse and find out why an attorney hadn’t been appointed to represent the old man. Even if Miller didn’t qualify for an appointed lawyer, someone should arrange an evaluation of the older man’s mental competency.
“Has a detective asked you questions about the embezzlement charge?” Mike asked.
“Yep. Several times.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Yep, but there wasn’t much to say.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth.”
“Did you sign a statement?”
“The last time he came by, he wrote down what I said, and I signed it.”
Mike winced. A signed statement never helped the defense.
“What did he ask you?”
“About me and the church. Who took up the offerings? Who counted it? Why so much money turned up in my checking account. Stuff like that.”
“How much money turned up in your checking account?”
“Around $100,000. I told him it must have been a bank mistake. I don’t keep very much in my personal or business account, and I’ve never had that kind of money at one time in my life. Cash goes out as soon as it comes in around my house. The detective said he would double-check with the bank and let me know what he found out. He was a nice young fellow, but he never got back with me.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Perkins.”
The name wasn’t familiar to Mike.
“Are they claiming you stole $100,000 from the church you were serving as a fill-in preacher?”
“I guess so.”
“What’s the name of the church?”
“Craig Valley Gospel Tabernacle.”
“How many people attend?”
“It’s been growing. There are about fifty adults and the same number of young-uns.”
“How did the church get that much money in the first place?”
Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. They’ve been saving up for a new building. The concrete for the foundation was poured last fall, but I don’t know how much they’ve collected altogether.”
Mike sat back in his seat. The old man seemed capable of carrying on a normal conversation when he wanted to.
“Has a magistrate set bail?”
“Yep, it’s $100,000, too. That number keeps coming up. I’m not sure what it means.”
“It means a felony charge,” Mike replied grimly. “Have you tried to post a property bond or called a bondsman?”
“Muriel showed the magistrate the deed for our property, but it wasn’t worth enough, so I had to stay put. It’s not been easy, but there’s been fruit.” “I’m glad they’ve improved the menu.”
“What menu?”
“The food. I’m glad the food is decent.”
“I wouldn’t say that, especially compared to what my wife puts on the table.”
Mike leaned back in his seat. “Mr. Miller, I haven’t had lunch today, and I didn’t come here to talk about food. Explain in simple terms, with as few words as possible, why you sent your wife to the church to see me.”
“Papa told me.”
“Your father is alive?”
Sam pointed at the ceiling. “My Papa will never die. He’s the Ancient of Days.”
Mike stared at the tip of the old man’s index finger. “You’re telling me God is your father?”
“Yep. Isn’t he your father, too?”
“Uh, of course. I thought you meant an earthly father.”
“Nope. He’s been dead over twenty years. I was just answering your question as simply as I could.”
Mike put his hands together beneath his chin. “So, God told you to contact me.”
“Yep, so you can be my lawyer.”
“Mr. Miller, I used to practice law, but it’s been six years since I stepped into a courtroom.”
“You could still do it if you wanted to.”