Beyond Justice (48 page)

"That's from the gospel of Luke, Chapter Twenty-three.  Just before Jesus died on the cross."

That passage came back to me as soon as he quoted it.  "Yes, I do recall that."

"Do you think then, that it could mean that it's never too late?"

"I'm not God," I said,
skeptical
at Brent's sudden interest in salvation.  Part of me wanted for him to continue rejecting it, so that he'd burn in hell.  But to be honest, that was the part of me which wanted to rebel against what God had asked of me.

"Sam."  A cold shiver crept up my neck when he said my name.  "Help me out here.  How can I be saved?"

"Don't ask me.  I'm not a priest."

"Then what are you doing here?  Why do you keep coming to see me?"

'
Because God told me to
' seemed too trivial to articulate.  I just shook my head and stood up.  "I'm not really sure anymore."  I turned to the guards and they opened the door.

"Wait," he said.  "Just tell me, what must I do to be saved?"

"You're pretty good at finding your own answers in the Bible," I said.  "Look it up yourself."

This had to be another one of his acts.  To what end, I would probably never know, but I wasn't buying it. 

I was out of there.

Chapter One Hundred and Two

It disturbed me that my initial reaction to Brent's query about salvation was cynicism.  Might not this have been God's purpose all along?  That was what angered me.  And at the same time, troubled me.  He had supposedly received my forgiveness, why not God's?   For the next few days I pondered this before returning to see Brent again.

The familiar aroma of Friday cafeteria fish wafting through San Diego Central as I made my way to the visitation room.  Brent had shaved his whiskery mug, his hair now trimmed and combed.  The only thing missing now was a suit and tie.  What was I doing here?  Had I truly forgiven him?  Or was I just like every religious hypocrite I'd condemned throughout my life.

He stood to greet me. "Hey, bro!"

"Brent?"

"I'm so glad to see you," he said, his smile beaming.

"You are?"

Sitting in the meeting room, he seemed even more different than before.  So much so that I became instantly suspicious.  He regarded me as though reuniting with an old friend. 

"Please, have a seat."

My brow tightened.  I sat and scrutinized his face.  "Okay, I give.  What's going on?"

"I have you to thank."

I turned to the guards, but as usual, they didn't return my gaze. "The trial begins in two days," I said.  "You don't have time for games."

"My attorney's not going to be happy."

I shifted in my chair, leaned forward.  "Help me out here."

"I'm thinking about changing my plea to guilty."

"You're—?  Hold on.  You're changing your plea?"

"Guilty as charged."

"Walden offered you a deal?"

The corners of his mouth pulled down and he shook his head.  "No, I'd already agreed to tell him where the Samberg girls are buried.  There's no deal on the table."

"You realize that you'll get the Death Penalty."

"Counting on it."

"I don't understand."  My eyes fixed on his chained wrists resting on top of his Bible.

"A lot's happened since—Well, I've got so much to thank you for."

"What are you talking about?"

He took a deep breath, a story bubbling to the surface.  "When you came that day, talked to me about my past, I was still—I don't know—on the verge."

I narrowed my eyes, trying to comprehend.

"You gave this to me," he said pointing to the Bible.  "Man, I hadn't read the good book since my mom—since Sunday school."

"Where is she now?"

"Oh man, Sunday school," Brent said, nostalgia drawing his eyes towards oblivion. "That was a lifetime ago."

"Brent, your mother?"

"She and Dad both died when I was eleven."  His smile fled.  "And before you jump to conclusions, it wasn't me.  You can check the Boston police records, June 25, 1975.   Murder-suicide.  Nice family, huh?"

"He killed her?"

"She killed him."

"I'm sorry."  Wasn't sure I believed him, but why would he bother lying now?  "Anyway.  I didn't mean to snuff out whatever it was that was making you smile."

"It's all right, I'm cool."

"So tell me.  What is it?"

"You're still testifying against me, right?"

I nodded.

"Good."

"I'm just not getting it."

"All right," he said, leaning forward.  "You want the long version or the Reader's Digest?"

"Whichever."

"Long story short:  I'm forgiven."

I shrugged.  "I told you I forgave you, it's just sinking in now?"

"Took me a while, but when I finally started to believe that you meant it, it made me think, if you could forgive me, then maybe God could too.  For everything."

It seemed too easy, too convenient.  I had to admit, part of me felt disappointed.

Brent's eyes sparkled with sincerity.  Disturbingly so.  "So I asked to see Reverend Wilson, the chaplain."

"Don't tell me."

"I've accepted Christ, Sam.  Don't you see?  I'm saved."  The guards stood in their usual position.  As if they weren't listening.   One of them clicked his tongue and shook his head.

Straightening up, I said, "Pardon me, but I'm finding this hard to believe."

"I don't blame you.  Really.  But it's true."  He flashed a smile.  "What's the matter, you don't think God can forgive me?"

"It's not a matter of if he can."  I stood up and scratched the back of my head.

"I thought you'd be happy."

"Look, I don't know what to say, all right?"

"Why did you come to me in the first place?  And you never explained how you knew about Sally."

"I told you, you'd never believe me."

"You never believed I could change."

"All right!" I said, gripping the back of the chair so hard my nails dug into the upholstery.  "I came because I thought God wanted me to forgive you, to befriend you!  You wanna laugh, go ahead!  It's all a big game for you anyway, isn't it?"

In a freakish reversal of roles, Brent sat calm while I lost it.  I had never anticipated this.  I thought for sure he'd be defiant to the end, burn in Hell for what he'd done.  And I was supposed to be set free from all my bitterness.

"It's not a game," he said with a deep sigh.

"Then it's an act!  You're a psychopath and you're faking it."  Deep down I hated myself for saying it, because there was always a possibility, no matter how small, that he might be sincere.

"You'll never know how great God's love is, how great His forgiveness is, until you've been as guilty as me."

"If that's what it takes, then I never want to know."

"Sam, listen.  All my life, I was convinced that I was going straight to hell.  So you know, what difference did it make if I—?"

"Guard!"  My thoughts turned dark, like drops of blood infusing a once clear glass of water.  Condemnation boiled to the surface and nearly made it past my lips.

"Sam, wait.  Hear me out."

I lifted my hands to deflect his words and went to the door.  "If you think they're going to reduce the sentence just because—"

"No," he said.  "I still have to pay."

"Got that right!" I stormed out.

For the next half hour , I sat in the parking lot yelling at God and cursing myself.

Chapter One Hundred and Three

The weekend was miserable.  Having tossed and turned until dawn both Friday and Saturday nights, I could barely function during the day.  The only person I spoke to was Rachel, and that was only for a few minutes.  We were so involved with Aaron's case that I hadn't gotten to telling her about Brent.

Both Rachel and I were sleep deprived.  I had just gotten my first solid hour of sleep when the doorbell rang.  Must have been ringing for a while, because an urgent pounding accompanied it.  My head still in a fog and my butt still in my shorts, I got out of bed and noticed the voicemail indicator flashing on my cell phone.

More pounding.

"I'm coming!"  I opened the door and found Rachel just at the end of a call on her cell phone.

"Are you all right, Sam?"

"Yeah, I just dozed off."

Rachel stepped forward and entered the house.  "I've been calling you for an hour."  As she entered the house, she seemed distracted.

"Everything okay, Rachel?"

"Yeah, I just..." She sat down in the sofa and from the look on her face, I could tell she needed me to say something to get the conversation started.

"Oh, I need to tell you," I said, suddenly remembering.  "Have you heard?"

Rachel opened her eyes and blinked at me.

"Brent Stringer."

Her brow knitted.  "I've been a bit involved."

"I think he's going to change his plea."

"What?"

"Any idea why he'd do that?" I asked, more curious than embarrassed at my toddler-like grasp on criminal legal strategy.

"Besides the fact that he
is
guilty?"

"He'll get death."

She started putting the documents back in the manila folder.  "I don't know, maybe he just wants to get it over with without drawing the trial out.  Saves on taxpayer dollars, anyway.   Didn't you ask him why?"

"I was so thrown by it, I just left."

"So how have your visits been going?" she asked.

"I don't know.  When I told him I forgave him, he just laughed it off.  But a couple of days ago, he opened up about his childhood, how he became fascinated with death while watching his dog die."

"Okay, now that's just creepy." Rachel grimaced, shuddering at the thought.

"I'm pretty sure that was the beginning of it all because—"

"Sam?"  Rachel whispered through gritted teeth.  Her face began to crumple and the hinges of the floodgates came apart, one screw at a time.  "They've denied our motion."

"What?"

She began to sob.  I went over to hold her but she was inconsolable.  Finally, she lifted her face and said, "I keep asking myself if I'd missed something, a precedent, a loophole, but it's just no good!"

"What about challenging the guardianship issue?  I'm still waiting to hear from a firm or two."

"Even if you were to start a new job today, they'd require at least six months of steady and sufficient income, along with continuous health benefits.  Never mind that our church is holding half a million in escrow, with affidavits of financial support.  They don't care."

"I can't believe it."  My mind raced with any possible idea or alternative.  All but prayer had been exhausted.  Then it struck me like a semi.  In just two days, by court order, my son would die.

___________________

Pastor Dave and
the church group visited that night.  They'd missed me and Rachel at church and brought us dinner.  Afterwards,
we adjourned to the family room and carefully navigated the emotional minefield.

"What's God been telling you recently?" Dave asked me.

"Actually, he's been pretty quiet."

"You've had enough burning-bush experiences for a lifetime," Rachel said.

"To be
honest," I said, "I haven't taken the time to really pray recently.  Not sure He'd want to
hear from
me now, anyway."

"Why's that?" Alan said.

I explained what had happened with Brent, how I couldn't
believe that he'd just accept Christ after a lifetime of murderous cruelty.  How I doubted his sincerity.  "Guess I'm disappointed with God," I said.  "If someone like Brent could just get off scott-free, after all he's done."

"But he's still getting the death penalty," Dave said.

"My forgiving him was hard enough.  But I'm just not sure he deserves to be saved," I replied.

"He's yanking everyone's chain," Rachel said.  She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to her chest.  "Think about it. 
He's cunning, manipulative, displays a grandiose sense of self-worth, criminally versatile, a pathological liar.  Classic psychopath."

Dave leaned forward, his brow furrowed.  "If I recall my psychology classes correctly,
he should also fail to accept responsibility for his own actions.  According to Sam, he's not even going to contest the death penalty."

"Has his attorney dropped him yet?" Rachel asked, and took a sip of tea.  "I mean, has she even heard about his change of heart, much less his change of plea?"