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Authors: Randy Singer

Dying Declaration

BOOK: Dying Declaration
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PRAISE FOR
DYING DECLARATION
AND OTHER NOVELS BY RANDY SINGER

“[Singer] delivers a fresh approach to the legal thriller, with subtle characterizations and nuanced presentations of ethical issues.

And he’s no slouch with a plot.”

BOOKLIST

STARRED REVIEW, ON
DYING DECLARATION

“Singer hits pay dirt again with this taut, intelligent thriller. . . . [He] is clearly an up-and-coming novelist to watch.”

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

ON
DYING DECLARATION

“Singer gets better with each subsequent novel, and he excels in
Dying Declaration
. . . .”

FAITHFUL READER.COM

“Randy Singer has done it again.
Dying Declaration
grabs you on the first page and doesn’t let go. . . .

Singer delivers Grisham-like plotting buttressed by a worldview that clarifies the dilemmas that bombard us daily. Don’t miss this book.”

HUGH HEWITT

AUTHOR , COLUMNIST, AND RADIO HOST OF THE

NATIONALLY SYNDICATED
HUGH HEWITT SHOW

“An explosive fusion of legal ploys, passion, and power. With
Dying Declaration
, Singer’s well-earned reputation for masterfully crafted stories and compelling characters shines brighter than ever.”

BRANDILYN COLLINS

AUTHOR OF
VIOLET DAWN


Directed Verdict
is a well-crafted courtroom drama
with strong characters, surprising twists, and a compelling theme. . . . Randy Singer’s novel is

engaging, memorable, and highly significant.”

RANDY ALCORN

BEST- SELLING AUTHOR OF
SAFELY HOME

AND
HEAVEN

“[
Irreparable Harm
is] an accomplished novel. Randy

Singer combines edge-of-your-seat action with a powerful message. Highly recommended.”

T. DAVIS BUNN

AUTHOR OF
MY SOUL TO KEEP

“In this gripping, obsessively readable legal thriller,

Singer proves himself to be the Christian

John Grisham.”

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

ON
FALSE WITNESS

“Singer hooks readers from the opening courtroom scene of this tasty thriller, then spurs them through a fast trot across a story line that just keeps delivering. . . . Like the best suspense novels, the character development is sophisticated enough that readers won’t know the villain’s identity until the final pages.”

PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

ON BY
REASON OF INSANITY

Visit Tyndale’s exciting Web site at
www.tyndale.com

Visit Randy Singer’s Web site at www.randysinger.net

TYNDALE
and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

Dying Declaration

Copyright © 2004 by Randy Singer. All rights reserved.

First printing by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., in 2009.

Previously published as
Dying Declaration
by WaterBrook Press under ISBN-10: 1-57856-776-9.

Cover photograph of dashboard copyright © by Tom Hoenig/Getty Images. All rights reserved.

Cover photograph of road copyright © by Comstock Images/Jupiterimages. All rights reserved.

Back cover element of stethoscope copyright © by Neubauwelt. All rights reserved.

Back cover element of gavel copyright © by Julie Felton/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

Author photograph copyright © 2008 by Don Monteaux. All rights reserved.

Designed by Dean H. Renninger

Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920, www.alivecommunications.com.

Some verses are taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.

Some verses are taken from
The Holy Bible
, King James Version.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Singer, Randy (Randy D.)
   Dying declaration / Randy Singer.
     p. cm.
   ISBN 978-1-4143-3155-3 (sc)
   1. Parent and child—Fiction. 2. Negligence, Criminal—Fiction. 3. Trials (Homicide)—Fiction. 4. African American lawyers—Fiction. 5. Attorney and client—Fiction. 6. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
   PS3619.I5725D95 2009
   813'.6—dc22                                 2008053393

Printed in the United States of America

15 14 13 12 11 10 09

7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Keith and Jody.

At the heart of this book is a special relationship

between a brother and sister.

Writing it has made me even more grateful for ours.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

1

SHE LOOKED PITIFUL.

She was a plain woman with a prominent nose and an everyday face, made even less memorable by her refusal to wear makeup. She had stringy black hair, puffy eyes, and skin blotched with red marks where she had nervously clawed at her neck. She made no effort to stop the tears from running down her cheeks and dripping on Joshie’s head. She hugged him closer to her chest,
rocking gently in the recliner and humming softly, stopping the motion only to wipe her child’s forehead with a cool, damp washcloth.

She placed the washcloth back on the arm of the worn recliner and kissed Joshie on the cheek. She felt his little body twitch back and forth in a way that mimicked the rocking of the recliner. She resumed her rocking. The twitching stopped.

The little guy was so hot. Motionless, almost lifeless, except for a quiet moaning. His pain was her pain. And it was doubled by her helplessness, her inability to stop the relentless march of the fever or to combat its devastating effect.

She could no longer bring herself to take the temperature of her youngest child, still four months shy of his second birthday. The last reading, taken two hours ago, registered 103. It was probably higher now. It would make no difference because she couldn’t do anything about it. And so she cried. And rocked. And prayed.

Thomas Hammond had not left his knees for half an hour. He formed an odd picture, this burly man with the round scruffy face,
bulging forearms, and callused hands slumped meekly on his knees—the posture of humility. This was spiritual warfare, and it was a battle that Thomas intended to win. He prayed in the master bedroom at the other end of the double-wide trailer from Theresa, next to his bed, his head buried in his massive hands.

“Take this fever from us. Spare my son, Jesus.” He said the words aloud, barely audible but soaked with intensity. Over and over again the same simple requests. The story of the persistent widow filling his thoughts.
If I pray long enough. Hard enough.
“Increase my faith. Save my son. Don’t punish him for my mistakes.” He tried bargaining with God—he’d promise
anything
. “I’ll go anywhere, Jesus. Do whatever You want. Serve You with all my heart. Just gimme this one thing. Don’t punish Josh—”

“Dad!” It was five-year-old John Paul, his oldest son, the one that Thomas had nicknamed “Tiger.” The boy called from his bedroom down the hall.

“Your Word says You are slow to anger, abounding in love, full of grace and mercy.” Thomas stopped, the whispered words sticking in his throat. At this moment, it didn’t feel like he served a God of mercy. He felt the anger rising, the frustration of unanswered prayer. And then he felt the guilt. Could his anger be the one thing holding back God’s healing hand? “Show Josh Your mercy—”

“Hey, Dad!” The call grew louder now. Persistent.

“Just a minute, Tiger.” Thomas ran his hand through thinning hair and reluctantly rose. He trudged down the hall to the boys’
room and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. It was important to be brave.

He opened the door and let the hall light illuminate the cramped quarters that Tiger proudly called his own room, though he shared it with Josh. Tiger sat straight up in bed, clinging to his tattered blankie, his bright blue eyes wide open.

“Keep it down, Son. You’ll wake up Stinky.”

“Stinky” was Tiger’s seven-year-old sister. She had earned her nickname when she was still in diapers. Thomas would talk to her while he changed her, wrinkle up his nose, and pronounce her “Stinky.” The name stuck, and Stinky became a term of endearment. But it was a name that only family used and only around the house. Others called her Hannah.

“I can’t sweep, Daddy. I got some bad dreams . . . again.”

Thomas sat down heavily on the bed and rubbed Tiger’s ragged blond hair. “Well, they’re over now, ’cause I’m here.” He knew what Tiger needed to hear, and Thomas took some comfort in the routine that on other nights could be aggravating. “I’ll beat that old bogeyman up one side and down the other,” Thomas growled. He could see the slightest grin beginning to form on the young boy’s face. He tickled Tiger’s ribs and watched the grin grow. “Now just lie down and think your happy thoughts.”

“I did,” Tiger said. “But then I went to sweep. Daaaaddy?” Tiger drew out the name for maximum effect, then looked up with his best puppy-dog eyes.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Will you lay down wif me?” Tiger scooted over in his small bed to give his dad some room. They had done this many times before. Thomas’s large frame would never quite fit on the small portion of the bed unoccupied by Tiger. But Thomas would try. He would balance himself half on the bed and half off, with one hand on the floor propping himself up, telling Bible stories until he heard the heavy breathing of a sleeping boy.

“Not tonight, Son.”

“Please, Dad, dus’ one story!” Tiger whined. “Tell me ’bout Abe-ham and his son and how God got them a goat.”

Thomas grinned. He could hardly resist the little guy even on normal nights. Tonight he craved the comforting routine of telling bedtime stories and watching Tiger’s eyelids grow heavy. But tonight he also knew how badly Theresa needed him. And his prayers for Joshie were not yet finished. God had not yet answered.

“I can’t right now, Son. I gotta go check on Mom and Josh again. If you’re still awake when I come back, I’ll tell you the story of Abraham.”

“Okay,” Tiger said cheerily. The kid obviously had no intention of sleeping.

Thomas kissed him on the forehead, pulled the covers up around his neck, then turned and walked toward the door.

“Daddy?”

“What?”
The word came out sharper than Thomas expected. He stopped walking, a little ashamed of himself for taking it out on Tiger.

“I’m firsty.”

A few minutes later, Thomas joined his wife in the small living room. His stomach churned as he paced the stained carpet,
watching helplessly as his wife continued her vigil—rocking, wiping Josh’s brow, humming, and praying. She ignored Thomas.

“Is the fever breakin’?” he asked at last.

Theresa shook her head.

“Have you checked in the last few minutes?”

“Why should I?” Her voice was cold, her face etched with worry. The pressure of believing in things unseen was taking its toll.

Thomas walked behind the recliner and began rubbing her shoulders. He felt the gnarled and knotted muscles of her slender back, and he penetrated them with strong fingers, trying to massage out the tension. It didn’t leave.

“When is the last time you checked?” he persisted.

“Two hours ago.”

“Don’tcha think we oughta check again?”

“Only if we intend to take him to the hospital if it’s still high.” She turned her head and looked behind her at Thomas, pleading with large hazel eyes. She stopped rocking. Joshie didn’t move.

Thomas avoided his wife’s eyes, bowed his head, and shook it slowly. He walked from behind the chair and knelt in front of her. He placed his big hands on Theresa’s legs.

“Just have faith,” he said softly. “God’ll heal ’im.”

Theresa snorted at the suggestion. “I’ve got faith, Thomas. I’ve had faith. But he’s getting worse. . . . Don’t you dare lecture me about faith.” Her voice had an edge that Thomas had never heard before.

Joshie moaned. His little body jerked for an instant; then he curled tighter into a ball, snuggling against his mother’s chest.

“You want me to call Pastor Beckham and the elders? They could git over here and anoint him with oil again, pray for him—”

“I want you to call an ambulance,” she demanded, her voice quivering. “God sometimes works through doctors. How can you just kneel there and let your son suffer while you do nothing?”

“Theres—”

“Here.” She sniffed as she thrust little Joshie out toward her husband. She held the child in outstretched arms, like a sacrifice.
“You hold him. You look at your son, and you tell him why he has to die just so you can prove to the world how much faith you’ve got.” She held him there for a moment—her youngest, her
baby
—then turned her head away.

Words failed Thomas. He reached out and took his son, pulling him against his own chest. He felt the heat radiate through his son’s pajamas.

Holding the boy gingerly, Thomas rose to his feet. Only then did he notice, out of the corner of his eye, Stinky and Tiger standing in the doorway to the living room. They were dressed in their pajamas, holding hands. Tiger still clung to his blankie; Stinky held her favorite baby doll.

He turned to face the kids, wondering what they had heard. Tiger’s bottom lip trembled, and his eyes were moist and big. Stinky looked confused, fighting heavy eyelids, her blonde curls shooting in every direction.

“Is Joshie gonna die?” she asked.

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