The Sacrifice (60 page)

“He's right, Mrs. Garrison,” Scott responded. “You can't take personal belongings to the boot-camp program. His father can bring him some clothes when he gets out in a few months.”

Lester's head was down. The bravado of a few weeks ago couldn't rise up.

“I gotta go, Granny.”

Thelma didn't move. Two streaks of tears quickly traced their way down her wrinkled cheeks. Scott didn't know what to say.

“Good-bye, Mrs. Garrison,” he mumbled and followed Lester through the door.

His client was kneeling down on the porch talking to his dog. The look on the young man's face was something else that Scott had never seen. Lester held the dog's head between his hands and looked straight in his pet's eyes. For all the darkness and anger in Lester's heart, he had the capacity to love. Scott caught the end of the one-way conversation.

“Stay by the truck and guard it,” he said. “Remember the nights that we sat outside and looked at the stars. I'll be back, and we'll do it again.”

Lester stood up. “I'm ready.”

They rode in silence. The lawyer knew platitudes would bounce off his client's bald head without penetrating his skull.

Finally, he asked, “What's your dog's name?”

Still looking ahead, Lester replied, “Jack.”

“How long have you had him?”

Lester stared out the window before answering. “Since he was a pup.
A lady down the road gave him to me when he was barely old enough to leave his mama.”

“Did he sleep in your bed when you first brought him home?”

“Yeah,” Lester grunted. “I had to wait until everyone else was asleep. My mother was still with us, and she didn't want me to have a dog at all, especially one that came in the house. So, I'd have to sneak him into my room. He would sleep under the covers next to my leg without moving a muscle.”

Scott thought about Nicky resting beside his leg in the recliner in the den.

“I have a dog that likes to lie next to my leg and take a nap while I watch TV,” he said.

Lester turned toward him. “What's his name?”

“Nicky.”

“That's a good name. What kind of dog is he? Jack has a lot of bloodhound in him.”

Scott decided not to tell Lester that Nicky was a Bichon Frise, an ancient breed loved by Portuguese sailors in the fifteenth century, French kings in the seventeenth, and traveling organ grinders in the nineteenth. It would require too much explanation.

“He's a little white dog. He stays in the house or the backyard, but he sleeps in a crate in the laundry room at night. I don't let him sleep in my bed.”

“Yeah. Jack still has a few fleas he picked up this summer.”

They arrived at the jail. There was a parking space in front of the dreary, red-brick building. Blanchard County hadn't reached the place where its jail could be mistaken for a nice motel. A deputy and two men in jailhouse whites were standing next to a van with the sheriff 's department name printed on its side. All of the men, including the deputy, were black. The inmates were shackled together with leg irons and wore handcuffs.

Scott glanced at Lester whose jaw was visibly clenched.

“That's the deputy who gave me such a hard time when I was arrested,” he said.

Scott's recollection was that Lester assaulted the deputy, but he tried to think of the best way to respond that Lester would understand.

“Don't say anything. You're outnumbered.”

The deputy's expression didn't change when he saw Lester walk up.

Scott asked the officer, “Do we need to go inside?”

“No, I'll take care of it, Mr. Ellis,” the deputy responded. Almost everyone in town knew Scott on sight. “I have the paperwork with me. Hold out your hands.”

Lester responded, and Scott noticed that although Lester's hands were large, his wrists were thin. There was no danger that the handcuffs would chafe his skin.

The deputy opened the side door of the vehicle.

“Get inside,” he commanded.

Apparently, Lester would not be chained to the other prisoners. He stepped in and sat in the bench behind the driver. The other two inmates followed him and sat next to each other on the bench seat behind him.

Scott watched. No one said anything. No one waved good-bye. It wasn't like a group of children leaving for summer camp with hugs, kisses, and promises of letters every day. Neither did it bear any resemblance to the day Scott left for the army induction center. His mother had cried, and his father had slipped a note into his hand. Scott still had the note in a drawer at his house. It spoke in simple words of a father's pride in his son. The contrast between the two days couldn't have been more stark. Scott left home with a message of encouragement and affirmation in his hand; Lester had to settle for shiny, steel handcuffs.

The deputy started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.

Scott drove in silence to the office. Parting ways with Lester Garrison didn't carry the sense of relief he'd expected.

48

Return, ye children of men.

P
SALM 90:3 (KJV)

K
ay quickly recovered her physical strength after the first rounds of plastic surgery to correct the outward scarring to her face. She left the hospital, and her mother returned to California. The initial paralysis affecting her mouth and eye began to improve, but she didn't have normal function and felt self-conscious about the changes. The exuberant joy that had been her sustaining companion throughout the divorce never got up from the floor at the high school. Scott wanted to help but didn't know what to do. He visited her regularly in the hospital, but Kay wasn't able to communicate well because of her injuries and the residual effects of the surgery. The day before she was scheduled to return to work, she called him.

“Do you have time for lunch today?” she asked.

Her speech wasn't precise, but Scott could understand her better each time they talked.

Scott looked at his calendar. He had an appointment but crossed through it. His secretary could reschedule.

“Yes, my calendar is clear.”

“Do you want to meet at the Eagle?” she asked.

“No. I can't go there yet without people interrupting me. It would be worse—” He stopped.

“With me?” she finished.

“You know what I mean,” he said awkwardly.

“Let's forget it,” she said.

“No, I have a plan,” he said quickly. “I'll pick you up at noon.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Be casual.”

Scott didn't have a plan, but he had an hour to come up with one.

When he knocked on Kay's door, she opened it dressed in a fuzzy green sweater and jeans. Her hair fell straight to her shoulders. The bullet had traveled downward in a sloping line from a point near her nose until it disappeared in her hairline. It left a jagged gash that the surgeon closed and now hoped to conceal. The first time Scott saw Kay without bandages he fought back tears. He hurt so deeply in sympathy for what had happened to her that he could barely stand it, and he knew beyond all doubt the depth of his feelings for her. So far, he'd said nothing to her.

“I'm ready,” she said.

They drove to Scott's house.

As they pulled up to the garage, he said, “Nicky wants to see you. He hasn't stopped talking about you since the camping trip.”

Kay smiled. It was still slightly crooked, but better than the last one Scott had coaxed from her. Every few days there was improvement in her muscle function and appearance.

“I'd never want to disappoint Nicky,” she said.

When Scott opened the back door, the little dog jumped up and down on his back legs until Kay knelt down and rubbed his head between her hands.

“He's glad to see you,” Scott said.

“Ditto,” Kay responded.

Nicky licked Kay's cheek where the path of the bullet had creased her face.

“Would you like a grilled cheese sandwich?” Scott asked.

“That's your plan?”

Scott continued to stall. “The plan is bigger than a grilled cheese sandwich. It's only the beginning. How would you like your sandwich? One piece of cheese or two?”

“Two with extra butter.”

Scott put a skillet on the stove. Nicky trotted into the kitchen with his hedgehog and lay down on the floor. He was working on dislodging the stuffed animal's right ear. Kay leaned against the counter and watched Scott lay the bread out. She saw the scar in his right hand.

“Now, we both have scars,” she said.

Scott glanced down. “I've thought about that,” he said. “Scars are signs of healing, but underneath the wounds still hurt.”

“Yes. That's true.”

Scott melted the butter in the skillet and put the sandwiches next to each other.

“Are you ready for school tomorrow?” he asked.

Kay looked down at the floor. “No. I'm not ready to face the place or the people. I know I have to go back, but to see the hallway—” She shuddered.

“I haven't been to the school either.”

Scott watched the sandwiches until it was time to flip them over. When he did, he had an idea.

“Do you want to go together this afternoon? We could wait until everyone has left for the day.”

“Is that your plan?”

“Yes. I want to be with you.”

Kay gazed out the kitchen window into the backyard before answering.

“Okay, that would be the thing to do.”

“Good. I'll meet you in the school parking lot at five-thirty.”

They had a quiet lunch. Kay told Scott it was the best grilled cheese sandwich she'd ever eaten. He said his secret was using real butter. Nothing fake or artificial.

The heaviness that was swirling around Kay accompanied Scott upon his return to the office. He met Mr. Humphrey in the downstairs hallway. “I saw Bishop Moore today,” the older lawyer said. “He asked about you.” The Sunday service at Hall's Chapel seemed long ago.

“I've been struggling,” Scott replied. “Partly me, partly Kay.”

“Come into my office,” Mr. Humphrey said.

Scott sat down in the leather chair that had been more therapeutic for him than a psychiatrist's couch.

“Kay is going back to work tomorrow. It's going to be difficult for her.”

Mr. Humphrey's right eyebrow edged upward. “And you're wondering how to help?”

“Yes. I suggested that we meet at the school this afternoon after hours, and she agreed.”

“That's a good idea.”

“But something else is bothering me that Kay doesn't know about.” Scott took a deep breath. “The psychological report on Frank Jesup in his parents' divorce case. From my contact with Frank in the mock trial program, I knew he had problems. The report connected the dots. If I'd contacted the school, maybe this could have been avoided. Seeing Kay's face today, thinking about the janitor, the girl who was shot in the arm, even Frank—”

The report had been discussed within the firm. Pursuant to specific instructions from Vivian Jesup, its contents remained confidential, and the Jesup file was kept under lock and key. No one in the media knew about its existence.

“I'm glad I hired you,” Mr. Humphrey responded.

“Huh?” Scott gave him a puzzled look.

“Scott, you're a hero. There is no way to know the lives you saved, but you're concerned about what you could have done better. That says a lot about you.”

Mr. Humphrey was right. The accolades had fallen thickly on Scott's head but hadn't caused it to swell.

The older lawyer continued, “The decision whether to contact the school wasn't yours to make. The report didn't reveal a criminal act that had already occurred; it only warned of a possible danger in the future. The choice whether to release the information was in Vivian Jesup's hands.”

“But it's hard not to have regret. Maybe I could have done something to prevent the whole thing from happening.”

“Your concern shows your humanity. Only the insane and fanatical rejoice in tragedy.” Mr. Humphrey paused. “I talked about the situation in a general way with Bishop Moore today, and he helped me.”

“How?”

“Alfred doesn't know the law and probably hasn't read a psychological report in his life, but he knows people. He reminded me that the battle line between good and evil runs through the center of the human heart. Along that line the struggle is won or lost. Frank Jesup was commander in chief of his soul. He made choices that determined the outcome of the conflict. It wasn't your fault—not one bit.”