In Justice



  IN

  JUSTICE

  A Novel by

  Alan Sears

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

  © 2015 Alan E. Sears and the Alliance Defending Freedom.

  First released 2009 by Wine Press Publishing, Enumclaw, WA

  All rights reserved.

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™

  No part of this publication maybe be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any way by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without the prior permission of the copyright holder, except as provided by USA copyright law.

  ISBN: 978-0-692-61647-5

  “Every heresy is a truth taught out of proportion.”

  —G.K. Chesterton

  Daily News, June 26, 1909

  “The pointy-headed busybodies have yet to enfold these youngsters in the iron-clad conformity of cultural diversity’s embrace.”

  —P.J. O’Rourke

  Wall Street Journal, May 20, 2009

  Prologue

  THE ROOM WAS silent except for the scratching of a fountain pen’s nib as it trailed black ink on a yellow legal pad. The pen was old, even older than the seventy-six-year-old man who held it. It had belonged to his father and had come to him four decades before at his dad’s passing.

  Reverend Theodore Benson—Pastor Teddy—set the pen down and looked at the numbers he had written. He saw nothing but bad news. Once again, the offering was off, and he would have to choose between his paycheck and paying the utilities. How many times had he made that decision in the last six months? Far too many. Still, he never complained. What good would it do?

  He moved his eyes from the desk top and traced the familiar images of his office. He had been a young man of twenty-five when he came to Chapel Street Church in Nashville. “Fifty-one years.” He struggled to believe the number. Could it be that long?

  The lone light in the room came from a banker’s lamp sitting on his marred oak desk. It cast shadows on the old, dark-stained paneling that covered the walls of his office. On one wall—near the door with its frosted pane-glass window that bore Pastor Theodore Benson in gold letters—hung his college degree, his seminary diploma, and his ordination certificate. All had yellowed over the decades. They weren’t the only things to have grown old with the years.

  Chapel Street Church sat nestled in a changing community. Those who attended were retirees too close to death to want to move. They had supported him through the years. They had built the church, paid for its building, taught its children, and now did what little they could.

  “How much longer do you figure we got, Pastor?” Mick Tolbert had asked just before services last Sunday. “The way I see it we ain’t got but a few months left before we close and padlock the doors. I’m not far wrong, am I?”

  “Nonsense, Brother Mick. This church will outlive us and our grandkids. We’re just going through an adjustment period.”

  “You know I’m no troublemaker, Preacher, but I know how to count. We got more going out the door to the cemetery than we got coming in to worship.”

  Mick was five years younger than Pastor Teddy, but it seemed like there were decades between them. Mick was the last deacon left. Remembering the conversation pained Pastor Teddy.

  “Oh, Lord…” Teddy said to the empty room. It was as much of a prayer as he could muster.

  Most men his age would have retired a decade before, but Teddy couldn’t bring himself to do it. Even ten years ago, the church lacked a sufficient congregation to support a fulltime pastor. Besides, he thought retirement was the first long stride on the road to the cemetery. That reason alone would have kept him from leaving, but another reason rooted him in place: He was incapable of surrendering hope. If he left, the church would die within months—maybe weeks—the doors locked and the windows shuttered. Every week he stayed gave the church one more opportunity to make a difference for the kingdom of God.

  His unflagging hope kept him going. He mobilized a small group of volunteers to reach the poor, elderly, and disabled in the neighborhood, and even purchased gospel tracts and Bibles at his own expense to distribute wherever he could. The social ills that had befallen his community had their roots in the abandonment of God. Faithfully and tirelessly, he shared the message of salvation through Christ alone. He shared it from the pulpit; shared it in direct mail to his community; shared it wherever he could. He was old now and he could feel his vitality slipping away. The day would come when he could no longer stand in the pulpit or go door to door to reach those without Christ. Someday he would have to step down—but that day wasn’t today. Still, that knowledge gave him new urgency.

  Teddy acted on his God-centered social responsibilities to the neighborhood without abandoning the deepest convictions of his faith. In his mind, sin was sin. Immoral behavior needed to be pointed out. He did this with increasing frequency and fervency. Though his congregation was small his words loomed large, garnering criticism and threats from local groups who didn’t appreciate his outspoken stance. He railed against the popular notion that “tolerance” was a biblical principle. For Pastor Teddy, character mattered. Right and wrong mattered. And those principles never abandoned him. Even the recent threatening letters from a man two blocks down had not slowed Teddy. Despite neighborhood turmoil and dangers from theft and vandalism, he stayed and served.

  Teddy looked at the clock and saw it was time. He punched a button on the radio alarm on his desk that served as his office stereo. He could listen to the program over the Internet if his service was working, but Teddy wanted nothing to do with the computer tonight. No tuning was necessary. Teddy only listened to one station, and he only listened to one show.

  Pastor Teddy was a small-church minister by choice. He held little regard for mega churches and scoffed at their dapper preachers, with their expensive haircuts and watered-down gospel, but he made an exception for one man: Pastor Pat Preston of Rogers Memorial Church. The church was less than ten miles from his own but light-years away in success. Teddy didn’t mind Preston. Preston was a “straight-shooter,” a man who spoke with the courage of conviction, just like Teddy—except Preston delivered the word to thousands at a time, and Teddy spoke to forty seniors—mostly widows—on a good Sunday.

  He leaned back in his office chair. It protested with a loud squeak. Music, an upbeat version of “Amazing Grace,” poured from the speakers. That would irritate Wilma. She believed the old hymns were sacrosanct, never to be touched or altered in any way. Old woman. Never could keep up with the times like me. He chuckled. He was as mired in the past as she, but he liked to tease her about it nonetheless. It was the music that kept her from listening to the broadcast and that was one of the reasons he worked late every Sunday night.

  Teddy listened with his eyes closed, waving his right hand as if directing a nonexistent choir in his office. He stopped abruptly. Had he heard something? He sat unmoving, straining ears that were becoming more useless every year. He reached for the radio and turned down the volume.

  Nothing.

  He turned it up again. Just my imagination. The neighborhood had several rough elements. Twice in two months, burglars had forced their way into the building. For several years the church paid
for a monitored security system, but as attendance dropped and tithes dried up, the service became one of the first victims of an empty checking account. Good ol’ Mick had brought a gun into the office when the alarm company cut off the service. He left it in the pastor’s desk drawer.

  “Our tellers count money in this office, Preacher. You know that. I need to be able to protect them.” He knew what Mick was doing. Teddy had shared with him the threatening letters he had received. He was, after all, the last deacon. The thought of Mick wielding a weapon was terrifying. At first, Teddy resisted, but arguing with Mick was like debating a stone—no amount of talking could change him.

  Again he leaned back in the chair. Pastor Preston’s welcome prayer oozed from the speakers. There was a time when Teddy would have paid good money for a voice like his. Teddy knew Preston was a good-looking man too: tall, straight, thin, with intelligent eyes.

  Preston’s voice filled the room. “The Gospel of John is unique in many ways. Eighty percent of its material can be found in no other Gospel. That includes today’s passage.”

  Teddy smiled. These days, very few pastors took time to educate their people. Consequently, the modern church was filled with folks who learned their doctrine through “seven-eleven” praise music: seven words repeated eleven times. He paused his thinking, then chastised himself. The thought was only partially true. There were still many faithful ministers who aimed for the parishioner’s mind as well as his heart.

  Another sound pressed through the walls.

  Teddy lowered the volume on the radio. There was a thud, followed by footsteps. Fast-moving footsteps. Someone was in the church building. In the hallway—near his door.

  The frosted glass in the door kept Pastor Teddy from seeing clearly, but he saw several shadowy figures and heard the shuffling of their feet.

  He reached for the phone to call the police. No dial tone. They hadn’t paid the phone bill in two months. Had the phone company cut off the service, or did the men in the hall…

  The silhouette of a man played on the glass. He held something; something long, straight. A gun. A shotgun.

  Teddy pulled his desk drawer open and grabbed the .38 service revolver Mick had insisted on leaving. Teddy had never fired a weapon and the weight of the gun surprised him. He raised it with both hands and pointed at the door. Maybe the sight of the weapon would send the intruders fleeing. Maybe it would frighten them back into the shadows. His hands shook and he wondered if he pulled the trigger if he’d hit the robber or kill the doorjamb.

  “Stay away! I-I’m armed!” As he shouted his warning he thought he heard one of the men shouting at him. He couldn’t make out the words. “I said, stay away.” He could see at least three figures through the glass.

  In a single second the doorknob turned and a man in dark clothing and holding a shotgun pointed directly at Teddy plunged into the room. “Federal—”

  Teddy’s gun went off although he couldn’t recall pulling the trigger. The gunman’s head snapped back. Blood splattered the office. Teddy saw a bullet hole between the man’s eyes. The man dropped to his knees, then fell face-first on the rug. Teddy’s eyes followed the man to the ground and saw the large white initials on the attacker’s back: POLICE U.S. MARSHAL.

  “Blessed Jesus!”

  Teddy glanced up and saw the other uniformed men; saw muzzle flashes; and saw the ceiling as he fell to the floor.

  Words came from the radio—Pastor Pat Preston’s reading from the Gospel of John: “I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds…”

  So cold. So dark.

  THE FIRST SENTENCE from Deputy U.S. Marshal Rick Dickerson’s mouth was a string of six obscenities. Seated in the communication van parked in the Chapel Street Church lot he had just witnessed the death of two men and watched it on three video monitors.

  He keyed his mike. “Officer down. Shots fired. We need medical our location immediately. Repeat: Officer down. Shots fired. We need medical.”

  Deputy Dickenson watched the video feeds from the on-helmet cameras his fellow deputies wore. The whole event had been recorded from beginning to end. Video had become standard operating procedure for such incursions. Modern juries loved—even expected—video.

  Dickenson’s eyes skipped from monitor to monitor. He had seen his fellow deputy Ronnie Lee Jefferson turn the doorknob and swing it open. The camera caught the dim image of an old man holding a handgun. Less than a second later, Jefferson’s camera flashed on the ceiling then settled on the carpet. In a moment of hopeful self-deception, Dickenson thought Jefferson’s helmet had slipped off. That was before the video feed revealed a widening pool of fluid.

  Two other agents had cameras mounted to their headgear. Both showed the flash from the handgun and the subsequent flashes from the automatic weapons they carried. The old man crumpled behind his desk. The agents approached, kicked away the handgun, and confirmed the killer was dead.

  They turned to their fallen comrade. Their monitors showed the dead agent in full detail. The radio link filled with words worse than what Dickerson had uttered moments before.

  JOHN KNOX SMITH had received a text message to watch CNN. It was six-thirty and he had just finished his last bite of bagel. That bite, like all the ones that came before, had been gently dipped in a cup of black coffee. John had a complicated mind but simple tastes.

  Like most mornings, the large-screen television in the living room filled the space with news accounts. John switched from MSNBC to CNN. The morning anchor, looking far too chipper for the hour, was talking about a police action in which a federal marshal and a pastor had been killed. John raised the volume. “We warn our viewers that the video you are about to see is graphic and may be disturbing to some, especially children. Please use discretion.”

  The video filled the screen. A dark hallway. A door with frosted glass. A doorknob being turned. The flash of a gunshot. The camera landing on the floor. John assumed it was still attached to the agent’s helmet and the helmet was still attached to his head.

  The video cut to another camera and John watched an old man die. It occurred to him that the sight would stun the country. Sadness would be expressed, as would outrage that a minister had killed a deputy marshal doing his job. John would express the same shock and disgust, but for the moment, he smiled and remembered something one of his heroes, the founder of the ACLU, had said: “Use every crisis to advance the agenda.”

  He called the office of his assistant at the Department of Justice and waited for voicemail to pick up. “Andrea, I want all the info you can get on the marshal that was murdered last night, Ronnie Lee Jefferson. Also, find some time for a team meeting this morning. I think we just got our Alamo.”

  PASTOR PAT PRESTON sat on his sofa thumbing through a two-week-old issue of Time Magazine he had been meaning to read since it arrived in his mailbox. Pat freely acknowledged his addiction to news and information. He subscribed to a dozen print and online magazines, most of which he never had time to read, and two newspapers. He could change channels from CNN to MSNBC to FOX without looking at the remote control in his hand.

  Monday was his day off, but he still rose early. He always rose early. A day off gave him time to recharge his batteries and feed his hungry mind. His wife didn’t share his love for early mornings. He took a sip of coffee laden with flavored creamer, and glanced at the television screen when he heard “minister killed.”

  He set the magazine down.

  Eight Days Later

  “THERE’S SOMEONE HERE to see you, Pastor.” Ava Raitt, Pat Preston’s personal secretary slipped into the office and closed the door behind her. “I don’t have her on the schedule for today. Shall I tell her to set an appointment and come back?”

  “No, you shouldn’t. She’s not on the schedule because I forgot to put her on my calendar. You know I can’t remember to do those important things.”

  “You sch
eduled her?”

  “I did. This morning. I was in early when she called. I told her to come by.”

  “But—” Ava stopped.

  “But what, Ava?”

  “It’s her. The wife of that preacher.”

  Pat smiled. “I know. I recognized her name, and even if I didn’t, she told me who she was.”

  “But—”

  “Show her in, Ava. It’s rude to keep her waiting.”

  Ava frowned and exited the office. A moment later an elderly woman, with hair that had long ago moved from gray to white, entered. She walked without a cane, and seemed steady on her feet.

  “Sister Wilma, come in.” Pat rose from his chair, rounded the cherry wood desk, offered his arm, and escorted her to one of the visitor chairs situated near a plush sofa. “Please, have a seat. May I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  She wasn’t fine. Her shallow breathing and hunched shoulders said she was a woman on the edge of physical and emotional collapse.

  “Shall I stay, Pastor?” Ava asked.

  “No, thank you, Ava. I’ll call if I need you.”

  “But—”

  Pat’s gaze carried a message. Ava slipped from the room and closed the door behind her. Pat sat on the sofa nearest the chair where the elderly woman sat. He was close enough to hold her hand, which he did.

  “Thank you for seeing me. I’m…” Tears rose in her eyes.

  “It’s my pleasure. I just wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

  “I feel bad, like I should apologize.”

  “To me? Why on earth do you feel you should apologize to me?”

  “My husband loves…loved your sermons. He listened to them often on the radio in his office.”

  “That’s quite a compliment, Wilma, not a criticism.”

  “I…I’ve always been critical of pastors with large churches.”

  Pat laughed. “Me too. Some of those guys are crooks.”

  Wilma gazed at him for a moment, then chuckled. “I just think you should know that before I ask what I’ve come to ask.”

  “I appreciate your honesty. Maybe I can win you over with my charm.” Pat leaned toward her. “How are you holding up?”

  “I’m still in disbelief. The empty house tells me the horrible news is true, but part of me refuses to believe it.”

  “You’ve been a pastor’s wife for many years. You know that’s normal.”

  Wilma nodded. “Knowing and feeling are different things.” She pulled a facial tissue from her purse, dabbed her eyes, then scrunched it in her free hand. “I have a favor to ask, but I think I know the answer. Still, I have to do something.” She gazed into his eyes and for a moment Pat thought she could read his soul. “Our church isn’t part of a denomination, so I don’t have an organization to turn to. I’ve asked other pastors in the area and they’ve turned me down. Most had ready excuses, but I think they’re trying to put distance between themselves and my husband. They think he’s a hate-monger, a murderer. The video…the reporters…the government… It’s been more than I can bear. Still I have to make arrangements, and I don’t…”

  “Yes. I’ll be happy to do it.”

  Wilma blinked. “I haven’t asked my favor yet.”

  “You want someone to perform the funeral for your husband, right?”

  “Yes, but… You didn’t know my husband, and by doing the funeral, people might think—”

  “I don’t care what people think. I’m more concerned about what God thinks. Let me ask this: Would your husband have turned someone in your place down?”

  “No. He was always doing things for strangers.”

  “Then I won’t turn him down either.”

  “He’s not what the press says he is. He’s never been in trouble. The gun wasn’t his. The federal marshals said they tried to phone but no one answered. The phone had been cut off earlier. We’ve been having trouble paying the church bills, and…and…” Wilma’s hand began to shake.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you some water?”

  Wilma shook her head. “I’m afraid the press will make a mess of the service.”

  “There will be no press, Sister Wilma. I’ll see to it. I can’t keep them from doing what they do on public property, but I can keep them out of the chapel and the graveyard.”

  “How can you do that?”

  “One of my trustees owns a local mortuary. He’s a good man. He’ll do what’s right.”

  Wilma lowered her head.

  “I can’t pay you much for your time.”

  “You can’t pay me anything. I won’t allow it. I make a good salary. I don’t need an honorarium. Are you—I’m sorry to be blunt—able to afford the funeral costs?”

  “The people in the church are trying to raise the money. We didn’t have life insurance. Never could afford it.”

  Pat rose, moved to his desk, and pulled a card from one of the drawers. “This is the mortuary I was telling you about. I’ll call my trustee and let him know you’ll be contacting him. You make whatever arrangements you want. Our church will cover any shortfall.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can. Please don’t deprive us of the blessing of giving.”

  Wilma began to sob. Pat gave her a few moments then said, “Now, tell me about your husband.”