Chapter Nineteen
PAT HAD NEVER dreamed of needing a lawyer before, but he needed one now. His first inclination was to call Matt Branson, but he hesitated. Matt made it clear last time they spoke that his job with the Department of Justice kept him from directly helping Pat; but... Matt had said he wanted Pat to keep him informed.
At three o’clock on a muggy Thursday afternoon, as Pat sat in his church office reviewing reference materials for his Sunday sermon, his assistant Ava Raitt, trembling from head to toe, opened his office door and three Deputy U.S. Marshals wearing bullet proof vests walked in and presented him with a subpoena.
The subpoena demanded the original written text and original digital recordings of every sermon he had preached since arriving at Rogers Memorial Church.
“You’re kidding, right? Every sermon?”
“We don’t kid, Reverend. Whatever you have—printed material, digital material, video of your sermons—we want it. And we want the originals, not edited or monkeyed-with copies.”
Pat didn’t speak.
One of the other marshals turned up the heat. “Reverend Preston, you have a choice to make. Either you can give us those sermons now, or we’ll be back with search warrants. And, believe me, if we have to come back here we will take everything we need, with or without your help. Whichever way you’d like it, Reverend. You decide.”
Pat cleared his throat and tried to slow his heart back to a normal pace. “I’m not trying to be obstinate, but there’s no way I can pull all that together on short notice. Some of my sermon notes are easy enough, but I’m not a technician. I wouldn’t know where to begin to make copies of digital material. I don’t know how to operate the equipment; the CDs, DVDs, may not be complete. We have the more recent material, but if you want originals of everything back to my first sermon, well, I just don’t think that’s possible.”
“So you are choosing not to comply.”
That irritated Pat. “Listen. There are many things I struggle with, but communication isn’t one of them. I did not say I wouldn’t comply. I’m just telling you that some of the material may not be readily available if it’s available at all.”
“So you want us to come back with a search warrant?”
“I will give you whatever I can, but it might take a little time to get you everything.”
“We’ll be back, Reverend Preston—with a warrant.” They walked from the room.
“Pastor? What is this all about?” Ava asked, eyes wide.
“Someone doesn’t like my sermons.” He looked at the subpoena again and thought about his former classmate, John Knox Smith.
“It was like they didn’t want you to be able to comply. They’re asking the impossible.”
“I think you’re right. With a search warrant they can do the searching themselves. Maybe they hope to find something incriminating.”
“What should I do?”
“I want you to gather all the notes from my previous sermons and box them for delivery. Call in some help, people you trust. No gossips, Ava. Pull together copies of whatever we have on CD, DVD and the like. Make a list of what’s missing and we’ll see what we can do to get those items.”
“You’re giving them what they want?” Ava still trembled and she looked on the verge of tears.
“Of course. I have nothing to hide, and I’ve said nothing I’m ashamed of. Understand?”
“Yes, Pastor.”
He smiled. “It’s going to be all right, Ava. Take a few moments to gather yourself, then get busy.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I need a minute to gather myself too. Then I should make some calls.”
Ava slipped from the office, closing the door behind her.
Pat closed his eyes and prayed. His heart tripped. His palms were wet. His stomach twisted into a knot. The thing he feared was happening. It was almost too much to believe.
A few minutes later, he picked up the phone and called Matt Branson. Matt answered on the third ring.
“Matt, the situation down here isn’t looking too good. I think I’m going to need some help.”
“I know, Pat. I’ve been doing a little looking around, and learned that you’re on John’s public hit list. You need to be very careful, and don’t give the agents any problems. Have they contacted you yet?”
“Agents? No, just the marshals.”
“What did they say?”
“They demanded the originals of all my sermons, but I told them that wasn’t possible. We don’t keep them. We make hundreds of copies of those tapes, but I rarely see the originals once they’re gone. I can give them my notes but they’re not originals either. They won’t be identical to the recorded material.”
“That’s probably why they want everything,” Matt said. “They may not believe you at first. They’re not good at compromising, and John is trying to make a statement. I think you’d better do whatever you can to pull that stuff together.”
“I already have my assistant working on it. Can you help me, Matt, or can you give me the name of a lawyer here in Nashville who can help me?”
“I want to help, Pat, but if I do…” Matt hesitated before completing the sentence.
“I know. I shouldn’t ask. It could cost you your job.”
“Yes it could, and it could cost me even more.” The line went silent for a moment. “Pat, let me think. There are some things I have to take care of first. Again, I can’t advise you, Pat. It would be improper and unethical for me to do so. I can tell you that you need a lawyer.” Matt paused. When he spoke again, Pat noticed a change in his tone. It was almost conspiratorial. “Some people in your position have contacted nonprofit legal services groups like the Alliance here in Washington. Of course that’s up to you. I can’t make recommendations. Once again, I advise you to cooperate with authorities.”
Pat picked up the hint. “Matt, there’s one more thing. The marshals said they were coming back with a search warrant. I’m afraid they’re going to tear the place apart.”
“That’s why you need to do whatever you can to cooperate, Pat. Don’t give them any provocation. Do whatever you can to be cooperative. It is in your—it is in everyone’s best interest that you be compliant.”
Pat hung up, rose, and paced the room.
PAT FELT LIKE he had just finished his second marathon for the day. He slept poorly. Adding to his burden was Becky’s fear. Normally the first to fall asleep, Becky lay awake for two hours before surrendering to slumber. Pat lay awake listening to her breathing. He could always tell when she was awake. What little sleep Pat got was fitful and choked with unpleasant dreams. He rose early, drank too much coffee, and tried to settle his mind by watching an old movie.
After breakfast he went to the office and helped finish organizing as much as he could of the material the subpoena demanded. As he expected, there were lots of holes and there were no original recordings at the church at all.
The door to his office snapped open and Pat jumped up from his chair. Ava stood in the doorway. “I just saw them through the window.”
“Who?”
“Men. Armed men. They’re coming to the office.”
“Men? You mean federal agents?”
“Yes.”
Pat quickly dialed Matt Branson. “Matt, they’re here.”
The door to the outer office flew open. Pat could see beyond Ava’s figure as the three marshals he had met before stormed in, joined by half a dozen other men and women dressed in windbreakers that read “DTED,” “Police,” and “U.S. Marshal” in big letters.
Ava turned and stepped in front of the first man in the doorway. “Excuse me, you can’t just barge in here—”
One of the marshals shoved her aside and she fell forward, landing hard on the floor. She screamed in pain.
Pat set the handset down and rounded his desk. “Hey, take it easy.”
He started for her, but a man in a windbreaker boasting POLICE in yellow letters grabbed his
arm. Pat felt the meaty grip but could only see Ava writhing on the floor. Without thinking, he pulled his arm free and knocked the agents hand away. He crouched next to his administrative assistant. “Ava, are you hurt?”
Before he could touch Ava, an agent pushed him to the floor. “On the ground. On the ground!” Pat didn’t know who uttered the words, nor did he know whose knee was pressed in his back. The agent or marshal jerked Pat’s arm behind his back and twisted his wrist. Pain shot up his arm like lightening. “Ow, you’re hurting me.”
“Stop resisting.”
“I’m not resisting.”
“Stop resisting!”
The agent pulled Pat’s left arm behind him and Pat felt the cold, hard metal of handcuffs.
Ava continued to cry in pain. “My knee…my knee.”
“Matt!” Pat shouted into the phone. “Matt!”
The warrant team placed Pat in the back seat of one of the marshal’s cars. For over an hour he sat in the parked car and rising heat. The sun was intense and the pain in his back where the agent had ground his knee made breathing difficult. He watched while two DTED agents and three U.S. Marshals removed the gathered and boxed material Pat had gathered. From his position in the back seat he could see the agents opening doors to the church building.
A woman police officer took pity on Ava and called for an ambulance. Fifteen minutes later she was on her way to the hospital. Pat wished he could apologize to her for what had happened.
Several times the searchers came outside, yanked the door open, and demanded to know where his personal records and the original recordings were hidden. Pat was indignant but, remembering Matt’s caution about being cooperative, he tried to be respectful and never shouted back at the officers. He became more and more disoriented; he was sweating profusely and on the verge of passing out. He wanted to pray but found he could only weep.