Chapter Twenty-Four
MATT SAT AT a desk in his den, a den that served as his law office. He was now a lawyer in private practice with one client who would never be able to pay his legal fees. Still, he reminded himself, he didn’t make the change for the money. He made it for the principle. Which would be fine if his client was better at following the legal advice he was given.
There were piles of papers on Matt’s desk. He stared at them, hoping one would inch forward with an easy solution written on it. It didn’t happen. Matt knew it wouldn’t, but a man could dream.
“Do you want a cup of tea, Daddy?”
Matt swiveled his chair so he could face his daughter Ruthie. She was seated on the floor of the den with several of her favorite dolls set up in small chairs around an equally small table. A play tea set rested on the table.
“No thank you, sweets.” He smiled. “Wait, are those cookies I see?” She had grown so much over the last two years. “Yes. Chocolate chip. Mommy made them. I helped.”
“Wait, your little hands touched those cookies?”
Ruthie giggled. “Of course, Daddy. How else do you make cookies?”
“But if you touch them, the cookies will be too sweet.”
Another giggle. She took the largest cookie she could find, rose from her place on the floor and carried it to Matt. He took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and closed his eyes. “Very sweet. Very good. This is the best part of my day. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Daddy.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “Whoa. I didn’t think anything could be sweeter than this cookie, but…” He kissed her forehead again. “Yep, you win. You are the sweetest person in the world.”
Ruthie threw her arms around Matt’s neck and he wished time would stop forever. She pulled back. “Thank you, Daddy.” She scampered back to her tea party.
“Just what goes on in here?” Michelle Branson walked in with a cup of coffee.
“Daddy says I’m sweeter than a cookie.”
“Did he? Well, you know, Daddy is always right.”
Matt took the coffee. He didn’t want it, but he needed it. “Thanks.”
“How goes it?” Michelle pulled an old rocking chair close to Matt’s desk.
“I’ve got nothing good to say.”
“So the case is difficult.”
“Yes, and my client is making it impossible.”
Michelle made a face. “Want to talk about it?”
He shook his head. “Not really. It wouldn’t do any good.” He paused and took another bite of cookie. “It’s just that I don’t know whether to pity Pat or be angry at him.” He picked up a sheet of paper he had been writing on. “Pat hasn’t been pro-active enough. He’s been careless. He waited until the hammer was coming down on his head before he got legal counsel. Now he’s in real trouble and I’m way behind on the learning curve. He signed that ridiculous severance package against my direct and very clear advice. He’s a bright guy but he doesn’t have any legal experience. The severance agreement amounts to a full confession. There are those who would argue that he’s admitted to crimes he never committed. I tell you, Michelle, this case is like skiing uphill. Impossible.”
“So it’s time to toss in the towel?” She began to rock in the chair.
“That sounds tempting, but there’s too much at stake.” Matt looked at his list. “It’s not just about Pat. Christians everywhere in the country are going to be impacted by this case.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and clamped his eyes shut. “I won’t give up on him. I might, however, strangle him.” He opened his eyes again.
Michelle smiled and the room grew brighter. “You may be the first attorney who ever had to represent a lousy client. Probably the first legal-beagle to admit to wanting to kill a client.”
Matt had to laugh. Lawyers always complained about their clients. “My confession was only heard by you, Ruthie, and several dolls—and the dolls aren’t talking.” He set the paper down. “This whole thing with John Knox Smith is eating at me. I had been monitoring his work, partly because of his goals, partly because I had received complaints about his team. That was no surprise. Almost all DOJ prosecutors get complaints. Most I toss shortly after they land on my desk, but it is—excuse me—it was my job to make sure no wrongdoing was going on. John Smith pushed the envelop on that issue. I never had a charge I could lay at his feet. The guy is so good at walking the fine line, he could have been a tightrope walker.”
“Do you think he’s targeting Pat Preston personally?”
“Yes, I do. I don’t think I can prove it, but it sure feels like a vendetta. He has some of his team poring over every sermon poor Pat has ever preached. They’re listening to recorded messages, watching Pat’s television show. It has to be hundreds of hours of material. They’re even going back over sermons delivered before the Tolerance Act was passed.”
“Why do that?”
“To show a history of bigotry and insensitivity that has lasted for years.” Matt pulled at his lower lip, caught himself, then stopped. It was his old way of dealing with stress. “The thing is, Pat is not a bigot. He is not insensitive. People don’t like the Christian message so they want to force a change. If you don’t change, then you’re a bigot.”
“Daddy, what’s big-it?”
“Bigot, sweetheart. A bigot is someone who doesn’t like a certain group of people.”
“That’s not nice,” Ruthie said.
“You’re absolutely right, kiddo.” Matt turned back to his wife. “Once they have gathered the evidence, they will take the case to the grand jury, where jurors will vote on each count presented by the prosecutor. Since there could be more than a hundred counts filed, members of the grand jury will certainly find something to act upon. Pat’s sermons went out over radio, TV, the Internet, and printed literature mailed to cities and towns all across America, and each offense could be charged separately. Altogether, they would add up to a tremendous hate speech case against Pastor Pat.”
Prosecutors had successfully requested the term of the special grand jury be extended, lengthening the time of their service. They had already served for nine months and were well conditioned to deplore what the prosecutors described as “the venom of hate and intolerance.”
Matt felt the Justice Department was manipulating the system, but the action was legal, and DTED clearly understood the advantages of keeping a group of jurors who could be expected to respond their way. For weeks, John’s senior prosecutors had been putting together lists of witnesses and physical evidence to present to the grand jury on Preston’s case. They established venue in D.C. because Pat’s Just One Life broadcasts were available on radio, cable TV, and Internet in the District and surrounding states.
There was no doubt in Matt’s mind that his opponents had thoroughly reviewed all the sermons in the “Insufficiency of Hope” series and gotten detailed critiques from a team of experts who would bolster their position that the messages were the product of bigotry and disruptive to the peace of society. They would paint Pat as exclusionist, racist, xenophobic, homophobic, and any other label they could think up.
Something else worried Matt: Pat’s salary. His client’s after-tax income was much higher than many other ministers. Many believed pastors were supposed to be poor. The fact that Pat ministered to a megachurch, gave much—some years over half—of his money to charity and lost much of his income to ravenous tax laws would be overlooked. His client would be presented as a money hungry man who used hatred to fill the coffers of his church and line his pockets.
Day and night, Matt labored to formulate a plan to rescue his friend. When he spoke to Pat, he did so with encouraging words, but once off the phone, Matt plummeted into despair. He had just left his job at the DOJ to take an impossible case.
Matt loved the study and practice of law, but he thought it had a seamy side, an underbelly unpleasant to see. In cases like Pat’s, the defendant has no right to appear before the grand jury and is not
privy to anything that happens behind closed doors. When Matt contacted John, the deputy assistant attorney general let him know that Pat’s case was being considered by the grand jury, but refused to reveal more. John’s refusal to offer anything but the most basic information wounded Matt, but not nearly as much as John’s cold, barely hidden anger. What shreds of friendship might have existed between them were long gone.
Matt had hired a paralegal to sit outside the jury room and keep an eye on anyone coming and going, and to make notes on anything she could pick up. That was the best he could hope for at that point. After her mission was over, all the woman could report was the constant ebb and flow of federal agents and DOJ attorneys. Some remained in the jury room for three or four hours at a time. When the door opened, she saw several large screen televisions and an array of speakers. After a few days she ventured to ask one of the attorneys if they were still dealing with her client. “Yes, of course. This is going to take a while.” It wasn’t what Matt wanted to hear.
Questions chewed on Matt’s mind. Would a grand jury actually indict a pastor for saying that Jesus was the only means of salvation? Preachers had been announcing that for two millennia. Ten years ago, Matt would have laughed at the idea. Now the question kept him awake at night.
Matt realized he had lost himself in thought. “Sorry. This thing tends to kidnap my thinking.”
“No need to apologize to me,” Michelle said. “I’ve gotten to know you pretty well, you know.”
“By the way,” Matt said. “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you got me to talk about this after I told you I didn’t want to. How do you do that?”
She rose. “There’s magic in my eyes, Matt. You’re helpless in my presence.” She walked to the door of the den, then paused and turned. “It’s almost bath time, young lady.”
“Oooh, Mom.”
IN THE FLESH Pat feared the unknown. He could walk the fields of theology, doctrine, and human nature; he could work in the New Testament’s original Greek, and studied comfortably in Old Testament Hebrew, but the world of courts, subpoenas, and federal law baffled him.
When Pat asked Matt what he should do, Matt said, “I’m not going to recommend this, Pat. But as your lawyer, I’m obligated to tell you the options. One option in your situation is to speak to the prosecutor before an indictment comes down.”
“And say what?”
Matt hesitated. “Ask for mercy.”
“Ask for mercy? You’re kidding.”
“If you do, you might be able to influence the outcome.”
Although Pat agreed to think about it, he couldn’t toss off the feeling that it would be one more disgrace to add to everything he had experienced. Wasn’t asking for mercy the same thing as admitting guilt; as saying he shouldn’t preach the gospel as revealed in the New Testament?
Pat’s thoughts ran back to Polycarp. He had used the late-first-century bishop’s name when chastising the deacon board. The elderly man had been arrested by Rome for being a Christian. Rome considered Christianity a dangerous political cult. The proconsul tried to give the old man a way out. “Just put a pinch of incense on the fire and say Caesar is Lord and you will go free.”
Polycarp softly refused. “Eighty-six years I have served Christ, and he never did me any wrong. How can I blaspheme my King who saved me?” While an angry crowd jeered, officials tied Polycarp to a stake and burned him to death.
Could Pat apologize for serving Jesus? The thought sickened him.
That evening Pat called Becky at her mother’s house. His first desire was to know how his wife and children were faring. After a few minutes, he told her about Matt’s efforts and his comment about asking for mercy.
“Pat, you only have one choice. You’ve got to go in there and tell them you want to make a deal. You’ve got to go in there, hat in hand, and apologize for what you said. Tell them you’re sorry. Tell them you’re going to turn over a new leaf, and it won’t happen again.”
Her words told him his worse fears had arrived. At first, Becky had been mildly supportive but fear and worry were pirating her resolve. A sensitive woman, she absorbed tension and held it close to her heart.
“Becky, I don’t think I can do that. I’d be selling out everything I’ve stood for—everything that Jesus stands for.”
“Pat, I can’t take this any more. I can’t subject our children to this kind of humiliation.”
“I need you to stand with me, Becky. I need to know you’re with me in all this.”
Pat heard her voice crack then the sound of her hanging up.
For the first time in his life, Pat felt fully alone.
FOR THE FIRST time in months, John Knox Smith felt he had a little room to breathe, and could put the preparations for Pat Preston’s prosecution into the hands of his team. It was also the first time he felt free enough to follow up on something that had caught his eye several months earlier. Andrea had showed him an announcement for a major international conference in Italy on transformative justice, sponsored by the United Nations.
“Wouldn’t I love to be part of a program like that?” he said to Andrea.
Andrea stood next to him as he sat behind his desk. More and more, he noticed her desire to stand close. “You’ll have to respond immediately if you intend to go. Arrangements have to be made with the U.N. and the DOJ.”
“Tempting as it is, I have the Preston case to deal with.”
Andrea laid a hand on his shoulder. It felt good. “Joel Thevis can keep the Preston case on track. You should be able to attend that event and enjoy a full week at an elegant resort hotel and conference center in Florence. It’s only one week.”
“It’s tempting.”
“I have more temptation for you.” She paused and John turned in his chair, uncertain what to expect. “They would like you to pull together a presentation on the development of DTED and the new laws it’s enforcing. You would be speaking to one of the most distinguished professional audiences in the world.”
“A presentation?”
“A full forty-minute lecture, translated into six languages.”
“How did that come about?”
Andrea smiled. “I may have made a call or two.” She shrugged.
John laughed. “And I suppose you think you should come along to what? Keep an eye on me?”
“I am your administrative assistant and I do have a passport.” She gave his shoulder a squeeze.
“Okay, you win. Fill out the forms and draft a letter of acceptance.” John let Andrea take care of all the details, something she excelled at. That freed him to think of Italy.