Custody of the State Page 2

  Running to the window, Mary Sue could see the three cars stopped at the fence in their driveway. A deputy was jumping out of his squad car and going to the gate. She could make out two women in the third car, which had the Juda County insignia. She grabbed a pair of yellow child’s binoculars that were lying on a dresser. She squinted through them—now she could see the social worker Liz Luden behind the wheel. Another younger-looking woman was in the passenger seat next to her.

  In less than a minute the caravan of cars would be in front of their house.

  Bounding down the stairs with Joshua bobbing up and down in one arm, the bags in the other, Mary Sue rushed to the door. With the few fingers that were still free, she snatched her Bible off the kitchen table, ran out the back, strapped Joshua into the car seat in their pickup truck, tossed in the bags and Bible, and jumped behind the wheel.

  Fumbling with the pile of keys, Mary Sue nearly jammed the house key into the ignition by mistake.

  “Please, God—please, God…” she muttered as she fished for the ignition key.

  She found it, started the truck, and lurched forward down the road that led to the back side of the Fellows farm.

  She and Joshua bounced from the jolts of the rough road beneath them as she increased speed, the truck tires spitting dirt and gravel.

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, Mary Sue looked back at the house she was leaving. Tears were streaming down her face. All she could manage was, “God, protect us…protect us….”

  “Why you crying, momma?” Joshua asked.

  There was no answer. Mary Sue leaned her head into her left hand, trying to control her sobs as she steered with her other hand and headed the truck toward the creek and the state highway that lay beyond.

  All she could think about now was the little creek and whether it had dried up enough for her to cross it without getting stuck in the mud.

  2

  OKAY, I READ THE STORY. Then I read it again. The facts are plain enough. A young mother. Scared. She believes she has to save her child. So she flees from the authorities.”

  “Is that all there is to it?”

  “No. But I’m just sticking to the basics. I’m trying to be objective.”

  “That must be the trial lawyer in you talking. So what does your objectivity tell you?”

  “That the mother believes in what she is doing. Thinks she has heard the voice of God.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. Part of me believes it. Most of me. But I’m conflicted.”

  “You’re trying to resolve the conflict?”

  “Exactly.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “That’s why I’m talking to you. You’re the one with the theological degrees, Len, not to mention that you’re my favorite law professor. I’m just a trial lawyer.”

  “Look, my degree isn’t what’s important. Or my teaching credentials. Let me put it to you plainly, Will. Ultimately, it gets down to miracles. Is the Bible God’s revealed Word?”

  “I accept that. But that doesn’t end the debate.”

  “Well then, is it just the miraculous birth of Jesus that you’re struggling with? Or is there something else?”

  “The nativity story. That’s what I’ve been focusing on. The virgin birth. Angels start appearing. Magi traveling from far away arrive on the scene. King Herod sends out the edict against the children. Visions and dreams. The mother, her husband, and the baby flee to Egypt.

  “On the other hand, let me say this. I do know that God does miracles. Look at me—a former agnostic ACLU attorney, now studying the Bible. Going to church. In love with a gospel singer.”

  Sitting across the table in the small, silver-sided roadside diner, Len Redgrove chuckled a little at that.

  Will Chambers stopped for a second to appreciate the irony in what he had just said.

  “But still,” Will continued, “I’m wondering if we have to believe in the mass of supernatural detail that the Bible lays out about these events—that’s all. Do we have to take it literally? Maybe it was meant to be symbolic.”

  “Okay,” Redgrove said. “Then start with the innkeeper as an example. Let’s establish the circumstantial facts. What do you think he saw when he encountered that young pregnant woman sitting on a donkey, with her exasperated husband standing next to her?”

  Will reflected for a moment. “Probably thought, Here are a couple peasants who can’t come up with enough money to get a decent room.”

  “That’s just the point. The Bible doesn’t actually refer to the innkeeper. But he’s implied in the text. The town of Bethlehem was jammed up with travelers who had to return to their town of origin for the census. No room. He looks at these two. What does he see?”

  Will was listening closely.

  Redgrove continued. “Relying just on his senses—his naturalistic bias, you might say—what did he see? Just another impoverished Jewish couple. He missed the miracle unfolding right in front of him.”

  “So miracles aren’t for everyone? Some people are incapable of understanding them? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Understanding miracles,” Redgrove explained, “does not demand that we suspend our objectivity. Just the opposite. It requires true objectivity. God is the only real, objective source of information. His Word gives us the big picture. Otherwise, if left to ourselves, down there at ground level with the innkeeper, we end up merely shutting the door.”

  As the waitress dropped the check on the table, Will scooped it up. “You paid last time. I’ll get it.”

  “By the way, how is your law practice?” Redgrove asked.

  “Busy. Thriving.”

  “And how about you?”

  “A little restless.” Will gave it another moment of thought, then added, “Actually, I’m pretty discontented. Sometimes I wonder if I ought to stay in the law. If God is working on me, I question the value of what I’m doing as a lawyer.”

  “I always thought you would make a gifted lawyer—even back when you were my student. Look at the victories God has given you. He’s used your legal talents.”

  “That’s what Fiona tells me too.”

  “And how is she?” Redgrove asked.

  “She’s just finished a concert tour. She’s coming back tomorrow and we have a date tomorrow night.”

  “Haven’t proposed to her yet?”

  “No,” Will’s voice dropped slightly. “I…really don’t know that she’ll have me. There seems to be some hesitation on her part. So…” His voice trailed off.

  “Give it time. And give it to the Lord. He’s the ultimate matchmaker. If he wants the two of you together, it will work out.”

  Will nodded. But those words did not give him any comfort. He shook hands with his old friend and they agreed to meet for dinner again at the usual time next month.

  The attorney climbed into his ’57 Corvette and motored home to his large log home which was perched on the rolling Virginia countryside. The sun was setting when he arrived, so he sat for a while on the broad porch that wound around the house and admired the scarlet and orange colors that were fading around the contours of the Blue Ridge Mountains on the horizon. Then he walked inside and turned on the television set.

  Punching the channels, he stopped at INN—International News Network. He liked to catch the daily Slice of Life news summary.

  After the world news, he was reaching for the remote when something caught his eye. On the television, he saw a blond man in an orange jail jumpsuit shuffling across a courtroom with manacled feet, hands in handcuffs.

  “The Georgia farmer is being charged with obstruction of justice and felony child abuse,” the announcer said. “His wife and their four-year-old child are still missing. It is alleged that Fellows aided in their flight from sheriff’s deputies.”

  Will studied the desperate look on Joe Fellows’ face as deputies led him up to the judge’s bench.

  “Buddy,” Will said out loud to the tele
vision, “I hope you have a good lawyer.”

  3

  IN THE JUDA COUNTY JAIL, in his orange jumpsuit, face unshaven, hair greasy and tangled, Joe Fellows sat on the prisoner’s side of the glass window. At the bottom there was a metal tray that could be passed between the prisoner and the visitor, but only when the jailer unlocked the opening.

  Seated on the other side of the glass, a tall American Indian was looking intently at Joe. His black hair was worn in two long braids that hung down his back. On his head was a black baseball cap with the gold letters “WWJD.”

  “As I told you,” the Indian explained slowly and patiently, “I am Flying Eagle White Arrow, a chief of the Lakota tribe. My Christian name is Andrew.”

  “And you have seen my wife, Mary Sue?”

  “All I can say is that she is safe. That’s all.”

  “And you came here to tell me that?” Joe asked, still unclear as to how this big Indian man fit into the recent turn of events that had forced him into jail and had sent his wife fleeing with their son.

  “Yes. Don’t worry. The Lord will not leave you or forsake you.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said.

  “But please do not ask me anything else.”

  Joe eyed the stranger and nodded his head. He had no other choice now but to trust Andrew White Arrow.

  “My mother was here just before you arrived,” Joe added. “She’s got the name of a lawyer. Can you get this attorney’s name and telephone number to Mary Sue somehow?”

  With that, Joe lifted up a small piece of paper. He was about to motion the jail guard to come over and unlock the tray, but Andrew lifted a hand of warning and shook his head.

  “Don’t give it to me. Just show me through the glass.”

  “Are you going to remember it?”

  “I’ve got a good memory,” Andrew said softly, and smiled.

  Joe held the piece of paper with a name and telephone number against the glass. Andrew studied it for a few seconds. Then he gestured for Joe to pull it back. Something in Andrew’s expression told Joe that he recognized the name on the piece of paper.

  “You know this lawyer?” Joe asked.

  “Never met him,” Andrew said. “But I’ve heard about him.”

  Joe added, “Tell my wife we’re going to fight this tooth and nail. Take no prisoners. All the way. Will you?”

  Andrew stood up from the folding chair to his considerable height. Joe got up quickly, and he put both of his hands to the glass. Suddenly, his expression of determination had dissolved. His face was sunken, and his eyes were like of those of an animal startled at night in the woods.

  “Anything else you can tell me? Anything?” Joe said in a voice that was now almost pleading.

  “Yes,” Andrew said, “there is.”

  He spread his arms out with his palms up and closed his eyes. And then he said in a deep, calm voice, in a chanting cadence,

  Hear my cry, O God;

  Attend to my prayer.

  From the end of the earth I will cry to You,

  When my heart is overwhelmed;

  Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

  For you have been a shelter for me,

  A strong tower from the enemy.

  I will abide in Your tabernacle forever.

  I will trust in the shelter of Your wings.

  Andrew smiled at Joe and said, “Psalm sixty-one, verses one through four.”

  As the guard led him away, Andrew turned and added, “New King James Version.”

  Outside the locked unit, in the jail lobby, the head jailer was waiting for Andrew. Seated behind an ancient-looking desk, he was wearing the brown uniform of the sheriff’s department, which was stretched tightly over his immense girth. He was bald, and his thick neck was rippled and jowly.

  The jailer was mopping the sweat from his brow with a paper towel, and he glanced at the visitor sign-in clipboard, then spoke to Andrew as he entered the lobby.

  “Andrew White Arrow. Would that be you?”

  “Yes,” Andrew answered simply.

  “The prosecuting attorney for Juda County wants to talk to you. Take the elevator down the hall to the third floor. Second office on the right.”

  “Can I get my driver’s license back?” Andrew asked.

  The jailer leaned back in the swivel chair, but only slightly. He crossed one of his legs with great difficulty and stared for a moment at the tall Indian.

  Then he said in a low grumble, “You’ll get your ID back when the prosecuting attorney is through with you.”

  Andrew made his way upstairs to the lobby of the prosecutor’s office, where he sat for a few moments before being led to an inner office. He was shown to a seat across from a large walnut desk. The office walls were lined with law books and a scattering of plaques and certificates, and on one wall there was a framed picture of a stumpy cartoon character with a big cowboy hat and a long handlebar mustache, and a huge six-gun in each hand. Across the top were the words “WE GET THE BAD GUYS!”

  Suddenly a short, stocky man in a suit and tie rushed into the office yelling something over his shoulder. He stopped in his tracks next to Andrew and eyed him.

  “You’re Andrew White Arrow?”

  Andrew nodded.

  “I’m Herodius Putnam, prosecuting attorney for Juda County. Friends call me Harry. You can call me Mr. Putnam. You’re a big one. You’re some kind of Indian chief?”

  “Lakota tribe.”

  “Don’t say. Your driver’s license says you live in Santa Fe, New Mexico. What are you doing here?” Putnam asked as he sat down at his desk.

  “My brother. He’s been living in Atlanta. I went there to pick him up and move him.”

  “What kind of work do you do in Santa Fe, Mr. White Arrow?”

  “I teach at a community college.”

  “What exactly?”

  “Philosophy and comparative religion.”

  “That would make you an educated man. So you’ll be able to understand what I’m about to tell you. Joe Fellows is charged with obstructing a criminal investigation. We were investigating the possibility that his wife has been slowly poisoning their little boy.” Then Putnam repeated the words again. “Poisoning their little boy. You visited him today in jail. You’d better be real careful about having contact with Mr. Joe Fellows.”

  Andrew said nothing. His face was expressionless.

  “Why’d you visit him? You know him?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then why were you here?”

  “I heard about his being in jail. I thought he might need some Christian encouragement.”

  Putnam looked up at Andrew’s cap with the “WWJD” lettering. He was about to say something but thought better of it.

  “Listen to me real careful. I’ve got a question for you, and I want the truth. Do you know the current whereabouts of Mary Sue Fellows or her little boy?”

  “Current whereabouts of Mary Sue Fellows or her little boy,” Andrew repeated slowly.

  “That’s right. Joe’s wife. Where she is this very minute. Same for her little boy. Do you?”

  After listening intently to the question, he said, “No.”

  “She’s fled the jurisdiction. Anybody harboring her is a criminal. And they will be prosecuted. So, is there anything you want to tell me? This could be real serious.”

  “This does sound serious,” Andrew noted.

  “Yes sir, it is.”

  “Then maybe I ought to talk to a lawyer,” Andrew said.

  Putnam jumped up and walked around the desk to Andrew. Even while standing, he was only slightly taller than Andrew sitting down.

  “So you want a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know—do you think I need one?”

  “Why ask me?” Putnam barked out.

  “Because you are a lawyer. I thought you might be able to tell me whether I need one.”

  “Don’t play games with me,” Putnam said, pointing his finger at Andrew. Then, after staring
at him for a few seconds, the prosecutor walked over to the window that overlooked the park across the street. He gazed over at the swings and play structure, which were vacant in the cold weather.

  “Let me tell you something. We had one murder in all of Juda County last year—only one. Most prosecutors would love a record like that. But not me. You know why?”

  Andrew shook his head.

  “Because that murder involved the death of a little girl. Child abuse of the most horrible kind. All over the newspapers. Child welfare folks from the state house came down here. That will never happen again in my county if I can do anything about it. It will not happen.”

  Putnam strolled over to Andrew and put his hand on his wide shoulder. “Mary Sue Fellows needs help. I want to give it to her. And that little boy needs protection. So one day he can grow up healthy and play on the swings like a normal little boy.”

  But Andrew still made no response.

  “You have any information about Mary Sue Fellows or her little boy, you’d better get it to us immediately. Savvy?”

  “I understand,” Andrew replied.

  Andrew was escorted out. Harry Putnam picked up the phone and punched the extension number for the detective in the children’s unit.

  “Get someone to tail that big Indian who was visiting Joe Fellows. He knows something about this, I’m sure of it. We’ve already called the airport in Atlanta, and he’s scheduled to be on a flight back to New Mexico in a couple of hours. Have some local law enforcement ready to pick up the tail in New Mexico when he lands.”

  Then Putnam smiled a little. “I have a feeling that Mr. White Arrow is going to lead us right to Mary Sue Fellows and her boy.”

  Andrew was led back to the jailer. He was still seated at his desk, and now he was reading an Amazing Mysteries magazine. As Andrew strode in, he put it down.

  “I suppose you want your ID back?”

  “Yes,” Andrew said.

  The jailer pulled it out of the drawer and fingered it with his meaty hand. Then he tossed it on top of the desk.

  As Andrew picked it up, the jailer leaned forward, breathing noisily. Then he spoke. “You being an Indian chief and all, I figure that makes you Tonto. So where’s the Lone Ranger? I don’t see him anywhere.” And with that, the jailer chuckled in self-satisfaction.