The Resurrection File Page 3

  4

  Washington, D.C.

  WHILE WILL CHAMBERS WAS CONCLUDING HIS CASE that morning, a meeting was being held at the law firm of Kennelworth, Sherman, Abrams & Cantwell on K Street in downtown Washington, D.C. K Street was affectionately known as “central power” in legal circles. Its glass buildings housed the most powerful lobbyists, lawyers, and political insiders in the most powerful city on the planet.

  In the law firm’s cavernous suite of offices, attorney Jay Foxley Sherman, senior partner and long-reigning chief of the firm’s litigation section, was seated at the twenty-foot-long mahogany table in the large conference room. Next to him was a law clerk with a legal pad and an associate attorney.

  Sherman had distinguished looks, with silver-white hair and wire-rim glasses. As one of Washington’s elite trial lawyers, he was at the top of his game. Beltway magazine had just voted him the best litigator in D.C. for the rich, the powerful, and the politically connected. He had represented Senators caught in scandal, and a foreign ambassador accused of spying. Sherman had won a successful defamation lawsuit on behalf of a former president whose name was maliciously tarnished in a television news program. Fortune 500 companies came to him when their executives were indicted for white-collar crimes. These were the caliber of clients that paid Jay Foxley Sherman his six-hundred-dollar-per-hour fee.

  But today, “J-Fox” Sherman (as he was called by those who knew him) was not happy. He was struggling to look friendly and diplomatic. But underneath his calm demeanor and his twelve-hundred-dollar Italian suit, a volcano raged. Sherman was the kind of lawyer who insisted on absolute control over his clients. He demanded that they never talk to the press, never give interviews—and never appear on national television—without his prior approval. Control was his ultimate addiction. His trial experience had taught him that when you lose control of the client, you lose control of the case. And when that happens—more often than not, you end up losing the case itself. J-Fox Sherman didn’t try cases to lose them. Sherman’s expression was neutral, but his face was flushed.

  The beltway lawyer had good reason to be irate. Just a few weeks before, he had filed a libel and defamation lawsuit on his client’s behalf in the United States District Court of the District of Columbia. Shortly afterwards, and without consulting Sherman, the client had appeared on national television to discuss matters that went to the very core of his case.

  Sherman’s client, Dr. Albert Reichstad, sat across the conference table with a strained look, but his raised eyebrows and subtle smile revealed a measure of arrogance. Reichstad’s hair, professionally dyed a dark brown to cover the gray, was short, and his beard was well-trimmed. His retiring good looks went well with his expensive Harris-tweed jacket and imported tie. Though Dr. Reichstad was a scholar and an academic, he was not at all the rumpled, absent-minded-professor type. His clothes, and his manner, disclosed the kind of financial power that few professors ever experience within the cloistered life of the university.

  “Start the video,” Sherman barked to the law clerk.

  The clerk jumped to his feet and scurried over to the big-screen television that was smartly situated inside the floor-to-ceiling mahogany wall cabinet. He slid the video into the VCR and clicked it on with the remote control.

  “When did this program air?” Sherman asked, with the tone of a man who was about to see his client jeopardize his lawsuit on national television before his case was even a month old.

  Before Reichstad could answer, the associate attorney snapped out the answer.

  “Four nights ago.”

  “Good,” Sherman rapped out. “With all the news coverage that just broke this morning on the truck incident in New York, there’s a good chance no one will even remember it.”

  The video started in the middle of a commercial. A sleek automobile was gliding through the wet streets of a big city at night. Mellow jazz music filled the air. A deep voice in the background said, “This kind of power and prestige isn’t for everybody. But then, you aren’t just anybody.”

  Sherman was impatiently tapping his black onyx pen with pure gold detailing on the table. He glanced momentarily at his reflection in its dark, rich wood.

  Then the commercial ended. The program began with the pounding rock music of a studio band. The camera zoomed in to the host, who was seated at the desk with the distant lights of Los Angeles in the background—Billy Hampton, former college English professor, former comedy writer, former Las Vegas stand-up comedian, and now the driving force behind America PM, the hottest late-night show on television.

  Hampton was leaning back in his chair, his head bouncing to the band’s accompaniment. The music ended and the studio audience applause died down.

  “Tonight we have a real treat. Harking back to my days as a college professor, I’ve asked Dr. Albert Reichstad, professor of anthropology at Harvard University, to join us. Dr. Reichstad has recently shocked the world with his revelations about an ancient document that he discovered. And get this—he believes that this piece of papyrus is a missing part of the world’s oldest writing about Christianity.”

  With that Hampton held up a picture from a Time magazine article. It showed Reichstad studying a large lighted display on his desk, which contained a magnified replica of a fragment of papyrus writing. In the photo, a pretty young female student was standing next to Reichstad, looking on. The title on the magazine page read, “The Resurrection Disproved? Dr. Albert Reichstad Finds the Missing Key to the Gospels.”

  Hampton continued, “He’s here to impart his impressive knowledge about one of the world’s most profound subjects, the real Jesus of history—and while he’s at it—he’s also going to reveal an even more important mystery—how an old guy like him gets dates with the really good-looking young women in his class”—Hampton held up the magazine photo and said, “I didn’t know you had a PhD in that subject—” (the audience laughed loudly) “won’t you welcome Dr. Albert Reichstad, or as I like to call him, Big Al!”

  Dr. Reichstad entered the studio stage smiling brightly, confidently. He shook Hampton’s hand vigorously and sat down next to the desk, waving to the studio audience.

  Before Billy Hampton could launch into his initial questions Reichstad interrupted him.

  “You know, the woman in the magazine picture was one of my best students,” Reichstad explained. “But I’m surprised at you, Billy—we are in the twenty-first century now. Women really shouldn’t be viewed as mere sex objects or just dating partners. In my class, I’m happy to say that every young woman is encouraged to reach her full intellectual and professional potential.” The audience ignited in raucous approval.

  “Okay, so I deserved that one,” Hampton came back lightly. “I guess that just shows how desperate I am—trying to pick up chicks with the help of a guy who is old enough to be my grandfather.” The audience laughed and applauded loudly.

  “No, but really, Doctor, all kidding aside, it’s great to have you here,” Hampton continued. “Now this subject is really heavy. And you, of course, you’re kind of a heavyweight yourself in the scientific community. Professor of anthropology at Harvard—author of numerous books—two PhDs—and this one really gets me”—(Hampton was studying the “bio” sheet in front of him) “‘voted by the students at Harvard as the most beloved professor for the third year in a row’—you know, when I was a teacher, I bribed my students with A’s but it never got me anywhere.”

  When the laughter died down Dr. Reichstad bowed his head slightly and then said, “You know, that honor is the one I prize the most. You see, I believe that impacting students—touching them and showing them something about the truth of where the human race has been, and where we might be going, that is the greatest thing an educator can do. Now, in my field—Middle-Eastern anthropology and archaeology—I try to give my students a glimpse into the cradle of civilization. Teach them what motivated people thousands of years ago to believe the way they did.”

  “Well,” the host jum
ped in, “that brings us to this discovery of yours—and this is really, I guess, a little like Columbus discovering America or Edmund Hillary being the first guy to make it to the top of Mount Everest. I mean, this is gigantic. Truly amazing, Doctor. You come across this little scrap of ancient paper that is part of the first—I guess you would say part of the actual original ‘gospel,’ if we can use that term, about the life—or actually more like the death—the burial of Jesus. Suddenly, this could be the most important discovery in the history of religion. From this little scrap of paper we realize that what the Christian religion has been teaching about Jesus, the folklore and the myths about his being raised up on the third day, and the whole Easter thing—we really have to give that up now. And you are the man—Dr. Albert Reichstad—you are the guy who did it all. You are the one who has really caused—if I can say it this way—you have caused a religious revolution.”

  Reichstad paused and smiled. Then he reached out and touched the coatsleeve of the television host.

  “You know, Billy, I must tell you and your wonderful viewing audience something. I believe that what is really amazing is the human spirit. It is the ability of the human race to continue to seek out truth—and then when it is found, to embrace it even when it’s uncomfortable. Even when it is very scary for us because it makes us face new horizons of our evolutionary adventure as humans. But I really think the Christian church—and not just Christians, but all people of good will everywhere, and all religions—I really think we are all coming to the realization that the story of Jesus being raised from the dead and being God, the mythic story that some of us learned in Sunday school as little children—it was a wonderful story, and it made us all feel good, but now, as twenty-first-century humans, we must honor the real truth about Jesus.

  “We now know with certainty, because of the discovery I was privileged to make, that he was not God, and he didn’t walk out of a tomb after he died. I believe the evidence from this remarkable papyrus fragment—we scientists call it the 7QA fragment—that was written just after his death and burial really does prove that beyond any doubt. But, you know, Billy, something of Jesus did live on. And that’s what is really important. Jesus stood for love and tolerance among all people. Now that is the enduring truth he left for us. And of course, the truth—as the words of Jesus tell us—the truth will make us free.”

  The audience applauded wildly, and a few people were whistling. Billy Hampton was beaming from ear to ear. And then he applauded the moment himself, nodding his head up and down. “Dr. Albert Reichstad, ladies and gentlemen,” Hampton said, inviting the audience to convey their love to this distinguished man of science. “We will be right back after this.”

  The video screen went to fuzzy white as the tape ended.

  Sherman was silent. His face was no longer red. His brow was relaxed. He tossed a thick, stapled packet of papers across the table to Dr. Reichstad.

  “That is the libel and defamation lawsuit that I filed in federal court here in D.C.,” Sherman intoned, “to vindicate your professional reputation as a scholar and a scientist against the lies and accusations of murder published against you and your discovery of the Jesus papyrus—by that Christian fundamentalist preacher, MacCameron. I suggest you read it again. Take it with you.”

  Then the master trial lawyer eased back in his chair slightly.

  “I will say this—I think you handled yourself fairly well on television. Not everyone can sell themselves on the tube,” Sherman said. “But I am telling you right now, if you go to the media any more—or if you start showing up on Geraldo Rivera, or Jerry Springer or whatever—any more media whatsoever—and I mean anywhere—I don’t care if it’s on the morning farm report in North Platte, Nebraska—if you do any more media on this subject without talking to me first, I am off this case. And you will be looking for a new lawyer.”

  “I understand,” Reichstad replied quietly but smugly. Sherman started to rise from his chair, but his client raised an index finger in the air.

  “Just one final question, Mr. Sherman, before you go.”

  “Yes?”

  “Has our defendant been served with these lawsuit papers yet?”

  Sherman looked to his associate, who glanced at his file and said, “Reverend Angus MacCameron was served by our process server last week.”

  “Have we heard from MacCameron’s attorney yet—do we know who he hired as his lawyer?” Reichstad asked as a follow-up question.

  “That’s two questions,” Sherman shot back sarcastically. Then he smiled at his law clerk and nodded for him to answer.

  “Not yet,” the law clerk answered.

  “We will get notice from his defense counsel in a week or so,” Sherman said blandly. “Some local schlepp, some country-bumpkin attorney, will probably give me a call, asking if I will agree to an extension of time to file their response to our Complaint for damages. And of course, I will be ever so courteous—and I will courteously tell him that I have no intention of granting any extensions in this lawsuit.” At that the law clerk and the associate snickered.

  “No, I really don’t think we should worry about who opposing counsel is going to be,” Sherman continued. “I doubt that this guy—this Reverend MacCameron and his little magazine, Digging for Truth—have libel/slander insurance. It’s just too expensive for some little shoebox publication like this. So you’re not going to see him defended by one of the big insurance defense firms. Here you’ve got this right-wing, fundamentalist pastor and his little magazine—which, by our estimate, has a circulation of a couple of thousand readers if they are lucky—so, who is a guy like that going to be able to get as his lawyer?”

  “What about religious institutions, foundations—conservative religious groups?” Reichstad questioned. “Won’t they offer to fund the defense of his case? Make this case a cause célèbre?”

  Sherman chuckled a little. “We’ve investigated this MacCameron. He’s such an oddball—even as fundamentalists go, he is on the fringe. He’s on the outs even with the conservative Christian groups. He seems to have offended everyone in the evangelical camp. And the Catholics won’t touch him with a hundred-foot pole because he’s insulted them too. No, I don’t see him getting any help from other groups. He’s out on a gangplank, all by himself. Besides, whoever the guy gets to represent him, I don’t think we’re too worried, are we, fellows?” With that, Sherman looked to the associate and the law clerk who were both smiling confidently.

  The associate knew that this was his cue. He was now about to spread the final layer of gold-tinted public relations.

  “There is a saying around town, Doctor, about Mr. Sherman as a trial attorney,” the associate explained proudly. “When Mr. Sherman goes to court, they call it ‘Sherman’s March to the Sea.’ You know, like setting fire to the crops, burning the homes, and laying waste to the enemy.”

  Sherman smiled broadly at that, and then added, “Now Dr. Reichstad, when we’ve won this case and decimated the other side, you will have to answer one little question of my own.”

  “Oh?” Reichstad responded. “What is that?”

  “Well, it’s your money—and believe me, you and your institute will be spending lots of it on this case…”—at that, Sherman’s associates smirked—“but,” he continued, “I’m still not clear why you are suing an obscure, penniless eccentric like MacCameron. Really, why bother?”

  “I’ll answer that right now,” Reichstad snapped back, his eyes widening. “If I don’t finally take a stand against the quacks like MacCameron, then pretty soon the scientific community starts to take shots at me as well. This lawsuit is designed to send a message, Mr. Sherman.”

  J-Fox Sherman smiled agreeably, though he still doubted his client’s explanation. He stood up from the table, shook hands with Dr. Reichstad, and paused a second to stare him in the eye—the last reminder of who would be controlling this case—who was the client, and who was the lawyer. And then Sherman walked out of the room. He glanced at his
Rolex. He didn’t want to be late for his lunch meeting on Capitol Hill.

  5

  WITH WILL CHAMBERS OUT THE DOOR and on his way to court, Betty Sorenson could finally catch her breath. She straightened her silver-and-black hair and lit a cigarette as Will’s Corvette taillights disappeared from view. But she had barely taken her first puff before she noticed a small entourage coming directly toward her on the sidewalk.

  In the lead was a slightly disheveled man who looked to be in his sixties, carrying an old, very tattered briefcase. He had thick glasses but a square-jawed, handsome face with a fair complexion. Behind him was a strikingly beautiful woman in her mid-thirties, with dark hair and a flashy designer outfit. Following behind was a man in a dark suit with a small briefcase.

  “Excuse me,” the older man in the lead asked, “is this attorney Will Chambers’ office?”

  Betty quickly tossed her cigarette down and smiled politely. “Yes, his office is on the second floor. I am his secretary, is he expecting you?”

  “My name is Angus MacCameron,” the man said with an accent tinged by a subtle burr. “This is my daughter, Fiona. You may know her from her music and records. She’s a famous Christian singer, you know.”

  Fiona cut in, smiling. “Just like a father, he’s always bragging on me! My father has an appointment with Mr. Chambers. My manager and I would like to sit in, if that’s alright.”

  Betty tried to smile and look detached and professional, but inside she realized that several more spinning plates in her boss’s circus act were smashing to the floor.

  “Won’t you follow me?” she said, and motioned for them to follow her up the stairs, secretly hoping that Jacki Johnson, the assistant lawyer in the office, was free to meet with them—and somehow explain why Will Chambers wasn’t.

  The threesome was seated in the lobby. Betty then disappeared quickly down the hallway toward the rear. She poked her head inside a neat, well-furnished office. Jacki Johnson was dictating into the video desk recorder, but when she saw the look on Betty’s face, she stopped in mid-sentence.