The confession, p.20
The Confession, page 20
The choir made its way into the choir loft, but instead of sitting down, they launched into another song. The words to this one were projected onto a screen suspended from the ceiling at the front of the church and included multiple names for God, each describing an aspect of his character and nature. All of it was new to Holt, who was able to sing the chorus the third time it cycled around, in a voice barely audible to his own ears. The song finished, and Holt prepared to sit down, but the choir didn’t stop. Holt had suspected the church service would be different, but not how much so. He gave up counting the number of songs the congregation sang, but it had to be at least six or seven, some fast, others slow, before there was a lull and Bishop Pennington took his place behind the pulpit.
Leaning in close to the microphone, he spoke in a soft voice that sharply contrasted with the previous exuberance of the meeting. “Does anybody have anything better to do than worship the Lord?”
“No!” the congregation thundered.
Bishop Pennington turned to the choir director, who was on his feet playing a synthesizer, and waved his hand. The choir began another song. Holt glanced around. A face or two looked familiar. He didn’t see Jamal, the young basketball player from the pickup game. At the end of the second additional song, Holt looked down at his watch. It was 11:55. The service wasn’t going to end at noon.
When the music stopped, the ushers, all wearing gray suits and sporting carnations in their lapels, took up an offering. While the men passed brass plates, a group of four women stepped out of the choir loft and sang. Holt was amazed at the talent of the quartet. They sounded professional. As the ushers took the offering plates to the front of the sanctuary, a man who was assisting Bishop Pennington took his place behind the pulpit.
“Who has a hallelujah offering this morning?” the man called out.
Within seconds, the man next to Holt was on his way down the aisle. Others followed, holding cash or checks in the air. Holt didn’t know what to make of it, but the people seemed happy to give. The bishop touched one young woman on the arm and kept her at the front.
“Alecia has a word of testimony this morning,” the bishop said.
Holt recognized Alecia. She was an assistant in the county clerk’s office. They’d never had a lengthy conversation, but he’d given her papers to file many times.
“Praise God,” she began. “Some of you know about my cousin Cornelia, who lives in Macon. Two months ago she had a lumpectomy and was diagnosed with breast cancer. People all over have been praying for the Lord to touch her. Before the doctors were going to put her under for surgery, they checked her again, and the cancer was gone.” Alecia raised her right hand in the air. “The surgery has been canceled. They’re going to keep checking her every six months, and we’re going to keep praying.”
The young woman left the platform. It was certainly good news, but Holt wasn’t sure what to make of such a specific claim of answered prayer. Alecia had always impressed him as an efficient young woman with common sense. Holt wished he could see the medical reports and read the doctors’ explanation for the canceled surgery.
Next, the man sitting on the platform with Bishop Pennington stepped to the microphone and prayed for the bishop’s message. When the man said “Amen,” Holt checked his watch. It was 12:30 p.m. His stomach growled. Bishop Pennington opened a large Bible on the pulpit in front of him.
“My text today is 1 John 1:5–10.”
Holt heard pages rustling around him. The bishop began to read:
This then is the message which we have heard of him, and declare unto you, that God is light, and in him is no darkness at all. If we say that we have fellowship with him, and walk in darkness, we lie, and do not the truth: But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship one with another, and the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin. If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us. If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness. If we say that we have not sinned, we make him a liar, and his word is not in us.
After the first few words, Bishop Pennington didn’t look down at the page in front of him, and Holt realized the old man had memorized the passage. At one point the bishop captured Holt’s eye. Mercifully, he released him after a couple of seconds.
When he finished quoting the Scripture, the bishop said, “I’m going to preach this passage from the back to the front. All of us—young and old, rich and poor, male and female, church member and visitor—will find ourselves in this sermon. I’ve lived all week with these words, and I bring this message as a thirsty man who has found water for my soul and refreshment for my spirit.”
The bishop launched into his exposition. While the minister spoke Holt barely moved a muscle. It was as good as or better than any speech Holt had heard in a courtroom. The bishop had mastered the oratorical art of parallel sentence structure and skillful alliteration that caused his sentences to repeatedly find their mark. The words light, darkness, liar, truth, sin, fellowship, confess, and forgive echoed across the sanctuary.
Bishop Pennington wasn’t in a hurry, and several times when Holt thought there was nothing more the minister could squeeze from a phrase or thought, the preacher opened another window of insight. Then, suddenly, the bishop stopped. The congregation, which at times had been vocal in its response to the sermon, was silent.
“This passage shows the way to the Lord,” the bishop said. “If anyone wants to follow that path, let him come.”
Within seconds, several people were walking down the aisle. Holt watched them go. Part of him wanted to join them, but he stayed put. The man sitting next to Holt touched him on the arm.
“Do you want to go forward for prayer?”
“No, I’m a visitor.”
“You stopped being a visitor the minute you arrived,” the man said with a smile. “Oh, I think the bishop wants to talk to you.”
Holt looked to the front and saw Bishop Pennington motioning for him to come forward. To refuse would be rude, so Holt made his way down the aisle. The bishop shook his hand and gave him a quick pat on the back.
Holt was acutely aware of the people around him who were praying.
“You’re a fantastic speaker,” he said to the bishop. “You’d have made a great lawyer. A lot of what you said made sense.”
“And?” The bishop raised his eyebrows.
“That’s it.”
“You were convinced,” the minister said with a slow nod of his head, “but not convicted.”
“What do you mean?”
“I convinced the jury of your mind but didn’t get a conviction from your will. The jury is going to have to keep deliberating. Let’s pray.”
Holt closed his eyes, and the older man asked God to speak to Holt’s heart and bless him in more ways than Holt knew existed. But the thing that touched Holt the most was the obvious affection the bishop had for him as a person.
“Thank you,” Holt said when the bishop finished. “I didn’t really want to come up here, but I’m glad I did.”
“Me too.”
“What should I do now?” Holt asked, not entirely sure he wanted to hear the answer.
The bishop paused. “Do you own a Bible?”
“No.”
“I suggest you buy one and read it.”
25
As soon as she saw Keith in Sunday school, Trish felt guilty and relieved—guilty about her secret feelings for Holt and relieved Keith couldn’t read her mind and discover what had been lurking there during the past few weeks. The obvious pleasure Keith took in doing something as simple as sharing a Bible with her during the class helped her relax. They took their relationship to the next level that day and sat together in church, with Marge on the other side of Trish.
Brother Carpenter’s sermon was about Moses and the Israelites building the tabernacle in the wilderness, with particular emphasis on the liberal giving by the people of God that preceded actual construction.
“Most of that wealth was given to them by the Egyptians when the Israelites left Egypt,” Keith whispered to her at one point. “I mean, they still had to let go of it, but it wasn’t like they’d saved for years and years.”
“Hush,” Trish responded. “They didn’t get paid for years and years, either.”
As if on cue, Brother Carpenter said, “I can’t prove this from the Bible, but I believe when the children of Israel came out of bondage in Egypt, the riches they brought with them equaled the wages they were owed.” Trish elbowed Keith in the side and saw him smile out of the corner of her eye.
“I believe this congregation is made up of true Israelites,” Brother Carpenter said as he came to the climax of his sermon. “Give as God has blessed you, and the resources will pour in so fast that the deacons will have to order you to stop! Won’t that be a testimony to the glory of God?”
After the service, Trish, Keith, and Marge lingered in the pew.
“Trish showed me the house plans you attached to an e-mail,” Marge said to Keith. “It’s amazing what you can do on the computer.”
“Did you like the house?” Keith asked.
“Yes. It really fits the lay of the land.”
“It’s important to me that you like it.”
Marge beamed. “I printed out a copy to keep on the kitchen table so Trish and I can talk about it while we eat,” she added.
“Can I take you out to lunch?” Keith asked Trish.
“I have to go into work. It’s one of the few Sundays they schedule me on second shift.”
“How about you?” Keith turned to Marge.
Trish caught a sudden surge of red in her mother’s cheeks.
“That’s sweet,” she replied. “But I’ll pass.”
“Then I look forward to seeing both of you later this week.”
As Trish was loading the wheelchair into the van, she patted Marge on the shoulder. “I thought you were going to pass out when Keith invited you out for lunch.”
“It was a shock. How did I handle it?”
“You clamped down like I do when something surprises me. Maybe you should have gone with him.”
Trish started the van and backed out of the parking space. A mile down the road from the church, Marge spoke. “What would we talk about?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Keith and I.”
Trish glanced at her mother and smiled. “You and Keith share the same favorite subject.”
Marge paused. “Is Keith a big Braves fan?”
Trish laughed. “No, Mama. Me.”
“You’re joking,” Marge replied with a sniff, “but you’re right. That boy is crazy about you.”
“And all he had to do to win you over was ask you to lunch.”
Sunday afternoons at the sheriff’s department were quiet with only a skeleton staff on duty. Trish hoped to locate one of her more slippery defendants who might be enjoying a day of rest.
She logged on to her computer and pulled a case file involving a father who’d abandoned a longtime girlfriend and their three children. He’d denied paternity during an earlier round of legal sparring, and when DNA testing established with 99.99 percent accuracy that he was the father of all three children, he took off. Recently, the mother received a tip that the father was living in a rural part of the Florida panhandle, and Trish wanted to check it out. Before doing so, she called the phone number for the mother.
“Ms. Peters, this is Trish Carmichael at the sheriff’s department. I wanted to call and—”
“Are you working today?” the woman interrupted.
“Yes, ma’am. And I thought it might be a good time to see if Ricky is still in north Florida.”
“Well, I can tell you for sure that he’s not in Florida. My baby sister called half an hour ago and said she saw his truck parked at the house where his girlfriend’s parents live.”
“Did your sister see him?”
“No, but it was his truck.”
Trish twirled the phone cord around her finger. “What’s the address?”
Trish wrote the street name and house number down on a notepad beside her computer. It was fifteen miles outside Paxton in a very rural part of the county. Why did the men in her caseload always hunker down in out-of-the-way places?
“We’re short-staffed on Sunday,” she said. “I’d hate to pull in a male deputy, drive all the way out there, and find out Rick isn’t at the house. Could you make sure he’s really there?”
“I already tried. His cousin ain’t answering her phone, and I didn’t want to leave a message that someone else might pick up and listen to.”
Trish debated what to do. “Okay, I’m going to check it out myself and verify that it’s Ricky’s truck.”
“He may have Florida plates on it by now. He knows the law is looking for him.”
“That won’t make any difference. I can access a national database.”
“Do what?”
“Find out if it’s Ricky’s truck, whether the license plate was issued by Georgia or Florida.”
“Be careful. He’s not too bad when he’s sober, but if he’s drinking, he’s meaner than a coyote.”
“I know. You showed me the pictures of you and your older boy.”
Recalling the bruised faces in the photos strengthened Trish’s resolve. She hung up and contacted one of the two patrol cars on the road. Nick Watkins was on duty, and she told him where she was going and what she wanted to do.
“I have a subpoena to serve on a man who lives about five miles from there,” Nick said. “If the truck checks out, let me know, and I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
“Are you by yourself?” Trish asked.
“Yeah, my partner called in sick, so I’m doing civil court duty on my own.”
Before leaving, Trish made sure the dispatcher knew where she would be. Both the unmarked cars were checked out for the weekend, so Trish drove her personal vehicle.
Her route out of town took her past the Paxton Apostolic Church. She slowed for a stop sign at the corner in front of the church as Holt and Bishop Alexander Pennington came out the front door.
Trish’s mouth dropped open, and on reflex she honked the horn. Holt jerked his head in her direction. She limply waved, and he motioned for her to turn into the parking lot. She pulled up next to the two men and lowered her window.
“Hey,” Holt said. “Do you know Bishop Pennington?”
“Everybody who grows up in Paxton knows the bishop.”
“Patricia Carmichael,” the bishop responded, putting his hand on the window frame. “I met your father several times. He was a good man who loved the Lord.”
“Yes, he did,” Trish said as she prepared to take her foot off the brake and leave.
“Are you on duty?” Holt asked.
“Yeah, I’m on my way to check on a suspect who may have slipped into town for a few days.”
“Has an arrest warrant been issued?”
“Yes, and he’s been on the run in Florida for months. I thought I was going to have to request extradition. If he’s here, it will save a lot of time and effort.”
“Is a deputy meeting you there?”
“Nick Watkins is on standby if I spot the defendant.”
“Would you like me to ride with you?”
Trish felt her face flush. “I thought you didn’t want to be seen with me. I mean, not that you’re mad at me—”
“Go,” the bishop said to Holt. “You need to tell someone what the Lord is doing in your soul.”
“I think I have to obey the bishop,” Holt said with a smile.
“Okay, get in.”
Holt shook the bishop’s hand and walked around the back of the car. The bishop leaned close to Trish.
“Have you been praying for Holt?” he asked in a soft voice.
Trish nodded. “Yes.”
“Is that why you honked your horn when you saw him coming out of the church?”
“I was shocked.”
Holt opened the passenger door of the car and got in.
“This is a good woman,” the bishop announced in a louder voice. “The grace that was on her father rests on her.”
After telling the bishop good-bye, Trish drove slowly across the parking lot. They skirted the edge of the basketball court.
“Tell me, why did you offer to come with me?” she asked.
“That’s where I play ball,” Holt said, ignoring her question. “Sometimes the bishop comes out, and we talk.”
Trish turned onto West Avenue. “Are you going to answer me?” she asked.
Holt shrugged. “I’m not sure I can, except that after being in church it seemed like the right thing to do.”
“How long have you been going there?”
“About four hours,” Holt replied. “They weren’t in a hurry to end the meeting.”
Trish smiled. Holt was much calmer than he’d been during their last meeting in the jury room at the courthouse. They passed the city limits and she accelerated.
“Tell me about the service.”
As Holt talked, Trish thought about her time of prayer for him at the rear of the courtroom. There was no doubt God was moving in the assistant DA’s life. It might not be taking the exact form she’d requested, but that didn’t matter. Jesus was weaving a fabric of grace tailor-made for Holt. When he described Bishop Pennington praying for him at the church altar, Trish couldn’t keep a huge grin from creasing her face. Holt stopped and stared at her.
“Have you been praying for me, too?” he asked.
Trish nodded. “And I bet Bishop Pennington has been praying for you ever since you met him. People would line up from here to the courthouse for a chance to be on his prayer list. All you had to do was show up on the basketball court.”
