Her father’s words punctured the memories, bringing her back to the present. “We welcome anyone who has accepted Christ’s salvation to participate in this symbolic ceremony we call Communion. Remember that the baby who came to give the world hope is also the Savior who died to give the world life.
“But we also urge you to remember the words of the apostle Paul. Nobody should participate in Communion unworthily. If your heart is not right, or if for some other reason you don’t wish to participate, just come forward and fold your arms across your chest. Instead of Communion, one of the other leaders or I will pray a blessing over you.”
They began the liturgy, her father reading, the congregation responding. The first part of the liturgy contained a prayer of repentance.
“Let us confess our sins against God and our neighbor,” her father said.
The congregation responded in unison, “Most merciful God, we confess that we have sinned against You in thought, word, and deed, by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.”
The prayer continued, but those first few words lodged in Kelly’s heart.
By what she had done. By what she had left undone.
For five years, Kelly had carried the burden of what she had done and the knowledge of what she had left undone. She hadn’t confessed it to anyone, not even her dad. She hadn’t tried to make it right with the authorities. God had become distant, prayers infrequent, church attendance all but nonexistent.
She was busy. She was tired.
And honestly, she was running from God.
As her row stood and marched forward, Kelly found herself sandwiched between her two brothers. As always, they lined up in front of her dad. Last year, she had taken Communion, compounding her guilt. She had brushed off the warning of the apostle Paul for a few days so she could enjoy Christmas, but later the guilt had come charging back. Along with regret. And hypocrisy.
By what we have done. And by what we have left undone.
She stood in front of her father. He had a wafer in his hand, waiting for Kelly to cup her hands and receive the symbol of Christ’s broken body.
Instead, she crossed her arms.
Her dad didn’t flinch. He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, closed his eyes, and asked the Lord to bless her.
On the way home, Kelly’s dad arranged it so she rode with him. She welcomed the chance to be alone with him for a few minutes before they hit the pandemonium of the house on Christmas Eve. It reminded Kelly of high school, how her dad would get up early every morning and drive her to swimming practice, even though she had her own license.
“Did you like the homily?” he asked.
“Fifteen minutes. What’s not to like?”
“People don’t want a long sermon on Christmas Eve. They just need a reminder. They need a chance to take a breath and remember.”
“It was great, Dad. They always are.”
Her dad kept his eyes on the road. “I’m really proud of you, Kelly. You’re an exceptional young lady.” He paused. She could sense a but coming, and he didn’t disappoint. “But you’ve always been so hard on yourself.”
This from a man who knows how to pile on the guilt. Her dad had a gentle, soft-spoken way, but he knew how to trip-wire every emotion. Especially remorse.
“I’ve had a good teacher.”
He gave her a knowing smile. Her dad was too honest to argue the point. Nobody was harder on himself than Kelly’s dad. “Is there something you need to talk about, Kelly?”
She let the question hang in the air for just a second. It was tempting to tell her dad everything. Somehow, after the initial shock, she knew he would understand. But something more powerful held her back-maybe the pain it would cause him; maybe her own shame at what she had done; maybe the fact that time had started to dim the memory and she didn’t want to fully open the painful wound.
“I’m fine, Dad. I’m just not in a place where I can take Communion right now.”
This brought a prolonged period of silence. It was an old trick that Kelly had wised up to in college. Her dad would just wait her out. Sooner or later, she would confess, driven by her overactive conscience and the deafening sound of silence. But she was older now. Wiser. A lawyer.
“I’ll work through it, Dad. It’s one of those things I’ve got to do on my own.”
27
On Christmas morning, Jason’s father woke at ten, had two cups of coffee, and downed a few ibuprofens for his headache. Then he apologized.
“I didn’t mean what I said last night,” he managed, speaking quietly with a thick tongue. “That was the booze talking.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You’ve got a job to do. Give ’em hell.”
“I intend to.”
Jason fixed pancakes, though his father didn’t have much of an appetite. They went for long periods without saying anything, emphasizing the fact that they no longer had much in common. By noon, it was time to open gifts.
First, they both unwrapped presents mailed by Jason’s sister. Afterward, Jason pulled a small package out of his briefcase.
“Thanks,” his father said, unwrapping it gingerly. The man had big hands, and Jason noticed they shook a little, making the gift opening more of a chore. His dad eventually got down to the single piece of paper at the center of a small box.
“Based on what you said last night, you might want to trade it for another model,” Jason offered.
His dad pulled out a picture of an MD-45, the gun Jason had fired at the shooting range. Underneath the picture was a gift certificate to the Bulls Eye Marksman store in Cumming, Georgia.
“I called the store and found out how much the MD-45 would cost. That gift certificate is for the exact amount. But seriously, Dad, I won’t be disappointed if you get a different gun. You can use that certificate for any gun in the store.”
“I never said they didn’t know how to make a good gun,” his father said. He looked at Jason, a spark of pride in the bloodshot eyes. “I never thought I’d see the day that I got something like this from you.”
Jason opened his father’s presents next. A new briefcase-soft leather. A gift certificate to Office Depot and another to S amp;K Menswear. Jason had to admit-his dad had tried.
“What kind of guns do you own?” Jason asked his father.
His dad perked up at the question and rattled off a list of the weapons in the Noble family armory. Then he had a brilliant idea.
“If you’re going to be the Great Defender of the Second Amendment, it might help if you knew how to shoot a gun. Your mother never let me take you when you were little, and by the time middle school rolled around…” Jason’s dad looked a little melancholy. “Well, we didn’t spend much time together. You want me to see if I can get us into the Fulton County shooting range this afternoon?”
Jason thought about it for a minute. They could sit in the house and risk another argument. Or they could spend a few hours at the shooting range. Maybe he would learn something that would prove useful in the case. Plus, it would serve his dad right-loud noises to exacerbate the hangover.
“Sounds good. I just need to be at the airport no later than eight.”
28
One month later
Judge Robert A. Garrison Jr. had been presiding over Virginia Beach Circuit Court, Courtroom 8, for the past seven years. Short, pudgy, pale-skinned, and bald, he looked more like an accountant who had just survived a hectic tax season than a judge. But with the power of the gavel, the man transformed into a monarch. He ran a tight ship, routinely starting court one or two minutes early. He liked to lecture criminal defendants and their lawyers, favoring prosecutors blatantly enough that nobody could accuse him of being soft on crime.