Home Fires Page 20

  Chapter 42

  Monday morning Cyndi and Mike arrived at the courthouse early, hoping to catch Judge Ferndale before court reconvened.

  In the judge’s reception area, Cyndi found herself sitting on a Naugahyde seat worn shiny and thin by years and posteriors.

  “Do you think she’ll grant us another delay?” she asked Mike, who sat across from her, his knees almost touching hers.

  He looked up from his phone. He’d been staring through it. “I don’t know. We can only hope.”

  And pray. The thought came unbidden. “What if she won’t talk to us? What if she’ll only talk to our attorney?”

  “Well, we don’t exactly have one, so . . . I don’t know what else we can do.”

  The second hand on the wall clock ticked off the seconds. Cyndi cleaned under her fingernails. Time stood still.

  Ten minutes before the trial was to start, Judge Ferndale’s secretary said, “Mr. and Mrs. Finch?”

  Cyndi and Mike both looked up. “Yes?”

  “The judge will not be able to see you before going into the courtroom.”

  “We’ll make it quick—”

  “I’m sorry. You can go on in and find your places.”

  Cyndi leaned over to pick up her purse and followed Mike into the hall. “Do you think she’s angry with us?” she asked.

  “I hope not.” Mike grabbed her hand, smearing it with the cold sweat of his own. “I guess we’ll find out soon.”

  In the courtroom, they walked the long, lonely path down the aisle to their table on the defense side of the room. The plaintiff’s table was also at half strength. Mr. Ridley’s two attorneys sat upright, their unopened briefcases squared off on the table in front of them. Cyndi thought Allie Ridley might have come without her husband, but she wasn’t here. Cyndi hadn’t seen her since she left the hospital the other night. Allie had refused her offer to sit with Spencer, but just making the offer had shaken the shackles from Cindy’s soul.

  At the “All rise,” everyone stood until Judge Ferndale took the bench. The imposing mahogany desk dwarfed the judge.

  Cyndi wiped her hands on her skirt. She looked over at the plaintiffs’ table, at the empty seats. She should be thrilled that the Ridleys failed to appear. But after seeing Allie’s face in that hospital room, after seeing the fear in Zach’s eyes, she found her own heart thawing toward them. No matter what the outcome of today’s hearing, Cyndi determined to show grace to the Ridleys, if not for their own sake, then for the sake of their son.

  The judge leaned in toward her microphone and spoke. “This court has come to order. I understand the defense has a question?” She looked at the empty chair next to Mike. “Where is your attorney?”

  Mike half stood up and stammered, “He’s, um, indisposed, Your Honor. Permission to approach the bench?”

  Cyndi wanted to sink through the floor.

  “You may approach.”

  Mike stepped forward alone.

  Cyndi wasn’t sure if she was supposed to go up there or not. She could only catch a few of Mike’s words, though she knew what he’d been planning to say.

  “. . . unable to be present today . . .”

  The judge’s reaction was inaudible, covered by a shuffling sound from the prosecuting attorney. Cyndi peeked over at him. He pulled out his cell phone and looked at the screen.

  “. . . arrested. He’s in jail . . .”

  Judge Ferndale released Mike to return to his seat and spoke to the room as a whole.

  “Due to some extraordinary circumstances, I am granting, once again, a short recess. This court will reconvene in twenty minutes.” When she stood and left the room, so did the other attorney.

  Mike trembled. “I don’t ever want to do that again. I’ve never felt so hung out to dry as this morning. Joe’s left us in a pretty bad spot.”

  Though she knew banter and worry were not helpful, she joined Mike in a verbal dance. She whispered one possibility of what might happen, and he countered with another. Back and forth, they went over all the contingencies they could imagine, none of them very good.

  A few more people filtered into the courtroom, including Rebecca Whitt, that nosy reporter who had exposed Clark. A whole new level of emotion welled up in Cyndi as the girl returned to her thoughts. She lifted a quick prayer that if one of them had to lose, it would be herself, not Clark.

  The prosecuting attorney returned to his side of the room just before the judge entered again. “It has come to my attention that, due to unforeseen circumstances, the defense is once again without an attorney,” Judge Ferndale said. “I am considering granting another brief stay to the defense. Would the prosecution have any objection?”

  The prosecution evidently did, since he asked to approach the bench. Minutes dragged by before he was allowed to sit down again.

  Judge Ferndale pinched the bridge of her nose between her eyes. She put on her glasses and riffled through some papers in front of her. “The court would like to recognize the prosecution at this time.”

  Cyndi turned and watched the lawyer rise.

  He got permission to approach and stood in conference with the judge for long enough to make Cyndi uncomfortable.

  When he backed away, the judge looked out at the room. “Well, this morning is starting off full of surprises. The plaintiff is asking to drop the lawsuit against the defendant.”

  Cyndi’s stomach climbed her throat. Even the chance that the case would be dismissed . . . She held her breath and waited for the judge’s ruling.

  The judge removed her glasses and spoke to both sides. “Case dismissed.”

  Cyndi and Mike exhaled as one.

  Before the news had time to sink in, the judge rose and left the room. The great wooden door closed behind her, and the courtroom was doused in silence.

  Cyndi swiveled in her chair and faced Mike, who wore the same stunned look that she felt.

  A second later, a grin broke out on his face, followed by whoops and hollers from the defendant’s side of the courtroom. Cyndi stood, still in shock, and reached for him. She squeezed her arms around his neck. Was it truly over?

  Mike picked her up off the ground and spun her around. “It’s over!” he said into her ear. “We’re free!”

  “You’re choking me,” she whispered back.

  He set her back on her feet.

  The Ridleys’ attorney swung wide on his way out. He placed an envelope on the table by Cyndi and kept walking.

  Cyndi picked it up. She tore it open and pulled out the index card inside. In perfect handwriting, three words.

  “Thank you. —Allie.”

  Cyndi pressed the note to her chest. She hadn’t done much, but it was enough.

  Instead of heading out the front doors of the courthouse, Mike led Cyndi down the hall on the ground floor to one of the smaller courtrooms.

  She didn’t have to ask where he was leading her. Joe’s arraignment was set to start any minute. She expected a reluctance to rise inside her, but as they approached the room, she felt none of the anger, hurt, or betrayal she’d harbored against Joe over the past several days. It could just be the relief of the suit being dismissed. She didn’t have to worry about losing their house or Home Fires. Or was it, perhaps, more than that?

  Joe, even guilty Joe, needed them to be there for him.

  They entered the criminal court. The room was smaller and more run down. The judge’s bench was raised only six inches or so above the rest of the floor. Instead of heavy wooden pews, spectators sat in molded plastic chairs with shiny metal legs.

  The front row was filled with men in orange.

  Cyndi scanned the row until she found Joe’s gray hair. Fifth in line if they were going in order.

  Mike nudged her to the right. Cyndi wondered if it was like at a wedding where you had to pick sides. She made herself as comfortable as she could on the slippery plastic chair.

  The assistant to the district attorney brought one man after another before the judge. M
ost of the accused sat with shoulders hunched forward. From the back, Cyndi imagined them with eye patches and missing teeth, ball and chain around their ankles.

  Court-appointed attorneys droned through lists of reasons why their clients were innocent, were not flight risks, could not be expected to meet a high bail. The judge released two under their own recognizance and sent the other two back to jail to await trial.

  When Joe’s name was called, he shuffled to the podium on the defense side. She couldn’t see them, but Cyndi could tell from the way Joe walked that his wrists were cuffed in front.

  “Where is your attorney?” the judge asked.

  “I’m representing myself,” Joe answered.

  “I strongly advise against that. You do know that an attorney will be appointed to you at no charge?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, I understand. And I waive my right to an attorney. I choose to stand in my own defense.”

  The judge spoke to the room for the stenographer’s benefit. “Let it be noted that Mr. Talbot has refused his right to an attorney. Proceed.”

  “Your Honor?” Joe said.

  “Yes?”

  “May I request permission to have these cuffs removed during the arraignment?”

  The judge indicated that the accompanying officer should remove the restraints.

  “Your Honor,” the prosecuting attorney said, “Mr. Talbot is accused of acts of vandalism against a tent city. A witness places Mr. Talbot at the scene of the crime on that day. He had motive and opportunity. And he’s homeless; therefore he’s a flight risk. We request that Mr. Talbot be held at the county jail until a trial date.”

  “Mr. Talbot?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.” Joe did not hang his head as the other accused men did.

  “How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty.”

  “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “First of all, Your Honor, just because I’m homeless does not mean I’m a criminal. If you check my record, you will find that it is clean. Also, I am not a flight risk. I have lived in this city for over thirty years, and I don’t intend to go anywhere. And third, and definitely not least, I am innocent. I request that you release me without bail.”

  “Mr. Talbot, you know I can’t do that. I am setting bail at ten thousand dollars. If you do meet bail, you will be expected to provide the court with a permanent address.”

  The judge brought his gavel down on its pedestal. “Next case?”

  Cyndi sat, stunned, as they clicked the handcuffs back around Joe’s wrists and led him, shuffling, out the side door. She’d been so sure in her moment of happiness, she never considered . . . But of course they weren’t going to just let him go.

  She elbowed Mike. “Let’s go,” she said. “We need to spring a friend from jail.”

  The Finches were just walking through the door after their Christmas Eve service when the phone rang. Cyndi picked it up with a prayer it might be Clark.

  It was Zach.

  “Hi, Zach. What’s going on? Is everything okay?”

  “Yes . . . no, actually. My mom’s going to stay at the hospital with Dad. Our house is just so big and empty and I—”

  “Oh, sweetie, it’s Christmas Eve. You can’t stay alone. Come stay at our place.”

  She made up the guest bed for Zach. It would be good to have someone stay in that room again.

  In the morning, Cyndi stood outside the guest room door, her fist poised to knock. On second thought, she’d let him sleep. She tiptoed downstairs to start breakfast. Her traditional cinnamon rolls were already done, but she still needed to fry the bacon and cut up some fruit for a salad.

  She sliced strips of skin off a pineapple, letting her mind wander as her hands took on the familiar task. Two weeks and not a word from Clark. Her number didn’t work, the house was empty, and CPS was no help at all. She spent every afternoon on the streets, looking for Clark, talking to people who might know where she was. This afternoon she’d go out again.

  How could God let an innocent person suffer at the hands of an evil one? For she knew in her heart that Clark was suffering.

  “I just don’t get it,” Zach had said late last night. “She was trying to make a better life. Why did he have to find her? I knew she didn’t want to be on camera, and I just wasn’t paying attention. If I’d had my eyes open, I could have—”

  “Don’t even consider the mighta, coulda, shouldas,” Cyndi said. “We can’t change what happened. The past is past. All we can do is pray for a better future.”

  “Can we?”

  Cyndi looked at him. “Can we what? Pray?”

  Zach nodded.

  “Right now?”

  He nodded again.

  She was new back to it. Since her prayer that night in the hospital, she’d talked to God several times, just not in front of anyone. “Do you want to pray, or do you want me to?”

  “Um, you.” He fidgeted a little, but he leaned forward in prayer posture when Cyndi reached for his hand. In the instant between when Cyndi said, “Father God,” and when she started to word her prayer, she relaxed into the arms of her Lord. She knew from experience that it was safe to say anything she wanted and that he would listen. Mike was relaxed too, snoring softly in his easy chair, but Zach was completely present. She could feel his agreement as she poured out her heart, carrying Clark before the throne.

  After several minutes of talking to God, Cyndi felt Zach squirm again. She peeked up at him. He chewed on his bottom lip.

  “Did you want to say something?” she asked.

  “I don’t know how.”

  “You just talk. Say whatever is on your mind, and God will hear you. Okay?”

  “I’ll try,” he said. He bowed his head again and coughed, then cleared his throat. “Um, God? This is Zach. I was wondering, while you’re listening, could you help my dad get better too? I know we haven’t got along too well the past year or so, and he’s kind of been a jerk to a lot of people, but he’s still my dad and it’s pretty bad what’s happening to him. And to Mom. She’s a mess. Can you make things a little easier on her?”

  He stopped talking and just waited. Cyndi waited with him for a moment before concluding the prayer with an “Amen.”

  “Thanks,” Zach said with a small, crooked smile.

  “You know prayer is not a magic formula, don’t you?” Cyndi didn’t want to discourage him, but she hoped he didn’t get the impression he could force God into doing something just by praying. “God’s will is a complex thing.”

  “I don’t expect any miracles, I guess. I never talked to God before. And he really hears when you talk to him that way?”

  Cyndi beamed inside when she answered that question. “You know, I think he really does.”

  “And he’ll make sure Clark is okay?”

  She shook her head. “I hope so, Zach. I really do.”

  Cyndi thought back on the prayer as she made Christmas breakfast.

  “Smells good.” Mike stood in the kitchen door and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. He shuffled across the kitchen to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. “How late were you two up last night?”

  Cyndi ran a hand through her not-yet-combed hair. “I think it must have been three or three thirty. We had a good talk, though.”

  “Yeah, we did.”

  Oh good, Zach was awake.

  Mike offered him a cup of coffee. “How’d you sleep?”

  “Okay, I guess,” Zach said.

  “Breakfast is almost ready,” Cyndi said. “We’ve got regular Sunday worship this morning, a van load of presents to deliver to the tent city, and a whole team of people lined up to serve lunch at Home Fires. And I want to check all the regular places this afternoon for Clark. It’s going to be a busy day.”

  “Could we make time to swing by and see my folks?” Zach asked.

  “Of course we can,” Cyndi said. She checked her voice, hoping the strain of seeing the Ridleys for the first time since finding out they w
ere Zach’s parents wasn’t showing through. At least with the lawsuit off the table, that huge elephant was taken care of.

  Chapter 43

  A year ago, Joe never could have predicted that he would spend this Christmas serving hot meals in a soup kitchen. Of course, he couldn’t have predicted that he would use his law license again, either, or that he would be arrested. It had been a big year.

  “Merry Christmas, old man!” Cyndi greeted him. She was the last in line. The other couple hundred or so were already seated at their tables. Most had already eaten. “Grab some food and we’ll sit together,” she said.

  Joe plopped turkey, mashed potatoes, and gravy on his plate and slipped a roll in his pocket for Wolf. He peeled off his latex gloves and joined Cyndi at a table.

  “Quite a year, huh?” she asked as Joe crammed food in his mouth. Years of hunger bred horrid table manners, he knew, but he didn’t care.

  “Yep, quite a year,” she repeated. “And it’s not over yet. We promised Zach we’d go down and see his parents at the hospital this afternoon. I can’t believe it. First that they could have such a great kid. I hope he’s not too disappointed if we can’t just waltz in and patch everything up with his folks after all they’ve done to try to hurt us. I know God doesn’t really punish people for their sins, but in this case—”

  Joe almost gagged on his turkey. How could Cyndi drone through tragedies in other people’s lives and then suggest that they were fair punishments? “Really?”

  She paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “What?”

  “I can’t believe you said that. You talk like you want to help people. Sounds like you want to choose who you’re nice to. He’s in a coma.”

  Cyndi held her voice at a low level, but her face screwed up in frustration. Her clenched fists pressed against the tabletop. “How dare you? If it weren’t for me, you’d still be on the street eating tossed-out food from Dumpsters. If it weren’t for me, you’d still be in jail. Who bailed you out?” She half stood and leaned toward Joe.

  Joe wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin and tossed the soiled cloth on the table. “You did,” he admitted. “You did. But you also called the cops on me.”