The Resurrection File (26 page)

When Sherman met with Reichstad a few days later to report on how the deposition of MacCameron had gone, he was aglow with cautious optimism. He detailed each of the blows that he had inflicted on the fundamentalist preacher and magazine publisher in his questioning.

But Dr. Reichstad seemed unusually distracted in the conference. He had only one matter that he wanted to discuss with Sherman. Reichstad repeatedly demanded that Sherman discover everything he could about whether MacCameron might be in possession of certain “papers” dealing with the 7QA fragment.

“What do you mean by ‘papers'?” Sherman asked his client.

“I'm sure you know what ‘papers' are,” Reichstad countered. “I simply want you to demand that MacCameron produce to me any piece of paper that he might have in connection with the 7QA fragment.”

“Other than the actual article that MacCameron wrote—and copies of the research articles he accumulated on the 7QA fragment, what kind of ‘papers' would you expect him to have?” Sherman asked, with a growing impatience at his client's ambiguity.

“I don't know. Perhaps some kind of paper that might be—well—connected directly with the actual 7QA fragment itself,” Reichstad answered somewhat evasively.

“And what type of ‘paper' would that be? What type of ‘paper' would be, as you say, ‘connected directly with the actual 7QA fragment'?” Sherman asked, now clearly irritated.

“That is for you to find out, isn't it, Mr. Sherman? That is, after all, what you are being paid huge amounts of money to do as my lawyer, is it not?”

“I'm being paid to be your lawyer,” Sherman barked back, “not your mind reader. Lay it out for me, Doctor. What kind of ‘paper' are you talking about? Spell it out.”

Reichstad straightened up slightly in the leather chair in Sherman's inner office. Then he asked, “Of course, everything that is said here is confidential, right? Everything you and I discuss is protected by attorney-client privilege?”

Sherman nodded, but he narrowed his eyes as he surveyed his client. He suspected that with a modicum of encouragement Reichstad could be led to disgorge some information that was at least disagreeable, and perhaps even nasty. J-Fox Sherman had the stomach, of course, for things disagreeable and nasty. But he had no stomach for losing—no desire to hear something that might undermine the stellar case that he had painstakingly prepared.

“Of course,” Sherman responded. “Everything here is secret. Although, there are some ethical conditions placed on me by the bar association. If, for instance, a client were to describe an ongoing conspiracy to commit a crime, plans to perpetrate a crime in the future, or cover up a crime committed in the past—or if the client fabricates a case that is built on lies and commits a fraud on the court—then sometimes,” Sherman continued, speaking very slowly for the benefit of his client, “sometimes an attorney has to turn a client in to the authorities. That is why a client should be
very careful
what he tells even his own attorney.”

There was a moment of silence as Reichstad managed a smile. Then he said, “Yes. I think I understand.”

“Do you?” Sherman asked.

“Yes.”

“Now,” Sherman continued, “about that ‘paper' that you want me to demand from MacCameron. Exactly what are you looking for?”

“Hmm. Yes. Well, let's just say that if you were to demand from MacCameron that he produce any piece of paper that he believes was at one time
connected to
7QA…”

Reichstad's voice trailed off.

“Let's just say,” Sherman added, picking up the cue from his client, “that MacCameron believes that there are other fragment pieces that were once part of 7QA. Let's just assume that. Then perhaps I should make a demand for such fragments to be produced to us.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Reichstad responded, smiling. “And if he does not have possession of such fragments himself, perhaps he could be forced to describe who
does
have possession of them.”

“Yes. I can make that kind of discovery demand in this lawsuit,” Sherman noted. “But of course, I don't recall your ever telling me that 7QA was originally part of a bigger fragment. And I have an excellent memory. Now such a revelation, if it were true, could be very damaging to your case.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Reichstad said as he rose from his chair. “But then what is more important, ensuring that my 7QA discovery remains in the history books—or winning one little lawsuit?”

After a career as one of America's most celebrated trial lawyers, J-Fox Sherman already knew the answer to that question—even if his client didn't.

27

T
HE SUN WAS OUT AND THE AIR WAS WARM
as Will Chambers motored along the North Carolina coastline. The top was down on his Corvette convertible, and the sunlight felt good on his face after some days of cloudy weather. His golden retriever, Clarence, was in the passenger seat, his head in the wind, his ears flapping, and his eyes closed in dog delight.

Off to his left Will saw the white band of beaches and the azure blue of the ocean. No whitecaps today. The Atlantic was calm. As he drove up and over the bridge that led out to Cape Hatteras he wondered how long it had been. Ten, fifteen years perhaps since he had last visited the ocean home of his Uncle Bull and Aunt Georgia. He had talked with them a few times by telephone. Some letters and Christmas cards had passed back and forth. The last time he had met with them face-to-face was at Audra's funeral.

When Will had started on his four-hour drive from Virginia down to the sand dunes and fishing boats of the Outer Banks he had told himself that he was really going there to meet his uncle for professional reasons. Bull Chambers had been a well-respected North Carolina county judge. Now that he was retired and lived year-round on the coast, from what Will gathered he spent most of his time ocean fishing and beach walking with his wife of fifty years. Bull was one of the wisest men Will had known in the law—full of the common-sense side of legal issues—studied, calm, and deliberate. And while Bull was smart, he always knew that the underside of the cold, objective standards of justice included a healthy dose of mercy. Beyond even that, Will had a bond with Uncle Bull. When Will and his father had become estranged many years back he always felt he could turn to Bull, his father's brother, to talk things out.

Will had told his client Angus MacCameron only that he needed to consult a trusted “legal advisor” regarding the thorny dilemma with which
they were presented at the end of the deposition. MacCameron consented and told Will that whatever he decided to do about the Rule 11 motion—or anything else in the case for that matter—had his complete support.

Yet as Will drove down the sandy dirt road to Bull and Georgia's weathered ocean house he felt that perhaps there had been other reasons for this trip. Personal reasons. Subjects that had been put away like you put away a closed file on the shelf or hang clothes in the back closet because they're out of season. Put away, but not forgotten.

He came into view of the little home with wooden siding worn and bleached gray by the sun and wind and salt air. The two-story beach house with the screened-in front porch was perched up on a bluff overlooking the white dunes, which were spotted with occasional clumps of tall saw grass blowing in the breeze.

As Will pulled his car down into the driveway, Georgia Chambers, a woman of sixty-nine with salt-and-pepper hair, scooted out of the back door and into full view. Will had always remembered her as a creature of eternal optimism and energy. Georgia was wearing blue jeans and a sweatshirt, and her head was cocked slightly to the side, with an enormous grin, and both hands were on her hips in her characteristic pose of spunk and love.

“Willie Chambers, you come over here right now and plant a big kiss on your Auntie Georgia's wrinkled face!”

Georgia held her arms out wide, and Will hugged her slight frame, smelling the lilac water she always wore.

She put her arm through his and led him into the kitchen, where she had a glass of lemonade waiting for him. Clarence bounded in after them. She scolded him gently for not coming down to visit over the years. She ran her fingers through the tangle of his long hair and said, “You are getting to look so like your daddy.”

Georgia explained that Bull was waiting for Will at the harbor, where he was working on his big fishing boat. She walked Will out onto the screened-in porch.

There on the porch, just as Will could have expected, was a table with the pieces of a picture puzzle, some connected, some in disarray. Will looked at the semi-completed jigsaw puzzle and reached for the box cover that lay on the floor.

Georgia quickly grabbed his hand away. “No fair. You have to guess first, Willie. Now what does it look like? Guess.”

Will studied the collection of pieces that were already fitted together in the middle of the table.

“Looks like a cave,” Will remarked.

“Close,” Georgia chimed brightly. “It's called the Garden Tomb. That's the tomb that a British general by the name of Gordon discovered in the 1880s. A lot of folks think that was the place where the Lord Jesus was buried and rose again.”

“How long have you been working on this?” Will asked.

“Oh, a couple weeks. Only when I get the urge. Bull and I have been so busy doing absolutely nothing that I don't get to it very often!” She laughed loudly and then added, “You know I'm trying to talk your Uncle Bull into taking me over to the Holy Land next year. You know, I've never been. What a thrill that's going to be!”

As they left and walked over to Will's car, he looked back toward the porch.

“I remember you reading to me on that porch when I was a kid.”

“Oh yes,” Georgia replied. “Remember the little Bible lessons and stories I used to teach you and the other children on the porch? Your daddy would throw a fit! Oh my, he didn't care for that. Well, you know your daddy!” And then she laughed some more.

Will kissed her and hopped in his car with his dog. He promised he wouldn't be such a stranger anymore, and would visit again. Then he started driving along the beach road toward the marina where he expected to find Bull Chambers.

28

D
OWN AT THE DOCKS
B
ULL
C
HAMBERS
was working on the deck of his big fishing rig, named
Sweet Georgia Mine.

A tall, lanky man, Bull had a face that was weathered and deeply lined and showed all of his seventy years. But his arms were tan and muscular. Bull was a man who was lean and sinewy and tough but always met folks with a smile and a gentle voice. From his physical appearance, his gait, and his folksy manner, one might think that Bull had spent his life as a woodsman or a fisherman, rather than presiding over a court of law.

The retired judge gave a big wave from the boat's bow when he saw Will, and the two shook hands warmly as Will climbed on board. Clarence scampered behind him and then quickly plopped on top of one of the boat cushions.

“Thought we'd do some fishing while we talked,” Bull said. “Push us off from the pier, will you, while I back her up.”

Bull navigated the big fishing boat out of the channel, moving slowly until they started heading toward the open ocean.

On the telephone Will had only told Bull that he had a case to discuss with him. Now, while Will stood next to Bull in the little wheelhouse of the boat as they ventured out into deeper waters, Will launched into the details of
Reichstad vs. MacCameron and
Digging for Truth
Magazine.

By the time Bull had arrived at his favorite spot for the big ocean tuna and marlin and was gearing the engine down, Will was just finishing his overview of the case, including J-Fox Sherman's ruthless Rule 11 attorney's-fees motion against Will.

Along with his review of that case, however, Will had also talked about a great deal more—his being forced out of his law firm, his money problems, his frustration with his legal career, his irritation at his former managing
partner Hadley Bates, his night with Fiona at the little Italian restaurant, and his general impressions of Angus MacCameron's religious views.

Bull addressed Will's legal concerns first.

“I know a little about how J-Fox Sherman operates,” Bull said in his slow tarheel drawl, as he baited the thick rod that was locked in next to the fishing chair at the stern. “I had him in my courtroom a number of years ago. It was a complicated product-liability case. He marched down from Washington with his army of legal assistants, you know. Sherman's a lawyer who does to his opponents what I do to those sea bass I like to catch—first he guts them, then he pulls out the spine.”

Bull slowed the boat to trolling speed and set Will up in the chair with the wide leather belt around his waist. Will slowly started reeling the line in.

“Hey,” Will said, “it's been a lot of years. I hope I remember how to do this.”

Bull yelled out, “How do you like the name of my boat?”

“Yeah, I noticed it,” Will replied. “Aunt Georgia must have been honored.”