The Resurrection File (62 page)

Will crossed the street to his building and steadily climbed the stairs. He strode through the lobby and through the door into his office, where he then plucked the Byzantine coin given to him by Nathan out of its place in the glass box he had put it in on top of his desk. He studied it, and then sat down on the carpet with his back against his large mahogany desk, knees drawn up, the coin in his hand. Will looked hard at the semi-obscured, fifteen-hundred-year-old visage of Jesus that lay in his hand.

He was quiet for a long while, oblivious to the sounds of cars down on the street below, and the occasional noise from elsewhere in the building. Now he was intent on conducting only one piece of business. Nothing else, at that moment, seemed to matter very much.

Crossing his arms, he rested them on his knees and bowed his head against them. And with his eyes closed he walked into the silence of that moment. Time slowed. Will Chambers knew that in these quiet seconds of eternity he was to encounter the Person of God. The ever-watching and unseen face of the Everlasting One.

“God,” he started out, “I don't know how to do this. I'm not much of a man. Lost. Confused. Busted dreams. And a broken heart. I have so many questions. And not many answers. But I've read your written record. And I know that Jesus is real—I know it. That he was killed on that cross for my sins. And for everybody's. That was the mission. That's why he came. Death
couldn't hold him back—and the tomb couldn't either. Which means he really was your Son, after all.”

Will thought for a second and then said, “I'm afraid I don't know what comes next. Tell me what I ought to do now. Just do what you have to do with my heart. Thanks for listening.”

Then he added, “Amen.”

“Praise!”

Will started at the shout. Opening his eyes and turning himself to the side, he heard it again.

“Praise!”

Hattie, the cleaning lady, was looking at him through the open door. She was standing in the lobby of his office, beaming.

“Praise God!” Hattie was exclaiming. She was sweeping the air grandly, back and forth with her hands, and doing a little jig with her feet.

“Lord, oh Lord! You went fishing and you caught yourself a lawyer today!”

Will started to get up to his feet, but Hattie walked in and admonished him boldly, wagging her index finger.

“Don't you get up from there. That's holy ground. Holy ground! You stay right there on that floor, Mr. Will Chambers.”

Will complied, leaning back against the desk again, still seated on the carpet.

“I want you to know, now, I wasn't spying on you. I was just coming in to empty your wastepaper baskets,” she continued. “But I must have been led here for a reason. Now, you don't want to be a wasted seed, do you?”

There was a puzzled look on Will's face. “That's bad, right?”

“Jesus says that the sown seed that gets swooped up by the birds, or gets scorched by the sun, or gets all choked off by the weeds—well, that seed is no good to nobody.”

“Yes,” Will said remembering, “I think I read that…”

“Do you have a church?”

“I don't think so.”

“Now you ought to come down to my church; it's the one down by the river. Not five blocks from here. Mount of Olives Church of the Risen Savior. Brother Henry Bickford, Pastor. You come on down there any Sunday morning.”

“I surely will,” he said.

“And you bring a friend. That's our motto. ‘The message is too good for just one.' You got someone to bring with you?”

“Yes,” Will replied. “As a matter of fact, I think I do.”

“You invite that person.”

“I most assuredly will. I will be calling her tonight. I'll ask her to join me in coming to your church sometime.”

“You do that, Mr. Chambers. God bless you real good now,” she said as she left the office and closed the door.

Will could hear her singing “What a friend we have in Jesus…” as she pushed her cleaning cart down the hallway.

74

O
NE WEEK LATER, AFTER SUNDOWN
, when the street lamps along the cobblestone streets of Monroeville had just come on, Will was making a quick trip back to his office. It was a mild night. Some of the evening birds were still chirping, and there was a soft breeze blowing through the blossoms on the pear trees. He had forgotten his wallet and checkbook and was returning to the office to fetch them. As he got out of his car he paused a minute to enjoy the sweet evening air.

Then he entered the building, locking the tall oak front doors behind him, and walked up and the stairs to his darkened office and turned on the lights. He spotted his wallet and checkbook—on his desk, as he had thought. He was about to leave when the phone in the lobby rang. He thought about letting it go to voice mail, but instead picked up the receiver. Jacki Johnson was on the other end.

Her voice was excited and she was talking a mile a minute.

“I was just on the Internet—I saw something that indicated that Judge Kaye had just filed his decision…he's posted it on the Web…but I can't get through to read it.”

The fax line started ringing in the copy room.

“Wait a minute,” Will yelled, and he ran down the hallway.

After a few seconds the document started printing out. Will could see the letterhead of the U.S. District Court of the District of Columbia on it.

He ran back to the lobby and picked up the phone.

“Jacki—the court decision is just coming through the fax right now…hang on the line, and I'll tell you what the judge ruled as soon as I read it.” Will put the receiver down and started to run back down the hallway, but the second phone line rang.

When Will picked it up he heard a woman's voice.

“Mr. Chambers, I am a reporter from the Affiliated Press Service. We have just received something in, a few minutes ago. I'm wondering if you could confirm Judge Kaye's ruling, and give us a statement—”

“Listen, could you hold on for a minute?” Will broke in. He put her on hold, and started back down the hall to the fax machine, but the third telephone line started ringing.

He grabbed it and asked that caller also to wait just a minute, and then put him on hold as well.

Before Will could start for the fax machine again, he heard someone yelling his name outside, down on the street.

Will ran over to the window and yanked it open. There, down on the street, was Jack Hornby.

Hornby was standing next to a television truck with a large satellite dish.

“Will Chambers! I need to talk to you!” Hornby yelled. “I really need the first interview here…after all I've done for you. So what do you say? Come on down here and unlock the door of this relic and let me in.”

“What's going on?” Will shouted down.

“Reichstad versus MacCameron.
That's what it is.”

“I'm just getting the court's decision now on my fax, I haven't even read it yet!” Will yelled.

“You don't have to. I have it right here!” Hornby shouted back, waving a copy of the court's ruling in his hand. “Just give me the first crack at this story, and then after you talk to me, a
real
newsman, then you can do the standup interview for these TV clowns down here, alright?”

“So why did the
Herald
change their mind and decide to cover this?” Will asked, leaning out of the window.

“They didn't. I changed jobs. Congratulate me. I'm the new Washington, D.C., bureau chief for American Press International. Now go pull the court decision off your fax—just read the last page and then the footnote on page seven—that'll give you the box score. You can read the rest later.”

Will sprinted down to the fax machine and pulled off the sheets of paper. He riffled through them and pulled out the last page and page seven, as Hornby had suggested.

Hornby was right. At the last page Judge Kaye summarized his ruling.

Regarding Reichstad and his attorneys having to pay MacCameron for the prejudice caused by their abrupt dismissal of the lawsuit, the court found Will's demand for half-a-million dollars “slightly excessive.” Instead, the court ordered Reichstad to pay Angus MacCameron $400,000.

As for Will's attorney's fees and costs, and those of Jacki Johnson, the court granted the entire $596,843.74; this also to be paid personally by Dr. Reichstad.

J-Fox Sherman's law firm, however, had been mercifully let off the hook.

Then Will turned to page seven of the court's ruling and looked at the footnote. It read:

Plaintiff Reichstad argues that he decided to dismiss his lawsuit in the middle of the jury trial because his recent discovery of an ancient corpse has ‘vindicated' his claim to have disproved the bodily resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth—thus dispensing with the need for a jury verdict to clear his professional reputation.

This argument the Court believes to be so incredible as to not be worthy of belief. MacCameron's expert, Dr. Giovanni, testified convincingly, as to the identity of the corpse found recently in Jerusalem, near St. Stephen's Gate, most likely being that of one Joseph of Arimathea, a follower of Jesus and the religious official who, according to the New Testament, was the prime mover behind the burial of Jesus.

It would appear to this court that Dr. Reichstad's real motivation in dismissing his lawsuit when he did was to avoid the damaging—indeed, perhaps even indicting—testimony of Muhammad el Juma, a Bedouin tribesman who discovered the 7QA, 7QB, and 7QC fragments—and who could have linked Dr. Reichstad to the suspicious deaths of antiquities dealer Harim Azid and Dr. Richard Hunter.

Judge Kaye concluded the unusual footnote this way:

The conclusion of this rather extraordinary legal action now ends the inquiry into the burial, and possible resurrection, of Jesus Christ—the most central tenet of the Christian religion. That question is left
unresolved
. But then, perhaps that is also fitting. It is better left decided within the chambers of the human heart, rather than the chambers of a court of law. So, as matters stand, this Court, at least, can venture no
official
opinion on that issue.

As Will started toward the door to go down and speak with Jack Hornby he remembered Jacki on hold. Her line was beeping at the front desk.

“Jacki,” Will said, picking up the phone, “the court gave us almost everything we asked for. I can't talk right now. I'll call you back in thirty minutes.
But when I call you back, I'm going to make you an offer to come back to work for me, so be prepared to say yes!”

When Will got down to Jack Hornby on the sidewalk, the reporter was smiling one of his ironic smiles.

“I wanted to interview God on this one, like you once suggested, but he's not available. So I'll have to settle for you instead.”

“Don't be so sure about that,” Will replied. The bells of St. Andrew's were now beginning to toll from above them. “That may be him calling right now.”

75

Seven Months Later

W
ASHINGTON
, D.C.,
IS A CITY OF MANY SECRETS
—but ultimately, secrets only poorly kept.

The word had begun to surface that a federal grand jury had been convened in the District regarding actions of Undersecretary Kenneth Sharptin—the subject matter was illegal campaign fund-raising, possible violation of several foreign relations laws, and influence-peddling and international bribery regarding Warren Mullburn's attempted entrée into OPEC. The federal prosecutors handling the grand jury were in possession of unique evidence that had been gathered by the FBI.

The FBI's agents had followed up on Will Chambers' strange story of his abduction by Abdul el Alibahd. Will's description of Alibahd's physical condition confirmed other information gathered by the CIA and military intelligence. The terrorist, it appeared, was dying, and his web of international criminal activity was expected to soon unravel; his organization, it was thought, would be retooled and continued by several of his lieutenants. But that would not happen. American military operatives were closing in on Alibahd and his group. Soon they would kill his bodyguards, and capture the man himself. Consumed by lung cancer, Alibahd would be carried away by Delta Force commandos on a stretcher—gasping for air, but finding none.

The FBI was also actively investigating the message Alibahd had delivered to Warren Mullburn through Will. Mullburn himself soon became their focus, as well as his cozy relationship with Kenneth Sharptin and his financing of Sharptin's bid for the vice-presidential slot. But the federal agents were astonished at the breadth and audacity of their apparent conspiracy: a joint effort to bribe their way into a foothold in OPEC's oil
monopoly by using the currency of pro-Islamic American policies and leveraging increased U.S. military aid to the Arab nations.

All of that was more than sufficient, several times over, to short-circuit any possibility of Sharptin's running as the vice-presidential candidate. The public explanation given by the White House for Sharptin's name being dropped from the shortlist of running mates was that he needed to “spend more time with his family.”