Custody of the State (4 page)

But Andrew still made no response.

“You have any information about Mary Sue Fellows or her little boy, you'd better get it to us immediately. Savvy?”

“I understand,” Andrew replied.

Andrew was escorted out. Harry Putnam picked up the phone and punched the extension number for the detective in the children's unit.

“Get someone to tail that big Indian who was visiting Joe Fellows. He knows something about this, I'm sure of it. We've already called the airport in Atlanta, and he's scheduled to be on a flight back to New Mexico in a couple of hours. Have some local law enforcement ready to pick up the tail in New Mexico when he lands.”

Then Putnam smiled a little. “I have a feeling that Mr. White Arrow is going to lead us right to Mary Sue Fellows and her boy.”

Andrew was led back to the jailer. He was still seated at his desk, and now he was reading an
Amazing Mysteries
magazine. As Andrew strode in, he put it down.

“I suppose you want your ID back?”

“Yes,” Andrew said.

The jailer pulled it out of the drawer and fingered it with his meaty hand. Then he tossed it on top of the desk.

As Andrew picked it up, the jailer leaned forward, breathing noisily. Then he spoke. “You being an Indian chief and all, I figure that makes you Tonto. So where's the Lone Ranger? I don't see him anywhere.” And with that, the jailer chuckled in self-satisfaction.

Andrew looked the jailer in the eye. “Oh, don't worry.” Then he broke into a large smile and added, “I think he'll be here soon.”

4

I
NSIDE THE LAW OFFICES
of Will Chambers, PC, in Monroeville, Virginia, the meeting was coming to a close. Will was finishing up his agenda. Next to him Jacki Johnson, a diminutive black lawyer, was taking some notes. At her right was Todd Furgeson, the youngest associate.

“So,” Will continued, “the cases keep rolling in. That's the good news. Let's make sure we keep up-to-date with our deadlines calendar. Jacki, you're going to cover that hearing in Richmond for me. And Todd, talk to me later today about the research I need from you on that new case.”

“The one against the government of Sudan?”

“Yeah.” Then Will turned to Jacki. “I need to talk to you about this. It just came in. The Sudanese government allowed some American missionaries to be rounded up by terrorists, right in front of that General Kurtzu Nuban. I'm sure he's on the take. We'll be suing the government on the grounds that it knowingly permitted the terrorists to kidnap and murder innocent Americans.”

“Sounds like one of our average small-claims cases,” Jacki said wryly. “So it's the three of us against the government of Sudan?”

“I know,” Will replied, “the odds are a little uneven. But I promise we'll take it easy on them.”

Jacki chuckled. Then she added, “Don't forget, I'm taking some time off with my hubby. Howard and I are taking a long weekend. If any emergencies come in, count me out for a few days.”

Will nodded. He was about to rise, but he noticed a mysterious smile on Jacki's face.

“All right—what am I missing?” Will asked.

Jacki's smile broadened. “Nothing about the case. Just an observation.”

“Well,
what?
” Will probed.

“I was just thinking—ever since you stopped coming into the office smelling like booze…and stopped single-handedly insulting most of the legal community in Virginia, D.C., and the surrounding Eastern seaboard—you've kept yourself generally out of trouble…”

Will was amused, but Todd was not. Though his face was stone, his eyes had widened.

“Ever since those days,” Jacki went on, “it's almost been
boring
around here. I can actually practice law now. I don't have to be your nursemaid anymore!”

Jacki noticed the shocked look on Todd's face and quickly added, “Hey, Todd—I'm exaggerating. Don't worry. Will was never that bad.”

“Yes, I was,” Will said without hesitation. “But those days are gone. No more bailing Will Chambers out of trouble. We practice law now, and we don't expect you to sweep up after the elephants. We run things like professionals here.”

Todd was nodding in relief.

“But we also don't take ourselves too seriously, Todd,” Jacki added. “A little levity is good for the soul.”

As they began to disperse, Will put his hand on Todd's shoulder. “Nice work on that brief you turned in yesterday.”

Smiling, Todd gave a quick nod of appreciation and then headed for the law library down the hall.

As Will walked past the reception desk, Hilda Swenson, the blond secretary with the big hair, was waving a pink telephone message in his direction.

“Urgent call, Will. This woman is frantic. She needs to talk to you right away. I bet you could be so much help to her. Poor woman—she was crying on the phone. She's really stressed.”

Will took the slip and studied it.

“There's no number for me to call.”

“She insisted on calling back.”

“Where's she from?”

“Well,” said Hilda, “she didn't want to tell me.”

“What's this about?”

“Wouldn't tell me that either,” Hilda said with a smile and a shrug.

Handing the pink slip back to Hilda, Will said, “I don't think I have time to play twenty questions. When she calls back, tell her that I'm really pretty busy. Maybe we can have Todd do a preliminary interview over the phone.”

“She insisted on talking only with you.”

Will paused. Then he said, “Okay. I'll talk to her if she calls. But tell her I really don't have a lot of time. Hilda, this Sudan case is going to occupy my schedule for the foreseeable future.” Then he headed into his office, and closed the door.

He was already more than an hour into the stacks of documents from the State Department and the Gospel Missionary Alliance when his intercom buzzed. He looked on the little computer screen. The message read, “Will, this is the woman I told you about. Is calling back. I told her your schedule. Says it's urgent.”

After picking up the phone, Will asked who was calling.

“My name is Mary Sue Fellows.”

“Your name sounds familiar. Have we talked before?”

“No—but it's been all over the news.”

“What's the situation?”

“Child-abuse charges. We're in Georgia. My husband has been arrested.”

“Is he a farmer?”

“Yes.”

Will thought back to the news report on INN. “Yes, I heard about it. I'm sorry about your situation.”

“We need a lawyer desperately.”

“I'm not sure I can help. My schedule—”

But before Will could continue, Mary Sue interrupted. “I know. Your secretary told me. But we're innocent. This whole thing is insane—we love our little boy. Please help us.”

“I've got two other lawyers here in the office who might be able to talk to you—”

“It has to be you. My mother-in-law knows about you, has read about your cases—she insisted that it be you. She's the one raising the money for our defense. From what she told us, you're the only one—”

But Will interrupted her. “There are a lot of good lawyers out there who could probably help you. I'm sorry. My time commitments are such that I really don't think I could jump right into your case right now.”

There was silence on the other end.

“Mrs. Fellows?” Will asked. “Are you still there?”

“I'm on the run right now. The police are looking for me this very minute. My child needs medical help. But I will not turn him over to Social Services, because they have this ridiculous fantasy that I'm some kind of monster. My husband in is jail. We've been wrongly accused of this thing—the farm is being neglected—our lives are falling apart, Mr. Chambers.”

Will heard her choking back tears. But before he could say anything else, Mary Sue said through her tears, “God wants you to take this case. I know it. I'll just wait till you can see that too.”

Then he heard the click as she hung up at the other end.

After putting the phone down, Will swiveled his chair slightly until he could see the spire of the old St. Andrews Church across the street through his second-story window. He gazed at the Revolutionary War–era edifice for a few moments.

“Oh, boy,” Will sighed to himself. He rubbed his forehead, thinking about how much pain and injustice was out there. And
how he was just one lawyer, with a small firm. He could only do so much. He decided to say a short silent prayer for the Fellows family.

When he was done, he turned back to the tall stack of documents that lay on his desk. As he flipped each page, he jotted down notes on the legal pad in front of him.

After a few minutes he buzzed Hilda.

“Do me a favor, will you? Before you leave for the day, order some dinner in for me. You know the stuff I like. It's going to be a long night.”

“Are you kidding?” she replied.

“Huh?”

“You're supposed to be out with Fiona tonight. I made the reservations myself.”

“Oh, yikes. You just saved my hide. That's right. Thanks for reminding me, Hilda,” Will said sheepishly.

He glanced over at the picture of Fiona on his bookshelf. He liked that one the best. She was beautiful from any angle, of course, in any picture, with her dark auburn hair, piercing dark eyes, and cover-girl features. Her smile set the whole room aglow.

But unlike the studio pictures she used for concert promotions or autographing for her fans, this photo was different. She'd been caught in mid-laugh at a party the two of them had attended. It was impromptu, unabashed, and bursting with life. That was Fiona.

Will wondered how he could have forgotten about their date. However, for him the whole business of getting back into the matters of the heart—rather than the issues of the mind—had been laden with complications. Ever since he'd met Fiona he'd felt a tidal pull toward her—falling in love with total abandon. His life was starting to come together. The old demons were gone. His law practice—which he'd constantly questioned—was undeniably successful.

Nonetheless, his relationship with Fiona kept running into quagmires—sinking under the weight of his problems with relationships or her seeming impatience with the slow growth in his spiritual faith.
Tonight,
he thought to himself,
we're going to communicate.
Really
communicate. We need to move things to a deeper level. After all, I want to marry this woman. This is going to work—I've got to make sure of that.

5

O
N THE NINTH FLOOR
of the International News Network building—the tall glass tower that was its headquarters in Atlanta—Crystal Banes, host of prime-time television's
Inside Source,
was holding court.

In the small conference room she was swiveling slightly back and forth in her red leather chair, bobbing her foot. Fortyish, with a blond “Prince Valiant” cut, she was attractive in a hard-featured way, but she had a habit of curling her lip from a smile into a smirk, ever so subtly.

Around a small table that was strewn with newspapers, magazines, faxes, a few government bulletins, half-empty coffee cups, and press releases, her team was gathered. Her producer, assistant producer, chief writer, and regular camera man were all there, busy taking notes—all except the camera guy, a man in his late twenties whose flat-top hair was dyed a little on the orange side: He was giving a blank stare out the window.

“Come on people, let's go,” she chided. “Ideas. I want ideas.”

“There's always the parking permit scandal with that congressman…” the assistant producer chirped out.

“Please,” Banes groaned, “don't give me that.”

“How about doing something on Max Mulligan, the radio talk-show host from Baton Rouge with ties to the KKK?” the writer said.

“Legal department says we'd get creamed on that one,” the producer shot out.

There was silence.

Then the camera guy, who was still looking out the window, spoke up. “How about that lady who's on the run from the cops with her little boy? Child-abuse charges. The kid is being poisoned, supposedly. The husband is in jail, saying this whole thing is a travesty—we're innocent, blah, blah—the police can't find her. She's still out there with the kid, out there in the wild blue yonder.”

“Where'd you hear this?” the producer asked.

“On the news.
Our
news. On
our
network
. Duh
…
”
he said with a laugh.

“Don't talk to me that way,” the producer shot back. “I consider that harassment. And camera guys are a dime a dozen.”