Dead Lawyers Tell No Tales (37 page)

LANDON REED AND SEAN PHOENIX
had been changed forever in prison. For Billy Thurston, it took a hospital.

Kerri left a Bible with him and was smart enough to mark it and highlight it. John 15:13—“Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

“That’s what you did for Landon,” she said. “And that’s what Christ did for you.”

It confirmed what Billy had always suspected. Even Landon’s own wife didn’t know. She thought Billy was a hero. Nothing could be further from the truth.

He couldn’t get his mind off that SEC Championship Game—the fourth quarter, the game-winning drive. He had blocked the linebacker instead of taking out the nose tackle. Landon had been blindsided and fumbled. Game over.

But by the time the syndicate tried to pay him for it—seventy-five
thousand, just as they had agreed—the guilt had taken over, and he had refused their “blood money.” It was the same syndicate that had convinced Landon to shave a few points in two regular-season games earlier that year. Landon had refused to cooperate in the championship. That’s when the syndicate had approached Billy instead.

Somehow, Landon had learned that Billy was bought off, but Landon never said a word. He could have earned a reduced sentence by turning Billy in. Or Landon could have at least erased all doubts as to whether
he
had thrown the championship game. Instead, he confessed to his own crimes and kept his mouth shut about Billy’s. The men from the gambling syndicate only pleaded guilty to bribing Landon for the regular-season games. Billy carried on with his life.

“Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.”

When Billy finally took time to read the Bible, nobody had to explain to him what grace meant. He had seen it with his own eyes.

On the day of his discharge, he told Landon about his hospital conversion. Right there in the bed. Reading Scripture on his own. He explained how Landon’s self-sacrificial actions had played a big role in it.

Tears formed in Landon’s eyes. Billy had to blink back his own. “I’ve called a press conference for later today,” Billy said. “I’m going to make things right.”

Two hours later, standing on crutches in front of the hospital, Billy told the reporters everything. He promised to perform a thousand hours of community service in the next year alone. He would donate every dime of his annual salary to charitable organizations.

“I will spend the rest of my life trying to prove that I can be a trustworthy teammate,” he said. “I apologize to every one of my teammates at Southeastern, as well as my coaches and fans. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.”

He looked to his left, where Landon was standing. “And I apologize to this guy, who took a lot of heat because of me.”

///

Landon had never been more proud of his teammate, and that was saying a lot. For a split second he caught Billy’s eye, the unspoken communication between two men who had been in the trenches together.
I’ve got your back.

When Billy finished speaking, the reporters started firing questions. Landon held up a palm.

“Mr. Thurston won’t be taking any questions,” Landon said. “He looks forward to starting the healing process for his injuries and the healing process with his former teammates and the fans he let down. Right now, we’d appreciate it if you would just respect his privacy.”

With that, Billy Thurston hobbled away from the mikes, and Landon fell in step beside him. The reporters parted as the two men made their way through.

Walking across the parking lot, Landon could feel the cameras rolling behind them. Billy was keeping his head high, his eyes focused on the sky in front of him. He had a long road ahead, one that Landon knew too well. But he had taken the first critical step toward redemption—an admission of wrongdoing, a promise to make things right.

Landon had warned Billy about the consequences of the press conference. Legally, Billy was in the clear. Georgia had a two-year statute of limitations for nonviolent felonies, and Billy could no longer face prosecution. But as a practical matter, this day would follow Billy the rest of his life. There would be no running from what he had done.

“You sure I can’t talk you out of this?” Landon had asked. As a lawyer, he felt an obligation to protect his client. As a believer, he was secretly hoping that Billy would go through with it. There was no real freedom in living a lie.

The big man did not disappoint.

“You survived it,” Billy said. “Besides, as a friend of mine once said, ‘There are some things in life more important than football.’”

I STOOD BEHIND
Pilate at the trial of Christus, whispering advice into the prefect’s ear. The man in the judgment seat was no legal scholar. Instead, it fell to me, Theophilus, Pilate’s favorite
assessore
, to provide counsel on the intricacies of Roman law.

“Send him to Herod.”

An hour later he was back.

“Release Barabbas instead.”

At the insistence of Pilate’s wife, I tried everything. But when Pilate washed his hands of the matter, I followed the would-be Messiah to Calvaria, the place of the skull, the hillside where criminals were executed.

The sight of a good man being crucified did not fade away easily. It would haunt me for years, even after I returned to Rome.
I should have done more.

Thirty years later, as an advocate in Caesar’s court, I would get my chance. . . .

///

His name was Paul of Tarsus, and I had been chosen to represent him. I had been here before, in the great marble hall, but there had never been so much at stake.

And the judge was a madman.

Nero had become emperor at seventeen. He had poisoned his brother, ordered the murder of his mother, kicked his pregnant wife to death, and married his male slave. He loved to toy with advocates. He made one beg on his hands and knees. Another time, he decreed that the man return to Nero’s court the following day, properly dressed, and sent a courier that evening with a woman’s gown. A third, who had the temerity to question Nero’s judgment, was sentenced to death along with the prisoner. In a court-ordered suicide, he was made to drink poison the next day. Caesar smiled wickedly as the man writhed on the marble floor, gasping for his last breath.

The emperor gulped a mouthful of wine. “Next case!” he called out.

The apostle Paul and I had agreed on one thing. There would be no begging today. We would make our case and concede nothing. I was an older man now. And Rome was a mere shadow of the empire I had once admired. Thirty years earlier, I had watched another man stand up to the haughtiness of a Roman judge and the fury of a bloodthirsty mob. He was unbowed, unshaken. Today, that would be me.

I had studied this emperor, and I knew his weaknesses. The man loved drama. Almost as much as he loved being the center of attention.

Well, then, he should love this.

The idea came thirty years ago as well, at the foot of the cross, during the crucifixion of the man they called Christus. I was speaking to a woman who had been caught in adultery and saved from stoning by the Rabbi’s clever defense.

“He wrote in the dirt,” she said, tears streaking down her face.

“Wrote what?”

“Names.”

We were both staring at the Jewish Messiah, hanging there, blood oozing from his wrists and feet, a crown of thorns creating rivulets of crimson that colored his beard and dripped from his chin.

“What do you mean, names?”

She turned, her dark eyes boring into me. “The names of the lead
ers who were accusing me,” she answered. “And the women they had slept with.”

The audacity of it made me catch my breath. I was an advocate. And as I had observed this man in front of Pilate—the give and take, the silent confidence, the questions he posed—I sensed that I might be watching the greatest advocate of them all.

“He said, ‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone,’” the woman continued. She spoke the words into space, staring again at the man on the cross, as if carried back to that time. “And then they dropped their stones and left.”

And so I began my defense of Paul of Tarsus, thirty years later, in dramatic fashion as well.

The crowd formed a crushing ring on the outskirts of the marble judgment hall. I was told they had started lining up at midnight. They seemed to pulse in as the charges were read, the men in the second and third rows standing on their toes to get a better view as I rose to address the emperor.

I stood there for a moment, shoulders straight, head high, looking the man in the eye.

“Well?” he said.

I bent down . . . slowly, theatrically. I knelt there on one knee and took a last glance at Nero before I wrote the first name. I used the black ink—ground charcoal mixed with gum arabic—a nice contrast against the white stone. The crowd surged in a little, and a murmur started to spread. Nero leaned forward in his seat.

The first name created a buzz of excitement, a shot of adrenaline that coursed through the crowd on this hot, steamy day.

The second would start a riot.

As you can probably tell from reading this book, I love football and even played a little “back in the day.” I was an average (and that may be generous) quarterback but smart enough to figure out the number one rule: you are only as good as your offensive line. There is also a corollary to that rule: thank them every chance you get.

The same applies to writing. Which is why I never pass up an acknowledgments page.

I’ll start with Lee Hough, my good friend and great agent, who provided invaluable insight at the concept stage. Thanks also to Mary Hartman, who performed her usual stellar work reviewing the first draft. Jeremy Taylor, Stephanie Broene, Cheryl Kerwin, and the excellent team at Tyndale House took it from there, bringing the story to life and devising ways to let you know about it.

Karen Watson, associate publisher at Tyndale, not only helped edit the book but literally resurrected it from the dead. I will never forget the long phone conference when I had given up on the book and suggested that we proceed on to the next project, something I had never done before. Like a good coach, Karen wouldn’t take “quit” for an answer. She helped me work through the challenges and reworked Tyndale’s schedule for release. Now that’s somebody who’s got your blind side.

In addition, this book would have never been possible without the
forbearance and support of my church, my law firm, and my family. A special thanks to those closest to me for putting up with the idiosyncratic lifestyle of a man with so many fictional characters dancing around in his head.

Now allow me to take off my helmet and put on my lawyer’s hat for a few disclaimers. There
is
a Character and Fitness Committee in Virginia and a Board of Bar Examiners. Both groups are composed of dedicated and superb lawyers who bear no resemblance to the ethically challenged Harry McNaughten of this book. For that matter, none of my fictional lawyers are patterned after real-life colleagues, though it might make the practice of law a little more entertaining if they were.

There is one character, however,
inspired
by a real-life client. That client showed me how much someone can truly change while incarcerated and how hard it can be to rebuild a life. But he also demonstrated that, by God’s grace, it can be done. He became the inspiration for my protagonist, Landon Reed, and for that I am deeply in his debt.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come!

2 CORINTHIANS 5:17 (NIV)

RANDY SINGER
is a critically acclaimed, award-winning author and veteran trial attorney. He has penned more than ten legal thrillers and was recently a finalist with John Grisham and Michael Connelly for the inaugural Harper Lee Prize for Legal Fiction sponsored by the University of Alabama School of Law and the
ABA Journal
. Randy runs his own law practice and has been named to
Virginia Business
magazine’s select list of “Legal Elite” litigation attorneys. In addition to his law practice and writing, Randy serves as teaching pastor for Trinity Church in Virginia Beach, Virginia. He calls it his “Jekyll and Hyde thing”—part lawyer, part pastor. He also teaches classes in advocacy and civil litigation at Regent University School of Law and, through his church, is involved with ministry opportunities in India. He and his wife, Rhonda, live in Virginia Beach. They have two grown children. Visit his website at
www.randysinger.net
.