Shane’s office at Christian Life is big enough to put in a skating rink. If influence is measured by space, he’s ready to challenge Pat Robertson as head of the religious right. My office would fit nicely in the corner where he has a couch, a recliner, and a twenty-six-inch Sorry color television and VCR. It is to this area he leads me. Chet is already seated at the far end of the couch.
“You have to see what your competition’s doing, and these days they’re on almost twenty-four hours a day,” Shane rattles on nervously as I gawk at the TV.
Chet glares at me and looks down at his watch. I’m only ten minutes late.
“The traffic is murder out there,” I apologize. I sit on the couch nearest the TV, and by the strained look on chet’s face, I halfway expect him to tell me he has the video of Leigh and we’re all going to watch it together.
Both are dressed in dark blue suits I’d be proud to be buried in.
“Have you heard anything from Leigh?” I ask Chet, gathering from his expression he has not.
“Shane,” he says, ignoring me, “this is as hard as anything I’ve ever had to do, but Gideon has made me realize that I’m obligated to ask you some questions about your whereabouts during the time Art was murdered.”
Shane folds his arms across his chest and gives Chet a hard stare.
“You’re not serious.”
Chet goes totally rigid and his head seems to disappear inside his shirt. He swallows hard and continues, “Where were you between nine-thirty and eleven-thirty the day your son-in-law was murdered?”
Shane’s voice rises in anger.
“You actually think I’d commit murder, Chet?”
I look at Chet, who, in all the hours I’ve watched him, has never appeared out of control even for an instant For the first time he seems close. His eyes blink rapidly, and he stammers, “Answer my question, damn it.”
As if he does understand what Chet is going through, Shane seems to relax. His features soften, and he smiles at him.
“It’s okay.” He clears his throat and, trying to sound casual, says, “As best I can remember, I think I was here in the office all the time.”
I have never really felt sorry for Chet until this moment He places his hand over his mouth as if he is about to utter something unspeakable. Finally, he mumbles through his fingers, “One of the secretaries who used to work for you says that you left the office during that period and came back right before Leigh called to say Art had been shot.”
Shane places his right ankle across his left thigh and says easily, “It’s possible I did go out. We had a missionary from Guatemala at the church that day. I don’t know. It’s like trying to remember what you were doing before Kennedy was killed. You remember what you were doing when you heard the news, but not what you ate for breakfast that day. I could have gone a dozen places within a hundred yards of my office.”
I wonder if I am supposed to be taking notes. This is weak. Chet said the secretary told him that Shane said he was going over to his house for a while. I glance at Chet, but he is examining his hands. I ask, “Do you’re call seeing anybody or talking to anybody during that time other than the women in the office?”
Shane squinches his eyes and studies the ceiling for a long moment.
“Not offhand,” he says finally, fixing his gaze on Chet.
“You’re not going to claim in court,” he asks, his voice too loud, “that I shot Art, are you?”
Chet, now slumped against the back of the couch, seems listless and broken. He spreads his hands in a gesture of hopelessness.
“I may not have a choice,” he says dully.
“Now, wait just a minute!” Shane almost shouts, leaning forward over his knees.
“This is absurd! No jury will believe for a second that I killed my own sonin-law. As horrible a man as he turned out to be, murder never once crossed my mind. I admit I talked to Leigh about divorcing him, which may sound hypocritical as many times as I’ve preached on the value of couples staying together, but that’s as far as I went.”
I look past Norman to the large desk that sits in front of the two windows in his office.
“Your daughter loved the man,” I say, knowing I am baiting him.
“She didn’t want a divorce.”
“He was murdering her soul!” Shane retorts angrily.
“Leigh was a precious vessel of God’s love before she met Art.”
I glance at Chet to see how he is taking these re marks. The back of his right hand obscures his face. His eyes, an almost colorless light blue, show no emotion. I am struck by Norman’s use of the term “murdering her soul.” If he were on trial, instead of his daughter, before a jury of Christian Lifers, he might argue justifiable homicide. A father defending his child against a deadly attacker. What person would convict a man who used force to save his daughter? In Norman’s mind, Leigh’s soul is worth more than her body. It would be far easier to defend Norman than his daughter.
“You saw that Art was destroying Leigh, didn’t you?” I ask, believing I understand for the first time that, given Norman’s worldview, murder was the only possible solution. What was it they said about Vietnam?
We had to destroy the country to save it. In Norman’s mind, once the corruption started, there was no end to it. The pull of the world is too strong. Look what happened to his other daughters while he stood by. Once you leave, you almost never go back. The world is too seductive. When Norman doesn’t respond, I ask him a question I know he will answer.
“What did you tell Leigh about Art’s death?”
Shane says in a voice so detached and automatic I know he has thought it a hundred times since the day Art died, “That he got what he deserved. I won’t deny that.”
Biblical phrases like “reap what you sow” come into my mind. Even if he didn’t kill Art, he wished him dead.
“Since you love your daughter so much,” I say quickly before Chet can protest, “you won’t object if Chet suggests to the jury that others, including yourself, may have had a possible motive for murdering her husband.”
Like a wounded animal, Shane roars, “You do what you have to do, but I didn’t kill him!”
Remembering Chet’s instructions to let him do the talking, I look over at him to see if I’m in trouble. This was his speech as far as I am concerned, but from what I’ve seen so far, he wasn’t going to make it. He sits quietly, staring at Shane as if he is evaluating his sincerity.
Finally, he says quietly to him, “It could ruin you.”
Shane, now barely seated, yells at him, “You don’t believe me, do you?”
Abruptly, Chet stands and heads for the door, leaving me and Shane looking at each other. I scramble to my feet and chase after him while Shane hollers futilely, “Chet!”
Out in the parking lot, his face ashen, Chet tells me shakily, “I’m going home.”
Hunched over as he unlocks the Mercedes, he looks shockingly old, defeated.
“Let me argue the case!” I demand.
“I can do it! You shouldn’t have to do this!”
“I’ll do it,” he says, almost under his breath as he arranges himself in the car. He drives away, mumbling something to himself.
Back home, waiting for Sarah to call, I open a beer, heat up some cheese dip, open a bag of potato chips, and sit in the kitchen looking out the window at the gathering darkness. Woogie’s bowl is still half full from last night.
“Depressed, huh?” I ask him as he stretches out on the linoleum by the window.
“We’ll hear from her tonight.” I hope.
Ignoring me, he places his muzzle between his paws flat on the dirty surface. I break off a chip in the thick yellow sludge that is congealing before my eyes. I couldn’t penetrate this goo if I were eating brickbats.