Piercing the Darkness (20 page)

Mulligan let go of Ben’s uniform with a feisty little shove. Ben did
what he could to straighten out the wrinkles. “I’ll be watching you, boy, I mean really watching you. You drop this Sally Roe thing, you hear? One more false step from you, and I’m going to have myself some real joy ripping that badge right off your chest!”

CHAPTER 12

WELL, THOSE GUYS
mean business, I guess.

Wayne Corrigan sat at his desk after-hours, drinking one last cup of coffee from his thermos and looking through several pages of notes Mark Howard, Tom Harris, and the church board had compiled in answer to the temporary injunction against the school.

All the usual arguments for corporal punishment were clearly laid out—the Scriptures from Proverbs about the rod, of course, and a definitive procedure for spanking clearly outlined in the
Student-Parent Handbook.
Lucy Brandon’s signature on the enrollment agreement constituted her agreement with the handbook, so that wasn’t going to be hard to argue. It was obvious the church board had done their homework many times over in this area.

As for their argument against any restraint from “further religious behavior which could prove harmful to the mental, emotional, or social welfare of the child, or any excessive religious instruction that could prove harmful,” they did a pretty good study on that, with Scripture after Scripture declaring the existence, purpose, behavior, and “casting out” of demons, as well as a general apologetic for the basic gospel message. This was definitely a matter of religious belief, supposedly protected by the Constitution, sure . . .

But an exorcism perpetrated upon a ten-year-old child? A minor, with no parental consent? Where was that provided for in the hand-
book? When did Mrs. Brandon agree to that kind of treatment for her daughter?

He stopped cold. This case was too big and the stakes were too high. It was more than he could handle.

Yeah. Those ACFA guys found just what they were looking for; the way they would handle the case, the Constitution would be just so much toilet paper when children were involved.

Well, Corrigan, you did it again: you said yes too easily. Now the hearing’s in twelve days. Better do
something.

“Lord God,” he prayed, “I’m in over my head again. I need Your help to bail me out . . . to bail
all of us
out.”

He started scribbling out a brief for the court, trying to cover the items in the complaint. Misuse of federal funds was easy to refute, and Discrimination and Harassment were basically a walk in the park, but then came the tricky stuff, and he began to pray in earnest as he wrote every line.

On Monday morning, a week after Ruth and Josiah were first hauled from his home, Tom got a call from an unidentified lady at the Child Protection Department. Without consulting him, and with no prior notice other than this call, an appointment had been set for him to visit with his children for one hour under the supervision of a child welfare counselor. The appointment was for 11 that morning, at the courthouse in Claytonville.

He barely made it in time, pulling into a visitor parking slot at the courthouse at 10:52. He doublechecked his appearance in the visor mirror, straightening his tie, smoothing down his hair, his hands trembling and his stomach queasy from the anticipation. He grabbed a brown bag of things for the kids, locked up the car, and bounded up the concrete steps of the old stone building.

The inside hall was cold marble, tall, gray, and imposing. Every footstep echoed like a public announcement, and he felt naked in this place. Lawyers, clerks, and other just-plain folks passed him on every side, and he found it hard to look them in the eye. What if they had seen his face in the paper or on television? They probably wouldn’t want his autograph.

The girl at the information desk took his name and offered him a seat on a hard wooden bench against the wall.

“I’ll let them know you’re here,” she said.

He sat there and slowly scratched his chin, looking down at the marble floor. He felt angry, but he knew he couldn’t let it show, he couldn’t let it come out, or he’d only make things worse.

He prayed repeatedly,
O Lord, what can I do? I don’t even know what to say . . .

He naturally thought of Cindy, now gone for three years. Difficult times such as this reminded him of how much he always needed her, and how much he had lost. He’d recovered from the initial grief, yes, but sometimes, when life was at its darkest and the struggle was the most uphill, out of habit he would reach for her, think of her, rehearse the words to share his pain. But then would come that same, persistent reminder, the realization that she was gone, replaced by a closely following shadow of sorrow.

Cindy
, he thought,
you just wouldn’t believe what’s happening down here. I guess it’s the persecution Jesus and the apostles warned us about. I guess it always seemed like something far away, maybe in Soviet Russia, or during Roman times, but not here, not now. I never thought it would actually happen to me, and I sure didn’t think it would happen to the kids.

He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his tears away. He couldn’t let the kids see him like this—and what would the state people think?

“Mr. Harris?”

He sucked in a breath and immediately, even desperately, tried to compose himself.
Tom, whatever you do, be cordial! Don’t give her anything to use against you!

He was looking up at none other than Irene Bledsoe.

“I’m sure you remember me?” she said, sitting near him on the bench.

“Yes.” He figured that would be safe.

“Before I take you upstairs to see your children, I need to remind you that this visitation is a privilege that can be revoked at any time. We expect you to remain on your best behavior and to comply with my instructions at all times. You are not to touch your children, but remain on your own side of the conference table. You cannot ask them anything about where they are staying. Any other questions that I may deem inappropriate will be disallowed, and the meeting can be terminated
at any time if I find it necessary. Is all that clear to you?”

“But . . . Mrs. Bledsoe, are we going to have a chance to talk this thing out? I want to get this whole mess cleared up and get my children back home with me where they belong.”

“That won’t be possible at this time; our investigation is still in progress.”

“What investigation? I haven’t heard a thing from anyone, and I haven’t even been able to get through to you.”

“We have a very heavy caseload, Mr. Harris. You’ll just have to be patient.”

Tom felt an anger, even a hunger for revenge rising inside him, something totally un-Christian, he knew, but it was irrepressible. He just couldn’t think of any words that would be civil.

Irene Bledsoe asked him again, more firmly, “Is all that I have said clear to you?”

All he could do was give her the right answer. “Yes.”

“What is this package?”

Tom opened it for her to see. “I brought some things for the kids. They don’t have their Bibles, so I brought them, and some pens and stationery.”

“Fine.” She took the bag. “Come with me.”

She took off at a hurried, efficient pace, the
pock, pock, pock
of her heels telling everyone on the floor she was passing by. Tom just tried to step quietly; this kind of attention he didn’t need.

She led him up the winding marble staircase to the second floor, along the balcony overlooking the front entry, and through a heavy, uninviting door with big brass hinges and a knob that had to weigh twenty pounds. They passed through a cold and bare antechamber with one tall window letting in grayish light. A security guard stood by an archway to the right, looking just a little bored, but manning his post. Tom followed Mrs. Bledsoe past the guard and through the archway.

Tom’s heart leaped into his throat, and tears flooded his eyes.

There, seated on the other side of a large table, were Ruth and Josiah. They were on their feet in an instant at the sight of him, crying “Daddy,” their voices shrill with excitement. They ran for him.

Irene Bledsoe stood in their way and blocked them with her arms. “Sit down! Sit down at the table!”

“I want to see my dad!” Josiah cried.

“Daddy!” was all Ruth could say, her hands outstretched.

He couldn’t take them in his arms. He couldn’t touch them. All he could do was cry. “Sit down now. Do like Mrs. Bledsoe says.”

Ruth began sobbing, almost wailing. “Daddy . . .”

“I love you, Ruth! Daddy loves you. Go ahead. Sit down. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Irene Bledsoe encouraged the children to sit down with a firm hand on their arms.

“Mr. Harris, you may sit in this chair facing your children. Let me remind you of what we discussed downstairs.”

We didn’t “discuss” anything,
Tom thought.
You gave the orders, I sat there and listened.

He slowly slid the chair out and sat down. He couldn’t waste this time crying. He tried to sober up, and pulled out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes again.

“How are you two?”

“I wanna go home, Daddy,” said Ruth, still sobbing.

Josiah was trying to be brave, and wiped his eyes like his father. “We miss you.”

“Is Mrs. Bledsoe taking good care of you?”

Mrs. Bledsoe answered that one. “Your children are in very good hands, Mr. Harris, and I think that should be the last of that sort of question.”

Tom glared at her. He couldn’t hide his anger. “Then I’d like to ask you some questions afterward.”

She smiled pleasantly in the children’s presence. “We can discuss that later.”

Tom noticed the bump on Ruth’s head the moment he saw her. Now he was ready to ask about it. “What happened to your head, Ruth?”

Bledsoe cut right in on that question, even rising a little from her chair. “We can’t discuss that! I’m sure you understand!”

“I bumped it in the car,” said Ruth.

“Ruth! Don’t you talk about that or I’ll take you away!”

She started crying in anger now. “How come?”

“It’s all right, Ruth,” said Tom. “We don’t have to talk about it.” He
turned to Josiah. “So . . . uh . . . what have you guys been doing?”

Josiah was unhappy and made no attempt to hide it. “Nothing. We sit around and watch TV.”

Tom was unhappy to hear that, but he didn’t show it. “Oh, does Mrs. Bledsoe let you watch TV?”

“No, Mrs. Henley does . . .”

Irene Bledsoe was right on top of that. “Josiah, we can’t talk about who our foster parents are. That’s a secret.”

Tom tried to get the conversation back into safe territory. “So . . . how about reading? Have you read any good books?”

“No,” said Ruth.

“They have some video games,” Josiah volunteered. “Those are kind of fun.”

“So . . . are there other kids around to play with?” Tom cringed even as he asked the question, but Irene Bledsoe let that one go.

“Yes. There’s a boy named Teddy and another boy named Luke. But I don’t like them.”

“Oh . . .”

“They’re bigger, and they pick on us.”

“They pick on you?”

“Yeah, they push us around and use bad language. They’re not Christians.”

Ruth stuck her lower lip out and said, “Luke calls me names.”

“Oh, Ruth, that’s too bad. Have you tried to be friends?”

She looked at him, and her eyes flooded with tears again. “I want to go home!”

“I want you to come home too.”

Tick, tick, tick.
Irene Bledsoe was tapping the table with her fingernail and glaring at Tom.

Josiah must have caught that signal. He was a sharp little nine-year-old. “Ruth bumped her head on the side of the car.”

“Now that’s enough!” said Mrs. Bledsoe.

Tom looked at Irene Bledsoe and tried to keep his face calm. “What car, Mrs. Bledsoe?”

Mrs. Bledsoe looked at him with her eyebrows raised and her head tilted forward, so condescendingly. “Mr. Harris, we’ve found that children will usually concoct stories to protect their parents.”

Tom caught her meaning. He had to choose—seriously,
strenuously
choose—to stay calm and cordial. “And just what story did both Ruth and Josiah concoct, Mrs. Bledsoe?”

She raised her chin and appeared to look down at him. “Mr. Harris, I can understand how you would be concerned about the injury to Ruth’s head. But you should know, so are we. I’m sure that, given time to get over their fears and prior conditioning, your children will be ready to tell us the truth. For now, I think this visit is concluded.” She rose from her chair. “Children, say good-bye to your father.”

“We just got here!” said Josiah.

“I don’t wanna go!” Ruth wailed, her face filling with fear.

“Children, we are going!” said Mrs. Bledsoe.

“Just one moment!” said Tom. The meeting was shot anyway. He dove for the opportunity. “Josiah, go ahead. Tell me how Ruth got that bump on her head.”

“We almost got in a wreck . . .”

“John!” Mrs. Bledsoe yelled.

The security guard walked into the room and just let his presence be known. Tom didn’t want any trouble; he made no moves.

Bledsoe grabbed both children by the arms. “Mr. Harris, I warned you to control yourself, and you can be sure that your behavior will go down in my report!”

“Which part didn’t you like? When I bit the chair leg or when I broke out all the windows?”

She started hauling both kids toward the door. Tom was on his feet, ready to do something. The guard stood in his way—just like Mulligan had stood in his way a week ago. It was happening all over again, right before Tom’s eyes. Mrs. Bledsoe was pulling Ruth and Josiah by their arms, taking them away screaming. She reached the archway. He wanted to stand in her way; he wanted to reach out and stop her.