Scott Pratt - In good faith

“They’re fading,” he says.

I put my arms on the table, embarrassed. “Yeah. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“You’ve been through a lot, you and your wife.”

“We’re still standing.”

“I admire both of you.”

I passed out in the ambulance on the way to the hospital the night Natasha met her demise, and when I woke up almost twenty-four hours later, Caroline, Lilly, and Jack were all standing over me. Caroline’s white cell count had risen during the early-morning hours as quickly as it had fallen a couple of days before, and although the doctors attributed her miraculous recovery to their regimen of antibiotics, I wondered whether the true explanation was something far beyond their-and my-understanding.

Caroline has since endured a breast reconstruction and another round of chemotherapy. She still faces six weeks of radiation, but her hair is starting to come back in, and during the entire ordeal, she’s missed less than two weeks of work. I’ve loved and respected Caroline since I was a teenager, but as I watch her deal so bravely with the calamity of cancer, my respect for her grows exponentially with each passing day.

Hank Fraley’s daughter took him to Nashville to be buried less than a week after he was killed. I was still a little woozy from the blow to my head, but the family and I made it to the funeral. I was amazed at how much Fraley’s daughter, whose name is Jessica, resembled the photograph of Fraley’s wife that he’d shown me in his office. Jessica was a beautiful young woman, very gracious. I cried when they put him in the ground. He’d become a good friend, and I miss him.

Sarah was released the same day Jim Beaumont had his meeting with Freeley Sells. She’s stopped going to church. I drop by to see her at least three times a week, but she’s withdrawn and sullen. She says she hasn’t heard from Robert Godsey. I suspect she might be drinking again.

Leon Bates convinced every law enforcement agency in the region-and the media-that he killed Natasha in self-defense. A Johnson City detective came and questioned me in the hospital, but the questions were cursory and he didn’t stay long. I lied to him, but I don’t regret it. What’s right isn’t always what’s legal. Bates has since become a folk hero. He’s appeared on a half dozen national talk shows and has let the news leak that he’s thinking about running for state senator when his term as sheriff expires. He told me a couple of weeks ago he might even consider a run for the United States Senate.

I agreed to a plea deal with Alexander Dunn’s attorney. Alexander pleaded guilty to one count of accepting a bribe as a public official and agreed to serve six months in jail and another two years on probation. Despite the fact that Leon Bates told me Lee Mooney wasn’t involved in the extortion scheme, Alexander’s attorney convinced me otherwise. After that, I couldn’t bring myself to drop the hammer on Alexander, and I find it difficult to look Mooney in the eye every day.

I haven’t seen or heard from Alisha, but my experience with her and Natasha has changed me in a fundamental way. Although I still don’t believe I know the answers to questions of eternity, I’ve become much more reverent, and instead of just gazing at the rising sun each morning, which has long been my habit, I take a little time to pray.

A bailiff sticks his head through the door.

“The judge is ready for you,” he says.

I stand and put on my jacket as Beaumont does the same.

“This is certainly unusual, isn’t it?” he says.

“I guess it is.”

We walk out to the courtroom, and I take my seat at the prosecution table. Beaumont goes straight to the podium as his client steps through the bar and walks up to be arraigned.

The elderly woman Billy Dockery has attacked and robbed is in a coma, but this time he cut his hand breaking into her house and left his blood at the scene. Dockery is charged with attempted first-degree murder, burglary, and theft of over five thousand dollars.

He’s looking at forty years in prison.

I intend to make sure he gets what he deserves.