Sara’s voice bristled with resentment, no doubt at the bishop’s failure to make an appointment. A white- haired prototype of someone’s grandmother, Sara had served as surrogate mother and would-be social director before Gurt’s arrival. She still was secretary, accountant, office manager and a zealous guardian of his time. “Can you see him now?”
The question was for the visitor’s benefit. Sara knew exactly what Lang was doing at the moment.
“Send him in.”
The Reverend Bishop William Groom was, as far as Lang could tell, self-ordained. His nondenominational church in one of Atlanta’s bedroom communities had grown from a few hundred members to well over six thousand, necessitating no less than four services every Sunday and several during the week, plus a televangelical ministry on Sunday nights. More significantly, donations had shown a commensurate increase. Had a number of his parishioners not become disenchanted with both a lifestyle that could only be described as opulent and a more-than-priestly interest in a number of church members’ wives, he might have remained beneath the IRS’s radar indefinitely.
Currently, Lang was anticipating federal indictment of the good bishop for multiple counts of tax evasion, conspiracy to evade taxes, fraud, mail fraud and a laundry list of related offenses. It would seem Lang’s client had not only been dipping his pen into the company inkwell, his fingers had been in the church’s purse as well.
Groom came through the door, hand extended. “Thank you so much for seeing me without an appointment.”
Lang stood to shake hands. “Glad I was available.” He sat behind his desk, indicating one of two leather wing chairs separated by a small French commode. “What can I do for you?”
Groom was tall, over six feet, with a shock of silver hair he constantly swept aside, a gesture Lang had noted he did with dramatic flair at crucial points of his televised sermons. Still standing, he gazed upward. “First, let us pray.”
Lang always felt a little uncomfortable when his client spent a good two or three minutes invoking the Lord’s favor on whatever he happened to be doing at the moment as well as seeking heavenly retribution upon those who were persecuting him. Idly, Lang wondered if a brief prayer had been said preparatory to each seduction of one of his flock. It was certain the time spent communicating with the Almighty was duly noted and added to the time spent in legal counseling to be charged against a very generous retainer.
“Amen,” the bishop said, and sat down.
Lang looked across the desk expectantly.
“I’ve been thinking about this matter of the church vehicles. They say…” The man’s otherwise-angelic face contorted into an expression that looked like he tasted something extremely unpleasant whenever he referred to the prosecution. “They say I misused church funds to buy vehicles. Do you know, Mr. Reilly, that the Cathedral of the Holy Savior uses its vehicles, mostly buses, to bring to God’s house those who otherwise would be unable to attend services?”
Lang suppressed a sigh. He had been here before. “Does that include the Ferrari and the turbo Bentley?”
The bishop hunched his shoulders, a man deeply offended. “Someone in my position needs to display material wealth. Success is a sign of God’s favor, as I constantly preach. We are in very serious trouble, this country of ours, when the Philistines can persecute the faithful because they succeed.”
Another synonym for the prosecution. He was partially correct, though. The government moved with an uncharacteristically light hand when dealing with religious mountebanks, charlatans and others who saw the First Amendment as license to participate in otherwise-illegal activity. It was only when it became clear someone was using a church as a personal bank account to evade taxes, utilizing the mail to solicit funds that clearly went to private uses, or the church and its pastor became indistinguishable that criminal charges were brought.
Lang kept the observation to himself.
“And then there’s the matter of the church’s ownership of homes in the mountains and at the beach. Do you realize how many conferences and retreats the church elders have there every year?”
As far as Lang had been able to ascertain, there were no church elders, deacons or other persons charged with any office that related to financial decisions.
He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. “Elders?”
“Why yes, of course. You certainly don’t think one person can run an organization the size of the Cathedral of the Holy Savior, do you?”
Lang reached for a pad with one hand and took a pen from a cup filled with them. “Just who are these elders?”
“Well, there’s Jamie Shaw…”
Lang put the pen down. “Your son-in-law.”
And so far, unindicted coconspiritor.
“And Lewis Reid.”
Nephew.
“And, of course, Lois.”
Wife.
Lang leaned back in his chair. “The government will contend since the elders are all family members, you don’t have to meet at million-dollar homes in resort areas. How many times a year do you, personally, use those facilities?”
“A man under as much pressure as I am deserves an occasional long weekend away some place.” He smiled. “Besides, I’ve composed some of my best sermons at the beach.”
“It might be a little better if the beach to which you refer wasn’t at Sag Harbor in Long Island’s Hamptons. That’s pretty high-octane real estate. And it doesn’t help that you arrive there in a private jet.”
“We simply charter the airplane.” Bishop Groom looked offended.
“Actually, if I recall, the church purchased a set number of hours on a Citation for the last four years.”
“Tending to a flock as large as mine requires transportation.”
Lang shook his head slowly. “You have members of your congregation in places other than metro Atlanta?”
“We are always looking to expand the word of the Lord.” The bishop slid forward, sitting on the edge of his chair. “Mr. Reilly, you sound as though you think I’m guilty as charged. That’s not the attitude I want in my defense counsel.”
Lang didn’t think his client was guilty; he knew it. That was not the question. The issue was whether the assistant United States attorney could convince a jury of it beyond a reasonable doubt.
Lang picked up the pen and walked it between his fingers. “Bishop, you didn’t hire me for my opinions, nor did you retain me to prove you innocent. Only not guilty. There’s a huge difference.”
The bishop thought this over for a moment. “Any chance of a deal?”
Lang shrugged. “There’s always a ‘deal.’ Whether you find it acceptable or not is the question. So far you haven’t authorized me to ask. Shall I?”
Groom gave this some thought also. “I’ll pray over it and let you know.” He stood, extending a hand. “I find things come easier to me if I take them to the Lord.”
“Let’s hope this is no exception,” Lang said dryly.
Lang stood at the door between the outer office and the building’s hallway and bank of elevators, watching his client’s departure.
“I hope you checked to make sure you still have your watch on your wrist,” Sara snorted from her desk.
Lang closed the door. “That’s no way to talk about a man who dropped a hundred big on us.”
Sara swiveled in her chair to face her computer monitor. “A million dollars wouldn’t make him any less of a thief, a liar and a. ..” Her expression indicated she was trying to think of an acceptable phrase to describe the man’s sexual exploits. Her strong disapproval of anything not condoned by the Southern Baptist Church restricted both her world-view and vocabulary.
She settled for adulterer.
“He may be all that but he sure had his fun while it lasted.”
Lang didn’t have to look at her to see her bite back a sharp reply.
“I’m about to improve the moral quality of my companions. I’m having lunch with Father Francis.”
As he shut the door to his office, he heard her mutter something like “It’ll do you good!”
