CHAPTER
EIGHT

I

Eric was the dreamer, Art was the implementer. Theirs was a partnership forged by respect and fueled by mutual dependency.

What started as Art Bullock’s attempt to pitch life insurance to Eric Snow quickly developed into an abiding friendship that benefited each of them in different ways.

They immediately resonated with each other the first time they met. Eric liked Art’s tenacity, focus, and intensity, and Art was intrigued and even bemused by Eric’s over–the–top success. They both liked baseball — Eric was an inveterate Chicago Cubs fan, while Art played shortstop in a summer league with the vacuum–cleaner prowess of his favorite player, Don Kessinger of the 1969 Cubs.

After Eric’s spiritual turnaround, their friendship deepened, fueled by common dreams, goals, and plans. A former youth pastor, Art tutored him in theology and the ins–and–outs of practical ministry, while Eric expanded Art’s leadership experience by giving him carte blanche to manage his nascent church. Most of all, they simply liked each other. Laughter was frequent; hanging out became a favorite pastime. Their hearts beat in unison for the same objectives.

Over the years, though, they found that building a church was a lot easier than deepening it. Staging a slick Sunday service was nothing compared to creating an authentic Christian community, a place with single–minded devotion to the teachings of Jesus, where sanctimonious piety was chased away by honest self–reflection and transparent fellowship. A body in which people candidly admitted their sins in a supportive environment, characterized by an abundance of forgiveness, acceptance, mutual support, and grace.

As Art saw it, it was his job to shrink the gap between that ideal and the reality of the local church. Increasingly, his progress has been frustrated by the sheer complexity of managing such a large organization. And that’s what has been gnawing at Art. While he’d been engulfed by administrative details that kept multiplying out of control, Eric Snow had been free to dream new dreams — including a radical new vision in which the church’s central role was elbowed aside by political ambition.

“Eric, I’m telling you, this is wrong, this is trouble, this isn’t the right door to charge through,” Art insisted. It was the Monday after Snow dropped the bombshell about his Senate aspirations in his meeting with the church’s inner circle.

Art had stopped by Eric’s office unannounced the first thing in the morning, catching Snow just as he was hanging up from a phone call with an aide to the governor. Eric remained seated; Art stayed standing — leaning forward, his posture aggressive — on the other side of Snow’s imposing desk.

“God knows what he’s doing,” came Eric’s measured reply. “If he allows my appointment, then that will be confirmation that this is the right path.”

“Don’t spiritualize this!” Art snapped. “Just because an opportunity presents itself doesn’t mean you should chase after it.”

“Don’t worry, the church will be okay. You’ll still be in charge.”

“I’m not concerned about my job. I’m concerned about the message this sends: politics trumps faith. And frankly, I’m concerned about you and me. We’ve been in this together for a long time. I can’t believe the way you presented this huge decision as a fait accompli. Obviously, you’ve been mulling this for quite a while.”

Eric didn’t answer right away — which, for Art, merely confirmed his suspicions: he had been intentionally excluded from the decision–making process because Eric knew full well what his reaction would be.

“The Senate possibility came up pretty suddenly,” Eric explained — which was true, but clearly not the whole story. “Everything crystallized when I got wind of it. I’ve been feeling stale for a while — you’ve sensed that. What can I say? God seems to be taking me in a new direction.”

“How much of this is God — and how much is Debra Wyatt?”

Line crossed.

The senior pastor locked eyes with Art as he slowly stood to his feet, his hands bracing himself on the desk. “Just what are you insinuating?”

Art relaxed his tone. “I’m just saying — she hasn’t been an elder very long; in fact, she hasn’t been a committed Christian very long. She still sees everything through a political prism. I’m not convinced she’s the right person to be your main counsel on this.”

Eric stood up straight, signaling the end of the conversation. “Art, you’ve got to trust me on this. My mind is made up. One hundred percent.”

Art knew Eric well enough to recognize that continued opposition would be futile. He also knew that if the congregation didn’t see a united front between them, the entire church could fracture.

“Got it,” he said quietly.

Returning to his office, he prayed that the governor would appoint Reese McKelvie. That would solve everything — at least, for the time being.

On this day, several weeks later, Art was mulling that confrontation while he was driving to a mid–morning dentist appointment. That’s when the call came to his cell phone. To be honest, he didn’t have time for the request that the caller would make. His inclination was to delegate it to another staff member, but then thought better of it.

After all, a long–time and faithful volunteer leader like Phillip Taylor seldom asked for a favor.

II

Transcript

Interview in Examiner conference room with Caroline Turner, May 12

—Thank you for meeting me like this, Ms. Turner. Again, my name is Garry Strider, and I’m going to record our conversation to make sure I report it accurately. Is that okay?

—Yeah, no problem.

—You’re how old?

—Twenty–seven.

—And you live in Schaumburg.

—Meacham Road Apartments.

—You work where?

— I’m a cashier at Skip’s, the liquor store over on Golf Road.

—And counselor, I need your consent too.

—Yes, for the record my name is Brent W. Vandervoort, attorney at law.

— By the way, how did you happen to bring Ms. Turner to me?

—A friend of mine works in Debra Wyatt’s law office. He heard a rumor that you were investigating Diamond Point Fellowship, so that’s why I called you. We’re preparing a lawsuit against the church. We still have some work to do before we file it, but we thought it would be in the public interest to do this interview now, in light of the recent news reports about Reverend Snow.

— Okay, good. Now, Ms. Turner, let’s start at the beginning. Am I correct that you went to Reverend Snow for a personal problem?

— Marriage problems, yeah. My husband and I were separated. We’d been married for maybe three years, but we’d argued right from the start. Billy was drinking, staying out all night, spending all our money. I was blaming myself. I’ve always had a bad self–image, y’know?

— So how did you enter into counseling with Reverend Snow?

— I’d been going to the church on and off for a while.

—Are you a formal member?

— Uh, no, I’m sorta checking things out.

— Okay, go on.

—About six weeks ago, one of Reverend Snow’s messages really hit me; it was about how to deal with anger in a biblical way, and I was feeling a lot of anger toward Billy. I was crying, I was very emotional, and after the service I went down to the front where Reverend Snow was greeting people, and I stood in line to talk with him.

—What did he say?

— He took my hands, both of them, and looked very intensely into my eyes and said, “Why the tears?” I remember that very specifically. And I just started crying harder.

— How did he react?

— He handed me a handkerchief and I wiped my eyes; I’ve still got it, I forgot to give it back. It’s got his initials on it. Anyway, I told him that I’d been feeling furious with my husband for his behavior and that I needed to deal with my anger.

—What did he say?

—That he hoped his message would help. And then he said, “Maybe I can counsel you further.” That kinda surprised me.

—Why?

—Well, it’s a big church; I didn’t expect the head guy to take a personal interest in me.

— Frankly, you’re an attractive woman. Did you suspect that Reverend Snow’s interest might be more personal than professional?

— Didn’t cross my mind. He just seemed really concerned about me. He asked if I could come by Monday for a counseling session.

— Did anyone overhear that?

— [pause] I don’t know. There were people around, but we weren’t talking loud, ‘cuz it was personal, y’know?

— Did he suggest you bring your husband?

— No, I think ‘cuz we were separated, he figured Billy wouldn’t come. Anyway, he said Monday is normally his day off but that he was gonna be in his office around two o’clock if I wanted to stop by.

— So on Monday, what happened?

—Around two o’clock, I knocked on the door of his office — you know, the outer door. There’s like a reception area. He opened the door himself, like he’d been waiting for me. Nobody was around; he said his secretary was off, and we went into his office and he closed the door.

—What kind of door was it?

—What kind of door?

—Yeah.

—Wood. A wood door.

—And what happened next?

— I sat down on the couch — I remember it was under a big framed photo of a scene from a forest. Very green, very pretty.

—What color was the couch?

— Sorta brown, bronze.

— Uh–huh. And he began to talk to you about — what, your marriage?

—Yeah, my marriage, my husband, why we were having problems. He asked about my family growing up. We talked maybe twenty or thirty minutes.

—Mr. Strider, if I may interject. It’s important to point out that Ms. Turner went to see Reverend Snow at his specific suggestion, that she was in a very vulnerable condition, and that he was acting under the auspices of Diamond Point Fellowship. I just want the record to reflect that.

—That’s fine, counselor, but this isn’t a deposition; I’m just trying to find out what happened. So, Ms. Turner, at some point after these initial twenty or thirty minutes, the conversation took a turn. Is that right?

—Yeah. We really hit it off, we were talking about some very personal things, and he started asking me about my sex life with my husband.

— Really? How did he bring that up?

— He said, “Since you and Billy have been separated, have you been intimate with him?” I said no, he doesn’t come around much.

—Were you surprised by his line of questioning?

—Well, I figured this was the kind of stuff people talk about in counseling. I trusted him. He’s a pastor, right? It didn’t seem creepy or anything; it was kind of natural, like a doctor and a patient. And then he got up —

— He’d been sitting across from you?

— In a chair.

—What kind of chair?

— Umm, I don’t remember. And he got up and moved next to me on the couch, sat real close, and I was starting to freak out a little. He said I was very pretty and that I shouldn’t suppress my impulses — he used that word, “impulses.”

—Mr. Strider, if I may interrupt at this point.

— I really wish you wouldn’t, Mr. Vandervoort.

—Well, I insist. She’s getting into the core of our case now, and I really don’t want her to be too specific because this will be the topic of depositions and court testimony. It doesn’t help us to spell things out step–by–step. She may summarize, that’s fine.

—Summarize? Wait a minute — if I’m going to take your charges seriously, then I need to hear her entire story and assess its credibility.

—Oh, she’s credible all right.

—Then let her tell me what happened. Ms. Turner, did he try to kiss you?

—Yeah, he did.

— Did you resist?

— I pushed him off, yeah.

—What did he do then?

— He took my hand — and … [Sounds of crying]

—Mr. Strider, please. She’s still very upset about this. All she wants to say at this point is that there was inappropriate contact of a sexual nature that was against her will; that she got up to leave and he pulled her back onto the couch; and that she struggled free and she fled the office. Isn’t that right, Ms. Turner? [pause] Let the record show she nodded.

— Did she go to the police?

— No, she was too embarrassed.

— Ms. Turner, why didn’t you go to the authorities?

—She was too embarrassed, Mr. Strider. Can’t you see she’s upset? Let the record show she’s sobbing.

— Look, Mr. Vandervoort, I’m trying to write an article here. That’s a little difficult if you won’t let your client tell me her story in her own words.

—When the suit is filed, it’ll be specific. You can quote from that.

— Do you have any corroboration at all, Mr. Vandervoort? Or will it be her word against his?

—She called her cousin and told her about it that same day. In tears.

— Her cousin?

—This will all be played out in court. We’ll present our entire case then. She can describe things that she never would have known if she hadn’t been in Reverend Snow’s private office.

—Mr. Vandervoort, I’ve been doing a lot of research on Diamond Point; about six months ago their church magazine published a photograph of the elders sitting on that couch in Reverend Snow’s office. And it clearly showed the framed photo of the very green forest behind it.

— Nevertheless …

—You waited until Snow was announced as a Senate candidate before you brought this whole thing up. Doesn’t that seem a little fishy, Mr. Vandervoort? How do I know you’re not just trying to cash in?

—All right, that’s enough!

— I’ll tell you what this looks like: you want to put pressure on Snow for a settlement by having me write this article, and you want to withhold details as leverage. That way, you can say to Snow, “You’d better settle or we’ll release more salacious stuff.”

—That’s absurd! Look, we’ve tried to tell you our story, but now I’m asking you to turn off your recorder.

— Not before I ask one more question. Ms. Turner, aren’t you aware that Reverend Snow’s door isn’t merely wooden — that it’s got a large window in it so that his secretary can monitor what goes on in his office in order to ward off allegations like these?

— Uh …

— Don’t answer that, Caroline.

—That’s right, I remember now: there was a window. A big window in his door.

— Really? Ms. Turner … [pause] I made that up.

End of recording.

III

When the words finally came, they tumbled out — unedited, uncensored, uncontrollable, gushing like whitewater from a breached dam.

Tom O’Sullivan didn’t quite know how much he was going to reveal when he walked into Art Bullock’s office late on a blustery May afternoon.

Phillip Taylor had assured him he’d be safe here, whatever he needed to unload — to an “official clergyman” — and by the time Tom walked out ninety minutes later, he had spilled it all: the glory days in a golden family, the complex relationship with his larger–than–life dad, the humiliation of the scandal. The aftermath, being shunned by his peers and professors, scraping by as an attorney for thugs and dealers and thieves, and finally the gambling: the friendly games in college, and more recently, the heady nights in the smoky back room of Gardenia’s on West Taylor Street, the inevitable losses and the mounting debt, and being “persuaded” by Dominic Bugatti to carry out a certain errand.

Tom held back nothing.

Once they set up the ground rules — “I need a firewall,” Tom had told him, “I need total confidentiality” — the attorney seemed to surprise even himself with his candor and willingness to cleanse himself by purging the cancer that was metastasizing inside of him. Somehow, he felt like everything would be all right if he could finally just say it.

For years Tom had listened as his calculating clients pulled their punches with him — never really coming clean, always rationalizing and justifying their boorish and sociopathic behavior, spinning improbable excuses and just–so tales as they sought to convince him they were all right after all.

In the end they would think that they had fooled him, but they never had. Tom wanted none of that. Once and for all, he wanted to get all of this out of himself, everything, and for some reason it didn’t matter what this pastor thought of him.

And then Tom came to the punch line, revealing the exact nature of his message to Judge Reese McKelvie. Art flinched for the first time, almost imperceptibly, then shifted in his chair, re–crossing his legs, folding his hands in his lap, but saying nothing.

The cash–stuffed manila envelope, the cynical ease with which McKelvie slipped it into his desk drawer, the rigging of the arraignment of a mob hit man — all of it flowed out of Tom as if a wound had been lanced.

Tom came to the part about his epiphany at his kitchen table, his deli lunch with Phillip, his subsequent Friday nights at the gambling group, Phillip’s growing friendship, and the uncanny quote from King David that so fully captured Tom’s sense of dread as his deceit dragged him down.

He finally came to the end. Tom gave a deep sigh — a cleansing breath — and relaxed back on the couch. He searched Art’s face; he could detect no sign of judgment or condemnation. Finally, in a restrained tone with an understated sense of wonder, Art pronounced, “Tom, this is one amazing story.”

Tom shrugged and nodded slightly, taking in another deep breath and exhaling as if he’d just released a great weight. “I know,” he said. “I wish it weren’t all true.”

With that, he reached into the inside pocket of his brown herringbone sports coat, withdrew a micro–recorder, and leaned forward to give it to Art, who hesitantly took it in his hand and regarded it quizzically. He held down the rewind button for several seconds, the device emitting a garbled squeal until he pushed “Play.”

The volume was louder than either of them expected, startling them both: You tell Bugatti this: I will make every effort to get the case to Sepulveda. If I succeed, I keep the money. But if I don’t succeed, I still keep the money. You got that? He’s not paying me for results; he’s paying me for the risk. You make that clear.

Art’s eyes widened as his mouth dropped open. He clicked off the recorder. “Are you kidding me? You recorded this?” Shaking his head in dismay, he placed the device on the glass–topped coffee table between them as if it were a live grenade.

“I’ve listened to it a dozen times,” Tom said. “It still makes me sick.”

“I’m not sure what to say about all this. I’m a pastor, not a cop. I’m not sure I can advise you on what to do with all of this McKelvie business.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m a lawyer; as best I can figure, there’s nothing I can do.”

“You can’t blow the whistle?”

“And spend my life being shuttled from safe house to safe house? Or end up like that guy on the floor of his brother’s garage? I don’t see a way I can make this right. The best I can do is get it off my chest, to try to get past it, to try to move on.” He paused a beat. “To try to do better.”

“Yeah,” said Art. “That’s a good place to start.”

The rain was beating hard on the windows now, the branches of a sugar maple scraping against the third–floor window as the wind whipped its freshly budding limbs.

For a few moments, neither of the men spoke — Tom relishing the first relief he’d experienced in weeks over his predicament. Art asked, “Did you ever read the rest of the 32^nd Psalm that Phillip quoted to you?”

“Uh, no.”

Art rose and took a few steps to his bookshelf. He started to remove a black leather Bible, but Tom reached out his hand toward him. “Please, you don’t need to read to me.”

Art turned and lowered himself back into his chair. “Then let me paraphrase. David says every time he tries to suppress or rationalize or flee from his guilt, he feels a pressure that squeezes him dry. But when he confesses, suddenly his guilt dissolves. God forgives him — providing refuge from the crushing weight that would destroy him.”

Tom considered the words for a moment. “I hope that’s true.”

Art leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and looked Tom directly in his eyes. “Tom, I’m more concerned about you than your circumstances.”

Instinctively, Tom shifted backwards. “I’m working through the steps. I believe in God — I get that, no problem. I’m not quite to the Jesus part yet. Too many questions.” He tapped the side of his head with his index finger and let a small grin inch onto his lips. “A lawyer’s mind, you know.”

Art smiled and sat back. “I think you’ve come further than you think. Confession opens the door for forgiveness. That’s the Jesus part. I don’t want to throw a lot of Bible verses at you, but — “

“That’s your job, isn’t it?” The words came out with an unintended edge.

“The truth is I like you, Tom. I want to help.”

Resistance crept onto Tom’s face. “I’m not sure I’m ready to be proselytized,” was the way he put it.

“You’ve already done the hard part,” said Art. “The easy part is forgiveness.”

For a minute Tom said nothing. His eyes drifted toward the window, where daylight was seeping away, and then returned to Art. “Maybe there’ll come a time, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll even learn how to forgive myself. But for now, I’ve got to figure out what to do next.”

“I’ll be honest: this is outside my experience. It’s probably outside anybody’s experience. I should get some counsel—”

“Hold on, Art. Remember our deal? You would never reveal any of this to anyone. Ever, under any circumstances. I’m counting on that.”

“Absolutely, no problem. But I’m committed to helping you figure this out.”

“Believe me, you’ve already done a lot, just by listening.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to beat rush hour,” he said, rising to his feet and retrieving his trench coat from where he’d folded it on the couch. Art stood and they shook hands.

“Really, I appreciate your time and concern,” Tom said. “Phillip was right — you’re a stand–up guy. This means a lot to me — I feel relieved. I won’t forget this.”

“Let’s not make this a one–time thing,” Art said. “I want you to know I’m here for you.”

Tom turned toward the door, but Art tugged his shoulder and gestured toward the recorder. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Tom thought for a moment. “If you’ve got a safe place for that thing, I’d rather leave it with you. I’d like to put it in my past. If that places you in an awkward position …”

Art didn’t hesitate — this was at least something he could actually do. “We’ve got a vault where we keep the weekend offering before it goes to the bank. I could put it in there for safekeeping.”

“That’s good for now. Yeah, keep it safe but keep it confidential. And if you ever feel like it’s putting you in any jeopardy, throw it in a dumpster.”

Before Tom could turn once again to leave, Art took a step toward his bookcase, slipped the Bible from the shelf, and tossed it to him. Tom bobbled it but then grabbed it tightly.

“At least,” Art said, “take this.”

IV

The crowd at that Friday evening’s Elders Prayer meeting was twice its usual size. Although Eric Snow had tried to squelch the news about the apparent healing of Hanna Kaarakka, word had passed from person to person that something extraordinary had happened to a little girl whose parents brought her for prayer.

And so they came, more than 150 of them, in wheelchairs and on crutches, tethered to guide dogs or leaning heavily on the arm of a loved one: the distraught mother toting her newborn with a cleft palate, the teenager facing a lifetime of diabetes, the frightened grandmother fighting breast cancer, the anxious father needing bypass surgery.

They filed into the dim, narrow chapel, sliding into the pews, their heads bowed in reverence and their spirits teased by anticipation. Many of them had been beaten down by bad news for so long that it was refreshing just to cling to the hope that something good might happen.

Having been coached by Eric Snow not to mention the incident with Hanna, and frankly still shaken by his experience with the child, Dick Urban was uncharacteristically nervous as he walked to the front. He gave his usual opening statement and offered a blanket prayer to cover the needs of most of those in attendance. Then he joined four of the other elders, vials of anointing oil in hand, as they assumed their stations around the periphery of the room.

As they awaited the first of the petitioners to approach them, the elders exchanged glances across the expanse of the chapel, as if to say, Well, here we go. Frankly, none of them knew what to expect anymore.

A frail–looking man in his fifties, using forearm crutches to support his unruly legs, worked his way over to where Dick was standing. He wore thick glasses and had strands of black hair combed over in a futile attempt to conceal an ever–expanding bald spot. At his side was a gray–haired woman clad in a thin, blue dress, her faced etched with sadness, her shoulders hunched in defeat.

The man was out of breath. “Post–polio,” was all he could manage to say.

Dick signaled for someone to bring over a folding chair, and the man gratefully lowered himself into it, stacking his crutches atop each other on the floor. Dick had seen this syndrome before, this mysterious and debilitating onset of exhaustion, pain, weakness, and muscle atrophy that can come decades after the initial viral infection of poliomyelitis ravaged the body’s nervous system.

“We’ve prayed and prayed; we’ve almost given up,” offered the woman in the most forlorn voice. “Our faith has sort of seeped away. After all Harold has been through — all the struggles since he got polio when he was nine — to have this happen now just seems so unfair.” She glanced down at her husband, now slumped in the gray metal chair. “We need help, that’s all I can say.”

Dick nodded and took a deep breath. “All that’s needed is faith the size of a mustard seed,” he said. It sounded like a cliché, to be sure — a biblical sentiment often tossed out to paper over pangs of doubt — but it didn’t come off that way when Dick said it. In fact, he wasn’t at all certain whether he was saying it for their benefit or his own.

He dipped two fingers into the vial of vegetable oil, and as Harold offered his face to him with his eyes tightly shut, Dick bent over and dabbed the clear substance on his forehead.

And then Dick prayed — not a rote prayer, not a formula prayer, not even a confident or “professional” prayer, but a prayer in which Dick all but lost himself. It was as if all of this man’s heartbreaks and disappointments and sadness somehow became intertwined and intermingled with Dick’s own spirit, and when he called out for God’s mercy he did it with every bit as much anguish as if the man’s pain were his own.

By the time he uttered, “Amen,” he wasn’t sure how long he had been speaking or exactly what he had asked God to do. Opening his eyes was like emerging from a trance.

What happened in the next few moments would ultimately become the topic of three separate articles in peer–reviewed medical journals and two doctoral dissertations — one in neurology from Johns Hopkins and the other in theology from the University of Aberdeen.

In the ensuing years, Harold Beamer would be subjected to everything from electrophysiological studies to spinal fluid analysis to neuroimaging. He would be poked and prodded, x–rayed and interrogated, and slid into more claustrophobia–inducing MRI chambers than he could possibly remember.

What would astonish the researchers the most would not be the spontaneous dissipation of his post–polio syndrome. Sure, that was extraordinary, but nevertheless it’s a rather nebulous and even transitory condition that’s hard to measure anyway.

No, what would astound — and confound — them was the way Harold Beamer instantaneously regained the full use of his legs, including the inexplicable return of the actual muscle tone and strength that had atrophied for years as he had languished with the effects of his polio.

The man could walk again.

From the moment he rubbed his legs to ward off the radiating heat and then stood confidently to his feet in front of his wide–eyed wife, sixth–grade math teacher and amateur chess champion Harold Beamer was healed — thoroughly, indisputably, mystifyingly healed.

“My God, my God — look!” he declared, his voice rising as he stomped his feet to test the rigidity of his newfound legs.

He jumped — and then giggled like a child. He squatted and rose again. He stood on one leg while swinging the other back and forth to test his knee. He walked five steps in one direction, pivoted, and then walked back, all the time gazing downward, his mouth unhinged in amazement that his legs were actually — for the first time since his childhood — doing what his mind told them to do.

“Yes, thank God — look!” declared Dick Urban, his face blossoming into an enormous smile. “It’s … well, it’s a miracle.”