Injustice is relatively easy to bear; it is justice that hurts (H.L. Mencken)

In the U.S. Navy, a steady bearing rate is not really a happy thing. Since this involves basic physical principles operative all over the globe, it is not a happy thing for other navies either, but the U.S. Navy will work for purposes of illustration. Say a ship spots another ship 30 degrees off the starboard bow, and let us say the ship is a little bobbing dot on the horizon. Then suppose that some time later, it is still occupying the same place 30 degree-wise, but it is no longer a dot, but rather the size of something significantly bigger than a dot. Then, a half an hour after that, if the ship is still right there, 30 degrees off the starboard bow, but this time it is three times bigger and a lot closer still, this indicates that unless something changes, and soon, there is going to be a collision, and at least three heads on the admiral’s desk in the morning.

* * *

Mystic Union was nothing if not industrious. Not only did she continue her ordinary herbal sales, in which her dogmatism more than compensated for her level of expertise, and a demanding slate of midwifery appointments, with no deaths yet, but she also had taken on the equivalent of a full-time job in her advocacy of the Robert P. Warner II situation. Her lover, if you wanted to call him that, wasn’t being exactly helpful because the more energy was expended on the subject in his presence, the more it made him weak and trembly all over. Mystic Union regularly gave him some herbal tea for it, but it really was a nasty business and so he just poured it down the sink when she wasn’t looking.

She had persuaded the two city papers—one morning edition and one evening—to accept an interview with her instead of with Robert. Those interviews had actually gone quite well, with Mystic Union sharing some lurid details that hadn’t really happened. But although they had never actually occurred, they nevertheless made good copy, and the editors ate it all up with a spoon, straight out of the carton. One of those editors had read some Derrida in college, and so he was good with the idea of perspectives from every which direction, especially if it made good copy. Mystic Union also, with the natural shrewdness of a born master, knew when to leak and when to go on the record. In one fashion or the other, she kept a steady stream of information flowing to the appropriate news outlets.

Robert P. Warner II wasn’t stupid though. He was lazy, and he was narcissistic, and could act like a moron sometimes, and for some reason he thought that he knew how to write, but he wasn’t stupid. He could see that Mystic Union was going to shoot the moon, and he instinctively knew that his story wasn’t built for no moon shooting. And when this small instinctive notion lined up with his inveterate slothfulness, it gave him all the moral authority he needed to go limp and stay limp. He would consistently sleep in till noon or after, walk around their neighborhood for a couple hours foraging for the kind of food that was not to be had back at the Health Temple. Come to think of it, maybe that had something to do with his lack of cooperation too. If the moon got successfully shot, then there the two of them would be, as wealthy as all get out, but he would still be eating those slabs of tofu.

Robert walked out of the 7-11 with an order of cheese pump nachos, a hot dog, and a couple of packets of those chocolate thingies with a half-life of 75 years. He backed out the door, balancing all that processed nutrition along one arm with a big gulp soft drink in the other hand. He walked over to a nearby park, and settled with a sigh on the nearest park bench. He could only afford to eat like this because his sister would occasionally send some money. Mystic Union had cut him off a long time ago. Why would a film critic of his caliber have to resort to sneaking around for some decent food? Didn’t they feed the critics at Cannes?

But as he ate, he slowly realized the way of least resistance was still to remain for the present at the Health Temple. Mystic Union knew how much she could get out of him, she didn’t push too much, and so it wasn’t at intolerable levels yet. Robert P. ate the hot dog pensively, looking forward to the yellow/orange nachos.

* * *

Cherie walked confidently up to the main building of the television station. She had called the day before, gotten through to Mercedes Hanson, and told her that she had a bombshell story to tell about Chad Lester and Camel Creek. She was willing to be interviewed on the record, but anonymously. “You know, the way you guys sometimes interview silhouettes?”

Mercedes jumped at it. “Of course we can guarantee you complete anonymity. It is important for the public to know what has been happening here. And we will always protect our sources. The First Amendment . . . what was that?”

Cherie had asked directions to the station, not being all that interested in the First Amendment. All she wanted to do was get even with Chad, and to do so without taking any responsibility for anything herself. Talking to the police would have involved talking about her earlier romps with Chad some years before, in which questions about her cooperation and willingness might naturally have arisen, along with questions about why she stayed at Camel Creek afterwards. Doing it this way, she could just tell her most recent version of the events of the other night, John would feel duty-bound to confirm portions of it if anything did get out, and she did not have to prove anything. All she had to do was tell her story and let the public decide.

So the interview was conducted the next morning, and Cherie felt very good about how it had gone. Mercedes was a deft questioner, one who knew how to look as though she was asking penetrating hardball questions, but who was actually steering the interview straight to the foregone conclusion. Her abilities in this regard gave the phrase video feed a whole new meaning.

The last question was a set up for the final appeal. “Why should anyone believe your story?
“I . . . I guess I am not asking them to.” Cherie spoke with a winsome humility. “All I want to do is provide an encouragement to others who may have been in a similar circumstance. Maybe with Chad Lester . . .maybe with someone else.” Her voice broke.

“Thank you, for women everywhere,” Mercedes said. “Thank you for your courage.”

John Mitchell was staring at the screen in disgust. “Courage!” Cindi had just arrived in the living room, and was standing behind the couch, drying a roasting pan. She had heard the last part of the interview from the kitchen and came out to watch it with her husband.

“John,” she said. “Do you think that’s Cherie?”

John Mitchell was slumped on the coach in a posture of strong disapproval. “Yeah, that’s Cherie. The first part of the interview you missed was the same story from the other night. But why do you think it might be Cherie? They ran her voice through a garble box.”

“Just little turns of phrase she used.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Well, this is a queer business. She said nothing about her fling with him a few years ago, which is something that would have been easy to prove, if proof were ever necessary. She only talked about the other night. I am starting to think that she set Chad up . . . as much as it pains me to believe that Chad didn’t do something grotesque. Maybe she called me as soon as Chad got there . . .”

. . . and maybe John had given Chad a black eye for nothing. Well, there was that satisfaction anyway.

“What are you going to do if they call you for corroboration?” Cindi asked. “If she is lying, and called you over, then that has to be why she did it.”

“They won’t call. They already aired the story. And they will only check after the fact if someone challenges the story. And who is going to challenge it now, given that Chad, in the public eye, is up to his neck in pre-certified guilt? I’ll give Cherie this. Her timing is impeccable.”

“Should we talk to Cherie about it?”

“Probably. Not that it will do any good. But I might have to talk to Chad about that black eye I gave him. But speaking frankly, Cindi my dear, I’m not up to that yet. I will need some seasons of incessant prayer . . . that, and a couple helpings of your cheese potatoes. What a tangle! Pastoral snarls are like the mercies of God—they are new every morning.”

* * *

Michelle Lester had gotten over her anger with Brian. He meant well. He was a genuine sweetheart. And for the first time, it occurred to her that she really had no reason to be dubious about any counsel that John Mitchell might give. That was a strange thought. The glimmer of a willingness to have Brian talking to John about her Chad money unfolded into a momentary openness to meeting John sometime to see what Brian saw in him. It went away almost immediately, but still, it had happened. And she was no longer upset with Brian.

But she was still concerned about her girls. Even though their journaling seemed honest enough—and when they talked to her, they said all the right things—she was still worried. Something didn’t seem right.

They really needed professional counseling. There was a small battalion of professional counselors at Camel Creek, but she knew the girls would not be open to that. Icky, gross, she could hear Kimberly saying. And Shannon would nod.

She flipped anxiously through the yellow pages and came to rest on a small ad for certified counseling services that had a Christian sounding name. She plopped the phone book on the counter, and dialed. The receptionist was cheerful and had some openings for early the following week. When she hung up the phone, the receptionist whistled, and took a note into the Stefan MacDonald, the counselor. He looked at the note, and he whistled. Shannon and Kimberly Lester. Well, imagine that. Stefan had his degree in counseling from Duke, and another degree in theology from Westminster Seminary. He was an elder at Grace Reformed, and was one of John Mitchell’s closest friends.

* * *

“Charles Peaborne is a prophet without honor in his own country. Check out his take on all this at Savanarola.com.” This was the cryptic comment left at multiple blog sites where the Camel Creek reactor scram meltdown was being discussed, and it was the comment left by various posters. There was george@yahoo.com   and littlepete@yahoo.com and jojo@yahoo.com. There were a number of others as well, but this would be to belabor the point because the point of origin for all of them was Charles Peaborne himself.

There were various levels of praise for Mr. Peaborne from these anonymous admirers, ranging from mildly adulatory to idolatrous. And, for the first two days, they did boost his web traffic a skosh. But after that it was back to the flat brain wave. Charles was on a first name basis with the guy in tech support for his web stats page, calling him at least three times a day with suggestions on how he ought to check again. Charles also took out a few web ads on various whistleblower sites. But somehow, no one really wanted to click on “Smell the stench of true corruption.”

Once you got to the Savanarola web site, it was initially impressive, then overwhelming, and then odd, and then funny. This was the ranking, depending on whether you spent 30 seconds there, three minutes, ten minutes, or half an hour. The site was jammed full of pdfs of minutes from ancient meetings, pdfs of long lost memos, mostly from Charles, pdfs of affidavits, all from Charles and immediate family members. Charles had unique views on what constituted corroboration. He would produce an affidavit saying that he had once told Chad Lester, to his face, that if Camel Creek did not repent of its wasteful practice of buying high-grade paper for the copiers, and instead go with the perfectly acceptable middle-grade variety, there would be consequences. Then there would then be two other affidavits, from his mother and younger brother, testifying that Charles had indeed told them that he had told Chad this also.

It was the middle of the evening, and Charles had just finished uploading a whole new line of what he called “exposure documents.” He sat back in his chair in his study at home, and stared at the screen, highly pleased.

* * *

That same night, Miguel Smith was across the state line on one of his periodic forays in search of sexually precocious minors. He always took care to stay away from his home town in the belief that how he got laid was none of his home town’s business. And unless he traveled afar, the chances were good that word would get around in that home town, and it was possible that his home town would not take the same lax views on his private affairs as he did.

The Internet was a great help in setting up these various liaisons, and the state line was only two hours away. And so it was that same night that Miguel cruised slowly up to the agreed-upon Holiday Inn Express, and saw a long-legged blond standing by the garbage can outside, just like she said she would. Her screen name was Tiffany, and she had better be as young as she said she was. She looked like she might be.

The young woman saw his blue-gray Lexus rolling up the drive, recognized it, and sauntered toward the curb. Without missing a beat she opened the door on the passenger side and hopped in, held up a room key, and said “Room 106. Just on the other side.”

He pulled around to the right, and drove into an empty space right in front of 106. They spent a couple minutes negotiating, agreed on a price, and he gave her the money.

“Well, Tiffany,” he said. “It will be a pleasure to . . .  meet you.”

“Well, actually,” she said. “It’s Lt. Tiffany.” And she held up her badge, and at that same moment a flashlight came on just behind Miguel and focused on the steering wheel.

“Damn,” said Miguel.

Lt. Tiffany hopped out, and the voice behind the flashlight said, “May I ask you to get out, and step away from the car, sir?”

“Damn,” said Miguel. “Okay, though.”

But Miguel had contingency plans for everything. The bulk of his money was hidden away in multiple places, and he had resolved some time ago that if he ever got busted—for anything—he would behave in such a manner that the authorities would all believe that they would all go to their graves without ever again meeting such a cooperative prisoner. He would tell them anything and everything about anybody—except where most of his money was—and he would do it with narrowed gaze, looking for the mother of all plea arrangements. He would spill the first free information before he got an attorney there, and would spill as it suited him thereafter. The confession before his attorney arrived would be for establishing his sincerity in confessing all the rest later. In the car on the way to the station, Miguel decided which confessional track it would be.

Forty-five minutes later he was sitting in an interrogation room, heavy on the plastic products, from the table to the floor to the chair to the window blinds, and speaking with a heavy-set officer named Jack in his forties, not nearly so attractive as Tiffany had been. Oh, well.

“What do you do?”

“I am the CFO for Camel Creek Community Church.”

The man’s eyebrows went up. “Camel Creek, eh? You guys get around.”

“You’ve apparently heard about Chad Lester then? Well, this arrest is no doubt God’s payback to me for what I have been doing for him. I have been issuing checks to a number of his ex-mistresses . . . well, actually I wasn’t able to do that by myself. One of my colleagues, Charles Peaborne, was involved in that part of it too.”

The policeman looked slightly panicked. “Look, you have a right to an attorney . . .”

“Oh, I know that,” Miguel said, waving his hand. “In fact, I want to call an attorney now. But that doesn’t change the fact that I intend to cooperate fully with you guys.”

Jack looked pleased, licked his pencil, and wrote down mistresses, pay off, and Charles Peaborne.

* * *

Stephanie Nelson looked thoughtfully at the schedule that Sharon Atwater had given her. No plane trips anywhere on it. Chad had been in town for two straight months. She had then double-checked with her daughter. Yes, Chad had definitely said that he was catching a plane in the morning. No mistake possible.

Stephanie pursed her lips, highly displeased. She was the kind of woman whose absolute support was freely and completely given . . . until it gave way like a saturated California hillside. Then it was mostly at the bottom with a car or two underneath. The final event that would cause the hillside to give way might be completely trivial—perhaps a robin landing too heavily—but once the business was underway . . . well, it was all mostly at the bottom.

Chad had clearly and unmistakably lied to her daughter. This was a breach of trust not to be endured. It was clear. It was unambiguous. It was obviously time to act.

Fifteen minutes later, Michael Martin looked up from his desk, startled. Stephanie had just blown past his secretary (which was actually a pretty difficult thing to manage) and sat down across from him, her normally pleasant evangelical features fixed, hard, and angry. He gestured, magnanimously, and just a second too late. “Have a seat,” he said.

“Michael,” she said. “We have to talk.”

He perked up in spite of himself. He had a feeling that this was the kind of anger that would cause her to start confiding. It did not have that “confronting” feel to it at all. In short, she was angry, but not at him. She was angry and wanted his help in being angry. Okay, he thought. Sure. Who is it?

“I feel betrayed by . . . by Chad,” she said.

Better and better. “Why is that?” he said, with deep concern.

She told the whole story from beginning to end. Chad had said that he was going to catch a flight in the morning, and he actually wasn’t going to. The story didn’t take very long. Wasn’t much of a story. But Michael was a sympathetic audience. He was not a hard sell. Stephanie was the swing vote on the leadership team and Michael was there to help her swing away from Chad. But she had already done that by the time she got to Michael’s office, and all that remained was for Michael to make a few judicious suggestions on how the next leadership team meeting ought to go.