A New Requiem. B. Lance Jenkins

      Brenda got out of her chair to turn on the television that was mounted on the wall at the far side of the conference room. “What channel?”

      “Texting him now.” She waited for seconds, and already had a reply. “He said…WYTG twenty-five Freeden News.”

      She switched it to WYTG. Most of the team was surprised it had hit television news already, but Ben wasn’t. He had seen the reporters at the jail the previous night. Now they were broadcasting live from in front of city hall in downtown Freeden.

      “Dwight Kerry stands accused of first-degree murder and statutory rape of seventeen-year-old Braxton Jones, a local boy who was a long-time student of Kerry’s in his music and choir classes. There is already a considerable amount of anger in the community. We spoke to several community members earlier today at the local landmark eatery, 3rd Street Café.”

      The picture cut to an earlier recording. “Death row at a minimum,” said a local interviewee.

      Another standing beside her added, “He deserves to die, sooner than later.”

      The live feed returned and the reporter continued, “Now the arraignment is coming up this week and it remains to be seen whether or not Kerry will plead guilty. Local firm Bailey and Associates is leading the defense, and the community is not taking too kindly to one if its own, Ben Bailey, defending Kerry for such a heinous crime.”

      “If ole’ Ben Bailey and his team can feel good about it, then that’s on them,” another interviewee said. “But they will answer for it, I assure you of that.”

      The team looked around at each other.

      “Answer for it?” Liz asked.

      “Yeah, I heard that,” Ben replied. Then he stood up, placed his hands on the table, leaned against it, and looked up at the team. “Be safe folks. When you come here, you lock the door. When you go home, you lock the door. Take all necessary precautions. Please.”

      “Can we pray? As a team?” Deb asked.

      Ben didn’t feel like praying. Thinking of God made him think of one person: Dr. Dan Henson, a man he knew would be a major problem moving forward. He knew Dr. Henson would lead the movement; if people got out to protest against Dwight and his defense, it would be because Dr. Henson rallied the troops. In the last year, when Ben thought of God, he thought of Dr. Henson, and he didn’t like how awful it made him feel.

      Sympathetic, though only halfway willing, Ben replied, “Sure, Deb. Let’s pray.”

      They all bowed their heads. Ben looked around the room at his staff, all of whom seemed to be taking the prayer a lot more serious than he. He bowed his head, and silently prayed for about thirty seconds.

       Lord, I know you’re good. I know deep down you’re not Dan Henson. But it’s so hard for me to turn your way when all I see is him. Grant me freedom from this, oh Lord. Please. I need you to show me you are different than him and the people here.

      Suddenly, all Ben could think of was the second piece from Requiem, entitled "Kyrie." After praying to himself, he felt compelled to share the translation aloud.

      “Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy.”