March 18, 2006 was my 55th birthday. I celebrated at Sonny’s BBQ with a male prostitute.
Now that opening line should get your attention. Let me explain!! Sit tight because this is a long story which starts in 1977, when I was a 3rd year law student and my wife Sue and I were counsellors in a Methodist youth group. Marcus Paul was an eighteen-year-old homeless kid who wandered into town looking for some cousins who happened to be in that youth group.
Sue was soon scared to death by Marcus on a weekend retreat. He came barging into a cabin with a hatchet in his hand, asking, “Where’s Ed?” Some boy named Ed had triggered an anger in Marcus, who was quite serious about doing him harm. I am still not sure how I got the potential weapon away from Marcus, but I did. I calmed him down. Later, in a cabin, we prayed and years later he would say it was his moment of salvation, although in my mind, these matters of salvation get murky.
After his ‘salvation’, he murdered a man. That’s the real story here. He was my only murder client. Ever.
I soon lost track of Marcus when we started attending a different church, but sometime in 1979, an associate pastor at Centenary called me. Marcus had been arrested for murder. The pastor asked me to go see him at the jail- maybe even be his lawyer. I had been a lawyer for less than two years. My criminal law practice was primarily simple misdemeanors or drunk drivers—mostly pleading people guilty.
Marcus needed a real lawyer— not some 28-year-old kid who barely shaved. Most of what I knew about criminal law was watching old Perry Mason TV shows.
The cop who arrested Marcus later told me that the murder scene was bloody and gruesome. He found Marcus curled up and hiding in the corner of a garage. The cop was so afraid of Marcus that he literally threw the handcuffs at him and screamed at him to cuff himself or he would blow his “f……” brains out. This was not a friendly request. This was an order from a policeman with a gun pointed at his head.
I soon learned the reason I hadn’t seen him for two years. He had wandered away from church. He had no family. His mother was dead. His father from Detroit was alive but had no time for his son. Marcus was sadly surviving as a homosexual prostitute. It was a tragic situation.
He was in trouble now not only because he was “guilty” but also because he could not afford an experienced lawyer. I was almost as broke as Marcus. He obviously had no money so I took the case thinking I would further my legal education and maybe learn something that would pay off someday.
The facts of the case were complicated. Marcus had gone to the Kentucky Theatre (a homosexual hang-out) to watch a violent movie- “Midnight Express”. It was a story about a young American convicted of possessing marijuana in Turkey, and the nasty prison where the boy was incarcerated. The American kid broke free and beat a guard to death, smashing his head into some stairs in a disturbing scene. Marcus left the movie, went to a gay bar and picked up a “client” from Louisville. He was walking to a downtown motel room when the drunken man attempted to kiss Marcus. That kiss set off fireworks in his psyche which ended with him beating the man to a pulp. He smashed the man’s head into some stairs, imitating the movie scene. He was dead long before Marcus finished the assault.
I located his father in Detroit and asked him to come down for the trial. “Sir”, I said, “your son could get the death penalty. He’s murdered a man and we’re trying to save his life. Could you come down and explain what a terrible childhood he had and just be a witness in the case?” His chilling response was, “You can tell my son to go to hell. I won’t be there.”
At the trial, I hired two expert witnesses, psychiatrists, who said Marcus was legally insane. I’d seen the insanity defense on TV in a lawyer movie a time or two. It didn’t work very well. The jury came back and gave Marcus 119 years in the Penitentiary (99 years for murder and 20 years for robbing twenty dollars from the victim’s pocket).
But…against all odds, we won the appeal. I was better in those days at writing appellate briefs than convincing juries. The trial judge, N. Mitchell Meade, made some serious errors which the Supreme Court of Kentucky corrected with an Order that we get a new trial. Marcus took a generous plea deal and by 1993, after fourteen years behind bars, he was a free man. I knew he was free when he showed up at an Emmaus Walk gathering. He had met Jesus, again, while in prison. It was quite surreal. I warmly greeted him but decided to keep my distance.
Fast forward now ten years to the early 2000’s. I ran into an old acquaintence, Jerry Goerz and his wife Wanda. They were faithful members at Centenary. They told me that they were helping Marcus with basic chores. He lived in a ratty apartment in a bad location. He went to the VA (he had been in the Army for a short time) monthly for medicine to keep his mental illness under control. Jerry took Marcus to lunch twice a month and was, without a doubt, his only friend. Jerry said that Marcus was trying his best to follow the Lord. But still, he had mental issues. He had anger issues. He could not read or write beyond a 5rd grade level.
I told Jerry (a saint) that I would join them for lunch the next month. I learned that Jerry and Wanda had visited him regularly in prison. When he was released on parole, Marcus survived on 800 dollars a month from his government disability payment. He was spending 20% of his income on cigarettes.
At the end of our re-acquaintance luncheon, I made a deal with Marcus, promising to take him out around Christmas time each year for a meal. By now, Marcus was not the handsome young man that older gay men desired. He was almost 300 pounds, gray, and smelled like cigarettes and the dingy apartment complex where he lived.
On Christmas Eve 2005, I picked up Marcus at 9:30 am for our annual lunch. I was a judge by now in that same Fayette Circuit Court which sent Marcus to prison. “Why so early?”, asked Marcus. “I will explain when I get there”, was my response.
It seemed to me to be no coincidence that the judge in his case had died three days before this. Marcus didn’t know it, but we would attend the judge’s funeral at 10:00 am on Christmas Eve.
“Marcus, do you remember Judge Meade?”
He said, “Oh, yeah!” I said, “Well, he died, and we’re going to his funeral.”
“I can’t go to his funeral! I’m not dressed right.”
“Oh, it’ll be alright. Come on, let’s go.”
So, off we went to Central Christian Church, just two blocks from the spot where Marcus committed a heinous murder. The funeral itself was quite sad. There was little hope of heaven expressed for the judge whose church attendance was rare. The accolades about the great judge who was “tough on crime” all seemed quite empty. There were too many empty seats in the large sanctuary. Even now, I hope the heavenly Judge was more lenient than the dear departed judge.
I punched Marcus during the funeral and whispered, “Marcus, you should be more thankful for the life of this judge than anybody. If he hadn’t made all those mistakes during your trial, you’d still be in prison.” He looked at me in wonder, “Yeah, hadn’t thought about that.”
Marcus called me soon after. “Hey Tim, my birthday is coming up. I’d like to invite you to my birthday party. February 17th.” He mentioned some people he thought would be there. I said, “Oh, okay Marcus, I’ll be there! Be sure and call to remind me. I’d love to come to your birthday party.” I marked it on my calendar.
When I had not heard from him two days before his birthday, I called him and said, “Marcus, is the birthday party still on?”
“Oh yeah, sure, yeah!”
I said, “Good, I will be there. Who else is coming? Where is it?”
“Well, looks like it’s just going to be you and me. Jerry is out of town. Yup, just you and me.” He mentioned one other person who had been invited but couldn’t make it.
I said, “Well okay! What do you want to do?”
“Let’s go to that rib place”, talking about Sonny’s Barbecue. “Then I thought after dinner we can go by the Fayette Mall, and you could buy me three or four shirts and a couple pair of pants.”
I was slightly stunned but just quietly said, “Okay. Let’s do it.”
So off we went to Sonny’s and the mall on February 17, 2006. Happy birthday Marcus.
During our BBQ, he discovered that my 55th birthday would be on Saturday, March 18. “Tim, I want to buy dinner for your birthday. You always pay for everything. I am going to pay this time.” I politely declined, telling him, “Well Marcus, thanks for the offer but I’m sure my wife has something planned. That’s really nice but it won’t work out.”
But…as it turned out, Sue told me she was going out of town on a women’s retreat that weekend. Since ‘55’ seemed like a big deal to me, I even wondered if maybe Sue had planned a surprise party.
But sure enough, Sue left town on Friday night and it was obvious that there was no surprise party. So, I called Marcus.
“Well, I guess it’s just you and me, Marcus.”
So off we went to eat ribs at Sonny’s Barbecue. Thus, the story of how I celebrated my 55th birthday with a former homosexual prostitute and convicted murderer who now was gray, ugly, smelly, and stinky. But he did pay!
Instead of annual luncheons, we began to meet three or four times a year. At one of those luncheons, I innocently asked him, “Marcus, do you need anything?” He never asked for anything, except an occasional short-term loan— about $40 which he would re-pay the next month. But this time, he was specific.
“I really need a mattress.”
I said, “Well, let’s pray about that.” Marcus presumed that I meant ‘right now’, so out loud in a local restaurant, Marcus offered his prayer, “Dear God, you know I need a mattress real bad.” His voice was so loud that about a dozen people heard that he needed a mattress really bad. He prayed for over three minutes for a mattress. I tried my best to keep my eyes closed, hoping no one would recognize me.
On Sunday, I told some guys at church about Marcus and his mattress. One guy had a good used mattress, so that was easy. I’d actually never been inside his apartment so when we arrived with the mattress, we discovered that not only did he need a mattress, but he also needed a bed. The apartment was a disaster— filthy beyond third-world condition.
We offered to do an apartment makeover for him. He resisted but we insisted, and five men descended on a Saturday morning and ripped it up with a new bed, a new couch, a new chair. Only the good Lord knows what was in the kitchen sink and refrigerator. He had not cleaned the place in ten years!! We filled a truck with garbage bags.
And then, in October 2007, another good friend named Billy called to let me know he had lung cancer, I immediately picked up the telephone and called Marcus. “Marcus, a friend just called me. He has lung cancer. He is going to die soon. I’ve been talking to you all these years and it’s time for you to quit smoking. I bought you the patches and you didn’t use them.” I lectured him, “You’re going to die soon if you don’t quit smoking!”
“Okay Tim, okay. I promise I’ll do something.” We made an appointment to have lunch the next week to find out what he had done.
Just four days later, on a Monday, I opened my mail to find a rare letter from Marcus. Even the letter smelled like stinky smoke. Inside the envelope was a smelly $20 bill. At the time he owed me $40.
The letter said the following (I have left in the poor grammar and mis-spelled words):
“10-5-07. Dear Tim, Hi. Thought Ide sur prize you by send this $20.00 to you. It’s just half of what I owe you. I re-did my buget for this monthly, the rest will come November. Jerry tells me that you are going to be the head lay perons on an R.E.C. at Black Burun prison. I hope it goes well for you. I have some encourging news. I talk to the V.A. yesterday about stopd smoke-in class. I hope that that will get the ball rolleing. Well thats about it. Your friend, in Christ, Marcus.”
I smiled just knowing that Marcus was trying. But the words “Your friend, In Christ, Marcus” left me with tears.
Then, just a few minutes after opening the letter, Jerry called. On that same Monday, during their regular monthly lunch, Marcus had collapsed at a restaurant. An ambulance took him to the VA Hospital. His lungs had collapsed and the situation was hopeless. His lifestyle had finally taken him down the wrong road.
After a few days of life-support, Jerry and I agreed with the medical staff that it was too late. It was time to let Marcus move on to heaven.
Heaven? Perhaps you are wondering— are you sure? A dirty, murdering, homosexual prostitute? Heaven?
Was he qualified? His ‘church’, if you want to call it that, was listening daily to Alistair Begg on the radio. He considered the Scottish Rev. Begg to be his pastor. Lunch with me and Jerry was part of his ‘church’ too. But that was not his hope of heaven. Marcus’ hope was “In Christ”! His final words said it all. “Your friend, in Christ, Marcus.”
There was then one final sign from heaven as an exclamation point.
About a year later, I was slightly frustrated that I had lost the “Marcus letter”. I had posted the stinky letter with mis-spelled words galore in my prayer closet as a blessed remembrance of Marcus’ dying faith. I had misplaced the letter. It was a lost treasure for me,
One routine work-day morning I was leaving for work from the Panera Bread parking lot, where I had met someone. As I opened my car door, I saw a twenty-dollar bill laying in the middle of the lot. I looked around and saw no one nearby. I just put the $20 in my pocket and off to work I went, thinking this a nice way to start any day.
When I arrived at the office, I opened an office file to prepare for the first case of the day. Who knows how, but Marcus’ letter was in the file. Stinky and smoky like cigarettes still. I had found my treasure. I pulled the twenty-dollar bill from my pocket. Marcus’ letter said he would get the money he owed me ($20) in November.
Well, he did. A year late… but nevertheless, in November 2008, he sent me the money. Or least that is what I believed - and still do. God was sending a sign from heaven that Marcus made it.
So, what’s the lesson here? How does someone make it to heaven? Marcus left us a three-point sermonette.
“Your Friend”. Most people need a friend to show them the way. Marcus had Jerry, a true friend. He later got me too. I turned out to be a way better friend than a lawyer!
“In Christ” He alone is the Way, the Truth, the Life. We don’t make it based on how smart or good we appear. Christ alone can save people like Marcus! Christ alone can save the best of the best as well.
“Marcus” There is a name written in the Lamb’s Book of Life (Revelation 21:27). Marcus Paul’s name is in the Book. It’s all the credentials he needed to walk into heaven in 2007. How about you?