Around the city merchants jostled sleeping men in doorways.
“Wake up, you bum!” they said. “It’s time for me to open my shop.”
The morning sun readied for its first appearance over the horizon as the city grudgingly came to life. Compact cars, with headlights piercing the remains of night, scurried through neighborhoods delivering bundles of information, while vans stopped on every corner, filling news receptacles with the Sunday paper.
In the dim morning light the headline read: OUTSPOKEN NEWSMAN FOUND DEAD, SLAIN IN HOME.
The paper landed with a thud on the front porch of Kenneth Davis’s home. Still in his bathrobe, he retrieved the paper and stood in his foyer in shock. He froze when he read the headline, and then quickly read the first paragraph:
Lance Savage was found murdered late Saturday evening in his home in Venice, California. Police confirm that the cause of death was blunt trauma to the head.
Kenneth dropped the paper to the floor and poured a glass of bourbon. His hands shook as he swallowed, but the liquid offered no escape from the bold print that stared up from the carpet.
A gentle tap on Cynthia’s bedroom door drew her from a fitful sleep. “Reverend and Mrs. Pryce, are you awake?”
“Come in, Carmen. What is it?” Percy responded.
A dark-haired housekeeper wearing a white apron entered. “I’ve brought your coffee and the morning paper,” she said with a Spanish accent.
Cynthia sat up and probed the nightstand for her reading glasses. The words assaulted her eyes, causing them to blink in disbelief. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand as Percy read over her shoulder.
“Oh my God,” he said, sitting upright.
“I don’t believe this. It says they think he was killed by a burglar.” Cynthia continued reading:
Savage was found by Richard Harrison, the editor of the Los Angeles Chronicle. According to Harrison, at the time of his death Savage was working on a very controversial story that many powerful people did not want to see printed. Harrison declined to give any details.
“In these kinds of cases we look for possible motives, financial, family, or work related,” said Assistant Police Chief Michael Pincus. “We believe this was not a random killing. All indications at the crime scene are that he was targeted.”
Percy got out of bed and began to pace the floor. “You see what you’ve done, Cynthia. If you hadn’t given him those e-mails, he would still be alive.”
Cynthia slammed the paper onto the bed and said, “What are you talking about? This has nothing to do with me. The article says he was being robbed. Oh God, Percy. They must have killed him shortly after you spoke with him.”
Carmen spoke again. “Reverend Pryce, is there something I can do? Your hands are shaking. Can I bring you more coffee? I can put something in it to calm you.”
Percy stopped pacing and sat back down on the bed and said, “No, thank you, Carmen. There’s nothing anyone can do now.”
The smell of coffee filled Naomi’s kitchen as she summoned the courage to open the front door and retrieve the morning paper. She prayed there would be no mention of Hezekiah or New Testament Cathedral. When she opened the door, the headline greeted her as she looked down at the paper on the porch.
Naomi sat at the kitchen table with her favorite coffee mug and read:
Richard Harrison said that even though they have delayed Lance’s most recent story, the Chronicle fully intends to run it at a later date. According to Harrison, the story was scheduled to run in today’s edition, but out of respect for Lance and his family, “we have decided to publish it at a later date.” He declined to elaborate further.
Naomi placed the paper facedown on the table and cradled the coffee mug.
“Thank God,” she said out loud. “At least we have a few more days to figure out what to do about Hezekiah.”
Sandra Kelly was already dressed for the day when the paper arrived.
“What the fuck?” she said after reading the headline. “Lance, you idiot. How could you do this to me?”
“We are grief stricken,” said Los Angeles Chronicle publisher and owner Phillip Thornton. “We’ve lost a family member.”
Longtime associate Edward Wieland called Savage a great reporter and very controversial. “He was persistent and would not let people off the hook, whether he was reporting on corruption in government, the entertainment business, or anyone else. He ruffled a lot of feathers because of it.”
Pincus said police had no motive for the killing, but that it did not appear random. Pincus said investigators would look into every possible connection with Savage’s work.
Savage, who had been a reporter for the Los Angeles Chronicle for the past three years, was killed around 8:00 P.M., Los Angeles assistant police chief Pincus said. He said witnesses told police they saw two men leaving the house earlier that evening.
Thornton reiterated the fact that the most recent story Savage was working on would eventually be published. He stated that he didn’t know if the tragedy was related to it, but if it was, “those responsible for his death should know that they cannot stop the truth from coming out.”
Sandra dropped the paper to the floor and thought, Fortunately, Phillip’s greed is more powerful than his conscience.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning at New Testament Cathedral. The parking lot was already filled with freshly washed cars. Members were soon required to park along Cleaveland Avenue. Children played on the lawn in front of the church, carefully trying to keep their flowered white dresses and little tan suits clean for as long as possible. Women rushed their husbands up the stairs to the church to get a good seat. The lobby was filled with members waiting to be seated by the ushers. White gloves handed neatly folded powder blue bulletins to each person who entered the sanctuary.
Rauly Jenkins had dutifully placed CLOSED signs at each balcony entrance. Worshippers were directed to Fellowship Hall, where folding chairs had been assembled auditorium-style, when the sanctuary had reached capacity. No one liked viewing the service over the television monitors, but they could not refuse the only remaining option.
At 10:50 A.M. the choir lined up behind the now-closed double doors to the sanctuary. Except for choir members waiting to enter the sanctuary, the lobby was empty. They waited patiently for the first chords from the organ. Singers nervously fastened buttons on their robes and adjusted the sashes embroidered with the name of the church.
The doors flew open and the procession began when the chord was finally struck. Parishioners stood to welcome the jubilant march.
In the quiet of his office, Pastor Cleaveland retrieved the vibrating telephone in his pocket. “I’m glad you called. I thought you had forgotten me.”
“I could never forget you. How are you?” Danny asked.
I’m okay, baby.” Hezekiah spoke like a teenager in love. “I’ve got you. What else could I ask for? How are you?”
“I didn’t sleep too well last night. I’m still worrying about you.”
“I wish I were there with you now. Maybe I should come by later and give you a back rub.”
Danny smiled. “I’d like that. I’m going to the gym, but I should be back by two o’clock.”
Hezekiah stood from his desk and stretched. “I’ll see you then. I love you, Danny.”
“I love you too, Hezekiah.”
Although he was within the safe confines of his office, Hezekiah felt exposed and vulnerable to the world. A cold resolve showed in the lines of his face. His yellow necktie was neatly in place, and the pin-striped suit hung elegantly from his shoulders.
As he reached for the door, the telephone rang again. It was Percy Pryce.
“Have you read this morning’s newspaper?” Percy asked.
“I never read the paper on Sunday morning. You know that,” Hezekiah responded with a hint of irritation.
Percy dropped his head and propped his forehead up with his palm. “Lance Savage is…” There was a pause. “He’s dead, Hezekiah. They found him yesterday in his home.”
Hezekiah froze in place. “What happened to him?”
“The police don’t know. From what I read, it sounded like a robbery.”
“God rest his soul,” Hezekiah said softly. “Did the article mention the story he was working on?”
“It did, but no details were given.”
“Well, at least we can be thankful for that.”
“Yes, but this is not over yet, Hezekiah. Phillip Thornton said they will run the story eventually.” Percy began to sob into the telephone. “You know I would do anything for you, Hezekiah. I’m so sorry. I am so very sorry.”
“This isn’t your fault, Percy. You’re a good friend. I know I can count on you and Cynthia.”
Percy dropped his head to the dining-room table in front of his penthouse window and continued to cry as Hezekiah said, “I’ll see you in the pulpit in a few minutes, my friend.”
Willie Mitchell dropped Virgil three blocks away from the church. He then double-parked his car in the parking lot of the church and ran up the stairs. His seat was waiting for him in the pulpit. As he passed Samantha on the front row, he bent over to kiss her cheek and whispered, “Everything is set.”
Samantha had decided against pearls for her wrist and instead chose a diamond bracelet that Hezekiah had bought her for Christmas. She listened attentively as the church secretary read announcements from the morning bulletin.
The woman at the podium had a sultry voice better suited for radio. Her glasses rested on the tip of her nose as she read, “Please mark you calendars for the first Sunday evening of next month. As you know, that is the kick off of our tenth anniversary at New Testament Cathedral.”
Everyone applauded. The worship service proceeded as it had for the past ten years. The choir sang, the people rejoiced, and the cameras rolled. Pastor Cleaveland entered the sanctuary on cue. The cameras followed the precisely sculpted black suit as it floated up the steps to the pulpit. He nodded good morning to the choir as they continued their song. When the song ended, all cameras focused once again on Hezekiah. The applause subsided and Hezekiah spoke his first words of the morning.
“I know a lot of you are not going to want to hear what I have to say this morning, but, praise God, I’m going to say it, anyway.
“Brothers and Sisters, it’s time for us to stop lying to ourselves. It’s time we stop lying to each other, and, most important, it’s time we stop lying to God. He already knows our hearts, so who is it we think we’re fooling? Now, please understand, I’m preaching to myself just as much as I’m preaching to you.”
A mixture of laughter and “Go ahead, Preacher” came from the far reaches of the sanctuary.
“Now, one lie is only the tip of the iceberg. Once you tell one lie, you’ve got to tell ten more to cover it up. Pretty soon we don’t even know what the truth is ourselves. We lie about our hair color. We lie about our jobs. We stretch the truth about our income.” Hezekiah extended his arms to illustrate his point. “And some of us even lie about whom we love.”
Samantha looked nervously over her shoulder to the balcony. She hoped Virgil would act before Hezekiah said something that would destroy the rest of her life. She wanted to be remembered as the wife Pastor Cleaveland loved, not as the woman he had planned to divorce for a man.
Virgil Jackson entered the now-empty lobby unnoticed and quietly climbed the side stairs of the balcony. The double doors of the sanctuary were closed, and all eyes and ears were focused on Hezekiah and his cryptic sermon. When he reached the landing at the top of the stairs, Virgil knelt down and crawled along the side aisle of the balcony. He could not see the pastor, but he heard his familiar baritone voice.
On his knees Virgil turned into the second row of pews and crawled toward the center of the gallery. He tensed as the uncarpeted floorboards creaked from his weight. The gun in his pocket accidentally banged against the leg of a pew, and Virgil froze on the wooden floor. No one seemed to have heard the noise, so he raised his head. Pastor Cleaveland was now in clear view. The tall man in the black suit was standing behind the podium. Virgil waited patiently, hoping Hezekiah would move from behind the oak structure.
Hezekiah continued his sermon. “I will be the first one to say before God and all of you that I’ve told my share of lies. I’m just a man, a man who must humble himself daily before God to confess my sins and to plead His forgiveness.” Hezekiah picked up the handheld microphone and walked away from the podium. “I, like you, have done some things in my life that I am not proud of.”
No amens were uttered. Hattie Williams sat rocking with her Bible open and reading the Lord’s Prayer. A quiet confusion began to work its way through the pews. This was a sermon like none they had ever heard from the pastor. He had lowered himself to the level of mortal. The faces became troubled by his descent, because they needed him to be better than themselves.
Hezekiah put one foot on the steps, preparing to walk down, when two loud shots reverberated over the sanctuary. The first shriek came from someone in the center of the church as Hezekiah fell backward into the pulpit. Everyone was paralyzed for what seemed like minutes. Women began ducking behind pews, while men shielded them. Screams were heard now from every part of the auditorium. Hezekiah Cleaveland lay bleeding from bullet wounds to the head and chest. The members in Fellowship Hall gasped as they watched the mayhem on the massive flat screen unfold.
Virgil stood erect and ran, stumbling up the center aisle of the balcony. The shadow of a man running out of the dark balcony was the only thing that could be seen from the choir stand. He charged down the stairs, partially covering his face with a denim jacket, and pushed aside two small boys at the base. The foyer was still empty as he crossed to the exit of the church.
Virgil tripped on the cement steps and rolled to the ground. After regaining his footing he ran to Hezekiah Cleaveland Avenue and vanished among the houses and cars on a quiet side street.
Samantha broke free from Dino, who was trying to protect her body from danger. She ran up the steps to her husband. Some members of the choir had dashed from the stand, while others crouched and wept behind seats. The organist sat frozen in fear on the bench as several people ran, overwhelmed and screaming, out the double doors.
Samantha dropped and cradled Hezekiah’s head on the arm of her suit. Her bracelet sparkled from the light in the church’s stained glass. She screamed hysterically. “Hezekiah, baby. Hezekiah, don’t die! I need you.” She lovingly placed her head on his chest which caused blood to smear on the collar she had so carefully selected. “Hezekiah! Please, God, don’t take him from me!”
After a respectable moment Willie Mitchell and Rev. Percy Pryce gently separated Samantha from Hezekiah’s body and briskly escorted her, crying and thrashing, out the side door. Hezekiah’s lifeless body lay at the top of the steps, clutching the microphone, while Dino tried unsuccessfully to resuscitate him.
Jasmine had not attended church that morning. Samantha had instructed Etta to let her sleep in. She did not want Jasmine to witness her father’s assassination.
By two o’clock the church grounds were teeming with police cars and news vans. Satellite dishes pointed to the heavens, and high heels stumbled over electrical cords crisscrossing the parking lot. The police had emptied the sanctuary of parishioners, and the double doors were cordoned off with yellow tape. Members were now milling in the halls and outside the church, giving and receiving comfort. The final word had already spread that the pastor was dead.
Cynthia Pryce retreated to a far corner of the parking lot. Her hands shook as she dialed Phillip Thornton’s number.
“Hello, this is Phillip. I’m not available right now. Please leave your name, number, and the reason for your call, and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.” Then came the beep.
“Phillip, this is Cynthia,” she whispered through tears. “Call me as soon as you get this message. Hezekiah is dead. Someone shot him this morning. I want you to stop the story. Do you understand? Do not print that story. If you print it, I’ll deny I ever talked to you.”
Several reporters for the local and national news networks, with microphones and cameras in tow, cornered members for their reaction to the tragedy. Television programming around the country had been interrupted to report on the assassination of Pastor Hezekiah T. Cleaveland. The hats, fresh haircuts, and pain of New Testament Cathedral were beamed live to televisions throughout the country.
The television monitors in Fellowship Hall had been turned off by the time the police had arrived. Folding chairs were clustered in small groups to accommodate mourners around the room. By then, most of the tears had turned to sobs of disbelief and an occasional outburst of anguish.
Scarlet Shackelford took the news of the pastor’s death especially hard. The hat she wore that morning was now bouncing on the table she pounded with an open palm as she cried inconsolably. The paramedics were summoned from the parking lot and gave her a sedative to relieve the shock. Her thoughts were of her daughter, who never knew the identity of her father, and the father, who never knew his child. That morning the astonishing realization that she actually still loved him took her fragile world by surprise.
Hattie sat nearby as the paramedics checked Scarlet’s blood pressure. “That’s all right, Scarlet. Let it out. It’s going to be all right,” she said, rubbing her back. Hattie was unable to block the emotions of the crying woman in her arms. After a while she stopped trying. The pain Scarlet Shackelford felt now was very appropriate.
The covered body of Hezekiah was quickly removed from the church. Cameramen scrambled to get a shot of the gurney being lifted into the rear of the van. Women crying, with children clinging to their thighs, provided a dramatic backdrop for the parting shots of the vehicle.
On the sofa inside Hezekiah’s office, Samantha sobbed into a crumpled tissue. The suit jacket Hezekiah had worn that morning was draped over her lap, and blood from his head had dried on her sleeve. Reverend Pryce and Cynthia sat on either side of her. Somewhere in the corridor between the sanctuary and the office, Samantha’s tears had become real. Yes, she wanted him dead, but they had shared many years together, and he was the father of her daughter.
Samantha had called home shortly after being taken to the church office.
“Jasmine, honey,” she said. “This is Mommy. Something terrible has happened.”
At that moment Jasmine looked out her bedroom window and saw three police cars, with red and blue lights flashing, roll up the long driveway toward the house.
She jumped from the bed and cried into the phone, “Mommy, the police are here! What’s going on? I’m afraid.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, darling. Everything is going to be all right,” Samantha said gently.
“Where’s Daddy? I want to talk to my daddy.”
Samantha paused before responding. For the first time she questioned her decision. “You can’t talk to Daddy right now, honey.”
Jasmine’s voice began to tremble. “Why not? Something has happened. Why won’t you tell me what is happening?”
“I’ll be home as soon as I can, honey, and I’ll tell you everything.”
“Tell me now. Is Daddy all right? Tell Daddy I need him to come home to me now.”
Samantha took a deep breath before she spoke. “Daddy has been shot, Jasmine. He’s dead.”
Jasmine dropped the phone and fell to the floor, screaming. Etta heard her from downstairs and immediately ran to her room. Samantha then broke the news to Etta and instructed her not to turn on any television in the house. “I’ll be home as soon as possible. Don’t leave Jasmine alone.”
A police officer was stationed at the door leading to Hezekiah’s office with instructions not to let anyone in, especially the media. Willie Mitchell, Reverend Pryce, and Cynthia remained in the room the entire time. The full weight of what had just occurred kept Reverend Mitchell pacing the floor. Samantha had requested that he stay with her. She wanted to keep a watchful eye on him. She didn’t want him to panic and speak to the ravenous reporters around the scene. He tried to remain calm, but all could see that he was rapidly losing control. Samantha told him to sit down and drink a glass of water.
Reverend Pryce did not speak while in the office. His thoughts flashed to the words of his wife, Cynthia. This could not be a coincidence. He lamented the plight of the beautiful woman on the couch. Percy periodically gave Samantha a tissue, then retreated to the opposite side of the room. With what he knew, he could not look her in the eye.
Danny St. John watched the news coverage on the television in his living room. He stared blankly at the footage of Hezekiah’s body being placed in the van. Danny was empty. His soul had left his body and hovered above the room to protect him from the horror of the images on the screen. He understood why sleep had evaded him for so many days.
Nina Simone was playing on the CD: “Someday I know he’s coming to call me. He’s going to handle me and hold me. So, it’s going to be like dying, Porgy, when he calls me. But when he comes, I know I’ll have to go.”
Danny wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. He could not find the tears. He could not feel his soul. All he could feel was a familiar emptiness that had been a part of his life for as long as he could remember. It was a void he had not felt for the last year.
Reverend Pryce and Cynthia had offered to go home with Samantha, but she graciously refused their company. “I’ll be all right. Etta is there, and I have to spend time alone with Jasmine.”
Samantha rode home in the rear of a police car. When they arrived in front of the house, she saw the three police cars. Two officers stood at the ready at the entrance.
A strong-looking female officer walked Samantha to her front door and asked, “Mrs. Cleaveland, would you like me to come in with you for a while? I can stay as long as you need me.”
Samantha still held Hezekiah’s jacket. “No, thank you. My housekeeper is here. I need to be alone with my daughter.”
“Ma’am, I am very sorry about what happened. Two officers will be stationed here as long as you think it necessary. Please call me if you have any problems or questions about the investigation.”
“Thank you, Officer. You’ve been very kind. Good night.”
Etta ran down the foyer stairs, clutching a tissue, when Samantha entered the house. “Oh Lord, Mrs. Cleaveland. This is terrible. Just terrible. Are you all right?”
“No, Etta, I’m not all right. How are you?” The two women hugged. “Is Jasmine in her room?”
“Yes, ma’am. There wasn’t much I could do for her. She’s been hysterical since you called.”
When Samantha entered her room, Jasmine was sitting on the floor beside her bed. A blanket was wrapped around her shoulders. She didn’t look up. Samantha sat down on the floor and put her arms around her crying daughter. “It’s okay, honey. Mommy’s here.”
“I should have been there. Why didn’t you wake me this morning? I could have helped him.”
“No, honey, there was nothing anyone could have done. It all happened too fast. He didn’t feel any pain.”
“Why? I can’t understand. Everybody loved Daddy. What kind of monster would do something like this?”
“I don’t know, baby, but I’m sure the police will find whoever did this.”
They stayed together for most of the night, until Jasmine cried herself to sleep. Samantha pulled the covers over her chest and kissed her forehead. When she went downstairs, Etta was reading a Bible at the kitchen table.
“Thank you for staying tonight, Etta. You should get some rest. Jasmine is asleep now, and I’m going to my room.”
Etta was silent for a moment; then she looked suspiciously at Samantha. “Mrs. Cleaveland, who could have hated the pastor so much that they wanted him dead? I can’t understand that kind of hate. Whoever did this must’ve come straight from hell.”
“Try to get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Samantha didn’t trouble herself with the ramblings of the housekeeper. At the moment hell was the least of her concerns. She undressed, neatly placing the bloodstained dress on the hanger. She sat at the vanity mirror and began to remove her makeup. A smile emerged from under the mask she had worn all day. She took a deep breath and thought, It’s over. I’m finally free. No one can get in my way now.
It was 11:00 P.M. The streets of downtown were empty, except for encampments of homeless people under cardboard boxes. Willie Mitchell was driving to the Los Angeles Community Center, where he saw the figure of Virgil Jackson pacing in front of the building. Virgil opened the door of the car and jumped in before Willie could stop completely.
“Where the fuck have you been? I’ve been waiting here for five hours,” Virgil said before closing the door.
“I had to lock up the church. You did a good job, boy. I’m proud of you.”
“Fuck that. Where’s my money? I’m getting out of here tonight. It seems like the fucking police are everywhere I look.”
“It’s in the trunk. I’ll get it when I drop you near the bus station. Relax, boy. It’s over. No one will ever find you. Give me the gun so I can get rid of it.”
Virgil anxiously removed the gun from his waist and handed it to the reverend. “Here. I never want to see the fucking thing again.”
Willie parked the car two blocks from the bus station.
“Why are we stopping here?” Virgil asked, looking over his shoulder.
“I don’t want to be seen with you in front of the depot. You can walk from here.”
Both men exited the car. Reverend Mitchell opened the trunk and handed Virgil a brown paper bag. As Virgil opened it to inspect the contents, the reverend quickly removed the gun from his coat pocket and shot him in the chest. His body lay half in the street, and half on the sidewalk, holding a bag filled with folded pages of the Sunday paper.