Chasing Faith

by Stephanie Perry Moore

  I heard low voices and scrambling. After several minutes, Crystal swung open the door, her hot-pink miniskirt and tight black tank top twisted and wrinkled. As she straightened her clothes and smoothed out her straight brown hair, I glanced past her and noticed a guy sprawled out on her twin bed, fastening his pants.

  “What do you want?” my sister asked anxiously.

  “Crystal, what do you think you’re doing? And who is that man lying on your bed?”

  “That man you’re referring to is my boyfriend. What’s it to you?” She was standing with her arms folded across her chest, a look on her face I couldn’t name.

  When I remained slightly shocked, she slammed the door in my face. I couldn’t believe this. Once again, I beat my fists on her bedroom door.

  “Crystal, you open up this door right now!” And she did.

  “I’m busy, Chris!” Crystal said.

  I grabbed her arm and pulled her forcefully out of her bedroom. I was about to let her have it.

  “Crystal, you better act like you know better! How dare you skip school! You’re supposed to be doing your school-work, but instead, you’re here in the house, laid up with some guy—who, by the way, looks too old for you! Didn’t we teach you better? How old is that guy, anyway?”

  “Man, none of your—”

  “Crystal!”

  “He’s only twenty. So what? He loves me. And I love him, too. He treats me good. He gives me presents, he takes me out. I’m tired of guys my age. So immature, so broke, so not worth my time. They’re nothing like Stone. Just look at him.”

  Stone was a straight thug. The muscles busting out of his shirt led me to believe that he’d spent time in jail. This brother was built. A black doo-rag concealed his long, black cornrows and a chain with a huge snake charm fell limply around his neck. His lips were black, as if he’d been smoking, and it seemed like his eyes were permanently half-closed. He was obviously high. Stone wore a white tee, Gibrauds, and Air Force Ones.

  I did not want my sister dating this boy—no, wait—this man! And from the way he was looking at Crystal, I could tell his intentions weren’t pure. It looked as if Stone wanted a lot more than a kiss, and from the sound of things I hope they hadn’t done more than that. I had to help her understand that this was not the kind of guy she wanted.

  “Crystal, listen up. First, you’re gonna take off that miniskirt and put on some jeans. Secondly, you’re gonna get this thug out of Mom’s house. Next, you will get your books and I’ll drive you to school. It’s not even noon. You can make your afternoon classes.”

  He walked past us without saying excuse me and headed into the bathroom. She just stared at him and licked her lips. I wanted to bop her upside her head.

  “No, you listen up! This is how it’s really gonna happen: I’m taking my purse and my man, and I’m getting out of here! And there’s nothing you can do to stop me!”

  Before I could stop her, Crystal had done exactly what she said she’d do: grabbed her purse, grabbed her “man” when he exited the bathroom, and headed out of the door.

  “Crystal, wait!” I yelled after the black low rider.

  After Crystal and Stone sped off, I stood in the doorway and remembered many days when I was Crystal’s age that I watched my mom drive off with man after man the same way. I was heartbroken then, wanting more for her, and I was heartbroken now, wanting more for my sister. Us Ware ladies seemed to have a pattern of chasing after the wrong men.

  A few hours later, my mother’s Honda pulled into the driveway, and I went to her car door. I was relieved to see her; it had been three long weeks.

  “Mom!”

  “Hey, baby,” she said, giving me a hug.

  “I’ve missed you,” I said.

  “I’ve missed you, too. How was the wedding?”

  “Good—Eden’s a wife now, but Mom, we need to talk about Crystal being out of order.”

  “What?” she asked as we went inside.

  “Crystal has a twenty-year-old boyfriend.”

  Sitting on her couch, she said, “Oh, Stone, baby? He’s so sweet. He even bought a big-screen TV for us just last week.”

  “A big-screen television?” I exclaimed, sitting beside her, frustrated that she seemed okay with it. “Mom, what are you thinking? That’s not acceptable. How can he afford a big-screen TV?”

  My fifty-one-year-old mom, who looked almost sixty from her rough life, naively said, “I don’t know where he got it, baby, but it plays so well.”

  “Mom, do you really think he can afford to buy you a big-screen TV? Look, I’m just worried about Crystal. She’s dating a guy that’s five years older than her. I caught them in her room today while she was supposed to be at school. I just don’t want my little sister to become a teen mom or have to deal with an icky STD for the rest of her life.”

  “I know, I know. I don’t know why that girl’s been actin’ out so much lately. Seems like I only make it worse by punishing her.”

  “So what should we do about Crystal? I tried to talk some sense into her, but she left with Stone.”

  “She’ll come back eventually. She always does this,” she said.

  “You have to look out for her. I’m not going to be here to interrupt their little private sessions.”

  “Where you going, baby?” she asked, as if she hadn’t approved of me going off anywhere.

  “I’m moving to Atlanta. I took a job with the Secret Service. I’m going to be protecting a candidate for president.”

  “Awww no, baby!” She shook her head as she crunched her face. “I was so happy you were tied down to a desk. Now you’re going to be a bodyguard. I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  I grabbed her hand and stroked it. “Mom, I’ve already committed to it. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Like you taught me in life, things may be tough, but I can make it uphill.”

  Chapter 4

  Journey

  Five days later I was in south Georgia with about fifty agents I’d never met. We were all at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, better known as FLETC and pronounced Flut Z. It serves as an interagency law-enforcement training organization for more than eighty federal agencies.

  We were all from different agencies. There were U.S. Customs Agents, IRS Agents, and agents from ATF. Me and five other FBI agents were the only ones from the Department of Justice.

  As soon as we arrived on site, we were escorted to an auditorium. No time for small talk or making friends.

  A man who appeared to be in his fifties or sixties spoke into the mic. “Agent Jess Phillips, folks, and my job is to take you through two weeks of intense training. I plan to find the agents capable of helping us with this crucial assignment.”

  The black guy standing next to me joked, “Like life will end if we don’t make it.”

  Everyone else was facing forward as if they were in grade school. I’m not saying they shouldn’t be, but I did sign up for this because I wanted a breath of fresh air in my life, not a pillow-over-my-face experience. Thankful someone else here had some personality, I chuckled.

  He looked over at me and stuck out his hand. “I’m Agent Frankie Johnson from the IRS.”

  “Hey, I’m Agent Christian Ware, FBI, and I paid my taxes.” I continued the laugh.

  “I see you got jokes. You think we’re gonna like this?” he asked in a hushed voice.

  “Hope so,” I said as we listened on.

  Agent Phillips held up some clothes. “Your personal appearance reflects not only upon the center and the organizations you represent, but also upon the law-enforcement profession and the United States Government. Therefore, each of you will wear the agency-issued fatigue uniforms, in accordance with Center regulations. You must comply.”

  He was talking to us as if we’d just signed up for the army or something. We were all agents, trained in some specialty. Granted, guarding the president was a big deal, but no bigger than getting drugs off the streets, or convicting terrorists. He really needed t
o loosen up.

  Agent Phillips continued, “Also, we aren’t the only training program on the campus, so you’ll be provided with lockers for textbooks and materials. It is the student’s responsibility to provide the lock.”

  Before we could participate in training-related physical activity, we were going to receive a medical screening to make certain we could endure the course of rigorous training. We were also told that the use of tobacco products, and eating or drinking in the classroom, was strictly prohibited.

  Agent Phillips explained that in order for us to temp with the Secret Service we had to pass the Practice Exercise Performance Requirements. There were six parts: physical efficiency, firearms accuracy, driving training, marine swimming techniques, computer knowledge, and counterterrorism training. Most of it was a repeat of the training I received to join the FBI, but they didn’t care. They wanted us trained their way, by their agents.

  Finally, we were done with the introduction and everyone scattered in different directions. Some to eat, some to get their training materials, and some to rest. I was in the last category. Flying from D.C. to Atlanta and then into Savannah, only to have to wait for the FLETC shuttle to bring me to the base, didn’t make for a relaxing day. And even though my pregnancy test turned out negative, my cycle still hadn’t arrived. I felt extra tired and that had me worried.

  “So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” Agent Johnson said to me as I turned to leave.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Yes, tomorrow. I’ll look for you bright and early at physicals.”

  “Cool—let me go get my grub on,” Agent Johnson joked.

  I smiled; I was glad I’d found an ally.

  After getting my key, I entered the barracks. There was nothing special about my dormitory room. It held just the basics: two beds, an alarm clock, towels, washcloths, bar soap, toilet paper, sheets, pillow with case, blanket, and bedspread. It was spare, and I missed my cozy, upscale brown-stone back home already.

  As soon as I claimed a bed, the doorknob turned and a woman I remembered seeing in the opening session entered. I always had a habit of scoping out other black and female agents. Seeing another minority gave me a boost.

  She appeared to be upset, as she struggled to get her bags into the room. I went to the door to assist.

  “Oh, thanks,” she said. “Suzie Winters, from ATF.”

  Putting her bag at the foot of her bed, I said, “Christian Ware, FBI.”

  “Boy, am I glad to see another female agent,” she said with attitude.

  “Something wrong, Agent Winters?” I probed. I didn’t want to be around a sourpuss.

  “Yeah, you know,” she said. I raised my eyebrows, letting her know I didn’t, in fact, know. “They don’t want us here. Why do they let women in, only to give us an extra-hard time? And we really have it hard, being a double minority.”

  Okay, Suzie was overly open. The chick didn’t even know me and she was assuming I had racial and gender insecurities. What was that about?

  I was apprehensive at first. But then as we talked I realized there was nothing wrong with letting someone new in. At first I was put off by her “honesty,” but I realized she was feeling the pressure and was reaching out. I did know what that was like. It was tough being black and female in a male-dominated business. But no one made me sign up and no one made me stay in it.

  As we both sat on our prospective beds, I said, “I just don’t let anyone else’s bigotry get to me.”

  “So you ignore it?” Suzie asked.

  “Oh, no. It actually fuels me to work harder.” I unzipped my suitcase. “Girl, we’ll have to form an alliance and help each other through this,” I said, digging my roommate as I put my stuff away.

  She smiled. “I’d like that. Thanks for calming me down. I feel better now.”

  The next day I passed the physical. After checking my stats, I was directed to the field for the Physical Efficiency Battery portion of the exam. Agent Phillips was walking alongside me. “So, you’re Agent Ware, huh?” he said, almost leering at me.

  “Yes, sir,” I said warily.

  “I know you think this is automatic for you, but like I said to everyone yesterday, if you don’t pass my training, you go home.” He walked away before I had a chance to respond. Suzie was right.

  The next few days were spent with firearm equipment. This was one area in which I excelled during FBI training. I hit the bull’s-eye every time. Whether it was a revolver, pistol, rifle, shotgun, automatic weapon, air rifle, BB pellet, or cap gun, I was best in show.

  “Show off then, girl.” Agent Johnson swaggered over to me. “You’re making the rest of us look like amateurs. But I can’t give you props in public—you know the boys would sweat me.”

  “And you can’t mess up your rep, right?” I joked.

  “Ha, ha. For real, eat Thanksgiving dinner with us. A bunch of us are going to head off-base to a joint the locals say has slamming soul food. I won’t be hanging with the wife and rugrats, but I’ve got to eat and so do you.”

  Since I needed to study for the Secret Service scenario test, I declined. I appreciated the offer, but I wasn’t there to socialize. Agent Johnson extended his hand and wished me a Happy Thanksgiving. He seemed a little sad as he walked away. I assumed he wished he was spending this holiday with his loved ones. But from what I knew of his upbeat personality, I knew he’d bounce back just fine.

  When I got back to my room, Suzie had the same idea I did. “I am so thrilled I have a roommate that encourages me along the way,” she said to me as she grabbed my hand. “Thank you for helping me with my aim and giving me pointers on the obstacle course. You helped me pass both portions. I’m grateful.”

  I swatted my hand at her, feeling slightly embarrassed. “I’m thankful for you as well. I signed up for this assignment because I needed something new. Even though they’re tough on us, you’re out there telling me we’re just as good as the next guy. That kept me going today.” I took a deep breath. “I’m running after something and I can’t explain it…”

  “But maybe you feel this job might lead you to it?” Suzie said, finishing my thought.

  “Sort of. Yeah,” I said, squinting my eyes. “Is that ridiculous?”

  “No, I understand completely. You’re believing in what you hope for, but can’t see. That’s faith.”

  Maybe she was right. Maybe I was following God on some journey that would make me whole in the end. I wasn’t a strong enough Christian to make out what was going on with me spiritually. I didn’t know any scripture, and couldn’t recall the last sermon I’d heard. That needed to change.

  During the last week we focused on driving at asinine speeds, rescue attempts from deep waters, computer hacking, and counterterrorism issues. I didn’t handle those areas as well as I did the weapons training, but I held my own and passed the two-week course.

  Finally, when the fifty agents had dwindled down to forty strong, we went through briefings on what was expected, skills we’d need to implement the assignment, and how to transition our training to on-the-job work. After, they gave out protectee assignments, and I was glad that mine stayed the same. Agent Johnson was also assigned to Steven Stokes’s detail team. Though we’d be on different rotations, it would be good to keep that connection.

  I wished Suzie well when we packed up to head out to different camps. She was assigned to protect the Republican governor of Illinois. She and I had really connected during training. I’d miss her.

  “You take care of yourself,” she said to me.

  I handed her my cell number and replied, “If you need me, call.”

  “You call when you don’t need me,” she said, handing me her digits as well. “Now it’s time to go to work.” We were both ready.

  Agent Johnson, two other agents, and I were each assigned to one of four groups that would be rotating to protect Reverend Stokes. Each detail had a team leader and four other Secret Service members. To make each team have six people, us temps filled in the last
slot.

  When I walked into a downtown Atlanta Marriott conference room on Monday morning for my first meeting with my group, the four people looking back at me were a little intimidating. They stared me up and down and gave me the feeling that they weren’t too pleased to have me on their team. I knew it was the fact that I wasn’t really one of them, but I didn’t care, though. Three were men, one of whom was African-American, and one was another female.

  Our detail leader, Agent Ben Moss, whose name was on my piece of paper, yelled for me to take a seat and then said, “You’re late, Ware. In the Secret Service we don’t tolerate tardiness. We were just about to introduce ourselves.”

  I wanted to tell him that I’d just gotten in from Brunswick. But why bother, I thought, as I watched him pace the floor and get in the other agents’ faces like a drill sergeant. It was clear that leaders in law enforcement loved enforcing power. After going back and forth for a few seconds, Agent Moss approached the other African-American on the team and barked an order for him to get up and identify himself.

  The man stood at rigid attention. “Agent Randy Pitts,” he stated. “From the Baltimore office.” Agent Pitts was completely bald, and looked to be only in his forties. “And I’m very happy to be assigned to this detail,” he added.

  When Moss nodded for him to sit back down, Randy Pitts gave me a reassuring smile. Okay, so at first glance I was wrong. Maybe I would fit in just fine.

  Agent Jack Sawyer from the Biloxi, Mississippi, office was the next to introduce himself. He was thirtysomething, had a bald spot in the middle of the brown hair on his head. It wasn’t hard to imagine him standing in front of a trailer, holding a beer.

  “Unlike Agent Pitts here,” Sawyer said in a grave voice, “I am not particularly thrilled with this assignment. Personally, I think protecting this candidate is a waste of the agency’s money. However, I am here and I will do my job.”

  “Pitts, you may sit. And from this point forward we’re keeping all personal thoughts out of this assignment,” Agent Moss said commandingly.