Dominion

by Randy Alcorn

  Dani could barely hear the million singing angels up front, for the voice of the multitudes overwhelmed them. The angels had at first seemed the largest choir ever assembled but now proved to be only the small worship ensemble that led the true choir of untold millions, now lost to themselves, lost to all but Elyon, singing at full voice, “To him who sits on the throne and to the Lamb be praise and honor and glory and dominion, for ever and ever!”

  “Hey, Carp,” Clarence said, standing over her desk. “I’m doing a column on bias in photojournalism. It’s your fault. You’re the one that opened my eyes. I’ll leave you out if you want me to. Or if I quote you I’ll let you see it before it goes to print. Will you talk to me?”

  “As long as I can look it over before anyone else sees it, including Winston. Okay?”

  “It’s a deal. You know what I’m looking for. Talk to me about photojournalism.” Clarence had yellow pad and pen in hand.

  “Well, it’s a world of its own, and people don’t understand it. They understand misquotes, at least once they’re the victims. But they don’t understand photojournalism enough to realize what it’s about. Of course, we’ve been altering still photos for decades. Like you saw with the police officer, we do cropping all the time, selecting what the viewer or reader will see and what he won’t.”

  “That’s not new to me, but when I saw what it did to Ollie, I admit it threw me.”

  “Well, that’s just the beginning. Welcome to the computer age. We can load in a picture and do pretty much whatever we want to with it. It’s like wire service stories. You take what you want and leave out what you don’t want, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Sunny day but we want the picture to feel overcast? No problem. We can shade it. With the new technology, all the computer imaging and enhancing, we can edit reality more effectively than you can with words. Years ago National Geographic had a shot of the Great Pyramids outside Cairo. They couldn’t all fit in the same picture and still be as big as the editors wanted them, so they just cut out the space in between. Squeezed them together. They figured, hey, it was just editing out sand.”

  “They really did that?”

  “Sure. And I know photographers who defended it. It served the purpose and it looked great. But it wasn’t real. I mean, it took 200,000 workers and what, over a hundred years, for the Egyptians to build those pyramids. But the editors at National Geographic moved them without breaking a sweat.”

  “How’d they do it?”

  Carp pointed to the computer screen next to her. “This graphics software gives us the ability to manipulate images. Remove or add them, separate images or combine them. With computers you can do it seamlessly The final product looks as good as the original. No, it looks better. Used to be if reality didn’t look good enough, tough luck. Now you can edit reality.” Carp reached in her top desk drawer and pulled out a photograph of a desk.

  “Here’s one I use in my photojournalism class over at Portland Community College. You’ve got a photo of this classy looking oak desk, and there’s this can of Coke that ruins the ambiance.” She pointed to the can in the picture. “The old question used to be, Is it okay for the photographer to move the can before she shoots in order to set up a better picture? Now the question is, Is it okay if she removes the can after she takes the picture?”

  Carp showed Clarence a second photo, identical, but with no Coke can. “That’s what was done with this photo. When it got published there wasn’t anything to indicate the alteration. I ask my students, ‘Who thinks this is wrong?’ Almost none of them raise their hands. So I ask them, ‘Where do you stop? What’s the difference between removing a can and adding it?’ I could put all kinds of things on this desk. It’s called reverse cropping, and it’s done more than you think. Thing is, unless you’ve got some incredibly observant eyewitness that was there when the photo was taken, nobody will notice.”

  “Amazing.”

  “I’ve got photo CDs with tens of thousands of pictures. I could put the crown jewels or a Playboy magazine on that desk. I could incriminate someone or I could exonerate them by what I add or subtract. Say you’ve got somebody you like, and he’s wearing a T-shirt with an offensive slogan or his gut is hanging out. Used to be you had to use it as is or crop around it. But now you can just remove it.”

  “The slogan or the gut?”

  “Either. Both. In fact, you could change the slogan to something more positive or just wipe it off the T-shirt. You could put six-pack abs in place of the soft gut. Whatever you want. It’s like taking steroids in body-building or football. As long as you don’t get caught, you’re a hero.”

  “Have you ever done it, Carp?”

  “Take steroids?”

  “No. Manipulate photos.”

  “Off the record? Yeah, I’ve done it, just a few times. I’m not proud of it. I console myself with the fact that I didn’t hurt anybody and that I feel guilty. Means I still have a conscience, I guess.”

  The radio scanner on Carp’s desk suddenly settled on a channel where an excited voice was saying there was a fire at the Heathman Hotel, with people trapped inside. Carp grabbed her camera and car keys.

  “Speaking of ethics, this is where I try to discipline myself to hope they all get out okay and I don’t end up with an award-winning picture of somebody burning or jumping. Later, Clarence.”

  “Thanks for your time, Carp. Don’t get too close to the fire.”

  Clarence drove into Taco Bell at 5:05 and waited impatiently for Ollie. The detective pulled in right at 5:15. He hopped out and beckoned Clarence to join him in his car.

  “We’ll leave your car here,” Ollie called, “so you can’t welsh on the Burrito Supreme.”

  “What’s going on, Ollie?” Clarence asked as he got in the passenger seat.

  “You’ll find out.” Ollie drove slowly down Jack Street and pulled over at Tenth. He put the car in park.

  “Okay,” Ollie said. “Class is in session. Look at the street sign. Tell me what you see.”

  “It says ‘Jack.’ How’m I doing, Sherlock?”

  “So far so good, Watson. Tell me more.”

  “Well, looks like some tagger’s messed with the k at the end of ‘Jack.’ Put a c over it.”

  “Right,” Ollie said. “And who would make that kind of change?”

  “A Crip. Bloods like the ck, you said; Crips hate it. Stands for Crip killer, right? So some Crip just put a c over the k.” He looked at Ollie. “Do I pass the test?”

  “With flying colors.” Ollie U-turned back toward MLK and headed south. He drove down to Jackson, turned left, and pulled over immediately.

  “Okay,” Ollie said, “get out of the car and tell me this street name.”

  Clarence opened the door, stood on the sidewalk, and looked over the car top at the sign across the street. “Jackson. Ollie, this is my street. The sign just says Jackson. No graffiti. Nothing. Am I missing something?”

  “Nope. But suppose just for a minute that some Crip decided he didn’t like the ck in Jackson. What would he do?”

  “Same thing as the other, I guess. Turn the k into another c?”

  Ollie reached under the front seat and pulled out a green street sign with white letters. He held it up on top of his car for Clarence to inspect.

  “Where’d you get that sign?”

  “Never mind,” Ollie said. “Tell me what you see.”

  “Well, it says Jack, except somebody painted a white c over the k. It was a neat job. Let me see it.” Ollie handed him the sign. “Yeah, okay, they used a green paint on the edges of the k so the white c covers it nicely. That green paint’s a perfect match for the sign. And there’s some letters on the end, covered with green: s-o-n. Okay, I got it, this was a Jackson Street sign.”

  Ollie took the sign back, walked across the street, and held it up to the street sign post, just below the Jackson sign. “What does it look like?”

  “Jacc. Okay, it looks like Jack Street.”
>
  Ollie bounced back into the car, put it in drive, and pulled off, Clarence barely getting in on time.

  “Ollie, wait a minute, are you saying…?” Clarence didn’t finish the sentence. Ollie continued to drive three blocks, past Dani’s house, and turned north. When he got up to Jack Street he turned left, back toward MLK. Then he pulled over and this time shut off the engine.

  “See this house? How many blocks down from MLK?”

  “Three and a half, I guess. So?”

  “Look at the house numbers.”

  “Nine twenty. Wait. That’s Dani’s house number.”

  “What color is the house?”

  “Blue. Same as Dani’s.” Clarence hesitated. “Ollie, are you saying this house was the one the killers meant to hit?”

  “Can’t be sure yet. But I’d lay big bucks on it.”

  “Where did you get that sign?”

  “When I saw the Jack sign graffitied, I thought about all the Crips and all the tagging around here. I figured, if one sign gets a ck tagged out, others do too. I thought, just suppose someone spray painted a Jackson sign the same way. So I called the city. If it’s minor defacing they leave it or clean it up. But if it’s a thorough job, they replace it. They keep records, and they’ve got a big bin full of old signs—save them for recycling or something. I got into the bin, and after ten minutes I found this sign. Turns out they ordered a replacement August 24. Put up the new sign September 5, three days after the murder.”

  “So…?”

  “So the little gray cells,” Ollie tapped his head, “tell me to go back to Jack Street. I drive up to 920. Same number, same side of the street, same color, same basic floor plan.”

  “I never noticed this Jackson sign when I visited Dani.” Clarence looked transfixed at the piece of green metal in his hands.

  “Why would you? You know the area. You know where to turn. You wouldn’t look at her street sign. Neither would anyone else from around here.”

  “So you’re saying—”

  “The perps weren’t locals. Couldn’t have been. If they were, they’d know Jack and Jackson—no way they’d get them mixed up just because of a sign. I say they were from out of town, just following directions. They had a street name and house number, maybe the house color to make absolutely sure. They saw what looked like Jack Street and didn’t go any farther north to the real Jack Street.”

  Clarence looked at the blue house. “Who lives here?”

  “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. So far I’ve just got a name. The Fletchers. Manny’s running a background check right now. After we do our homework, I plan on knocking on the door and introducing myself. I especially want to know whose bedroom is on the front right side of the house. And who might have reason to want them dead.”

  Clarence and Geneva drove into Janet’s driveway, Jake’s Mustang cruising in right behind them. All three came to the door together.

  “Hi, you guys,” Janet said, smiling but sounding frazzled. “I’m warning you, it’s kind of a zoo around here. Carly and I’ve been watching kids all day. My friend Sue Keels and her daughter, Angela, took a little two-day retreat, and we’ve got Angie’s baby, Karina. And we’ve also got—”

  “Hi dere, Unca Jake!” the familiar but other worldly voice rang out. Jake had just stepped in the door when he was surrounded by young gangly arms.

  “Hi dere, Little Finn,” Jake said with obvious delight. He picked up the Down’s syndrome boy and hugged him tight.

  “Finn,” Jake said to the boy six inches from his face, “this is my good friend, Mr. Clarence Abernathy.”

  “Hi dere, Mista Abernassy!”

  “Hello, Finn. I’ve heard all about you.” Finn reached both arms out to Clarence, the possibility of being dropped never occurring to him. Clarence embraced him gently, touched by the realization Finn didn’t know how to hold back—he kept nothing in reserve. The boy trusted Clarence immediately and completely, like someone accustomed to trusting. Clarence wondered if he had ever exercised that kind of trust.

  “Boy, Unca Jake, Mr. Abernassy is really big!” Little Finn almost shouted the words, stretching out the “really.” Everyone laughed.

  “And this is Geneva Abernassy,” Jake said to Finn, “big Mr. Abernassy’s lovely wife.”

  Finn and Geneva grinned at each other. Still in Clarence’s arms, he rubbed his pale white hand against Clarence’s face, studying the difference with obvious fascination. When he touched Clarence’s hair, Finn said, with wonder in his voice, “It’s just like a brillo pad!”

  “Yeah, I guess it is,” Clarence said, his smile even broader than Little Finn’s.

  “My dad used to say dat God made people of every color ’cause all colors need each other fo’ da world to be what he wants it to be.”

  “My sister used to say something like that too,” Clarence said.

  “Unca Jake told me your sister’s in heaven with my dad! Maybe they’re watchin’ us right now, huh?”

  “Maybe so.” Clarence wanted to believe it.

  “So dere’s at least two colors already in heaven!”

  “Yeah.” Clarence turned away, not wanting to show his eyes. What was it about this boy that reminded him so much of Daddy? They both seemed on the inside track, as if they knew something the rest of the world didn’t. They had one foot here and one foot somewhere else.

  “Have you seen Carly’s baby, Mr. Abernassy? He was named after my dad and me!” Little Finn slipped out of Clarence’s arms and tugged him toward the child’s room, Geneva following. Geneva and Clarence hugged Carly and fussed over baby Finney.

  After a few minutes Janet announced, “Okay, Carly, we’re ready to take off. Are you sure you can handle everybody?”

  “Positive. As long as I’ve got Little Finn to help me.” She put her arm around the beaming boy. “He can entertain Karina and Finney both.”

  “Bye, Mista Abernassy!” Finn yelled at Clarence.

  “Bye, Mista Finn!” Clarence said. “You behave yourself or I’ll rub you with my brillo pad.” He lowered his head and rubbed his hair on the side of Finn’s face as the boy squealed with delight.

  The two couples drove to Dea’s in Gresham, since everybody felt like eating hamburgers. Clarence and Jake claimed a booth, while Geneva and Janet made one of their long journeys to the restroom.

  “How’s it going with you and Janet?” Clarence asked.

  “Good, I think. We love each other. We love the Lord. We’re rebuilding. Doesn’t mean it’s all easy, of course.”

  “Most things aren’t.” Clarence thought about Jake’s faith, realistic yet idealistic at the same time. It was still fresh and new. Jake had a touch of Little Finn in him, an ability to see through the eyes of a child. Clarence’s own faith felt cynical and jaded, blunted by years of abrasions and injustice.

  “You know, Jake, sometimes I envy you coming to faith later in life.”

  “Strange to hear you say that. I’ve often thought how wonderful it would’ve been to grow up in a home like yours, with parents who loved the Lord.”

  “Sometimes you take it for granted,” Clarence said. “Like it’s more of a family thing than a personal thing.”

  “Still, to have Christian parents. I can hardly imagine. As for coming to faith later in life? Well, I look back at my first fifty years, and I think so much of it was wasted. Every day I’ve got now, I want it to count for eternity. Funny. I say something like that and I think of my old buddy Finney and how I never understood it when he said those things. He’s been gone two years. Janet says sometimes I remind her of Finney. Sue, Finney’s wife, she says the same thing. I can’t think of a higher compliment. But I have so far to go.”

  “You’ve already come a long way, bro. My faith seems stagnant. Like I’ve lost my first love. Don’t know what to do, really. Geneva says I’m angry with God. I guess she’s right. It’s hard to trust somebody, to put yourself in his hands when I look at…”

  “What happened to
Dani and Felicia?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Still, what’s the alternative?” Jake asked. “We’re not God. You think things are a mess now, can you imagine what would happen if we were in charge of the universe?”

  Clarence thought he’d like to have a shot at it anyway.

  “Seems like,” Jake said, “it doesn’t take much faith to follow God when it’s going the way you think it should. Maybe faith is learning to trust God even when it looks like everything’s going wrong.”

  “Uncle Antsy?” Ty startled Clarence. He hadn’t initiated a conversation with him for weeks, and he never called him by that name anymore.

  “Hey, Ty. What is it?”

  “I know you’ve been talkin’ with the cops. What’s happenin’? Are they gonna find the killers?” He even sounded like the old Ty.

  “I hope so. Don’t know for sure.” Clarence debated how much to tell him, but he was so eager to talk, he decided to chance it. “Detective Chandler thinks the shooting was a mistake.”

  “Mistake? The house was shot to pieces.”

  “No, I mean they meant to kill somebody, but they got the wrong house.”

  “How could they do that?”

  “He thinks they didn’t know the streets around here. See, somebody painted over the Jackson Street sign on MLK, trying to change the k to a c, you know, because of the Crip killer thing? Well, the way the paint was sprayed on, it covered up the rest of the word. So Jackson ended up looking like Jack. Possibly they were going for a house over on Jack but got the wrong street.”

  Ty sat quietly, shoulders hunched. Suddenly he got up and walked to the door.

  “Ty, wait. Come back. I—” Before he finished the sentence, Clarence heard the screen door slam shut.