by Randy Alcorn
“Yes.”
I can’t believe I’m talking with an addict as though he’s my doctor.
“At first you can’t hold down food when you’re on the drug. Then you can’t hold down food unless you’re on it. It’s a demon,” Pepe said matter-of-factly.
“Would you be able to taste it in a cup of coffee?” Ollie asked.
“Small cup?”
“Big. Sixteen ounces.”
“Weak or strong?”
“Double coffee, chocolate, caramel flavor, plus milk.”
“Heroin is sour, but in something that big and strong? Probably wouldn’t notice it.”
“Where would you get China white around here?”
“Chinatown. Or on the east side, on Eighty-second, at a Chinese restaurant.”
“You can buy it at a restaurant?”
“Not every restaurant. I know which ones.” He wrote down two restaurant names.
“Take care of yourself, Pepe. You’re not slingin’ on me, are you?”
“No. Not slingin’. Usin’ sometimes, but not slingin’. Been takin’ my grandkids to church.”
“That’s good. Just make sure they don’t lose their grandfather.”
“Okay, Ollie.” The two Vietnam vets shook hands. As Ollie went out the front door, Pepe saluted him. Ollie made a call while he drove Clarence toward Chinatown.
“Officer Wong in Narcotics please. This is Detective Chandler. Yeah, hey Joe. Listen, I’m trying to trace a sale of China white. Can you point me to the highest volume dealer in Chinatown?”
“You armed?” Wong asked.
“Yeah. But I’m not after the dealer. I just want info on a customer.”
“China white? There’s not that much of it in Portland anymore,” Wong said. “More of an East Coast thing. People here have graduated to crack and zip. Lots of tweakers around. But a little China white still gets imported for the long-time addicts. They get it from just one source, and he gets it from the East Coast. His name’s Lee. He’s got a little knickknack shop on Third Street, called Lee’s Curios. You can’t miss it. Tell him I sent you or you won’t get a word out of him.”
Ollie turned right on Second Street, under the colorful archway covered with artwork denoting the entrance to Chinatown. Clarence looked at the guys sitting on the streets. He noticed the tattoos. One had a prominent eagle on his arm, another high on his chest, his shirt unbuttoned. He saw large tattoos of knives and swords and dragons.
“I think the dragon is for martial arts,” Ollie said. “Not sure about the other stuff. A lot of these guys are professional criminals. Auto theft, burglary, shoplifting. The more serious ones are into armed home-invasion robberies, loan shark collections, prostitution. Even murder for hire.”
“No kidding?”
“Look at that young guy.” Ollie pointed to a short muscular Asian with a New Wave hairstyle and clothing. “If he was dressed differently, he’d look like a college student. He could be. Some of these guys go back and forth. They come here, sell drugs and steal to finance their education. It’s weird.”
“What’s with the round marks on his hands?”
“Cigarette burns. You find them on lots of the Asian gang members. Self-inflicted. They show bravery. Filipinos have quarter burns.”
“Quarter burns?”
“They get a quarter hot in a fire, then press it on their skin. The hotter the quarter and the longer it’s on the skin, the better you can see President Washington’s head. The clearer the image, the braver the image bearer. See that guy? Going on the nods? Scratchin’ himself? Heroin. The amount he’s on right now would probably kill both of us.” They swung up to Third Street and found Lee’s Curio Shop.
Clarence and Ollie walked in together, feeling as if they’d entered another world. The smell of incense, the products being sold, everything was alien. Either man by himself would have stuck out. Together they were as noticeable as men from Mars.
Ollie showed Lee his badge and ID. “Officer Joe Wong sent me. I’m not after you, Lee. I just have a few questions. What can you tell me about a customer, maybe a new customer, recently buying your product? And I don’t mean incense or chimes.”
“Most my customers regulars,” Lee said. “Know them well.”
“We’re looking for someone intending to use China white to knock somebody out. Don’t suppose they would have told you that, though.”
Clarence thought he saw a light turn on in Lee’s eyes. “Few weeks ago man never seen before ask me about pure China white. Ask if I sure it would dissolve.”
“Dissolve?”
“Yes. In coffee. Could not understand why mix heroin in coffee, but he was white man. Sometimes have strange ways.”
“Anything else you can tell me about this man?”
“Only that he was with another man. Very unusual.”
“Unusual in what way?”
“Other man was black. Very big. Look like this man.” He pointed to Clarence.
“For moment, I think was him. Very strange to see black and white man together. People stay with own kind.” He looked uncomfortably at Ollie and Clarence, who stared for a moment at each other. Ollie jotted down as much descriptive detail as Lee could give.
“Strange, isn’t it?” Clarence said as they walked toward the car. “You’ve got white, black, Hispanic, and Asian addicts. You’ve got white, black, Hispanic, and Asian pushers. You’ve got white, black, Hispanic, and Asian officers and detectives and pastors and businessmen and you name it.”
“Yeah,” Ollie said. “It’s almost like we’re all part of the same human race, good and bad.”
Clarence caught a sudden sidelong glimpse of piercing color. “Look at that, would you?” He pointed to the sky.
It was a spellbinding rainbow, not the ethereal shimmering type, but the carved out solid sort that look as if you could get on top and slide right down, skidding back and forth from one color to the next. The flaming red ribbon moved into a glistening orange, a brilliant yellow, then green and blue. The blue receded into the blueness of the sky, reappearing when set off by the browns and greens of Portland’s west hills. Clarence had never seen glistening violet like this. Dani would have loved it.
What did Dani used to call rainbows? God’s promise of hope? This rainbow, though, ended not in a pot of gold, but in the dull gray grime of littered streets. Clarence looked around and saw some kids walking. Several of them saw him and Ollie looking up and followed their gaze. They looked quickly back down at the street, the sky holding no promise for them. But Clarence watched two teenage boys on the corner stop dead in their tracks and gaze at the rainbow, captivated by it. Seeing those two boys somehow gave him hope.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Clabern,” Jake said to Clarence after they watched the Packers play the Bears on Monday Night Football.
“That can be dangerous if you’re not used to it,” Clarence said.
“I … want to ask your forgiveness,” Jake said.
Clarence sat up. “For what?”
“For my part in the hurt you and your family and your forefathers experienced.”
“And your part was … what?”
“Okay.” Jake took a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking this through, so here goes. I know if my grandfather stole from your grandfather it isn’t my fault. But if my grandfather used that money to buy a house and send my father to college while yours couldn’t go because he didn’t have money that was rightfully his, then not only did your family suffer from the stealing, I benefited from it. Without realizing it, I’ve been the beneficiary of the exploitation of slaves and sharecroppers. Their loss has been my gain.”
“Then it’s their forgiveness you need, not mine,” Clarence said.
“If I could apologize to them I would. But they’re not here. You are. And you’ve lost an economic and educational heritage you could have had if they hadn’t been enslaved. You’re an extension of them, just like I’m an extension of my forebears. So it comes down to
me and you, because we’re the ones here. I really feel like I should ask your forgiveness.”
“Jake, I’d forgive you for any wrong you did to me, you know that. But I still don’t see how you can repent for sins you didn’t commit.”
“I’ve been talking with my pastor, and he showed me some verses in Daniel 9. When Daniel talks about his forefathers’ sins against God, he keeps saying ‘we’ have sinned and done wickedly. Here’s a man who will go to the lions rather than disobey God. Yet he confesses the sins of his fathers as his own, even though he didn’t do those sins. Same thing with Nehemiah. He weeps over and confesses the sins of his fathers. There’s no indication Nehemiah personally did any of these sins. There’s every indication he didn’t. Yet he took ownership of his forefathers’ sins. He considered the sins of the nation, the sins of his forefathers and his brothers, as his sins. He took responsibility for them. He confessed them and didn’t expect God to answer his prayers until he did. I’ve been praying for racial reconciliation for a couple of years. But I don’t think I can expect God to answer my prayer and bring a solution until I confess my part of the problem.”
“I don’t know what to say, Jake.”
“My pastor’s been mulling this over too. There’s another verse he gave me. Luke 11:47. Let me read it.” Jake pulled out his pocket Bible. “This is Jesus talking to the religious leaders, and he says, ‘Woe to you, because you build tombs for the prophets, and it was your forefathers who killed them.’ Then he says in verse 50, Therefore this generation will be held responsible for the blood of all the prophets that has been shed since the beginning of the world.’”
“What does that mean?” Clarence asked.
“I’m not sure I completely understand it. But obviously if a man is held accountable for the blood of prophets shed by his forefathers hundreds of years earlier, there has to be some kind of transgenerational responsibility. A man is responsible for the sins his forefathers committed against others. It sounds strange, but that’s what it says. Here’s another passage.” He turned to a page marked with a yellow Post-it note.
“Exodus 34:7 says God does not leave the guilty unpunished—he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation. It may seem unfair, but when you consider that the descendants of the victims are suffering, which isn’t fair either, the fact that the descendants of the oppressors suffer maybe shouldn’t be so surprising. My pastor says that maybe the only way for the descendants of oppressors to get out from under the curse is to face up to their ancestor’s sins, repent, and seek forgiveness from those they’ve wronged.”
“I hear you, Jake, but it’s a pretty radical concept, taking responsibility for your ancestor’s sins.”
“Yeah, and the Bible’s a radical book, isn’t it? It says we all sinned in Adam, right? Well, that’s going all the way back to our most remote ancestor, and we’re held responsible for his sins. It seems like the closer in time to us it was done, the more a sin is linked to us, but if we’re responsible for Adam’s sin, obviously we’re responsible for our grandfather’s. It’s as if we white people sinned in our American ancestors who enslaved your ancestors. I’m seeing it everywhere now. I was reading in Hebrews where it connects Abraham’s actions to his great-grandson Levi long before Levi was born because Levi was ‘still in the body of his ancestor.’ That’s a genetic connection. Even though I don’t understand how it works, I need to accept my responsibility by faith. That’s why I’m asking for your forgiveness.”
“I’ve never felt you were a racist, Jake. Maybe racially unaware or insensitive sometimes, but certainly not a racist.”
“The more I’ve prayed about this, the more the Lord has brought things to my mind, things I’d forgotten. I remember once when times were hard and my dad was laid off. Finally, he got a job with a delivery company, which was a switch for a Harvard grad. There was a guy who’d been working there twenty years, who taught him the ropes. Dad figured he’d eventually work up the ladder from loader to driver, one step at a time, but the next thing you know, my dad was given a job as driver. The other guy had to tell Dad where to go, how to get places. He was obviously more qualified for the job. Dad as much as said so. But that guy was black. I never thought much about it. Maybe just thought that’s the way it was. Now I look back and I realize Dad made more money, I got more advantages. We profited from racism. We didn’t mean to. I’m not heaping false guilt on myself or my father. I’m just saying I was the beneficiary of racism, of injustice.
“And that’s not all, either. Twice I can remember, when I was young, I made fun of two kids, one a little Chinese girl and the other a black boy. I called her chink, and I called him nigger. I’m ashamed to admit it. A few days ago I was reading James 3:9. It says, ‘With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in God’s likeness.’ It says that’s evil. And I realize that whenever I’ve insulted someone because of his race, I’ve insulted the God who made him that way. That applies to my private thoughts about them too.”
“You really have given this a lot of thought, haven’t you, Jake?”
“There’s more. One day a few years ago I was downtown near the Trib. I set a bag on a park bench while waiting for the bus. Next thing you know, I turn around and a couple of black kids grab it and run. I remember thinking, ‘That’s a black kid for you.’ Of course, I was a good liberal then, I took pride in not being a racist, so I would never have admitted that’s what I thought. But it is. The sad thing is, just a few weeks before, I had my bike stolen by a white neighbor kid and some mail stolen by a white man in the apartment complex. And never once did I think, That’s whites for you.’”
“What did your pastor say when you came to him about this?”
“He said he hasn’t thought much about it until recently. But he said he believed the church’s biggest sin was silence. That Bible-believing churches didn’t stand up against slavery and segregation and unfair treatment. And God was grieved by it. And we’re still paying for that sin in ways we don’t even understand.”
“He actually said that?”
“Yeah. He said in America we see ourselves as individuals, disconnected from the past. But we aren’t. We’re connected to the sins of the nation. And to the sins of the church. What the nation did against blacks is a load we carry until we confess and repent of it and work alongside our black brothers to help make things right. In the church we bear responsibility for what we did and what we failed to do. Sins of commission and sins of omission. And one thing he said really hit home—I can’t get it off my mind. He said for years he’s been praying for revival. But lately he’s been thinking revival can’t come as long as the church fails to stand up against injustice— racial injustice, killing the unborn, mistreating the elderly, and all that. He said he used to believe if revival came it would take care of all that stuff. Now he’s thinking maybe we have to address those things first before God hears our prayers for revival.”
Jake never remembered Clarence looking so surprised. “I’ll ask you again, Clarence. Do you forgive me for my part in being linked to and benefiting from the exploitation of your ancestors?”
“Jake, I don’t know what to say. Of course, I forgive you. But … you know, nobody’s ever said anything like this to me. I’ve had a lot of white people—including Christians—say, ‘Slavery was an evil thing, but of course I had nothing to do with it.’ What I’ve always heard when they say that is, ‘It wasn’t my fault, so just take care of your own problems, stop whining, and leave me alone.’ I admit it’s hard for us blacks to deal with our own responsibility and our need to repent and forgive when we feel like whites won’t accept responsibility for what they’ve done.”
“Remember when we were at Promise Keepers in Seattle?” Jake asked. “Remember when they asked everybody to stand up if they’d been guilty of racism? Well, I wanted to stand up. God knows I’ve been guilty of most other things. But I didn’t. Sure, I
heard a lot of racist talk when I was a kid, but I really didn’t think it affected me. I still don’t know how much it did. But I’ve come to realize a lot of things. And if I was asked again today, this time I’d stand up.”
“Maybe I should have stood up too,” Clarence said. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t thinking about my attitude toward Asians and Hispanics and whites, but I’ve been thinking about it lately. Racism is racism. It doesn’t flow just one way. I see my daddy’s love and it convicts me. I see Ty’s racial hostility and it scares me. I guess I have something to confess too. I used to really resent white people. Sometimes I still do.”
“I can understand why,” Jake said.
“No. Don’t justify it. It’s wrong. But you know, it’s a lot easier for me to say that to you after what you said to me. And I also want to tell you I really appreciate how you’ve stood by me after all these accusations.”
“I’ve never been really close to a black man before,” Jake said. “Maybe because I didn’t understand or didn’t think I could understand. But anyway, being your friend has meant a lot to me, Clarence. It’s helped me understand the body of Christ. You miss a lot when you only spend time with those most like you.” Jake cleared his throat. “Anyway, all this is leading up to something.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got a favor to ask you.”
“What’s that?”
“Janet and I are getting married. End of December.”
“Hey, that’s great. I’m really happy for you, man.” He slapped Jake on the back. “So, what’s the favor? Need a chaperone for your honeymoon?”
“No. I’d like you to be my best man.”
Clarence stared at Jake in disbelief. Finally a big smile broke across his face, a smile that looked remarkably like his father’s.
“Dr. Canzler, glad you’re back,” Ollie said to the medical examiner. “Hopefully you can clear something up. Do you remember doing an autopsy on a girl named Leesa Fletcher? She died September 8.”
