“If that happens, then none of us will be welcomed anywhere in Chicago for a very long time.”
CHAPTER 25
Caylee Johnson smiled as she typed a message on her phone.
She finished the text with a smiley face, mirroring real life.
Her friend replied with a photo—her smile almost as wide as her face, but Caylee had to quickly hide the image.
She deleted it the second she received it.
Sitting around the dinner table, waiting for her father to finish burning the beef sausages for dinner, she couldn’t let the men of the house know that she was receiving messages from an African American girl. She hated to think about what they would do—there would be a beating, for sure. Maybe many.
Caylee had received repeated beatings during her youth; it was just a part of her life. The way things were. Every time she stepped out of line, or said something wrong, she could be assured it was followed by a fist. As much as they wanted to protect her, as much as they loved her, the men had asserted their control over her life.
She had no doubt that her father and uncle would do anything for her. No doubt at all. She was their little angel, their precious gift. The day her prom date came to the house, the poor kid was greeted by two men with shotguns at the front gate. Her date barely said a word to her all night.
They ate dinner as a family—burnt sausages with a side of mashed potatoes—before her father broke out into a rant about how America was falling apart. The television was always on at the house, a constant stream of news and drama flowing into their living room, and it usually fueled her father’s tirades.
After she finished dinner, Caylee grabbed the men a beer each from the refrigerator and sat with them for a few moments while they screamed the wrong answers at a quiz show on the TV. After every wrong answer—all of which she knew the right response to—they argued with the television about the facts.
When they were engrossed enough in the show, she left and went out to the garage. She opened the many metal cabinets full of guns. She loved the feeling of being surrounded by power.
She had two plans to choose from.
She had thought about them both over the years, each time the thoughts becoming clearer. She had wanted to carry out one of the plans when she was in high school, but the risk was too great. She had wanted to do one of them when she graduated school, but her father was too busy. But now, due to his cancer, she felt the pressure to do it.
This was her time.
This was her chance to make a difference.
Her opportunity.
“What’cha doing, girl?” Her uncle strode into the garage, throwing a beer bottle top across the room.
“Getting ready.” She took one of the guns from the rack. She looked down the barrel, checked it was straight, and smiled. There were sixteen shotguns, all lined up next to each other.
“For what?”
“The end.”
“The end of what?”
Burt Johnson never claimed to be a smart guy; in fact, smart was an overstatement. When her father told her that Burt never finished high school, Caylee, still only twelve at the time, guided him through the work and tutored him so he could pass the exams. The day he received his graduation certificate was one of the proudest moments of her life.
Burt was a gullible sponge—that was his greatest weakness. He was able to soak up all the hatred that his older brother sprayed upon him, making sure that the hate would continue long after Chuck was gone. Generational racism was alive and well in the hands of Burt Johnson.
“I’m going to make a big move. It’s going to be massive.” She stepped closer to her uncle and indicated for him to lean down so she could whisper, “It’s going to be so big that all this might end.”
“Whoa.” He snickered and then playfully punched her on the arm. “That’s my niece—doing what’s right. We’re the protectors of the White Alliance Coalition.”
“But you can’t say anything to Dad. I want it to be a surprise. You’ve got to promise not to say anything to Dad.”
“You got it.” He smirked. “We have to look after each other and have each other’s back. I’ll look after you, Caylee, the same way I’ll defend the White Alliance Coalition.”
“That’s my uncle.” She tapped his growing stomach.
“You bet.” Burt puffed his chest out proudly. “You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve done to protect the White Alliance Coalition.”
Caylee placed the shotgun back in the cabinet, then looked at the four handguns that were sitting on the benches. They would be easy to transport.
It was the dynamite that she was worried about loading into the van.
But she needed that.
She needed it all.
“So when are you going to do it?”
“When the time is right.” She smiled and touched the metal crate with the explosives. “And that time is coming soon.”
CHAPTER 26
“Mr. Hunter?”
Hunter had barely stepped out of his office building, barely had time to button up his coat, when someone called out to him in the street as he walked towards his regular coffee shop.
That wasn’t unusual for him. He was used to the abuse that was screamed from cars, although that had lessened significantly over the decades since his father’s imprisonment.
Five years earlier, the abuse had almost stopped. His family’s dark past had become a controversy almost erased from the minds of the public. The public was outraged by other events—public shootings, drive-bys at high schools or senseless attacks on the freedoms of Americans.
But a new documentary aired across the country, The Chicago Hunter, detailing his father’s crimes with his mother’s assistance, and the slayings came back into everyone’s focus. The weeks that followed the airing of the show were some of the worst for Hunter.
For his own safety, he was advised by police not to leave the house for a week.
Hunter turned to see a small, familiar woman waving her arms in the air, coming towards him.
“Mr. Hunter,” the woman called again.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Nelson?” Hunter asked as the afternoon crowds pushed past them on the street.
“I was coming to the office to see you.” She was panting. “I want to stay involved in this case. I’m sure there’s something I can help you with. I really want to do everything I can to keep Amos out of prison.”
“I’m not sure what else you can do, Mrs. Nelson—unless there’s something you haven’t told me.”
“I’ve never trusted Lucas.” She talked louder as people pushed past. “Maybe I can get information on him for you? He doesn’t like me, but I still have the keys to the office. Amos gave them to me. I could go through Lucas’ things? Maybe his notes? If he isn’t being helpful, then I could get the information for you.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that, Mrs. Nelson.” Hunter was soft in his approach. He held her elbow and moved her to the side of the street, out of the rush.
“I would do anything for Amos. Anything. I owe that man my life,” she pleaded. “My life was almost perfect after Reverend Green passed, all except for the threat to Amos’ freedom. If you believe that Amos is innocent, then I can’t let him go to prison. I have to do everything I can to keep him out of there.”
She looked up at Hunter; she was so desperate to help, so desperate to save the man that saved her.
“Mrs. Nelson, this is getting dangerous. I don’t want you involved in that,” Hunter said. “But I’ll give you the number for my investigator, Ray Jones. Tell him what you’ve told me. It may help him piece together the case.”
“The only reason I’m alive is because of Amos.” She had tears in her eyes. “And if you think that he’s innocent, then I’ll do whatever it takes to keep him out of jail.”
CHAPTER 27
The Burke’s Web Pub in Bucktown was usually quiet on a Thursday afternoon. A few locals, all seemingly named Jeff, sat around the
bar, musing about the game of Jeopardy on the television. One man called out an answer, and Anderson looked up from the beer he was cradling in his hand. He knew the answer was wrong, but he didn’t have the energy to correct the man. The game show host did that only moments later.
Two blocks from his home, the bar was Anderson’s place of refuge. It was his escape from the stresses of the last two months. Here, he could forget about the rocks thrown through his windows, the letters filled with hate, and the abuse spray-painted on his car.
He had never expected that a church community could be filled with so much hate, but he had quickly come to learn that the minister didn’t only represent those in the congregation, or those that attended Sunday mass; Green represented a voice for his people, whether they came to his church or not.
He was a symbol of hope, something greater than just a man.
“Amos.” Tex Hunter walked into the dimly lit bar, took off his coat and hung it on a hook. “Are you okay?”
Anderson didn’t answer.
“What’ll it be?” the female bartender asked Hunter.
“A pint of pale ale.” Hunter pointed to the tap.
“We’re cash only here.”
Hunter threw a few bills on the bar, and the woman quickly filled his pint glass, placing it in front of him.
“They’ve thrown rocks through my window.” Anderson tipped his drink to one side, and then the other. “They’ve spray painted my car. I’ve been spat on. I’ve been pushed. I’m almost too scared to leave my apartment.”
“Who threw a rock through your window?”
“Who knows? I guess it’s the supporters of the church. I don’t know.” Amos shook his head. “How did they even find my address?”
“Hate fuels many people in this world, Amos. It can be a great motivator.” Hunter sipped his beer as a man started playing a solitary game of darts behind him. “An address is not hard to find. I’ll talk to the local police station, see if they can send a few more patrols past your house.”
“I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this.” Anderson’s hands flailed around, doing as much of the talking as he was. “All I want to do is fill the world with love and make the world a better place. I want to help people, but I can’t even leave my house!”
“I understand, and we’re going to do everything we can to keep you out of prison.” Hunter placed his hand on Anderson’s shoulder. “But you have to be prepared.”
“For what?”
“For prison,” Hunter said firmly. “You have to get your affairs in order before this trial starts. You have to be prepared for that likelihood, because, at this point in time, it’s a very real possibility.”
The color drained from Anderson’s face.
“The prosecution has a new offer—twenty-two years. I’m obligated to bring that offer to you.”
“Twenty-two years!” Tears welled up in Amos’ eyes. “I’ll be more than sixty by the time I get out. Those are the best years of my life—gone.” He snapped his fingers. “All for something I didn’t do. All for something I had nothing to do with. I didn’t want Reverend Green dead.”
“Although it’s only small, we still have a chance. We haven’t lost yet.” Hunter patted his shoulder. “We have a chance to win this trial, but it’s not in our favor.”
One of the customers at the bar came past and rested a consoling hand on Anderson’s other shoulder without saying a word. Anderson kept his head down, then put his thumb up as a sign of thanks.
“I’ve helped ninety drug addicts kick the habit, forty people with depression get back on their feet, and countless clients get over their physical ailments.” He turned to Hunter. “I’ve helped people with back problems, stomach problems, knee pain, ankle issues. You name it, I’ve cured it. I help people; I don’t kill them.”
Hunter didn’t offer a response.
“All I want to do is improve the lives of others. I don’t care about the money. I don’t care for the adoration. When you heal someone’s ailment, when you help someone break free of their addiction, when you help someone defeat their demons, that—” He looked up. “That’s something worth fighting for.”
“Then we have only one thing left to do, Amos.” Hunter drank his pint. “We have to fight this to the end.”
CHAPTER 28
Hunter hated this walk.
Despite the fact that he had walked through the entrance to the building more than a hundred times in his life, he hated everything about it—the smell of fear, the frenzied nature of the guards, the pain etched in people’s faces. It had been more than a year since he last walked into the Cook County Jail; more than a year since he smelled that overriding scent of fear, testosterone, and body odor all rolled into one distinct mess.
He received a handwritten letter two weeks ago asking to talk. It was two pages long, emotional, and heartfelt.
Not what he usually received from his father.
After the security checks, Tex Hunter greeted the men at the doors and was led down a long hallway. He had intended to come earlier, a week ago, but the Anderson case took up most of his time. Even today, he had only arrived ten minutes before visiting hours finished.
The guards opened the door to the room, and Hunter stepped inside. It was cold, it always was, and the lack of direct sunlight didn’t help. The one small window near the roof, covered in bars, provided a glimpse of the blue sky outside but not enough to give a man hope. The paint was fading on the concrete walls, and there were scratches of names that had come and gone.
His father waited on a metal chair, dressed in a white T-shirt and brownish-gray pants, hands fidgeting. A metal table was in front of him, the shine completely gone from it.
Hunter stopped at the door, shocked by what he saw.
Gone was the man he used to know—gone was the life in his eyes, the fire in his heart. He looked weary, skinny, and almost lifeless.
Life, even one contained within these concrete walls, had taken its toll.
“My son.” Alfred Hunter stood up from the table, leaning on his right arm for support, and offered Hunter a smile. He opened his left arm to welcome a hug.
Hunter walked to the table, hugged his father gently, afraid that he would crush him, and then moved to the opposite metal chair to sit down.
“I wasn’t sure that you’d come, Tex. I’ve seen you in the news a bit; the trial starts in two days, doesn’t it? I didn’t think you’d be able to find time to come and meet with your old man.” Alfred lowered his body back into the chair, leaning on his right arm for support.
Hunter didn’t answer.
“Thanks for taking the time to make an old man happy. I realize how much you love these cases and how hard it is for you to pull away from them.”
Alfred scratched his arm. The itching was getting worse. He could take the pain in his joints, he could live with the numbness in his limbs, he could even deal with the constant need to use the toilet, but it was the itching that annoyed him the most. The constant feeling that everything needed to be scratched all the time, no matter how many times he tried to relieve the sensation. His dehydrated skin had cracked often, exposing him to more germs than his body could fight. Infections were an unwanted bonus on top of his pain.
“You’re not well,” Hunter whispered. “Why didn’t you write to me earlier?”
Alfred drew a long breath. He was a tall man, in his mid-seventies, whose cheeks were sunken, neck was thin, and had a clearly visible collarbone due to severe weight loss. On top of that, his once olive skin was tinged yellow, with the wispy gray hairs on his head marking the onset of complete baldness.
“Life is full of ups and downs, sacrifices, and knowledge. I’ve lived my life the best I can.” Alfred’s tone was reflective. He’d had a lot of time for contemplation over the past three decades. “I’ve done what I’ve had to do.”
“What’s killing you?” Hunter’s voice was low.
“Just about everything.” The answer was blunt. “I
know my time is coming. I don’t have long left, maybe a year, maybe more, who knows? Life is hard behind these bars, and there aren’t many men older than me left in here. They took Harry Unger to the hospital yesterday, and I think that leaves me as the oldest male prisoner. What a title, eh? The oldest man in hell.”
“Have they taken you to see a doctor?”
“I went to see a doctor once and said that I wanted to live to an old age.” Alfred raised a long finger and tried to smile. “He said, ‘Don’t drink, don’t party, don’t do any drugs, and don’t eat any unhealthy food.’ ‘Will that make me live longer?’ I asked. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But it’ll sure make the years feel like a very, very long time.’”
Hunter didn’t laugh.
He looked at the table, the words escaping him.
“I don’t see the point in continuing past my use-by date, son. When you’ve spent thirty years back here, time isn’t precious. I have nothing left to do, nothing left to achieve, and nothing left to see. There’s no use spending taxpayer dollars on keeping me alive, because if my time has come, then my time has come.”
Alfred Hunter was once a hard-working family man; a man who took the time to play catch with his boys in the yard after work, taught his kids how to ride a bike, and taught Tex how to throw a fierce left hook when he was being bullied by the older kids at school. On his father’s advice, Hunter threw three punches at the kid four years older, flattening him. Despite being called to the principal’s office to explain his son’s actions; Alfred was proud of his boy.
Alfred Hunter had appeared to love his community—he regularly attended the neighborhood watch meetings, was the school’s basketball coach, and often lent his tools to whoever needed them. He smiled at the neighbors, waved to the postman, and chattered to the local shopkeepers. His clothes were always pristine, ironed, and unstained. His shoulders were always back, his head held high, and his walk was filled with confidence.
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