Faith and Justice

by Peter O'Mahoney

  Law cut him off from speaking any further. “No further questions.”

  It was a risky play—the prosecution was already ahead in the courtroom, and if the testimony went wrong, then the potential consequences would be very damaging.

  She had given a racist a soapbox, but she hoped that it was enough to convict a killer.

  Chuck Johnson’s revelations had shaken the courtroom, changed the balance of the case, but Hunter had his cross-examination to come.

  He knew it was all a falsehood, a fabricated lie to try and take down Anderson.

  And now was the time to make his play.

  Time to use the leverage.

  CHAPTER 45

  Chuck Johnson wheezed as he waited for Hunter to begin his questioning. Getting air into his lungs was getting harder and harder—not that it motivated him enough to give up the cigarettes. He figured that if he was going out anyway, he might as well go out his way.

  He fumbled with the cigarette packet in his pocket, desperate to get outside for a hit of nicotine. Nicotine had been a comforting friend for him, an escape from the terrors of the world. He knew it was killing him, but without that escape, without that respite, he would have ended his life a long time ago.

  “Mr. Johnson, are you currently ill?”

  “I have lung cancer and emphysema. The doctors have given me only a few more months to live.”

  “Does this illness restrict you in any way?” Hunter had a distinct lack of sympathy in his tone.

  “I can’t do most things. I can’t lift anything heavy, I can’t work anymore, and I can’t go for long walks without using a breathing machine.”

  “Can you drive for long periods, say anything over thirty minutes?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “The breathing problems don’t allow me to do that.”

  “Mr. Johnson, can you please confirm to the court if you are the ‘Grandmaster’—” Hunter used his fingers as quotation marks. “—of the White Alliance Coalition.”

  “I am.” Chuck sat up proudly, with not one hint of embarrassment about his title. “I’m the founder and driver of the White Alliance Coalition. We believe in—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Johnson.” Hunter held up his hand. He had no interest in giving him a platform to preach. “How many members of the White Alliance Coalition are there?”

  “At our peak, we had more than one hundred members, with around twenty attending our monthly meetings.”

  “And now?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe ten.”

  “Mr. Johnson, what motivated you to start the White Alliance Coalition?”

  “My wife and daughter.” He grunted, but it sent him into another coughing fit. “They were shot by a black man when he broke into my house. A black man killed my wife and permanently injured my daughter. She’s hobbled her whole life with a painful leg injury.”

  “And because of that event…” Hunter was flat in his tone. “… do you feel that it’s your duty to protect your daughter?”

  “Of course. She’s my angel.”

  Caylee may’ve been Chuck’s angel, but she was also about to become Hunter’s leverage.

  “How did it make you feel when she liked Reverend Green’s videos on YouTube?”

  Chuck’s mouth dropped open, unsure of how to answer.

  “Mr. Johnson?” Hunter raised his eyebrows. “How did it make you feel when your angel, your daughter, Caylee Johnson, watched and then liked Reverend Green’s speeches on YouTube?”

  “I didn’t…” Chuck looked to the prosecution, but they couldn’t help him. “I… I don’t know how you know that.”

  “That’s not an answer, Mr. Johnson.”

  “I…” He opened his hands. “I was shocked.”

  “You were shocked,” Hunter agreed. “You were shocked that your daughter, who you raised to be a racist, liked a video from Reverend Green, an African American Baptist minister. Once that shock subsided, did it make you angry?”

  “Yeah.” Chuck tilted his head. “Of course it made me angry.”

  “Angry enough to kill?”

  “Objection. Argumentative.” Law called out.

  “Withdrawn.” Hunter was quick in his response. “When you were in the alley that night to allegedly meet someone, did you drive there?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you testified that you were alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you weren’t, were you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You weren’t alone. You’ve testified that you can’t drive for more than thirty minutes. How could you drive the truck in your current state when the Congress Hotel is more than one and a half hours from your home?”

  “I…” Chuck moved again, putting one hand on the smokes in his trouser pocket, his fingers rubbing the edge of the box. “I must’ve had rest stops along the way.”

  “Really?” Hunter’s voice rose. “Is it not true that you were driven there by someone else?”

  “No, I mean, yes. No. I don’t understand the question.”

  Hunter stood. “You were driven to that alley by someone else, weren’t you?”

  His eyes looked to the back of the courtroom. Hunter caught the eye movement and turned. “Ah. Mr. Johnson, you were driven by your brother, Burt Johnson, weren’t you?”

  Again, Chuck was speechless.

  “Or perhaps it was your daughter, Caylee, that drove you there?”

  He was quick to respond, hands leaping out of his pocket “No. It was Burt. He drove, okay? We parked in the parking lot next door. Caylee had nothing to do with this. Leave her alone.”

  “Burt drove to the parking garage next to the Congress Hotel.” Hunter’s voice became aggressive. “And when you and Burt walked down that alley, what did Reverend Green say to you?”

  “Nothing!”

  One of the jury members gasped.

  Chuck looked confused for a moment. “No, No! I mean, he didn’t say anything. We didn’t talk to him!”

  “Order!” Judge Lockett shouted.

  “I said—”

  “Mr. Johnson! I think that you were the one that killed Reverend Green!” Hunter shouted.

  “I—”

  “Mr. Johnson! You were there!”

  “I—”

  “Mr. Johnson, you’re under oath!”

  “Objection. Your Honor!” Law stood up. “Argumentative!”

  “I didn’t do it,” Johnson argued.

  “Mr. Johnson, you beat him to death!”

  “Objection!”

  “Sustained!” The gavel slammed, but Chuck didn’t stop.

  “So what if I talked with the black man that day! That doesn’t prove anything!”

  Hunter kept his eyes on Chuck.

  “Mr. Hunter, I will not warn you again. Once an objection is sustained, you will stop that line of questioning.” Judge Lockett pointed his finger at the defense table.

  “Yes, Your Honor.” He turned a page on his desk and then turned back to the witness. “You were angry, weren’t you? You were angry that your daughter liked his speech?”

  “No.”

  “And when you hit Green the first time, what did he say?”

  “Shut your mouth, Chuck!” Burt Johnson yelled from the back of the courtroom. “Don’t say another word!”

  “Order!”

  “What happened, Chuck?!” Hunter shouted.

  “Order!”

  Chuck looked around.

  Hunter leaned forward.

  He needed to push Chuck’s buttons. He needed to get under his skin.

  And he knew exactly how to do that.

  “Or should I ask Caylee Johnson that question? Maybe she will tell us what she did that night?”

  “Caylee?” There was desperation in Chuck’s voice. “No. Not Caylee. Don’t bring her into this.”

  “She was there, Chuck. She was with you,” Hunter bluffed. “She loved Reverend Green’s videos. She was turning against you, and Reverend Green was doing that!
”

  “Don’t say anything!” Burt pointed his finger at his older brother as the bailiffs began to wrestle him out of court. “Say nothing!”

  “Order in the court!” The gavel slammed again. “Get that man out of here!”

  “It was Caylee, wasn’t it?”

  “No!” Chuck leaped up. “It wasn’t Caylee, she wasn’t there!”

  “You’ve told us she was there.”

  “No!” He shook his head. “Leave her alone!”

  “Caylee punched him. She punched Reverend Green!”

  “No!” he shouted. “Leave Caylee alone! I did it all. It was only Burt and me there. That’s all. I did it. I killed him!”

  The court erupted—the supporters of Reverend Green yelled their hatred, the reporters jumped up, and the bailiffs struggled to maintain command.

  “Order! Order!”

  “Murderer!”

  “Racist!”

  “Killer!”

  “Order!”

  Hunter had a confession. He had that statement in court.

  But he didn’t have the killer.

  “But you didn’t punch him, did you?” Hunter shouted over the noise. “You aren’t strong enough to kill a man with a punch. You’re protecting someone!” Hunter slapped the table. “Was it Caylee?”

  The crowd continued to shout.

  “Order!” Judge Lockett stood. “Order!”

  “It was me! It was me!”

  Chuck glanced to the back of the room, where his brother was being held by the bailiffs.

  “It was me!” Chuck Johnson repeated.

  Hunter turned. There, at the back of the courtroom, was a boxer. A large man who would do anything he was told. A man that didn’t know his own strength.

  Against a defenseless pastor, he was a giant.

  “Burt threw the punches, didn’t he?” Hunter turned back to Chuck, his voice softer this time.

  Chuck was overwhelmed. He broke down, sobbing.

  “You were there to rough up Reverend Green for Lucas Bauer, tell him to back off, but Burt went too far, didn’t he?”

  “He didn’t mean to,” Chuck said, still sobbing. “He didn’t know his own strength.”

  Hunter turned and saw the defeated look on Burt’s face.

  Standing at the door, being restrained by guards, he looked stunned.

  “Burt Johnson is a trained boxer with a heavy punch—certainly heavy enough to kill a man after three blows to the head.”

  Chuck Johnson shook his head again.

  “Burt punched him, didn’t he?”

  “He didn’t mean to kill him,” he pleaded. “It was an accident. It was manslaughter. Lucas wanted us to rough him up, put the fear of God into Green. He didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “Burt hit him too hard.”

  “It was an accident. He pushed him, and he fell over. And then it was only three punches. Nothing more.” Chuck was begging. “Let Burt go. Take me to prison instead. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t walk free. Take me to prison instead of Burt.”

  “The law doesn’t work like that, Mr. Johnson.” Hunter turned as police officers gathered around Burt. “But you’ll see Burt in prison after they’ve charged you with being an accessory to murder.”

  CHAPTER 46

  Tex Hunter sat in his office, a smile stretched across his face. He had a hangover from celebrating the night before, but nothing could wipe this smile away. It was the smile of a winner; someone who had faced the challenges, overcome the odds, and somehow, walked out in front.

  He hadn’t planned on Chuck Johnson’s confession, but thinking on his feet was part of his job.

  Chuck thought he was strengthening the prosecution’s case by admitting he was there, as did the prosecution, and they thought he was forcing the case closer to a guilty verdict. When he was arrested for the Unlawful Possession of Weapons charge, facing a class 3 felony for his second arrest, he tried to weasel his way out by offering information and a witness testimony.

  But he was out of his depth in the courtroom.

  When Lucas Bauer called him that day to ‘rough up’ Reverend Green, Chuck saw an opportunity. He knew his daughter had been listening to his sermons online, and it ate him up inside. He had to do something about it. He couldn’t leave this world knowing that his daughter was being influenced by an African American preacher.

  Bauer had enticed Reverend Green into the alley, under the guise of doing a quiet deal that would end Anderson’s practices in Chicago. Bauer was threatened by Green’s attacks, scared that his business profits would suffer. He offered a deal that they would move the business to Los Angeles if Green agreed to stop his public attacks on their business.

  Under Bauer’s instructions, Burt Johnson was waiting in the alley and sprang into action. Bauer didn’t want Green dead, but Chuck Johnson did. Burt landed three punches, and the damage was done. Heavy bleeding in the brain caused his death.

  “Could you look any happier with yourself?” Esther laughed as she stood in the doorway to Hunter’s office. “Look at you, sitting there, staring out the window, smiling to yourself.”

  “It’s a beautiful day, Esther. I have every reason to be happy.” Hunter’s smile widened. “Not only did we find a killer, but we also took the heart out of a racist organization. That’s a reason to smile.”

  “Always the hero.” Esther grinned, her slight figure leaning on the doorframe. With her arms folded, and her hair flowing free, she was the picture of good health and good will. “I know Chuck and Burt are going to prison for the rest of their lives—”

  “Which, in Chuck’s case, is only a few months.”

  “Right.” She came into his office and sat on the chair opposite his desk. “But what about Lucas Bauer?”

  “He’s an accessory to murder too, and his reputation is destroyed. It’s out in the open court that he supported the White Alliance Coalition. The papers printed that this morning.” Hunter grabbed the Chicago Tribune off his desk and handed it to Esther. “Page three details it all. Bauer is included in their rundown.”

  Hunter’s mobile phone buzzed on his desk. He picked it up, read the number, shrugged, and put the phone down again.

  “Who is it?” Esther asked.

  “Detective Jemma Knowles,” he replied as the phone stopped buzzing. “She’s an old friend, but she’s still a cop. I’d prefer to bathe in this victory a little longer before someone else throws new stresses at me. Let me enjoy this glow.”

  Esther continued to read the paper, but the phone buzzed a second time. Hunter squinted, saw that it was Detective Knowles again, but pressed the button to send the call straight to voicemail.

  “Last night Amos said that he’s going to leave the Faith Healing Project and start something on his own. He’s going to continue to practice,” he said.

  “Amos was very happy last night. I’ve never seen a man drink a bottle of champagne that quickly.” Esther smiled. “I wouldn’t want to have his hangover this morning.”

  The phone buzzed once. It was a text this time.

  ‘Urgent. Answer the phone.’

  The phone rang again.

  Hunter answered his phone. “Jemma, what a pleasure to hear from you.”

  “Lock your doors, Tex. This isn’t a friendly call.” Her voice was firm.

  “What’s going on?” Hunter stood.

  “Where are you?”

  “In my office.”

  “We’re sending a car straight there.”

  “Jemma?” He walked out of his office to the reception area, shut the office door, and locked it. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”

  “We’re at the White Alliance Coalition residence, Chuck Johnson’s home. We came to talk with Caylee Johnson, but she’s not here.”

  “And?”

  “Last night, Chuck told us everything. He told us where all his guns are, and where he kept the explosives he owned. He spilled everything he knew in the hope of getting into a nice prison hospital to spen
d his last days. We offered him that deal, and he spent hours talking about what they had. He admitted to the church shooting and then two other unsolved crimes.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “It’s all gone, Tex. Everything. The guns, the explosives, and the van that was used in the church shooting.” Her voice was panicked. “Everything has been cleared out, and it’s going to be used in an attack.”

  “Caylee.”

  “She’s going to lead an attack. We have the SWAT response team heading to Northeastern Illinois University right now.”

  “And you think that we’re a possible target?”

  “Yes.” Jemma’s voice was firmer. “Don’t leave that office building, Tex. You’re in lockdown. We have a car on the way to your house and one to your office.”

  “And Amos?”

  “We don’t think he’s a target.”

  “Of course he’s the target! Get the car to his house, not my office!”

  “We have limited resources, Tex. Right now, we think the university and your office are her main targets. We’re searching for the van, but we’ve got nothing yet. This is where we’re sending our resources.”

  “No, get to Anderson’s house. That’s where she’s heading. She’ll blame him for everything.”

  “Tex, don’t do anything stupid. We have a car on the way to you. You can call Amos, but don’t leave that office. We—”

  Hunter hung up the phone. There was no use arguing with Jemma Knowles. He knew that.

  “Tex? What’s going on?” Esther asked.

  “The building is in lockdown. Don’t leave this office, and lock the door after me.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to stop Caylee Johnson.”

  CHAPTER 47

  She had a choice.

  She always had a choice.

  Caylee Johnson drove down the road in the white van that had sat in the garage for more than three months.

  She hadn’t been able to drive it, not after the church shooting. The last time she was in the van, her Uncle Burt was driving, and her father was in the front seat. She sat in the spare seat in the back, scared of the anger in their voices. They hadn’t told her where they were going that day.