Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he snatched up the receiver, which was still warm to the touch, and punched in the number to his home. The collect call was accepted, and his wife’s voice broke through the line.
“Steve, can you hear me?”
“Sure can,” he said, leaning against the wall next to the phone.
“I know it’s only been a few days since I saw you, but it seems much longer. Are you okay?” She asked.
Deacon Burton allowed his gaze to sail around the room. Inmates, young and old, were lined up on both sides, some dressed in orange jumpsuits and some wearing black khakis and white T-shirts. Despite their differences, they were all the same. Each one had a prison-issued inmate number and was confined to a place over which they had no control.
“I’m okay. Stop worrying about me,” he answered as his gaze dropped to the floor. He could hear his sons’ voices in the background.
“Mom, is that Dad? Let us talk to him.” His youngest son’s voice clutched the deacon’s heart, and the boy’s insistence prompted an uncontainable grin. They talked about school, basketball, his baseball cards, and his coin collection. The minutes melted by, and then his son had to go.
“Let me talk to your brother.”
“All right. I love you. Come home soon, okay?”
The deacon attempted to respond with a strong “I love you too,” but his voice trembled. He squeezed his eyelids tightly, choosing not to comment on the request for him to come home soon. What could he say to his son? He knew a child wouldn’t understand. Shucks, he was a grown man, and he struggled with the situation. Prison bars and guards controlled his life. His oldest son was going to graduate from high school before he came home. The deacon overlooked his sobering reality to avoid ruining the brief time he had left to talk with his family.
“Hey, Dad, I almost forgot. We’re coming to see you next weekend, right? We can’t wait. I’ve been practicing this arm-wrestling trick that I learned. I’ll show it to you when we come.”
“Real good, son,” the deacon said, swallowing his emotions. Showing any vulnerability in his current surroundings was asking for more trouble than he could handle. “Let me talk to your brother.”
The deacon’s oldest son jumped right in, leading the conversation and hardly giving his dad a chance to speak. So Deacon Burton listened. He was glad to hear some excitement in his son’s voice. When it was finally the deacon’s turn to talk, he wanted to be encouraging.
“You know you’re the man of the house now. I need you guys to help your mother out. And it’s your responsibility to watch out for your little brother. You hear me?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“Okay. I’m counting on you.”
They talked another couple of minutes before the emotional captivity that Deacon Burton had managed to escape momentarily reclaimed its grip.
“Hey, hurry up, old man. Don’t you see there’s a line waiting for that phone?”
Deacon Burton covered the receiver with his palm and turned his back to the inmate shouting at him. “I’ve got to go, son. I love you. Put your mom on the phone.” The impatient voices rumbling behind him caused the deacon to tap his foot on the floor as he waited to hear his wife’s voice. She’d said only a couple of words when the inmate urged him again to get off the phone.
“Didn’t you hear me? Your time is up. Hang that phone up, or I’ll hang it up for you,” the inmate threatened, then shoved the deacon’s right shoulder so hard that he spun halfway around and ended up facing the aggressor.
“I love you, honey. I’ll call back soon.” He heard his wife call his name as he hung the phone up and stepped away. The inmate glared at him with slanted eyelids and a wrinkled brow but didn’t say anything else. The deacon checked the clock on the wall and headed toward the yard, rubbing his shoulder.
Deacon Burton wasn’t in the yard long before his quiet corner near the fence was invaded. A crowd formed after the pushy inmate he’d encountered earlier started shoving and punching a kid, who appeared to be about eighteen or nineteen. The deacon wondered why would an overgrown man be beating on a kid half his size. The fear on the young man’s face made Deacon Burton think of his two sons.
“Hey, leave him alone. He’s only a kid.” The deacon’s strong voice leaped out of his throat before he could consider his actions.
The inmate who was assaulting the kid ignored the deacon. Instead of replying, he shoved the young man to the ground and began kicking him. The crowd was thick, and Deacon Burton hoped to hear the sound of guards approaching soon. The young man lay on the concrete, curled up in the fetal position, attempting to shield himself. Deacon Burton’s focus ping-ponged from one face in the crowd to another. Maybe someone else would speak up too. The beating continued, and no one objected. He had no other choice. He had to be the one to intervene.
“Hey, stop it. Just stop. He’s a kid. Leave him alone, please.”
The aggressor, who had bulging muscles and was covered with tattoos, peered at those standing on both sides of him, roared with laughter, and said, “You don’t want to get involved in this. Step off.” He jabbed his finger forcefully into the deacon’s chest as he was now standing directly in front of him. Still no guards arrived.
The young man’s audible cries bolstered the deacon’s courage. He wasn’t concerned about his own safety. As a man, he was a protector. As a child of God, he was born to help others, even at his own peril. The strength of little David, the one in the Bible who fought a giant warrior with a slingshot and won, rose up in him. The deacon couldn’t wait for help. He headed toward the boy, who was still lying on the ground, with blood dripping from his mouth.
“Oh, so, now you’re going to disrespect me too?” the aggressor shouted.
The deacon kept walking as the aggressor barked out demands.
“Don’t you touch him,” he told the deacon and bent down to remove something from his shoe. Then with long, powerful strides, he overtook Deacon Burton and plunged a handmade shank repeatedly into his stomach.
Suddenly, the air was quiet. Then there was commotion everywhere. Yet Deacon Burton felt a surge of calm.
The aggressor got close to him and whispered, “Should have minded your own business.”
Deacon Burton slumped to the ground, and blood oozed from his wounds, painting the cold concrete red—the color of both love and rage. Deacon Burton’s emotions swirled, making it difficult to tell which was prevailing in his heart. As he peered into the sky, a faint smile appeared on his face. The few clouds moved away, and the sky was clear. The sun shone brighter, and he felt its warmth on his face. He sucked in a loud last breath. The air in his throat gurgled; then his heart stopped beating as he drifted away.
The kid crawled over to the deacon and shook his still body back and forth. “Somebody help him. He’s bleeding to death.” Both of the young man’s hands were covered with blood as he lifted them in the air and flailed them around to get the guards’ attention. “He needs help. Somebody help, please.”
A breaking news flash on the television caught Garrett’s attention when he saw the photo of Deacon Burton plastered on the screen.
He reached for the volume button on the remote. “Ow!” Garrett shouted after knocking his cup over and spilling hot coffee on his arm. He raised the sound rapidly, trying to catch the story.
“Dead at the age of fifty-three,” the broadcaster said. “As many of you will recall, Deacon Steve Burton was convicted on drug distribution, fraud, and racketeering charges last year, along with Bishop Ellis Jones and others associated with Greater Metropolitan Church, based right here in Philadelphia. He’d served one year of a ten-year sentence. He leaves a wife and two sons.”
“Tragic,” the other broadcaster commented.
“Indeed. A sad story. Jim, back to you,” the first broadcaster said, concluding the news report.
Garrett leaned on the counter. He was stunned and struggled to understand how this could have happened. It wasn’t po
ssible. Words escaped him. He fumbled with the half-empty cup for a while, wondering what else to do. Finally, he picked up the phone. There was one person he had to speak with, the one person who should be feeling as awkward as Garrett was, maybe even worse. Regardless of what happened next, Deacon Burton’s picture and the word dead would forever reside in Garrett’s mind. That he couldn’t change. He punched Maxwell’s number into his phone.
Maxwell answered his cell phone and found Garrett on the line. “What’s going on?”
“We have to talk,” Garrett said with a sharp edge to his voice, which caused Maxwell to take notice.
“You sound strange. What’s going on?”
“Not over the phone. Where are you?”
“In my office.”
“On my way,” Garrett said and hung up before Maxwell had a chance to respond.
Curiosity immediately rose in Maxwell. He needed some type of answer, but none came. Maxwell guessed he’d get one shortly.
Chapter 11
Shuffling through the papers on his desk, Maxwell tried getting some work done before Garrett arrived. Suddenly, a heavy knock on the door sounded, and Garrett barged right in, with Maxwell’s assistant hustling behind him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Montgomery. He didn’t wait for me to check with you.”
Maxwell waved his hand in the air. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Garrett is always welcome.” He turned his attention back to the papers on his desk, hoping his comment would remain true given that their last meeting raised sufficient reason for doubt.
The assistant left and closed the door.
With quick, long strides, Garrett came to stand at the front edge of the desk and blurted out, “Burton is dead.”
The papers in Maxwell’s hand fell to the desk. Slowly, he stood up from his chair, with his stare fixed on Garrett’s intense expression. His throat wouldn’t release a sound. He covered his mouth with his hand and coughed twice to find his voice. “What?”
“Deacon Burton was stabbed to death,” Garrett sputtered.
Still standing, Maxwell asked, “What? How did that happen?” Leaning forward, palms flat on the desk, he listened as Garrett recounted the details that one of his prison contacts had provided. The words hung in the air and paralyzed Maxwell momentarily. Suddenly, he heard the ticking of the crystal clock sitting on his desk. He retreated to the window. Big raindrops slammed into the glass. Earlier, it had been a clear, sunny day with no rain in the forecast.
Maxwell stood peering at the skyline then stared off into the distance. He couldn’t escape the facts. He’d rightfully built the civil case against Bishop Ellis Jones and his corrupt ministerial pack. However, Deacon Burton was the whistle-blower, and his information had proven to be critical in the criminal prosecution of Greater Metropolitan’s leadership team.
Maxwell refused to wrestle with his mounting guilt. Besides, why should he feel badly? He hadn’t arrested Deacon Burton, and he hadn’t sentenced him. If the deacon had got caught up in illegal dealings at his church, then that was on him alone. Every adult had to take full responsibility for his or her circumstances. Maxwell shifted the knot in his tie, tugged at the cuffs of his crisp starched shirt, and snapped the blinds shut to silence his thoughts.
He went back to his desk, reclaimed his seat, and continued searching among the papers on his desk. His glimmer of remorse was gone. “Nothing we can do about it now.”
Garrett stepped back with his head tilted to the side and assessed Maxwell’s steely demeanor. “That’s it? It doesn’t bother you that we might have caused an innocent man to get killed in prison?” Garrett scratched his head.
“Look, that case is done and over. Second-guessing won’t change anything. We’ve got other cases to focus on, and Pastor Harris is at the top of the list, remember? Besides, I have a lead you need to check out. I met with Pastor Harris a few days ago. While I was waiting, there was a guy who was having it out with the pastor.” Maxwell plucked a small piece of notepaper from the top drawer in his desk and handed it to Garrett. “This might be what we’ve been waiting for . . . a legitimate lead.”
Garrett chuckled. “You’re not going to get away with changing the subject that easily.”
“Who wants to stand around, beating a dead horse?”
“You realize Deacon Burton has two young boys at home who are without a father, right? And now there’s no chance of him ever going home. That doesn’t bother you?” Garrett wanted to know.
Maxwell knew intimately the impact of a father not being in a boy’s life, not being the source of strength and direction when he needed it. He’d pushed his way through his own challenges as a young boy when his father went off to prison. Even when Maxwell had left home and gone to college, his dad hadn’t been a part of his life. He wasn’t dead, but he might as well have been. Maxwell held Garrett’s gaze and did not reply.
“You don’t have anything to say?”
“Nothing.”
Garrett rubbed the back of his neck intensely as he controlled his reaction. “Knowing that those boys lost their dad doesn’t make you feel anything?” Garrett said and took a step closer to Maxwell.
If Maxwell was able to make it without his dad, the Burton boys would as well. Garrett wouldn’t weaken his resolve by mentioning the boys. His moment of remorse had already passed. “Man, come off that soft mind-set. I can’t let the dynamics of someone’s life impact me because I built a case against them and they ended up in prison. Kids grow up without fathers in their lives every day. Whether the father is in prison or just not a part of the kid’s life, it really doesn’t matter. Everyone is in control of their own destiny. Those boys will be fine.” Maxwell swiveled his chair slightly.
“Are you listening to yourself? You can’t be serious.” Garrett pulled his hand down his face and shook his head.
“Yep. Are you listening to me is the question?” Maxwell stated firmly.
Garrett stroked his neatly trimmed beard, turned, and slowly moved toward the door to leave. With only a couple of steps taken, he rubbed hard at the back of his neck again, then faced Maxwell. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but I never believed Burton was guilty. He shouldn’t have been in prison in the first place.”
“Fine time to speak up now,” Maxwell hurled back.
Garrett shook his finger in the air and chortled. “Oh no, no, no. I repeatedly told you that during my investigation. You wouldn’t entertain even the possibility of him being innocent. When he figured out something illegal was going on at Greater Metropolitan, he came to you for help. That doesn’t sound like the actions of a guilty man. Deacon Burton just got caught in the crossfire, and now he’s dead.” Garrett drew in and pushed out a noisy breath.
Maxwell leapt from his chair and briskly moved to the front of his desk, a couple of feet away from Garrett. “This is the second time you’ve accused me of railroading Deacon Burton. And I don’t appreciate this coming from you.” A vein on the side of Maxwell’s neck was engorged.
Garrett responded with an equally strong tone. “Regardless of what you think about me, it doesn’t feel good to believe we might have rushed an innocent man to his death. He’s never walking out of prison, and there is nothing we can do to right that wrong.”
Nothing else was said by the two men. Garrett left and shut the door behind him, leaving his words hanging over Maxwell like a dark cloud.
Maxwell withdrew to his desk and slumped down into the chair, spinning around. It wasn’t easy for him to discount the accusations Garrett had made and simply return to his work. The death nagged at him and probably would for a while. He let his back face the door and tapped his foot rapidly. Five minutes flew by. Maxwell swung his chair around, hurled himself from it, and kicked the trash can. He stumbled into his private bathroom and slammed the door. Then he leaned over the sink and doused his face with cold water, ignoring the firm knock on his office door.
His assistant’s voice announced her entrance as she opened his office d
oor and stopped outside of his bathroom. “Mr. Montgomery, I heard a loud noise. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Maxwell replied through the half shut bathroom door.
“All right. Let me know when you’re ready to review your calendar for tomorrow.” She moved away from the bathroom door and left.
After allowing the cool water to run over his hands, Maxwell stood upright, dazed, and glared at his reflection in the mirror. He was determined not to be overcome by remorse, but the struggle became increasingly more difficult as Garrett’s words continued pricking at him.
Chapter 12
Pastor Harris was sitting in his office, writing notes for his upcoming Bible class, when his wife appeared in the doorway. She offered no words and just stood there with a droopy face, fidgeting with her necklace as her purse hung from her other wrist. “Have you been listening to the news?”
“No, why?” Pastor Harris asked, detecting concern in his wife’s voice.
“Deacon Burton from Greater Metropolitan is dead.”
“What?” Pastor Harris asked, certain that he hadn’t heard her correctly.
“I heard on the news that he died. I just can’t believe it,” she said in a saddened tone.
Pastor Harris got up from his chair and went over to his wife, towering over her at nearly six feet tall. He peered deeply into her gaze, trying to make sense of what she’d said.
His wife shivered, pulled at her sweater, and went over to the window. She cranked the handle and watched the window close. “I caught only a small piece of the breaking news, but I think he was stabbed. How awful. His wife and children must be devastated.” She propped herself up against the window frame and swiped at her eyelids.
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