“And what’s your point?” Maxwell wasn’t humored anymore.
“I’m saying you might want to take a break and let the dust settle. Greater Metropolitan was a doozy. I believe we could both benefit from a rest.”
“Come on, Garrett. You’re not running scared again, are you?”
“Hold on. Nobody’s running scared. I’m saying you need to take the emotion out of this, step back, and be rational. You’re too caught up in this. If you’re getting threats, which you haven’t gotten before, that ought to tell you something.”
“It tells me there are crazy folks out there who don’t want to accept the failures of their church leaders. I’m not planting evidence on these people or trumping up charges. I’m only asking perpetrators to take responsibility for their actions.”
“I’m just saying that we have to stay objective during the process of building a case.” Garrett stated.
“Cool. Let’s get to work. There are plenty of churches that still need to be exposed, and I won’t be deterred by a ridiculous letter,” Maxwell said, flinging the paper into the air.
Chapter 15
Maxwell drove for more than half an hour. It had been a typical long day, and he used the ride home to silence his raging mind. He was closing two cases before the weekend. And next week he would follow those up with a six-million-dollar civil suit against a prominent pastor in South Jersey who was accused of sexual indiscretions and embezzlement. Normally, he’d be excited to have so many cases wrapping up, but not this time.
Close to his home, which felt like an expensive hotel given how little time he spent there, Fairmount Park came into view. A black and white image of an eagle struggled to take flight in front of him. It was a kite attached to a string, and a little boy was flying it across the sky. As Maxwell drove along, his memories sailed across the sky, along with the kite.
He could see himself as a six-year-old, flying kites with his father in a huge park, much like the one in front of him. “Hold on to the string. Don’t let go,” his dad would tell him. The screaming horn from the car behind Maxwell silenced his past. He drove on, his gaze darting back and forth from the road to the rearview mirror. His car was moving, although he was doing a poor job of fleeing the childhood memories that pursued him.
After arriving home and parking, an exhausted Maxwell closed his garage door and turned the key that allowed him entrance into a dark house. It was empty and offered no one to welcome him home. He tossed his briefcase on the marble kitchen counter. Once he’d peeled off his suit jacket and his tie, he pressed the ON button on the TV remote, which ended the annoying, stifling silence. He flipped through the channels until he found the 76ers basketball game. His house phone rang, and he ignored it, not even glancing at the caller ID.
He opened the refrigerator door, and only carryout containers of half-eaten food and a case of water occupied the space. Forced to order from one of the many menus in his kitchen drawer, he settled in to wait for his pizza. His house phone rang again. Maxwell grabbed the cordless phone sitting on the island. The caller ID displayed RESTRICTED. It was eight o’clock at night. He was too tired to deal with telemarketers. He sat down at the counter and logged on to Faith Temple’s web site. He clicked through pages of testimonies about healings and miracles that various church members claimed to have experienced. There were video clips of people bringing their sick children to the altar for prayer.
After ten minutes, he clicked on one of the Sunday morning services. Pastor Harris’s voice was strong and held the audience captive as he preached about the devil’s ability to deceive. The cell phone in Maxwell’s pocket began to ring and startled him. He checked the number. That phone flashed RESTRICTED across the screen too. He gave a grunt and punched the IGNORE button, sending the call to voice mail. Someone purposely trying to conceal who they were would not get even a few seconds of his precious time.
Maxwell pushed up his shirtsleeve and gazed at the time on his Rolex. It wasn’t too late for Garrett. He hit the speed dial button on his cell phone. As he expected, Garrett answered quickly.
“Hey, it’s Maxwell. I’ve got a different angle I want you to check out with Pastor Harris and Faith Temple.”
“Oh, yeah. What is it?”
“I need you to snoop around and find out what you can about his healing business.”
“What do you mean?” Garrett asked.
“Looks like the pastor calls himself a healer of some kind. Who knows? Maybe he is paying folks to put on a show. That way he can perform a miraculous healing in the middle of Sunday morning service.”
“That’s an interesting angle.”
“I thought so too. I was on his web site. One video clip showed crowds of people flooding the altar and waiting for him to heal them. A lot of them walked away with so-called healed limbs, restored sight, and even reports of cancer going into remission.” Maxwell flicked a sheet of paper off the counter with his middle finger. “Do you believe he’s for real?”
“Maybe,” Garrett uttered.
“I don’t, so let’s see what’s really going on at the church.”
“I’ll check it out.” A phone rang in the background as Garrett was talking. “I need to take this other call.”
“Oh, sure. I’ll wait to hear from you.”
Maxwell felt a surge of energy, and his dull headache had completely gone away. He snatched up an ink pen and started jotting down notes for case law and things his paralegal would need to check out. The ringing doorbell pulled him away from his data dump. It had to be his food delivery. The thought of pizza reminded him of his former companion, Nicole. She hadn’t been much into cooking. She just hadn’t had the time with her high-powered job. He remembered how much she had relied on ordering pizza during his visits to her house.
Thinking about her was a mixed bag of memories. Since they had never formally committed to a romantic relationship, he couldn’t call her his girlfriend. Ironically, that had become a problem near the end of their friendship. She had walked out of his life months ago and hadn’t contacted him since. Not even once, though reminders of her nudged at him periodically.
Maxwell grabbed his wallet from his suit jacket and yelled in the direction of the front door as the bell rang again. “Coming. Hold on.” He opened the door, paid the driver, and secured his dinner.
Maxwell made his way to the kitchen, set down the pizza box, and plucked out a slice of pepperoni, sausage, and bacon pizza. Slowly, he chewed the single slice and meditated on his surroundings. Then he slammed the lid shut and forced the pizza box onto the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, which was already crammed with a myriad of leftovers that he’d cast aside. Once success was achieved, he pressed the kitchen light switch. Darkness partnered with silence and overpowered him. His stomach grumbled, but he marched up the stairs, disinterested in eating another meal alone.
Chapter 16
Mrs. Burton peeked through a slit in the blinds. The collection of strangers outside her home added to the nausea that gripped her stomach. Another gulp of carbonated water probably wouldn’t help, but she sucked down a big swig, anyway. Why wouldn’t those nosy, heartless reporters leave her alone? Didn’t they understand she was grieving the death of her husband? The widow dabbed a cold towel across her forehead and lifted the panel in the blinds a tiny bit.
Outside of her home, the street was silent, and cars lined the driveways. Neighbors watered their lawns and walked their dogs. Life went on for them. It didn’t appear that sorrow had touched their lives. The reporters who held her captive came and went, staking out her house. They rotated in shifts, just sitting and waiting outside. They looked like heartless, hungry hounds, anxious to pounce on a carcass as soon as it was in sight. Mrs. Burton retreated from the window. She couldn’t remain a hostage in her own home forever. So she would just have to face what was outside waiting for her.
The front door opened, and four people, huddled closely together, moved swiftly toward the driveway. Reporters with camera
crews and microphones swarmed Mrs. Burton, her sons, and the woman with them. As they crowded them and demanded attention, each reporter hurled questions.
“Do you know the name of the inmate who killed your husband?”
“Can you forgive him?”
“Was your husband innocent?”
“Any details you’d like to share about the funeral arrangements?”
The questions persisted as the group crossed the lawn and reached a vehicle parked in the driveway. The word funeral had stabbed Mrs. Burton in the back like a cold six-inch blade. She hustled the boys into the car, slammed the door, and faced the reporters with her anger.
“Do you see these children?” Her voice was loud and strong, while her finger shook as she pointed at the car. With her hand flopping at the wrist, she pleaded with the woman who had accompanied her and the boys and was now in the car. “Go. Just take the boys. Get them out of here. I’ll meet you there.” Then she flung her body around to face the drooling pack of newshounds. “Get away from us. Get off my property. I don’t have anything to say to any of you.” Her eyes were swollen with emotion, and small beads of sweat covered the tip of her nose.
A woman reporter dared to step within inches of Mrs. Burton. Her tone was kinder than that of the others and laced with what sounded like compassion and sincerity. “What would you like to say to the community and the church members whom your husband loved?” The reporter slowly pushed the microphone close to Mrs. Burton’s mouth.
With grief clawing at her throat, Mrs. Burton surveyed the faces of the reporters, who were silent and were staring at her. Tears slipped from her eyes and dripped down her cheeks onto her blouse. “He loved God, and he loved his church. He helped build Greater Metropolitan, and now the ministry is gone. The church has been abandoned, its doors are closed, and my husband is dead.” She snatched a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and dabbed at her eyelids. “He was innocent and never should have been in a prison.” She fell silent.
The woman reporter filled the silence quickly with another question. “Why do you think your husband was convicted on drug and fraud charges?”
Mrs. Burton flashed her bloodshot eyes at the nearest camera. “Why? I can tell you why. Maxwell Montgomery. He railroaded my husband into a guilty sentence that cost him his life.” Her right cheek twitched a couple of times. She swiped at the tears on her face, sliding her hand over her quivering cheeks.
The other reporters sprang into action like a pack of hyenas chasing down a baby gazelle and barked out questions. Mrs. Burton ignored them and gave her attention only to the reporter she’d been talking with.
“Do you blame Maxwell Montgomery?” the reporter asked.
“One hundred percent. He’s ruthless and doesn’t care about who he hurts.” She sucked in a big gulp of air and swallowed hard. “That crooked attorney knew my husband was innocent. He promised Steve wouldn’t be involved in charges brought against the church leaders. He told my husband he didn’t have to worry about going to prison. Obviously, that was a lie.”
Sparks of light from flashing cameras caused Mrs. Burton’s eyes to blink rapidly. Neighbors standing on their lawns or peeking through blinds watched the interview unfold.
The reporter inched the microphone closer to Mrs. Burton’s mouth. “Are you saying Attorney Maxwell Montgomery built a case against someone he knew was innocent?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” She looked away from the reporter and directly into one of the cameras aimed at her. “Maxwell Montgomery is shameless, irreverent, and willing to do anything to win.” Her lips quivered as she spoke. “My husband paid the ultimate price, his life, for a crime he did not commit. Who knows who Maxwell Montgomery’s next victim will be? What I do know is that my husband is dead. My children no longer have a father.” She pushed the microphone away and tried to flee from the huddle of reporters. Her feet felt like they were sinking into quicksand with each step she took. Once inside the house, she slammed the front door hard, and the crashing sound was so loud that it set off the squealing house alarm.
The reporter wrapped up her interview, looking directly into her station’s camera. “Mrs. Burton has accused the well-known civil attorney Maxwell Montgomery of indirectly contributing to her husband’s death. You may recall that Steve Burton was the whistle-blower that uncovered corruption within one of the largest mega-ministries in Philadelphia, Greater Metropolitan. The ministry was reported to have close to three thousand members. After Bishop Jones, Deacon Burton, and other church leaders were found guilty of distributing prescription drugs, racketeering, sexual harassment, and fraud, there was no recovery. Sources close to the church say that the building was sold to the highest bidder, narrowly avoiding bankruptcy. With only a few hundred members left, maintaining the property wasn’t feasible.”
The reporter appeared distracted for a second, glanced down at her notecard, and then continued. She signaled for the cameraman to move in closer. “This is indeed a sad story, and it doesn’t end here. Deacon Steve Burton’s widow has cast more than a word or two of disparagement on Maxwell Montgomery. Is this attorney the ruthless, victory-seeking lawyer Mrs. Burton is accusing him of being? Was Steve Burton innocent? These are questions that may never be answered. But you’ve heard it all right here on Fox Twenty-Nine News, Philadelphia. I’m Monica Fowler, and we will continue to cover this community interest story, as Deacon Steve Burton will soon be laid to rest.”
Standing in front of his desk, Maxwell pushed down on the power button. He’d heard enough. His TV screen disappeared into a mahogany cabinet, and the double doors closed to hide its existence. The interview had focused on the deacon’s wife, but his thoughts always ended up with the two surviving sons. He knew the feeling of emptiness and loss would eventually slice into those boys’ souls, with no relief to be found. Didn’t those reporters and neighbors see the pain in those little boys’ eyes as they were chased to the car? Why couldn’t people leave it alone? Maxwell planted his palms on the top of his desk and hung his head. The familiar pain was so clearly visible.
A dull pain swept through Maxwell’s chest. He released a noisy breath that felt like a heavy weight pushing the air out of his lungs. He closed his eyelids tightly and tugged at his tie. The pain in his chest wasn’t real. Old issues and fragments of a life that he kept at a distance would not affect him. He wouldn’t allow it. Maxwell stood up straight, loosened his tie, yanked it from the collar of his shirt, and tossed it onto his desk. He would remain in control, refusing to let burdens choke the life out of him.
He began stuffing several briefs and file folders into his briefcase. When he was done, his gaze fell on the bottom drawer of his desk. It had been a long time since he’d pulled the locked box from its hiding place. Why did it continue to taunt him? The years kept rolling by, and the skeletons of a previous life wouldn’t disintegrate. His burning stare still fixed on the desk drawer. He reached for the keys in his pocket. The small key that fit the lock hung on his key ring, hidden from plain view. Bitter memories careened through him, then settled in his tight lips. He squeezed the keys until their ridges pinched his palm. The knock on his door jolted Maxwell from the haunting hold that his demons in the locked box had on him. He tossed the keys onto his desk, maybe another day. For now, he was glad to have the escape.
Chapter 17
Maxwell was mesmerized by the whisking sound of each car that zoomed past. He pressed down harder on the accelerator and punched the button that closed the sunroof and blocked out the hot, penetrating rays. His phone rang twice before he answered via the hands-free device on the steering wheel.
“Maxwell Montgomery speaking.”
“The package you’ve been waiting for just arrived at the office. And I wanted to remind you about your three o’clock appointment with Garrett,” his assistant announced.
“Thanks. I’ll be back in time. I just need to make a quick stop.”
“Oh, and you also got a collect call from a Bishop Ellis Jones.
I didn’t accept the charges. I thought you should know.”
Maxwell gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Really?” He wondered why the bishop was calling him. Sonya had already worn on his nerves about the deacon. He didn’t plan on giving the bishop a stage on which to read him the riot act too. Maxwell raked his teeth over his bottom lip. “Okay, I’ll see you shortly.” He ended the call and concentrated on the white dashed expressway lines.
Bishop Jones must have swallowed a lot of pride to have made a call to Maxwell’s office. What did he want? Surely, he wasn’t calling to apologize for the hurt and damage heaped on the Montgomery family. Maxwell’s tires screeched as he made a sharp right turn after exiting the expressway.
Four blocks down the street and to the left, he whipped into the church parking lot. He let his car ease up next to the parking stall marked PASTOR RENALDO HARRIS. It was the middle of the day, and people were filing in and out of the tall stone church in front of him. What were they doing? Wasn’t the church service on Sunday and the Bible class at night? He glanced at the parking sign that prevented anyone from parking in the pastor’s spot. Then he took note of the church grounds which were adorned with a stone fountain that shot water high into the air. A perfectly manicured circular lawn surrounded it. Planted in the green grass was a marble sign that read FAITH TEMPLECHURCH, WHEREALLAREWELCOME. GOD LOVES YOU, AND SO DO WE.
Maxwell perused the parking lot, with its many luxury vehicles, and noticed even more cars pulling in. Folks seemed to buy into the words on the sign and whatever religious rhetoric Pastor Harris was spewing from the pulpit. The ringing cell phone caused Maxwell to flinch as it snatched him from his thoughts. He answered.
“It’s Garrett. I’m running a little behind, but I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes late for our meeting.”
Redeemed Page 8
