“So what. I know a bunch of reporters, and they were quite interested in what I had to tell them about Pastor Harris and Faith Temple a few weeks ago.”
“Ah, you’re the reason I’ve seen more coverage on the news lately.”
Maxwell swished his cup around. “Whatever it takes to crack this case, I’m going to do. That’s the bottom line.”
Garrett slapped the table. “Seriously, what is it with you? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“Look, you know me, and you know my agenda. My mission hasn’t changed from my first case fifteen years ago to the ones in play today. These powerful, corrupt church leaders need to be held accountable.” He balled up his fist and slammed it into the table. “So some reporter has it in for me and is trying to discredit my investigation. This isn’t personal. It’s just real.”
“There’s a microscope of scrutiny on this thing. Pastor Harris is well liked. He’s highly regarded in the community. People won’t believe he’s guilty of any wrongdoing. If you keep going after him, your integrity and your reputation will take a beating.” Garrett delivered the news with a firm expression and direct eye contact.
The amused attorney shifted in his seat and glanced down at his sleeve, adjusted his cuff link, and snickered. “Is that supposed to make me do something different, like stop the investigation, or what? I’m confused.”
He pushed his coffee cup to the side. “You might want to take this thing seriously.” Garrett tapped the table several times.
“I won’t be intimidated, threatened, or prodded down any particular path. You know me well enough to know that. People didn’t think Bishop Jones was capable of what he was accused of, either. Throughout that investigation his die-hard believers thought the accusations were unfounded, as well. How many people shouted his innocence until the prison doors slammed shut?” Maxwell drained the last bit of coffee from his cup. “I’ve got a meeting to get to.”
“We’ve got to check and double-check any and everything associated with this case. If this thing festers and gets out of control, other investigations and possibly convictions could be questioned as well.”
“If I thought that was a possibility, I’d be as concerned as you. The reality is, I’m a winner, and that doesn’t sit well with everyone. It’s not by chance that I’ve won every case.” Maxwell stood. “Some delusional reporter digging around won’t make a guilty party innocent. The work we’ve done and the cases we’ve won were all solid.”
Garrett fished cash from his pocket and tossed it onto the table. “Does that include the case with Deacon Burton?”
“You know what? I’m past being tired of your references to the case against Deacon Burton and his innocence. If your skin has gotten too thin for what we do”—Maxwell waved his hand back and forth between them—“just let me know. I can discontinue the use of your services at any time.” Maxwell walked away and headed to his office.
“I’ll be sure to do that,” Garrett barked as the annoyed attorney widened the distance between them with every step. Maxwell might have other folks shaking in their boots with his superman persona, but Garrett’s name wasn’t on that list. Did the attorney really think he was invincible? Maxwell had better pay attention to what he was telling him. There was a storm brewing in the distance, and the winds might very well blow pretty hard.
Chapter 40
Upstairs in his office, Maxwell paced the floor, fretting over his strife with Garrett. Annoyance swept over him, on the brink of maturing into anger as he paced faster. Why was Garrett willing to destroy a winning formula? They made a good team and were alike in many ways. Both of them were hardworking, diligent, the best at what they did, and committed to making a difference. Maxwell was grieved as he watched his trusted investigator become more disaffected. Garrett was getting soft, and there was no room in their world for a man to let a case run him into the corner of remorse.
Maxwell stopped in the middle of the floor. The cabinet door beckoned. Once the door was open, he pulled out the storage box and dug inside. When he’d tucked the obituary away in the box, he had had no intention of later disturbing its resting place. Yet the obituary was now in his hand. The man might be dead, but he was still stirring up folks on this side of the grave. Wasn’t an obituary the last voice for that person? Couldn’t the deacon just rest in peace?
He slammed the lid down on top of the box. Sounds of the deacon’s wife screaming in the courtroom at the guilty verdict filled his head. He’s not guilty. Oh my God. You can’t do this. It’s not right. It’s just not right.
The screeching sound of his cell phone drowned out her words. After the second ring, Maxwell snatched the phone from his side and offered an abrupt greeting. “Maxwell Montgomery.”
Only silence spoke back to him.
“Maxwell Montgomery. How can I help you?” Maxwell inspected the screen on his phone. The call was from a restricted number.
“How can you help me? Well, you could put a gun to your head and blow your brains out. That would help me and a lot of other folks that you have wronged.” The voice was deep and muffled. He thought for sure it was a man.
“Hmm. Blow my brains out, huh? Since that’s not going to happen, what else can I do for a coward like you?” Maxwell hustled to his desk to grab a pen and paper. He jotted down the time, the noises he heard in the background, and what was being said.
“Oh, you’ve left a trail of bodies in your personal crusade. You don’t care who you hurt. You destroy churches and the lives of good people.”
“I hold church leaders accountable.”
“Since you’re big on accountability, I’ll be the one holding you accountable.”
“Are you one of the people I’ve supposedly wronged?”
“You’re not slick, Montgomery. You’ll know who I am when I’m ready for you to know. I suggest you pay attention to your surroundings. You might soon be standing in the face of this coward.”
Then the line went dead. Maxwell tossed the pen. His mind was whirling more from curiosity than fear. Who was this person? Did the random calls and the obituary come from the same person? Was this the nut he’d seen on the street, pointing the imaginary gun? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t going to hide out, but wisdom suggested that he needed to be more cautious and to take the threats seriously.
Chapter 41
The car engine growled as Maxwell shifted gears. He slowly glided his car into the barbershop parking lot. Glad to see only four other cars there, he shifted the car into park. A quick haircut before the shop got too crowded meant he would get home and back to work well before noon. It was Saturday, but it was a workday for him.
Maxwell ambled down the sidewalk and past the wide picture window that offered a full view into the barbershop. He glanced up at the red, white, and blue barber’s pole that hung over the door as he entered.
“Maxwell, there’s one person ahead of you. I’ll be ready for you in about fifteen minutes,” the barber assured him.
Maxwell was glad he didn’t have to wait long. There were eight barber chairs, and he knew none of them would be empty in the next hour. He gave the barber a nod and took a seat facing the door. Every hour of his time was precious, and he wanted to get in and out. The busy attorney snagged the morning paper. TV screens blasted the news, sports updates, and two different ball games. Uninterested and intent on avoiding conversation, Maxwell shielded himself with the newspaper.
He’d turned to the sports section when the door chimed, announcing more patrons. A woman strolled in with two young boys.
“Both boys need a cut?” the barber asked.
“Yes, please,” she replied, rubbing her hand across one boy’s head.
The familiar voice caught Maxwell’s attention. He was dazed when he saw that Sonya was standing a few feet away. It couldn’t be her. There was no reason for her to be in his barbershop way across town. She didn’t even have children. Maxwell kept his face shielded by the newspaper. Yet he felt her intense gaze
burning right through the paper, daring him to show himself. He snatched the paper down into his lap to find a laser-like stare waiting for him.
“Well, Mr. Montgomery. What a surprise to see you here.” Sonya gave him a smirk as she stepped closer.
He didn’t believe her. She had to have noticed his car and his personalized plates in the lot.
“I brought my two cousins to get a haircut,” she stated, with her hands on both boys’ shoulders. “I’m trying to help my aunt out. You know she’s got a lot on her plate, now that her husband is gone.”
Maxwell met her stare with a firm glare of his own. Was she for real? What kind of game was she playing? He’d never run into her at this barbershop before. There were plenty of barbershops much closer to where the boys lived. He was sure she’d planned the run-in.
“Aren’t they handsome boys? They look so much like their dad.” She gave both boys a gentle shove toward Maxwell.
Being that close, he was forced to consider their dark brown eyes and their facial features, which definitely bore a resemblance to Deacon Burton’s. Maxwell wanted to tell Sonya, “Stop the games and grow up. This battle is already over.” Using those boys as pawns to antagonize him was low, even for Sonya, but Maxwell wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of him making a scene. His voice slinked up out of his throat. “They are nice-looking boys.” They bored through to his soul and urged him up from his seat. “Excuse me.” He maneuvered around the boys standing in front of him, and bathroom bound he was.
In the bathroom, behind closed doors, he kicked at the air and loudly grunted, “Ugh.” Suddenly, he bent down to check for feet in either of the stalls. Thankful he was alone, Maxwell attempted to calm himself. He paced the floor from one end of the bathroom to the other. No way could he let Sonya see the frustration that had welled up inside him. He needed to get his hair cut and to execute a smooth exit. Maxwell gnawed at the inside of his cheek, then trekked to the sink. Standing in front of the mirror, he considered the man peering back at him. Whatever was not in his control, he would have to accept. This encounter was one of those things.
He inhaled, taking a slow breath that filled his lungs, and then allowed the breath to escape between his lips. He marched out of the bathroom and back to what might become a battlefield, confident that Sargent Sonya would be waiting on the front line to launch her next attack on him. As he reached the end of the hallway, he searched the barbershop for his adversary. Several more people were now in the room, but Sonya and the boys were gone.
“I’m ready for you, Mr. Montgomery,” the barber said.
“Where’s the young lady with the two boys?” Maxwell inquired while climbing into the barber chair.
“She said she didn’t have time to wait.”
Maxwell surveyed the parking lot through the window. No sign of Sonya or the car she’d driven while working for him, but he acknowledged to himself that she might have gotten a new car. “Does she bring those boys here often?”
“No. I’ve never seen her before.”
So she had purposely shown up to taunt him. No surprise. Sonya knew where he got his hair cut. She’d made and canceled enough appointments for him. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she move on? Nothing she did or said would bring her uncle back. Maxwell clutched both arms of the chair so tightly, the veins in his hands protruded. What if she was the one making those crazy calls? He had to really think about it. She wouldn’t go that far, would she?
Sonya pulled into a strip mall a few blocks away from the barbershop and parked. She could have stayed and let Maxwell wallow in the awkwardness, but Sonya had to put the boys first. They didn’t know their father’s killer like she did. They were innocent and had to be shielded from the truth.
For now Sonya had to be content with random encounters, but one day, she was absolutely certain that the big and bad heartless Attorney Maxwell Montgomery would get what was coming to him.
Chapter 42
The Bible class was over, and the room buzzed with voices while several inmates crowded the podium. They waited their turn to speak with Pastor Harris. The last inmate approached the pastor and latched on to his hand, shaking it vigorously.
“Thanks so much for coming here every week. I look forward to Tuesdays,” he said. “You’ve encouraged me to do something different with my life. I will not come back to jail again. I absolutely will not let this jail sentence turn into hard time in prison.” He shook his head as he glanced down and tugged at his tan overalls. “My ninety-day sentence is up next week. You can count on me being in your church next Sunday.”
Pastor Harris’s face blossomed: his eyes were bright, and a pearly white grin parted his lips. “You can change your life, and it sounds like you plan to take a good first step.”
“Time’s up. Let’s go,” the guard urged the inmate talking with Pastor Harris.
“Call me at the church when you get out,” the pastor said, giving the inmate a thumbs-up. Pastor Harris watched the young man, who appeared to have gang tattoos on the back of his neck, shuffle from the room. The pastor gave a thick cough. His throat burned, so he rubbed it, swallowed two big gulps of water from the bottle on the podium, and tossed a lozenge in his mouth. He wasn’t well, but it wouldn’t prevent him from teaching Bible class at the jail. He hadn’t missed a week in three years. The ailing pastor was glad he’d shown up today and been consistent. Had he chosen not to come, that young man might have decided to go back to selling drugs. Why not? With limited education and no job prospects, hustling was what the young man had known to survive.
If only I could do more, the pastor thought. There were so many young men who needed help.
Where were some of the other church leaders? More people needed to get involved; perhaps there was something he could do to drive that effort too. He considered the possibilities while he headed toward the parking lot. Glad to reach his car, he got in and blasted the heat, feeling slightly chilled. As he backed out, his phone squalled. He took a quick peek at the screen. It was the investigator he called last week. The eager pastor zipped his car back into the parking stall and answered quickly.
“Mr. Harris. This is David, with Remington Investigation.”
The pastor sat up straight, with all ten fingers planted deep into the grooves of the steering wheel. He waited for the investigator to continue.
“I sent my findings to your home address in an overnight package yesterday. You should receive it around three p.m. today. A thorough investigation was done. I think you will find the information interesting reading. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“I will, and I appreciate your time.” After the call ended, the pastor just sat there, paralyzed by the conversation. What information could possibly be in the package that was on its way to him? Maybe Maxwell Montgomery did have a sketchy past. Had he done something worthy of disbarment? Could the attorney have his law license revoked? Wouldn’t that be ironic?
The heel of his hand flew up to massage his left temple. He had a dull headache and it was growing stronger. Pastor Harris’s attention darted to the dashboard clock. Two thirty-five. He didn’t have long to wait for answers. He had to get that overnight package. The inquisitive pastor thrust the gearshift into reverse and zoomed out of the lot. His planned stop at the bank and the flowers he usually picked up each week for his wife would have to wait until later. He was homebound, with a fierce determination.
Home was at least thirty-five minutes away with the midday traffic. Each light seemed to turn red right when he approached it. He could feel his pulse beating in his fingertips, thanks to his cement grip on the steering wheel. Traffic lights, a train that held him up for ten minutes, and slow drivers each hindered him as he raced to get home. Finally, his street was two blocks away. Suddenly, he realized his headache was gone. His curiosity poked at him. Who was Maxwell Montgomery? What had the investigator uncovered?
As he pulled up to his house, the pastor couldn’t wait to grab the mail. He stopped the car i
n front of the driveway, climbed out, left the car door ajar, hurried to the mailbox, and yanked it open. It was empty. He shoved his hand inside, all the way to the back. Nothing. He returned to the car, pulled into the driveway, and pressed a button that lifted the garage door. His wife’s car was there. She was home; maybe she had the package. The car door swung open, he slung one foot out of the car, and lunged forward. He felt something gripping his body and preventing him from exiting the car. He’d forgotten to take off his seat belt. He unbuckled it and dashed inside the house.
As soon as he opened the door, his gaze landed right on his target. A stack of mail rested on the kitchen counter. His hand ravished each envelope as he looked for the package with his name and an Illinois postmark. It wasn’t there. Where was it? His head whipped around to the clock on the wall, which told him it was 3:40 p.m. The package had to be there somewhere. He couldn’t wait another day.
“Hi, honey. I thought I heard you come in,” his wife said.
“Did I get a package of some kind or a large envelope?” He moved closer to her.
“Yes, I signed for it and put the package on the desk in your office.”
His body turned quickly, like a spinning top.
“Renaldo, what’s wrong? You seem edgy, and where’s my hug and kiss?” She rested her hand on her hip and tilted her head to the side.
Her words stopped his movement instantly. Pastor Harris stepped back over to her and folded her in his embrace, with a quick peck on her lips. “Sorry, hon. I’m anxious to get to that package. It’s very important.”
“Well, I’m off to the grocery store. I ran late with my last couple of patients and didn’t leave work as early as I was hoping.”
“Be careful. Traffic is crazy.” He placed another soft peck on her lips and trotted off to his office. His eyes searched his desk before he reached it. A large flat shipping envelope caught his attention. The pastor scooped it up, tore into it, and freed the contents from the envelope. He stepped backward without looking and collapsed into the chair in front of his desk.
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