Friends & Foes

by ReShonda Tate Billingsley

  Everyone in the sanctuary was on their feet, some with their hands lifted toward the heavens, some clapping. All of them raised their voices and spoke, some in English, some in tongues. It was a mournful sound as the members grieved their pastor together.

  As those around her wailed and wept, Jasmine scanned the colossal space. Even though sorrow filled the air, the church was a beautiful bouquet of color as the sun burst through the massive stained-glass windows.

  But her admiration for the church was short-lived as Jasmine’s eyes searched the people. This certainly wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d thought. When she’d done this in Georgia, the church had been small enough for her to peruse the sanctuary in one swoop. There was a big difference, though, between a small one-hundred-member church deep in the South and this giant-size membership. There were at least four thousand people in this church.

  Jasmine had no idea that Pastor Griffith had been pulling in the people this way; but then, why not? She remembered her own fascination with the pastor and she knew just about every woman who could see found the green-eyed man so sexy. Back in the day, she would have made him her boo.

  But this was a new day, and she was looking for his real boo.

  “I stand before you today, saints, with a heart filled with sorrow.”

  Jasmine’s eyes shot to the altar where a man stood at the podium, dressed in a burgundy and gold robe, the type that Hosea wore when he performed weddings and funerals.

  “The man who has meant so much to so many has departed from this earth.”

  He had to pause because of the wails that rose in the sanctuary. There was not a dry eye anywhere around Jasmine.

  “Church of the Deliverance was founded by Pastor Griffith because he wanted to reach out to the forgotten in the community.”

  That’s a lie. He needed a new place to hide his drug money after Jeremiah Wright kicked him out.

  “Our pastor was never one to forget not only where he came from, but those who were less fortunate.”

  He remembered them, all right. He sold them drugs to keep them down.

  “And it was because of his good heart that he was taken from us.”

  More wails.

  “You know,” the pastor at the altar continued, “when I first heard that Pastor Griffith was missing, I held out hope. Hope against hope that he would come back to us.”

  “Yes!”

  “Amen!”

  “Me, too,” rose through the sanctuary.

  “And even when I got the call from Pastor’s beautiful daughter, Eleanor . . .”

  When the pastor paused, Jasmine craned her neck to follow his glance. From where she stood, she couldn’t see the front row, which is where Jasmine was sure that Pastor Griffith’s daughter sat. But still, Jasmine stared, trying to take in the faces in the first few pews because surely, the pastor’s girlfriend would be close to the front.

  The pastor continued, “Even when I got that call that a body had been found, I didn’t want to believe!” He shouted and pounded on the podium. “I didn’t want to believe that our pastor was gone. I didn’t want to believe that someone had taken his life. I didn’t want to believe that this was the end.”

  More weeping.

  “But you know what, saints? This is not the end. This is Pastor Earl Griffith’s beginning!”

  “Amen!”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “Glory to God!”

  “This is our pastor’s beginning to his everlasting life that he now has with our Lord.”

  “Yes!”

  “So, saints, I know that while today your hearts are troubled, take joy in knowing that our pastor, the great Earl Griffith, is sitting on the right hand of God, right next to Jesus, because of all that he’s done on this earth!”

  Through their cries, the crowd cheered and Jasmine rolled her eyes. She wondered if this was an act or if these people really didn’t know just how shady their pastor was. He had a special seat in the afterlife, all right—she could almost see him right now sitting on the left hand of the devil.

  “Now, I have to announce that we will have special services this week for the pastor, though . . .” The pastor paused, lowered his eyes, and shook his head. “Though,” he began again, but then stopped as if he was choked up.

  “Take your time,” someone yelled from the sanctuary.

  After a few deep breaths, the pastor continued, “Though there will be no viewing of the body. We will still say goodbye to our pastor.”

  When the lady standing next to Jasmine began to sob, tears filled her own eyes. Last night, she and Rachel had heard on the news how it had taken a couple of hours for the special police team to drag Pastor Griffith’s decapitated body from the river. He had been identified though, from his wallet, and all his other personal effects: his keys, his cell phone, and even a special pen he always wrote with that had been given to him by his daughter.

  The image of that had made Jasmine sad, especially for Eleanor, who would always have a picture of her headless father in her mind.

  “Services are set for Friday at eleven and you know as beloved as our pastor is, this place is gonna be packed for the tribute to this special man. So get here early,” he said, as if he was announcing the opening of a Tyler Perry premiere.

  Once again, Jasmine rolled her eyes and shifted from one leg to the other. She wasn’t here to listen to all of this nonsense; she needed to find this girlfriend . . . or at least find someone who could help find her.

  Then, “But before we can get to the celebration of Pastor Griffith’s life, there is some business to be taken care of.” The pastor’s voice was louder now, harder. “There is the business of coming together as a community to help this young lady”—he pointed to Eleanor—“find peace. There is the business of coming together as a community to find the men who did this to our wonderful pastor!”

  It had happened in a split second. This was no longer a Sunday church service. This sounded like a political gathering.

  “We are not going to leave it to the police alone, though they know that they have to have justice for someone like Pastor Griffith. We have to step up and help. Lift our voices. No more being quiet because you’re afraid of being a snitch. No more being quiet because you once had a run-in with the police. Now that it’s happened to one of our own, we are going to be partners with the police. We are going to find justice for Pastor Earl Griffith!”

  The organ player hit a few chords as people rose in their seats, clapping, shouting, lifting their hands to the heavens.

  “Here to help us with that is someone who was very close to Pastor Griffith. Someone who is a friend to us here at Church of the Deliverance. Mrs. Cecelia King.”

  The membership stood to their feet. A man held Cecelia’s hand as she rose from her seat and took the three steps up to the altar. She stood next to the pastor as people cheered and Jasmine’s heart pounded. With Cecelia here, it would be harder for her to ask questions, especially since Jasmine suspected that Cecelia was the girlfriend.

  When the crowd quieted, Cecelia began, “My heart is so heavy as I stand here with you. You see, Earl was one of my dearest friends.”

  Oh, really?

  “I knew him even before I met my husband, so you know we go way back.”

  Is that right?

  Cecelia gave a little chuckle. “That is why I will not allow my friend to become another statistic. He will not be a victim twice: murdered and then forgotten because he is black.”

  “That’s right!” someone shouted.

  “Like Pastor Andrews said, we must step up and help the police, and I know how we can help.” She held up a photo and Jasmine gasped. Even from back here, Jasmine could see the image.

  “Pastor, you said that we must find the men who murdered our friend. But I’m here to tell you that the murderer is a woman. This is the woman who was involved in our pastor’s murder.”

  People scooted to the edge of their seats.

  “I’m sure ma
ny of you saw this photo on the news last night,” Cecelia said. “Don’t worry if you can’t see it now.”

  In the next second, the lights dimmed and an image of Rachel appeared on a huge screen that descended from the ceiling behind the altar. Even though the sunlight still illuminated a good part of the sanctuary, it was dark enough for Rachel’s photo to be clear.

  “This is the woman who was last seen with Earl,” Cecelia said.

  Jasmine wanted to raise her hand and tell everyone that wasn’t true. No one had seen Rachel with Pastor Griffith once he left Oprah’s studio. Where was that lie coming from?

  “Her name is Rachel Jackson Adams,” Cecelia continued, “and she is the wife of the president of the American Baptist Coalition!”

  It was a united gasp that filled the room.

  “The police know her identity and are looking for her right here in Chicago. Even though she lives in Houston, she came to Chicago to do this, and then returned because she had some unfinished business.” She paused. “We believe that Eleanor Griffith’s life is now in danger.”

  More cries from the sanctuary.

  Cecelia held up her hand, letting the members know that she wanted to explain. “It seems that Pastor Griffith found out about some illegal activity going on in the Coalition and he was just about to expose the president and his wife when he was murdered.”

  Jasmine shook her head, stunned at what she was hearing.

  “And now, Reverend Lester Adams and his wife believe that Earl may have confided in his daughter and so she has to go, too!”

  “Oh, no!”

  “That’s right!” Cecelia continued. “We have to bring justice for our pastor and we have to protect his daughter. So, if you see her around Church of the Deliverance, report her immediately.”

  “Yes!” the people shouted.

  “And she’s traveling with others. We know two men have already broken into Eleanor’s home.”

  More gasps.

  “And there’s a woman. Another pastor’s wife who is traveling with her, who’s her accomplice.”

  At first, Jasmine stood frozen in place, expecting Cecelia to shout out her name and then have the spotlight shining on her. But Cecelia said nothing more except “We must have justice for Pastor Earl Griffith. Help us find his killer.”

  A standing ovation accompanied Cecelia to her seat and Jasmine used that time to hike up the collar on her coat and push her way through the crowd. She had to get out of here and get Rachel away from the church. She doubted if anyone would seriously be able to identify her through the tinted car windows, but she didn’t want to take any chances.

  Maybe Rachel had been right. Maybe they should have just gotten on planes this morning and handled their business from Houston and New York. Well, whatever, it was time to go now.

  Outside, Jasmine dashed down the church steps, hoping that it wouldn’t be hard for her to find Rachel.

  And it wasn’t.

  Rachel was right in front of the church, double-parked. But what made her stand out the most were the three police cars that surrounded her. And the police who stood outside their cruisers, yelling for Rachel to step out of the car, slowly and with her hands up.

  “Oh, my God!” Jasmine whispered as she ducked behind a huge ficus tree.

  All kinds of questions galloped through her mind. Should she go back into the church? Hide from the police and then help Rachel from the outside? Or should she run over there now and go with Rachel to wherever they planned to take her? Because Rachel would die going through this by herself.

  The seconds ticked by. Jasmine just didn’t know.

  What should she do? What should she do?

  Chapter

  TWENTY-THREE

  If she had to imagine her worst nightmare ever, concoct a situation she’d never dream of finding herself in, Rachel Jackson Adams would’ve never imagined this.

  As she sat inside the rented Buick, cop cars facing her from every direction, she felt like Cleo in the movie Set It Off. All she needed was some CDs to throw out the window.

  But this was no gangsta movie and she dang sure wasn’t ready to die. So Rachel eased the car door open, put her arms out, and yelled, “I’m coming out. Don’t shoot. I’m a mama.”

  The first officer that reached her grabbed her and pushed her against the car.

  “Owww!” she yelled when the handle hit her in the groin. Rachel couldn’t understand why, if she was just wanted for questioning, they were being so rough. Why the whole SWAT team? Why in the world was she being treated like she’d just robbed Bank of America?

  “Rachel Jackson Adams?” a plainclothes detective asked as he approached her.

  “Yes, that’s me,” she cried, standing up as the officer pulled her arms behind her back. “But why are you doing this?”

  The officer leaned in, surveyed the inside of the car, and then nodded toward the other officer, who released his tight grip on her arms.

  “I’m Detective Harwin Davis. Sorry about the aggressiveness,” he said, “but we were told you were armed and dangerous.”

  “What? Told by whom?”

  “That’s irrelevant, but we have been looking for you.”

  “Yo, Davis?” another officer yelled from the back of the car. Rachel hadn’t even noticed that he’d popped the trunk.

  Detective Davis eyed Rachel, then looked at the first officer, who tightened his grip again like she was going to try and flee. “Whatcha got?” he asked, walking to the back of the trunk.

  “Just luggage.”

  Davis smirked as he walked back over to Rachel. “Going somewhere?”

  “Home, I’m going home,” Rachel said, panicked. “So, please, let me go.”

  He grinned like they were discussing a new flavor of coffee at Starbucks. “Now, we’re not going to be able to do that. See, we’ve been looking for you. We just want to ask you a couple of questions. We didn’t mean to get rough.” He nodded at the officer again and this time, the man released her arms altogether. “But we had to play it safe and make sure you weren’t armed and dangerous. We see that you’re not.”

  Rachel studied the smiling man. They hadn’t tased her and thrown her in the back of the police car, so maybe it wasn’t going to be that bad. Maybe they just wanted to ask her a few questions. She took a deep breath. She was overreacting. These men just wanted to talk to her.

  “Okay,” she said, trying to calm down.

  Detective Davis suddenly lost his smile. “But I do have to warn you that you have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one—”

  “Hold up, are you reading me my Miranda rights?” She’d watched enough cop shows to know they only did that when they were about to take someone in.

  “—anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law,” he continued.

  As the first officer who had grabbed her stepped closer, Rachel jerked away. “Hold up! I haven’t done anything.”

  By this point, a growing crowd was gathering across the street. Church couldn’t have let out—it wasn’t that many people—but word must’ve spread about the drama taking place because several people were piling out.

  Rachel scanned the crowd for Jasmine. She hoped Jasmine had the good sense to see something was wrong. She didn’t know what Jasmine could do, but right about now, Rachel just needed her right there reassuring her that everything was going to be all right.

  “What am I being arrested for?” Rachel finally said as she felt the cold handcuffs clamp down on her wrists.

  “You’re being detained for questioning in the death of Pastor Earl Griffith,” Detective Davis said.

  Rachel wanted to protest, tell these people they had the wrong person, that she was a lot of things, but a murderer she was not. She had so much she wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t form.

  “But I didn’t do anything,” she finally managed to say.

  “Then you have nothing to worry about,” Detective Da
vis said. “We just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “But why do I have to go to the police station? Why couldn’t you just call me and ask?”

  Detective Davis shrugged. “You’ll have to ask the D.A. that. But you do know Pastor Griffith, right?”

  “I—”

  “Hey, Raquel, remember, everything you say can and will be held against you, so don’t say nothin’!”

  Everyone turned toward the scraggly man standing in front of them. The man wore a tattered gray sweater that looked like it was swallowing his body, and some dirty khaki pants. His salt-and-pepper beard looked like it had something living in it, and his long, stringy dreadlocks gave Rachel the creeps.

  “Excuse me, sir, may we help you?” Detective Davis asked.

  The man stood straight and brushed lint off his arm (like that would really help) and said with conviction, “I was just reminding Raquel to be quiet.”

  Who the heck was Raquel?

  “And who would you be?” Detective Davis asked.

  “Maybe he’s her attorney,” one of the officers said, laughing.

  “For your information, I’m her . . . ummm, I’m her man,” he said.

  Rachel’s eyebrows rose in surprise. She wanted to say something, but was stunned silent.

  “Buster Brown is the name,” he said, extending his hand. Nobody bothered to shake it.

  “Well, Mr. Brown,” Detective Davis said, “if you’ll excuse us, we need to get going. If you want to see your woman, she’ll be down at the main police station being questioned.”

  Buster ignored Detective Davis and stepped in front of Rachel. His stench assaulted her nostrils. If he got any closer she hoped police would taser him. “Honey-drop, I just wanted to tell you that everything is gonna be okay.” He winked at her. “Yeah, ummm . . . ummm,” he snapped his fingers like he was trying to remember something. “Oh yeah, June Europe is gonna take care of everything.” He nodded like he was proud of himself for remembering.

  Rachel looked at him, confused. This man was certifiably psycho. Who in the world was June Europe?

  “Can we just go?” Rachel muttered to the detective. More and more people were filing out of the church and the last thing she wanted was a spectacle on the grounds of the Church of the Deliverance.