Vanessa put her hand up and the musicians hit a break. “I’m in no way comparing this child to Christ, and in no way am I suggesting we were found worthy like the earthly parents of Christ, but Brother Pastor and I will need your gifts like the wise men brought. We will need advice. Do we have any wise men and women? We will need home remedies and a few home-cooked meals. We need armor bearers and Sunday School teachers and well wishers and prayer warriors to help us with our child. Although Brother Pastor will serve as your Senior Pastor, if you will, please do me a favor and let my husband, Big Daddy here, come home sometimes and tend to his family the way you tend to yours.”
Vanessa winked at Alexis, sitting in her usual seat since joining their ministry at the end of the fourth pew. She was jotting down notes as if she were on assignment. “It takes a whole village to raise a child, and the Daddy should be found among it. Hallelujah!”
Just when Vanessa felt she had done and said enough, she felt another surge of the Holy Spirit. She figured since this was her last sermon for a while, she might as well have an all out praise party. She brought the musicians back in.
“I see some Herods out there. Don’t hate because I’m a bad mama jamma,” Vanessa said over the music jubilation. She remembered the service was being recorded and couldn’t wait to order two copies. One was for her best friend, Pat, and the other she would put in a time capsule for little baby Green.
Chapter 22
Bent on Intent
Alexis’s mouth was working overtime finding the air pockets in her chewing gum so she could make it pop loudly like she used to do when she was younger and about to get into a fight. She was behind the scenes watching Lizzy London carelessly cover her Harvest Baptist Church fire story before it was her turn to introduce her own story for the evening.
“Without Mr. Thompson’s confession, the state is hoping they have enough evidence to get a conviction in court. A trial date has been set for late next month,” Lizzy concluded.
Alexis thought Lizzy’s oyster shell headband held back her obnoxiously bouncy curls from her smug face the same way her Botox injections held back her frown lines. Her enhanced breasts provided a camera marker for her headshot. She all but winked at the viewing audience.
Alexis thought she would be ill. Lizzy was too busy stitching seams, trying to hem up the series and Alexis’s time on what she deemed was her show that she failed to see it through, to be probing, to be a reporter. The whole thing was bound to fall apart under the weight of unanswered questions. What could have been Charley Thompson’s motivation? She was salivating, thinking about how she would have loved to put Captain Rich on the hot seat. Was there even enough probable cause to extradite him, or was the dramatic convoy Lizzy described in her piece more of the captain’s strong arming? Why would Charley Thompson be refusing to speak at the most critical time in his life? Could he be innocent?
Alexis was by no means a fan of Charley Thompson, but she was fiending to once again call the justice system to question. She couldn’t believe she was about to introduce her second piece about a man who never got a trial, but rather was sentenced at his arraignment. The only hope he had of reducing his six month sentence was to come to a mutually agreed upon plea bargain with his four co-defendants.
The light came on to indicate the live show was gone to commercial. That gave Alexis time to get settled in her chair opposite Lizzy and mic’d for her introduction. She blew one last bubble with her gum hoping to suspend her frustration in the airy glucose before taking the wad from her mouth and dropping it in the ditch bin just outside the set. She sat knee cap to knee cap with Lizzy, but didn’t acknowledge her until the countdown to air.
“We welcome again special reporter, Alexis Montgomery, to the Inside 7 report tonight as she brings us part two of her story, The Righteous Renegade, and finally concludes her series on The Church Fire Inferno. I tell you, Alexis, you sure had us all held hostage on this series, but now that they have the arsonist behind bars I, guess we’ll soon be bidding you goodbye.” Her smile was about as fake as a glass of false teeth as she volleyed the ball into Alexis’s court.
Not so fast, Lizzy. Alexis chuckled. She had gotten the overt hint, but couldn’t sacrifice any of her time sparing with Lizzie. “You know when I started this series I had no idea it would branch out the way it has and touch so many viewers. It proves that it is not that which has been burned, broken, or stolen that makes a good story, but rather what lies in the hearts of men—their intent. Roy Jones, the homeless street preacher, serving up his brand of ministry on the very streets that both destroyed and re-made him, had great intentions; to get people off drugs and off the streets. He never imagined after being clean and sober for nine months he would find himself in prison for drug possession and distribution. I talked with Roy Jones shortly before his arraignment and later at the county jail about an ordeal that he feels was initiated by the area drug task force, but ultimately orchestrated by God.”
Alexis paused until the countdown to clear. She couldn’t bear to be tethered to her mic and chair any longer. Lizzy must have felt the same because she popped up and her assistant hurried to her side with a cup of coffee waiting for her. Alexis was anxious to get to the editing room. She had an idea about how the rest of her interview should flow. Usually she had to rush to an assignment and didn’t know how the final story format would play out until it aired. She hadn’t been on assignment since she started researching and tracking down leads for this broadcast. If Lizzy was correct about her time left on the news magazine, she would have to get readjusted to the beat.
“This story is running to the last station break. Let’s get the wrap-up now. Two minutes, Lizzy. Alexis, are you staying in the shot to close the show?” the crew assistant asked.
Alexis and Lizzy both looked at one another and shook their heads. Lizzy’s was a little too emphatic. Alexis remembered a time when she would not pass up an opportunity to be on camera. She would have sat back down to spite Lizzy and chime in on her sign-off, but she had more important things to do. Leave Lizzy with her on-air façade; she was more concerned with impacting her story’s delivery.
The production team was already assembled in one of the editing rooms when Alexis slipped into the back. They had a tip sheet for each remote interview she had shot before them and were trying to decide in what order to piece them together. Alexis cleared her throat in an attempt to interject.
“If I may,” Alexis finally said.
All eyes turned to her. Mark Shaw spoke. “Yes, Alexis, if you have a suggestion, then by all means share it.”
They yielded the way to the front of the editing desk where both tapes were loaded. Alexis stood to the side of the editing desk as if she were doing an oral presentation in front of a classroom.
“Well, I tried to come from an angle of intent and purposes,” Alexis explained. “What was Mr. Jones’s intent on the street, as well as what was the intent of the area task force? Why were they concentrated in this area at this time? Is there any rhyme or reason to these sweeps? Are they even legal? I get both perspectives. The questions I asked Mr. Jones, I turned around and posed similar ones to Mr. Quino, who is the representative, something or the other from the Office of the PG County Drug Czar. It was the best I could do, but apparently he handles the media for the task force from time to time. I was hoping to flip-flop back and forth between interviews. I think it may take a little more effort in editing, but it will flow more fluidly for the audience,” who will ultimately judge and may be moved to action.
There was a hush. Alexis looked for a hint of approval. Some avoided her eyes as if it were more work than they bargained for. They all waited for Mark who was contemplating the job in his pondering stance with his hand covering his mouth.
“Sometimes the more you cut away the more you lose, like the setting. What are we talking here? We want the viewers to get a sense of where you are,” Mark said.
“One or two cuts at the most. You’ll still have your ja
ilhouse on the one end where I ask about the details and fairness of his sentence, and your authoritative shield of the police station on the other where they try to explain how an innocent man could get so tangled up in the system.” She held her breath.
“No delegate and go,” Mark said, sifting through his Blackberry. Alexis understood that was his job. “And you’ll work with the team here until it’s through?”
“Yes, sir,” Alexis agreed.
“Get it down to fifteen, I need to see it in sixty.” He wrapped his knuckles twice on the monitor with that order before turning on his heels to leave. Two assistants went with him.
“Looks like she is trying to get a production credit,” called out one of his assistants as they were leaving.
“That’s okay, she’s hardworking and always thinking. I like that,” came Mark’s seal of approval.
Thank you God, Alexis thought.
The editing tech started playing the first reel, waiting for her to indicate where to make the first incision. All of a sudden it had become a horror film that she couldn’t bare to look at. The beginning of the tape was when Roy was out on bail and walking her through the neighborhood. Then the tape abruptly shifted. Roy was in an orange prison-issued jumpsuit talking about how he remembered someone snapping pictures up and down Lincoln Avenue about a month previous to his arrest. He was surprisingly well-groomed and his voice was upbeat.
“Rewind, we need to get all of this part in jail. Go back to the top question.” Alexis directed as if she had been working in editing all her life.
The tech did as he was told and they re-watched the footage from her starting point. From there the markers were set. From his lips to the camera’s lens, Alexis reminded herself.
“I had a couple of people waiting for me, you know, who were going to try and make it down to the clinic. So when I got off the shelter van headed for the terrace, the cops had a couple kids in handcuffs and were chasing some others. They literally picked me off like a sitting duck. I knew they were from the task force because they had the brown jackets over plain clothes. One asked was I in the book. His partner started looking through photos and there I was in the back,” Roy said from a conference room holding cell where inmates met with their lawyers.
“So it appeared you were set up?” Alexis questioned.
“Yeah, I got to praying immediately, because I didn’t see any mid-range dealers in the book or the van. It’s like they knew what days to be present and what days to be absent. Like I said, there were mostly kids, junkies and low ball hustlers in the van. I started praying for them all. Didn’t know they would all become my co-defendants. We were given a panel judge to represent all of us. I knew they were sweeping the streets, but I wasn’t dealing. I never knew they could lump people’s cases together like that,” he continued.
“Stop . . . stop,” Alexis ordered. “I’ll lay down a track about his sentencing later. I was there, poor Roy, they gave him six months. My part will be short and sweet, but it will segue nicely into the general reply from the guy over at the task force.” Alexis’s hand was already on the button panel that she knew how to control by watching the tech. He nodded the go ahead to stop one reel and start the other while he carefully recorded the stopping point on Roy’s interview. She used the fast forward to skim past the set up markers, not realizing how fast the reel would move.
She stopped at the beginning of her interview with Mr. Quino. “. . . and in Mr. Jones’s case? Is it customary that the folks that you pick up in these sweeps don’t have a chance to prepare a case and defend themselves?”
“Mr. Jones was charged with possession with intent to distribute. It was a sealed indictment, which means a grand jury made a decision before the arraignment that Mr. Jones and his co-defendants committed the crime.”
“And his only hope is to take a plea?” Alexis asked. Her demand for an explanation was evident.
“This just speaks to the commitment to cleaning up our neighborhood streets. These drug sweeps are also designed to clean up those addicts that drive up demand for illicit drugs sold on the streets as well as the dealers. Our program has been proven effective.”
With her arms propped on the desk, Alexis bridged her head between her hands as the footage continued to roll on. She tore into Mr. Quino for another several minutes, hoping to shame him into Roy’s shoes. Instead of his comfortable existence in a cushy civil service job, she wanted him to see the irony of being a middle-aged homeless man who was strong enough to knock a drug habit on his own, but was thrown in jail on trumped up charges. The tech guy kept his fingers poised above the stop button, looking like he wanted to stop several times and bring an end to the cruelty. Alexis remembered being harried and on the kill. She was anything but professional, anything but objective.
“Ms. Montgomery, methadone is a controlled dangerous substance sold on the streets in various forms. Even the prescribed doses can be addictive without being under the direct supervision of a doctor.” Mr. Quino tried to remain calm and collected as the interview intensified although a thin layer of perspiration rested on his brow and above his mouth, dampening his thick moustache.
“He was giving it away, and not given a chance to prove that.” Alexis practically screamed.
“Maybe you aren’t privy to the information we’ve compiled.” He remained smug.
“I think maybe you all know exactly what he was doing, but just didn’t care as long as you can pad your files with your bogus arrests of every misguided kid, junkie, and homeless person out there to justify funding for your program,” she snapped.
This time Mr. Quino just laughed. “I think you’re upset because it was your little exposé that helped shed light on Mr. Jones’s improprieties and just how complex this war on drugs really is. She remembered him promptly standing and taking his mic off his lapel before walking out of a secluded room in the station used as a makeshift set. The truth of the matter was Mr. Quino was right. She should have covered Roy’s story from a different angle or not at all. She had sacrificed Roy’s efforts for the sake of a story. If anything, now, she just wanted Roy’s punishment to fit the crime.
“Ouch,” the technician remarked. “I guess it was a good thing Mark let you edit your own film.”
“Yeah,” Alexis said with nervous laughter. She needed a patch kit. “I guess we can cut that last remark, you know, for the sake of time.”
“Good one,” the tech guy shot back.
She winked at him. “I’ll smooth it over with another track and end with Mr. Jones’s resolution.”
Except it was anything but a resolution to Alexis. Roy had accepted his fate, she hadn’t. She found out that even when his lawyer presented a plea to a lesser sentence. It was one of those deals that they all had to accept or none at all. Roy held out and refused. She didn’t ask him why when the camera was rolling, but demanded an answer afterward. “Because my co-defendants are guilty. I watched them out there every day substituting dope for hope and passing it to others with no consequence.” To Alexis, piecing an acceptable story together, then going home to a messy house with no food was an inevitable reality, not the choice Roy was making.
“Here.” Alexis signaled. They had been watching the conclusion of Roy’s interview in fast forward mode while the techie digitally cut her rant off the end of the Quino interview. He set the Roy footage to play in real time.
“How do you come to terms with the fate of your sentencing?” Alexis asked more so like a friend rather than a reporter.
Roy crossed his legs to reveal his socks. “I look at it like this; I’ve been in worse conditions and situations. This is one step closer to getting up. I just know God’s allowed me to be set up to set someone free inside.”
Alexis thought maybe she could have gotten Pastor Willie to convince him to accept the plea or she could have caused more of a stir with her story, but something about the orange bands across the top of Roy’s tube socks helped her come to terms with his reality.
Chapter 23
A Mutual Agreement
Capitol Town Pawn Shop was home to Abe who worked, slept, and ate there. It had become his sanctuary and office for the past month and a half since the Ministry of Support Sunday when he started hearing from the Lord again and started receiving God’s overflow. He wished he had some hired help to tend to the occasional customer so he could commune, study, and write lessons and sermons that the Lord was giving him. He thought about giving up his apartment since he wasn’t hearing from the Lord there, but mostly the collection of stuff including the tapes, CD’s and DVD’s of sermons he had come to rely on to feed his flock.
God was sending fresh Word and manna from heaven to support his ministry. The participating churches Blanche rallied together for the Ministry of Support Sunday helped raise close to 100,000 dollars. Abe hired the accounting firm that Blanche also recommended to handle that and the 535,000 dollars recently released from the insurance company after finally placing a claim. He was almost afraid to touch it.
Everything was in place for rebuilding the church. Abe got off the phone with the general contractor who assured him the yellow boundary tape had been removed and the foundation was sound enough to meet together with the architects in the next couple days for the preliminary planning. He tried to think of a few members he could appoint to represent the congregation on the planning committee. Each list he drafted was incomplete without Blanche.
He hadn’t talked to her in several weeks although he’d thought about her daily. After their encounter at his apartment about a month ago, he and Blanche maintained a professional relationship. She’d leave toward the end of the service, in his mind, to avoid being alone with him or even getting close enough to have a conversation. He felt he shouldn’t even try to call her. After the Ministry of Hope Sunday her attendance declined like the other amateur sleuths who stopped coming after Inside 7 concluded their series of stories on the church fire.
Soon After Page 20
