Stepping Down

by Michelle Stimpson

  The rest of the trip to Ben Taub was unmarked by words. The pastor would have to temporarily suspend the sense that his reputation had a big, blotchy, red stain on it. Suffice it to say, however, that his resolve to see Bria had only been strengthened. If people judged him when he’d done nothing wrong, what difference would it make if he really did mess up?

  Rev. Jackson parked near the main entrance. “You sure about this?”

  “I’m not sure what this is, but I’m sure I need to check on her. We almost died together,” Mark tried to give an explanation, but he was sure Jackson couldn’t comprehend the ineffable bond.

  “Come on, then. Ride or die.” Rev. Jackson exited the vehicle.

  Mark matched his stride toward the building. “Man, how you go from darn near accusing me of cheating to standing by me?”

  “I was gon’ stand by you whether you cheated or not. I just wanted to know the truth so I could know how to stand for you—by your side, in the gap, whatever,” Jackson spoke wisely.

  “I guess you’re all right then, old man.” Mark slapped the reverend on the shoulder. “Ride or die.”

  They had to stop at the information desk to find out Bria’s room number. “I’m sorry, but due to the press’s attempts to get in, we’re only allowing family to see Bria at this time,” the long-hair, hippie throwback receptionist apprised them.

  “We’re her church family,” Rev. Jackson offered. “And this gentleman here was actually in the accident with her.”

  Mark raised his arm slightly.

  The lady bunched her lips and twisted them to one side. “Okay. But if you two are lying, may you burn in hell forever.”

  Mark and Rev. Jackson both looked at each other, then back at the woman.

  “Do you know what you’re saying?” Mark asked.

  “Yeah. Liars won’t go to heaven. Isn’t that what y’all believe?”

  Mark ignored her cynical air, careful to stay in her good graces so she’d give them the room number. “We believe that even a liar can be changed through Christ because He has already decided to forgive every lie we might ever tell.”

  She redirected her attention to the computer screen. “You’re definitely not the press. Room four ten.”

  They took the elevators to the fourth floor which, Mark gladly noted from wall signs, was the step-down unit from ICU. In all those hours he'd spent at home bored out of his mind, he'd searched high and low to find out if anyone had posted any kind of update on her status. No one had written anything except to say that she was almost dead. Mark thanked God that Bria's condition had improved.

  He couldn't speak for Rev. Jackson, but when the elevator doors opened, Mark was almost afraid of what might transpire when he saw Bria again. Would she be angry? Would she remember? What if she looked terrible? In his years as a pastor, Mark had been called to many bedsides and seen people's bodies deteriorate to the point where they were unrecognizable. Of course, he always manned up for the family's sake. But he knew there was no way he could have endured what he'd seen were it not for the grace of God.

  "Here it is," Rev. Jackson sighed as they stood in front of Bria's door.

  They both nearly jumped when the door came swinging open and they came face-to-face with a woman wearing a top that, unfortunately, left nothing to the imagination and skin-tight jeans that traced every pothole in her thighs. Her fire-red braids swung to stand-still, settling against her arms.

  She looked Mark up and down, disgust written across her mouth. "Whatchu doin' here?"

  "I came to check on Bria."

  "Momma, who is it?" a groggy voice sputtered. The beep-beep-beep of a machine competed with her volume.

  Mark stepped to his right, trying to look past the woman who'd made herself a barricade between him and Jackson on one side and Bria on the other.

  The woman glanced back over her shoulder. "Nobody. Just some more nosy reporters."

  Bria's mother put her hands on Marks and Rev. Jackson's chest and pushed them both back into the hallway. "You got a lot of nerve coming here."

  "Mrs...Ma'am," Mark spoke in his most respectful tone, "I don't mean any harm. I just came to check on her as her pastor and as someone who survived that accident with her. How is she?"

  The woman crossed her arms which, Mark noticed, squished her chest up a few inches higher and exposed the muffin top above her pants. Really, he wasn't trying to look at her body—but it looked at him.

  "She's doing fine for somebody who got shot and whose head got smashed into a windshield and right leg got crushed, thanks to you."

  "How is it my fault?" Mark wanted to know. Rev. Jackson put an arm on Mark's shoulder.

  "'Cause you was the one driving, fool! You didn't have no business with my daughter in your car, your wife chasin' y'all down the street like she crazy," she said.

  "My wife has nothing to do with this," Mark disagreed.

  "You gon' wish she didn't after we finish suin' y'all and that big ol' church you got. My daughter gon' be a handicap for life. And she ain't gon' never look the same. Never get married, never find a man—least not a good-lookin' one. He gon' be ugly."

  She glanced at Mark's arm. "And what you walk out the hospital with—a five dollar arm sling and some Tylenol?"

  He couldn't answer the question because he was still stuck on 'suin' y'all and that big ol' church'. "I don't know where you're getting your information, but the person chasing us was not my wife. It was a man, and Bria knew him."

  "You tryin' to say my daughter was a slut? That she was sleeping with somebody other than you?" The woman got in Mark's face.

  Rev. Jackson stepped up. "Whoa, now. We didn't come here for all of this. Why don't we all just let the police do their job and the pastor and Bria can go on about the business of getting healed. It was nice to meet you, ma'am. Please let Bria know that her church family cares about her, alright?"

  He stepped back, and Mark followed suit.

  "The last thing Bria needs is a bunch of church folk comin' around here. I'm her family. We look out for her, and we look out for each other. I suggest you and your wife look out, too."

  The threat in her tone caught Mark off guard. "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me. And you and your wife betta stop comin' up to this hospital. Don't, next time, I'll have somethin' waitin' on you." She flipped her braids and ducked back into Bria's room.

  Chapter 24

  Sharla had pretended like she didn't want Mark to go with Rev. Jackson, but the timing couldn't have been better. She and Danny Hernandez, the family attorney, planned to meet up with Rozanno and squash his foolish theory before it gained any momentum.

  Danny had warned Sharla that sometimes once a detective has made up in his heart or mind that a suspect was guilty, he or she would proceed with the investigation in a biased manner.

  "But that's not fair," Sharla had complained, even though she realized she sounded naive.

  "It's human nature," Danny said. "No one wants to be proven wrong."

  "The thing is, I haven't done anything wrong," Sharla reiterated. Didn't it matter that she was actually innocent?

  "That may be, but you still have to defend yourself against allegations. You can't imagine the number of people sitting behind bars right now because they thought being innocent was enough," he said.

  As much as Sharla wanted to think that Danny was just trying to make himself seem extremely valuable so he could bill her for as many hours as possible, a part of her couldn't deny what he was saying.

  Her Uncle Jimmy had spent twelve years in prison for an armed robbery that he swore on his deathbed he didn't commit. Her grandmother vouched for Jimmy's whereabouts on the day of the robbery, but she couldn't prove that Jimmy had been in bed asleep because...well, how do you prove that someone was asleep? There's no record, no evidence of someone not being somewhere.

  Largely based on the eyewitness testimony of a person who was two aisles over in the mom-and-pop convenience store, Uncle Jimmy spent the first p
art of his adult life rooming with murderers, rapists, and drug dealers. If he wasn't a hardened criminal before he went in, he sure was one when he got out. He admitted to doing wrong the second time he went to prison, but Grandmother always said it was the system that had turned Uncle Jimmy into a criminal.

  That same system was pointing fingers at Sharla. She thanked God they had the money to afford a good lawyer. Even if they didn't, she'd have sold everything to retain Danny because without him, she'd probably end up broke anyway.

  Danny met her outside the police station ten minutes before their appointment. They sat on a bench as he prepped her before going inside. "We'll sit side by side, just like we are now. Look at me before you answer a question. I'll nod and tell you to go ahead or I'll answer for you. Got it?"

  "Got it." Sharla gave a child-like nod.

  After the lecture he'd given her when she called to tell him about what happened with Rozanno, Sharla wasn't about to deviate from the plan.

  “You follow my lead and this interview will be over before you know it,” Danny assured her.

  “Interview? I thought it was an interrogation.”

  “He said ‘interrogation’ to intimidate you. But when I set it up, he called it an interview, which is exactly what it is, legally. I know his type.”

  Rozanno was visibly upset with Danny's presence in the interrogation room. The attorney was taller than Rozanno by at least four inches, with a nose that had clearly been broken at least once, and intense eyes. Sharla smiled inside. Rozanno would get the chance to know what it felt like to be intimidated.

  As soon as all the equipment was prepped and the same identifying questions were asked, Rozanno started, "Mrs. Carter, did you know that your husband was having an affair with Bria Logan?"

  Danny popped in, "An alleged affair. You're trying to get at a motive; I'm advising my client not to answer this question based on the fact there's no proof an affair was taking place. She won't subject herself to supposition."

  Rozanno's skin flushed a shade. He stretched his neck. "Well, let's go to something we can prove. Lisa Logan said that you were at the hospital waiting in the ICU to see Bria. Is this true?"

  Again, Danny jumped in, "What proof do you have that my client was at the hospital?"

  "It's not hard to run the tape," Rozanno laughed uneasily.

  "But have you done it?" Danny pinned him.

  "Not yet."

  "Until you do, this is all heresay. Next question." Danny sighed as though Rozanno was wasting everyone's time.

  While a part of Sharla wanted to cheer for Danny, she was still afraid. What if Danny's flagrant attitude made Rozanno even angrier? Wasn't the fact that she wasn't answering questions making her look guilty, like she was hiding behind her lawyer?

  Rozanno clicked his cheek, "All right, wise guy, where was your client the night of the accident?"

  Danny nodded at Sharla.

  "I was at home watching television in my bedroom while my son and his friend played video games."

  "They were upstairs and you were downstairs," the detective stressed.

  She knew he already knew the answer. For the record, Sharla confirmed, "Yes."

  “Mrs. Carter, how many square feet is your home?”

  Her lawyer intercepted, “We can provide you with the builder’s estimate, provided you let us know why.”

  “If she was downstairs and the teens were upstairs, there is always the possibility they weren’t aware she left,” Rozanno exposed himself. “She has no way of proving that she never left the house.”

  “And you have no way of proving that she did,” he turned the tables. “There must have been witnesses to the accident. Have you interviewed them?”

  “Of course we did.”

  “Did any of them indicate seeing my client’s car?”

  “I-I-don’t know,” Rozanno said. “We haven’t had opportunity to compare the descriptions with Mrs. Carter’s vehicle.”

  “Do you know what kind of vehicle my client drives?”

  “No,” Rozanno said.

  “She drives a bright red Mercedes, detective. If a bright red Mercedes were chasing a big white Escalade down a busy street, that detail wouldn’t have escaped you. If there are no more questions, shall we conclude that my client is no longer a person of interest?”

  “Not until we run forensics on her car.”

  My car? Sharla’s eyes darted to Danny.

  He remained as calm as he’d been the entire meeting. “And once it’s clear?”

  “If it’s clear, then…” Rozanno shrugged.

  “Then she’s clear.”

  “Unless something else comes up.” Rozanno rolled his lips between his teeth.

  “Let me ask you something, if I may,” Danny snooped, “do you have other suspects in this case? How about—what’s his name?” Danny turned to Sharla.

  “Boomie.”

  “Yes. Boomie,” Danny suggested.

  Rozanno’s redness deepened again. “I don’t need you two to tell me how to conduct my investigation.”

  “Fine. She’ll leave her car voluntarily. Sharla, give him your key.”

  She wrestled with the ring for a second, then handed Rozanno her fob. I’m in the east parking lot.”

  Danny asked, “What time can she pick it up tomorrow?”

  “Not sure. She can call the station and ask for—”

  “No. We’re not playing that game. She’ll be back at noon tomorrow. If you’re not finished with it by then, you’ll need a subpoena.” Danny turned to Sharla. “If your car isn’t ready tomorrow at twelve, give me a call.”

  “Good day, detective.” Danny gave the officer a quick handshake and escorted Sharla past the secure doors and out to a public sitting area.

  “Thank you,” she said, though she wasn’t quite sure if they’d done the right thing.

  “Look, Rozanno’s got some other agenda going on here. My hunch is that it has nothing to do with you, which means it doesn’t concern us. So long as you get off the bad list, my job is done.”

  Danny checked his watch. “Aye! I gotta go. Can you call someone for a ride?”

  “What?” Sharla flexed her arms like she was carrying two platters. “I thought you were going to take me home?”

  “I’m so sorry. I can’t, I’ve got to get to my daughter’s birthday party at the daycare. They should be waking up from naptime now.”

  His excuse melted Sharla’s heart. If only Mark had been there to witness that moment. “Go ahead. I’ll get a ride.”

  She couldn’t help but think that if Mark had been at home, where every grown and married man with children ought to be after he left work at a decent hour, maybe they wouldn’t have been in that predicament.

  Why was he so overly-dedicated to New Vision? Wasn’t there something in the Bible about taking care of home first?

  Mark was the last person Sharla wanted to call to come pick her up. He’d probably grill her worse than Rozanno. She could hear him already: Why’d you leave your car? Why did you go see the detective without me? How many hours have you racked up on our tab with Hernandez?

  She really didn’t want to hear all that. She called the one person who could be trusted with that sensitive request. Unfortunately, Candace didn’t pick up the phone.

  Next on the list was another long-time First Lady, Jasmine. Sharla was sure that Jasmine would share the incident with the other first ladies, but it would go no further than that. “Hi, Jasmine, this is Sharla. I was wondering, can you could pick me up from the police station?”

  “The police?” she squealed, “What are you doing there?”

  “Well, you know all the stuff that’s been happening with Mark. They wanted to ask me some questions. And they’re scouring my car.”

  “Wow,” Jasmine said. “That’s really, really sad, Sharla. Terrible.”

  “I know. So can you pick me up?”

  “Definitely.”

  Sharla gave the address and took a seat on the
bench outside next to a mother and her infant daughter. The baby had a headful of curly black locks, and skin the color of black coffee. Beautiful. She was totally preoccupied with the toys dangling overhead in her car seat. “How old is she?”

  “Ten months going on fifteen years,” the young mother laughed. “She’s got way too much energy for me.”

  “She’s gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sharla admired how well the young mother had dressed her baby. Pink and purple from head to toe, with little studs in her ears. The mother’s wedding ring hadn’t skipped Sharla’s notice. It was a platinum band, lightly dusted with diamonds. Sharla didn’t feel the tinge of jealousy. The woman deserved to have a baby, unlike all the other women who’d simply laid down with a man and pushed out a baby nine months later.

  But even though she wasn’t jealous, Sharla had to wonder: What made her better than me? What was it about her that made God say, “That woman should give birth to a baby, but Sharla shouldn’t?”

  Jasmine blew, taking Sharla’s attention from the silent appraisal.

  “Have a good day,” Sharla dismissed herself.

  “You, too.”

  Sharla hadn’t even had a chance to fasten her seatbelt before Jasmine sped off. “Where’s the fire?”

  “Girl, I got to watch my back,” Jasmine said, eyeing every mirror and checking every inch of her view. “You know you’re the most talked about woman in town right now; there’s got to be somebody watching you.”

  “Watching me?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  When Jasmine lowered the brim of her sunhat, Sharla knew exactly what she meant. “You have been watching too many television shows.”

  “We got to keep low profiles, sis.” Her vibrant makeup and sequin-top maxi dress wouldn’t have allowed her to be inconspicuous anywhere. “My husband really didn’t want me to come pick you up, but I told him if we didn’t help the needy, what good were we?”

  I’m needy? “Thank you.”

  “You got it, girl. Now what possessed you to get dropped off at the police station instead of driving your own car?”

  Sharla hinted at the situation without giving up too much information. She owed Jasmine some kind of clarification, but not her life.