“Maybe you can learn more about him. There might be a story there somewhere.”
“Are you kidding? For one thing, Mr. Hamisi—that’s the man’s name—said he didn’t want his name to appear in our newspaper. He acted as if it was a bad omen or something and essentially told me that people whose names appear in our paper have bad luck,” said Lloyd. “The funny thing is that I really couldn’t disagree with him on that point.”
“Besides, Ed only wants pictures of two types of black people in the Ledger—victims or perpetrators. He’s never actually come out and said it, but actions speak louder than words. Ninety percent of the photos of black people who appear in the paper fall within those two categories.”
“Well, Ed may be a cretin, but he still wants to sell newspapers. If there’s a story about Hamisi or his people that could create a buzz among the readership, I’d bet Ed would go for it.”
“If I pitch him the idea, he’ll just shoot it down, like he has every other story I’ve suggested.”
“Maybe you should write the story first, and then present it to him. Do the background and research in your spare time so Ed won’t know about it. After he looks it over, even if he refuses to publish the story, can’t you pitch it to some other publications?” asked Ron.
Lloyd was skeptical. “I don’t know, man. Sounds like a waste of time to me.”
“What do you have to lose? At the very least you may uncover a compelling topic and, if the story doesn’t appear in the Ledger, it might get published somewhere else. Letting Ed know that you have other options may even make you more valuable to him,” said Ron.
“Remember some of the girls we used to like in college?” Ron continued. “Sometimes they didn’t notice us until some other girl took an interest. Ed could be the same way. Once he sees that another newspaper or magazine likes your work, you’ll gain his respect.”
“You could be on to something. I’ll give it some thought,” Lloyd said, as they both heard Stephanie calling them for dinner.
“We’d better go eat,” said Ron. “We need our energy to win the spades game tonight. The last thing I want to hear in the car on the way home is Shirley’s mouth, bragging about how she and Steph ran another Boston on us.”
“I hear you,” said Lloyd, as they walked together toward the kitchen.
311
Gwen Richardson
CHAPTER 5
Days like this one made Lloyd hate being a reporter. It was Monday morning and, as soon as Lloyd woke up, Ed called him about a car chase and a shooting. The victim was a thirteen-year-old girl. She was a middle-school student and was at the county hospital on life support.
The girl, Jessica Jones, and her mother were on their way to school that morning when a late model Cadillac hit their car and sped off, leaving the scene of the accident. The mother, Connie Jones, tried to catch up to the car to obtain the license plate number. Her daughter jotted the number down in one of her school notebooks. Then Connie passed the Cadillac and headed to the nearest police station so she could report the hit-and-run.
The man in the Cadillac then decided to chase them down. When he caught up with them, he fired two shots. One of the bullets went through the back windshield and hit Jessica in the head.
She was life-flighted to the hospital in critical condition and was placed on a respirator. The doctors had declared her brain-dead, but her heart was still beating and her mother didn’t want to pull the plug just yet.
Lloyd couldn’t imagine what he would do if something like that happened to Bria, who was only four years older than Jessica. He also couldn’t imagine the pain that Jessica’s mother must be going through. But, since she had the license plate number, the police were at least able to locate the man who fired the shots.
Ed wanted Lloyd to go to the scene of the crime to look for and interview witnesses. That’s where Lloyd was headed now. The shooting had occurred in the Heights area of Houston, not far from downtown.
When Lloyd arrived at the crime scene, he could see a small group of people gathered around. A cluster of mementos and notes from well-wishers had already been placed at the site, along with teddy bears and flowers. He parked and then approached the people who had assembled. He introduced himself to a woman who appeared eager to talk. She was in her early thirties, and was wearing jeans and a Houston Rockets t-shirt.
“I’m Lloyd Palmer of the Houston Ledger. Did you see what happened?” Lloyd asked, as he took out his digital recorder, pressed the record button and put it near her mouth.
“Yes, sir. I was putting my garbage outside for pickup when two cars went by. I turned around and saw the man in the Cadillac shoot at the car in front of him,” she said.
“When the shots went through the windshield, the lady pulled over and then screamed. Her poor child was shot in the head and unconscious. She was crying and calling for help. I called 911 and then tried to comfort her and
help her with her daughter, who had blood gushing from her head.”
“The man in the Cadillac didn’t even stop. He sped off and left that poor woman. Didn’t try to help her or nothin.’”
“Is that what you saw, Ms . . . ?” Lloyd asked another lady who was standing close by.
“The name is Charlotte Sims, sir. It’s just like Angela said,” she replied, pointing to the woman who had just spoken. Ms. Sims was a bit older, in her fifties, and was wearing a jogging suit and sneakers.
“I couldn’t believe that man didn’t stop. I tried to get some of the numbers off his license plate, but he was going too fast. Then I found out the child had written down the plate number. Her mother was crying uncontrollably. She had a crumpled piece of paper in her hand and gave it to me. I gave it to the police when they got here,” she said.
“Could the man in the Cadillac have been shooting in self defense?” asked Lloyd.
“No sir, no way,” said Ms. Sims. “She was just driving straight, and he shot at her twice. He’s gonna pay for what he’s done, in this life or the next.”
Lloyd asked each of the ladies to spell their names for his report and then wrote down some observations about the crime scene. He would have to eventually interview Connie Jones about her daughter’s shooting, and he really
dreaded it. It was unlikely that Ms. Jones would be in any condition to discuss what happened for the next several days. He certainly was not going to intrude on her at the hospital.
His cell phone rang. It was Ed.
“Lloyd, Jessica Jones was just pronounced dead. Are you at the crime scene?”
Even though Lloyd had been told about victims who had died hundreds of times before, he still cringed when Ed told him the news. “I sure am, Ed. I interviewed a couple of women who actually saw the shooting. Have the police arrested the man who did it yet?”
“They’re picking him up at his house now,” said Ed. “The man’s name is Robert Conrad. He didn’t resist arrest or anything and is being taken to jail downtown for processing. He’ll probably be charged with felony murder or criminally negligent homicide.”
“Lloyd, I want you to go to the hospital. Interview the medical staff who treated Jessica. They’re not supposed to tell us much, but you can usually get the nurses or orderlies to give you some information. Slip them twenty bucks and you’ll be surprised how much they’ll talk.
“Also, talk to her mother. She’s probably in bad shape, but you may be able to get a few words out of her.”
“Ed, it’s completely inappropriate to go the hospital when the mother, if she is still there, will be in anguish. We should respect her time of grief.”
“We’re in the news business, and the mother’s reaction to her daughter’s death is news,” barked Ed. “Just do it and report back to me,” he added, right before he hung up.
Lloyd knew what he had to do. He got in his car and headed toward the hospital. He knew Jessica had been in the Intensive Care Unit, so he called the hospital to see where ICU was located. When he got to the hospital, he want
ed to be able to go directly to the correct floor as quickly as possible to speak with hospital personnel before a shift change. The hospital operator said ICU was on the fourth floor.
He arrived at the hospital and took the elevator to the fourth floor. There were two nurses at the nurses’ station and Lloyd spoke to the one who appeared to be doubling as a receptionist. “Can you direct me to Jessica Jones’ room?” he asked.
“Sir, are you a member of the family?”
“No. I’m Lloyd Palmer and I’m a reporter with the Ledger. I just wanted to make sure my information is correct for the story I’m working on,” he said. “Is Ms. Jones still here?”
“Mr. Palmer, Ms. Jones’ family members took her home a few minutes ago, and you know that we cannot provide any medical details because of doctor/patient privilege,” she said.
“Are you able to at least tell me the time of death? That’s not classified, and I can find that out from the coroner’s office anyway.”
The nurse keyed the patient’s name into the computer and found the time of death. “Jessica passed away at 11:15 a.m. The poor girl never had a chance,” said the nurse.
“Thank you, m’am,” said Lloyd. “Where is the men’s room, please?”
“It’s around the corner, Mr. Palmer.”
Lloyd turned the corner, but he had no intention of going to the men’s room. He wanted to see if any of the nurses on the floor had more information, but he wanted to be out of earshot of the nurse at the front desk, who seemed to run things by the book. He spotted a nurse walking in his direction and stopped her.
“Miss, I’m here from the Ledger and I was wondering if you knew anything about Jessica Jones.”
“That was the girl in room 412. She passed away a little while ago. Her mother and other family members were here at the end. They practically had to carry Ms. Jones out of here, she was so distraught,” the nurse said.
“Is there anything else you think I should know?” asked Lloyd.
“Well, the man who fired the shots called the floor to speak with Ms. Jones.”
“He did?”
“Yes, but Ms. Jones refused to take the call. He said he had no idea that a child was in the car and thought someone was chasing him. He said he was really sorry, but it was too little, too late,” she said.
“I appreciate this information and here’s twenty dollars for your trouble,” said Lloyd, holding the twenty-dollar-bill in his outstretched hand.
“I don’t want your money, mister. I just want the public to know what happened,” she said. “No mother should have to put her child in the ground. But please don’t use my name or I could get in serious trouble.”
It was like that sometimes. Some people were willing to provide information because they needed to clear their consciences or thought they were being good citizens. As long as they could be identified as an anonymous source, they were okay with it. But when she said, “Don’t use my name,” Lloyd was reminded of Hamisi.
Lloyd had most of the information he needed to file his story. He went to the hospital cafeteria, took out his laptop and started pecking out the story. He was relieved that he didn’t run into Ms. Jones at the hospital, but he had enough first-hand information about her reaction to make his story credible in Ed’s eyes.
A few hours passed, and it was 3:00 p.m. when Lloyd was finally done. He e-mailed the story to Ed and packed everything up to go home. He was leaving just in time to beat the rush hour traffic.
After going a few miles on the freeway, Lloyd approached the 610 Loop, and Hamisi again came to his mind. It would only take him a few miles out of his way to stop by Hamisi’s apartment building and talk to him. Lloyd wasn’t sure he was at home and didn’t have the phone number to call him, but he wanted to take a chance on seeing him again. If Hamisi was going to play a significant role in Lloyd’s life, he wanted to get things started—sooner rather than later.
311
Gwen Richardson
CHAPTER 6
Lloyd arrived at Hamisi’s apartment building and took the elevator to the fifteenth floor. He remembered that Hamisi’s apartment number was 1508 and he knocked on the door. After a few seconds, Hamisi opened the door slightly. “Hello, Mr. Palmer. Are you still writing the report about my dearly departed neighbor?” he asked.
“Call me Lloyd, please. No, I finished that story on the same day I was here. I actually came to talk with you. The other day you said I could come by if I needed to see you, and I felt like I needed to do that,” Lloyd said. He noticed that Hamisi was again wearing the head covering he had worn on Friday.
“Come in, then, and have a seat. I knew you would be back, but I didn’t expect you this soon,” said Hamisi. “Would you like some tea or anything else to drink, Lloyd?”
“Tea would be great,” said Lloyd.
Hamisi left the room to prepare the tea and Lloyd had a chance to look around the apartment. There were two framed maps of what appeared to be Africa on the walls, but the countries were in different locations than those on the traditional world maps. Some of the countries also had different names and boundaries.
On the fireplace mantel, there was a golden goblet with etchings on it, which could have been Arabic or some other ancient language. There was also a large Bible on the coffee table, which appeared to be an antique. Lloyd leafed through the pages and noticed that only the Old Testament was included.
Lloyd wasn’t a particularly religious man, but he was familiar with the Bible and its Testaments – Old and New. He went to church on most Sundays and believed in God but was skeptical about some of the things that seemed to go on in most churches. His observation was that there appeared to be more hypocrisy among churchgoers than there was among some people he’d met who were either agnostic or atheist. And some of the pastors seemed more like street hustlers than men who were called by God.
His wife, Stephanie, was a very committed Christian, though, and made sure Bria was in church every week. He didn’t want to put a damper on her faith and kept most of his thoughts about church and religion to himself.
Hamisi entered the room carrying a tray. On the tray was a ceramic teapot, two ceramic cups and small containers of sugar, honey and cream. “How do you like your tea?” asked Hamisi.
“I’ll take a little honey and nothing else,” replied Lloyd.
Hamisi poured hot water into each of the cups and placed an herbal tea bag in each. Once the tea had steeped, he placed the teabags on a saucer and then gave Lloyd his full attention.
“Now tell me, what can I do for you?”
“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about your country and your religion? Your clothing reminds me of those worn by Jews and I was wondering if you had any connection to the Jewish faith,” said Lloyd.
“That depends. Are you asking these questions as a reporter or as a man?” asked Hamisi.
“Well, I will admit that, as a reporter, my curiosity is piqued by your appearance, your wisdom, and some of the items in your home. But I am also interested as a man, as an American, in finding out more about Africa and some of its history,” said Lloyd.
“I promised you that I will not publish anything you tell me, including your name, without your permission.”
“You strike me as a man of integrity, so I will answer some of your questions,” said Hamisi, as he paused thoughtfully. “Yes, I am Jewish. There are many of us in Zimbabwe and we are known as the Lemba Jews.”
“You mean you’re Jewish like the Jews in America who worship on Saturday and don’t eat pork?”
“I cannot speak for the Jews here in America. They are of European descent and our history dates back much further than the recorded history on the continent of Europe. We came from Senna, which is on the other side of the Pusela. As told by our forefathers, we were on a big boat and then a terrible storm nearly destroyed us all. This dates back to our ancestor, Solomon,” said Hamisi.
“We do observe the two practices you mentioned; we have a holy
day, the seventh day of the week,” Hamisi continued. “We are not allowed to eat pork or the food of the Gentiles, and milk is to be drunk separately from meat dishes.”
Lloyd raised his palm toward Hamisi, as if motioning him to stop. “Wait a minute. You mean that there is a group of black Jews in Zimbabwe who are descendants of Solomon? Can you prove it?”
“Can the Jews in America today prove who they are?” asked Hamisi. “Our proof is in our history, the words of our ancestors, which have been passed down for more than five thousand years. Why would we lie about such a thing?”
“People make up stories all the time about themselves. They lie about their income, their education, where they were born. You name it, people will lie about it,” said Lloyd.
“Perhaps that is true in your country. But I am one of the honored men among our people. I was trained by my father, and he was trained by his father, and his father before him, back for one hundred generations, to maintain the history of the Lemba people,” said Hamisi.
“Do you have any books that you can show me that chronicle your history?” asked Lloyd. “If your ancestors and your tribe have been around for more than 5,000 years, there has to be something written in a book about it.”
“Once we had a book, but the book was lost. Our oral tradition is equal to or better than any book,” said Hamisi.
“The other day when you were here you gave me the impression that you believe something published in a newspaper or book has more validity than our oral tradition. Let me ask you something. Does your newspaper sometimes print information in stories that later turns out to be false?”
“Well, sure. We make mistakes, but we always correct them once they are discovered,” said Lloyd.
“Yes, but the first story you printed with the false information is published and distributed to the public. It becomes part of your archives. If someone later reads it, he will believe it is true, as he will not know that the facts were corrected the following week, or whenever you discovered the error,” said Hamisi.
The Genesis Files Page 3
