“Less than a month ago, Reverend Hezekiah T. Cleaveland, the pastor of New Testament Cathedral in Los Angeles, was brutally gunned down during a Sunday morning service in his fifteen-thousand-seat mega church.”
As Gideon spoke, images of the mayhem that followed Hezekiah’s death that Sunday morning flashed on the screen. Camera crews had captured the reactions of members of the congregation who witnessed the assassination. A woman in a pink suit with an equally pink hat wept in her husband’s arms. Children clung to their mothers’ waists, and police scurried about, looking brave for the evening news.
“My guests this evening are well-known ministers in their own right,” Gideon continued. “First, we have Pastor Maurice Millier joining us via satellite from his mega church, Good Shepherd Ministries, in Atlanta, Georgia.”
The screen split, and suddenly Gideon was joined by a smiling man with a receding hairline, wearing a black-and-white pin-striped suit. He didn’t have the benefit of Gideon’s gifted and devoted makeup artist. Instead, his forehead glowed like a fallen halo.
“Welcome, Pastor Millier. Also joining us is Dr. Joyce Goodhart. Dr. Goodhart is a professor of theology at Fuller Seminary in Southern California. Thank you for being with us this evening.”
Dr. Goodhart had a sour, yet somber expression. Her pageboy haircut, which she had worn since high school, gave hint to her precise and logical mind.
“And, finally, a very dear friend of Pastor Cleaveland,” Gideon continued. “Reverend Richard Johnson, pastor of First Bethany Church of Los Angeles. I want to thank you all for being here this evening.”
The screen now contained their four images. Gideon, as the host, dominated the upper screen. The three guests shared the lower third. Snippets of the daily news stories scrolled beneath their stern faces. Viewers were once again given their nightly free front row seat to the Truman Live Show. Gideon wore a sleek black suit with a bold plaid red and white shirt. His tie was white with yellow and red stripes that seemed to twirl like a barber’s pole every time you blinked your eyes.
“Why don’t we start with you, Reverend Johnson? You and your wife, Victoria, were very close friends with the Cleavelands. How is Pastor Samantha Cleaveland doing since her husband was so brutally slain?”
“Thank you for having me, Gideon,” Reverend Johnson blustered. An expensive toupee was perched precariously on his head. His necktie formed a puddle on top of his round belly and then made a dramatic slope to this belly button. “Let me first say to your viewers that my church, First Bethany Church of Los Angeles, is celebrating our twenty-fifth anniversary this Sunday, and everybody is welcome to come out and celebrate with us. To find out more information, just go to our Web site at www.newbethany—.”
Gideon looked confused and cut in tactfully. “Congratulations, Pastor, on twenty-five years, but our viewers would be interested to hear how Pastor Samantha Cleaveland is doing after her husband’s murder.”
“Well, Gideon, as you said, my lovely wife and I have known the Cleavelands for years now,” Reverend Johnson said reverently. “Our daughters went to school together. My wife and Samantha often meet for lunch and to pray together. This tragedy has rocked the very core of religiosity in our country.” Reverend Johnson leaned in toward the camera and then pointed at it. “America needs to repent. When something like this happens to one of our great black leaders, it’s a sign that we as a country have lost our way. The government doesn’t want people like Hezekiah Cleaveland to have that much power. Especially if he is a black man. Martin Luther King, Jr., and now Hezekiah Cleaveland. This is a sign of the end times, America. Come to Jesus while there’s still time.”
Gideon diplomatically tried one last time. “Have you talked to Samantha Cleaveland since this happened?”
“I did briefly, but the poor woman was so grief stricken, she hung up on me. I can tell you, though, that Samantha is devastated by this tragedy.”
“Let’s hear from our other guests,” Gideon said, moving on quickly. “Dr. Goodhart, what do you think about what Pastor Johnson just said? Is this a sign of our country’s moral decline?”
Dr. Goodhart gave a slight but sarcastic smile for the camera. Her face became the sole image on the screen. “Though this is without question an almost unimaginable tragedy, I think it might be a slight overgeneralization to say it is indicative of some larger moral descent in our country. Let’s remember this was the act of one deranged person.”
The screen then split, and now Reverend Johnson shared half the spotlight. “That’s what they said about Martin Luther King, Jr., but we all know the truth about that,” Reverend Johnson smirked.
“Martin Luther King was assassinated by James Earl Ray, not the government,” Dr. Goodhart blurted out.
“All I’m saying is that when a black man in this country gets too powerful, he somehow gets conveniently eliminated,” Reverend Johnson said, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped, forming a steeple at the top of his belly. “Millions of people around the world were devoted followers of Pastor Cleaveland, and I think people in high places felt threatened by that,” he said with an air of wisdom and insight, parting his hands and then returning them to the steeple formation when he concluded.
Dr. Goodhart’s stone face smirked at the last comment.
“What do you say about all this, Pastor Millier?” Gideon asked. “Is Hezekiah Cleaveland’s death a symptom of something more sinister happening in our country?”
Pastor Millier was an elegant man with a hint of gray at his temples. His glasses framed penetrating, yet gentle eyes, which had seen more than most. He’d survived only by closing them and looking inward.
“With all due respect to my colleague, Pastor Johnson, I absolutely don’t think this tragedy is a sign of the end of the world or that it’s linked to any government conspiracy.”
The camera showed the slightly betrayed look on Reverend Johnson’s face.
“I must agree with Dr. Goodhart,” Pastor Millier continued. This is a tragic but, nonetheless, isolated incident perpetrated by a very sick individual. It’s our job as Christians to hold up the members of New Testament Cathedral in our prayers and for us as pastors to show our love and support to Samantha Cleaveland.”
“Well, that brings me to my next question,” Gideon said. “Samantha Cleaveland was recently selected by the church’s board of trustees to replace Hezekiah as pastor. What do you think of that? Is it too soon, considering she just lost her husband? Should they have selected someone from the outside, and do you think she is the best person to get the ministry through this crisis? Dr. Goodhart?”
“I’ve never met Samantha Cleaveland but—”
“Well, I have met her,” Reverend Johnson interrupted, “and I feel that if anyone can lead New Testament Cathedral, Samantha can. Now to the question, is this too soon? I have to be honest, I was surprised when I heard she was taking over. Now, don’t get me wrong. I have all the love and respect in the world for Sister Samantha, but I’m not convinced that that was the best decision on the part of the trustees.”
“What do you think they should have done?” Gideon asked provocatively.
Reverend Johnson responded with gusto. “Well, I think they should have possibly considered combining their church with another, similar church.”
“Similar in what way?” Gideon goaded.
“Similar in size and teachings . . .”
“You mean like your church.”
“Well, my church, First Bethany Church of Los Angeles,” Reverend Johnson said, looking directly into the lens of the camera, “is only half the size of New Testament Cathedral, but I think that would have been the logical and responsible thing to do. It would keep their church members together but also give poor Samantha some time to grieve and to decide if being the pastor is really what she wants to do.”
“What do you think, Pastor Millier? Was it a mistake to place her in the leadership role so soon after her husband’s death?”
“From
what I’ve seen of Samantha Cleaveland, I believe their board of trustees had no other choice but to name her as pastor.”
“What do you mean?” Gideon asked probingly.
“I mean that she is a dynamic leader, a gifted teacher, and has always been the backbone of their ministry. She, more than anyone else, is best suited to lead New Testament Cathedral through this crisis and to continue the good work and teachings of her late husband.”
Again, the look of betrayal was hard for Reverend Johnson to conceal, and Dr. Goodhart slowly faded into the background.
“Let me direct my next question to you, Pastor Johnson. Often when a well-known person dies, skeletons from their past seem to surface. You knew Pastor Cleaveland better than most people. Should we be bracing ourselves for a mistress or maybe an illegitimate child or some other scandal to surface involving Pastor Cleaveland?”
Reverend Johnson leaned forward confidently and said with all the Sunday morning religious fervor he could summon, “I’ve known Hezekiah for years. I was his confidant, and he was mine. I can assure you that he loved his wife more than anything in the world. He would never have cheated on her, and I know for a fact that he never did. Sure, like any other man, he was tempted occasionally by a beautiful woman, but he never gave in to temptation. If anybody comes forward with a lie like that, you can believe it’s for only one thing—money.”
Samantha sat comfortably in the rear of the Escalade as it glided through the streets of Los Angeles. She was scheduled to meet her friend, Victoria Johnson, the wife of Pastor Richard Johnson, for dinner. The two had not seen each other since Hezekiah’s funeral. The sun was setting over the city, and the streetlights slowly flickered on, unnoticed by pedestrians and drivers. Dino guided the vehicle with trained precision through the remains of the city’s rush-hour obstacle course.
Samantha checked her watch. It was 6:40 P.M. She was already late for dinner. Samantha lowered the tinted-glass partition she had had installed between the front and rear of the car to shield her from the prying eyes and ears of drivers and security personnel. “How much longer, Dino? I’m already late,” she inquired with a hint of irritation.
“Ten minutes,” Dino replied over his shoulder as the partition glided closed.
Victoria was one of Samantha’s closest confidants. She was the only other pastor’s wife in the country whom Samantha never attempted to outshine. Victoria was her equal in every way—wealth, power, beauty—and both were more ambitious than their successful husbands.
The women were there for each other whenever one needed a shoulder to cry on over her husband’s many affairs. They knew all of each other’s secrets except one. Victoria was not privy to Samantha’s shame over the Danny St. John affair.
As the car hurtled along, Samantha’s cell phone rang. She retrieved it from her purse. The telephone screen read NO CALLER ID. Only five people had the number to her private cell: her personal assistant, Dino Goodlaw, Etta Washington, Hezekiah, and her daughter. If anyone wanted to speak to her on that phone, they would have to go through one of those five people. It wasn’t Dino. She knew neither Etta nor her assistant would dare call her from a phone other than the one at the house or the church, and she doubted Hezekiah would be calling from the grave. That left Jasmine. God, please don’t let her be in jail again, she thought. Or even worse, the hospital got my number from her phone to call about another overdose like the one she had just after Hezekiah was killed. Poor little thing almost died that time.
After the third and final ring Samantha pressed the TALK button. “Hello,” she said curtly.
No one responded.
“Hello,” she said again.
She could now hear someone breathing on the line. “Who is this?” she said cautiously.
The breathing continued. Not heavy like the precursor to an obscene call, but natural breaths.
“Jasmine, is that you? Where are you?” she said, growing irritated.
After a moment’s silence she heard, “Is this Samantha Cleaveland?”
“Who is this? How did you get this number?” Samantha asked, furious at the idea of having to change her private number again.
“I’ll ask the questions,” came the breathy response. “Is this Samantha Cleaveland?”
Samantha removed the phone from her ear and pressed the DISCONNECT button. The phone rang again before she could return it to her purse.
NO CALLER ID, glowed from the screen again. Samantha dropped the phone in her purse. After the third ring there was a pause, and then it started again.
The Escalade pulled into the artificially lit circular drive of the restaurant. Yellow lights positioned on the ground shone up on palm trees and dense shrubs encircled by the driveway. Women in sleek summer dresses and glittering jewelry stood near the edge of the driveway with their black-suited escorts, waiting for red-vested valets to retrieve Bentleys, Maseratis, and Ferraris.
The phone rang again as Dino slowly rolled toward the drop-off point. Samantha snatched the phone from her purse and asked, “Who is this?”
“Hang up on me again and you’ll regret it,” came the breathy reply. “Now answer my question. Is this Samantha Cleaveland?”
“Yes, it is,” she said calmly. “What do you want?”
Samantha heard a tap on the window. She didn’t unlock the door. Dino knew not to disturb her if she did not respond to his tap. Instead, he stood at the ready by her door, in front of the main walkway to the restaurant entrance. Other patrons looked discreetly from the corners of their eyes to see who would emerge from the car guarded by the hulking man. Was it a rapper perhaps, or maybe a movie star?
“I know about Danny,” the voice said, waiting for a reaction.
“Who is Danny?” she asked impatiently.
“I think you mean, who was sleeping with Danny? And we both know what the answer is. Pastor Cleaveland.”
“Look, whoever you are, I don’t have time for this bullshit. Either get to the point or I’m hanging up and calling the police,” she said.
“Such a filthy mouth for a pastor,” the caller said sarcastically. “Did you suck your husband’s holy dick with that mouth? I know Danny did with his.”
“I’m hanging up. Don’t call me again, or I will call the police.”
“If you hang up this phone,” the voice said urgently, “I’ll be forced to turn over evidence to the press that shows before your loving husband died, he was in love with a very handsome young man.”
Samantha leaned forward in the seat. “What evidence?” she said. “You’re crazy. My husband wasn’t gay.”
“To start, I’ve got a stack of e-mails full of language so graphic, it would make even you blush. There’s some in there that even prove you knew about it.”
“You’re lying.”
“Don’t call me a liar again, bitch, or this time next week you and your dead husband will be on the cover of every tabloid in the country,” the voice said angrily.
“How dare you threaten me? I just buried my husband. What kind of monster are you?”
“You can save the grieving widow routine for your Sunday morning sermon. I know you were glad to get rid of him. His dick almost cost you millions. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had something to do with his death yourself.”
Samantha froze after hearing the last words. With lightning speed and cold logic, she weighed the cost of either revelation surfacing in public and decided she could not risk even the rumors being discussed.
“What do you want from me?”
“Now, that’s what I like, a woman who knows when she’s been screwed.”
“There’s no need to be vulgar,” Samantha said coolly.
“You’re not in a position to preach to me. In this relationship I’m the preacher. You do what I say. Got it?”
Samantha was silent. During the conversation the well-heeled patrons in front of the restaurant came and went, many without benefit of seeing who occupied the black Escalade. Dino stood firmly at the rear doo
r, unfazed by the irritated valets, who were forced to maneuver around the car in the narrow drive.
“I want one million dollars, cash. You have seventy-two hours to make it happen. That gives you until Saturday night to come up with the money.”
“A million dollars, you’re out of your mind,” she said.
“Maybe I am. Then I guess I should hang up and let Gideon Truman decide if I’m crazy.”
“No, wait,” Samantha said quickly. “Don’t hang up. I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Bullshit,” the caller said loudly. “You collect three times that much every Sunday morning. Why don’t you take up a special offering this Sunday? Tell them it’s for your favorite charity.”
“There is no way I can come up with that much cash on such short notice.”
“Every time you lie to me, the price goes up five hundred thousand. It’s now one-point-five million.”
“You can’t prove any of this. My husband was not gay,” Samantha said emphatically.
“Two million,” the voice said calmly.
Samantha paused to regain her composure. “What will you give me in return?” she finally asked.
“My word that you will never hear from me again,” the voice said sincerely.
Samantha scoffed. “The word of a blackmailer . . .”
“I prefer to think of myself as a keeper of secrets.”
“I’ll need more time,” Samantha said hesitantly.
“You don’t have more time. I will call you in two days with instructions. If you contact the police, I will immediately send copies of every e-mail in my possession to all the major news outlets in the country. I know this all sounds like such a cliché, but trust me, Samantha, this is real life,” the voice said with a slight chuckle and disconnected the line.
Samantha sat momentarily dazed. She could see Dino through the darkly tinted window. The cell phone was still warm in her hand.
Two million dollars, she thought. I’ll kill the son of a bitch before I give him two million dollars.
When Sunday Comes Again Page 16
