“Can you think of any reason anyone would want to kill your husband?”
Megan looked away from the monitor and scanned her copy of the questions they had developed together. Gideon’s last question was not on the list.
Samantha’s suddenly dilated pupils were the only visible reaction to the unexpected question. “I’ve thought a lot about this and have had multiple conversations with detectives, who wanted to know the same thing. Everyone loved Hezekiah. He was the kind of person that would give you his last dollar if you needed it. I’ve never known him to make an enemy. I can’t think of anyone who would have wanted him dead.”
“New Testament Cathedral is the sixth largest church in the country. Your television ministry generates millions each year. Do you think jealousy may have played into this?”
“I would hate to think jealousy was a factor, but anything is possible,” Samantha said languidly. “There are many troubled people in the world. We may never know what motivated this person to do what he did.”
“Do you think you may have factored into his death in any way?”
Megan swiftly removed her glasses, stood up, and took a step toward Gideon. Samantha saw her from the corner of her eye and held up her hand, issuing the universal sign for “stop.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Samantha said. Her eyes were a centimeter tighter than before.
Gideon saw the almost imperceptible shift in her demeanor. He pressed on, unfazed by the icy glare from his guest or the rustling of the producer behind his shoulder. “What I mean is, could you have done something to contribute to the murder of your husband, inadvertently, of course?”
Megan clutched her mouth to prevent a gasp from escaping. The four cameramen looked nervously at each other, then zoomed in on Samantha’s stone face.
“Anything is possible, of course. I’m sure I’ve made decisions in the ministry that may have possibly upset some people, but I honestly don’t think I’ve done anything to anyone that would elicit such an extreme response as this. What your viewers need to understand is that for the most part the world is filled with people who have no desire to hurt anyone.
“I’ve traveled all over the world and met so many people from different cultures, and I’m always amazed to find people just like you and me, all believing in the same God, but maybe calling him by a different name, who simply want to live their lives without doing harm. There are, however, a small minority of people out there who don’t have God in their lives, and unfortunately, they sometimes make misguided decisions that hurt other people.”
Gideon pushed a little harder. “I find it difficult to fathom that a man as powerful as Hezekiah Cleaveland, one of the most high-profile and wealthiest ministers in the country, didn’t have any enemies. So do you think this was a random shooting?”
“My husband was human like everyone else. He made mistakes, and like us all, he did things that, if he were alive, I’m sure he wouldn’t be proud of. But I’ll say it again. I don’t think he ever did anything that would warrant him being killed. If that were the case, we all would have to walk down the street looking over our shoulders.”
“Let’s talk about New Testament Cathedral,” Gideon said, flipping the index cards. “Shortly after Hezekiah’s death you were installed as pastor. How has the transition from first lady to pastor been for you?”
“I believe it was a blessing for me. The appointment was totally unexpected. I didn’t even know I was being considered for the position until I received a call from the president of our board of trustees,” Samantha said, batting her mink eyelashes.
She went on. “I, of course, was honored and a little concerned about whether it was too soon after losing my husband. However, the trustees had faith in me and were insistent that it was the best thing for New Testament Cathedral. Initially, I said no because I felt I needed more time to mourn my loss. But my daughter said something that changed my mind.”
“What did she say?” Gideon asked.
“Something very simple. She looked me in the eye and said, ‘Mommy, Daddy would have wanted it that way.’ So I prayed through my tears and through my grief and God . . .” Samantha paused and gingerly dabbed the corner of her eye with the tip of her finger. “God spoke to my heart late one night and said, ‘Samantha, this is my will. With me you can do all things.’ After I heard that, I knew I had to either live what I’ve been preaching all these years or just walk away. I decided I would stand by God’s word.”
Gideon looked down at the index cards so the camera could not catch the smirk on his face. An image of Danny flashed in his head as he pondered his next question. He resisted the urge to ask, “Were you aware that your husband was involved in a homosexual affair for two years with a man named Danny St. John?” Or, “How do you think the millions of people who send you their hard-earned money every year would feel if they knew about it?” And his knockout punch, “If the public found out that one of the most loved ministers in the country was gay, it would have cost you millions. What did you do to Hezekiah when you learned of the affair?”
Suddenly Gideon’s hand felt warm from the memory of Danny’s touch. He remembered the fear in his voice and the worry in his eyes.
Megan braced herself for the next unscripted question, and the cameramen stood in anticipation, with the lenses zoomed in on the hunter and his prey.
“Pastor Cleaveland,” Gideon said, looking up again. “I think your board of trustees made an excellent decision.”
An audible sigh of relief could be heard from Megan in the background.
For the remainder of the one-hour interview Gideon stuck to the script, asking one softball question after another, each skillfully spun by Samantha to solidify her image as the brave grieving widow who set aside her own needs for the good of the church.
“Pastor Cleaveland, it has been a pleasure speaking with you today. I now see why America has fallen in love with you. I wish you, Jasmine, and New Testament Cathedral the best.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
The cameramen stood up straight and deeply exhaled. Megan dashed from behind the monitor to Samantha and said, “Pastor Cleaveland, that was brilliant. You looked beautiful on the screen and . . .”
Samantha stood up, removed the mike from her blouse, and walked past Megan before she could finish the sentence and said, “I want you all out of my house and off the property in ten minutes.”
Gideon, Megan, and the cameramen stood frozen as Samantha left the room.
“What the fuck were you doing, Gideon?” Megan finally said. “You practically accused her of killing her husband. Why didn’t you stick to the questions we agreed on?”
“They were softball, bullshit questions,” Gideon said defensively. “Trust me, I had tougher ones I could have asked, but I restrained myself. The whole fucking interview was like a Samantha Cleaveland infomercial. I feel like a goddamned idiot.”
“So you think that’s why she stormed out of here in a puff of smoke like Endora?” Megan asked sarcastically.
The cameramen wasted no time in packing the equipment, rolling up cords, and returning the room to the perfect state it was in when they arrived.
Gideon and Megan continued their discussion while the four men worked frantically to meet the ten minute deadline.
“Gideon, do you know something you’re not telling me? What is this about?”
“I don’t know anything. I just don’t like that phony bitch.”
“So you accuse one of the most popular women in the country of being involved in her husband’s death just because you think she’s a bitch? Have you forgotten about professional detachment?”
Gideon could not deny that his emotions had caused him to straddle the fine line between the television ratings game and good journalism. But for the love of Danny, he had stayed in the shallow waters of compliments, sympathy, and scripture-laced sound bites.
“How do you think viewers are going to react when they see you insinuate that
Samantha Cleaveland caused her husband’s death?” Megan continued. “You’re going to look like an asshole.”
“I don’t care what I look like. I’ve got more important things on my mind.”
Cynthia Pryce abruptly turned off the big-screen television in her bedroom. Gideon’s interview with Samantha had just aired for the third time since the taping.
“The coward, the fucking coward,” she said out loud, throwing the remote control across the bed. “He didn’t even mention any of Hezekiah’s affairs.”
Cynthia reached for her cell phone and dialed Gideon’s number.
“Hello. This is Gideon Truman.”
“What the fuck was that all about?”
“I beg your pardon. Who is this?” he said, immediately evoking the image of another crazed fan.
“This is Cynthia Pryce. We had a deal. I gave you the information, and you were supposed to report it. Was that so difficult?”
Gideon was driving up Hollywood Boulevard when he received the call. Traffic was bumper to bumper. Tourists wearing the latest strip-mall fashions walked in droves along the star-embedded street. Gideon pulled his car into a bus zone and continued. “We did not have any such deal,” he said firmly. “I told you I would check out your story, but I never promised to report it.”
“She got to you, didn’t she?” Cynthia said coldly. “What did she do? Threaten you? Fuck you? Oh, wait a minute. I forgot. That wouldn’t work on you.”
Gideon took the phone away from his ear and looked at it in surprise. “I’m not sure who you think you’re talking about, Mrs. Pryce. But I assure you no one ‘got to me’. I simply chose not to pursue the story.”
“Then why? This is the biggest story of your career. Don’t you journalists have to take some kind of oath that says you have to report on stories that affect the public?”
“There is no such oath. Journalists have complete discretion as to what they report. I exercised my discretion,” he said, attempting to manage his indignation.
“No, what you did was cover up a story. And the only reason I can think of is that somehow Samantha Cleaveland got to you. Did she pay you? God knows she’s got plenty of my money and everyone else’s to do it with.”
“I resent you accusing me of accepting bribes,” Gideon said, raising his voice. Cars continued to creep by as he spoke.
A tour bus filled with camera-toting tourists stopped next to his car. Someone on the bus yelled out, “Hey, look. It’s Gideon Truman.” Everyone on the bus immediately rushed to the windows and began shouting, “Oh my God. It is him,” and “Hey, Gideon. Look over here,” as they snapped pictures and waved in his direction.
Gideon ignored the gawking fans and continued, “If you must know, I considered the story to be in poor taste in light of the circumstances. The man was murdered, for Christ’s sake. Why do you need to crucify him even further? You’re a smart woman. I’m sure you can figure out a way to sleep your way to the top.”
“I’m sure I can, too, Mr. Truman,” Cynthia said sharply. “But as I’ve already told you, this is not about me. It’s about doing what’s right.”
A Metro RTD bus wormed its way through the traffic and stopped inches from Gideon’s bumper. The bus driver blasted his horn at Gideon, causing a chorus of more car horns from behind the bus.
“I don’t have time for this bullshit,” he finally said. “If you want to be the first lady of New Testament, you’re going to have to find some other asshole to do your dirty work.”
With that Gideon hung up the phone and dashed back into traffic, giving a wave of apology to the bus driver.
“Fucking bitch,” Gideon said, slamming the steering wheel. “How dare she?”
Gideon honked his horn impatiently at cars he felt were moving too slowly as he wound up Hollywood Boulevard. Cynthia had touched a nerve. Was he now, in fact, participating in a cover-up? Had his attraction to Danny caused him to cross the line between reporter and story? Was he a part of the story? The prospect frightened him. Had he compromised everything he believed in for the remote possibility that Danny could ever feel the same way he did?
“Faggot,” Cynthia cursed, tossing the phone on the bed. “Never send a gay boy to do a woman’s job.”
Cynthia grudgingly conceded one truth Gideon had spoken. She in fact was unashamedly willing to sleep her way to the top. She thought of the pounding she had endured from the balding Chronicle reporter, Lance Savage, in the front seat of her Mercedes. The sex had been in exchange for him running the story on Hezekiah’s affair.
It would have worked if the little bastard hadn’t gotten himself killed, she thought. His dick was so small, it wasn’t really like fucking at all, she recalled. It was more like masturbation.
Chapter 13
The sun slowly dipped behind the hills in the distance as streaks of clouds filtered the remains of the day in the orange Arizona sky. Cactus dotted the horizon like pitchforks retired for the day by exhausted ranch hands. The desert was still except for lizards darting between rocks as the sun ended its scorching assault on the barren landscape. It was eight o’clock and time for the evening group at the Desert Springs Drug Rehabilitation Center in Phoenix.
Paintings of dusty landscapes, cactus, and indigenous women toiling in the sun hung from adobe-plastered walls that arched to form a peak over the center of the meeting room. The bleached skull of an animal that had succumbed to the ravages of the sun hung over an adobe kiva fireplace protruding from a far corner in the room. A motley crew of eight adolescents made their way to a circle of chairs in the middle of the room. The glossy terra-cotta-tiled floor was cool against their feet, and the air conditioner emitted a nearly inaudible hum.
Desert Springs was the rehab facility the rich, the famous, and the notorious chose when they needed to send their alcohol-guzzling, pill-popping, and needle-poking children for treatment away from the prying eyes of paparazzi, police, and custody attorneys.
The group facilitator, Dr. Ron, appeared to be an adolescent himself, but he was not. His doctorate in addiction psychology, his seven published books on the treatment of every addiction know to modern man, and his numerous appearances on Oprah, Dr. Phil, and The Dr. Oz Show gave the parents of his wealthy young patients solace when they handed him their forty-thousand-dollar check for twenty-eight days of treatment.
“Its eight o’clock, everyone,” Dr. Ron said in a voice that echoed his pubescent face. “Let’s get started.”
The last of the youths slumped into their seats. Tattoos, pierced noses and lips, spiked hair, and lit cigarettes were the accessories of choice for most in the group. Several, however, wore diamond tennis bracelets, Manolo sandals, and Rolex watches. The one thing they all had in common was they each looked at least ten years older than their fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen years.
“We’re now two weeks into your four-week stay at Desert Springs,” Dr. Ron said. “I think tonight is a good time to talk about our families. I want each of you to share what it’s like in your home. Your parents, siblings, staff, pets, or anything else you’d like to share with the group. Who wants to start?”
“Why the fuck do you want to know that?” came the first response from the boy wearing the Rolex watch and sporting a two-hundred-dollar haircut. “You plan on selling our stories to People magazine? Forty thousand dollars for a month times twenty isn’t enough for you?”
The comment elicited a smattering of uneasy snickers from the group and also from Dr. Ron.
“Forty thousand dollars a month is plenty for me,” he said dismissively. “You all know that anything you say in this room will never leave this room. We’ve all signed confidentiality agreements. This is a safe place. Probably one of the safest places some of you have ever been in your lives. Now, again, who wants to go first?”
“I’ll go,” was the earnest response from a girl with a loop ring in her nose and a burning cigarette on her fingertips. “I’ll do anything to get this over with. Okay,” she said, folding her legs
beneath her. “I have a little brother and sister. A dog named Sammy Davis Jr., three nannies—two of um are fucking dear old dad—and God knows who all those other people are who are in our house twenty-four hours a day. My mother has her first vodka and tonic at ten in the morning, and I’m usually too fucked up at night to know when she’s had her last one. The only time I see my father is when I pay ten bucks like every other asshole to see one of his crappy movies. Is that enough? Can I go home now? I think you cured me. Dr. Ron, you’re a genius.”
Some in the group laughed, while others stared blankly out the window, writhed in their seats, or struggled to keep their hands from shaking.
Dr. Ron smiled and said, “No, I’m not a genius. No, I don’t think you’re cured, and no, you can’t go home yet.”
“Oh, please, Dr. Ron. I’ll give you another forty K,” the girl said with smoke billowing from her mouth.
“That won’t be necessary,” he said patiently.
“How about a blow job? Everyone says I’m pretty good at it.”
“I’ll let you go home if you give me a blow job,” said one of the twitching boys.
“I’m sure you’re great at it, Rory,” Dr. Ron interrupted, “but what I’d rather have from you is a little less sarcasm and a lot more honesty. Why don’t you take a minute to think about what you’d like to get out of this session, and we’ll come back to you? Ian, let’s hear from you. Tell us about your family.”
Ian was slightly overweight. His face was covered with freckles, and his flip-flop sandals clapped the terra-cotta tiles nervously when he spoke. “Me, uh,” he stammered. “There’s not much to tell. Uh, we live in D.C. My mom and dad are pretty cool. I’m home a lot by myself when my parents travel or when Congress is in session.”
“Is that when you drink?” Dr. Ron asked.
“Yeah,” the chubby adolescent said. “I, um, get bored alone in the house and, well, the place is full of liquor and, um . . .”
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