Sins of the Mother

by Victoria Christopher Murray

  Then Hosea saw Detective Foxx peek out before he stepped back inside then exited again, this time flanking a man, about five feet seven, dressed in jeans and a leather bomber jacket. The man’s wrists were bound by metal handcuffs attached to a long chain that led to the shackles at his feet.

  Harvey Jonas.

  The man shuffled along, clearly off balance. The shackles made him move slowly.

  Perfect.

  With the shopping bag at his side, Hosea moved down one car, never taking his eyes away from Harvey Jonas.

  It surprised him, the look of the man. His quick assessment was that Jonas was well over fifty—his gray hair visible even at this distance. He was slight, probably weighed no more than 160, 165 pounds.

  One hundred and twenty pounds more than Jacquie.

  The sun and the shadows gave Hosea the advantage—his view of the enemy was clear. He crouched down, placed his hand into his bag.

  Detective Foxx and Harvey Jonas moved down the first step.

  Hosea counted: One, two.

  The pervert and his protector moved to the second step.

  Three, four.

  They were within range.

  When they reached the bottom, Hosea snatched the gun from the bag, jumped in between the two parked cars. He knew he had three seconds, tops.

  He bent his knees.

  He focused.

  He kept his gaze steady through the scope.

  He aimed.

  He fired!

  The shot exploded through the air.

  Screams! Screeching cars! Cries for the Lord!

  Pandemonium!

  He heard, “He’s got a gun!”

  Hosea didn’t wait to see if he’d hit his target—he hit the ground, scraping his chin as he made contact with the asphalt. He tossed his gun aside, underneath the car. Then he lay still, spread-eagle, palms up.

  Just three seconds—that’s all it took for the officers to tower over him, guns drawn.

  He heard his friend’s cry, “Hosea!”

  But he didn’t look up. He didn’t make a move. He was a black man in New York City who’d just fired a gun—he knew the drill.

  “Oh, God! It’s Pastor Bush,” one of the officers above said.

  Hosea grimaced as another shoved his knee into his back, cuffed his hands. Then two policemen pulled him from the ground.

  There was still mayhem all around. More police running out to assist. More people screaming, pointing. The officers lugged Hosea from the street onto the sidewalk.

  That was when he passed his friend. Their eyes locked.

  Detective Foxx looked like he was going to cry. “Why didn’t you just go back to Jacquie?”

  Hosea’s eyes were clear as he tore his glance away, stared down at Harvey Jonas, who was already being attended to by medics. The man who’d stolen and violated his daughter lay facedown at the front of the van, blood seeping from beneath him and spreading across the pavement.

  When Hosea looked back at Detective Foxx, all he did was shake his head. He’d simply done what he had to do.

  Now he could see his daughter.

  Sixty-six

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  SEVEN MONTHS LATER

  “THE VERDICT’S IN.”

  Jasmine didn’t even say good-bye before she hung up. She knew Dale would certainly understand.

  It took a moment for her to steady herself, and then another before she was able to take the few steps to the sofa.

  Her heart was blasting.

  Though that was nothing new. For the last seven months, on the regular, Jasmine’s heart had beaten like it was trying to escape.

  It had started on that day—a day that had been filled with the best of her dreams and the worst of her nightmares.

  The best hadn’t started out so wonderfully. Even though it was beyond a blessing that Jacqueline had been found, it had still been so difficult.

  When she and Reverend Bush had barged into that room, Jasmine’s eyes had locked right in on her daughter. And her eyes had filled instantly with tears.

  Jacqueline was lying on a broad bed, although she wasn’t taking up much space. Her tiny body was pressed against the wall, as if she was trying to disappear into it. But her eyes were wide and aware, focused on a red-haired, bun-wearing, plump woman in a black suit whom Dr. Stewart said was the child psychologist.

  The woman sat at the edge of the bed whispering words that Jasmine could not hear. Not that it mattered, because every one of Jasmine’s senses was trained on Jacqueline.

  “My baby,” Jasmine had cried softly.

  At that sound, the girl bolted up, her eyes darting around the room. She slipped back even farther, cowering in the corner. Her eyes moved from here to there, searching, searching, as if she was trying to find a place to hide.

  Jasmine didn’t even try to stifle her cries as she took in the sight of her gregarious child trying to curl herself into a ball. She ran to her daughter with open arms, and even though Jacqueline screamed, terrified, Jasmine pulled her close and tight.

  “Oh, baby. My baby,” she cried.

  Jacqueline cringed inside her mother’s embrace, and after a while Jasmine pulled back. “Jacquie, baby,” she said, trying to look deep into her child’s eyes. “It’s me . . . it’s Mama.”

  Though Jacqueline’s eyes were clear, there was not a single sign of recognition—as if the horror of nineteen days had expunged her memory.

  “Oh, baby!” She kissed the top of her daughter’s head, where the girl’s long, dark brown curls had been chopped off and traded for a style that was dyed deep black and spiked so stiff that it had to have been set with a heavy gel. “You’re home, baby; you’re home,” Jasmine whispered as she cradled her daughter.

  Still, Jacqueline trembled.

  “You may want to give her some space,” the psychologist had whispered.

  Jasmine looked at the woman with wide, wild eyes. Some space? Her daughter had been missing for almost three weeks. She had no plans ever to let her go.

  “Hey, precious.”

  It was then that Jasmine remembered that she was not alone. Not taking her glance away from Jacqueline, she said, “Jacquie, Papa’s here.”

  But all Jacqueline did was fight to break free from her mother.

  Then Reverend Bush started singing, “He’s got the whole world in His hands . . .”

  As if those words were magic, Jacqueline’s whimpering began to subside.

  Still softly, still gently, he kept on, “He’s got me and Jacquie, in His hands . . .”

  Jasmine watched as her daughter calmed. Her eyes were downcast, but now she sat like stone and listened to her grandfather sing. It took twenty-three stanzas before Jacqueline slowly raised her head. And then she raised her eyes. And then she raised her arms, the signal that she wanted to be lifted.

  When Reverend Bush held her, she cried. And he cried. And Jasmine cried.

  That was when Jasmine knew that the bad part of the good dream had come to an end.

  But that was when the nightmare began.

  For long minutes, Jasmine and Reverend Bush had sat quietly on the bed with Jacqueline between them; their arms were wrapped around her and each other.

  Until Brother Hill busted into the room. He stared, for a moment, at the sight of the trio before he made his way toward them, his arms open, welcoming the girl home.

  But then, as suddenly as he’d come in, he abruptly stopped. Cleared his throat and spoke. “Ah . . . Jasmine, can I talk to you?”

  She shook her head. Did he really think that she was going to part from her daughter? Nothing, no one, could make her step away from Jacqueline.

  So Brother Hill summoned Reverend Bush instead. As Jasmine cradled her daughter, she watched the two men huddle. She saw their frowns, heard their gasps. Then she watched as her father-in-law turned back to her with astonished eyes.

  She held Jacqueline tighter. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have to go to the police station.
” His voice was low. “Hosea,” was all he said.

  It was hard for her to take her hands off Jacqueline, but she handed her daughter to her father-in-law and led Brother Hill into the far corner. And in fewer than twenty words, he explained that Hosea had been arrested for attempted murder.

  She would have fainted right there if Jacqueline hadn’t spoken her first word.

  “Mama!”

  The decision was made. Reverend Bush would be the one to leave. And she would follow her plan—never, ever to leave her daughter again . . .

  “Jasmine?”

  Her eyes were glazed from those memories when she looked up.

  Hosea said, “I heard the phone.”

  She’d been so deep in her thoughts that she’d almost forgotten the call. But now that he reminded her, fear returned to her heart. Thumping. Throbbing. She had to swallow before she nodded. “It was Dale. The verdict’s in. We have to be at the courthouse in two hours.”

  He moved slowly, then lowered himself next to her on the sofa. She knew his thoughts were her thoughts: Would this be the last time he’d be in their home? Would these be the last hours that he would spend with her and their children? As she asked herself those questions, as she sat next to him, shoulder to shoulder, her fear dissipated and her anger returned . . .

  She had been fighting mad, at first. As she had sat in that hospital room with Jacqueline, along with Mae Frances and Mrs. Whittingham, who had taken the place of Reverend Bush, Jasmine had tried to figure out what was going on. It didn’t make sense . . . Hosea and attempted murder in the same sentence? This was some kind of big mistake. Didn’t the police know Hosea Bush? Didn’t they know that he was a world-renowned gentle man, who loved and obeyed the Lord above all else? And a man who loved God the way Hosea did would never do anything that came close to attempted murder.

  Those were the thoughts in her head.

  In her heart, though, was the truth. She knew exactly what had happened. From the moment Dr. Stewart had explained Jacqueline’s condition, Hosea’s rage had been palpable, filling the air with a suffocating stench.

  And then he’d disappeared.

  Somehow, he had found a gun . . . found that man . . . and made him pay for what he’d done to their daughter.

  That was her theory as she carried Jacqueline home after Dr. Stewart had finally released her, with orders for the family to visit the child psychologist three times weekly. But although Malik had called and kept her posted on what was happening with Hosea through the night, she didn’t have any real answers.

  As the clocked ticked and the hours went by, Mae Frances and Mrs. Whittingham had slept in the children’s rooms, while Jasmine had held a vigil for Hosea in their room, with their daughter and son in the bed with her. She hadn’t closed her eyes—all she could do was stare at Jacqueline. And when she blinked, all she could do was think about Hosea.

  It was midmorning when the half-million-dollar bail had been set and posted and Hosea finally had trudged into their still-quiet apartment. Jasmine had met him at the threshold of their bedroom.

  “I am so mad at you,” she’d hissed. “How could you do that? How could you risk our family this way?” And then she’d thrown her arms around him and held him as if she never wanted to let go.

  Still, she had questions, and she planned to ask him every one. Until she noticed that Hosea wasn’t holding her back. She followed his gaze and realized that his eyes and his thoughts were beyond her. He was focused on Jacqueline.

  Of course, she thought. He had left the hospital to go murder a man; he hadn’t seen their daughter.

  She released him from the embrace and watched with tear-filled eyes as he took slow steps to their king-size bed. He sat on the edge, on the side where Jacqueline slept, and reached toward her, his arm pausing in midair before he touched her. Then he just sat and watched her sleep. Jasmine wasn’t sure how much time passed before his head began to shake and his shoulders shuddered. She crouched in front of him and rested her head on his lap.

  He wept. And she cried with him. She cried . . . and had no more questions for her husband. Because now she understood.

  Those were their last quiet hours.

  Right after noon, the concierge called up to their apartment. “Mrs. Bush,” he had whispered into the telephone, “there’s a bunch of press here asking all kinds of questions.”

  “What?” Jasmine had exclaimed. “Questions about what?”

  “Mostly about Mr. Bush. I didn’t say a thing, but they’re questioning everyone who comes in or walks out of the building.”

  She’d thanked the doorman, then told Hosea.

  “Dale told me to expect this.”

  Expect it? Press was the last thing she’d expected. After all, there hadn’t been much coverage for Jacqueline. Why were they interested in the Bushes now?

  Then Dale and Reverend Bush had arrived, carrying coffee and newspapers with front-page stories about the Bushes.

  The New York Post had the most controversial headline: “Uptown Preacher Packs a Pistol.”

  Inside the study, away from their children, who played under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Sloss, Mrs. Whittingham, and Mae Frances, Dale explained that this was going to be their lives for the next few months.

  “It’s a sensational story,” Dale said. “The press is going to stay all over this.”

  “Why?” Jasmine asked. “Why now?”

  Reverend Bush answered, “Because this is an attempted murder case,” and he glanced at his son as if he still couldn’t believe what he’d done. “At least that man didn’t die,” the reverend whispered.

  “Yeah, that’s the good thing. And actually, the charges have already been reduced,” Dale said to them as he and Jasmine sat across from Reverend Bush. Hosea stood at the window, separate from them. As if he wasn’t part of the conversation.

  “Reduced? That’s good news, right?” Jasmine had asked with hope in her voice. Since Hosea had come home, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about the implications of his arrest.

  “It is good news,” Dale had said. “It’s no longer attempted murder.”

  For the first time, Hosea spoke. “I wasn’t trying to kill him,” he said, without turning around.

  Dale nodded. “The police kind of figured that out, and the DA wants a conviction, so he’s going along with it.”

  Jasmine and her father-in-law wore matching frowns. Reverend Bush asked, “What did they figure out?”

  Dale looked at Hosea, waiting for him to explain. But when he kept his back to the three, Dale said, “It seems your son knows how to handle a gun.”

  “Yeah,” Reverend Bush said, looking between Hosea and Dale. “He was an expert marksman in the Marines.”

  Dale said, “So, if he’d wanted to, Hosea could have hit him in his head or his chest.” He spoke as if Hosea was not in the room. “He could have killed him . . . but he didn’t.”

  “I told you, I wasn’t trying to kill him.”

  Jasmine looked up at Hosea. “So . . . you were just trying to hurt him?” Her confusion was apparent.

  Dale answered, “Hosea shot the man right between his legs. He castrated him with a gun.”

  “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, appalled at first.

  “That’s all I wanted to do,” Hosea said, still not facing them.

  Jasmine wasn’t sure if it was the image or the pressure that made her giggle.

  He castrated him with a gun!

  And then she laughed. It became a full-out guffaw. She would have been rolling on the floor if she’d had enough room.

  A couple of minutes passed before she noticed that she was the only one laughing, and that two pairs of male eyes were staring her down. Hosea still gazed out the window.

  “Jasmine,” Dale said, in a tone that told her he found nothing funny, “that man bled so much he could have died.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, waving her hand and trying to control herself. But she wasn’t sorry about a thing. Aft
er what that man did to their daughter—that memory wiped any residual laughter right away. “So what happens now?” she asked, suddenly sober.

  Dale glared at her, as if he’d taken her laughter personally. “Like I said, the charges have been reduced, but they’re still serious. Assault with a deadly weapon and reckless endangerment. Hosea could still go away for a long time.” Dale looked straight at Jasmine. “Twenty years.”

  That was the first time that her heart had pounded like it was trying to get away.

  “Twenty years? Oh, my God!” She couldn’t imagine a life where her children would see their father only through vertical bars or panes of bulletproof glass. “He can’t go to jail, Dale. You have to do something. That man, he took our daughter. And the things he did to her . . .” She stopped when she heard Hosea moan. When she saw his fingers curl, she shut her mouth. She didn’t want to say anything that might send Hosea after that man again.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Dale said. “To talk this out and make sure Hosea doesn’t go to jail. I was thinking about an insanity plea . . . temporary insanity. Especially since his intent was not murder. And there’s not a father in America who wouldn’t be able to identify with this.”

  “That’s good.” Jasmine nodded. “Temporary insanity.” She glanced at her husband, still standing at the window. Still not looking at them. It was clear, he wasn’t yet in his right mind.

  “The thing we have going for us,” Dale continued, “is that this happened in New York.”

  Reverend Bush nodded. “Because of the city’s history.”

  “Yup . . . vigilante justice. Start with Bernard Goetz and come forward. New Yorkers are hardened, sometimes heartless, civilians who have been tired of the city’s crime for a long time, and they believe that there are moments when you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. We put one of those people on the jury and, best case, an acquittal.”

  “And worst case?” Jasmine asked.

  Dale shrugged. “Worst case is that he goes to prison for twenty years.”

  Jasmine groaned.

  Dale stood and snapped shut his briefcase. “But I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen. Nicholas Abrams is going to be the lead chair, and we’ll be here tomorrow to talk serious strategy.” He glanced at Hosea. “Get some rest,” he said to Hosea’s back. “Enjoy the children. Because it’s going to get rough from here on out.”