Guilt by Association

by Kelvin L. Reed

CHAPTER EIGHT

  “So there were no problems?” Jayson asked. He wiped his hands for the second time on another extra-large paper napkin and strolled into his living room for privacy. He had changed into a pair of baggy denim shorts and a gray University of Massachusetts/Boston T-shirt. He glanced at the plush, long sofa opposite the TV but decided not to sit down.

  “No,” Tenika replied, “Miss Leslie slinked out of the office right after your five o’clock appointment came—at nearly five-twenty.”

  “Did she say anything? Was she angry?” Jayson asked. He stared out the front window at his car and regretted not having put it in the garage earlier. He looked over his shoulder into the kitchen. Renee and Jennifer whispered to each other while stealing furtive glances in his direction. No doubt Jennifer viewed his absence as an opportunity to submit oral arguments concerning her sentence of no dessert after dinner. Jayson took for granted that Renee Cook’s Appellate Court would certainly deny the child’s appeal.

  “Naw, she didn’t seem angry,” Tenika answered. “Just said she’d be back. No attitude or anything, like she hadn’t been waiting for an hour and a half for nothing.”

  Jayson heard Magdalena in the kitchen and checked over his shoulder again for privacy. The constantly busy woman searched the cabinets for something and paid him no attention. In six years of employment with the family she had never shown any sign of nosiness. “Okay. I’m going to get back to dinner,” Jayson said. “Thanks for calling.”

  “You gonna let me in on what’s going on?”

  “Later.”

  “Okay, but there’s one more thing you might want to know.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Little Miss Thang sure attracts a fair amount of attention.”

  Jayson frown. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, she and Connie were chatting on and off in Spanish like a couple of old army buddies, you know?”

  “Well, you know how Connie is. She’d talk to—”

  “Then Victor kept finding reasons to get acquainted,” Tenika reported, and imitated Victor’s voice. “‘I’m a third-year law student and Mr. Cook’s intern’ and ‘Can I get you some water?’ and ‘The restroom is right down the hall.’ I’ve never seen him wanting to be so helpful when other people take a seat and wait.”

  Jayson didn’t like the news but decided not to call any more attention to Leslie’s visit. “Doesn’t sound like much,” he said. “See you tomorrow.” He had heard a high-pitched beep in his ear mid-sentence. “Bye.” He pushed the flash button on the phone. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Jayson Cook, please?” the female voice on the other end requested.

  “This is he,” Jayson replied. He was in no mood for a sales pitch. If this was a telemarketer, he would—

  “Jayson, this is Michelle Ling from Channel Eight News,” the woman declared. “I called you at your office twice but you weren’t in. I still have your home number you gave me, must be three years ago, when you were representing Gregory Morgan’s Church of the True Savior. I wouldn’t have used it but I’ve got a deadline.”

  Jayson sighed. So the Courier story had started the media ball rolling. He respected and liked Michelle Ling. She had interviewed him a few times since the True Savior case and had always been fair. They had recently abandoned formalities and started calling each other by first names. “It’s okay,” he said. “I can’t give you but a minute. I’m having dinner.”

  “It won’t take long,” Michelle insisted. “We’re doing a story about the Stone case that could air as soon as tonight on the eleven o’clock news. You’re his attorney now, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Assistant District Attorney Rahmani said…” She paused for a few seconds, apparently checking her notes. “...never in her career has she seen a murder committed in such a cold-hearted fashion. She said the people of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts will only be safe when Stone receives the maximum sentence under the law. Do you have any response?”

  “Yes I do,” Jayson said. He suppressed the urge to offer a snide remark. Samira should get some new material. How many times had she never seen a murder committed in such a cold-hearted fashion? “My client is being unfairly prosecuted because of his personal beliefs, in violation of his First Amendment rights guaranteed under the Constitution. He’s been held in jail for over a year and a half, violating his Sixth Amendment right to a speedy trial.”

  “Um-hmm, um-hmm,” Michelle grunted rapidly. “Go on.”

  “But our system of justice extends to everyone,” Jayson asserted, “including this twenty-four-year-old, impressionable young man who for virtually his entire life has been searching for something to make up for a disastrous childhood.”

  “So your client admits he was a member, so to speak, of Morgan’s Church of the True Savior and endorses that group’s philosophy?”

  “My client’s beliefs are not the issue,” Jayson insisted. “What is the issue is whether the Commonwealth has the evidence necessary to convince a jury that Brian Stone is guilty of premeditated murder. Time will show it does not. And time is another issue, because after Brian Stone is found innocent of all charges, where will he go to get back the probably two years he would have lost sitting in jail?”

  “Um-hmm,” Michelle muttered again. “And what’s your response to—”

  “Michelle, can’t a man enjoy dinner with his family?” Jayson teased.

  “Okay,” the reporter said. “Just one more: What’s your response to those who claim once again you’re taking the side of a racist against your own people?”

  “My response is that I was asked by Judge O’Hare to take this case because he felt it’s the best way to ensure that my client receives a fair trial,” Jayson answered. “And I plan to do everything in my power to see to it he gets a fair trial, just as I’ve done with all of my clients regardless of race.”

  “Okay. We oughta be able to squeeze in some of this between all those commercials we air for car dealerships,” Michelle said half-jokingly. “Hey, Jayson—I just got an idea.”

  “My dinner’s getting cold, Michelle.”

  “You know, we’ve got some stock footage of your client being led to his arraignment we can use and we’ve got Rahmani’s statement today on tape. Why don’t I meet you somewhere and you can say all this on camera? It’ll be fairer. Maybe we could chat off the record for a couple of minutes after. How about it?”

  Jayson thought for a few seconds. She had a point. Samira’s on-camera statements would carry more weight with the viewing public than his off-camera remarks. “Okay,” he agreed, “but I’ll need an hour. I’ve got to change. And you ask only the same questions. No curve balls. I mean it. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Jayson stared at his feet, covered with comfortable moccasins Magdalena had sewn and given him for Christmas. He decided to call Victor and ask him to accompany him. Michelle spoke Chinese. So did Victor. She was a little older than his intern, but he recalled Michelle expressing an interest in meeting a nice Chinese man to please her parents. Jayson liked the idea of introducing them. Perhaps Victor could wiggle some inside information from her every now and then. He spoke quickly. “Okay, so where should we meet?”

  •

  The following Sunday Jayson stared straight ahead and listened to the sweating minister who strutted back and forth on the altar platform like a rock star; so much for the news reports about the Reverend Isaiah F. Bradley walking with a cane for the rest of his life. The man had been preaching to the enthusiastic congregation at Cross of Christ Baptist Church for nearly a half-hour. Six middle-aged to elderly church officers sat in high-back, regal-looking chairs behind him cheering like Red Sox season ticket-holders. All the windows had been opened and ten fans, dangling from the thirty-feet high ceiling, rotated at full speed. The building’s age, the crowd and the warm weather produced a musty, sweaty smell.

  Jayson surveyed the area. The church, with its dark interior, seemed to be more fu
ll than usual for June. Must have been three hundred people in attendance. Even God-fearing Christians just couldn’t miss the opportunity for a free show. He harbored no doubt that word of an impending Bradley-Cook face-to-face meeting had spread like dandelions in the spring.

  Jayson rested his extended right arm on the wooden pew. Renee cuddled next to him. He stroked her shoulder with his fingers and felt regret at the discomfort the reverend’s words no doubt caused her. Jennifer had been sent to Sunday school in the basement of the church, an impressive, sizeable structure located in Dorchester, a large inner-city community in Boston. Jayson and Renee had become two of its three hundred—now four hundred—members shortly after Jennifer had arrived.

  At first, no one had sat next to the Cooks, but as the room filled up, people Jayson had never seen before squeezed alongside them, including two young women bearing no wedding rings, each with two bratty kids who had been squirming and fidgeting for an hour. Jayson assumed they were visitors.

  Jayson and Renee had plotted their strategy for the fateful Sunday well beforehand, down to what they each, including Jennifer, would wear. Jayson had chosen a lightweight, tan-colored suit. Renee had decided on a loose-fitting, off-white, sleeveless dress with a matching shawl for the occasion. She had picked out a peach-colored dress for Jennifer. They believed lighter colors would make them appear more cheerful. They had agreed to be upbeat. They had also decided that although they usually sat at the middle of the church they would sit just three or four seats farther back, so not to prolong their exit.

  “The devil isn’t who we think he is,” Reverend Bradley cautioned. “He’s not that crimson-colored rascal with the horns and pitchfork you see on TV.”

  “That’s right,” a few scattered voices agreed.

  “He could be any color,” the reverend said.

  “That’s true,” several parishioners affirmed.

  “He could be white!”

  “Yes, yes, yes!”

  “He could even be black.”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “He could be sitting right here in this church!” the man in the black robe exclaimed, waving his arms but staring at Jayson.

  “Go on and shame that devil, preacherman,” a husky-voice woman sitting in front of Jayson shouted while vigorously fanning herself with the day’s bulletin.

  Jayson nodded along with the congregation. He didn’t see the point in getting upset about the minister’s sermon. As a trial lawyer, he had ample experience sitting stoically while someone a few feet away pointed in his direction and called his client a monster, tossing in a few thinly veiled, barely admissible insults at him as defense counsel. Reverend Bradley seemed to be enjoying himself, Jayson thought. The eyes of every adult in the room were probably shifting from the reverend to him, he suspected, hoping to catch some glimmer of embarrassment. Well, they wouldn’t get it.

  Reverend Bradley wiped his face with a white handkerchief and leaned against the pulpit he had vacated for the past fifteen minutes. “You know, I used to tell my little angel, Veronica, God rest her soul, now with her sainted mother: not all people who say they’re your friends are telling you the truth.”

  “Amen,” Renee said.

  Jayson smiled. Renee had told him enough horror stories about jealous doctors and bizarre hospital politics to warrant such a response.

  Reverend Bradley continued. “That was before the devil put such hate in another man’s heart and told him he better silence this black man...” He paused and pointed at himself. “...for speaking out against the ugly racism and bigotry that’s still alive and thriving in this United States of America.”

  The people in attendance registered vigorous amens, obviously agreeing with the man while feeling his pain. The call-response resumed.

  “I used to say to my baby girl, ‘Honey, don’t let Satan make you just like them.’”

  “Don’t you let him!”

  “You’ve got to pray for them.”

  “Pray for them!”

  “You’ve got to forgive them because that’s what Jesus said we’ve got to do.”

  “Forgive them!”

  “You’ve got to hate their sin without hating them.”

  “Hate their sin!”

  “But you’ve got to tell them like Jesus told the devil, ‘Get behind me, Satan!’”

  “Get behind me!”

  Reverend Bradley stepped to the edge of the platform. “But before you can do that…” He paused for dramatic effect.

  “Well?”

  “Tell us!”

  “Preach!”

  The reverend leaned forward, so far Jayson feared he might tumble into the front pew.

  “You’ve got to see that rascal,” Reverend Bradley cried, “and recognize him for who he is—even if he’s the devil you know.” He did a little jig and stepped backward and sideways toward the pulpit.

  The congregation broke into thunderous applause. The organist who had accompanied the reverend punched out a few notes to punctuate his words. Jayson and Renee joined the applause without hesitation. Jayson glanced at his watch. He had witnessed enough sermons to know the reverend had made his point and soon would have to do what most ministers absolutely hated to do: surrender the microphone.

  Reverend Bradley had put on a good show and gotten his kicks preaching to—or entertaining, depending on one’s point of view—a crowd much larger than his own Mount Calvary congregation. The reverend would enjoy numerous handshakes and accolades from scores of Jayson’s fellow parishioners. Eventually, though, Jayson recognized, the visitor would return to his own flock while those inclined to gossip at Cross of Christ would find new fodder for the following week.

  Forty minutes later Jayson stood in line, with Renee in front of him, waiting to shake Reverend Bradley’s hand and congratulate him on a job well done. The visiting minister stood at the dividing line separating the huge, dark narthex from the huge, dark sanctuary. Hundreds of mostly black people scurried about on both sides of the line. Some spoke briefly with the guest preacher, then turned left, exiting the building quickly and stepping past the gigantic, open double wooden doors into the fresh air. Various mothers searched for their children. Various children ran back and forth, relieved to be finished with Sunday school. Jayson felt his heartbeat accelerate as he neared the reverend. He squeezed Renee’s shoulders and leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “I’m fine. You want to get Jennifer and go home?”

  “No,” Jayson said. “We’ll stay a while and share God’s love with our friends like we always do.”

  Jayson rolled his eyes as Sister Almetra, a slender, elderly woman engulfed by a wide-brim hat, held up the line speaking at length to Reverend Bradley. Jayson couldn’t hear what she said but heard the man’s reply.

  “Thank you, sister. I will.”

  Finally, the moment came. Renee shook hands with the minister and said good morning, then stepped into the crowd searching for Jennifer without a backward glance. Jayson could see the man trace his wife’s body with his eyes. Well, at least he had good taste in women. Next, Reverend Bradley and he faced each other. “Good morning, Pastor,” Jayson said. He wasn’t sure why he used the term “pastor.” The word wasn’t a common title used at Cross of Christ.

  Reverend Bradley maintained a polite smile on his face. “Good morning, Brother Cook,” he replied. “I saw you on the news a couple of days ago. At last we meet.” He used both hands to squeeze Jayson’s hand tightly without shaking it. “I guess we’ll be seeing each other again real soon,” he said, continuing to squeeze the lawyer’s hand.

  Jayson detected a hint of sarcasm in the man’s voice. “Well, I look forward to that,” he declared, pulling his hand out of the man’s grip. He moved forward and heard the reverend’s last parting, ominous shot.

  “Yes, real soon, my brother.”

  •

  The following Monday Connie entered Jayson’s office and closed the door. “What’s this abou
t you taking Victor with you to meet that skanky Channel Eight reporter last week?” she asked, breaking into a smile to let him know she wasn’t completely serious.

  Jayson couldn’t help but laugh out loud. “I’m sorry, Connie, but I thought Victor would be helpful. You go with me when I have Latinos to speak to.”

  “Yeah, but that’s to help you translate.”

  Jayson tried to suppress his laughter, but ended up shaking his shoulders instead. “Connie, you know I speak fluent Spanish myself.”

  “Yeah,” Connie admitted, “but you have an accent.” She stuck out her lower lip, exaggerating a pout. “Did that woman make a move on my man? ‘If she did I’ll—”

  “Waitaminute,” Jayson interrupted, “what happened to what’s-his-face? The police officer?”

  Connie waved her hand. “Puh-leez! I cut that old geezer loose long time ago.”

  Jayson chuckled. “He was what—eight years older than you? You told me your dad was twelve years older than your mom.”

  “And still chases every women in town,” Connie added with disgust. “That’s different. That’s them. This is me. I know what I want and—”

  “Didn’t you say the same thing about this last one?”

  Connie sat down and pretended to search her memory. “Hmmm…I don’t remember.” The two laughed, and Connie ran her hand through her long, wavy hair. “Come on, Jayson, tell me. Did anything happen between them?”

  Jayson lifted a stack of folders and dropped them back on his desk. “Connie, I’ve got plenty of work to do, and do I need to remind you that so do you?” He stared into his legal assistant’s brown eyes, partially hidden underneath layers of eye shadow, eye liner and mascara, and recognized an expression of real concern. She was a lovely, intelligent woman, but apparently had learned early on—perhaps from her mother—that a woman’s happiness depended on finding a man. Connie had disclosed to Jayson that she pitied her mother, now middle-aged and married but lonely. Jayson feared Connie would one day suffer the same fate. He shrugged and delivered the report. “Victor spoke to her in Chinese for a few minutes after the interview. That’s all.”

  Connie stood, obviously not satisfied. “What they say?”

  Jayson opened his arms. “How would I know?” He considered asking for details about her own brief verbal exchanges with Leslie a few days before, but decided it would be better not to remind anyone about the visit.

  Connie pointed toward the door and changed the subject. “So it’s started up again, huh? Three on the voice-mail after we closed and one first thing this morning.”

  Jayson frowned. “I know. The police have been notified. How’s Tenika?”

  “She’s okay,” Connie replied and twisted her shapely body to peek at the outer office through the glass door. “She just stepped out for a few minutes. Victor said he’d help out on the phones until—” She stopped talking and pointed. “It’s Victor. He wants me.”

  “Don’t you wish,” Jayson joked.

  Connie opened the door. “No, really. I think he’s got one.”

  Jayson stepped from behind his desk and walked slowly into the next room, stopping in front of Tenika’s desk, where Victor sat with the telephone receiver pressed to his ear. Connie sauntered behind the young man and put her hand on his shoulder. Victor widened his eyes as he listened, but said nothing. After a few seconds he hung up.

  “Was that another one?” Jayson asked.

  Victor nodded. “Um-hmm. The return information was blocked.”

  “What’d he say?” Connie asked.

  Victor shrugged. “He said that you...” He pointed at Jayson. “...were a sell-out, Uncle Tom, shit-eating motherfucker.”

  “You okay?” Jayson asked.

  Victor nodded.

  “That’s the second live one today,” Connie announced. “Like I said, it’s started up again.”

  * * * * *