Dominion (109 page)

“Well, we’ve got some lofty plans,” Don said. “Mel Renfro’s developing a top-notch recreational facility. We’re starting a family counseling center and organizing clerical support for our smaller churches. After-school tutoring programs. An African American Christian arts and entertainment center. A vocational teaching center. A coffee house. A Christian bookstore. A rehabilitation center for social offenders. Eventually we want a K-12 Christian school. We’ve already started our mentoring program where men work with boys and women with girls. We know all this is ambitious. We’re going to need lots of help. But we believe God is big enough to bring us that help.”

“Amen.”

“Yes, Lord. Do it, Father.”

“There’s some great things going on in inner cities around this country,” Clancy said, “and we can do them here too. Church-sponsored thrift stores, where folks get good clothes at great prices and people learn to work. Low-cost health clinics, law offices, classes to help people get their GEDs, volunteer tutoring, Crisis Pregnancy Centers, Big Brother programs, job hot lines. There’s two churches in the suburbs that have started feeding us info on job openings. But all these programs won’t matter unless we come back to truth, a moral foundation for families and communities to live by. We’ve got to unleash the truth on the streets, shine some light in the darkness. The heart has to change. Not just the outside, but the inside, and then the outside will follow. These kids don’t just need to be taught math and to put down needles and guns. They need Jesus. Without Jesus our cities are doomed, and so’s our whole country. In 1900 less than 10 percent of the world lived in cities. Now it’s 50 percent. If the church doesn’t claim the cities, it’s going to lose the country and the world.”

“Amen.”

“You said it, preacher.”

“These kids have strong loyalties,” Clancy said, “but to the wrong things, the wrong people. You turn that loyalty toward Jesus and you’ll see somethin’. You make them see their enemy’s Satan. Show them their family’s the family of God, their turf is God’s kingdom. Help them build their rep as followers of Christ. Teach them Jesus is worth livin’ and dyin’ for, and you’ll see things happen like this city’s never seen.”

“Glory.”

Clarence stood up, his voice its own built-in microphone. “I’ve lived in this neighborhood less than three months, so I’m no expert. But I know this. One of the things we’ve got to do is take on the drug dealers. If a man breaks into my house and points a gun at my children, I’m gonna take him down.” Clarence spoke with the fervor of a preacher. “Well, that’s just what the drug dealers have done. They’ve broken into our neighborhoods, and they’ve pointed the gun of crack cocaine at our children. We’ve got to take them down before they take our children down.”

The room erupted in applause. It startled Clarence. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt his voice had been so well received.

Rod Houck took the mike again. “Most of you know a group of us have been working on Neighborhood Watch Patrols. You’ve seen these orange hats, right?” He put one on his head. “Well, to get one of these cool hats, all you have to do is sign up. We go in groups of five. We just carry flashlights and walk around. Hang around the drug dealers and the hookers, drive away business just by being there. We write down license numbers of the johns and drug buyers. Sometimes we take pictures. We see people casin’ out a house or hangin’ in the shadows, we scare ’em off. We tell the young kids to get home before we call their parents.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” a voice asked from the back.

“How much more dangerous can it get?” Rod asked. “Actually with five of us in a group we haven’t gotten pushed around or shot at once yet. I heard about this woman down in L.A., South Central. She’s got one block; they call it Mama’s Block. She gets out there with a broom in the morning. She sweeps stuff up, tosses the garbage, harasses the drug dealers. She has this slogan—‘Not on this block.’ It’s working. And we can do it here, block by block.”

This went on for another hour. Afterward people stood and talked and shared their vision with fervor and excitement.

When Clarence escorted Geneva and Daddy onto the street, he saw in the moonlight leafless trees, too few of them—stark, barren, lifeless. This part of the city wasn’t upbeat yuppie flower boutiques and espresso bars, but cold merciless pavement. Under the streetlights, the asphalt looked bleak, gray, and colorless, like hardened layers of addiction, abandoned enterprise, crime, and hopelessness.

As Clarence walked, still hearing the voices spreading out from the church back into the neighborhoods, block by block, he stopped and pointed out to Geneva and Obadiah the oddest thing with his flashlight, right there on the side of the street First, one strand of grass, then another, then a few inches away a whole patch of grass, living and vibrant, growing up right through the asphalt, breaking it apart, threatening to take over. The patch of grass grew stronger the more territory it claimed, becoming more entrenched by the day. How could these living blades of grass grow up through what appeared an impenetrable surface in an inner-city winter? Yet here they were, doing exactly that.

Before meeting with Ollie, Clarence popped two Advils. He hadn’t slept again. The boy in Cabrini Green wouldn’t let him sleep.

“Your evidence gathering was a nice piece of work,” Ollie said to Clarence, “for a journalist.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“The DNA in the envelope’s saliva matches perfectly the DNA in the tissues you gave me. And the gum to boot.”

“Carson Gray?”

“Yep. He’s our man. Of course, Norcoast is probably in on it too, but the trail leads right to Gray at least. He made the payoffs. Probably didn’t hand deliver them, of course. Too smart for that. Bet he never thought licking an envelope would nail him.”

“So what happens now?” Clarence asked.

“Well, unfortunately we can’t hang him just for sticking gum under his desk. There’s no law against being tacky or Gray would have been arrested years ago. All we can prove is that a girl who died of a drug overdose had some money she kept in an envelope that had once been licked by Carson Gray. It makes a connection, it gives us a little leverage, but it doesn’t give us enough for a murder charge, not even close. But at least it tells us we should put the bead on Gray.”

“So,” Clarence said, “Carson Gray
was
behind Gracie’s attempt to frame me. That fits with what Shadow said.”

“On Gracie, yeah, but what about Leesa? Don’t forget the fax was on Norcoast’s computer. Why wouldn’t Gray use his own computer? But if Shadow’s telling the truth, Gray called for the hit on Gracie. If he did that, he was capable of calling the hit on Leesa that killed Dani and Felicia. In any case, Carson Gray stinks more than this lousy sweatshirt and these disgusting tissues.” He handed Clarence a very worn and gamey brown paper bag. “I think it’s time we paid a visit to Reggie Norcoast.”

“Hello, Clarence…Detective Chandler.” Norcoast smiled warmly, extending his hand to Clarence. “I’m so glad you’ve been cleared.” He looked uneasy when Clarence didn’t offer his hand in return.

“Councilman,” Ollie said, “I’ll get right to the point. What if I told you Leesa Fletcher died of a drug overdose?”

“Leesa? But…I thought it was heart failure. She had a disease, didn’t she?”

“It was heart failure all right. Take enough cocaine and any heart will fail.”

Ollie and Clarence both studied Norcoast, trying to detect if this was old news to him.

“Something else you should be aware of, Councilman. We know you had sex with her.”

Norcoast sat quietly, measuring his response. “That’s not true. And you can’t prove anything.”

“What if I told you Leesa kept a diary?” Ollie asked. “And that it says you had sex with her?”

Clarence stared at the nervous twitch of Norcoast’s left cheek.

“There must be some mistake. I mean, she was my daughter’s friend, close to our family. Maybe she was just using her imagination. Adolescent girls do that sometimes, you know.” Norcoast wiped away a bead of sweat.

“What if I told you,” Ollie said, “that when she died she was carrying a baby?”

Norcoast flushed, his facial expressions wavering between anger and fear. He said nothing.

“And what if I told you,” Ollie said, “that you were the father?”

“You can’t possibly know that,” Norcoast said.

“Apparently you aren’t aware, Councilman, that when an autopsy is done and the woman is pregnant, they always do a DNA test on the baby in case paternity becomes an issue, for instance as a homicide motive. So we have the baby’s DNA. All you have to do is submit to DNA testing and you can prove the child wasn’t yours. It’s that simple. What do you say, Mr. Norcoast? We can all go down together to the lab, and you can give the blood sample so you can clear your name on the spot. Or I can even have someone come here right now and take the sample. That way we’ll know conclusively if there’s a DNA match. How about I just make a call and order a medical tech?” He reached for the phone on Norcoast’s desk. The councilman put his hand on the phone, holding it down.

“No. I need to talk to my attorney.”

“All right, you do that,” Ollie said. “But I’ve got some other things we need to discuss. Like the fax you sent to Matthew Harper.”

“Harper? What fax?”

“This one.” Ollie handed him the fax. Norcoast looked at the words: “Harper: Counting on you to take care of the job. Make it soon.”

“What job?” Norcoast asked.

“We thought you might know,” Ollie said, “since you’re the one who sent the fax.”

“Me? When? I don’t remember sending a fax like that, to Harper or anyone else. If I did…I don’t remember.”

“It was composed on your computer and sent to Harper from your fax machine on August 29.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s my business to know things,” Ollie said. “Four days after you told Harper to take care of the job, two Los Angeles gang members he hired came up to murder Leesa Fletcher. But instead of hitting her house, on 920 North Jack Street, they hit Dani Abernathy Rawls’s place on 920 Jackson Street.”

“What are you saying, detective? You can’t possibly be accusing me of attempted murder.”

“Not
attempted
murder, Councilman,” Ollie said. “Murder.”

“This is outrageous,” Norcoast said. “It’s not true. You can’t prove anything. It just didn’t happen. Please…do you know what a false accusation like this could do to my reputation?”

Ollie and Clarence looked at each other. “Yeah,” Ollie said. “I’d say we both have a pretty good idea what false accusations can do to reputations. Now I don’t know how much of what you’re telling us is true, Councilman—probably not much—but your relationship with Leesa is enough to end your career. So you might want to consider cooperating with us. We have proof Carson Gray made payoffs to people for dirty tricks, including Gracie Miller, who set up Clarence. And we can also link him to Gracie’s murder.”

“Carson? I don’t believe it. He’s tough, sure, but he’d never do anything like that. And he’d certainly never put me at risk. I trust him. He’s too loyal. No way. I’m going to talk to our attorney.”

“Good idea,” Ollie said. “But you might consider getting a different attorney than Mr. Gray’s. And tell both of them to cancel their vacation plans. They’re going to be real busy.”