Dominion (85 page)

“Uh-huh. So’s everybody. Our prisons are full of innocent men.”

Clarence wanted to jump across the table at him. He knew he could take him in a fight, but there were a few problems. The Glock in the officer’s holster was one. The long-term consequences were another, although right now by themselves they weren’t enough to restrain him.

“Mind if I search you?” Rodriguez asked.

“Go ahead.”

“Stand up.” The officer stood behind Clarence, sticking his hand first in his right coat pocket, then his left, then his front pants pockets, then his back. Clarence felt violated, but what was the alternative? To act guilty?

“Satisfied?” Clarence asked.

“Can I check your inside coat pocket?” Clarence nodded. Rodriguez stepped around front and checked the coat and shirt pockets.

“Looks like you’re clean,” Rodriguez said. “Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to carry it here.”

“Where’s innocent until proven guilty?” Clarence asked. “Or don’t you believe in that?”

“What I believe doesn’t matter, Mr. Abernathy. Can I search your desk?”

“Fine! Search my desk. Search my overcoat. Come search my house. Bring a bunch of your storm trooper buddies with you. But when you’re done searching, you leave me alone. Got it?”

Clarence saw the officer looking over his right shoulder out to the newsroom. About ten people stood frozen and wide eyed, gazing into the editorial office. One of them was Jess. Clarence realized he’d been louder than he intended.

“Calm down, Mr. Abernathy,” Officer Rodriguez said. “If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Let’s go to your desk.”

Clarence led the way. Rodriguez opened the desk while Clarence looked around at a dozen reporters who pretended not to notice his work station was being searched by a uniformed police officer. The officer fumbled around in his desk, then pointed to the orange capped needle.

“It’s an insulin needle,” Clarence said. Rodriguez looked skeptical. “You know. Insulin-dependent diabetic? We have to take shots. There’s millions of us.”

The officer picked up the needle on the capped end.

“Can I take this?”

“Yeah. In fact you can stick it—” Clarence caught himself.

“You wear an overcoat?”

Clarence led him to the coatrack near the elevator and removed his overcoat from the hook. The officer put his hand in one pocket, then the other. He pulled out an insulin bottle and another needle. Suddenly he stopped. He drew out something in his hand, a tiny little clear glass vial. It was about an inch tall, half an inch wide, with thick glass and a black cap. Inside was white powder.

“What’s that?” Clarence said.

“Can I open it up?” Rodriguez asked. Clarence nodded. The cop smelled it.

“Heroin. Okay, Mr. Abernathy, you’re under arrest. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

Clarence stared at the people around him, now nearly twenty of them. More crowded up, as the frozen images attracted attention in a newsroom that was normally endless motion. The officer chose his hinged handcuffs with no connecting chain, clamping them firmly on Clarence’s wrists.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

This isn’t happening.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

O God, don’t let this be happening.

“You have the right to consult with an attorney…”

What will Geneva and the kids think? What will Daddy think? What will everybody think?

“If you cannot afford to hire an attorney…”

A man’s reputation is all he has.

“Do you understand each of these rights I’ve explained to you?”

Clarence nodded and Rodriguez escorted him to the elevator in full view of three-dozen
Trib
employees. Once on the ground floor he walked him out to his patrol car. The officer pushed his head down for the tight squeeze into the car, just like the cop had done to Ellis twenty years ago—the last time Clarence had touched his brother.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clarence saw someone running up to the car with camera in hand. She focused and started to take the picture, then realized who was in it. Carp lowered her camera and stared wide eyed at Clarence. Another camera clicked. As Clarence rode off he thought he saw Carp grab the camera from the other photographer. He wasn’t sure because the restraints kept him from turning and seeing what was really happening.

The officer drove Clarence to the Justice Center, pulling into the secured underground area. Clarence thought about all the time he’d spent in this same building, meeting with Ollie. But this time he would end up on one of those floors where the public elevator didn’t stop—lockup.

At an intake station, Officer Rodriguez removed Clarence’s handcuffs and the Justice Center guard put on the county handcuffs, equally uncomfortable.

Rodriguez handed the intake officer his booking sheet. The woman made copies and returned the original to Rodriguez. They chatted pleasantly, as if Clarence didn’t exist. They took his watch, keys, wallet, pocket change, insulin and needles— everything but his clothes—and bagged them up.

Another guard led Clarence through a door and said, “Stand there on the red X.” Clarence stood. In front of him were three heavy steel doors. It felt like a bizarre version of
Let’s Make a Deal.
Which will it be? Door number one, door number two, or door number three?

A security officer made the choice for him. Door number one. He escorted him into a large, poorly lit cell smelling of vomit and urine. The predatory expressions of some of the room’s inhabitants instantly changed when they saw Clarence’s imposing physique. Everyone moved back from him except one high-strung guy whose pupils looked like pinpoints. Clarence plopped down on the stark metal bench, staring at the twelve-inch grate in the middle of the floor.

“Well, look what we got here, boys,” the addict said. “We got ourselves a nigger.”

Clarence looked around the holding cell, doing some quick math. Three white guys, including the addict, one other black, and a Latino.

“Yeah, he’s a nigger, all right,” the addict said. “What you doin’ in here, boy?”

Clarence looked at him with disgust. He wouldn’t let this guy push his buttons. He wasn’t worth it.

“I seen yo’ mama, black boy. She was sellin’ herself over on Third Street and I had me a—”

Clarence’s right fist smashed the man’s nose, knocking him across the room. One of the guys beat on the door and called for a guard. Two guards rushed in and saw Clarence hovering over the man with the bloody face. One of them jumped on Clarence. Thinking he was another inmate, Clarence threw the officer against the wall.

“Stop or I’ll shoot,” the second officer yelled. Clarence turned and looked down the barrel of a Colt Police .45. He raised his hands. They handcuffed him again and escorted him to a private cell. The officer he’d thrown against the wall gave him a shove for good measure. At least this cell didn’t smell of urine. He sat there, index finger brushing against the scar under his right ear.

Later, whether fifteen minutes or two hours Clarence didn’t know, a guard escorted him to the photograph and fingerprint processing section. “We’ve got your fingerprints on file, I’m sure,” the man said.

“Never been fingerprinted,” Clarence said.

The man gave him an unbelieving look. “We’ve got to determine your classification. Decide how to house you. What’s your record? What aliases have you been arrested under?”

“Never been arrested,” Clarence said. “Just pulled over for speeding.”

“Well, we’ll just take your prints here, and it’ll run out your record for us.” Clearly this was a man used to being lied to.

A guard escorted Clarence to medical intake, where he explained to the nurse his diabetic condition, and that he took four shots a day. “While you’re in here, it’ll just be two shots,” she said gruffly. “Nurses come into the population twice a day, that’s all.”

Clarence didn’t bother arguing. After a few minutes, they escorted him to a room with eight other men, including three from his original holding cell, all of whom backed away.

“Take off your clothes. All of them.” With two armed guards looking on, the officer gave directions like an exercise instructor. He told them to bend over and do humiliating things to prove they weren’t hiding something. Clarence had never been strip searched until now. He felt like an animal. He felt like what his ancestors must have felt. The smirk on one of the guard’s faces chilled him.

“Okay, fellas. Now we dress you for success.” The officer guessed at their sizes and passed out faded blue pants and smocks. For Clarence he didn’t have to guess. Extra large.

The men were escorted through another security area. Clarence was put in a little cell by himself, equipped only with a small cot and a metal toilet, which stank. The bars went from ceiling to floor, so his most private actions were not private at all, but completely visible to anyone in the corridor.

An hour later they escorted him out for dinner. The man next to him said, “Trade my ham for your roll.”

“Okay,” Clarence said, making his first jailhouse deal. He ate quickly, as he had as a child when food wasn’t plentiful. He looked around the eating area and stood up at the table. A guard tensed, stepping toward him.

“Can’t I call my wife or my lawyer or somebody?” Clarence asked him.

“Phone privileges are at seven. Another hour and a half. You haven’t called a lawyer?”

“No,” Clarence said. The man left to check out Clarence’s story. He came back in five minutes. “I’ll take you to the phone.”

Instead of dialing his lawyer, Clarence called Geneva. “Hey, baby, it’s me.”

“Clarence, where are you?” Her voice sounded shrill. “Jake called and said you’d gone off in a police car. I’ve been worried sick. Where are you?”

He heard the panic in her voice. “I’m … I’m in jail.” The smelly phone mouthpiece was suddenly flooded with hot tears.

The guard felt sorry for Clarence and let him make another phone call. This one wasn’t to his attorney either. It was to Ollie. He promised Clarence he’d check on bail and get hold of his lawyer for him.

“It’s wonderful you’re still a teacher here,” Dani said to Lewis.

“Elyon’s gifts are irrevocable. We do not set them aside here, we develop them further. Our service on earth was preparatory to our service here. I’m still writing. I’ve completed a number of volumes since I arrived. I’ve just finished a children’s series. I’ll pick out a book for you—I’ve got just the one in mind.”

“Please! Writing and reading in heaven? Books in heaven? I never imagined it.”

“The Bible itself talks about the books in heaven kept by God—the book of remembrances, the book of life, the books of man’s works on earth. He even keeps a book of the laments of the righteous in the Shadowlands. His Word says, ‘Record my lament; list my tears on your scroll—are they not in your record?’”

“Still, I’ve never thought about people writing new books here.”

“If Elyon had some of his people teach and write and speak and compose songs on earth, why would he do otherwise here? If we learned about him through books on earth, why would we not do so here? If we took joy in reading on earth, why would that joy cease here? Wouldn’t we expect more of what brings joy rather than less? Does life stop here or does it commence? Does life contract here or does it expand? You were an artist on earth, were you not? Does it surprise you to be an artist here?”

“Yes, it did at first.”

“But why? Life here is a continuation of life there,” Lewis said. “It is not a new volume, not even a sequel, but the next chapter. Granted, the setting has changed dramatically, but the children of God are the same characters, the plot of the unfolding drama of redemption continues, and the theme is still the glory of God. You bring here the same desires, knowledge, and skills. The difference is those desires are fulfilled in all the right places, and your ability to learn is far superior. Knowledge here is not merely isolated facts, pearls without the string, but facts held together by perspective. And as for your skills, your creative gifts, your artistic talent, they were given you by Elyon, were they not?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“And is he one who takes back gifts he has given? Or is he rather one who gives ever more opportunity to use those gifts? How could anyone imagine that in heaven Elyon would remove the knowledge and gifts he gave us and cultivated in us on earth? How strange it would be for him to take away the abilities he gave us now that we can finally exercise them without impediment.”

“Professor Lewis is correct,” Torel said. “Earth was far more closely connected to heaven than most there ever imagine. And for those who do not bow their knee to Elyon, earth is far more closely connected to hell than they imagine. Every day on earth, every choice you made influenced your life toward eternity.”

Torel pointed to a large building with inscriptions written in many languages. “Let us go to the Hall of Writings. It is filled with writings done on earth that are still read and studied here—words that outlasted the dark world because they derived their perspectives from this world.”

“I’ve been here many times, Dani,” Lewis said. “It’s one of my favorite places. May I show you around?”

“That would be wonderful.” She took his arm and they walked, Torel beside them. “I’m sure you have many writings here, Lewis,” Dani said.

“
You
have some as well,” Torel said to Dani.

“What? I never wrote a book. Not even an article.”

“Do you think it had to be
published
to qualify?” Lewis laughed. “Most of what is published does
not
qualify. And much qualifies that was read only by a few, some read by none but Elyon.”

“But what did I write that could be here?” Dani asked.

In the gigantic Room of Letters, they showed Dani letters of love and encouragement she’d written to her parents and Clarence, letters of devotion and direction she’d written to her children, evangelistic letters written to Harley and Ellis, letters of moral concern written to school principals and newspapers, letters of thanks written to many others. Finally, there were letters of praise she had written to Elyon.

“Most of these I’d forgotten,” Dani said.

“But Elyon does not forget,” Lewis said.

In the midst of this engaging tour, Dani felt a sudden tug toward the portal. She rushed to it, Torel and Lewis behind her. She saw quickly what had transpired over the last hours on earth. Clarence was in trouble.

She looked at the throne, toward the Carpenter, her heart pleading, then fell to her knees to intercede. Lewis and Torel followed her lead.