Relentless (19 page)

The sun had long set and the day was slipping away by the second. Maxwell was alert, focused, and alone in his office. When Jill left earlier, she took with her the hope of having a stellar plaintiff. What twelve reasonable people wouldn't have their hearts pricked by a single mother struggling financially to take care of her children and enduring constant pain in the process? She reached out to a minister in the church who, instead of helping, took advantage of her for his own monetary gain and entangled her in an illegal drug business. Maxwell propped his feet up on top of his desk, envisioning the impact those facts and her testimony would have in a courtroom.

Minutes later, Maxwell yanked his feet down and pounded the corner of the desk with his fist. He wasn't going to be able to use Jill. That meant he would have to proceed with the zoning violations and then turn the findings over to the district attorney for criminal prosecution. He wasn't pleased. His trademark had consistently been to cripple the perpetrators where it mattered most—in their wallets. That's why he lived for civil cases. Criminal law was too much work for too little gain. Sitting in some posh jail for a few months or even years didn't constitute sufficient restitution, but bankruptcy cut much deeper for greedy pariahs like Bishop Jones and Minister Simmons.

His anger swelled. He couldn't let Bishop Jones get away with anything less. Maxwell wouldn't accept a partial defeat. He had come too close to a full-fledged victory, and he wasn't about to give up. He paced the floor racking his brain to come up with a way to build a solid case and link the church to the wider-scaled crime. He stopped in the middle of the floor, rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie. Maxwell pulled four boxes from his closet. He ravished the boxes one-by-one meticulously scrutinizing every piece of paper related to the case. He must have missed something that would give him the concrete victory he yearned. Papers covered his desk and the conference table; he even had a stack as high as the trashcan, sitting on the floor next to his desk.

Four hours into his scavenger hunt, Maxwell grew with excitement. He moved swiftly to his desk, knocking the stack of papers onto the floor. He pushed the documents underneath the bright lamp on his desk. Maxwell's gaze, swollen with anticipation, followed his index finger as he slowly read each word. He pinched his eyelids with his fingertips determined to be sure of what he was reading. With his weary eyes refocused, he read the documents again. Finally, he had linked several zoning violations with questionable real estate transactions that Chambers had brokered for another church. He whizzed to the stack of papers he'd just struck gold in and there it was; the final nail. He had Chambers' signature on a deal with Greater Metropolitan dated before the rezoning transactions began, which meant somehow they influenced the zoning changes. Business owners had been forced out of their places due to underhanded tactics. The shady dealings had apparently been in the works for some time.

Maxwell was giddy with pleasure. His victory at the end of a long journey was in sight. He had to talk to someone. He needed to hear the words out loud. Maxwell didn't let the fact that it was past midnight sway him from calling Garrett. Both men had invested many hours building this case and neither needed a lot of sleep.

Maxwell glided to the window, shoving his cell phone up to his ear. He peered into the dark of the early morning. It may as well have been a day filled with sunlight. He could see the bright path at the end of the road. Maxwell snapped his fingers, and Garrett answered on the second ring.

“Maxwell, what's up?” Garrett sounded slightly groggy, but Maxwell wasn't deterred.

“I've got it. I've got the information we need to help the prosecutor build a solid case against Bishop Jones. I've got him and Greater Metropolitan in the palm of my hand.” Maxwell lifted his open palm up into the air and snatched down a clenched fist. “I've got him.”

“What about the civil case? Is this Jill woman you were telling me about going to substantiate the sexual harassment and drug charges?” Garrett asked.

“No, that's not going to work out.”

“Wow, that's too bad,” Garrett uttered. “Without her you don't have a case, unless there's someone else you can use?”

With energy in his voice like he'd had a full night's sleep, Maxwell told Garrett about the documents he'd uncovered tying Chambers and Greater Metropolitan to land deals and possible zoning violations. “The small business owners can bring a civil case against Bishop Jones and Greater Metropolitan.”

“Have you spoken to any of them?” Garrett asked.

“Not yet. I figured you could help me out.”

“Sure thing, but are you sure this is the route you want to take?”

“Not really. You know I've always avoided class action suits with multiple plaintiffs. The more you have to deal with on one case, the more something is likely to go wrong. People can't agree on a settlement amount or their accounting of the facts. It can be a legal nightmare.”

“I know that. That's why I asked.”

“Reality is that I have to pursue the class action cases and then rely on the prosecutor's office to seal the deal on the criminal side. It's not my winning strategy, but what choice do I have?”

“You can always walk away.”

Maxwell wanted to curse but choked the words back. “Man, you must be kidding. After years of pursuing this church?” he shouted.

“Relentlessly I might add,” Garrett interrupted.

Maxwell raised his open palms in the air and emphatically said, “E-x-a-c-t-l-y, which is why running away isn't remotely an option. This might not be playing out as ideally as I would have liked, but at this point, I'll take what I can get in the way of a conviction.”

“That's heavy stuff. Sounds like you're finally where you want to be. What about Simmons?”

“Oh, he's too easy. I'll toss his sorry behind to the prosecutor.” Maxwell snorted. “His stupid behind left so much evidence exposed that a law clerk fresh out of school could get him convicted for five to ten years.” Both men were amused. They continued going back and forth recounting the challenges in the case that had brought them to this point.

Maxwell ended the conversation with Garrett as cheerfully as it had begun. “The civil award in this case should be large enough to significantly impair, if not shut down, Greater Metropolitan. That tower of sin and iniquity is coming down.” Maxwell burst into a roar of jubilant laughter as he pressed the end button on his phone. His gusty roar filled the room as he unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk. He pulled out a list with names and numbers of the former small business owners who were robbed of their land. He and Garrett would make calls later this morning to elicit their participation into a class action lawsuit. They had to get it done before the criminal charges surfaced. He wanted the crippling reality of doom to be felt by Bishop Jones and Greater Metropolitan from every angle. Maxwell figured it would probably take a month to file if he worked night and day preparing the complaint. Gleefully, he would be counting the days.

Unrest swept across the church office. “Simmons, where is Chambers? I called him over an hour ago. He should be here by now.” Bishop Jones hastily plucked the phone receiver from its cradle and growled at the church secretary. “Have you heard from Councilman Chambers?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Could you have missed his call?”

“I'm sure, Bishop,” his secretary affirmed. “He hasn't called.”

“Okay, let me know the minute you hear from him, no matter what I'm doing or where I am in the church.” He pushed the receiver down with a loud noise startling Simmons who was placing the fourth call to Chambers on his cell phone.

“We need to finish this deal and get moving.” Bishop's grandson was being released from juvenile lockup in about a month. Adequate time for completing the proposed rehab project wasn't on his side. Bishop pointed his finger at Simmons. “I don't know what's happened to the councilman, but it better not be connected to your foolishness,” he shouted.

“What?”

“Don't what me. I'm not convinced you've shut down your operation. I truly hope, for your sake, that you didn't take my kindness and compassion for weakness. You best believe that it's not too late for me to kick your behind so far out of this church that when you look back you can't see the steeple,” the bishop yelled and then remembered where he was before bringing his tone down. The walls of his office were thick enough to muffle his angered volume, but he didn't want to disrespect the house of God. He gained composure and folded his arms across his chest. “Maybe the councilman got word of your foolishness here in the church and is distancing himself from our real estate dealings. I certainly hope I'm wrong, very wrong,” he said staring Simmons down and letting the tension hover. Bishop wanted to knock the minister's head off for putting the church and his staff at risk. Thank goodness restraint prevailed. Bishop prayed for help. For Simmons's sake, God had better continue giving him strength to maintain control. Otherwise, Simmons was in big trouble, not with the law but at the hands of his spiritual father.

“I know, Bishop. I know, and I'm sorry,” he said with what appeared to be remorse. Simmons shook his cell phone vigorously causing his whole body to shake. “I can't get through to the councilman. When I try his cell phone, I just get his voicemail. When I call his office, his secretary keeps telling me he's in a meeting. You would think we could get him on the telephone based on the amount of deals we've already done with him,” the minister said.

“I should be hearing from our accountant and attorney within a half hour,” Bishop stated. “One of them should know something about those last property deals. Sit down, Simmons, you're making me nervous.”

Simmons sat in front of the bishop's desk. They hadn't been talking longer than ten minutes when police sirens, slamming car doors, and loud voices pulled the bishop up from his seat and drew him to the window in his office. The church parking lot looked like the scene from a SWAT episode. Simmons rushed to the window as well.

“What in God's name is going on here?” Noise coming from outside the bishop's office sounded like the ground invasion of army troops. On the heels of his question, his office door swung open and a crowd of police officers swarmed into the office led by the secretary.

Bishop was fuming. “What do you mean by bursting into my office? This is a church. I'm Bishop Ellis Jones, and I'm in a private meeting.” The bishop challenged the intruders in his office with a stern voice and bulging eyes, which landed on the face of each officer standing before him.

Frantically, his secretary said, “I tried to stop them, Bishop, but I didn't know what to do.” She was crying and chaos was rampant.

“Don't worry, you go on home. I'll handle this,” Bishop told her, not so sure if he was more anxious or mad about the predicament.

“No, ma'am, we need you to wait out there. We have to ask you some questions.”

The same officer stepped up to the Bishop. “We have warrants for your arrest and to search the premises.” The policeman shoved both warrants at the bishop.

“Warrants! Arrest! Under arrest for what? What are the charges?” Bishop Jones's words fell out of his mouth and left it hanging open with him waiting for an answer.

“You're under arrest for dispensing pharmaceuticals without a license, racketeering and sexual assault.”

“What? Assault, are you kidding? Assault? This is a mistake.”

“Bishop Ellis Jones, can you please step forward,” an officer said, “and place your hands out front.” As he placed the cuffs on Bishop, he said, “You have the right to remain silent.”

Bishop was pretty sure the police recited the rest of the Miranda rights but nothing processed. He felt delirious. This wasn't happening, couldn't be. Although he had allowed this crisis to fester, he instinctively cried out to God. Who else could he call?

Simmons attempted to slide toward the door unnoticed. Two police officers stepped into his path. “Mr. Otis Simmons, you're also under arrest,” an officer said, slapping the warrant into the minister's hand. “Read Mr. Simmons his rights, but don't escort them from the building just yet.” The same officer turned to the policemen standing in the secretary's office and said, while making a circling motion above his head with his hands, “Bring in the dogs.”

“Dogs,” Simmons said shifting his gaze toward the bishop.

Time crawled by with the bishop and Simmons seated at the conference table in the office. Beads of sweat burned on Bishop Jones's forehead. He was unable to freely swipe at his brow, hindered by the handcuffs that were causing his wrists to swell. Minister Simmons sat next to him bouncing his leg up and down.

The bishop was used to maintaining composure and attempted to regain some. “I've had enough of this. I want to know what you're looking for. Where is my secretary? I need to call my attorney.” No one responded to the bishop. But, it wasn't long before he had more information than he wanted to know.

“Captain, we've got something here,” a voice cried out in the crowd of officers.

The fierce chaos got louder as they approached the front office. How many cops were there and what were they hoping to find? The bishop wasn't sure as he leaned forward, hoping to see past the officers standing in front of him. The sea of black uniforms parted and there stood an officer holding a box. Bishop could tell the officer had rank by the number of colorful bars on his jacket.

“What's that?” Bishop asked.

The officer set the open box on the table. Bishop's eyelids widened with disbelief. There were Ziploc bags of colorful pills and stacks of money the length and width of bricks wrapped in cellophane.

Bishop Jones turned slowly to look at Simmons. The bishop's breathing was rapid and deep, and his eyelids had narrowed into slits almost as thin as a dime. Simmons looked at the pills being dangled in the air, then at the money, and dropped his gaze.

Bishop Jones stood up shouting with a forceful wrath in his voice, “Where did you get that? Did you plant it here?”

“Sit down,” the officer commanded.

The bishop reluctantly obeyed the order, but he didn't keep quiet. “This is the house of God. I demand to know where you got that.” His shoulders shuddered with anger and anxiety.

The officer ignored the bishop's demands. “Bag it and tag it. I want a thorough search of the premises. If there are street drugs on the premise, I want to know that too. Don't leave a single Bible unturned.”

More officers, noise, and chaos engulfed the bishop's office. He was powerless witnessing the invasion of his privacy and enraged at the carelessness of Simmons. He turned in the minister's direction and pulled away his seething stare quickly.

Simmons hadn't said a word in the midst of what unfolded in front of him, but his tomato red face and the tear crawling down his cheek spoke loudly. Bishop Jones was far from silent. He rose from his seat steadfast, furious and demanding his rights.

“I want to call my attorney. Right now; I know my rights,” he protested lifting his handcuffed wrists out in front of him.

“Not a problem, Bishop Jones. You can call your attorney as soon as you've been booked and fingerprinted,” the policeman replied and then gave the order, “Let's get them downtown.”

The bishop was led out of his office in handcuffs and in sheer disbelief. As he passed through the outer office, he saw his secretary being questioned by an officer. He held on to her with his gaze, practically willing her to look in his direction. Disappointingly, she didn't read his mind or give him what he needed before he'd asked. He was marched down the hall, past the life-sized painting of Christ hanging on the cross. With two husky officers on each side, the bishop stumbled underneath the large wooden archway with his name on it, proclaiming him Bishop of Greater Metropolitan.

The double doors leading down the front steps of the church were next. The bishop cleared his throat, attempted to walk slower, but the officers escorting him were setting the pace. The two officers leading the way reached the double doors first. They swung them open with force, allowing the sunlight and every willing spectator to catch a clear view. Cameras, news reporters, church members, and more police offered Bishop Jones a bitter greeting. As he descended the steps, flashing cameras and microphones were thrust into his face. Recognition, interest, and scores of people appeared riveted by his presence but not for the reasons he wanted.