Relentless (21 page)

Sonya was overwhelmed. There was a flurry of activity in the office. The phone was constantly ringing since the arrests had been made at Greater Metropolitan. Briefs had to be filed and depositions had to be taken. Thank goodness she'd gotten permission to hire a temporary office assistant who could help take calls, run errands, get documents to the courthouse, and do whatever else had to be done on short notice.

“Excuse me, Sonya,” the temp said, sitting at a makeshift desk and call center. “There's a Steve Burton on line one.”

Sonya was instantly nervous, searching the room to see if her boss was in the vicinity. She didn't see him and was slightly relieved but not totally safe. “I'll take the call in the library. Please forward the call in there for me.” Sonya thanked her assistant and rushed to the phone. She entered the library as the phone rang and grabbed it right away. “Uncle Steve, why are you calling me here?” she said, basically whispering.

“They're only letting me make one call.”

“Who?” she asked desperate to get off the line.

“I've been arrested. I'm in jail at the Roundhouse downtown.”

Sonya gasped and dropped to a seat. “Oh no, Uncle Steve, what happened? What are you doing in jail?” Her uncle had always been a good, honest, churchgoing man. She couldn't imagine any reason for him to be locked up, none. “It must be some mistake.”

“I sure hope so,” he said.

“Seriously, what are you doing down there?” she asked.

“I was arrested along with the other church leaders.”

“Those people were arrested a week ago. Are you telling me you've been downtown almost a week?” she said, no longer concerned with keeping her voice low.

“Oh no, I came down this morning.”

“Wow.”

“Look, I don't have much time. I'm calling because Mr. Montgomery agreed to help me if I needed it and clearly I do.”

Sonya was sick at the thought of her dear uncle being locked up. She'd totally forgotten about her boss and all of his connections until her uncle mentioned his name. He was definitely the answer. He didn't handle criminal cases, but he could recommend someone who did. “Let me go get him. He has to help you, Uncle.”

“Sonya,” he blurted, “don't tell him we're related.”

“I'm not worried about him knowing anymore. My top priority is getting you out. I don't care about the rest.”

“I'll be fine, but I don't want you to lose your job behind this. Please, do me a favor and don't tell him we're related, please, niece.”

“All right, I won't say anything unless I have to. Hold on before your call gets cut off.”

She dashed from the room and went straight to her boss's office. Sonya knocked rapidly and repeatedly until Maxwell opened his door.

“Sonya, what's going on? Can I help you?” he asked clearly agitated by her persistence.

“Deacon Burton is on the phone. He's been arrested and wants to speak with you.”

“Really, arrested. Hmm,” he said seemingly surprised.

She was anxious to get him on the phone. Her uncle's call had probably ended already, but they could get him back on the line. Maxwell Montgomery had deep connections at City Hall, and she needed him to use each one to get her uncle out. He was an innocent man and didn't deserve to spend a second more down there. She knew her boss would take care of this and her disposition settled. “He wants to speak with you.”

“Me?” he said moving away from the door and toward his desk.

“Yes, you,” she said firmly. “He said you offered to help him.”

Maxwell returned to his desk and began typing into his electronic tablet. “I don't know why he called me. I can't help him.”

“What do you mean?” she asked becoming more antsy and irritated. For sure her uncle's call had been terminated by now. “He seemed pretty sure you could help him.”

“I may have spoken hastily when I made the offer. Clearly Bishop Jones and his entire staff are dealing with a litany of charges. I couldn't help him if I wanted to. He needs an attorney who practices criminal law, not a civil lawyer.”

“Will you at least take the call and give him some hope?”

“No, I won't, and why do you care so much about what happens to the deacon?”

This was her moment to come clean and let him know they were related. She was ready to open her mouth and let the truth soar, but her uncle's voice rang in her ear forcing Sonya to keep quiet on the matter. “He seemed to believe you made him a promise. I truly believe he's counting on you.”

“Well, I'm sorry to hear that, but I can give you the name of a good defense attorney if it will help.”

Her uncle wasn't rich. There wasn't money hanging from trees in her family. Where was Uncle Steve going to get big money for a real lawyer? Sonya was fuming. Mostly she felt guilty. It was her suggestion that he expose Greater Metropolitan. She was the one who pushed her uncle into meeting Mr. Montgomery and setting the legal action in motion. She winced at the price he was paying for being honest: a couple of nights in jail and no lawyer.

“Thanks,” she said refraining from slamming the door off the hinges. She was steaming mad and practically running to the library only to find the line dead. She stood with the phone in her hand, pondering what to do. Her uncle needed her help and he'd have it; that was, right after she crafted her resignation letter. She'd start looking for a new job immediately. Once she got the new job, Sonya planned to hand this jerk her letter. She didn't give two hoots about the amount of work in the queue, especially the Greater Metropolitan civil complaint they were pushing to complete and get filed. There was no way he could handle the load without her. Too bad for him. He'd better work it out with the new temp who came onboard yesterday. His needs were no longer her concern.

She relished the image of informing him about her resignation. Then he'd get a taste of what it felt like to need help, expect it, but not get it.
He'll get his,
she thought, placing the phone receiver back into its base. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon.

 

 

Maxwell wanted to bask in glory after Sonya left his office. The bishop and his ministerial staff were eventually going from jail to prison for a few years. He wanted to be ecstatic, truly Maxwell did, but the joy wasn't rising. He actually felt sorry for Deacon Burton. From what he could tell the man appeared to be pretty decent. It was as if the deacon was plastered in his mind. The image wouldn't dissipate. Although he wasn't happy about the predicament, Maxwell knew he couldn't offer any assistance to the deacon without compromising the entire case and creating a conflict of interest. He'd worked too many years and had given up too much to lose perspective now. Maxwell kicked Burton out of his conscience and attempted to get back to work.

He sighed poring over his laptop not making much progress. He was bound by the past and the grip was tightening. His father had been a decent man too, but it hadn't saved him from prison. He scratched across his forehead with eyelids shut. Where was the help when his parents were facing prison time? No one stepped in and rescued them just because they seemed to be good people. Nobody cared about the two children they were leaving orphaned at home. Well, practically orphaned. They had no choice but to live with an aunt until their mother was released. His aunt wasn't nurturing. He and Christine didn't go off to school with a hug and kiss, the way their mom had sent them out of the house each morning. Their aunt didn't have much patience or money and the stench of her cigarette smoke and beer bottles made living with her unbearable. Maxwell drew in a gasp of air. To heck with Greater Metropolitan; he didn't owe any of them a single act of kindness. Let them reap precisely what they'd sown: zero compassion.

The only victims truly worthy of his help were people like Jill and the business owners who were unfairly rezoned from their property. They rightfully deserved substantial settlements, which were expected to bankrupt the bishop. Maxwell had no problem relying on favors when he'd asked that Jill's involvement in the prescription drug scheme be reduced to a low-grade misdemeanor with five years probation, no fines, and no jail time. In exchange, Maxwell turned over every shred of evidence he and Garrett had gathered, saving the prosecutor months of work. Maxwell didn't hesitate in securing the deal for Jill, although he felt the city was getting more than they deserved. He didn't care. Jill was worth saving. He would take care of her on the civil case too. If Maxwell had his way, her restitution would also cover her stay at the best rehab facility in North America. More than getting a fat paycheck, he wanted Jill to get her life back. He made a mental note. Regardless of what happened in court, he would make sure she got treatment on his nickel for her kid's sake. If he could save one child from being separated from a parent who actually cared, then his effort had paid off by the billions.

Sonya knocked on the door breaking his concentration. “Yes, what do you need?” he asked somewhat agitated, flopping back and forth from the tablet to his laptop. He wasn't interested in bantering about the deacon again and hoped she got the hint.

“I'll be out for the afternoon.”

“Seriously, we have a boatload of work to get done.”

“The temp will be here. Maybe she won't mind picking up the extra hours,” Sonya said with a weird tone of complacency.

“Is she a paralegal? Exactly how much can she do without your direct supervision?”

“I don't know,” she said without elaborating.

“Is there any way you can stay until three or so?”

“Nope,” she said leaning on the doorknob. “I have a family emergency that's going to take most of the afternoon to handle. Nothing is more important to me right now, nothing.”

“All right then!” Before she left he asked, “Can I help?”

Sonya turned toward him and with a staunch deposition responded, “I don't think so,” and walked out of sight.

Maxwell couldn't pinpoint the source of their discord, but something was going on with Sonya. Unless his imagination was completely out of whack, it felt like she had an attitude. He wondered what was giving her angst and racked his brain trying to think of anything else that might have upset Sonya in his office. It couldn't possibly be related to the conversation about that Deacon Burton and the Greater Metropolitan business. But, she was a member of the church and most likely had loyalties to a few of the criminals arrested. Oh well, he'd let it go declaring her attitude was exclusively related to her personal emergency. He resumed typing on the laptop. Whatever was bugging her he hoped was fixed before she got back. Distractions weren't welcomed.

Bishop Jones closed his prayer time with, “In Jesus' name. Amen.” He'd been on his aching knees asking God for mercy and direction. He prayed as sincerely and intensely as a jail cell allowed. The concrete floor lacked the plush comfort his thick-carpeted sanctuary, church office, and home provided: the places where he was accustomed to praying. A loud grunt escaped his lips when he pressed down onto the steel cot and braced himself to get up from the cold floor. Standing in the middle of the jail cell, he couldn't believe his current circumstances. His eyes glazed over the stainless steel commode. The steel sink counted seconds of each hour with endless dripping. There was an upper and a lower bunk. As of now, he did not have a cellmate. The bishop combed the width of the six-by-eight jail cell from one side to the other counting aloud each of the twenty-one bars that held him captive.

He sat on the bottom bunk, laced his fingers together, and dropped his head. He didn't have long to sulk in his cold corner of the world before someone spoke to him.

“Bishop Jones, you have visitors.” The guard's snicker coupled with the jingling keys mocked Bishop as he stood. He schlepped over to the cell door, pushed his hands through the small open slot and felt the handcuffs grip his wrists tightly. “You know the drill by now. When you get down to the visiting room, keep your hands visible once you initially greet your visitors.”

In silence, Bishop Jones watched the cell doors open. He stepped out of his small, confined area and into the open space. He looked back at the cell, happy for the wide berth that now stood between him and his pit, though it would be short-lived.

He arrived at a private visiting room he'd been in twice since his arrest several weeks ago. He peeked through the small square glass on the door. There was his wife. Her face was filled with worry and weariness. His lawyer was there, too. The officer unlocked the handcuffs and opened the door, nodding for him to walk through the doorway. The bishop rubbed at both of his wrists and stepped inside the room. Doors had often been opened for him. Usually applauses and crowds of people anxious to hear him preach were on the other side. Not today.

“Ellis.” His wife's greeting reached him before he could make it across the room to her. She stretched out her arms latching on to him the moment he was within her reach. “Ellis, are you okay?” When she released her hold, she checked him from the top of his head down to his feet. She covered her mouth with both hands then patted her tears before they could fall.

“I'm okay, sweetie. I'm okay. Don't worry about me. Please don't worry about me.” He glanced back at the officer, wanting to embrace his wife again, but he knew the rules. He took her hand into his, squeezing it tightly, and turned to his lawyer and gave him a strong handshake. “Thanks for coming. I was hoping to see you soon.”

The three sat and the bishop's lawyer gave him an update on his case. “We have good news. After the money laundering and fraud charges were added last week, there haven't been any other charges presented. I'm still working on getting your assets freed up, but that will take some time, especially with the IRS getting involved.” The bishop grimaced. “Be patient. We have a lot to work with, but you're innocent. We'll get you out soon.”

Bishop just shook his head. “I see.”

The lawyer informed Bishop that Councilman Chambers had also been charged with fraud and racketeering. The defense attorney was concerned that Councilman Chambers would cut a deal and be called as a witness for the prosecution. He laid out his defense strategy and worked on a list of character witnesses with the bishop and his wife.

“We need to talk about your involvement. I have to review what you knew and when.”

“I'll gladly tell you what I know,” Bishop responded.

“First, I have to ask Mrs. Jones to leave the room.”

“No, I want to support my husband. No matter what he's done, I'm standing with him.”

“That's great, but I have to talk with him privately. Any information you hear could be used against him during cross-examination if we decide to use you as a character witness,” the lawyer stated.

“Oh, I see.” She fumbled with her hands. “I'll go, because I don't want to do anything that's going to hurt you, Ellis.”

“I'm going to be all right,” the bishop told her, not totally sure.

Once she'd left the room, the lawyer began his questions. “I need you to tell me again exactly what you knew and how you found out about the prescription drugs being sold by Minister Simmons.”

Bishop Jones recalled the talks with Simmons and Jill that had now turned into the nightmare he was living. Once he'd heard his own voice describe the course of events and the lawyer had picked his story apart, question after question, he felt spent, disappointed, and remorseful.

“I can't believe I'm in jail and up against such ugly charges.”

“It's absurd for your bail to be set so high for these types of charges. One and a half million dollars is steep,” the attorney stated peering at Bishop. “But there's tremendous pressure coming from the public; add a zealous prosecutor, and this is where we are.”

“This is killing my family and the church. I need a lower bail.”

“As of now you're being considered a flight risk, but I've petitioned the court for another bond hearing.”

“Where would I go?” he uttered letting his voice rise until the guard eyeballed him.

“Don't worry. My job is to get you out of here and back home as quickly as possible.”

Bishop's gaze plummeted. “I don't have any money to make bail, not with them freezing my accounts and assets based on the money laundering and fraud charges. We probably can't get any money on the house either with my name on the deed.”

“What about support from the church?” the lawyer asked. “I've spoken with the heads of both the deacon and trustee boards. There was some resistance, but they've offered to assist in your bail.”

“No way,” Bishop roared, calming down when the guard stared at him again. “I'm not dragging the church any further into this. No way. I'd rather sit in jail than to let Greater Metropolitan bail me out. If I'm getting out, it will be up to God.” His body felt limp thinking about the financial nightmare his wife might endure without him being at home to take care of matters. He was grieved beyond comfort. “This is a disgrace,” he cried out. “I can't even pay you.”

“Let's get you out of jail first and then tackle other matters,” the lawyer said latching his fingers.

Bishop Jones wasn't comforted. “This is too much. I can't handle this.”

“Yes, you can, and you will. There are people counting on you.”

“I've failed God's calling on my life. When I found out what Simmons was doing, I told him to stop. I was very clear when I said he would not remain on staff at the church if he continued. I even had a second conversation with him in the sanctuary, challenging him to make sure he had put an end to this drug thing.” Bishop glanced over at the guard then back at his lawyer. With a glossy gaze that clouded his vision, he pushed his words out past the tightness in his throat. “I should have done more to stop Simmons. Because I didn't, I've ended up hurting us all. I've made some huge mistakes. I didn't steer Simmons away from his involvement like I should have. It was obvious that the money and power was too much for him to give up. Now, his sin and my negligence has cost us dearly, especially me, my family and the church. May the Lord forgive me for my part.”

“Did you ever give Simmons the okay to proceed with selling the drugs on behalf of you or the church?”

“Absolutely not; I admit that at first I considered it, but God got a hold of me and got my mind right. No, I didn't approve, and Simmons knew I didn't. Like I said, I told him more than once.”

“Why did you consider it at all?” the lawyer asked.

“Because we needed the money. I got the church into a tough spot. I was filled with pride. I was too aggressive with my plans to build a mega ministry. It was indeed God's direction, but I took some short cuts along the way, short cuts that hurt people. In doing so, I became unworthy.” Bishop Jones glanced down at the state-issued shoes that were pinching his toes. They were miles away from his soft Italian leather footwear, which felt as soft as socks. Being out of God's will wasn't a desirable place to be; everything was hard.

“Pride may not be a redeeming quality, Bishop, but it is definitely not a crime,” the lawyer echoed. “I'm only concerned about your defense, and right off the top, I'm confident the racketeering charges will be dropped. There's no evidence against you, and the fraud we can handle too.”

“What about the drug charges? They found bags of pills in the church.”

“Dispensing drugs is at most a year of jail time and a fine. I should be able to get the sentence reduced to time served on that one.”

“I'm not so sure,” the bishop uttered in a sullen tone.

“I have to ask again, are you sure you didn't sell drugs or help anyone else do so?” the lawyer asked.

“I absolutely did not have anything to do with selling prescription drugs, certainly not stashing them in the church and coercing poor Sister Jill into helping.”

“Now, she's going to be our challenge,” the lawyer said wringing his hands. “We have to deal with the sexual assault head-on.”

Bishop began perspiring profusely. He brushed the palm of his hand across his forehead. “I didn't touch her,” he spewed not necessarily at his lawyer.

“I understand, but as the senior leader at Greater Metropolitan, the prosecutor and some in the public will want to make you culpable.”

Stress ensued. Over the past few days, Bishop Jones could feel his orange jumpsuit fitting looser than it had when initially issued to him. His presence faded under the avalanche of emotions that came along with his repentance.

Time passed and Mrs. Jones was allowed back in. She reclaimed the seat next to him. Getting as close to her as allowed, he spilled out the last little core of his heart. “I'm so sorry for the embarrassment this has caused you. I'm sorry this has hurt the church we've labored over for so many years.” He swallowed down the emotion that was clawing at his throat with an audible grunt. “I'm sorry for hurting you and causing the pain I see in your eyes. I am not guilty of these charges against me. This thing is some type of persecution. Not just a personal attack on me but on the church too. But, I won't be defeated. I know the power of prayer, and I will trust and hold on to my faith that God will make everything right in His time.” Bishop Jones tried hard to block out doubt, desperately wanting to believe his statement was true.