Relentless (22 page)

Nearly four weeks had passed since the arrests. Maxwell was euphoric, having filed the class action suit less than an hour before the courthouse closed today. Typically he would have closed out the civil case and then let the prosecutor have at the perpetrators in criminal court. Having both the civil and criminal cases going on simultaneously wasn't his preference. He sailed toward the courthouse doors, eager to get back to his office and prepare for trial. Reality was that he never expected the civil case against the bishop and his cohorts to gain traction. By now, Bishop Jones and the rest of his foot soldiers had probably lawyered up and cut heavily into the bucket of funds available for the lawsuit payout, which was why he was going after the church as a secondary option. In this case, Maxwell had to take what he could get. As he drew closer to the exit, his steps became more pronounced. Unfortunately, the poor plaintiffs didn't know what he expected, but there were instances when sacrifices from a few had to be realized for the greater good. He straightened his tie and shifted his suit coat so it hung perfectly.

He pushed the revolving door slowly, savoring the taste of victory. He hadn't won the case yet, but the satisfaction of having the bishop cuffed and paraded across the television like a common criminal was a win in itself. The rest was gravy.

The sunlight glistened across the pavement as the camera crew descended on him. Microphones and cameras were everywhere. Some would have been intimidated and darted from the madness in a cowardly fashion. Not Maxwell; this was the forum he craved. This stage called out to him.
Showtime.

His name was shouted from multiple directions. One aggressive reporter pushed up front and shoved the microphone close to his lips. “Mr. Montgomery, how strong is your civil case against Bishop Jones and the Greater Metropolitan Church?”

Maxwell loved the spotlight but was smart enough not to compromise his case by giving away too much too soon. Most likely the case would be settled out of court, and he'd have a gag order slapped on him prohibiting Maxwell from talking publicly about the details. He stretched his sleeves out and shook his cuff links. What the heck, he didn't care. This case was too big and meant too much for him to be silenced, not this time. “I've handled many cases in my fifteen years of practicing law, but this is the worst I've seen. It's a classic case of arrogance and a flagrant abuse of power. What's worse is that this case takes on a sinister component when the ringleader is a bishop, a man charged with helping people. Every occupation has worth, but some jobs have a greater level of accountability.”

“So, you believe Bishop Jones will be found liable?”

Maxwell grinned. “Our legal system entitles everybody to a speedy and fair trial, even the most despicable criminals with multiple cases pending.”

“Are you calling the bishop a despicable criminal?”

Maxwell pulled a pair of Ray-Ban shades from his inner pocket and slipped them onto his face, grinning all the while. “Let the bishop have his day in court, and I'm confident he will get exactly what he deserves. Actually, I should say both days in court,” he said with satisfaction as his grin widened.

“That sounds personal.”

Maxwell stared directly into the camera. “You're right, it is,” he declared and pushed through the crowd, pleased the man responsible for destroying his family was finally where he belonged—as close to hell as he could get on earth.

Garrett's words popped into his head as he strutted to his Porsche. What if the bishop was innocent and had no direct involvement in the drug trafficking or the sexual harassment? The question left his head as quickly as it had entered. Bishop Jones's innocence was irrelevant. He was guilty of many sins. It didn't really matter to Maxwell which act landed the man in prison for a few years, so long as that's where he landed.

Maxwell got into his car, dropped the convertible top, and sped off feeling as jubilant now as he had upon exiting the courthouse. He couldn't imagine anything changing his mood. His phone rang, but he ignored it wanting to bask in the moment for as long as possible. When the phone rang again and again, he pulled to the side of the road and took a quick glance. The digits weren't familiar, but whoever it was had better have the wrong number.

“Maxwell Montgomery here,” he said with a snip of bitterness.

“Maxwell, it's me.”

His sister's voice was faint but recognizable. “Christine, I didn't expect to hear from you.” Before he could ask why she was calling, Christine chimed in.

“I'm sorry to track you down like this, but it's Dad.”

“What about him?”

“He's had a massive heart attack. The ambulance is rushing him to the hospital.”

“Heart attack? I thought he had cancer.”

“He does but Mom and Dad have been watching the news every day since Bishop Jones was arrested. When he saw you a little while ago on the TV, I honestly think it became too much. He bent over clutching his chest and lost consciousness.”

Maxwell sat on the side of the road, speechless. He'd just experienced the most gratifying moment of his adult life, watching Bishop Jones get his due justice. To believe his joy was predicated on his father's pain didn't make him feel good. He had a sinking angst that wasn't budging. “Where is he now?”

“In the emergency room.”

Maxwell stumbled terribly over his words unable to coherently process Christine's revelation. He took a deep breath and pulled out a pen from his leather-bound pad. “What's the name of the hospital?”

“Oh my goodness,” Christine belted out, crying. “It would mean the world to Dad and Mom to see you.”

“Sis, I'm not making any promises, but I'll do what I can.”

“Maxwell?”

“What?”

“Don't wait too long, not if you want to see Dad alive.” He heard her and understood. “It may be too late already.”

Maxwell got off the phone but sat there for a long while, not sure what to do. If he went today, and his father lived, what was he going to say to him? If he didn't go, and his father died, how was he going to feel tomorrow? His emotions were torn.

After a few minutes, which seemed like hours, he maneuvered from the shoulder into traffic, not sure if he was making a right at the next light to go home or turning left to hit I-95 South toward Delaware. In thirty seconds his decision would be made. Until then, he let the wind graze his face and provide a brush of peace, a sensation he didn't expect to feel for a long time after he reached the light. No matter which way he went, Bishop Jones had won, again. He might be headed to prison, but Bishop Jones was dragging his father's heart with him. When would the torment end?

Maxwell reached the stoplight. He hesitated, and then darted into the left-turn lane. He hit the highway, deciding not to think too much. The plan was shaky and any heavy contemplation would have him back in downtown Philadelphia, pulling into his garage. He pressed the gas pedal, letting the car cruise around ninety miles an hour. He had to get to Delaware before he changed his mind.

Maxwell turned on the radio and scanned for a soft jazz station. Any soothing background noise would do. Just as he was settling down, the phone rang startling him. Maxwell tensed. Anxiety stifled him instantly. Many emotions tackled him. It had to be Christine. If she was calling back this quickly, it couldn't be good news. Could his father really be gone—dead? Maxwell wanted to scream, but who would hear him? Who would care about his ache? In that split second, the anger he'd harbored toward his father was empty.

The phone rang again. He answered the call while finagling his car to the shoulder. Maxwell cleared his throat in a fruitless attempt to brace himself for the news he wasn't prepared to hear. “This is Maxwell.”

“Mr. Montgomery, this is Pastor Harris.”

“Pastor Harris?” Maxwell repeated, not sure if he should be frustrated for having to pull off the road for a nonemergency, mad about the temp giving out his private number, or relieved that it was not his sister relaying bad news about his father's condition. Sentiments were mixed, and he'd sort them out later. For now he wanted to pull off and get to Delaware as soon as he could.

“Is this a good time to talk?”

“Not really. I'm on the highway.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I can speak with you later.”

“I figure your call must be important if you've tracked me down on my private line.”

“I had no idea this was your private number. I saw you on the news and felt led to offer you a word of encouragement. When I called your office they gave me this number. I apologize for any inconvenience I've caused you.”

Pastor Harris's gracious tone humbled Maxwell. His desire to get on the road hadn't diminished, but he could spare a second of courtesy. “It's no problem. I have a new assistant in the office, and she's learning her way around. It's not your fault she gave you this number.”

“I just hope it doesn't cause a problem for her.”

“It's fine, really, don't worry about the phone. How can I help you?” Maxwell adjusted his headset while peering into his side mirror, waiting for the perfect time to bolt into traffic.

“Like I said, I saw you on the news and felt led to call.”

“You can imagine how surprised I am to hear from you.”

“I don't know why,” Pastor Harris said.

“Because, I was instrumental in bringing down one of the most powerful ministries in Philadelphia. I'm not exactly the most revered man in the religious community. You know what I do, and I know what I do. So, it's no surprise my circle of friends doesn't include too many of your colleagues.”

“I can't speak for every man of the cloth, but I will say that those who seek after truth and righteousness will be rewarded. I am certainly not one to judge anybody, especially someone who believes they've been called by God to preach. Their walk and decisions are solely between them and God,” Pastor Harris proclaimed.

Maxwell didn't agree. Leaders were accountable to others, and ministers were no exception. He reared the engine to a cruising speed of eighty to wipe out the last seven miles separating him from the highway exit. “Pastor Harris, thank you for the call, but I'm in the midst of handling a personal crisis. My father is in the hospital.”

“Oh my.”

“He had a heart attack, and I'm trying to get there before anything happens.”

“What's your father's name? I'd like to pray for him.”

Maxwell wasn't big on prayer, but it wouldn't hurt to get some for his father. “Sure, it would be nice,” he said, shocked to hear those words roll across his lips. “His name is Paul.” He paused taking in the gravity of his father's name, the one he bore but didn't use. “Paul Montgomery Sr. would appreciate your prayer and so would I.”

“Consider it done. I will be lifting up your entire family and believing God for strength and direction. Be safe my friend and maybe I'll see you at Faith Temple in the near future.”

“You never know, maybe.”

Maxwell ended the call and for an unexplainable reason, he felt a sense of peace that wasn't present earlier. He didn't believe in religious mumbo jumbo. So, his initial instinct said his sensation had no connection with Pastor Harris, but Maxwell took pride in being a sensible man. Two plus two was four, one plus one was two. It would be plain silly to ignore the obvious. Maxwell had noticed an element of sincerity each time he'd interacted with the pastor. He signaled to change lanes as the exit approached. Could it be possible? Could he have found the one legitimate minister in the whole of Philadelphia? He'd find out soon enough, but not right now. Zipping off the exit, his hope was high, miles left to travel were few, and the minutes were short. There was an old man clinging to life who took precedence and with any luck or help from the pastor's prayer, Maxwell would arrive at the hospital in time to make peace with his father while it counted.

Maxwell pulled into the first available parking space thrusting the gearshift into park. Hustling at a brisk pace, his focus latched on to the silver letters on the building that spelled out WILMINGTON. His father had been sick for a while. Maxwell hadn't expressed any concern or even made a follow-up call when Christine told him his father may have cancer. Now he was eager to see his father after years of estrangement.

The piercing sound of an ambulance's siren sent a wave of anxiety cruising through Maxwell's body. He squeezed his fist tightly, quickly sensing the fingernails boring into his palm. Just as he pushed the cell phone into his pants pocket, it rang. Maxwell couldn't talk and would send the call to voicemail. His focus wasn't on Bishop Jones or anything work related. He glanced at the screen. After it stopped, the phone rang again. It was Christine. He froze instantly, and stood staring at the phone. Maxwell was numb as emotions and regrets tackled him. Was his father dead? He wasn't sure, but he didn't want to take the chance of hearing those words on the phone. Maxwell silenced the ringer and burst through the double doors of the hospital.

Maxwell stopped at the information desk and was told his father was upstairs in intensive care. The elevator moved in slow motion. He counted the floors with every number that lit up above the elevator doors. Finally, the elevator bell chimed, and the doors opened to the fifth floor. Maxwell took long strides that got him to the nurses' station in seconds. “Paul Montgomery, my father, he's here in intensive care. May I see him?” Maxwell's words,
my father,
echoed in his mind. He wasn't sure if those words had been uttered out of an abundance of compassion, concern, or fear.

“Sir, the doctor and his wife are in with him now. There are other family members in the waiting room around the corner, second door on the left. Have a seat in there, and you'll be able to see him shortly.”

“Thank you,” Maxwell responded pulling his hands back from the countertop. The nurse's proclamation about other family members put a chokehold on him preventing Maxwell's feet from moving. He hadn't seen his family in years. How much had his mother changed? Did she keep her hair thick and long? Maxwell shook his head forcing out the taunting images. Two more steps and he turned the corner. Six steps and he was standing in front of the waiting room door. Maxwell gripped the knob tightly, counted one, two, three and pushed the door open. He didn't have to scan the room for his family. Immediately, a voice drew his attention and pulled at his heart.

“Uncle Max.” Tyree ran across the room and jumped into Maxwell's arms. “Hey, Uncle Max,” he said, throwing his arms around his neck and squeezing.

“What's up, little man?” Maxwell was comforted by Tyree's hug.

Christine rushed over and swallowed Maxwell and Tyree up into a single embrace. “I'm so glad to see you.”

Maxwell waited for her to release her hold. He was glad there was no one else in the waiting room. “How is Dad?”

Christine's arms fell to her sides. Her puffy red eyes gave Maxwell a hint at the answer. “He's not doing well at all.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Mom and the doctor are in with him. They've been in there fifteen minutes already.” She lifted Tyree from Maxwell's arms. “Sweetie, go sit down. I need to speak with Uncle Max for a minute.”

“But, Mom, I need to tell him about my birthday party. Uncle Max didn't come, remember?”

“You'll get to talk to him. He's not leaving.” Christine glanced up at Maxwell for confirmation. “Right?”

“Right,” Maxwell assured Tyree peering past Christine to witness the delight on his nephew's face.

Christine latched on to Maxwell's wrist and led him across the room near the door. Her nails dug into him and her voice trembled. “What if he dies?”

He had wondered the same thing but for probably different reasons. Maxwell wasn't sure of the exact moment when his perspective had shifted, but he didn't want his dad to die without having a chance to build a bridge over the empty valley of sorrows between them. Maxwell could feel the sharp, pointed needles of regret poking at him. But how could he make it right? Maxwell was a grown man. His father was an old man. Both had their way of being.

“Maxwell, do you hear me?” Christine tugged hard at the lapel of Maxwell's suit jacket. “Don't you care?”

“He won't die, Christine. He just can't.” Maxwell thought about the Father's Days, holidays, and birthdays that had passed by without him contacting his dad. There was so much lost time with his father that he couldn't restore. It was gone forever. In the courtroom he had some power. In this situation, he could only hope for the best.

 

 

Maxwell and Christine lingered in the waiting room, along with Tyree, who had fallen asleep. Thirty minutes had passed and their mother hadn't returned with an update. Maxwell rubbed his hand across the top of Tyree's soft hair. “I'll go find out what's going on. It's been long enough. Someone should be able to tell us something by now.” A commotion in the hallway swept past the waiting room on the heels of Maxwell's comment.

Two nurses and a doctor hustled by the waiting room. Another person whisked by hurrying in the same direction. Christine sprang from her chair. “It's Dad. I know it's Dad. I can feel it.” Six wide steps and she was at the door pulling it open with such force, the door slammed into the wall. A loud female voice could be heard around the corner.

“He's coding. I've got a code in five ten.”

“Code blue, stat,” rang out over the intercom.

Maxwell swept up Tyree and rushed down the hallway behind Christine. He stopped when he saw his mother standing outside of a room with her hand pressed against the thick glass window. The curtains were closed, but the noise and voices inside spilled into the hallway making it clear there was trouble inside.

The louder the ruckus on the inside got, the softer Ethel prayed. With tears crawling down her face and hands planted on the window, she began to tremble. There she was, Maxwell's mother. He couldn't remember when he'd last seen her. She was thinner. Her hair was much shorter and hands covered with wrinkles. Her prayer was transforming into inaudible moans. “Mom,” Maxwell called out softly.

Ethel opened her eyelids and spoke her son's name: “Paul, oh my God, Paul. You're here.”

Maxwell didn't correct her. This time being called Paul wasn't irritating. He knew his mother would try to hug him as she made her way toward him. Before he could decide if he would allow the connection to happen, or not, another wave of panic roared through ICU. A thick voice inside senior's room could be heard by Maxwell and his family.

“We're losing him,” a man yelled out. The sound of movement and calamity inside the room drew everyone's attention. The same male demanded, “Clear, hit him again.”

Maxwell's mother clung to him with her arms wrapped around his waist and her head buried into his chest. She prayed through her sobbing. He couldn't push her away. She was emotionally fragile and needed him. Her embrace couldn't be denied. Christine tried comforting Tyree, who was now crying, while moving as close to Maxwell as possible. “Paul, we can't lose our father,” she told him laying her head on her brother's shoulder.

Maxwell's personal space was completely gone. His safe distance maintained by keeping miles between him and his family were instantly removed by the crisis at hand. In the moment, he couldn't deny his family. Their touch, the smell of perfume, their fear was all tangible as they leaned on him for support. Maxwell's focus darted to his father's door. After what seemed like an eternity, medical staff trickled out.

“What's going on?” Maxwell demanded.

No one answered him except a nurse who told Maxwell the doctor would be out soon.

There weren't any loud shouts spilling into the hallway. It was too quiet. Maxwell's mother and Christine were both mumbling almost in unison. He was pretty sure they were praying. Tyree had quieted. Just as Maxwell was pulling Tyree closer, his father's door opened. A short olive-skinned man emerged from the room.

With her hand pressed flat against her chest, Ethel asked, “Doctor, what's going on? How is my husband?”

“Is he all right? Tell me he's all right.” Christine blurted out with a trembling voice.

The doctor ushered them down the hallway a few steps. Maxwell assumed leadership. “Just tell us what's going on, Doctor. How is he?” Maxwell took a step closer to the doctor.

With a thick accent, the doctor replied, “Mr. Montgomery has suffered a massive heart attack. He is stable for the moment. However, that could change quickly. His heart stopped twice. He was out for a little over two minutes the first time and just over a minute the second time.” The doctor removed his glasses, allowing his intense stare to pass over each of their faces. “We can't determine if there is any permanent damage to his heart or his brain without running some tests. He's too weak for that right now. Tell me, has he been under any stress lately?”

Maxwell heard his mother tell the doctor yes. He halfway expected her to look his way when she answered. Ethel didn't, but she did say he hadn't been sleeping well. His blood pressure had been consistently too high and there were family issues constantly worrying him. Maxwell listened intently at the exchange between his mother and the doctor before interjecting. “Will he be all right?”

“It's too early to tell. Let's get through the night. We will run some tests in the morning and hopefully have a better idea of what we are up against. The stress along with the cancer treatment has put a strain on his heart. We are doing the very best we can for him. His regular doctor will be here in the morning and will take over his care,” the doctor answered with his gaze holding on to Maxwell.

“When can I see him?” Ethel asked, patting Maxwell on his arm.

“Let him rest tonight. The nurse will let you know when you are able to see him,” the doctor answered, putting his glasses back on. “Go home, get some rest. There's really nothing more you can do here tonight.”

“Doctor, I'm not leaving my husband's side. Now I can sit quietly in his room and not make a sound.”

“I understand your concern, but ICU rooms aren't set up for overnight visitors.”

Maxwell could tell his mother wasn't giving in. “Mom, why don't we sit in the waiting room together for as long as you want. You'll be right down the hall from Dad.”

She seemed to contemplate his suggestion and finally agreed.

Christine told her mother and Maxwell she would be back at the hospital as soon as she got Tyree settled with a sitter. She tried to convince her mother to go home with her and they could come back together. Ethel was determined not to leave her husband's side or let her son out of her sight.

Maxwell and his mother took a seat in the waiting room. His mother talked, he listened. She talked about when he was a little boy, how cute and smart he was. She told him how much she'd missed him and that God answered her prayers by allowing her to see him after so many years.

Maxwell didn't want to dwell on the number of years. The tiny age lines that sprouted from the corners of her eyes and the strands of gray that streaked her hair wouldn't let him ignore the fact that so many meaningful years had slipped by. His mother told him how much she loved him and that everything happens for a reason. Listening to her, he knew he had to talk to his father.