Sins of the Mother (37 page)

She held Jacqueline tighter. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to go to the police station.” His voice was low. “Hosea,” was all he said.

It was hard for her to take her hands off Jacqueline, but she handed her daughter to her father-in-law and led Brother Hill into the far corner. And in fewer than twenty words, he explained that Hosea had been arrested for attempted murder.

She would have fainted right there if Jacqueline hadn’t spoken her first word.

“Mama!”

The decision was made. Reverend Bush would be the one to leave. And she would follow her plan—never, ever to leave her daughter again . . .

“Jasmine?”

Her eyes were glazed from those memories when she looked up.

Hosea said, “I heard the phone.”

She’d been so deep in her thoughts that she’d almost forgotten the call. But now that he reminded her, fear returned to her heart. Thumping. Throbbing. She had to swallow before she
nodded. “It was Dale. The verdict’s in. We have to be at the courthouse in two hours.”

He moved slowly, then lowered himself next to her on the sofa. She knew his thoughts were her thoughts:
Would this be the last time he’d be in their home? Would these be the last hours that he would spend with her and their children?
As she asked herself those questions, as she sat next to him, shoulder to shoulder, her fear dissipated and her anger returned . . .

She had been fighting mad, at first. As she had sat in that hospital room with Jacqueline, along with Mae Frances and Mrs. Whittingham, who had taken the place of Reverend Bush, Jasmine had tried to figure out what was going on. It didn’t make sense . . . Hosea and attempted murder in the same sentence? This was some kind of big mistake. Didn’t the police know Hosea Bush? Didn’t they know that he was a world-renowned gentle man, who loved and obeyed the Lord above all else? And a man who loved God the way Hosea did would never do anything that came close to attempted murder.

Those were the thoughts in her head.

In her heart, though, was the truth. She knew exactly what had happened. From the moment Dr. Stewart had explained Jacqueline’s condition, Hosea’s rage had been palpable, filling the air with a suffocating stench.

And then he’d disappeared.

Somehow, he had found a gun . . . found that man . . . and made him pay for what he’d done to their daughter.

That was her theory as she carried Jacqueline home after Dr. Stewart had finally released her, with orders for the family to visit the child psychologist three times weekly. But although Malik had called and kept her posted on what was happening with Hosea through the night, she didn’t have any real answers.

As the clocked ticked and the hours went by, Mae Frances
and Mrs. Whittingham had slept in the children’s rooms, while Jasmine had held a vigil for Hosea in their room, with their daughter and son in the bed with her. She hadn’t closed her eyes—all she could do was stare at Jacqueline. And when she blinked, all she could do was think about Hosea.

It was midmorning when the half-million-dollar bail had been set and posted and Hosea finally had trudged into their still-quiet apartment. Jasmine had met him at the threshold of their bedroom.

“I am so mad at you,” she’d hissed. “How could you do that? How could you risk our family this way?” And then she’d thrown her arms around him and held him as if she never wanted to let go.

Still, she had questions, and she planned to ask him every one. Until she noticed that Hosea wasn’t holding her back. She followed his gaze and realized that his eyes and his thoughts were beyond her. He was focused on Jacqueline.

Of course,
she thought. He had left the hospital to go murder a man; he hadn’t seen their daughter.

She released him from the embrace and watched with tear-filled eyes as he took slow steps to their king-size bed. He sat on the edge, on the side where Jacqueline slept, and reached toward her, his arm pausing in midair before he touched her. Then he just sat and watched her sleep. Jasmine wasn’t sure how much time passed before his head began to shake and his shoulders shuddered. She crouched in front of him and rested her head on his lap.

He wept. And she cried with him. She cried . . . and had no more questions for her husband. Because now she understood.

Those were their last quiet hours.

Right after noon, the concierge called up to their apartment. “Mrs. Bush,” he had whispered into the telephone, “there’s a bunch of press here asking all kinds of questions.”

“What?” Jasmine had exclaimed. “Questions about what?”

“Mostly about Mr. Bush. I didn’t say a thing, but they’re questioning everyone who comes in or walks out of the building.”

She’d thanked the doorman, then told Hosea.

“Dale told me to expect this.”

Expect it? Press was the last thing she’d expected. After all, there hadn’t been much coverage for Jacqueline. Why were they interested in the Bushes now?

Then Dale and Reverend Bush had arrived, carrying coffee and newspapers with front-page stories about the Bushes.

The
New York Post
had the most controversial headline: “Uptown Preacher Packs a Pistol.”

Inside the study, away from their children, who played under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Sloss, Mrs. Whittingham, and Mae Frances, Dale explained that this was going to be their lives for the next few months.

“It’s a sensational story,” Dale said. “The press is going to stay all over this.”

“Why?” Jasmine asked. “Why now?”

Reverend Bush answered, “Because this is an attempted murder case,” and he glanced at his son as if he still couldn’t believe what he’d done. “At least that man didn’t die,” the reverend whispered.

“Yeah, that’s the good thing. And actually, the charges have already been reduced,” Dale said to them as he and Jasmine sat across from Reverend Bush. Hosea stood at the window, separate from them. As if he wasn’t part of the conversation.

“Reduced? That’s good news, right?” Jasmine had asked with hope in her voice. Since Hosea had come home, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about the implications of his arrest.

“It is good news,” Dale had said. “It’s no longer attempted murder.”

For the first time, Hosea spoke. “I wasn’t trying to kill him,” he said, without turning around.

Dale nodded. “The police kind of figured that out, and the DA wants a conviction, so he’s going along with it.”

Jasmine and her father-in-law wore matching frowns. Reverend Bush asked, “What did they figure out?”

Dale looked at Hosea, waiting for him to explain. But when he kept his back to the three, Dale said, “It seems your son knows how to handle a gun.”

“Yeah,” Reverend Bush said, looking between Hosea and Dale. “He was an expert marksman in the Marines.”

Dale said, “So, if he’d wanted to, Hosea could have hit him in his head or his chest.” He spoke as if Hosea was not in the room. “He could have killed him . . . but he didn’t.”

“I told you, I wasn’t trying to kill him.”

Jasmine looked up at Hosea. “So . . . you were just trying to hurt him?” Her confusion was apparent.

Dale answered, “Hosea shot the man right between his legs. He castrated him with a gun.”

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, appalled at first.

“That’s all I wanted to do,” Hosea said, still not facing them.

Jasmine wasn’t sure if it was the image or the pressure that made her giggle.

He castrated him with a gun!

And then she laughed. It became a full-out guffaw. She would have been rolling on the floor if she’d had enough room.

A couple of minutes passed before she noticed that she was the only one laughing, and that two pairs of male eyes were staring her down. Hosea still gazed out the window.

“Jasmine,” Dale said, in a tone that told her he found nothing funny, “that man bled so much he could have died.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, waving her hand and trying to control
herself. But she wasn’t sorry about a thing. After what that man did to their daughter—that memory wiped any residual laughter right away. “So what happens now?” she asked, suddenly sober.

Dale glared at her, as if he’d taken her laughter personally. “Like I said, the charges have been reduced, but they’re still serious. Assault with a deadly weapon and reckless endangerment. Hosea could still go away for a long time.” Dale looked straight at Jasmine. “Twenty years.”

That was the first time that her heart had pounded like it was trying to get away.

“Twenty years? Oh, my God!” She couldn’t imagine a life where her children would see their father only through vertical bars or panes of bulletproof glass. “He can’t go to jail, Dale. You have to do something. That man, he took our daughter. And the things he did to her . . .” She stopped when she heard Hosea moan. When she saw his fingers curl, she shut her mouth. She didn’t want to say anything that might send Hosea after that man again.

“That’s why we’re here,” Dale said. “To talk this out and make sure Hosea doesn’t go to jail. I was thinking about an insanity plea . . . temporary insanity. Especially since his
intent
was not murder. And there’s not a father in America who wouldn’t be able to identify with this.”

“That’s good.” Jasmine nodded. “Temporary insanity.” She glanced at her husband, still standing at the window. Still not looking at them. It was clear, he wasn’t yet in his right mind.

“The thing we have going for us,” Dale continued, “is that this happened in New York.”

Reverend Bush nodded. “Because of the city’s history.”

“Yup . . . vigilante justice. Start with Bernard Goetz and come forward. New Yorkers are hardened, sometimes heartless, civilians who have been tired of the city’s crime for a long time,
and they believe that there are moments when you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do. We put one of those people on the jury and, best case, an acquittal.”

“And worst case?” Jasmine asked.

Dale shrugged. “Worst case is that he goes to prison for twenty years.”

Jasmine groaned.

Dale stood and snapped shut his briefcase. “But I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen. Nicholas Abrams is going to be the lead chair, and we’ll be here tomorrow to talk serious strategy.” He glanced at Hosea. “Get some rest,” he said to Hosea’s back. “Enjoy the children. Because it’s going to get rough from here on out.”

Reverend Bush stood. “I’ll walk you out,” he said, leaving Hosea and Jasmine alone.

When the reverend closed the door behind him, Hosea sank into the oversize chair. Jasmine settled on the floor at his feet and waited for him to talk, knowing that he would.

It took some time, but then, “When I look back on yesterday,” he began softly, “I feel like I was a bit insane.”

Jasmine said nothing, just listened.

“Jacquie had been gone for so, so long.”

She knew what he meant, but still she said, “Almost three weeks.”

“A lifetime.”

She nodded. She understood.

“I already had to live with the fact that I hadn’t protected her.”

“But she wasn’t even with you, she was with me.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m her father. And after Doctor Stewart told us . . .” He shook his head as if he didn’t want to remember the doctor’s words. “I started thinking about what she’d been through, and everything that’s ahead. What is this year
going to be like for her? And next year? And ten or fifteen years from now?” His head was still shaking. “I did what I had to do. I had to take him out.”

“Take him out?” She frowned. “I thought you said you weren’t trying to kill him.”

He looked straight into her eyes. “If he had bled to death . . .” A pause and a shrug. “Oh, well,” he said in his ordinary, gentle manner. Then he kissed Jasmine’s forehead before he stood and walked out of the room. Leaving her alone to think about quiet storms and about how grateful she was that she would never have to testify against her husband.

After that day, they became the center of the circus. The case was fodder for the news channels—the Left, the Right, and those who saw themselves as independents—everyone wanted to tell it like they saw it.

Daily,
Eyewitness News
polled random men and women on the street.

“That was a little five-year-old girl,” a thirtysomething man said. “If that had been my child, I would of done the same thing. Only I wouldn’t of used a gun. I would of used my bare hands.”

But there was the other side, too. The
Amsterdam News
printed reader letters in their opinion column. A woman who sent in a picture of herself clutching a Bible wrote: “Hosea Bush is supposed to be a Christian man. What kind of Christian would do something like that? The Bible says thou shalt not kill. That also means thou shalt not try to kill.”

The city was evenly split. Half of New York wanted Hosea to walk: “Hey, at least that pervert didn’t die!”

And the remainder of New Yorkers wanted Hosea to pay the price: “He’s a pastor; what kind of example is he setting?”

The intensity of the arguments gave Jasmine a new fear
every day. But it wasn’t the debate alone that had her shivering—it was the assistant district attorney as well.

The government had found the right one to try the case: A forty-six-year-old woman, with a seven-year-old daughter. A woman who had been in the district attorney’s office for twenty years and was on the verge of being nominated to run for the top spot. A woman who, if she won the election, would be the first female district attorney in New York’s history.

People v. Hosea Bush
was just the case she needed, and that made Gloria Gallagher relentless and unyielding in her pursuit.

“I have a young daughter of my own.” Gallagher made sure the jury knew this during her opening statement, the first day in the packed-to-capacity courtroom. “And so I truly understand how the Bush family felt.” The petite woman with the powerful voice placed her hand over her heart. “I prayed for them every night. But what happened to Jacqueline Bush has nothing to do with what her father did. The two cases are not and should not be connected.” She went on, “We cannot allow New York to become a lawless society. No one has the right to shoot anyone!” Her voice began to rise. “Especially not a man who was already in custody, already handcuffed, already in shackles, already being transported to prison, and, therefore, not a threat or a danger to anyone. Especially not a man who hadn’t yet been convicted of any crime.” She shook her head. “Anyone who shoots someone like that, an unarmed man, is not a hero to be celebrated.” She faced Hosea, who sat between his two attorneys. She looked him dead in the eyes when she said, “A man who would do something like that is a coward.” Then she growled like a cougar, “And we cannot allow a man like that to continue to walk on our streets!”