You have no job now, pal. Your little game with the crucifix didn’t really do it in the eyes of the ol’ boss. And the good Father? Well, he was about to consign you to the fires of hell right then and there.
You thought men of the cloth were supposed to be reverent in church, didn’t you? At home, didn’t your father wait to unload on you until after church, when Mom was making up the lunch?
So now it doesn’t matter when you drink, because you’ve got no job, and the only question on the table is when will the money run out?
Jared listened to himself inside his head, laughing because he was having a little dialogue up there between himself and — who knew? Somebody who knew how to drink, that was for sure.
He sat at the end of the bar this time, right by the bathrooms. He came to this little place on occasion, when he wasn’t out trying to dull the ache with items of illegal pedigree.
Nursing a double shot of Daniels was just as good tonight, and it was cold outside anyway.
Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow he’d give another run at the VA hospital. They were giving him the big-time runaround on posttraumatic stress disorder. He knew why too — because there was a whole new wave of it.
What was the number he read? Like three hundred thousand homeless vets, about half from Vietnam. But it was growing, the numbers. Guys coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan. And Jared kept hearing through the grapevine that the Iraq vets had it worst of all in the head.
But not according to the VA. To them it was illness as usual. Even when some of his buddies had to take meds that could knock out a seriously ticked-off elephant.
Self-sedation with Jack Daniels was about the best he could do under the circumstances. What did that country song say? Something about when it rains, I pour? Jared smiled and shook his head.
Good one, boy, go ahead. And tomorrow you can wake up tight and early.
There was a pool table in the center of the barroom with a couple of guys shooting, and a TV tuned to ESPN. Not as good as rap, but almost. The obnoxious sports heads who screamed clever phrases provided a little anesthesia.
Maybe I’ll just buy a bottle and go back to the room at the rat hotel.
He’d have to clear out of there in a week if he didn’t land something to get some more money and not spend it on weed or alcohol.
He ordered another JD, worked it, looked occasionally at the TV. The images blurred into colorful splats on the screen, uniforms and graphics bleeding together, formless.
Then he saw his father’s face.
What?
Couldn’t be. But there was no mistake.
Some words flashed below the face.
Crime of Passion.
A squib for another cable channel, he realized.
His father was a news story.
Then, suddenly, the face was gone.
Whoa
. Jared wondered for a moment if he really saw it, or if maybe it was a trick of the mind and alcohol. Maybe the voices in his head were becoming more sophisticated now, giving him altered realities, using visuals.
But then he realized he wasn’t so drunk after all, especially not after the jolt of adrenaline that blasted through him the moment he recognized his father.
Crime of passion?
He called to the bartender, a woman with a look of thirty years’ hard experience as a mixer.
“Can you get the news for me?” he said, pointing at the TV.
She looked at the tube. “We got people want to watch the game.”
He was aware of anxiety clutching him. The weirdness of it all, having a father on the news, even if it was a father he hated. It was like the whole world had a pipeline into his life now, only he didn’t know what the pipeline was connected to.
“Just change it to the news for a second, will you?”
“I got more than you in the bar,” the bartender said.
“Just
do it
.”
She gave him the look she must have given a hundred thousand surly drunks over the years. “Relax. You want another drink?”
Jared stood up and raised his voice to the whole place. “Does anybody know what’s going on with this crime-of-passion story on the news?”
People stared at him. The guys playing pool looked annoyed. The three other barflies looked singularly uninterested.
“Come on, anybody?”
“Settle down, will you?” the bartender said. “You talking about that preacher?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Why didn’t you just ask me instead of making a scene? Sit down. I’ll get you another drink.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“Guy’s some minister down in L.A. He had a porn actress on the side, then he offed her.”
Flares of disbelief shot through Jared.
“Yep,” the bartender said with a laugh, “you gotta love that town.”
Wednesday morning the Ron Hamilton “Crime of Passion” story was front page in the
Times
and
Daily News.
A small media camp was set up on the street outside the Hamilton home, waiting for Dallas to emerge.
And the phone in the house wouldn’t stop ringing. There were at least twenty messages in the voice mail now. Dallas didn’t bother to listen. Cara had her cell-phone number, and that’s all Dallas cared about.
But life had to go on, and she was not going to let the media make a prisoner of her. There was the church to look out for.
So, dressed in business casual and with all the makeup skill she could muster showing on her face, Dallas got into her Nissan Pathfinder, locked the doors, and clicked the garage-door opener.
As soon as she made the driveway she was swarmed.
Though she’d prepared herself to ignore them, it was unsettling to see cameras aimed at her and microphones poking at the window. Behind the microphones were anxious faces shouting questions at her. She nearly ran over a woman in a blue blazer and was almost sorry she didn’t.
Dallas prayed for peace and strength all the way to the Hillside parking lot, where more news vans were gathered. This was absurd. She wanted to get out and yell at these hounds to get a life and cover something newsworthy, not just some false allegation that —
False. Please oh please be false.
She was stunned that she could think such a thought. Of
course
it was false!
Dallas pulled around to a rear entrance and used her key to get in, unseen by the reporters.
She found the office in a tizzy. The first one to see her was Dave Rivas, their head of security. Dave, a former cop, volunteered his time. He and Dallas, in fact, had done the research that resulted in the church’s state-of-the-art system.
“Been like this all day,” Dave said. He was around fifty and always wore a black baseball cap with LAPD in white letters on the front.
“Any incidents?” Dallas asked.
“Depends what you mean
.
I had one guy from KTTV try to bring a camera in, but I yanked a few cords and that was that.”
“Thanks, Dave. Hang in there.”
“You too, Dallas. We’re praying hard for you.”
Dallas continued to the reception area. Three of the church secretaries were in various stages of harried activity — answering phones, peeling faxes from the machine. They didn’t even look up to see Dallas.
But Lisa Benson did. She was on a phone, waved at Dallas, said something, and hung up.
She came to Dallas and gave her a hug. “Dallas, how
are
you? It’s been a zoo here.”
Dallas was glad Lisa was here. Though twenty years younger than Dallas, Lisa was a true friend. And a remarkable woman. Charismatic, and a perfect complement to her husband, Bob, Hillside’s associate minister. This couple was going places, just like Dallas and Ron when they’d first come to Hillside.
Which was why Dallas always felt that Lisa could understand her own problems better than anyone else. Nothing like being a minister’s wife to give you laser-sharp insights into life, the universe, and everything.
“My head is spinning,” Dallas said. “I had to come up here to figure out what we should be doing for the church.”
“Good,” Lisa said. “Bob’s been working on that. He’ll want to see you, I’m sure. Come on.”
As she walked with Dallas toward Bob Benson’s office, Lisa said, “When the dust settles a little bit, let’s get together and do something, huh? Just you and me.”
“That sounds good.”
Lisa rapped on her husband’s office door, then opened it.
“Come in,” Bob Benson said. Lisa kissed Dallas on the cheek and closed the door behind her.
The young associate stood and welcomed her into his extremely neat and orderly office. He was, as he had always been to her and Ron, impressive. Only twenty-seven, he was clearly a gifted minister. Educated, witty, and above all, able to communicate.
When they were settled, Bob asked how Dallas was.
“Not real good,” she said. “News trucks outside my house. I’m under a microscope.”
“We all are, I’m afraid.” Bob wore his brown hair in an understated spiky style, just haphazard enough to give him credibility with the younger crowd. But he could preach a great sermon to all age groups.
“We’ve got to get a message out to our people,” Dallas said.
“Already being done.”
That surprised her. “How?”
“I drafted a statement for the website. And I’m working on one for the media.”
“Can I see it?”
“I’m still tweaking.”
“What about Sunday? Who’s — ”
“Dallas, don’t worry. These are things you shouldn’t have to stress over, okay?”
“It’s Ron’s church! Of course I’m going to stress.”
The moment she said it she realized how desperate she must have sounded. Hillside was not
Ron’s church
, even if he was the senior pastor who had overseen its growth. It was God’s church.
Bob kept his voice calm. “I don’t want you to worry, because things are being looked after. I’ve got an Easter sermon ready for Sunday, then I’ll continue to preach the same sermon series Ron was on. That way there’ll be a feeling, at least a little bit, of continuity. But I plan to address the issue full-on in all our services.”
“Some great Easter, huh?”
“I’ll be careful, Dallas. You know, ‘You’ve all read about this tragedy in the paper, or seen it on the news — ’ ”
“It’s not a tragedy, Bob. It’s a mistake.”
Bob picked up a notepad and moved it to the opposite side of his desk. “Yes, of course. And I’ll mention that we do still have something called the presumption of innocence. And I’ll call on everyone to pray for the church.”
“And Ron.”
“That’s a given.”
“I’d like to be part of the planning too,” Dallas said. “Decisions will have to be made affecting the church.”
“Sure. I’ll keep you in the loop.”
“When can we talk?”
Bob looked at his watch. “I have to leave tonight. I’m speaking at a conference the next couple of days.”
“That’s right, something about reaching Gen Yers?”
“Right. But I’ll be back late Saturday.”
“What are we going to do about the media out there?”
Bob spun around in his chair and looked out the window. “I’m going to go out and deliver my statement.”
“May I see it?”
“Like I said, I’m still working on it.”
“May I see what you have so far?”
Bob hesitated just long enough to make Dallas uncomfortable. Dallas chalked it up to anxiety, hers and his. They’d all have to pull together and heap mounds of grace on each other.
Bob took a paper from the printer on his credenza and handed it to her.
As associate minister of Hillside Community Church, I have had the privilege of working alongside Ron Hamilton for three years. During that time I have come to know him as both a friend and a boss, as a brother in Christ, and as a fellow worker in this community. We are holding him up in prayer and trust that the media will remember the most important principle of our justice system: that a man is presumed innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. We also would ask the media to respect the privacy rights of the worshipers here at Hillside, and not to interfere with our operations. Thank you.
She set the paper on Bob’s desk.
“You look disappointed,” he said.
“No, Bob. It’s good. It’s just . . .”
“You would have preferred an outright statement that we know
Ron is innocent?”
She nodded, impressed by the young minister’s insight. “That was my first instinct, until I thought how that would look
to the media. Naturally they’ve heard all that before, the protestations of innocence from family members. And we are Ron’s family, right? In my mind, that would only make them dig in deeper. But by putting it out there as objectively as possible, by saying what the law says, that Ron’s innocent until proven guilty, we show we’re being as objective as the law. I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong, but I had to consider Hillside’s reputation.”
Dallas sensed his defensiveness. She reached over the desk and put a hand on his arm. “Thanks, Bob. I know you have the welfare of the church, and Ron, at the top of your thoughts.”
“And you, Dallas. Lisa and I want you to remember you can count on us for anything.”
“I know.”
“And I’d like to do something right now. I’d like to pray with you, Dallas. Will you join me in that?”
Back home again, Dallas felt like her head was finally emerging above the waters of adversity. She was able to look around, think a little bit, and remember that she had duties to people that didn’t go away because Ron was in jail.
She called Haven House and spoke to Danielle, her assistant there. “Have you been able to place Tiana and Jamaal yet?”
“No luck,” Danielle said. “She said she’s going back to her boyfriend.”
“No! Don’t let her do that.”
“What can I do? She’s getting ready to go.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“She hasn’t come down yet.”
“I’ll wait.”
As she did, she peeked out the front-door sidelights at the persistent news crews. There were only a couple of diehards left. They’d rushed her as she pulled into her garage. She let the door down fast hoping it would clonk one of them on the head.
This would soon be over. Jeff Waite was going to get to the bottom of things. Ron was innocent, and when they found out, there would be egg on the face of all the major news outlets. She would demand some apologies. She was starting to get really ticked off at the smug looks.
Didn’t these people know about the presumption of innocence? Of course they did, but it didn’t matter, because sex sells papers and advertising. Who was going to let a little thing like the truth, or legal rights, get in the way?
Tiana’s voice interrupted her bitter musings. “Yeah?”
“Tiana, this is Dallas Hamilton.”
“I know.”
“Danielle said you’re about to leave.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t do it. You can’t. He’ll only beat you up again.”
“Don’t worry anymore about me.”
“Tiana, listen to me, Jamaal could be beaten up too. For his sake, don’t go back there.”
“I’ve got nowhere else!” Tiana’s voice was rife with anger and desperation.
“You could come here.”
“Huh?”
“Come stay with me. Just for a while, till we figure out what to do. You can stay in my daughter’s room. Jamaal can have my son’s room.”
“His own room?”
“That’s right.”
“Why?”
“Why what, Tiana?”
“Why are you opening up your own house?”
“I do sometimes. Please let me come get you and Jamaal. At least for a couple of days. Will you do that?”
Long pause. “Okay.”
“Thank you. I’ll be down there by three.”
She hoped Tiana would still be there. Women in Tiana’s situation could change their minds on a whim, so fragile were their psyches.
Now all she had to do was get the house in order. Good. Nothing like some old-fashioned housework to get occupied with something other than the things she had no control over.
She started with the family room and was about to go upstairs when a pounding at the back door, off the kitchen, startled her. Her heart spiked. She was certain it was a reporter.
Another knock at the door.
She thought about calling 911. But then, like a convict in an old prison movie, Dallas put her back to the wall and moved to a place where she could glimpse the door.
She saw the top half of a head over the curtain on the kitchen door.
And nearly jumped out of her skin.