Even Pastor Al’s actions were now a little more logical. He must have learned about the affair or guessed it was happening—Fusco and Mimi weren’t being terribly discreet, if glomming in front of a window was any guide—and washed his hands of it, dropping his call for an independent investigation.
Or maybe he just decided to let a higher authority sort it out.
* * *
I could have stood there for another hour, cataloguing the implications of my new discovery. But a car rolled by slowly, its occupants—an elderly couple—peering at me curiously. I suddenly became aware I was just a weird white guy standing in the rain in a town where I didn’t belong, staring at someone’s house. I couldn’t have been any more obvious with binoculars and a telescope.
I folded my umbrella, got back into my car, and skittered away before I attracted too much more attention. Or before my two lovebirds finished. Maybe I should have given Fusco more credit than that. But if he was still stuck in the backrub-as-foreplay method of seduction, he couldn’t necessarily be ruled out as a member of the Minute Man Club.
Back on Central Avenue, I again considered my dining options—there’s a Popeyes
and
a KFC, after all—but instead drove toward Redeemer Love Christian Church. It was time to pay a visit to the anointed man of God and I knew, both from my travels and from a multitude of billboards, that I could find him and his spiritual healing on West Market Street in Newark.
My plan was, basically, to play both smart and dumb. I knew he had called the attorney general—though, since I had that from an off-the-record source, I needed to get him to admit it. That would be the smart part. The dumb part was to ask why he made that call and pretend like I didn’t know the answer.
As I drove, I accessed our archives on my phone so I could quickly read over the story we had written about him and the church a few months back. The narrative started in early seventies Newark with Pastor Al, then a high school gym teacher, holding services in his basement. During a bleak time for still-riot-scarred Newark, a time when vacancy rates were soaring and “urban renewal” had become a grim joke, LeRioux was a charismatic preacher who offered hope. He took in wayward souls, gave them new birth through Jesus, and joined them with his flock.
Membership doubled every few years. Most tithed, and the money was constantly being plowed back into expanding facilities. Before long, the gym teacher was preaching full time and moved into a storefront on Sussex Avenue, then a former bowling alley on Norfolk Street. A church-affiliated day care was opened. Then a senior living facility. Redeemer Love Christian could take care of you from cradle to grave.
As the congregation grew, so did Pastor Al’s reputation and import. The story left as an open question when, exactly, LeRioux had found the time to get his doctorate or what institution had given it to him. But somewhere along the line he started calling himself Reverend Doctor. Maybe he just liked how it sounded.
Either way, the story made it sound as if Pastor Al had a mastery of political science, turning the perception that he could influence his parishioners’ votes into leverage to get what he wanted, whether it was funding for his day care, tax breaks for church-owned housing projects, or contracts to wash police vehicles at a chain of car washes the church had opened around the city.
Sometime in the nineties, he convinced the city council to more or less donate a chunk of land on West Market Street, and that was where his congregation built its current home—a massive, modern megachurch, complete with offices, broadcast facilities for Sunday’s services, and a theaterlike sanctuary with a large stage and seating for two thousand. The sanctuary was called LeRioux Chapel—named after Pastor Al’s parents, of course, because he was far too modest to name it after himself.
But no one was fooled. The church was essentially a monument to the Reverend Doctor Alvin LeRioux.
The real nut of the story came from a splinter group who said they had been cast out of the flock for asking too many questions about church finances. According to them, Redeemer Love Christian had revenues of approximately $22 million a year from tithes and various ancillary industries. But no one would give them—or our reporter—any accounting of where the money went. I guess they had noticed Pastor Al’s silk suits, too.
It reminded me of the old joke about the priest and the televangelist, talking about how they determined what percentage of the offering stayed with them and what percentage went to God’s work. The priest said he drew a line in the middle of his office, then tossed all the money in the air. Whatever landed on the left went to him, to the right went to God. The televangelist said he had a slightly different method: he threw all the money in the air, and whatever God caught, He could keep.
So I more or less knew what I was getting myself into as I parked on the street—eschewing Redeemer Love’s large, recently paved, fenced-in lot—and walked through the front door of the church offices. I passed a sign on a stanchion that read,
PLEASE TURN OFF YOUR CELL PHONE WHILE IN GOD’S HOUSE
, and I complied, just in case God was ready to hit me with His version of roaming charges. I was greeted by a receptionist, and when I told her I wanted to talk to Alvin LeRioux, she looked at me like I had just asked for an audience with the pope.
Nevertheless, I was ushered toward a set of double doors that had
REV. DR. LERIOUX
imprinted on a brass plate to the side. The doors led to a large office suite that contained several efficient, diligent female underlings, dressed in conservative suits that ran the color spectrum from black all the way to slate gray.
The one who appeared to be the alpha underling—she was wearing a wireless headset, like she was the operator standing by to take my order—was in her midthirties and, I must say, quite easy on the eyes. She was tall and elegant, with light-brown skin and the kind of cheekbones that were made for modeling. She fairly oozed cool professionalism, but I still couldn’t help but wonder if Pastor Al was getting some of her on the side. If he was? Well, bravo for him.
She greeted me by saying, “How can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Reverend LeRioux.”
“And may I ask who you are?”
“You may,” I said, and left it at that. I hate it when people beat around the bush.
It tripped her up for just a second, enough to put a small crack in her Little Miss Unflappable façade. But she recovered quickly enough. “Well, then, who are you?”
“Carter Ross, agent of Satan,” I said, smiling.
Another crack. She actually frowned.
“Sorry, that’s just what your boss calls me behind my back. I’m really a reporter for the
Eagle-Examiner,
and I have to say the Satan thing has been way overblown. We were using him as a stringer for a while, but we canned him. He kept trying to convince everyone that Milton had misquoted him in
Paradise Lost
and we all got tired of hearing it.”
This time she was determined not to miss a beat: “And may I say…” she paused to rephrase, “Why do you need to speak to the reverend?”
I kept right on smiling. “I’m writing a story about Darius Kipps, the dead cop Pastor Al was very interested in last night but has apparently forgotten about today. He also forgot to invite us to the press conference, but it’s okay—I won’t hold it against him.”
“Please have a seat,” she said, pointing to a pair of easy chairs and a couch that surrounded a small coffee table in the corner.
Then she disappeared behind a door to her right. Probably to fetch security.
* * *
But it wasn’t a security guard who soon came out to greet me. It was the reverend-perhaps-doctor himself. And if irritation correlates to perspiration, he was plenty aggravated. He was already mopping himself by the time he greeted me.
Still, he seemed determined to play nice. With what was intended to be a friendly smile, he looked down at me—being six-and-a-half feet tall, I suppose he looked down on most people—and gave me a cologne-doused handshake, guaranteeing me another day of smelling like eau de Al. He asked me if I needed anything to drink and I declined. Then he thanked the alpha underling, whose name was apparently Desiree, and invited me into his personal chambers.
I followed him into a room with high ceilings and dimensions large enough to accommodate a decent game of Wiffle ball. He hobbled over behind his desk like a man ten years overdue for a knee replacement, and I tried not to pop an Achilles tendon every time my feet sank into his extra-plush carpeting. It was like DuPont had started making a brand called StainMaster QuickSand.
Pastor Al plopped himself in a chair, removed his gold-wire-framed glasses, and took another opportunity to mop his hangdog face. As he did so, I pulled a pen and notebook out of my pocket. No need to make him think this was a social call.
He replaced his glasses, sighed, and in that voice-of-God bass asked, “So what can I do for you today, Mister Ross?”
So I was Mr. Ross now. It was an upgrade from Lucifer’s cabana boy, or whatever he called me around Mimi.
Since he was showing courtesy, I did the same and kept my tone respectful, even while my words were sharp: “I’m working on a follow-up story about Darius Kipps, and to be honest I’m a little perplexed by your actions, Reverend. Last night you held a press conference and announced that the Newark Police Department was telling a big, bad lie. Then you said the state attorney general ought to step in. But this morning you called the attorney general and told him thanks but no thanks. Can you explain that for me?”
Pastor Al actually squirmed in his seat. He did the face-wiping routine again. “You ask very challenging questions, young man,” he said. “I can see why your editors would consider you a good reporter.”
And I can see you’re stalling me, Pastor Al,
I thought. But, mindful I had to keep my inner wiseass on a leash, I just sat there with my notebook open and my mouth shut.
“Have you ever heard of the Parable of the Pharisee and the Publican?”
“You’ll have to refresh my memory, Reverend. It’s been a long time since Sunday school.”
“This comes to us from the Gospel of Saint Luke. Now, the Pharisees were very pious men, and they were much admired for their righteousness. The Publicans were the tax collectors, and I think we all know, no one likes the tax collector”—he threw in a pause because I guess this is where his congregation would usually share a chuckle. “Now, as the parable is told to us by Luke, these men enter the temple to pray. The Pharisee stands up and prays to God about his own virtue, telling God that he fasts and tithes, thanking God that he is not like the lowly tax collector. The Publican, now, the Publican, he stands at a distance. He dares not raise his head to God. And when it is his time to pray, he beats his breast and humbly asks God to have mercy on him, for he is a
sinner
.”
Pastor Al paused to let his words have their impact. For all his flaws, he was a mesmerizing preacher.
“Now, who do you think Jesus tells us is justified in the eyes of the Lord? Who is more favored by the Father?”
“Uh,” I said, because I felt like it was a trick question.
“The Publican!” he boomed. “The Publican is justified because he recognizes his unworthiness before God! Jesus teaches that ‘everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.’ So I am mindful of the Pharisee and the Publican as I admit to you I made a mistake in my handling of this matter.”
“Mistake?” I said.
“Yes. I believe they call it looking before you leap.”
What,
I wanted to say,
because you didn’t know your parishioner was two-timing with the deceased’s best friend?
But mindful of my plan to act somewhat dumb, I said, “How so?”
“I’m afraid I fell back on some of my old instincts. In my days as a young pastor, I felt there was only one way to accomplish a goal, and that was to pursue it with straightforward tenacity and intensity—to make a lot of noise, in essence. It is only in my more senior years that I have come to realize there are many different ways to accomplish a goal, and sometimes they are quieter. The Lord hears a whispered prayer just as well as He hears one that is shouted.”
And in my days as a young reporter, I might have fallen for a line of fiddle-faddle like that. But in my more senior years, I recognized the reverend was talking out his ass. And while in polite conversation we allow people to obfuscate like this all the time, I wasn’t going to let Pastor Al get away with it here.
“I’m sorry, Reverend, but I don’t have a doctorate in religion”—
and chances are neither do you, you fraud
—“so you’re losing me a little bit. Let me keep it simple for a second: Did you call the attorney general this morning?”
I thought maybe Pastor Al wasn’t going to give in so easily—that I was going to have to wade through more a few more miles of Confusion Creek to get to where I needed to go—but he just squirmed a little more and then, finally, said, “Yes, I did.”
“And did you inform him you were dropping your call for an independent investigation into the death of Darius Kipps?”
“Yes, I did,” he said, without squirming this time.
“And why did you do that?”
“I received information at the highest level that made me think differently about the matter.”
It was the first semi-useful thing he said, and I was scribbling it in my notebook as I asked, “Did the attorney general give you that information?”
“No.”
“Then who, at the highest level, did?”
“That is something I would rather not say,” Pastor Al replied. “I have to respect certain confidences in this matter. But what I heard satisfied my … curiosity in this matter, enough that I considered it closed.”
“So what did you hear?”
“I was asked not to divulge the details publicly, and I will honor that request.”
“Okay. So you … you now trust in the conclusions reached by the Newark Police Department?”
“I do.”
“Because, you know, my paper has come across evidence that Detective Kipps’s death may not have been a suicide.”