Danny moved swiftly toward the door.
Gideon stood and shouted, “Danny, wait!” But it was too late. The front door had already closed behind Danny. Gideon could see him walking past the window and jaywalking across the street.
The young woman, still reading love poems on the couch, resisted the urge to look in his direction.
Hope they work it out,
she thought.
They make a cute couple.
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“And we're on in five . . . four . . . three . . . two and . . . ”
“Good evening, America. I'm Gideon Truman, and welcome to
Truman Live
.”
Four cameras were pointing at Gideon from different vantage points in the television studio. Each capturing a side more attractive than the one before. He was framed by an electric blue backdrop that made him resemble a living Andy Warhol painting hanging in a Manhattan gallery. He was bathed in blistering studio light. Crew members pushed buttons, moved hefty electrical cords, and focused lenses as Gideon read from the scrolling teleprompter just below the camera in front of him.
“We are continuing our coverage this evening of the brutal murder of Reverend Hezekiah T. Cleaveland, pastor of New Testament Cathedral and head of the worldwide television network.”
The key to Gideon's popularity was his ability to make each viewer believe he was talking only to him or her. The viewers felt that they were having a quiet chat with an old friend in their living room or bedroom. A fact he himself didn't even realize.
“Less than a month ago, Reverend Hezekiah T. Cleaveland, the pastor of New Testament Cathedral in Los Angeles, was brutally gunned down during a Sunday morning service in his fifteen-thousand-seat mega church.”
As Gideon spoke, images of the mayhem that followed Hezekiah's death that Sunday morning flashed on the screen. Camera crews had captured the reactions of members of the congregation who witnessed the assassination. A woman in a pink suit with an equally pink hat wept in her husband's arms. Children clung to their mothers' waists, and police scurried about, looking brave for the evening news.
“My guests this evening are well-known ministers in their own right,” Gideon continued. “First, we have Pastor Maurice Millier joining us via satellite from his mega church, Good Shepherd Ministries, in Atlanta, Georgia.”
The screen split, and suddenly Gideon was joined by a smiling man with a receding hairline, wearing a black-and-white pin-striped suit. He didn't have the benefit of Gideon's gifted and devoted makeup artist. Instead, his forehead glowed like a fallen halo.
“Welcome, Pastor Millier. Also joining us is Dr. Joyce Goodhart. Dr. Goodhart is a professor of theology at Fuller Seminary in Southern California. Thank you for being with us this evening.”
Dr. Goodhart had a sour, yet somber expression. Her pageboy haircut, which she had worn since high school, gave hint to her precise and logical mind.
“And, finally, a very dear friend of Pastor Cleaveland,” Gideon continued. “Reverend Richard Johnson, pastor of First Bethany Church of Los Angeles. I want to thank you all for being here this evening.”
The screen now contained their four images. Gideon, as the host, dominated the upper screen. The three guests shared the lower third. Snippets of the daily news stories scrolled beneath their stern faces. Viewers were once again given their nightly free front row seat to the
Truman Live Show
. Gideon wore a sleek black suit with a bold plaid red and white shirt. His tie was white with yellow and red stripes that seemed to twirl like a barber's pole every time you blinked your eyes.
“Why don't we start with you, Reverend Johnson? You and your wife, Victoria, were very close friends with the Cleavelands. How is Pastor Samantha Cleaveland doing since her husband was so brutally slain?”
“Thank you for having me, Gideon,” Reverend Johnson blustered. An expensive toupee was perched precariously on his head. His necktie formed a puddle on top of his round belly and then made a dramatic slope to this belly button. “Let me first say to your viewers that my church, First Bethany Church of Los Angeles, is celebrating our twenty-fifth anniversary this Sunday, and everybody is welcome to come out and celebrate with us. To find out more information, just go to our Web site at www.newbethanyâ.”
Gideon looked confused and cut in tactfully. “Congratulations, Pastor, on twenty-five years, but our viewers would be interested to hear how Pastor Samantha Cleaveland is doing after her husband's murder.”
“Well, Gideon, as you said, my lovely wife and I have known the Cleavelands for years now,” Reverend Johnson said reverently. “Our daughters went to school together. My wife and Samantha often meet for lunch and to pray together. This tragedy has rocked the very core of religiosity in our country.” Reverend Johnson leaned in toward the camera and then pointed at it. “America needs to repent. When something like this happens to one of our great black leaders, it's a sign that we as a country have lost our way. The government doesn't want people like Hezekiah Cleaveland to have that much power. Especially if he is a black man. Martin Luther King, Jr., and now Hezekiah Cleaveland. This is a sign of the end times, America. Come to Jesus while there's still time.”
Gideon diplomatically tried one last time. “Have you talked to Samantha Cleaveland since this happened?”
“I did briefly, but the poor woman was so grief stricken, she hung up on me. I can tell you, though, that Samantha is devastated by this tragedy.”
“Let's hear from our other guests,” Gideon said, moving on quickly. “Dr. Goodhart, what do you think about what Pastor Johnson just said? Is this a sign of our country's moral decline?”
Dr. Goodhart gave a slight but sarcastic smile for the camera. Her face became the sole image on the screen. “Though this is without question an almost unimaginable tragedy, I think it might be a slight overgeneralization to say it is indicative of some larger moral descent in our country. Let's remember this was the act of one deranged person.”
The screen then split, and now Reverend Johnson shared half the spotlight. “That's what they said about Martin Luther King, Jr., but we all know the truth about that,” Reverend Johnson smirked.
“Martin Luther King was assassinated by James Earl Ray, not the government,” Dr. Goodhart blurted out.
“All I'm saying is that when a black man in this country gets too powerful, he somehow gets conveniently eliminated,” Reverend Johnson said, leaning back in his chair with his hands clasped, forming a steeple at the top of his belly. “Millions of people around the world were devoted followers of Pastor Cleaveland, and I think people in high places felt threatened by that,” he said with an air of wisdom and insight, parting his hands and then returning them to the steeple formation when he concluded.
Dr. Goodhart's stone face smirked at the last comment.
“What do you say about all this, Pastor Millier?” Gideon asked. “Is Hezekiah Cleaveland's death a symptom of something more sinister happening in our country?”
Pastor Millier was an elegant man with a hint of gray at his temples. His glasses framed penetrating, yet gentle eyes, which had seen more than most. He'd survived only by closing them and looking inward.
“With all due respect to my colleague, Pastor Johnson, I absolutely don't think this tragedy is a sign of the end of the world or that it's linked to any government conspiracy.”
The camera showed the slightly betrayed look on Reverend Johnson's face.
“I must agree with Dr. Goodhart,” Pastor Millier continued. This is a tragic but, nonetheless, isolated incident perpetrated by a very sick individual. It's our job as Christians to hold up the members of New Testament Cathedral in our prayers and for us as pastors to show our love and support to Samantha Cleaveland.”
“Well, that brings me to my next question,” Gideon said. “Samantha Cleaveland was recently selected by the church's board of trustees to replace Hezekiah as pastor. What do you think of that? Is it too soon, considering she just lost her husband? Should they have selected someone from the outside, and do you think she is the best person to get the ministry through this crisis? Dr. Goodhart?”
“I've never met Samantha Cleaveland butâ”
“Well, I have met her,” Reverend Johnson interrupted, “and I feel that if anyone can lead New Testament Cathedral, Samantha can. Now to the question, is this too soon? I have to be honest, I was surprised when I heard she was taking over. Now, don't get me wrong. I have all the love and respect in the world for Sister Samantha, but I'm not convinced that that was the best decision on the part of the trustees.”
“What do you think they should have done?” Gideon asked provocatively.
Reverend Johnson responded with gusto. “Well, I think they should have possibly considered combining their church with another, similar church.”
“Similar in what way?” Gideon goaded.
“Similar in size and teachings . . .”
“You mean like your church.”
“Well, my church, First Bethany Church of Los Angeles,” Reverend Johnson said, looking directly into the lens of the camera, “is only half the size of New Testament Cathedral, but I think that would have been the logical and responsible thing to do. It would keep their church members together but also give poor Samantha some time to grieve and to decide if being the pastor is really what she wants to do.”
“What do you think, Pastor Millier? Was it a mistake to place her in the leadership role so soon after her husband's death?”
“From what I've seen of Samantha Cleaveland, I believe their board of trustees had no other choice but to name her as pastor.”
“What do you mean?” Gideon asked probingly.
“I mean that she is a dynamic leader, a gifted teacher, and has always been the backbone of their ministry. She, more than anyone else, is best suited to lead New Testament Cathedral through this crisis and to continue the good work and teachings of her late husband.”
Again, the look of betrayal was hard for Reverend Johnson to conceal, and Dr. Goodhart slowly faded into the background.
“Let me direct my next question to you, Pastor Johnson. Often when a well-known person dies, skeletons from their past seem to surface. You knew Pastor Cleaveland better than most people. Should we be bracing ourselves for a mistress or maybe an illegitimate child or some other scandal to surface involving Pastor Cleaveland?”
Reverend Johnson leaned forward confidently and said with all the Sunday morning religious fervor he could summon, “I've known Hezekiah for years. I was his confidant, and he was mine. I can assure you that he loved his wife more than anything in the world. He would never have cheated on her, and I know for a fact that he never did. Sure, like any other man, he was tempted occasionally by a beautiful woman, but he never gave in to temptation. If anybody comes forward with a lie like that, you can believe it's for only one thingâmoney.”
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Samantha sat comfortably in the rear of the Escalade as it glided through the streets of Los Angeles. She was scheduled to meet her friend, Victoria Johnson, the wife of Pastor Richard Johnson, for dinner. The two had not seen each other since Hezekiah's funeral. The sun was setting over the city, and the streetlights slowly flickered on, unnoticed by pedestrians and drivers. Dino guided the vehicle with trained precision through the remains of the city's rush-hour obstacle course.
Samantha checked her watch. It was 6:40
P.M.
She was already late for dinner. Samantha lowered the tinted-glass partition she had had installed between the front and rear of the car to shield her from the prying eyes and ears of drivers and security personnel. “How much longer, Dino? I'm already late,” she inquired with a hint of irritation.
“Ten minutes,” Dino replied over his shoulder as the partition glided closed.
Victoria was one of Samantha's closest confidants. She was the only other pastor's wife in the country whom Samantha never attempted to outshine. Victoria was her equal in every wayâwealth, power, beautyâand both were more ambitious than their successful husbands.
The women were there for each other whenever one needed a shoulder to cry on over her husband's many affairs. They knew all of each other's secrets except one. Victoria was not privy to Samantha's shame over the Danny St. John affair.
As the car hurtled along, Samantha's cell phone rang. She retrieved it from her purse. The telephone screen read
NO CALLER ID.
Only five people had the number to her private cell: her personal assistant, Dino Goodlaw, Etta Washington, Hezekiah, and her daughter. If anyone wanted to speak to her on that phone, they would have to go through one of those five people. It wasn't Dino. She knew neither Etta nor her assistant would dare call her from a phone other than the one at the house or the church, and she doubted Hezekiah would be calling from the grave. That left Jasmine.
God, please don't let her be in jail again,
she thought.
Or even worse, the hospital got my number from her phone to call about another overdose like the one she had just after Hezekiah was killed. Poor little thing almost died that time.