I grabbed my Bible off the nightstand and read the Twenty-third Psalm, asking the Lord to help me claim every verse of that passage. If something drastic was about to happen, I knew the only way I could survive it was with Christ guiding my steps.
I set my Bible on the bed, went to the bathroom, and brushed my teeth. Then I looked into the mirror and said to my reflection, “Maybe I’m getting all worked up over nothing. Max is big-time trouble, but the whole world isn’t concerned with his business.”
I left the bathroom and turned on the TV. In spite of the positive statements I’d just made to myself, every local channel was broadcasting a live press conference at Reverend Stokes’s headquarters. The presidential candidate was getting barraged with questions. I’d never seen the man look so frail and nervous. It was clear he hadn’t slept much the night before.
“So can I quote you as saying,” one reporter commented, “you didn’t know the Bambino family was under investigation for mob dealings when you accepted money from them?”
“That is correct,” Stokes replied.
“Then do you mind telling us how you came to know this notorious family?”
I’d never been the type to bite my nails, but at that point I was gnawing on them like they were corn on the cob. How was Stokes going to answer that question? If the Agency found out I’d abused my position, I could be seriously reprimanded. Or worse.
“I was introduced to them,” Reverend Stokes said, “by someone working with the campaign.”
A reporter from USA Today shouted, “I know you’re gonna give us that name.” I bit my finger so hard I pierced the skin.
Stokes glanced at Jack Applebee. Jack took the stand. “There will be no more comments today. We will release another statement later this afternoon. Thank you.”
Reverend Stokes hustled off the platform and out of the cameras’ view. The local affiliate reporter stepped into the screen. “Reverend Stokes, practically a shoo-in as the first African-American Democratic nominee for President of the United States, has apparently bumped into a mountain. If he doesn’t tell the truth, that mountain may prevent him from making it into the White House.”
“Lord, what have I done?” I moaned as I licked my finger to stop the bleeding. I stayed in my hotel room all day, flipping channels and watching Stokes’s misstep go from local to regional to national coverage. I tried calling Max several times, but he wasn’t answering his cell phone. When I didn’t even get through to his voice mail, I panicked even more.
My phone jangled, and I answered it on the first ring.
“May I speak to Christian Ware?” asked a sweet, feminine voice.
“This is she.”
“I’m Kathy Hemmings, Jack Applebee’s assistant. Jack asked me to call you and ask if you could come to campaign headquarters immediately.”
“My shift doesn’t start for another three hours,” I argued.
“Reverend Stokes would like to see you, Ms. Ware. Can I tell him you’ll be here in thirty minutes?”
This isn’t good, I said to myself, but I answered, “Sure.”
Agent Moss ushered me into the Stokes mansion through an entrance I had never seen before, then led me down a set of concrete steps to a large room full of cherrywood furniture. Tall bookshelves, polished to a high shine, lined two of the walls. Reverend Stokes and Jack Applebee were seated at a small conference table. They stood when we entered.
“This is my secret getaway,” Reverend Stokes said. “I can even hide from you guys here.” He chuckled.
“Will that be all, sir?” Agent Moss asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Jack Applebee said as he waved my detail leader away.
When Moss left the room, Stokes and Applebee started whispering back and forth. I stood in the corner, barely breathing, wondering what I was supposed to do. I looked around, wondering if Moss had personally secured the room since no one else seemed to even know about it.
A sculpture sitting on a nearby bookshelf caught my eye. It depicted what appeared to be black slaves standing in the middle of a river watching a baptism. That image calmed my spirit. I felt good that the Savior was with me.
Finally Reverend Stokes said, “Agent Ware, do you know why we’re here?”
“I assume this has something to do with me introducing you to my college friend, sir.”
“That’s right,” he confirmed. “We have a serious problem here.”
“Yes, sir. I’m aware of what’s going on, and I want you to know I’m truly sorry for any problems I might have caused. I had no idea Max was involved with corrupt people.”
“Ms. Ware,” Jack Applebee said, “there’s something we need you to do.” He walked over to me and leaned against the polished wood conference table. “We want you to tell the press that you’re the one who introduced Reverend Stokes to the Bambino family.”
“But I didn’t,” I said. Sure, I’d connected Stokes with Max, but Max was the one with ties to the Bambinos, not me.
Jack Applebee asked me to take a seat. When I did, he went on and on about how much it would help the campaign if I did this one little favor for Reverend Stokes. “If you want to do something to ensure victory for the first African-American president, you need to tell the press that you knew the Bambino family was bad and that you put them together with Reverend Stokes because you wanted to ruin his campaign.”
“What?” I cried out, standing so abruptly I nearly toppled the chair. “No way.” I turned to Reverend Stokes. “I’ll tell the truth about introducing you to my college friend, sir. But I won’t say I hooked you up with the Bambino family to sabotage your campaign. I care about your family, sir—you know that.”
Reverend Stokes stood and walked over to me. “Then if you care, you need to consider taking this bullet for us.”
I stood there, staring at his face, panting for breath. He could tell by my frigid disposition that I wasn’t giving in. I saw Applebee give him a mean glare.
He placed a warm hand on my shoulder. “I don’t want to pressure you,” he said. “However, some things I can’t control, and if I can’t…”
I cut in, brushed his hand away, and said, “What if you can’t control me? Will things get ugly?”
“Maybe. I’ll be honest with you. This is hard for me. You saved my life. But like I tried to say, some things are out of my control.”
He looked more serious than I’d ever seen him. I knew this was not a game I could win. But I had to play my hand and my gut told me not to give in.
As he was walking me to the door, Reverend Stokes said, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
I shook my head. “I must stay true to myself, and I’m about truth. I’m disappointed because I thought you were, too.”
Dropping his head to hide the disappointment in himself, it was clear I’d hit a nerve. He told me under his breath that he understood my decision. I was thankful Stokes wasn’t angry about me refusing to lie for him. But when I looked at the sneering face of the white man standing behind him, I knew this was far from over.
Later that day, when I showed up at the Secret Service headquarters in the Stokes home, everyone in my unit seemed to be looking at me strangely. What had they heard?
Agent Moss called me into a back room. “Agent Ware,” he said, closing the door, “I have to ask you to hand in your weapon and your badge.”
“What?”
“As of right now, you’re on suspension pending an investigation.” He sounded disappointed, but I wasn’t sure if he was upset with me or with what he was being forced to do.
“An investigation of what?” I questioned.
“I have no more details than that. The orders came from the top, and I just have to carry them out.”
I looked at him with pleading eyes. Sure, I’d made some mistakes, but Moss knew what a good agent I was. Surely he could have fought for me.
“I’ll do what I can to resolve this as quickly as possible,” he assured me. “The best advice I can give
you right now is to go back home to D.C. and take your mind off all this. When I know more, I’ll call you.”
“You said go back home—am I free to go back to my FBI cases?”
“Unfortunately not. You’re off everything until this is rectified,” he said in a contrite, but not rude, manner.
I placed my gun and badge on his desk and shuffled to the door. Before I walked out, he said, “Agent Ware.”
I turned.
“I am sorry,” he said. “We gave you a hard time at first because of the different-agency issue, but you proved you’re an elite agent in your own right. Hang your hat on that.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Agent Hold helped me collect some of my things from my locker.
“What have you heard?” I asked, filling a duffel bag with my personal things.
“Something about you being involved with illegal campaign funds. Is it true?”
“Ryan, I don’t know anything about all that.”
“If there’s an investigation, I’ll probably be called in to testify at the review board.”
“Good,” I said. “You can be a character witness for me.”
He stopped, took a deep breath, then looked at me and said, “Chris, I was told that you were at the benefit banquet in New York with some suspicious-looking guys. Someone heard one of them say that he had brought the campaign contribution in cash in a briefcase. No legitimate businessman would bring cash in a briefcase to a benefit banquet. Then I heard you told another agent that you could vouch for them.”
“I did, sort of. But I didn’t know there was major cash on them,” I argued. “And really, I only vouched for the guy I knew in college. I introduced Max to Reverend Stokes, but I don’t know anything about the Bambinos.”
I shoved the last of my things into a duffel bag and slung it over my shoulder.
“This is so wrong. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you posted on the inside,” Ryan said, his voice cracking a little.
My buddy was tearing up. I gave him a hug. I could tell my show of affection threw him off guard, but his kindness meant a lot to me and I wanted him to know it.
Walking toward the front door of the Stokes mansion with a duffel bag over my shoulder was humiliating. Nonetheless, I held my head up high, hoping to get out of there without a scene.
I’d almost made it to the door when Mrs. Stokes showed up. She stood in my way and glared at me. “I hear you’re responsible for my husband’s campaign being ruined.”
“No, ma’am. You were misinformed.”
“Oh, I think I have the facts. I’m so thankful that Sebastian finally realized you can be nothing but trouble for our family. You know, with people like you holding our race back, we’ll never be able to achieve greatness.”
I figured since I was on suspension anyway, I might as well tell her exactly what I thought. “Ma’am, with people like you, we don’t need white folks attacking us. You do a pretty good job of looking down on the rest of us yourself.”
“Are you saying I don’t know where I come from?”
“Oh, no, ma’am.” With nothing to lose, I finally had the courage to tell her how I really felt. “I’m saying that you don’t know where black folks come from. Not all of us have three or four generations of money to back us up. Some of your ancestors were slaves just like mine. You may think that if you get the right education, or you have the right complexion, or you know the right people, you’re above a common black person from the ghetto. But your way of thinking puts more obstacles in our path than are already there. Mrs. Stokes, I wouldn’t do anything to sabotage your husband’s campaign. I was only trying to help. Now I don’t know why I cared so much—nobody around here seems to appreciate it.”
I pushed past her, my duffel bag rubbing against the wallpaper as I tried to avoid contact with Mrs. Stokes.
She snatched my arm and pulled me back toward her. “I don’t want to see you at my house ever again,” she seethed. “And I certainly don’t want you coming on to my son. You’re just a cheap, trashy whore trying to get your hooks into a wealthy man.”
“That’s not true,” I cried, nearly in tears. “I risked my life for your husband.”
She smirked. “That was your job. You didn’t do it because you care about my family. You did it for a paycheck.” Mrs. Stokes released my arm roughly. “Before I get through, your name will be plastered all over every media outlet in the country. You think the little damage you tried to do to my husband was something? You just wait.”
Just then, Sebastian came up and handed me a tissue. “Mom, it’s obvious to me that you don’t know how a lady’s supposed to behave. This agent lost her job, and you’re making it even worse. You’re kicking someone when she’s down.”
“She ruined your father, and you’re defending her?”
“Mom, she’s under investigation. That doesn’t mean she’s guilty.” He reached for the duffel bag on my shoulder. “Come on, Chris. Let me take you home.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said, keeping my bag in place. “You should stay with your family. Your mom’s right. I’ve made a mess of things, and I don’t want to complicate your life even more.”
Before he could say anything, I jetted out to the Agency car waiting at the curb. I threw the duffel bag into the backseat and climbed in beside it. I couldn’t wait to get out of Atlanta.
The Town Car pulled out of the driveway, then came to an abrupt halt. I looked up and saw Sebastian standing in front of the car.
“Sir,” the driver yelled out his window, “please move.”
Sebastian stood his ground. “Could you roll down the passenger side window in the back?”
The driver complied, and Sebastian stuck his head in.
“Go away,” I grumbled, not even looking at him.
“Explain this to me. I know what they’re saying isn’t true.”
As I looked at his arms leaning against the window’s edge, I thought about how wonderful it would feel to have his strong shoulder to lean on. I looked up and saw in his eyes how deeply he cared. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I opened the car door and fell into his embrace.
He rubbed my back and whispered reassuring words in my ear. I asked him if we could go to the hotel to talk. He got my duffel bag out of the backseat and told the driver he wasn’t needed. As we walked to Sebastian’s car, I felt great relief that we were going to be able to clear up this misunderstanding.
When we neared the hotel, we saw dozens of reporters milling around outside the front doors. Sebastian pulled over to a curb far enough away that they wouldn’t notice us.
“Do you think they’re looking for me?” I asked.
“Probably,” he said calmly.
I took a deep breath. “I don’t know what to say to them.”
“I’ve got an idea.” He reached out and touched my cheek. “Let’s go to my place. Everybody thinks I’m at my parents’ house, so no one will be looking for you there.”
I nodded, grateful for his calm in my storm.
During the fifteen-minute drive to his house, Sebastian assured me that God had everything under control. “There’s no trial He can’t see you through,” he said, “no river He can’t help you cross, no mountain He can’t help you over. You have nothing to fear.”
When we got into his house, Sebastian offered me some water.
“That’d be great,” I said. As he went to the kitchen, I walked over to his fireplace mantel, which held pictures of the family. Just looking at his mom made me cringe, remembering all of her cruel words to me.
The ice water Sebastian brought cooled me off a bit, but his nearness as we sat together on the leather couch warmed me up again.
“So, I guess you want me to tell you all about this mess now.”
“Only if you want to. If you don’t, I understand. We can just order some pizza, watch a little TV, go to a movie. Whatever you like.”
“That all sounds great. But I want you to hear the truth.”
Snuggling into his shoulder, I said, “You are an absolute godsend.”
He smiled, then picked up the phone. “What do you like on your pizza?”
After he put in our order, I told Sebastian I wished I could change out of my work suit. He took me to his bedroom, where he gave me a pair of his sweats to put on. Then he left the room, closing the door behind him.
The room was magnificent. The décor was black, white, and charcoal gray, which somehow had an elegant yet casual feel. I went into the adjoining bathroom and stared into the mirror at my puffy cheeks and red nose. After I washed my face I put on his sweats, which were enormous on me, but felt cozy nonetheless.
As I headed back to the living room, I heard the television.
“Dang, man,” Sebastian said, staring at the TV.
I looked at the screen and saw a surveillance picture of me.
“Presidential candidate Steven Stokes has been cleared of all wrongdoing,” the reporter was saying. “At a press conference this afternoon, press secretary Dan Greenville reported that a young female Secret Service agent tried to sabotage the campaign by funneling illegal funds into the campaign.”
“What?” I screamed out.
The newsman continued, “This photograph, taken two months ago, shows the woman apparently taking a bribe from a man who is also heavily involved. Words on the bottom of the screen decipher what was said in the exchange.”
The screen filled with a video of Max and me sitting at the restaurant in New York. Most of the conversation was unaltered, but the part that was added somewhere, somehow, implicated me in the scandal.
The words at the bottom of the TV had me saying, “For this amount of money, you’ve got a deal. I’ll introduce Reverend Stokes to the Mob.”
Sebastian looked up at me with an astonished expression.
“I know how this looks, but it didn’t go down that way,” I desperately explained, joining him on the couch. “I didn’t say all that.”
Chasing Faith Page 16