A narrow two-story home, the house had a small back yard and an even smaller front yard. The green grass was only a small strip between the metal fence and the red brick home, and the roof was steep enough to keep the snow off during winter. It was tucked next to an almost identical house with the American flag out front on one side, and another red brick home with squarer angles on the other.
“You didn’t tell me that you treated a man named Charles Johnson.”
“Charles Johnson?”
“Better known as Chuck.”
“Oh.” Anderson paused. “We’re still covered by the attorney-client agreement, aren’t we?”
Hunter nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off Anderson.
“Please, come in and have a seat.”
Anderson scratched his head and sat back down on the sofa, waiting for Hunter to do the same. Hunter sat in the fabric armchair, old enough to have seen the turn of the century, and waited for Anderson to continue.
“Chuck was one of the early patients we had, not long after Lucas came onboard the business. So I guess that’ll be two years ago. Lucas drove me to his house a number of times because he wanted to be healed from his cancer. Lung cancer, if I remember correctly. Or perhaps it was emphysema. I don’t know, it was a long time ago, and I’ve seen many patients since then. I do remember that he coughed a lot. Chuck was participating reluctantly, and he didn’t really believe in the treatment. That’s why it didn’t work. He didn’t believe. And I knew who Chuck was, and I didn’t like what he stood for. Lucas said that we were doing it as a favor, so Chuck didn’t pay a cent for the treatment, and to be honest, I was relieved when Lucas said we didn’t have to go there anymore.”
“Why would Lucas offer to do it for free?”
“I don’t know.” Anderson rubbed his wrists. “All I know is that we arrived at Lucas’ insistence, and Chuck was very reluctant during the two sessions that we had. The treatment didn’t work.”
“We need honesty, Amos. You didn’t tell me that you attempted to treat Chuck for his ailments. I would hate the prosecution to paint you as a sympathizer with the White Alliance Coalition. That would only strengthen their case, as they could paint you as a racist murderer. That wouldn’t be good for anyone.”
“If they don’t think finding my past clients is important, then, why do you?”
“The truth is important to me, Amos. To proceed with a case, I need to have a full picture of what happened. I need to know every single little piece of that picture, and your past is a very important part of that. This case is already against us; the last thing we need in court is a surprise. I need to cover all the bases and have answers to everything that’s coming our way. That means I need no more surprises from you.”
“Look, I… I don’t know what else to say.”
Hunter sighed, leaning back in the comfortable armchair. There was a coffee stain on the left armrest, a loose strand of thread on the right. Although Anderson earned a lot of money from the Faith Healing Project, money wasn’t important to him. It didn’t drive him. Buying items for the sake of buying them seemed useless to him. He would rather keep his old, well-loved armchair, than spend money on a new one.
“It must’ve hurt you to treat him, Amos. You spend your time working to help people, to make their lives better, and that man, Chuck Johnson, is spreading hatred and violence through the world. That must hurt you on some level.”
“We’re all the sum of our experiences.”
“Meaning?”
“If every time I saw a fish, it bit me, then I would be scared of fish. If every time I saw a cop, and he chased me, I would be scared of cops. If my father told me something every day while growing up, then I would believe it. It’s our experiences that form our opinions.”
“And Chuck’s experiences?”
“I spoke to his daughter once about their family while I was at the house. Chuck had a racist father, and every time he saw an African American person, his father told him to be careful. Every experience he had with African Americans was negative. Then his house was broken into by an African American, and the burglar shot his wife and daughter. His wife died, but the daughter survived. That experience only solidified Chuck’s opinion. His racist viewpoint was caused by his life experience.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“Fear. Isolation. Being scared. They’re all factors in his opinions. If all your experiences with one thing were hurtful, you would hate that one thing.”
“It sounds like you’re defending him. I didn’t pick you for a racist, Amos.”
“I’m not defending his racism; I’m explaining it to you so that you have a better understanding.” Anderson looked towards the window. It was starting to fog up, the inside warmth opposing the cold air outside. “It’s the next generation that I feel sorry for. Caylee Johnson, Chuck’s daughter. She was different. She was very intelligent, and you could sense that she wanted a different life. I wanted to save her, teach her that we’re all equal, but she was so protected by Chuck that nobody had a chance to teach her any common sense.”
Hunter took out a small notepad and a pen from his coat pocket, flicked the notepad open and searched through the scribbled pages. He much preferred his handwritten notes over computer files any day. Better for his eyes.
The pen hovered over the pad, stuck as the thoughts raced through his head.
“Amos, I need you to think hard about your options here. The further we get into this case; the more Chuck seems to be involved. The more Chuck gets involved, the more this case is going to escalate in the media. I’m going to have to think long and hard about our options. But in the meantime, I need you to stay away from Chuck. Understood?”
“Of course, but like I said—I haven’t talked to him in years.”
“Good.” Hunter wrote a note on a page. “Now that I’m here, I’m going to ask some questions to get them out of the way. It’ll save us from having to do it later. Were you smoking drugs that afternoon?”
“No, sir.”
Hunter struck a line through one of his notes.
“Were you high at all?”
“No.”
Another line.
“Drinking? Did you consume any drinks that night at the dinner?”
“No. I never drink.”
“Were you under the influence of anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Is there anything that could be perceived as taking you out of a lucid state? For example, a blackout?”
“No.”
“Was there any way that your drink could’ve been spiked?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You remember the whole night?”
“I do.”
“Good.” Hunter flipped the page on his notepad. “The next problem we have is that your DNA was found under Reverend Green’s fingernails. That’s a big piece of evidence that the prosecution will be pushing. They’re saying that you struggled with Green in the alley before you killed him.”
“Like I said, when we were at the dinner function, Green grabbed me by the neck and pushed me against the wall. For a minister, he had a lot of unresolved anger. He needed to let go of that anger and find peace. When he gripped my neck tightly, his long fingernails scratched my neck. Everybody saw that.”
“When he pushed you against the wall, what did you do?”
“Nothing. Violence is never the answer. Violence—”
“Violence can be the answer, but we will agree to disagree. When did you see him next?”
“He confronted me again on the street after the seminar, as I was trying to calm down. I had left the function one hour earlier, and he was leaving at the time I was walking past the building again.” Anderson lurched forward and held his stomach. His bowels had not been kind to him since the case started. Consumed by nerves, he could barely eat, and when he did, the food didn’t agree with his digestive system. “As I walked past the event hotel again, Green was leaving. I was on the othe
r side of the street, but he ran across the traffic to confront me again. He shouted at me, and he went to push me against the wall of the building next to us. He had a look in his eyes that I hadn’t seen before. This was real hatred, anger, and fear. I was scared of what he was going to do next, so I pushed him back, but only to defend myself.”
“You pushed him back?” Hunter’s tone was disappointment mixed with irritation. “I thought you were against violence?”
“It was self-defense.”
“And this was after the function?”
“Yes.”
“Where exactly was this?”
“Outside the parking lot on Ida B. Wells Drive. It was near the back entrance of where the seminar was held.”
“Which is also next to the alley where his body was found only a few hours later.” Hunter drew a breath. “Why did he attack you a second time?”
“For some reason, I seem to get under particular people’s skin. My usual calmness infuriates some people, but that’s a reflection of them and not me. It’s their highly-stressed lives that mean they cannot relax.”
Hunter laughed. “We live in one of the world’s busiest cities. Everyone here is stressed.”
“We don’t have to be,” Anderson replied calmly.
“Again, we’ll agree to disagree. What did he say to you?”
“He didn’t say a lot. He said that he didn’t want to meet with me again, and I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. He looked confused.”
“What happened next?”
“He walked away from me—down the alley where his body was found, talking loudly to himself. I don’t think he wanted anyone to see him outside the seminar. It must have been tiring for him, always arguing with people. I walked back to the entrance of the Congress Hotel and caught a cab back my apartment. I got into the cab around 10:15 p.m.”
“The prosecution has witnesses who saw you together around the time of the second altercation. They haven’t stated that they saw you push the minister, which is good for us. We will need to disprove their statements. We can do that. Now, the real strength of the prosecution’s case is the motive. Obviously, Green was a major objector to your work. He didn’t like it at all. In fact, he was about to release evidence that says your product doesn’t work at all, and that you know the product doesn’t work. The release has been delayed after Green’s death; however, the prosecution will know about this report, and they will present that to the court.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Did you know that Lucas Bauer wanted you out of the business?”
The statement came as a revelation to Anderson. He had suspected it, but he hadn’t pieced the clues together.
He looked at his hands, his leg twitching as he took in the information. The past month had been a roller coaster full of emotional distress, and he wasn’t sure how much more information he could take in.
“I… I knew he was looking to expand.” He fumbled his words. “But I didn’t know he wanted me out of the business. I didn’t know that he wanted to push me aside. Are you sure?”
“We’ve got word that he has thirty faith healers ready to take your position and expand the brand across the country. The only thing standing in his way was you.”
“I didn’t know that.” Anderson looked away. “I didn’t know that’s what he was going to do.”
“Well, now, you do.” Hunter was softer in his approach. He crossed another line through his notes and turned to the next page. “Tell me about Nancy Bleathman.”
“She’s got a good heart, and she means well.”
“But?”
“But she’s a little… how can I say…” He pondered for a moment. “She’s a little obsessive. She’ll defend us to the ends of the Earth.”
“Dangerous?”
Anderson looked away. “I don’t know.”
Hunter knew this was going to be hard, he knew he was going to have to work for his money, but he didn’t expect to be fighting against lies from his client.
“We’re done for now, but I don’t want any more lies. When I ask you a question, you need to be fully upfront.”
“Yes, sir.” Anderson bowed his head like a schoolboy after getting into trouble. “When will I hear from you again?”
“Within the week. Sit tight. Esther will call you and set up a time to meet. But remember: try to stay away from public gatherings. We don’t want you to become an even larger media story than you already are.”
After Anderson closed the front door of the house, Hunter walked out into the cold air, reflecting on the case.
Reverend Green had many enemies, people who hated his outspoken ways, and none more than Chuck Johnson.
And no matter how dangerous, that was the direction Hunter had to head in.
CHAPTER 10
Caylee Johnson ran her cloth up the barrel of the shotgun as she leaned against the Ford sedan in front of her family’s house. The Ford was twenty years old but still newer than the other vehicles on the property. Her father had sprayed the car a fresh green color for her birthday. It didn’t look professional, but she liked the hue and appreciated his effort.
She looked down the barrel of the gun, made sure it was straight and gave it a little kiss.
She enjoyed this life—although her university studies in geology gave her hope for the future. It was this life, the quiet one, where she enjoyed herself the most.
The property was out of the way, the entrance discreet, and they had the constant chirp of birds in the background. The afternoon sun was low in the sky, and there was not even a hint of wind. She looked to the trees, and the leaves didn’t move. It felt strange to her—that stillness, that calm.
Calmness was something that she hadn’t experienced a lot in life.
Her life was always about pushing boundaries. Always living on the edge. Always filled with hate.
“You still studying those stupid books?” Burt Johnson walked out of the house and came up behind his niece. While Caylee was blessed with intelligence from the gene pool, Uncle Burt was blessed with height and strength.
So much strength that there remained little room for intelligence.
“You know I’m still studying, Uncle Burt. You know how I love books.”
“The only thing you should worry about is getting married. That’s what your dad says too. You need to find yourself a good man, have kids, and settle down.” He grunted as he leaned against the car. He rubbed his hands—the days as a laborer were starting to take a toll on his fingers. It was his third job that year. Even at fifty-one, he struggled to control his anger, and that usually meant that he was shown the door very quickly whenever he started a new job.
“You don’t have to believe everything that my dad says.” She looked down the barrel of the gun again. “You must have your own thoughts up there in your big head.”
“Nah, your dad’s always right.” He folded his arms. “Thinking hurts my head too much, and your dad sure is right about you needing to find a good man. He says that you could give up studying then. You could focus on having babies. Lots of them.”
“Now, Uncle Burt, why would I want babies?” She loved her uncle, despite his overt sexism.
“I don’t get why girls study at all. You’re never going to use all that knowledge. You need to find yourself a good man to marry, and he’ll work to support you.”
Caylee shook her head.
Sometimes living with her family frustrated her. Their attitudes were stuck in a bygone era, and she had to fight just to be heard. She was attending Northeastern Illinois University, forty minutes away by car, and when she stepped onto campus, it seemed like she was entering a different century, a world full of different ideas.
It was a different life, and one she had come to love. She accepted the new ideas, the open attitudes to the world. Ideas that her family would hate.
But she also loved her father and uncle, and they loved her. There was a comfort in family, a comfort in her
past, a comfort in everything she had been taught.
She limped around the back of the car, hobbling like she always did.
She didn’t remember much about the night she was shot in the leg—she was only four at the time—but she did remember her mother screaming, and those terrified shrieks have never left her. She still heard them every night when she closed her eyes.
“Uncle Burt, I hope you realize that the world is more complex than that. There’s more to life than getting married, and I thought you would’ve figured that out after marriage number three.”
Burt had moved in with his brother and niece after his third marriage collapsed two years ago, due to his many infidelities and gambling issues, and had been living in the spare bedroom.
He had been to prison twice, had the tattoos, and the scars to prove it.
Although strong, he was out-witted easily. His older brother, Chuck, had spent most of his life bailing Burt out of one situation or another, but Chuck promised his mother that he would look after his younger sibling. When she was on her death bed, her final wish, her final whisper into Chuck’s ear, was to look after “that dumb sack of potatoes.”
Dumb as a log, and as heavy as one, Burt Johnson had two kids that didn’t talk to him, three ex-wives that hated him, and no friends to speak of.
The Johnson family and the White Alliance Coalition were all he had.
“What’s more important to a woman than marriage and babies? How could you achieve anything in life without a man?”
“Uncle Burt.” Caylee’s voice was flat. She’d had this conversation more times than she cared to count. “Women have an opportunity to change the world. We have the chance to do something great. Just because Dad says something doesn’t mean it has to be done that way.” She smiled. “We can change the course of history, make the world a better place.”
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