“I’m serious. Don’t say nothing,” Buster reiterated. “Your friend said she is calling June Europe right now. Or is it April Germany?” He scratched his dreads and began mumbling. “Dangit, I told her I wasn’t gonna remember the name. Okay, month and country, month and country,” he muttered.
Rachel paused as she studied the strange man, then it dawned on her.
Her friend. Month and country. Jasmine! Jasmine was calling Mae Frances! Rachel didn’t know what that old coot would be able to do, but since everyone knew she knew everyone from Al Sharpton to Al Capone, she would definitely be able to help Rachel out of this mess. She was surprised Jasmine hadn’t thought to call her earlier.
Jasmine hadn’t abandoned her! She’d probably given this homeless man twenty bucks to come relay that message. For a minute, Rachel questioned why Jasmine hadn’t come over herself, but Rachel would’ve done the exact same thing. They were more alike than she ever would’ve admitted.
If Rachel hadn’t been caught up in the middle of this nightmare, she might’ve actually smiled.
“Let’s go,” Detective Davis said, pushing her down in the backseat of his car.
“Bye, baby!” Buster waved, a huge toothless smile across his face.
Rachel gave him a solemn wave and just as the police car pulled away, she noticed Cecelia King standing on the corner, watching everything. Her smile was even bigger than Buster’s, and satisfaction was written all over her face.
There was a reason the Good Lord had blessed Rachel to have never led a life of crime. She wasn’t cut out for jail.
She’d been at the Cook County Jail for three hours and she was ready to confess to being the person who assassinated Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. She’d stayed strong as the detectives played good cop, bad cop; hurled accusations at her; but tried to cut her a deal if she would just tell them why she did it. Rachel was so exhausted and out of tears that she’d been ready to say whatever she thought they wanted to hear. But she kept hearing Jasmine’s voice telling her to “be strong.” It was funny, because Rachel had never been a weak woman. Sure, she’d had a momentary pity party when she thought her husband had gotten another woman pregnant, but she was a fighter at heart. Somewhere between viewing Pastor Griffith’s dead body and having her picture plastered all over the news, she’d turned into a withering wimp.
“So you’re just not going to cooperate?” Detective Davis asked, obviously frustrated.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Rachel said, her voice filled with weariness.
The second detective, a portly black man in a too-small, cheap suit slammed his hand on the table. “How about you start with the truth?”
Detective Davis nodded in agreement. “Yeah, because I’m not buying for a minute that Buster dude is your man. Everyone knows your man is Pastor Griffith!”
Rachel was fed up. “That is insane!” she shouted. “First of all, I’m married. Secondly, look at me!” She stood and motioned up and down her body. She wasn’t looking her best, but even on her worst day, Rachel still looked good. “What would a fine woman like me want with an old decrepit man like Earl Griffith? One night in bed with me would kill that old man,” she snapped.
Both of their eyes bucked and Rachel winced. Definitely a bad choice of words. This would be why lawyers advise their clients to be quiet.
Rachel sank back down in her hard wooden seat. “I didn’t even like Pastor Griffith, let alone date him. Or kill him,” she threw in for good measure. Now she was done.
They must’ve known it, too, because the overweight detective tossed his notepad on the table. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Yes, Mrs. Adams, you are indeed fine,” Detective Davis said, continuing his good-cop role. “But money can make many a woman put aside age and looks. So, why would you want Pastor Griffith? Money. Power. Money.”
Rachel thought of protesting more but finally just said, “You have the wrong woman.” She glanced up at the clock on the wall. She’d hoped Jasmine would’ve gotten Mae Frances to work her magic by now, but so far, nothing, and frankly, Rachel was tired of waiting.
“I’d like my one phone call now.” She didn’t know what Lester could do from home, and she dang sure didn’t want to hear his mouth. But at this point, Rachel had no doubt that not only had her husband heard about the fiasco, he probably was already on the plane to Chicago to come see about her.
“Fine,” Detective Davis said, exasperated. “You’re just in for questioning, so you can call who you’d like.” He motioned for an officer standing by the door to lead Rachel out to the phone. She stood, massaged her neck, and was at least grateful that they’d removed the handcuffs.
“Don’t try anything funny,” the overweight detective said.
Rachel looked at him, then at the six-foot-three-inch officer guiding her out, then back at the detective. “Seriously?” She shook her head in disgust and walked out to call her husband.
Since she had to call collect, Rachel called her house. Maybe by some miracle, no one at home knew anything. Well, if they didn’t before, they would now, Rachel thought as she heard the operator say, “You have a collect call from the Cook County Jail. Press one to accept. Hang up to decline.”
Rachel was grateful when she heard the button chime.
“Rachel!” Her father’s voice boomed through the phone and Rachel immediately felt like a child again. The only other time she’d been to jail—some ghetto drama when she was a teen—her father had left her in jail overnight to “teach her a lesson.” She couldn’t endure any chastising now.
“Hey, Daddy.”
“Baby girl, what in the world is going on? We have been worried sick. It’s all over the news. Everyone here is talking about you’ve been arrested for murder! Lord Jesus, what’s happening?” His voice held a mixture of relief and panic.
“Technically I wasn’t arrested. I was taken in for questioning in a murder,” she said, like that made any difference.
“But what . . . why? I mean, they said you had something to do with Pastor Griffith’s murder.”
“Daddy, you know I didn’t kill anyone, nor did I have anything to do with it.”
“Well, of course I know that,” he replied. “But why do they think you did?”
“It’s a long story, Daddy. Where’s Lester?”
“Baby, that boy hightailed it out of here the minute he heard you were taken into custody. He should be landing any moment now, if he hasn’t already.”
A sense of relief filled Rachel’s body. “Thank God.”
“God’s got this under control, you just stay strong. Lester’s on his way. We called Brother Lampkin from the church and he’s on his way over here. He’s not licensed to practice in Illinois, but he can advise us ’til we figure this mess out.”
“Okay, Daddy. How are the kids? They don’t know, do they?”
“The kids are fine. You don’t worry about none of this. We already decided to keep Jordan home from school tomorrow because you know that boy’s short-tempered and we don’t want nobody giving him a hard time.”
Rachel felt hot tears fill her eyes. Now even her kids were suffering . . . all because she wanted to be on Oprah.
Rachel wiped her eyes. “All right, Daddy. Hopefully, I’ll be home soon.”
“You will. Everybody here is praying for you.” He hesitated. “Have you prayed for yourself?”
Rachel thought about it. She hadn’t. Not once during this entire nightmare had she turned to God.
Her father didn’t wait for a response. “Well, regardless of whether you have or haven’t, we ’bout to pray again. You find comfort in Psalms 46:1, God is our refuge and our strength, and ever-present in trouble.”
Rachel closed her eyes, listened intently as her father began to pray. And in no time at all, she was praying right along with him.
Chapter
TWENTY-FOUR
There weren’t many times when Jasmine turned to her Bible. Even though she was a first
lady, she found the Good Book filled with too many “thou arts,” “ye begots,” and names she could never pronounce.
But as she sat inside this Starbucks only blocks from the Cook County Jail, she’d pulled up a Bible on her iPad, hoping that reading a few scriptures would take away her fear and help her stop trembling.
It was a good thing that she’d carried her purse into the church since the police had impounded the rental car. All she had was her iPad, phone, and wallet. She didn’t even have her makeup bag since she’d tucked it inside her carry-on.
By now, Jasmine was sure that the police knew Rachel wasn’t traveling alone. Actually, the police had probably known that all along according to what Cecelia had said as she stood in the pulpit.
How could a woman of God stand at the altar like that and tell all of those lies? Jasmine wondered. And then she answered her own question. Clearly, Cecelia King was no woman of God.
So what did Cecelia have to do with this whole thing, anyway? Because Jasmine knew for sure Cecelia was somehow knee-deep in the middle of Pastor Griffith’s murder. She just couldn’t figure out Cecelia’s role, no matter how many angles she looked at it from. She needed help—not only to get answers about Cecelia, but also to get Rachel out of jail.
There was only one thing to do. She had to do what she’d told Rachel she’d do, through that wino that she’d paid to give her the message.
She had to call Mae Frances.
Jasmine wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t heard from Mae Frances. Her friend had to be majorly pissed that Jasmine had ignored all of her warnings to stay away from Chicago. And now, here she was, needing to make this call. She’d have to tell Mae Frances that she’d been right—that was okay. She’d just suck it up if that would help Rachel.
Once again, she glanced at the scripture that she’d looked up, Psalm 27:1: The Lord is my light and my salvation—so why should I be afraid? The Lord is my fortress, protecting me from danger, so why should I tremble?
She’d been shocked when she’d first read those words. It was as if God knew her fear. But still, she trembled, especially as she thought about Rachel. What was Rachel saying? What was she doing? Did she know that Jasmine had her back?
With a deep breath, she picked up her phone, scrolled to her contact list, and hit Mae Frances’s number.
Her friend answered on the first ring. As if she’d been sitting by the phone, waiting.
“Where are you?” Mae Frances growled without saying hello.
“Don’t be mad—”
“You’re still in Chicago!”
“Mae Frances, I had to come. I had to help Rachel.”
“I told you—”
“I know you did and I wish I’d listened to you because now, everything is a mess.”
“I know.”
Jasmine frowned. “You know what?”
“That Rachel has been taken in for questioning regarding Earl’s murder.”
“Your people work fast.”
“Not this time. I got my information the old-fashioned way—it’s all over the news.”
Jasmine closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips against her temple to massage away the headache that she knew was coming. All over the news? If Mae Frances saw it that meant that Lester and Hosea probably had, too. Which explained why Hosea had been blowing up her phone.
But she shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course, this would be big news nationally. It involved the American Baptist Coalition, it involved another Christian having a public fall. The media loved those stories.
“Cecelia King has been all over the news talking about how Rachel Jackson Adams is an embarrassment to the American Baptist Coalition.”
Jasmine’s eyes snapped open. “What? But Rachel was just arrested.”
“Well, I don’t know what she did, but Cecelia’s already held a news conference that’s been on every channel and she’s demanding that Reverend Adams step down as the president before the Coalition suffers major damage.”
“I cannot believe this.”
“Believe it, because right now, I’m looking at her on WGN talking about how she tried to warn the Coalition against putting people in place who weren’t ready. This is so big, they interrupted one of the football games and that hasn’t happened in years.”
“Oh, God!” Jasmine said. She couldn’t imagine how Cecelia had pulled this off so quickly. It was like she had a press conference waiting. “Well, I can’t worry about this right now. I have to get Rachel out of there,” Jasmine said.
“It’s not going to be that easy. They can hold her for hours just to question her.”
“She’ll never last for hours.” Jasmine paused. “Mae Frances, I need help.”
“I know you do. From what I’ve heard, you and that Adams chick have been making a mess of things. Do you know who you’re dealing with?”
“Uh . . . yeah. I was there when the police stuffed Rachel into the back of their car.”
Mae Frances laughed, surprising Jasmine. “The police are the least of your worries. It’s the other folks that I’m talking about.”
“Yeah,” Jasmine said, scooting to the edge of her seat. “We’ve come up against some seriously bad guys.” She shook her head. “I wish to God that I never sent Rachel that blackmail letter.”
There was a long pause. Mae Frances said, “Jasmine, I never mailed your blackmail letter.”
Jasmine frowned. “What? No, of course you did. Don’t you remember? You had someone in Chicago mail the letters and I got mine. Then Rachel told me she got one, too, and—”
“She didn’t get yours,” Mae Frances said, interrupting her. “I don’t know who sent her a letter, but I didn’t mail the one that you’d put together for her.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why didn’t you send it?”
“Because I found out that what was going on with Earl was really deep. Like deep in the game.”
Jasmine held back the urge to say “Duh!” Of course he was deep in it. The man was dead.
“After I spoke with you,” Mae Frances continued, “I checked things out. I made a few calls, found out exactly who Earl had been dealing with, and I knew you didn’t need to be anywhere near these people or this situation. So, I didn’t mail the letter to Rachel. Just mailed yours.”
“Why did you go through all of that? Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“Because you’re hardheaded and I knew you wouldn’t listen to me, Jasmine Larson,” she snapped. “I only mailed your letter to keep you quiet.”
“You still should’ve told me.”
“Why? I told you not to go to Chicago, but where are you right now?”
“So who sent Rachel that letter?” Jasmine whispered, more to herself than to Mae Frances. The question made her shiver some more.
“See what I’m saying, Jasmine Larson? This thing is no joke. There are people out there who want to take Rachel down.”
“But why? Why her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the real killer set her up. Maybe the killer knows that the police will keep looking until they put someone away for Earl’s murder. Maybe it’s that simple . . . or much more complicated. I don’t know which, but I know that those people in Chicago are not to be played with.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“Well this twenty-twenty vision that you suddenly have may be a little too late.”
“There’s nothing I can do about the past. I’m here, Rachel’s in jail, and I have to do something.”
“What you need to do is get on a plane and get back here to New York.”
“I can’t leave Rachel!”
There was a pause before, “Why not? I thought you couldn’t stand the skank!”
“She’s not a skank.” Jasmine raised her voice as if she was protecting a dear, dear friend. When the barista glanced her way, Jasmine lowered her voice. “She’s not a skank,” she repeated. “Rachel’s really cool.”
In the pause that followed, Jasmine imagine
d Mae Frances with her eyebrows stretched high. “She’s cool? So, what? Y’all friends now?”
“Yeah, I mean, no, not really. Look, we’ve been working together and Rachel really isn’t that bad. Like I said, she’s cool people and I’m going to stay here and do everything I can to get her out ’cause that’s what she would do for me. So,” Jasmine paused, “will you help me?”
Mae Frances released a long sigh. “You two really kissed and made up?”
“Yeah, well, being chased by thugs and the police will bring you closer to anyone,” Jasmine said. “Plus, I kinda feel responsible for her being here,” she said. “I mean, I started this whole thing with that blackmail letter . . . or at least that’s what I thought.”
“Well, give me fifteen minutes. I’m gonna get Buddy Clemons right on it.”
“Who’s that?” Jasmine asked, surprised that Mae Frances hadn’t called out one of her famous friends. Wasn’t there an Al Capone heir that she could get to help them?
“Buddy is Al Sharpton’s godson. I’d call Al, but he’s been really busy doing that TV thing. Buddy is the next best thing. He’s an attorney right there in Chicago and he knows whatever is going down in his city. If anyone can help Rachel, he can.”
“Thank you,” Jasmine breathed, feeling the trembling that had taken over her body subsiding.
“And after I get him on this, I’ll catch the next plane out there. Not sure if I can get a flight out today since it’s Sunday, but if I can, will you pick me up?”
Jasmine knew exactly why tears sprang into her eyes. She’d missed her friend. Through every adversity, Mae Frances had been by her side, helping her to wiggle out of every situation. Clearly, the way she and Rachel had been stumbling around Chicago, it would’ve been much different if Mae Frances had been with them. Mae Frances would’ve had the whole thing figured out and fixed in two minutes flat.
“Definitely,” Jasmine finally said. “Whenever your plane comes in, I’ll be there. And, thank you, Mae Frances.”
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