Sacrifices of Joy

by Leslie J. Sherrod

  I looked again at the folded up paper in my hands. I knew where I wanted to put it. The joy bag, the crocheted purse Skyye had fashioned and I’d bought to give to Roman’s sister, would be the perfect place.

  The words of forgiveness belonged there. Not the note I’d just written, per se, but a card, a letter, something that spoke to the freedom, the forgiveness I had in my heart, the freedom I now felt to pursue a relationship with RiChard’s other family.

  It did not hurt now to think about them. A revolution had happened in my soul and my mind was now open to new possibilities.

  “Lord, let me be a vessel of healing.”

  And I was trained to be one. I smiled. Yes, I was a worker for social justice, a servant for the public good. I was destined and prepared to help bring hope and healing, restore relationships, and encourage inner peace through my work as a therapist, my calling as a social worker. The message I had for my corner of the world was powerful and radical: there is freedom in forgiveness, the fullness of joy in God’s presence, and it’s worth sacrificing our right to be angry and upset to experience it all.

  I know not everyone believes in the same God I worship. Saying anything about Christ and his sacrificial death is not “PC” but I didn’t need words to get out the truths I was experiencing. My “mirror moment,” as Ava termed it, was showing me that allowing Christ to reflect off of me would be enough for the world to see His glory, and I would look fabulously good doing so.

  I knew exactly what I needed to do next; no doubts, no second-guessing, no questions about it.

  Clarity came with freedom. And so did courage for the next leg of the journey. Clear vision and strength were byproducts of joy.

  Chapter 39

  I had to get to my car.

  The joy bag was in the back seat and my phone was in the glove compartment. Plus, my workbag containing my folder and notes about the man from the airport was in the passenger seat. I kicked myself for not bringing that and my carry-on bag with me, but Laz had rushed me, and I’d had no idea where we were going or what we were doing.

  I looked for the sole phone in the house and shook my head when I found it in what looked like the master bedroom. Wood paneling covered the walls of the tiny room and a comforter decorated with bright apples and cherries covered the queen-sized bed. The phone was on a nightstand next to the bed. It was a rotary phone, bright red and looking like it had seen better days.

  “I hope this really does work.” I picked up the handset and relief flooded through me. A dial tone never sounded so good. There was no point in calling Laz. I needed a cab. Thankfully, there was an old department store catalog on the nightstand next to the phone. It was addressed to a Lozella Tyson and had the full address of the home; otherwise, I would not have known where to tell the cab company to come.

  Within thirty minutes, I was en route to the restaurant lot where my car was parked.“Wait,” I called out to the cab driver as we passed a strip mall not far from Laz’s secret family house. “I need to stop at that ATM so I can have money to pay you.” I pointed to a bank.

  “I take credit cards, ma’am.”

  “That’s good, but I, uh, still want to stop at the machine.” I needed cash. One benefit of hanging out so much with an investigative reporter was that you picked up tips and hints for staying low-key. Avoiding a paper trail became my aim.

  “Thanks.” I smiled politely as he let me out in front of a bank I’d never heard of. Hopefully the bank was obscure enough that any transactions I completed at its ATM would not be posted until the next business day, Monday, three whole days away.

  I hope I’m not still dealing with all this next week. I refuse to be. I was determined that the weekend would not end without me getting complete answers about that man from the airport. I had peace about what I was doing, but the urgency had not left. Now that my thoughts were clearer, the urgency had, in fact, quadrupled.

  A quiet rain had started falling by the time we pulled up to the restaurant parking lot about forty minutes later. “Ma’am, we’re here.” The cabbie pointed to the fare on the meter. “It was a long drive so it’s not going to be cheap.” He raised an eyebrow at the horror I was sure he saw on my face.

  Except my sudden alarm had nothing to do with the cost of the trip.

  My eyes had scanned the parking lot as we’d pulled up in front of the restaurant doors.

  My car was not there.

  “Um, here’s your money, but do you mind waiting for a moment? I need to see if my party is here.”

  “Lady, it’s raining and it’s Friday night in DC. I can get a lot of business right now.”

  “I promise that I’ll be right back out. Just give me five minutes, please.”

  “Five minutes, no more.” The cab driver grunted as he counted the twenties I’d handed him.

  “Thank you.” I used my purse to cover my head and hair from the growing rain shower as I stepped out of the cab. I headed immediately into the restaurant.

  My car had gone missing from the airport, I recalled, but it had happened when I wasn’t expected to be in town.

  This felt different.

  “Welcome, how many in your party?” A different hostess from yesterday greeted me with a couple of menus.

  “I need to use your phone. I . . . I’m not sure that my party is here, and I, well, I left my phone in my car.”

  “Sure, you can use the one right here.” She passed me a handset from her stand and walked to a group of seven who’d entered behind me. I quickly dialed Laz’s number. His phone rang for a while before he picked it up.

  “Hello, who’s this?”

  “It’s me, Laz.”

  “Si . . . I mean, uh, where are you calling from?” His voice dropped to a near whisper. He also sounded more formal than usual.

  “Someone stole my car.”

  “What? No. That did not happen.”

  “I’m back at the restaurant right now. My car is not here. That man stole it. I didn’t tell you how it was missing on Sunday when I went to get it from BWI, but then it was in front of my house Monday morning. I’m telling you that man from the airport is somehow involved with the bombing and he’s stalking me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. And why are you not . . . where I last saw you? It’s not missing. Something came up. Wait, hold on, please.” It sounded like he put his hand over his phone, but I could still hear his words as he spoke to someone near him. “I’ll be right back. I have to take this call in private.” I could hear his footsteps and a door slam shut. When he got back on the call his whisper was as potent as a full-blown yell.

  “Sienna, what are you doing? I took you to that house for a reason. You were to stay until I came to get you tomorrow morning! I told you I’m working to make everything okay. You’re screwing it all up!”

  I had a lot I wanted to say to that, but I lost my train of thought watching the cab pull away from the front of the restaurant. Had five minutes passed already? I turned my attention back to my conversation with Laz.

  “How are you going to tell me that my car is not missing? I’m here looking at the empty space where it should be. And who were you just talking to? Are you with her? Camille?”

  “No, Sienna, I am not with her, but, like I said, something came up. Right now, she is just independently investigating some things. She was going to take whatever information she thought she had to a higher level, but I begged and pleaded with her to not do so. She wanted to follow your phone, check out your car, and that’s all that was supposed to happen; but after she checked it out, she started making other calls and apparently had it taken away. I don’t know what is going on, and she has stopped giving me information. I wish you had just listened to me and stayed where you were.”

  “Wait a minute. You knew that woman wanted to look at my car? You were working with her against me?”

  “No! I mean, yes, I knew she wanted a closer look at your car, but I didn’t realize she’d have it towed away. I just told her where
your car would be and when. She doesn’t know that I picked you up or hid you. I was doing that for both of us, keeping you out of the spotlight until she leaves you alone. Now, I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He sighed.

  “So, she thinks I had something to do with what happened at the airport?” I wasn’t worried. There was absolutely nothing that could tie me to such a ludicrous claim.

  “Sienna, did you hear what I said? She has stopped talking to me about anything related to the case. I don’t know what is going on right now. I don’t know why she has your car or what she is doing with it. I’m trying to get another source right now, and I need to get off this phone so I can finish talking to an FBI agent who seems willing to talk to me.”

  “Laz, come get me, take me to her, or whoever, and I’ll set everything straight. If they have my car, they’ll see the notes I’ve taken. I can tell them all of my concerns. Everything will be okay. Calm down.”

  “How dare you tell me calm down, Sienna? Do you think the network offering me a nightly news show will still want me if my fiancée was at one time a person of interest in a terrorist attack? Why did you have to insist that you knew something about anything, Sienna? They already had someone in custody and you’ve only complicated matters.”

  “Oh, ma’am, you’re still on the phone?” The hostess had returned from seating several parties. “We need that line for reservations.” She smiled, but I saw the slight irritation in her eyes. I gave her a gracious nod.

  “I’m almost finished, thank you. Laz, I’ve got to go. Can you come get me?”

  “No, I can’t do anything until I know what’s going on,” he spoke quickly. “I gotta go. I’m losing the FBI agent. It looks like someone from CBS is talking to him.” The phone went dead. I handed it back to the hostess.

  “Did you still need a table?” She looked at me sympathetically. “Is your party coming?”

  “I need a moment,” I replied, because I did.

  “Sure. You can have a seat at the bar while you wait.”

  “That’s not necessary. I will just . . .” I froze as I looked over at the bar. Several television screens hung over it airing different networks. One screen had the words CBS BREAKING NEWS running across it. “I will sit down for a moment.”

  I was glad that the bartender was busy taking orders from a party of five on the other side of the long bar area. I stared up at the muted television, which had captions running across the bottom of the screen.

  An anchor sat somberly at the desk.

  “We have breaking news into our news room,” the caption read. “Authorities have confirmed that there is a possibility that the suspect being held in custody for the bombing at BWI may not have acted alone. We are hearing reports that additional evidence has been recovered from the mechanism used to set off the explosion. Though authorities have not officially disclosed any details of the bomb, what type it is, or how it was able to evade airport security personnel, sources are telling us that some type of scrap of paper collected at the scene is being investigated. The source tells us that it appears to be the remnants of a business card that may have been inadvertently left behind.”

  I’d given my business card out twice over the past week. Once to the man at the airport. Secondly to Camille. This latest news development could not be a coincidence. Or maybe it was. I swallowed hard, trying to understand what this meant, what I was supposed to do.

  I got off the barstool, wondering if I could talk the hostess into letting me use the phone again. I needed Laz to come get me.

  As I walked to the window, I noticed flashing lights in the distance. Were police cruisers coming this way? Laz knew I was at the restaurant. Had he told Camille or anyone else? Was his phone tapped? My imagination started going wild.

  Person of interest. Laz had used those words. Me? Was there actually someone somewhere thinking I had something to do with what happened?

  It was ridiculous, ludicrous! And yet, if Jamal Abdul had nothing to do with the attack and was still identified as a suspect, anything was possible. I swallowed hard again, watching as the flashing lights that had looked far away mere seconds ago seemed to be not so distant anymore.

  I’d wanted to talk to authorities all along about my suspicions. Actually, I had talked to someone, but now I was uncertain about what had resulted from my talking. No, I knew what the result of that conversation was. My car was towed and Laz tried to hide me and now wanted nothing to do with me. There couldn’t be any warrants or anything out for me or I know Laz would not have helped me in the small way he had.

  Helped me? Let me correct my thoughts. Helped himself.

  The lights were getting closer.

  They could be going to an accident nearby, or they could be ambulances and fire trucks rushing to a hospital or fire. Shoot, it could be a presidential motorcade; I was right by DC after all. I’m being paranoid, I told myself.

  Paranoid or not, I didn’t want to take any chances. I did not want to talk to Homeland Security, the FBI, NSA, traffic cops, or mall security guards until I had something definite that could tie that man to the bombing.

  It was no longer just a matter of national security.

  I had my own behind to cover.

  I headed back toward the bar area, away from the front windows. Following the signs to the restrooms, I was glad to see the kitchen entrance was nearby. A waiter exited, balancing a tray of plates, and I stepped behind him into the clanging, yelling commotion of a Friday late-night dinner rush at a popular restaurant. Cooks and other staff were engrossed in their stations, but I did not wait to see if I’d be noticed as I rushed toward a back entrance. Within seconds, I stood outside on a truck loading dock. I jumped down and headed toward a line of trees that bordered the restaurant’s parking lot.

  As nervous as I had been walking through that church basement just last night, nothing compared to the nerves that overtook me now. Last night I had a map in hand, a destination in mind, though I would have never pictured the outcome.

  Tonight I had no direction, no place to go, and plenty of outcomes were playing on my brain’s movie projector. I wanted a new script for this scenario.

  With no car, no phone, and no clue as to what to do next, I cut across the treed lot and headed toward a main thoroughfare. I could rent a car, I considered, but quickly shot that idea down. I’d have to use my credit card and I was avoiding a paper trail. Call my mom? My sister? Lord, what do I do?

  I was not too far from Dulles Airport so several hotels were nearby. I decided to get a room, watch the news, figure out what was going on.

  Figure out what to do next.

  I stopped at the closest one to me, a three-star establishment. Not too big, but not too intimate, quiet, but still near the main roads. The rotating marquee outside the entrance advertised a business center with free Internet access and a daily continental breakfast.

  Perfect.

  “Do you have a reservation?” A young girl with long braids smiled as I stopped at the front desk.

  “No. I just need one night.”

  “Name?”

  “Josephine Davis.” My middle and maiden names.

  I paid in cash and was given a key and a standard room with views of the parking lot. I would not miss any approaching police cars or any other potential authority figures trying to find me. Yes, my imagination had gone wild, envisioning all manner of frightening scenarios. I used my money to buy a change of clothes—another t-shirt and an additional pair of sweatpants—from the gift shop, along with a baseball cap and sunglasses in case I needed to play down my appearance tomorrow. My intention was to shower, then flip through all the news stations to soak in every detail about the attack and current developments.

  I got as far as the bed and crashed.

  As my eyes closed in sleep, I meditated on the meaning of joy, and the determination I had not to let anything steal it from me.

  The joy of the Lord is your strength, another verse echoed within me as I offered up an
other sacrifice, exchanging my fear for his peace. The joy of the Lord is your strength. I set my mind on those words, knowing that I was going to need all the strength I could get for tomorrow. Tomorrow, I was putting this whole business behind me. I was determined that the sun would not set without me having all the answers I needed for myself, my safety, and my sanity.

  Tomorrow was reckoning day and I was determined to get a full account from all interest-bearing parties.

  Chapter 40

  4:27 a.m.

  My eyes opened before the sun had even decided to get the day started. At least one of us had some sense. I got out of bed, struggling to remember why I was waking up in a hotel near DC and why I had nothing on me but my purse, some cash, and a bag of new tourist-looking clothes from the hotel gift shop. As my memory woke up, I began to plan out my morning. First on my list was to get more information about that man so I could find his whereabouts to direct the attention of authorities to him and off of me. My next task was figuring out how to get home.

  I’d been wearing the same clothes for nearly twenty-four hours, so it felt good changing into the ensemble I’d bought from the gift shop. I put my sneakers back on, grabbed all my things and headed to the hotel’s computer room. Though I no longer had my notes or the paper that Roman had printed out for me, I had what I needed.

  The name J.B. Infinity. I Googled it. No result.

  Roman had told me that his school’s library was open twenty-four hours a day. I looked up its phone number online and called it on the courtesy phone that sat in the business center.

  “I’m trying to find more information about an article I attempted to read on one of your databases yesterday,” I informed the journals specialist to whom I was transferred.

  “Sure, what’s the name of the article and what information did you need?”

  “I don’t have the name, just the author. I don’t even remember what journal it came from.”

  “Okay, give me a second and I’ll get onto my master database to see what I can find to help you.”