Relentless

by Patricia Haley

  “What?”

  “Don’t what me. I’m not convinced you’ve shut down your operation. I truly hope, for your sake, that you didn’t take my kindness and compassion for weakness. You best believe that it’s not too late for me to kick your behind so far out of this church that when you look back you can’t see the steeple,” the bishop yelled and then remembered where he was before bringing his tone down. The walls of his office were thick enough to muffle his angered volume, but he didn’t want to disrespect the house of God. He gained composure and folded his arms across his chest. “Maybe the councilman got word of your foolishness here in the church and is distancing himself from our real estate dealings. I certainly hope I’m wrong, very wrong,” he said staring Simmons down and letting the tension hover. Bishop wanted to knock the minister’s head off for putting the church and his staff at risk. Thank goodness restraint prevailed. Bishop prayed for help. For Simmons’s sake, God had better continue giving him strength to maintain control. Otherwise, Simmons was in big trouble, not with the law but at the hands of his spiritual father.

  “I know, Bishop. I know, and I’m sorry,” he said with what appeared to be remorse. Simmons shook his cell phone vigorously causing his whole body to shake. “I can’t get through to the councilman. When I try his cell phone, I just get his voicemail. When I call his office, his secretary keeps telling me he’s in a meeting. You would think we could get him on the telephone based on the amount of deals we’ve already done with him,” the minister said.

  “I should be hearing from our accountant and attorney within a half hour,” Bishop stated. “One of them should know something about those last property deals. Sit down, Simmons, you’re making me nervous.”

  Simmons sat in front of the bishop’s desk. They hadn’t been talking longer than ten minutes when police sirens, slamming car doors, and loud voices pulled the bishop up from his seat and drew him to the window in his office. The church parking lot looked like the scene from a SWAT episode. Simmons rushed to the window as well.

  “What in God’s name is going on here?” Noise coming from outside the bishop’s office sounded like the ground invasion of army troops. On the heels of his question, his office door swung open and a crowd of police officers swarmed into the office led by the secretary.

  Bishop was fuming. “What do you mean by bursting into my office? This is a church. I’m Bishop Ellis Jones, and I’m in a private meeting.” The bishop challenged the intruders in his office with a stern voice and bulging eyes, which landed on the face of each officer standing before him.

  Frantically, his secretary said, “I tried to stop them, Bishop, but I didn’t know what to do.” She was crying and chaos was rampant.

  “Don’t worry, you go on home. I’ll handle this,” Bishop told her, not so sure if he was more anxious or mad about the predicament.

  “No, ma’am, we need you to wait out there. We have to ask you some questions.”

  The same officer stepped up to the Bishop. “We have warrants for your arrest and to search the premises.” The policeman shoved both warrants at the bishop.

  “Warrants! Arrest! Under arrest for what? What are the charges?” Bishop Jones’s words fell out of his mouth and left it hanging open with him waiting for an answer.

  “You’re under arrest for dispensing pharmaceuticals without a license, racketeering and sexual assault.”

  “What? Assault, are you kidding? Assault? This is a mistake.”

  “Bishop Ellis Jones, can you please step forward,” an officer said, “and place your hands out front.” As he placed the cuffs on Bishop, he said, “You have the right to remain silent.”

  Bishop was pretty sure the police recited the rest of the Miranda rights but nothing processed. He felt delirious. This wasn’t happening, couldn’t be. Although he had allowed this crisis to fester, he instinctively cried out to God. Who else could he call?

  Simmons attempted to slide toward the door unnoticed. Two police officers stepped into his path. “Mr. Otis Simmons, you’re also under arrest,” an officer said, slapping the warrant into the minister’s hand. “Read Mr. Simmons his rights, but don’t escort them from the building just yet.” The same officer turned to the policemen standing in the secretary’s office and said, while making a circling motion above his head with his hands, “Bring in the dogs.”

  “Dogs,” Simmons said shifting his gaze toward the bishop.

  Time crawled by with the bishop and Simmons seated at the conference table in the office. Beads of sweat burned on Bishop Jones’s forehead. He was unable to freely swipe at his brow, hindered by the handcuffs that were causing his wrists to swell. Minister Simmons sat next to him bouncing his leg up and down.

  The bishop was used to maintaining composure and attempted to regain some. “I’ve had enough of this. I want to know what you’re looking for. Where is my secretary? I need to call my attorney.” No one responded to the bishop. But, it wasn’t long before he had more information than he wanted to know.

  “Captain, we’ve got something here,” a voice cried out in the crowd of officers.

  The fierce chaos got louder as they approached the front office. How many cops were there and what were they hoping to find? The bishop wasn’t sure as he leaned forward, hoping to see past the officers standing in front of him. The sea of black uniforms parted and there stood an officer holding a box. Bishop could tell the officer had rank by the number of colorful bars on his jacket.

  “What’s that?” Bishop asked.

  The officer set the open box on the table. Bishop’s eyelids widened with disbelief. There were Ziploc bags of colorful pills and stacks of money the length and width of bricks wrapped in cellophane.

  Bishop Jones turned slowly to look at Simmons. The bishop’s breathing was rapid and deep, and his eyelids had narrowed into slits almost as thin as a dime. Simmons looked at the pills being dangled in the air, then at the money, and dropped his gaze.

  Bishop Jones stood up shouting with a forceful wrath in his voice, “Where did you get that? Did you plant it here?”

  “Sit down,” the officer commanded.

  The bishop reluctantly obeyed the order, but he didn’t keep quiet. “This is the house of God. I demand to know where you got that.” His shoulders shuddered with anger and anxiety.

  The officer ignored the bishop’s demands. “Bag it and tag it. I want a thorough search of the premises. If there are street drugs on the premise, I want to know that too. Don’t leave a single Bible unturned.”

  More officers, noise, and chaos engulfed the bishop’s office. He was powerless witnessing the invasion of his privacy and enraged at the carelessness of Simmons. He turned in the minister’s direction and pulled away his seething stare quickly.

  Simmons hadn’t said a word in the midst of what unfolded in front of him, but his tomato red face and the tear crawling down his cheek spoke loudly. Bishop Jones was far from silent. He rose from his seat steadfast, furious and demanding his rights.

  “I want to call my attorney. Right now; I know my rights,” he protested lifting his handcuffed wrists out in front of him.

  “Not a problem, Bishop Jones. You can call your attorney as soon as you’ve been booked and fingerprinted,” the policeman replied and then gave the order, “Let’s get them downtown.”

  The bishop was led out of his office in handcuffs and in sheer disbelief. As he passed through the outer office, he saw his secretary being questioned by an officer. He held on to her with his gaze, practically willing her to look in his direction. Disappointingly, she didn’t read his mind or give him what he needed before he’d asked. He was marched down the hall, past the life-sized painting of Christ hanging on the cross. With two husky officers on each side, the bishop stumbled underneath the large wooden archway with his name on it, proclaiming him Bishop of Greater Metropolitan.

  The double doors leading down the front steps of the church were next. The bishop cleared his throat, attempted to walk slower, but the officers e
scorting him were setting the pace. The two officers leading the way reached the double doors first. They swung them open with force, allowing the sunlight and every willing spectator to catch a clear view. Cameras, news reporters, church members, and more police offered Bishop Jones a bitter greeting. As he descended the steps, flashing cameras and microphones were thrust into his face. Recognition, interest, and scores of people appeared riveted by his presence but not for the reasons he wanted.

  Chapter 40

  Garrett was glued to his wide-screen TV as he quickly dialed Maxwell’s cell phone. His call was eventually answered on the fourth or fifth ring. “It’s about time you got the phone, man.”

  “Why, what’s up?”

  “Get to a TV and turn to Channel 10 as fast as you can.”

  “What’s going on?” Maxwell asked pulling a remote from his desk drawer.

  “Hurry up. Turn it on.”

  Maxwell stood and aimed the remote at the cherry wood credenza. The double doors parted to reveal a TV. Maxwell pressed the power button and sailed to the channel. His living room illuminated with camera crews, reporters, and scads of people watching Bishop Jones and Minister Simmons being escorted down the steps of Greater Metropolitan church in handcuffs. Maxwell moved closer to his desk and sat on the edge keeping one foot on the floor. He latched on to the bishop’s face, intrigued by every expression, while he listened to the news reporter recount what had transpired.

  “If you’ve just tuned in, you’re watching the latest breaking news here at Greater Metropolitan church in the heart of Philadelphia. It’s reportedly one of the largest congregations in the city. Bishop Ellis Jones and a Minister Otis Simmons have just been arrested on a series of charges, including sexual assault and illegally selling pharmaceutical drugs. Ironically, this church was featured six years ago under very different circumstances. Many may recall Greater Metropolitan established a school for low-income families in the community. They’ve since won numerous state and local awards for academic excellence. This is truly a sad day for Greater Metropolitan and the surrounding community.”

  The reporter appeared distracted as he pressed his finger against the earpiece. “My sources are telling me police raided the church this morning based on an anonymous tip and that there are more charges yet to come. While standing here we’ve watched the police file out with boxes. I’m not sure what they’ve found, but I have to believe they’re looking for drugs since the K-9 team is on the premise. This is quite a stunning set of events.” The reporter paused again and began treading briskly. “Let’s see if we can get in closer to Bishop Ellis Jones who is being led to a squad car,” the reporter said directing his camera crew. “Let’s hear what he has to say.”

  “I’m innocent. This is a gross miscarriage of justice and an insult to the house of God. Marching dogs throughout the church and disrespecting God’s sanctuary. I’m innocent, and the truth will come out.”

  “Are you saying this is a mistake even though drugs were found on the premises?” another reporter called out.

  “I’m saying God will deal with the perpetrators, the ones who have orchestrated this injustice.”

  “Well there you have it, folks; the leader of this church professing his innocence. This will prove to be an interesting story for weeks to come. Stay tuned as we bring you more feedback from onlookers here on the scene at Greater Metropolitan.”

  “Well, the day has finally come. He’s in handcuffs and on his way to jail,” Garrett told Maxwell.

  “Yes, he is in handcuffs and that’s an encouraging sight, but the real battle is just beginning. You know these charges won’t equate to more than three to five years in prison at best, plus fifty or a hundred thousand in fines. And, that’s if the racketeering holds up.”

  “And, that’s a big if.”

  “You got that right. Any half-decent attorney can get him off, which is why I have to hit those pockets and cripple his defense funds.”

  “What else can you do?”

  “Find more criminal charges, strengthen the civil complaint, and heck, I’ll call the IRS if necessary. With so much dirty money floating around, some of it had to end up in the offering plate and violate their nonprofit status.” Maxwell pulled a coin from his pocket, tossed it into the air and snatched it down. “Wow, what a setup. The church rakes in the cash that stuffs Jones’s pockets so he can drive luxury cars, live in a fat mansion, buy property all over the city, wear tailor-made suits and not pay a penny in taxes. The IRS will be glad to crawl all over that.”

  “You probably have a point. What a tangled web the bishop has woven. With this much smoke, there’s got to be fire somewhere. I think you got him,” Garrett stated. “There’s going to be too many charges for him to get off clean.”

  “We’ve got a long, hard trial process ahead of us before he spends more than a day or two in jail, let alone in prison. I have the civil case, but it’s not enough. There has to be more tossed in to up the ante.”

  “I hate to bring this up,” Garrett said, lowering his voice, which made Maxwell nervous. “What if it’s true?”

  “What?”

  “Come on, you must have considered the possibility that the bishop is telling the truth,” Garrett suggested. “What if he’s actually innocent?”

  Maxwell paused. He hadn’t wanted to consider the possibility, but Garrett was right. The notion had popped into his mind, and he’d shoved it out. Waiting for vengeance his entire adult life justified the shove. He wasn’t about to forfeit his victory on a minor technicality like truth.

  “He’s guilty of a long list of criminal acts spread over at least three decades.”

  “Maybe, but not this one,” Garrett added.

  “That’s how twisted fate is. Remember when you were a kid. Sometimes you got a whopping for something you didn’t actually do, but your parents felt justified. Mine did because they figured if the beating was in error, it only made up for something else I’d done and thought I’d gotten away with.” Maxwell rubbed his hands together briskly. “It balances out in the end. Trust me, the bishop deserves exactly what he’s going to get.” Garrett kept quiet. “Remember, he cheated half the neighborhood out of their businesses. He’s not innocent.”

  “You’re right about the businesses.”

  “And, I’m not pumping that into the criminal case, because I prefer saving it for my arena—the civil courtroom.”

  Garrett chuckled. “I hear you.”

  “I’ll catch up with you later,” Maxwell told Garrett, then ended the call. Shortly afterwards, Maxwell picked up the phone to call the Pennsylvania attorney general, a buddy from law school. Fraud and money laundering had to be considered the same way it had for his parents. His next call would be to the IRS. He dialed rapidly as his adrenaline skyrocketed.

  Maxwell wasn’t completely ready to claim total annihilation. There remained many miles of this journey left in front of him. By the end of the day, with the evidence dredged up by Garrett and input from Deacon Burton, most of Bishop Jones’s ministerial staff were arrested and hit with charges too. As far as Maxwell was concerned, they were guilty if for no other reason than being ignorant to the bishop’s agenda. Everyone had to pay.

  Deacon Burton stood in the living room of his home watching the TV screen come to life as the police raided his church. Five days later and the Greater Metropolitan arrests remained a leading story. Deacon Burton was tired of watching the local news channels recap the horrible event. There weren’t any expressions that could show how distraught Deacon Burton felt at the precise moment when his handcuffed bishop was being escorted from the house of God and into the back of a squad car. He knew the charges were coming, but honestly, he hadn’t been prepared for the arrests to play out like they had. The image replayed, rapidly, viciously, with no regard. He turned the television off and set the remote down. He’d seen plenty.

  “Are you okay?” his wife said easing up behind him and placing her hand on his shoulder.

  “No, I
’m not, but God will work it out.” That belief was his primary source of peace, that and the promise Maxwell Montgomery had made to keep him out of this fiasco. The deacon took comfort in his rapport with the attorney and embraced his wife. They were okay.

  Ten minutes later there was a strong knock on the door.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” Deacon Burton asked his wife. She told him no and continued drinking a cup of coffee while thumbing through a magazine. “Well, let me see who it is,” he said, setting his word search booklet on the table.

  The small house didn’t require many steps to get from the kitchen to their front door. Deacon peered out the tiny peephole positioned in the middle of the door to see three gentlemen, none he recognized. “Yes, can I help you?”

  “Mr. Steve Burton, we’re Officers Kent, Craft, and Smith.”

  The deacon became edgy. He hadn’t expected to give his testimony this early into the process. If he could only close his eyelids and wish the whole legal business away, he certainly would. He gripped the doorknob, certain that his purpose and role in this business had been established by God before his birth. He was predestined for this. He turned the knob, ready to tell the truth and get his testimony behind him.

  When the door opened, he said, “Yes, Officers, how can I help you?”

  They each flashed what appeared to be police badges. “Mr. Steve Burton, we have a warrant for your arrest,” one officer said, handing him a piece of paper.

  Deacon reached for the paper, but somehow his mind couldn’t believe what he heard. “Excuse me,” he said leaning against the door, “what did you say?”

  “You’re under arrest for fraud, the illegal distribution of drugs, and racketeering.”

  Deacon Burton’s wife approached the front door. “Step back, ma’am,” an officer said, drawing his weapon. The deacon’s wife screamed and then clasped her lips shut.