“Yes, m’am. The sheriff said you saw the whole thing.”
“I still can’t believe it happened. The whole thing unfolded before my very eyes, like it . . . like it was in slow motion, you know? What kind of mother leaves her child in a Money Mart parking lot?” she asked no one in particular, as she broke down into uncontrollable sobs.
Lloyd patted her on her back to comfort her. Once she recovered, she looked ahead as if she were reliving the accident, shaking her head in disbelief.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Lloyd asked gently. “Did you know the boy or his mother?”
“No, my being here at the same time was just a heartbreaking coincidence. I actually wish I hadn’t been here because it will be a long time before I can get the images of what happened out of my head.”
“Sheriff Martin told me you were walking to your car,” Lloyd said, half question and half statement of fact, prodding her along, but not pushing so she’d shut down completely.
“Well, I had just gone through the checkout line and exited the double doors over there,” she said, pointing to the sliding doors nearest them. “I was pushing my shopping cart toward my car, which was parked about ten cars away from the entrance.”
“While I was walking, a woman and her two children passed me on my right. She had a young woman with her; I presume it was her friend. The little boy was walking slower than they were, you know, being a little stubborn. He wasn’t throwing a tantrum or anything, but you could tell he was walking slowly on purpose.”
Lloyd didn’t interrupt because she obviously wanted to get all of the details off her chest, perhaps in hopes of easing her own conscience.
“She was yelling at him, telling him to walk faster or she would leave him. Then he stopped walking completely. But the mom said something like, ‘Okay. Be that way. I’m gonna leave you out here by yourself. I’m sick of this stubborn shit.’”
“Excuse me, Mr. Palmer. I don’t use profanity at all. But when she said this to her son, it shocked me. That’s no way to talk to a child, your own or anyone else’s.”
“What happened next, Ms. Green?”
“The rest is so horrible, it’s hard to repeat,” she said, and sobbed again. Lloyd let her take her time. He was trying to digest it all himself.
“I’ve already told this once to the sheriff.” She took a couple of deep breaths.
“I had put my bags in the trunk of my car and had just put the trunk down. After she said that part about the boy being stubborn, she said to her little girl and the lady who was with them, ‘Come on. Let’s go inside.’ And she walked right into the store and left him in the parking lot.”
“I just stood there for a minute at my car, watching, expecting her to turn around and come back. But, not only did she not come back, she didn’t even look back. She kept walking as if he wasn’t there. She went inside the sliding entrance doors and then the doors closed, which meant she wasn’t even near enough to keep the doors open.”
“That’s when the boy started walking slowly toward the door. I knew instinctively that it was dangerous, that a disaster was unfolding, but the mother never came out. I started running toward him to catch his little hand. I was about fifty feet away, and then I picked up my pace. I tried to catch up, but I didn’t reach him in time.”
“Just when he got to the driveway—you know the two-lane part that you walk across before you get to the entrance—he started running toward the door. That’s when the car hit him. He was so small, I guess the driver didn’t see him in time. I knew he was dead the way his little body hit the pavement and the car’s front tire rolled over him. I just can’t believe it,” she said, sobbing again.
Lloyd sat there silently, continuing to pat her back. He reached in his bag and offered her some tissues—the same packet of tissues that Stephanie had given him and that he had used to unearth the Pauley boy’s body—which she accepted. She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes.
“When the car hit him, the boy’s mother let out a shrill scream. I can still hear it ringing in my ears. She fell to her knees next to the boy’s body, holding him in her arms, calling his name over and over again. She was beside herself with grief, but it was too late. The sheriff arrested her, but there’s nothing they can do to her in jail that would be worse than the torment of living with her son’s death. That child would still be alive if not for her stupidity.”
“Ms. Green, I hope you’re not blaming yourself for what happened to Tommy. That was the little boy’s name. Tommy Lee Samuels.”
“I know. His mother screamed, ‘Tommy, wake up,’ more times than I can count. I can’t help but feeling that if I had run just a little faster, or if I had started running sooner, I could have gotten to him in time.”
Lloyd tried his best to comfort her. “You had no way of knowing his mother was going to leave him outside. You were probably too stunned to move. You did more than most people would have done when you ran towards him. Don’t blame yourself.”
Green looked at Lloyd and blew her nose again. “I appreciate you saying that, Mr. Palmer. My heart just hurts right now.”
“Ms. Green, can I do anything for you? Can I get Sheriff Martin to take you home?”
“That won’t be necessary. My husband is on his way to pick me up. I was on my lunch break from work when this happened, but I let them know that I wasn’t coming back to the office today. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on much of anything anyway.”
311
Gwen Richardson
CHAPTER 38
A week had passed and Lloyd’s days at the Ledger were essentially back to normal. He traveled around Houston and reported on the stories Ed assigned him, but it was clear that his stature had been raised. When he arrived at most locations, more often than not his interview subjects recognized him. Some people even asked for autographs or wanted their pictures taken with him, which he obliged.
Lloyd had spent so many years in obscurity as an anonymous reporter that he never expected to be in the limelight. At least his name was associated with something positive. As Hamisi said, most of the names mentioned in the Ledger belonged to people who had experienced something negative in their lives—either tragedies or scandals.
Lloyd hadn’t heard from Hamisi in more than two weeks. He thought about making contact with him via e-mail, but he didn’t want to be a nuisance or spook him. He was afraid that if he pushed Hamisi too hard, he’d disappear completely. Lloyd didn’t want to risk that. He’d have to be patient.
Since he had finished his article about the Lemba, he felt the time was right to approach Ed and get approval for the paper’s Holy Week section. In fact, he felt confident when he walked toward Ed’s office that morning, expecting a thumbs-up with little resistance.
Ed’s office door was closed, so Lloyd knocked first and waited for a response.
“Come on in,” Ed said, and when Lloyd opened the door, Wilson Cox, the paper’s executive vice president, was seated across from him.
“Good to see you, Lloyd,” Cox said. “I don’t have to tell you what a great job you’re doing with your reporting. I don’t know why you didn’t come to our attention sooner. How long have you been working for the Ledger?
“Ten years, sir. And thanks for the compliment.”
“Ten years? Are you kidding? Ed, where have you been hiding him all this time?”
Ed grimaced. “Lloyd’s been a beat reporter covering basic traffic accidents, murders, a few political stories, Wilson. Until the Pauley kidnapping, he’d always worked on routine stuff. But I’m glad the two of you got a chance to meet,” Ed replied disingenuously.
Ed was lying through his teeth. The last thing he wanted was for Lloyd to have Wilson Cox’s ear. A chummy relationship between the two of them could prove to be disastrous. But he had to play the role of the proud editor.
Cox rose from his chair to leave and shook Lloyd’s hand. “Great job, Lloyd. Feel free to call me anytime if you have any ideas or concerns. Here�
��s my card, and my cell phone number is on the back.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll keep that in mind,” Lloyd said, as he smiled to himself, at Cox and at Ed. He couldn’t have hoped for a better development if he had planned it himself.
After Cox left, Ed asked, “What do you need, Lloyd?”
“I wanted to talk to you about that Holy Week section you’re publishing in a couple of weeks. I have an article I’ve been working on that would be perfect for it.”
Ed was dubious. “Really? You’ve never done exposé or feature story writing. You’ve always been strictly a beat reporter.”
“I know, but I recently became aware of a little-known religious sect and I decided to try my hand at writing a feature story. I’d like to talk to you about it if you have a few minutes.”
Ed reared back in his chair with his arms crossed. His body language told the story: He was completely close-minded about everything Lloyd was about to say. But Lloyd knew Ed would at least act as though he was open to his ideas. After all, Lloyd could pick up the phone and call the Wilson Cox, whose great-grandfather had started the Ledger in the early 1900s.
“Okay, make it quick,” Ed snapped.
“My article is about a tribe known as the Lemba. They can trace their roots to Aaron, Moses’ brother in the Bible, and it’s been verified through DNA.”
“A tribe? A tribe from where?”
“From Africa, from Zimbabwe to be exact.”
“Zimbabwe? Lloyd, I don’t see how this is relevant to the section we’re doing.”
“But you see, Ed, it is relevant because I met one of the members of the tribe right here in Houston. These are actual people with a rich and verifiable history.”
“How do you know it’s verifiable?”
“How do you know the synagogue’s claim that they have dust from the Wall of Jericho is real? Can they provide proof? And, if not, why are you running an article about them in the paper?”
Ed’s face reddened, and he had the expression that usually preceded a meltdown. “Lloyd, what right do you have to question my authority? What you’re describing sounds preposterous. In all my born days, I’ve never heard about any African tribe that has anything to do with the Bible.”
“Ed, do you go to church?”
“Once in a while. So what?”
Lloyd seized on Ed’s obvious shortcomings as a Biblical scholar. “And do you ever read the Bible?”
“Occasionally, but it’s common knowledge . . .”
“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Ed, but if you don’t go to church and you rarely read the Bible, how do you know what’s in it?”
Ed was fuming, and flummoxed. He knew that Lloyd was at least partially correct, but he refused to acquiesce. “I don’t have to read the Bible to know that what you’re talking about is malarkey.”
“Did you know that at least a portion of the Garden of Eden was located in Africa, specifically in Ethiopia?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s right there in the book of Genesis, but since you don’t read the Bible, you wouldn’t know that,” Lloyd said with smug sarcasm. He knew he was crossing a line with Ed, pushing his buttons, getting under his skin, but he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, this was a man-to-man conversation, and Ed just happened to be the man who authorized his paychecks.
“Dammit, I’ve had enough of this, Lloyd, and enough of you. There’s not going to be any article on the Mumba tribe and that’s final.”
“It’s Lemba, Ed, not Mumba. Would you mind giving me a reason why you won’t even read my article?”
“Because we can’t publish something that farfetched. Our readers would be lighting up the switchboard and cancelling their subscriptions, asking if we’d lost our damn minds. And it’s not verifiable. Can you produce this fella you say you met?”
“Ed, he’s a confidential source, and you know I can’t divulge his identity. Besides, the New York Times published an article about the Lemba over a decade ago; there’s also been a book about them . . . .”
“This isn’t New York, and we don’t do things like that in Texas. I still haven’t forgotten how you held back the recording of Earl Allen Griffin’s murder confession. Now I’m done talking about this. Get out of here, Lloyd, before you really make me angry.”
At first, Lloyd was going to continue to press Ed further. But he thought it best to retreat now, regroup and perhaps approach the subject from another angle before the deadline. As he opened Ed’s door and walked out of his office, Lloyd’s cell phone vibrated, indicating an incoming text message: Watch, fight and pray. It was from Hamisi.
311
Gwen Richardson
CHAPTER 39
Ed had just about reached his limit with Lloyd. There were some things he couldn’t abide, and one of them was an insubordinate reporter working for him. Lloyd’s feature story idea came out of nowhere. Even though Ed hated to admit that it sounded like a fascinating idea in many ways, the Ledger simply couldn’t publish something like that. It was too much of a stretch from people’s core religious beliefs. He’d have the entire religious community on his back: the Catholics, the Protestants, the Jews—even the black churches would be uncomfortable opening such a can of worms.
The Holy Week section was supposed to reinforce the religious concepts that were already common knowledge, not present some new information that would make a large segment of the Houston population uncomfortable or even irate. And for what? People were going to stick to what they’d believed all their lives—no matter what the Ledger printed. He couldn’t afford for the Ledger to become a laughing stock over something that, in the final analysis, wouldn’t change one person’s mind.
But he didn’t think he could convince Lloyd to completely drop the matter either. Lloyd’s newfound obstinance was unmistakable.
And Ed definitely couldn’t take a chance on getting Wilson Cox involved. Who could predict how Cox would respond? The blue-blooded, old-money prick might just side with Lloyd.
He thought about contacting Bubba. If Bubba pulled one of his dirty tricks on Lloyd, that could scare him enough to get him to back off. That was a risky proposition, but he might not have any other choice.
But, on second thought, it would be better to get someone to talk to Lloyd and bring him back to his senses. But who? A few weeks ago, Charles would have been a prime candidate. But now he and Lloyd were thick as thieves, so that was out.
Then Ed had an idea. He could call one of the ministers of the larger black churches in town. There was one in particular for which the Ledger had sponsored a youth conference last year with some free advertising in the paper. Ed had spoken with him a few times, and the pastor seemed like a reasonable guy, one of the more responsible black leaders in Houston.
Ed couldn’t remember the pastor’s name, but recalled putting the pastor’s business card in his desk drawer. Ed opened his drawer and rifled through the note pads, breath mint boxes, pens and pencils he had stashed there.
He pulled out the stack of about a hundred business cards that were grouped together with a rubber band, and he started going through them one by one. If he found the card, he was sure he would recognize it.
After going through about half of the cards, he found it. Bishop Jeremiah Taylor, senior pastor of the New Inspiration Tabernacle. His church was one of the largest black churches in Houston with over 15,000 members. The church had locations in both the north and south sections of town, as well as a Christian academy for pre-school through sixth grade, and a nursing home. The bishop was also founder and chairman of the Houston Black Ministers Coalition, a group that touted two hundred member churches representing about 100,000 black Houstonians.
Ed knew that a lot of the large non-profit groups exaggerated their membership numbers. But Taylor had ready access to powerful folks in Houston’s political and business arenas, including the mayor, the county commissioners and even the Texas governor. Ed hoped he could get the bishop to c
all Lloyd and persuade him to drop the whole religious angle. He didn’t want to have to take further action and get Bubba involved, but Lloyd was in way over his head.
Ed dialed the number to the church office at New Inspiration, and the church secretary answered on the first ring.
“New Inspiration Tabernacle, Bishop Taylor’s office.”
“This is Ed Jackson, editor of the Houston Ledger. Is Bishop Taylor in?”
“Oh, hello, Mr. Jackson. He’s meeting with Pastor Green of Main Street Baptist Church right now. But I think they’re almost done. I’ll check and see,” she said, as she put Ed on hold and rang the bishop’s office.
“Bishop Taylor,” she said, when he answered, “Mr. Jackson of the Houston Ledger is holding for you on line one. Would you like to take the call or would you like me to take a message?”
“Tell him to hold one moment and I’ll take the call,” the bishop replied.
While Ed was waiting for Taylor to answer, he thought through exactly what he would say. He had to approach this carefully. He’d had enough run-ins with black preachers to know that they tended to be extremely sensitive to any signs of disrespect from the city’s white establishment. But he didn’t have long to collect his thoughts before Taylor came on the line.
“Bishop Taylor here.”
“Bishop Taylor, it’s Ed Jackson over at the Ledger. How are you doing?”
“My secretary told me who it was and, I must say, this is certainly a surprise. How can I help you?”
“It’s funny you would ask me that because I do need your help. I’m having a problem with one of my reporters here at the paper. It’s a sensitive subject, you see, and I thought you might be able to help.”
“Would this be one of your black reporters?”
“Well, yes, how did you know?”
“I didn’t think you would be calling me otherwise. What’s this all about?”
Ed was somewhat embarrassed, but not so much that he was willing to retreat. He knew he had to present the dilemma without appearing to be critical of Lloyd or he could blow it. “You know the reporter Lloyd Palmer, don’t you?”
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