I explained to the inmates that I could not ask Erasto to leave because my wife wanted to hear him speak and so did my parents. My two sons begged me to let him say his many words. Unlike your culture, I could have not walked away from him. He was my guest. For me to do so would have been a serious insult.
So Erasto spoke to me, to each of us, and he seemed never to be without an excuse to preach about Jesus. I would offer him a drink of water, and he would tell me that Jesus was living water. We had just gotten electricity in our area, and when I turned on the lights, he would say that Jesus was the light of the world.
Yes, he irritated me, but he also did it with love in his voice, and something made me listen to his words. I could not have walked away—that would have been a rude thing. I seemed to have no choice but to listen. He was not there to get me to join some dini—some religious group—and I believe he came as a man of love for other human beings.
Before the end of the fifth day, I believed. I believed because of the words he spoke, but I also believed because of the way he spoke the words. In his face I saw that he would die for Jesus if asked to do so.
I confessed my sins and promised to follow Jesus. I was weak, and I stumbled many times, but I kept on. One day, perhaps a year later, I learned that Erasto had died. A witch doctor in the primitive area of Kadem Location had poisoned his food. When I heard that, I knew—deep inside my heart—I knew that I must carry on Erasto’s work. I would not be a preacher as he was, but I could become useful to God in whatever field I chose.
After I answered that call, did I not witness openness in many hearts?
But about the men: After I answered their questions, they had nothing more to ask. I waited and I knew they trusted me, so I gave them forms to fill out. They were simple questions and asked only for basic information about themselves, their crimes, and how they felt about what they had done in breaking laws. I was careful not to ask if they were guilty.
When everyone had completed the papers, I said, “If any of you wish to stay and talk about Jesus, I shall be most pleased to do that.”
After I dismissed them, eleven men stayed. They sat at heavy wooden tables and on hard chairs. One of those who did not leave was Stefan Lauber.
I spoke to them. The others had all been to church, had all thought they were members of the kingdom of God at one time, but they also committed crimes. None of them were murderers. Not those in that prison. Most of them were there on drug charges, theft of vehicles, and other nonviolent crimes. Two of them had been in prison before, but the rest were there for the first time—and I hope the only time.
As I have said, Stefan Lauber was different from the others. He was the only one with a college education, and there was another factor about him. Dare I use the English word mystical? It was as if God had chosen me and sent me to the prison to give him the information for which he had been waiting many years. He did not know he was waiting, but had not God put a deep longing into his heart? Later he would tell me these words: “I felt as if I have waited all my life to meet you.”
I provided him with books to read—as many as three a week. One of my professors was kind enough to pay for them and have a publisher send them. Stefan read the books—every one of them. One day I saw him reading the Bible, but he did not understand much of what he read, so I helped him, did I not? From then on, he spent at least one hour each day in reading the Bible, mostly the New Testament. He would stay with a chapter or a portion until he could say to me, “Yes, I understand.”
Four days before his early release, Stefan asked to see me. The guard normally escorted inmates from place to place, but they did not do that with Stefan. Yes, a guard was present, but he walked beside him, as if they were two friends. Like Paul the apostle of old, he had won the respect of those who were his captors.
He came into the room, and the guard stepped outside. As soon as the door closed, Stefan fell on his knees in front of my desk. “Please, please help me.”
The agony written across his face showed such severe pain, I went around to him, pulled him up, and embraced him. I said nothing and waited for him to speak.
“I have been a terrible sinner,” Stefan said. “And I know I must change.”
“Yes, that is good,” I said. “We must all change.”
“But it’s more than that. I have stolen from people.”
“Can you not return what you have taken?”
“That’s the problem. I want to follow Jesus, but I want to keep what I’ve stolen because I’ll end up back in prison if I attempt to return the stolen items.” He laughed at himself. “That sounds terrible, but it’s true.”
I embraced him tightly—I had been doing that for some weeks. He embraced me just as tightly. Before I released him, I prayed that the Holy Spirit would make him want to return what he had stolen. Just that much.
As I started to walk away, he said, “You are the most happy man I have ever known. Why is that?”
“Is that not what my name says?” I answered.
Most strangely he stared at me and said, “I don’t understand.”
“My name. My African name. It is Omore. In my language, which is called Luo, the word means a happy person or one who reflects happiness.”
“Yes, you are a credit to your name,” he said.
The words came with such softness, tears leaped from my eyes. I am a happy person, that is true, but I am far from the kind of person I wish to be. Instead of answering, I could speak only a word of thanks.
He opened the door and started out, stopped, and turned. “Omore, my happy friend, you are the kind of Christian I would like to become.”
Those words touched me deeply, and once again the tears leaped from my eyes.
The next day I had to return to Emory University for research and to meet with two of my professors. When I returned, I learned that Stefan had been released. I thought that was the end of our relationship.
To my surprise, three days later I received an email from him; he invited me to come here to the Cartledge Inn and to study. He informed me that he had sufficient funds to pay all my expenses and that they were not stolen funds. Was I not most pleased to accept such an offer?
When I came to Cartledge Inn, he met me and greeted me before he introduced me to the members of the staff. We were together every morning for at least an hour at a time. Some days it was for longer.
Jason wiped tears from his eyes. “He was my friend. My good friend. Never have I had a friend I have loved so much as Stefan Lauber. He planned to return to Kenya with me to meet my wife and my children. But now that cannot be.”
I thought he was through, but he said, “It is now my intention that my next son will be named Stefano in his honor. Among my people it is the highest honor we can give another—the greatest honor I can offer in his memory—to name my child after him.”
“Very touching,” Ollie said. “Very.”
“And you have no idea how Stefan resolved the problem?” Burton asked.
Jason shook his head. “No, I do not know. I cannot say such a word; however, I believe that he did the right thing, whatever that was. That is how my rafiki—my friend—behaved. He had many, many struggles inside his heart, but in the end he always did the right thing.”
I glanced at Ollie and asked, “Do you suppose that’s why he was killed? To prevent his returning the diamonds?”
“I can think of another reason,” he said.
“Which is?” I asked.
“Someone else wanted the diamonds and Lauber refused to give them up. He wanted to hold on to them himself.”
“Makes sense as another possibility,” I said, but I didn’t believe my own words. I sensed Jason had been right about Lauber.
“But what did he do with the diamonds?” Burton asked.
Ten
“Excuse me.” Craig opened the door without knocking. “Your new room is ready for you, Mr. Oliver.” He was quiet and quite professional. He smiled at me—and he almost pull
ed off that friendly-but-plastic smile many professionals develop. Maybe if he worked at it, he would learn to fake it well. I liked him better in a flustered mode.
What Jason told us of his experiences with Stefan presented me with a different picture of the man than what I’d heard from anyone else. He must have been a good man—or maybe he had become a good man.
As if he had read my mind, Burton said, “God can change people. That’s the divine specialty, you know.”
“So they tell me.” That smart answer came out before I realized what I had said. I opened my mouth to apologize but Burton smiled as if to say, “Apology not needed.”
He knows me well—maybe too well.
Ollie thanked Craig and turned to Jason. “You can leave. I’ll call you if I need anything else.”
I thought Ollie’s tone was a bit dismissive, but I said nothing. Burton shook Jason’s hand as if to make up for Ollie’s harsh treatment.
“You are also a good man,” Jason said, “for I can see it in your eyes. Yes, you are truly a very good man.”
Burton turned his head away, but I think he blushed.
Ollie had already dismissed Jason and said to Burton and me, “I’ve arranged for a suite where we can talk and meet with anyone who has anything to tell us.” Without waiting for a reply, he led the way.
I patted Jason Omore’s shoulder and said, “Thanks. That helps me understand a few things.” I wanted to talk to him, perhaps alone, and I hoped I’d have the opportunity. Like Burton, this man exuded a vital connection to God. This was so unusual. Other than Burton, I had met only one man who had exuded any kind of vital, warm relationship to God. A man named Simon Presswood whom I’d met at Palm Island. So here I was again with two men, both of whom lived a vital relationship with God.
Has God decided to gang up on me? I didn’t want to answer my own question; it might be true.
Instead of going to the elevators, Ollie led us past them. We made a left turn and went directly to room 127, a suite with a large sitting room and a bedroom, although the bedroom door was closed. For my tastes, the room was far too austere with an overabundance of pale colors, pale fabrics, pale woods, and delicate paintings. The room needed vibrant colors, rich fabrics, and exciting new paintings. But then I don’t suppose guests rented the suite to admire the room. Aside from the usual desk and several floor lamps, the room held two large sofas, both of a boring ocher color, and a wing chair of equally drab yellow.
“Sit down,” Ollie said in a commanding voice. “In order to make us comfortable, the owners of the Cartledge Inn promised to send in refreshments this afternoon.”
I attempted a smile as I watched Ollie’s hand tremble slightly. Earlier the harsh tone was there along with the tremor. Was it Parkinson’s? Surely he wasn’t on some kind of drugs, was he? Although I didn’t like him much, I could hardly think he’d be into something like that. So why did his hand tremble at times?
I checked my watch. It was nearly 2:30. I could hardly believe the time had passed so quickly. Burton and I had not eaten lunch, but I didn’t mind. That might give me a good excuse to snag Burton for a long, quiet dinner.
Not that we had gotten far in solving the murder, but I had spent a few minutes alone with Burton. I knew how he felt about me, and his confession had surprised me. Until then I thought the attraction was only a one-sided romantic infatuation. When we met at Palm Island, he had playfully said he liked me a lot, but he’d also told me then about his unwillingness to get involved with someone who was of a different faith. I laughed to myself after I thought about those words. No, it wasn’t a different faith. Mine was simply no faith, but he had tried to be gentle and sweet and wouldn’t have said anything to hurt my feelings.
For several minutes I seriously considered an attempt to fake the faith, but I knew I couldn’t do that. If anything ever worked out between us—and that meant I’d have to become a Christian first—it would definitely have to be real. I had given serious thought at one time to becoming a true vamp as my uncle Rich said I was, and had a few nice daydreams about saving Burton from all the bondage of religion. But I knew he was too determined, and even if I had succeeded, he wouldn’t have been happy.
So if there was to be a change, I had to be the one to make it. But I didn’t want to change. I didn’t want to become one of those holy-holy types. Why did I need to have some kind of religious experience or change? I was a good person—not perfect, but I was an ethical person. But why did Burton have to be such a kind, sweet person? Why did he have to be so accepting of others?
A uniformed waiter came into the room with cold water, juice, and Cokes. He had hardly gone when someone knocked.
“Come in!” Ollie yelled.
A muscular African American man, about five feet five, walked into the room. More accurately, he swaggered into the room. Stocky, with a big chest and bigger arms, he had a neck as thick as a wharf post. He looked as if he snapped railroad ties in half for exercise or fun.
His dark brown eyes were far lighter than his skin, and his bushy black beard was lightly salted with curly white hairs. That touch of frosting was the only thing about him, other than the whites of his eyes, that was not very, very dark. I guessed his age to be early forties. Probably to emphasize his dark features, he wore black slacks and a black shirt. I might have been afraid of him if I had met him on the street, except for one thing—the brightness of those dark brown eyes twinkled in a way that would have pushed aside any trepidation.
To me he seemed such a strange contrast—except for those eyes, he looked like a man ready to confront anyone who stood in his way. Or as my administrative assistant would say, “That dude shows plenty of ’tude.”
“You left a message on my business phone. Said you wanted to see me.” He looked directly at Oliver Viktor. “I’m here. What do you want?” As he stared at Ollie, his eyes lost that softness.
“Well, well, so we meet again after such a long time,” Ollie said. “Hey, Burton and Glamour Girl, this is Nicky Harrison. On the street they call him Chips.”
“They call me Chops. C-h-o-p-s,” he said, “but you knew that.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Ollie said. “I’d forgotten.” But it was obvious he hadn’t forgotten. I wondered why he wanted to antagonize the man.
The stranger stared at me, looked me over carefully, and said, “Mr. Smart-Mouth here think he so funny, but don’t know nothin’ about crackin’ jokes. Yeah, they still call me Chops.”
“That’s an unusual name,” I said because I didn’t know how else to respond.
“That’s ’cause I usta be a tough guy. If anyone messed with me or my boys from the hood, I chopped him good with my fists.”
“Do you still chop?” Burton asked.
“Not since the Lord Jesus chopped me down to size. No, sir.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Ollie said, “I heard you got religion in prison.”
“Not religion, Mr. Policeman; you done heard wrong,” Chops said. “I was sentenced to ninety-five years in the federal prison for murder and four cases of rape.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“You should!” Those eyes, so soft minutes ago, blazed in anger.
“I’m surprised you’re out and able to breathe real air like the rest of us.”
“No, you ain’t. You knew.”
“Guess I did,” Ollie said.
“And it prob’bly ruined your already miserable day.” Before Ollie could make another wisecrack, Chops said, “The man with the big, scary badge is right. I was in prison, but I was innocent. And to be honest about everything, I did a lot of bad things—never murder or rape—but plenty of bad things, and I got away with them all. But in prison I prayed and—”
“Oh, here it comes,” Ollie said. “Sorry I brought it up—”
“Listen, Mr. Policeman, you let me set the record straight. I started to pray in prison—right in the federal pen here in Atlanta. I promised God that if He’d set me free, I’d serve Him foreve
r.” He stopped and smiled. His face changed when he smiled, as if all the ’tude had vanished. “And that’s what happened. The government began to introduce all that DNA stuff, don’t you know? And they proved I couldn’t have done any of those crimes. Not any of them! And now I’ve gotten an official apology, have a pending case against the police department—your police department and your former partner. I’ve been out in the big world. I’m free from prison and free from sin. Best of all, I’ve been born again for five years.”
“Yeah, so I heard.” Ollie made no attempt to hide the sneer in his voice.
“And so you still hate me, don’t you?” Chops said. “But I’d like to tell you something.” He stepped up close to Ollie, who was several inches taller, but Chops didn’t look intimidated. “You did your thing, and that was okay, ’cause while I was inside, God did His thing. After I got it figured out, just like with ol’ Peter, the doors swung open for me, and I ain’t never looked back no more. Been out a year.”
“Yeah, well, that’s, uh, very nice,” Ollie said, and he didn’t back away, “but that’s not the reason I asked you to come.”
Chops Harrison laid his beefy arm on Ollie’s shoulder and then straightened his tie. “Yeah, you remember good. Real good. I don’t like you, and God don’t say I gotta do that, but I forgive you.”
“Like I care a great deal,” Ollie said. But the harshness of his face seemed to have diminished. As I watched the exchange, I felt as if Chops had finally intimidated him.
The black man patted Ollie on the cheek. “Notice, I didn’t give you no kiss of peace, but I ain’t gonna put a hurtin’ on you.”
“Uh, so uh, you and Ollie know—”
Chops interrupted me. “Know each other? How about that, Mr. Policeman?” He smiled at me, and the twinkle was back in his eyes. “Yeah, this dude don’t only knowed me. He knowed me ’cause his partner it was that turned over all the so-called evidence. He knowed I was innocent.”
Everybody Wanted Room 623 Page 9