Chapter 3
James Etlzer was a numbers guy. It was an obsession that had started in grade school with his first passion—baseball. The numbers didn’t lie. If you wanted to know if a hitter was having a great season, you’d look at his numbers—his batting average, the number of home runs he’d hit, the number of runs batted in. Was a pitcher worth his salt? Well what did the numbers say? What was his earned run average? How many strikeouts did he have? How many walks? How many hits given up? The numbers didn’t lie. Consult them and there were no mysteries.
In his current capacity as Duraleigh County district attorney, he believed not only in the prophetic capabilities of numbers, but also in their perception-setting abilities. The numbers always told the tale. Was Duraleigh the safest county in North Carolina? Why, just look at its ten percent decrease in the number of overall crimes from last year. While you’re at it, take a gander at its twenty percent decrease in violent crimes over the last five years. In fact, look at all of the mind boggling statistics during DA James Etlzer’s entire eleven year reign. His office’s conviction rate was truly staggering. Why Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Anybody, don’t you feel absolutely safe in Duraleigh? Of course you do, because the numbers didn’t lie.
Etlzer sat at his desk in his office, partaking in one of his favorite pastimes—thumbing through the county’s latest crime statistics. The stats were truly impressive, and the county had shown improvement in every major category for each year of his tenure. No small feat considering his predecessor, Bruce Waters, had himself touted obscene numbers. The thought of Waters brought a touch of sadness, as well as a feeling of concern. He put the statistics guide back into the upper left desk drawer and then looked expectantly at his desk phone.
As if he’d willed it, the phone rang. “Etlzer,” he barked into the receiver.
“Have you heard?” asked the voice on the other end.
“Yes,” Etlzer replied. “His wife called me last night. She’s worried. She doesn’t think he’s going to make it. It was a massive heart attack. He had over ninety percent blockage.” He paused, then, “It’s amazing. I just saw Waters last week. He looked incredible, appeared in great shape. He was very excited about running for governor. I guess you never know.”
“No, you don’t,” the voice answered blankly. “We have to move quickly.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The governorship. You are going to run in Waters’ place.”
Etlzer leaned back in his chair. “Governor. That’s a big leap from DA. AG is one thing, but governor…” his voice trailed off.
“It’s makes perfect sense. Waters was popular because of how he’d cleaned up Duraleigh. That was the catalyst behind his successful attorney general’s bid. You’re his protégé. If the people can’t have Waters, you’re the next best thing. The campaign infrastructure is already in place. Money, donors, volunteers, everything is at the ready.”
“What if Waters survives?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s already lost the election. Heart attack equals weak candidate. He’s done as a politician.”
Etlzer rubbed his chin. “There are some other concerns.”
“Such as?”
“Waters heard talk of a federal investigation into Fathers Disciples.”
“I’ll tell you as I’d told Waters. Any federal investigation into Fathers Disciples will be hindered. My people don’t talk. And those who do, don’t do so for long. In any event, if the feds want Fathers Disciples, I’m prepared to give it to them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand, counselor,” the voice said calmly. “Just prepare yourself to become the next governor of North Carolina, and afterwards, well, dream big counselor, dream big.”
“Alright, alright. But there is one other thing. The Leeson boy. The Duraleigh Standard is starting a narrative on the return of gang violence. Now it’s possible that the police and mayor will take the immediate negatives on that. But there could be some blowback on my end as well. I mean ending gangs was one of the main issues I ran on.”
“I admit we were a little messy,’ the voice said with a trace of irritation. “But a fix is already underway. I’m sending someone over. He’ll cop to it. He’ll say that it was just a beef between friends.”
“Can we sell that? I understand the Leeson boy is busted up pretty bad.”
“It’ll sell. Assign one of your regulars to it, someone who doesn’t ask many questions, like Lovison. It’ll go away.”
“It’s that simple?” Etlzer asked doubtfully.
“It’s that simple, Governor,” the voice replied.
“Governor,” Etlzer repeated softly. It had a nice ring to it.
Calvin Leeson was having an O.O.B.E. He’d learned the term from his high school physics teacher, Mr. Egbert Moreland. It meant out of body experience. Moreland was a short, eager-faced man, with thinning hair that he combed over in a wasted attempt to camouflage his bald head. In describing his own O.O.B.E experiences to his students, Moreland said, “Oh little friends, I travel all over. Sometimes I even visit some of you. I just hover over your beds while you’re sleeping.”
At the time, Calvin had doubted that his teacher was being serious, or if such a thing was even possible. But here Calvin was, hovering over his own hospital bed, looking down at his badly bruised face. He studied his face for several minutes. His jaws were balled out as if he had a mouth stuffed full of chewing tobacco. His puffy eyes looked like little ant mounds. His complexion was now strangely purplish. In his current O.O.B.E state, Calvin struggled to remember what had happened to him.
Police car. He vaguely recalled a police car. Or was it policemen in a car? He wasn’t sure. Cain Simmons. Yeah, Cain had been there. Cain and policemen in a car. How did it all fit? He struggled to remember. After a few minutes, he gave up. It hurt too much trying to remember. Mr. Moreland hadn’t mentioned having headaches in his O.O.B.E state. If Calvin was out of his body, was he a spirit? Could a spirit have a headache?
He floated upward a little more, backing further away from the bed, taking in a panoramic view of the room. It was a tight little room, perhaps no bigger than a generously sized walk-in closet. He took the full measure of his body and then looked away. A flat screen television fitted snugly into the upper left corner wall. A Cosby show episode, its sound muted, played onscreen. At the front of the bed, near his body’s head, there were three or four machines, each either beeping, or blinking, or both. An IV bag dangled over his head, its tube extending into his right arm. He scanned the rest of the room, then stopped suddenly as his eyes happened upon the body folded in the recliner at the other corner of the room.
“Momma,” he cried out. He floated over to the recliner and hovered over his mother. Sarah Leeson looked extremely uncomfortable. She was fetal-curled into the crevice of the chair, her toes lightly scraping the edge of the leg rest.
Policemen. Cain. His mother. There was a connection. Remember, damn it, he commanded himself. Seconds later, an image surfaced—policemen. Slowly, the memory became clearer. A dark blue sedan pulled up alongside him as he walked home. A head had leaned out the window of the passenger side. Calvin hadn’t known him. He’d never seen him before. It had been a young dude, in his late teens or early twenties. He was brown-complected with one long bushy eyebrow. “You’re Sarah Leeson’s boy,” he’d said to Calvin. He didn't ask; he accused.
“I don’t know you, partner,” Calvin responded hastily and continued walking.
“He’s cool, C.” The voice came from the backseat. Calvin stopped and stooped down, peering into the car. It was Cain. “That’s my nigga, Morant,” Cain said. “He works for Father too. Get in. He just wants to holler at a brother.”
Calvin hesitated. He wasn’t sure. But Morant quickly jumped out of the front seat of the car, yanked opened the back door, and roughly shoved Calvin down into the backseat. After Morant got back in, the car dislodged aspha
lt, sped down the road, and eventually ended up on the south side of town behind W.H. Knuckles Elementary School.
Morant quickly hustled Calvin out of the car. It was no secret who was running things. Both Cain and the driver, a short man with a muscular George of the Jungle upper body attached to stunted but equally muscled legs, exited the car as well. Neither said a word.
“You’re working for the FBI,” Morant said. Again, it was an accusation, but this time, Morant flavored it with a punch to Calvin’s gut, dropping him to his knees and leaving him gasping for breath.
Morant stood over Calvin. “You biting the hand that feeds you boy,” Morant said menacingly, spicing it up with another blow, this time to Calvin’s jaw, knocking him over on his side. He stomped Calvin’s head into the ground and grinded it into the dirt.
Blinded by pain and confusion, Calvin trembled on the ground, struggling against the weight of the Nike on his head. He’d met the FBI agent only three times and had yet to give any information that hadn’t already been known. Calvin was only a bit player in Fathers Disciples, a mere street hustler. He’d given the agent nothing because he’d had nothing to give. He didn’t even know how the agent had gotten his name in the first place. But apparently, Father had somehow found out about the meetings and now Calvin was getting the shit beat out of him because of it.
Morant lifted his foot from the side of Calvin’s head and readied it for another stomp when he paused knee-high at the crunching sounds of another car slowly moving across the gravel. Morant looked toward the car and let his foot fall harmlessly down, next to Calvin’s head.
Through slightly closed and dirt-filled eyes, Calvin saw the white sedan with the blue siren on top. A sense of relief swept through him. It was the police. He watched the patrol car’s driver side door open. Shiny black dress shoes exited the vehicle and walked over to the back of the blue sedan from which Calvin had been unceremoniously pulled. “What’s going on here?” the officer asked. The question was directed at Morant.
Morant squared up and slightly nudged Calvin’s head with his foot. “Nothing officer. This is Father’s business.”
“Hmm,” the officer said. He lowered his voice as if sharing a secret. “You guys should be more careful. People called in. Said some young boy had been kidnapped. Ya’ll are going to have to get the hell out of here.”
Morant said, “We got to finish this up.”
The passenger side door of the police car opened. Another shiny black shoe hit the gravel.
“It’s okay, Peters,” the first officer shouted towards the patrol car. “I got this.”
The shiny black shoe stayed planted for a long moment, before hesitantly rising up again and returning to the patrol car. The passenger side door of the patrol car slammed shut.
The first officer faced Morant once more. The volume increased slightly and the range lowered. “Hurry the fuck up. People saw. I’ve got to call the ambulance.”
Morant glared at him for a full second. “Calm your nerves, man. We got this. He then turned to Cain and George of the Jungle. “Let’s get to it.” The blows came in abundance, courtesy of fists, feet, and elbows. Calvin curled up in a fetal position in a futile effort to protect himself. His hopes for protection, so strong just a minute ago, evaporated into a mist of comprehension. Father was too powerful. He even had the police under his thumb.
Calvin drifted in and out of consciousness. During his fleeting moments of wakefulness, an understanding of his situation had sunk in. He faced death. He could see it across the way where his father stood in its midst, open-armed and beckoning Calvin to come join him. He surely missed his father. It had been almost three years since the elder Leeson’s death. The wound it had caused still hadn’t sufficiently healed. Their potential reunion would be sweet.
Calvin smiled. Death could be a good thing. But then, Calvin turned his head away and looked in the corner at his mother. She was still asleep in the recliner. She needed him alive. He remembered Morant’s initial greeting, “You’re Sarah Leeson’s boy.” Maybe they had something on her too. He had to warn her.
“Momma,” he cried out. She didn’t answer. He called out again and again; and again and again, there was no answer. Suddenly he felt himself being pulled up from the hospital bed. He looked down at the bed that was changing form. It now sported grass and weeds as if it was becoming part of the earth. He tried reaching for it, but could only grab the top edge of the inclined mattress. It turned to a fine dust in his hands. “Momma,” he cried out again.
“Calvin.” The voice came from above him. He turned to face it. It was his father with outstretched arms.
Calvin waved him off. “I got to go back. I’ve got to warn Momma.”
His father waited patiently as Calvin continued ascending toward him.
“I got to go back,” Calvin said.
Finally, Calvin reached his father who gently pulled his son into his embrace. “It’s over son,” he said gently. “It’s over.”
Fathers House: A Preview Page 4