Attorney-Client Privilege (12 page)

“Y
ou owe me,” Jefferson grumbled as he put on his tie. “We just better be back in time for the Vikings game.”

“You’ve told me that three times. I got it. Just stop complaining.”

Special had twisted my arm and I, in turn, twisted Jefferson’s. We were on our way to a Sunday morning lecture at the mosque.

I had changed clothes three times and was thinking about changing again. This was my first visit to a mosque, so I wanted to make sure I was dressed appropriately.

Special told me not to stress over what to wear, just as long as it wasn’t super short, extra tight or low cut. I examined myself in the mirror, confident that my two-piece knit suit was sufficiently respectful. Even though Special told me covering my head wasn’t mandatory, I stuck a silk scarf in my purse just in case.

Jefferson and I arrived about twenty minutes before the start of the service. The closest Community of Islam mosque was only a few miles from our house. The modest storefront building was sandwiched between a bakery to the left and a 99¢ store on the right. The only available parking was on the street.

Jefferson opened the passenger door and helped me out. “Can you please get rid of that sourpuss face? We’re doing this for Special.”

His lips curled into an exaggerated pretend smile. “As long as I’m sitting in front of the TV with a beer in one hand and a remote control in the other by kickoff, everything will be fine.”

As we walked the quarter block to the mosque, most of the people heading in the same direction didn’t fit the stereotypes in my head. A few of the women were wearing loose-fitting, floor-length dresses and had their heads covered. But I saw many more women in business attire, including pantsuits. Most of the men were smartly dressed in suits with ties or bow ties.

When we reached the front of the mosque, I looked around for Special. She had promised to meet us out front.

“Let’s just go on in,” Jefferson said. “You know your friend is always on CP time.”

I took a step toward the entrance, but a man standing near the doorway gently stopped me. “This way, sister.”

He extended his arm toward another door a few feet away. He turned back to Jefferson and directed him through the door that I had just attempted to use. “You can enter here, brother.”

Special hadn’t mentioned that there was a separate entrance for men and women. I had already made my first
faux pas
and I was barely inside. A beautiful young woman greeted me in the lobby. Her skin was the color and texture of chocolate and her smile was so warm I could feel it. She was covered in white from head to toe.

“As-Salaam Alaikum, sister,” she said.

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say in response, so I just smiled and nodded.

“Are you familiar with our check-in protocol?”

I nodded again. At least Special had explained that.

The woman in white led me to a room about the size of a large walk-in closet. We stepped behind a partition and she waved a long metal detector over my body. She asked for my purse and briefly searched it.

“This is for your protection as well as ours,” she explained, almost apologetically. “Could you extend your arms?” She demonstrated by stretching her own arms out like a scarecrow.

I followed her example and she lightly patted me down using just two fingers of each hand, starting underneath my armpits and stopping at my ankles.

“Thank you, sister.” She treated me to another smile and returned my purse. Another woman was waiting for me just outside the room. She escorted me down a hallway into a room full of folding chairs separated by an aisle about the width of two doorways. Men and women were milling about as a steady stream of people continued to walk in. The atmosphere was relaxed as people greeted each other with hugs and laughter.

I assumed this room was the equivalent of the sanctuary in my church, except there was no pulpit, stained-glass windows or choir section. It actually looked more like a large classroom. I spotted Jefferson already seated a few rows up. I was about to head in his direction, when Special walked up behind me.

“I’m so glad you came,” she said, giving me a hug.

She was dressed in a floor-length, peach dress and her braids were covered with a matching scarf. Her face was bare of makeup, except for a touch of lip gloss.

“Jefferson’s sitting over there,” I said to Special. “Let’s go—”

Special linked her arm through mine. “That’s the men’s side of the room. Women sit on the right. I would’ve told you before you got here, but I figured you might trip.”

That was when I noticed that the entire left side of the room was filled with men. Black men. I’d never seen so many attractive, clean-shaven, immaculately dressed black men in one place before. I paused to take in the sight.

“It had the same effect on me the first time I came here too,” Special said, giving me a playful nudge. “It’s something to see, ain’t it? These brothers don’t play when it comes to their appearance. Every last one of them is sharp as a tack.”

I glanced back at Jefferson as Special and I walked past him. I assumed Clayton had already told him the deal about us not being able to sit together. He gave me a bored look and shrugged as if to say,
You’re the one who wanted to come here.

Special and I found seats up front just as the service was about to begin.

“What does
As-Salaam Alaikum
mean?” I whispered.

“It’s the traditional Muslim greeting. It means
Peace be unto you
.”

“Am I supposed to say the same thing back?”

She laughed. “You should respond with
Wa-alaikum as-salaam,
which means
Peace be unto you also.
”

The service finally started, but not with the musical fanfare associated with my Baptist upbringing. All was quiet as a young man who looked to be in his twenties walked to the lectern.

“In The Name of Allah, The Beneficent, the Most Merciful,” the speaker began. “To whom praises are due forever. We give praise and thanks to Allah for giving us his Prophets and Messengers. We thank Him for Moses and the Torah. We thank Him for Jesus and the Gospel. We thank Him for Muhammad and the Holy Qur’an. Peace be upon these worthy servants of Allah.”

Thank you for Jesus?
I leaned over and whispered to Special again. “I didn’t know that Muslims believed in Jesus.”

Special smiled big. “Well, you’re about to be enlightened. We believe he was only a Prophet like Moses and Muhammad, not the Son of God.”

We?
I’d been telling myself that Special hadn’t really bought into Islam and was simply doing what Clayton wanted her to do. But she was certainly acting like a true convert.

After various announcements and preliminaries from the first speaker, the main speaker, Student Minister Leon Muhammad was introduced. Minister Leon was a handsome man with smooth bronze skin and closely cropped hair.

“My message this morning is Part II of my series,
Do for Self.
As you know, independence for the black man in America is the hallmark of the teachings of the Community of Islam.

“When our people in New Orleans were devastated by Hurricane Katrina, it took them years to get back on their feet. Why? Because they were waiting on somebody else to help them. They were waiting on the mayor. They were waiting on the president. They were waiting on the government. But if they had learned to be self-reliant, which is what we teach, they wouldn’t have had to wait on anybody.”

Minister Leon delivered his message eloquently, without reference to notes. “You must remember that you can’t expect someone who mistreats you to teach you,” Minister Leon told us. “If you want to eat, grow your own food. If you want to work, create your own business. If you want to learn, seek knowledge for yourself. Don’t sit around waiting for some mystery God to do it for you.”

He paced back and forth, pointing at the audience. But not with the theatrics of the Baptist preachers I was used to. Minister Leon was teaching, not preaching.

“We’re sitting right here in a predominantly black neighborhood. But how many businesses do we own around here? Few and far between. Every racial group in this city has their own thriving community except us,” he exclaimed, tapping his chest with his index finger.

“There’s Koreatown, Chinatown, Little Tokyo. The Hispanics have East L.A. The Westside is predominantly Jewish. These groups have chosen to live among themselves where
they
control their communities. But you don’t see black folks running the businesses in our communities.

“Step outside this door and walk into any business on this block and you’ll rarely see anybody behind the counter who looks like you and me. We might run a barbecue joint or a beauty salon, but we don’t own the property. Jews own the land. East Indians own the liquor stores, Koreans run the nail shops and even the stores where our women are stupid enough to buy white folks’ hair to sew onto their head.”

There was an occasional chant of “Teach, brother, teach.”

“The Community of Islam says, ‘Why don’t we build up our own community?’ Black supermarkets and restaurants where we teach our people to eat healthy. Black schools where we teach our kids about their history. That’s all we want. We don’t teach hate. We don’t teach violence. We teach doing for self.”

The lecture ended about thirty minutes later to raucous applause.

After the service, Special and I found Jefferson and Clayton outside waiting for us.

“So how’d you enjoy the lecture?” Clayton asked as we approached.

“That brother’s message was tight,” Jefferson said, giving Clayton a fist bump. “And he didn’t even ask for no money.”

Whenever I could cajole Jefferson into joining me at Faithful Central, he always complained when it was time for the offering.

“What about you, Vernetta?”

“It was interesting,” I said, which was true. For me, church was a spiritual experience which I didn’t feel in the mosque. I went to church for the prayer and gospel music as much as the preaching.

“I really dug that brother’s message about doing for self,” Jefferson continued. “I wish some of the guys from my crew could have heard it.”

“Bring ’em down,” Clayton urged. “We’re all about imparting knowledge. A few brothers are meeting at one o’clock today to discuss doing some things in the neighborhood. You should come.”

I snickered to myself. The Vikings kickoff was at one. I couldn’t wait to hear what excuse Jefferson would use to get out of Clayton’s invitation.

“I’m there,” Jefferson said.

I was dizzy with disbelief, but my husband was apparently too excited to notice the stunned expression on my face.

“Sounds like I can count on you two coming back,” Clayton said.

Jefferson didn’t bother to consult me before answering.

“Most definitely,” my husband beamed. “We’re definitely coming back.”

O
livia had made up her mind. She was not going to let these devils work her nerves. She’d knelt in prayer for a full hour that morning and felt both fortified and protected. God would make a way.

The newest demon they’d shipped in to the store, Helen Sheridan, had it in for her. The new interim store manager had stopped cold when Olivia introduced herself. Olivia could tell from the way the woman’s cold blue eyes had looked her up and down that she knew all about the lawsuit.

Sheridan had been an assistant manager at a much smaller Big Buy store in San Francisco. Now that she’d been promoted, Big Buy would no doubt trot her out to show that the company didn’t discrimination against women.

Entering the locker room, Olivia slipped on her blazer and checked the bulletin board for next week’s schedule.

At first she thought she’d read the wrong line. Olivia used her index finger to trace the space between her name and shift time. No, she’d read it correctly. She’d been assigned to work nights on Wednesday.

Olivia marched straight to the store manager’s office.

“I need to speak to Helen about the schedule,” she told the office receptionist. “I can’t work Wednesday night.”

The woman didn’t bother to look up from her computer monitor. “They changed a lot of people’s schedules.”

“I teach Bible study on Wednesday nights.” She tried to keep her voice level, though she really wanted to scream. “I can’t work that night.”

“You need to talk to Helen. She did the schedules.”

“Where is she?”

“Not sure. But I’ll tell her you’re looking for her.”

Olivia glanced at her watch. If she didn’t get to the floor right away, she would be late. She made a quick stop in the ladies’ room.

As she approached the Housewares aisles, she heard a chorus of grumbling from other employees.

“How many people’s schedules did they change?” Olivia asked a co-worker in the Shoe Department.

“About ten of us. So no use complaining about it.”

Olivia began taking inventory and straightening up her aisles. When she rounded the corner to the next aisle, she spotted Helen a few feet away, talking to another sales associate.

Tall and big-boned with frizzy black hair, Helen hustled over to Olivia. “You were late getting to the floor today.”

“That’s because I was looking for you. I need to talk to you about the new schedule.”

“You need to be on the floor on time. Next time, I’m writing you up.”

Three nosey sales associates peered at them from the end of the aisle.

“I was only a couple minutes late,” Olivia said. “I need to talk to you about the schedule. I never work Wednesday nights. I teach Bible Study at Hope in Christ Community Church in Compton. I’ve been doing it for years.”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to find somebody else to teach your class.”

“I can’t do that. I haven’t missed a class in five years. Olivia’s chest expanded with pride.”

Helen lifted a page on her clipboard. “Well, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“What if I find someone to switch shifts with me that night?”

“Nope,” Helen said. “If I let you do that, then everyone will want to change their schedule.”

Helen started walking away.

Olivia felt fury thundering in her chest and she wasn’t sure she could contain it. “This sounds like retaliation,” she called after her, hands on hips. “Because of my lawsuit.”

Helen stopped and marched back over to her. “I changed the schedules of several associates.”

Helen’s words didn’t mean a thing. The smug smile on her wicked lips confirmed that she
was
retaliating against her. Changing everyone’s schedule made the move look legitimate. Vernetta had warned her that there would be some trying times. She would just call Vernetta on her break and have her straighten everything out.

“Never mind.” Olivia raised her hand skyward, palm forward and quietly recited one of her favorite Bible verses. “
No weapon formed against me shall prosper. No weapon formed against me shall prosper
.”

“What did you say?” Helen stepped back, her lips pursed into a paper-thin line. “Did you just threaten me?”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “I didn’t threaten you. I—”

“Yes, you did! You raised your hand and said something about getting a weapon. Making physical threats is a violation of our workplace violence policy. You can go home now. You’re suspended pending an investigation.”

Olivia chuckled. “What’re you talking about? I didn’t threaten you.”

Helen took a step closer and pointed her ink pen in Olivia’s face. “I know what I heard. I’m ordering you to leave the store. Now.”

“This is crazy. That was a Bible verse. If you weren’t such a heathen you would know that.”

“Oh, so now you’re resorting to name-calling?” Helen hugged her clipboard to her body like a shield. “Do I need to get security to escort you out of the store?”

A crowd of associates and customers seemed to appear from nowhere. They were whispering and rubbernecking as if they were about to witness a street fight.

Olivia felt short of breath. She’d been having trouble with her blood pressure lately and she didn’t need a machine to tell her that it was now sky-high.

She snatched off her blazer as she took off for the locker room. Helen was probably going to fire her, but Olivia wasn’t worried. God was her protector.

Grabbing her purse from her locker, Olivia slammed the door and strutted out of the store with her head held high.