Stepping Down (12 page)

Both
men sat in silence as Mark rolled the “recommendation” around in his head. If
he did what they asked him to do, including the apology, he’d be admitting
guilt at some level. If he didn’t follow their suggestion, he’d put himself in
an awkward position—up preaching to people who hadn’t had the time to
digest what had happened. It was bad enough trying to reach them when he wasn’t
under a cloud of suspicion. Getting in front of them now might do more harm
than good.

Mark
wasn’t sure. He couldn’t make such an important decision without praying first.

“So,”
Rev. Jackson pressed, “what do you say? Agree with the recommendation?”

“I’ll
let you know.”

“When?”

Mark
didn’t appreciate being strong-armed, even though he knew it was Rev. Jackson’s
style. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”

The
only thing worse than being pressured to step down was the fact that he’d been
told
to step down previously, but hadn’t obeyed. All that time, Mark had been
thinking God was preparing him for some wonderful promotion.
Some promotion
this is, he thought
.

Should
he go to New Vision on Sunday? He’d already skipped out on Wednesday, partly
because his arm was bothering him. What about advisory meetings—could he
still attend? How often should he get in touch with Jonathan?

Mark
also wondered if it would be appropriate to contact the family of “B,” the
woman who’d been riding with him. He’d been in a life-or-death situation with
this woman. He’d seen her bleeding, possibly breathing her last conscious
breaths, sitting less than two feet away from him. No one in their right mind
could move on from a situation like that without looking back, checking on the
other person— especially knowing this person was most likely a blood
relative to his son.

Cutting
the French toast with his left hand was awkward and tiresome, but he wouldn’t
let Sharla or Amani help. The sooner he mastered doing things with his weaker
arm, the sooner he’d be able to get back to himself while the Lord continued
the long-term process of healing the right.

“These
are good,” he complimented Sharla.

“Thank
you.”

Amani
hadn’t thanked his mother with words. The way he inhaled the breakfast showed
his appreciation. “I’m ready.”

“Okay.”
Sharla stood and took Amani’s plate to the sink while he went back to the
living room to grab his backpack.

Mark
wished Sharla wouldn’t baby him so much. He could put his own plate in the
sink—wash it, too, though Mark had never actually seen Amani so much as
lift a finger to clean up anything around the house. The boy needed some
chores, but Sharla had that territory all sewed up. From the housekeeper to the
gardener to the pool serviceperson, all domestic duties were outsourced.

“Baby,
I might stop at the post office after I drop Amani off at school, but I won’t
be long,” Sharla said.

“Wait
up.” Mark had had enough of wrestling with his food. “I’ll ride with you.”

Both
Sharla and Amani looked at Mark like he was crazy. “You want to ride with me?”

“Yeah.
What’s wrong with that?” Mark laughed.

“You’ve
never ridden with me to take Amani to school.”

“I’ve
never been home with a messed up arm, either, have I?”

Amani
gave a smug nod. “This is true, Mother. This is true.”

She
glanced at her son, then back at her husband. “If you say so.”

Mark
didn’t take for granted the fresh spring air whipping across his face. The
sunshine, the sound of birds calling for mates. All of this could have been
taken away in an instant. As they sat at the stop light waiting to leave their
subdivision, Mark declared, “This is beautiful.”

“What?”
Sharla asked.

“Everything
God made is beautiful.”

“Except
snot and farts,” Amani blurted out.

Mark
couldn’t help but laugh at his son’s ill-placed humor. He’d certainly learned
how to enjoy getting on his mother’s nerves. There’s just something about being
able to irritate a woman ever-so-slightly…lets a man know he’s still got his
place in her heart.

Sharla
scolded, “That’s gross, Amani.”

Mark
took up for the boy. “It’s a man thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

“I
don’t
want
to understand,” she bit into both of them, rolling her eyes.

They
dropped Amani off at school. Sharla actually made three more stops before
returning home: the post office, as she’d already mentioned, as well as the
cleaners and the office supply store so she could purchase toner for Amani’s
printer. Mark waited in the car while she handled her pressing tasks. All of
this kept them out for an extra hour.

“Mamasita,
is this what you do all day? Rippin’ and runnin’, as my grandmother would say?”

“This
is just the beginning,” she informed him.

“What
else you got to do this week?”

“Turn
in books at the library, buy toiletries, go grocery shopping, couponing, go to the
farmer’s market to pick out the best fruits and vegetables. Then there’s me.
Gotta keep myself up by going to the gym, getting my nails done, getting my
hair done.”

Mark
couldn’t object to Sharla doing things that kept herself appealing.

“I
do
take care of things at home as well. I have special projects I do
once every few weeks—might be painting the baseboards, defrosting the
freezer, or taking down all the blinds so I can hose them off and let them dry
in the sun. And on top of all that, I have to straighten up between
housekeeping.”

Mark
squinted. “Straighten up between housekeeping? That makes no sense. What’s the
point in having a housekeeper if you still have to straighten up?”

She
laughed. “Because things still get
messed
up
in between visits.
How do you think our bed gets made every day? You think we got little fairies
that go around picking up socks and shoes that
some people
leave all
over the house? And for your
information, the
housekeeper does
not clean up your office. I do that myself.”

He
gave an exaggerated frown, impressed. “Really?”

“Yes.
What do you think I do all day—sit on my behind?”

“I
plead the fifth.”

Her
mouth dropped. “I cannot believe you.”

“Hey,
I didn’t know.”

“Obviously
not. I think the bigger question is what do
you
do all day?” Sharla
retorted playfully. “You only preach on Sundays and Wednesdays. What else do
you do, Pastor Carter?”

This,
of course, led to a never-to-be-settled bet about whose life was more
challenging: a pastor’s or a mother’s. Mark had to acknowledge that Sharla
presented a pretty good case. He’d never given much thought to the fact that
there was always soap in the dispensers and a new toothbrush magically appeared
in his holder every three months.

Though
he hadn’t done much more than wait in the car and deny Sharla’s claims, Mark
needed a nap by the time they got home. “Baby, there must be something in the
medication the doctor prescribed because I get tired real quick.”

“Yeah,”
she agreed, “the label says it might make you drowsy.”

He
yawned. “They ain’t
never
lied.”

She
parked in the driveway without raising the garage door. “Let me get you settled
in. I’ve got some more things on my to-do list.” She hopped out of the car and
came around to his side to open the door for him.

“What
time are you coming back?” he wanted to know.

“I
don’t know.”

He
hoisted himself out of the car. “Why don’t you know?”

She
led the way inside the house. “Look, I don’t clock in and out when I run
errands, okay? I do what I have to do and juggle it with playing taxi to Amani.
I don’t need you messing up my groove here, okay?”

Sharla
fluffed up Mark’s pillows and made sure he was comfortable on the couch. She gave
him his morning dose of medication, then kissed him on the forehead. “Call me
if you need me.”

“Um…”
Mark stalled. “What am I supposed to eat for lunch? Will you be back by then?”

Sharla
put a hand on one hip, obviously holding back a smile. “Maybe. If not, you do
still have one good arm. All you have to do is press a few buttons on the
microwave.”

“I’m
calling the people on you,” Mark joked.

“What
people?”

“The
treating sick people
mean
people.”

“For
your information,” she sashayed back to him, “I’m actually helping you today
while I’m out. I did a little…let’s just say I really, really think it was
Bria’s boyfriend who was chasing and shooting at your car. I’m going to the
station to share my suspicion with Detective Rozanno.”

Mark
stared into his wife’s face. “
Bria
.”

Sharla
hung her neck forward. “Yeah?”

“Bria—you
said her name was
Bria
. You’re right.”

Sharla
squeaked, “
You
said her name was Bria.”

“No,”
he disagreed, “I didn’t remember her name until just now, when
you
said
it.”

“Oh.”
Sharla jiggled her keys. “Whatever. All I know is her boyfriend’s nickname is
Boomie. I hope they already have him on file for something. I’ll let you know
what they say. Bye.”

She
rushed out the door as though suddenly panicked.

Mark’s
gut quivered with the realization that his wife was hiding something.

Sharla
collected her wits in the car.
How stupid was
that
? She’d said
Bria’s name aloud before Mark did.  Shouldn’t have surprised her, though,
for as much as she’d been
thinking
Bria’s name.

She
could only hope that Mark’s drugs would fog his memory or recreate her faux pas
in a way that left him second-guessing what had just transpired.

She
lowered her visor and flipped up the mirror. Makeup still flawless, not a hair
out of place. “Come on, girlie. Get yourself together.” The pep talk did little
to calm her nerves, but it did strengthen her resolve. She needed to take
action. The hospital financial counselor had said that there was no way to stop
or delay the bills or collection actions from coming before the police
investigation was complete.

Even
though Sharla felt strongly that the insurance would kick in sooner or later,
she didn’t even want to
see
a six-figure “amount owed” with their names
next to it unless it was for the dream house.

For
whatever reason, Detective Rozanno and his alleged team seemed to be dragging
their feet on her husband’s case. Every time she called, all the detective
could say was, “We’re asking questions and following up on leads.”

Well,
she certainly planned to give them a lead that would bring this whole thing to
a close soon and clear Mark of any wrongdoing.

She
waited on a bench outside the secured doors for Rozanno. He’d have to escort
her behind the fortress. Sharla couldn’t help the jitters crawling around in
her belly. The last thing she needed was to be talking to anyone in law
enforcement about Bria Logan.

That
chapter of her life was supposed to be over. She couldn’t afford to open it
back up now. Maybe after Amani was an adult, but not while there was still the
possibility that someone might probe into things too deeply.

She
heard a buzz, then Detective Rozanno stepped into the waiting area while keeping
the door ajar. “Mrs. Clark, come on in.”

“Carter,”
she corrected him.

“Right,
Carter. Sorry about that.”

He
was a short, dumpy man with pronounced male pattern baldness who had probably
once been a young, energetic officer. Sharla imagined that maybe he’d taken a
bullet to the leg, which caused him to be unfit for the streets. He’d been
assigned to a desk job and started eating too many jelly donuts. All downhill
from there.

She’d
surmised all of this not only from his appearance, but from the way he slumped
down the hallway toward his office, where he asked her to sit. “How are ya?” He
said it like a disgruntled cafeteria lady might ask, “What’ll you have?”

“I’m
fine, thank you,” she answered.

His
office boasted several plaques and certificates acknowledging dedication and
selfless service. As Sharla suspected, none of the awards had recent dates.

“I’ve
got some information you might find helpful in your investigation.”

He
raised an eyebrow. “You doin’ my job for me?”

“No,”
Sharla denied, “I just thought I’d help.”

“We
don’t need your help,” he very nearly lectured her. “We’ll catch the bad guys.”

The
first time she’d met the detective, he seemed nonchalant. Today, however, he
was just being downright rude. “Detective, I’m not trying to overstep my
boundaries, but I
do
have a vested interest in resolving this case
quickly. Are you going to take what I give you or not?”

He
gave her a condescending scowl, grabbed a pen, and prepped to write in the
margin of his desk calendar alongside several other hastily scribbled, nearly
illegible notes.

“Don’t
you have some kind of
file
for my husband’s case where you need to
record this lead?” Sharla insisted.

“I
got this. What’s the information?”

“The
man who was shooting at my husband’s car was Bria’s boyfriend, I think. His
name is Boomie, or at least that’s what they call him.”

He
wrote the name on the pad. “Anything else?”

“Well,
aren’t you going to find out if he’s in the system? Run an alias check?”

“Lady,
you’ve been watching too many crime TV shows.”

Dumbfounded,
Sharla’s jaw fell open. “Are you kidding me right now? I’m giving you a lead on
my husband’s case. It may not mean anything to you, but we’re trying to save
his reputation and keep from going bankrupt.”

“Ma’am,
your husband’s lucky to be alive. Be grateful. And for your information, I’ve
already been in touch with the other victim’s family. The moment she wakes up,
if she confirms this Boomie character, we’ll have reason to move forward. But
like you said, you’ve got a vested interest in clearing your husband. I don’t.
I only want to get to the truth. I want to know who was shooting at his car and
why, and if he was involved in any criminal activity that led up to the crime.”

“Alrighty,
then.” Sharla bit her tongue. “How long do you think this will take?”

“I
don’t know. We’re understaffed, underpaid, all that. But…” he swiveled in his
chair and focused his attention on his computer screen. He clicked a few
buttons. “Wait a minute. Your husband is the pastor, right?”

“Yes.”

He
clicked a few more times. “Looks like you’ve saved me a trip.” He pressed a red
button on his phone, then dialed four numbers.

“Yes,
Detective?” a raspy female voice came through.

“Do
we have an interrogation room open?”

“Number
six,” she replied.

“Thanks.”

Interrogation? 

“Mrs.
Carter, I need you to come with me.”

“For
what?”

“Got
a few questions for you.” He snapped the pen and placed it in his shirt pocket.
And
now
he wants to get up and pull a file from a cabinet, Sharla
snarled to herself.

Sharla
stayed glued to her chair. “Why do you want to question me?”

“To
clear you as a suspect…if I can.”

“I
don’t think so,” Sharla barked back.

Rozanno
raised his sagging belt back to its long route around his stomach. “Ms. Carter,
Bria’s family has advised us that you were at the hospital staked out in the
waiting room, which raises a flag.”

Sharla
couldn’t believe her ears. What did her being at the hospital have to do with
the investigation? “So, what if I was there?”

“What
reason would you have to be there?”

She
countered, “Why does it matter?”

“
Someone
was shooting at the car…” he alluded.

“Uh,
everybody knows it was some criminal guy. They even said so on the news. Plus,
Bria’s family said it was a man named Boomie.”

He
crossed his thick arms. “Those reporters don’t know what they’re talking about.
They get all their news from bystanders tryin’ to get on the news and say
something outrageous so they can become the next YouTube star.”

Detective
Rozanno might have been right about the spectators’ motives, but if Bria’s
family concurred with the news report, why would the police divert to a wild
goose chase—especially one where
she
was the goose? “This is ridiculous.
I’m not speaking to you without a lawyer present.”

His
lips dripped with contempt, making Sharla wonder if it might be better to
cooperate rather than wait for her attorney. Maybe if she answered his
questions now, he’d show mercy. She had an air-tight alibi for her whereabouts
that evening. There was no way they could prove she was anywhere else but home
the night of the accident.

“Fine.
Let’s get this over with.”

As
she shadowed the officer down to what was presumably room six, Sharla mentally
replayed as many episodes of the crime show,
48 Hours,
as possible.
Detective Rozanno was treating her like a person of interest, which was right
up there next to suspect. The suspects always broke down when the interviewers
suggested that they might spend the rest of their lives behind bars. Even the
toughest, hardest criminals changed their tunes when prison hung in the loom.

But
I’m not guilty of shooting into my husband’s car
, Sharla reminded herself. She had
nothing to hide. If the detective started to sound like he was trying to trip
her up, she’d end the interview and call her lawyer without another word
crossing her lips.

To
Sharla’s surprise, a dark-haired, frail-looking woman was waiting for them in
the interrogation room. The lady didn’t speak. She didn’t even offer a hint of
a smile. She just sat there in a chair on the far side of the table. Rozanno
joined her while Sharla sat alone on her side.

“Who
is this?” Sharla felt she had a right to know.

“Monica,”
Rozanno barely replied.

“What’s
she doing here?”

“Observing.
Training.”

Sharla
didn’t like the idea of being somebody’s case study, but there was something
about having a woman’s presence in the room that offered some sense of female
camaraderie, taking the scary edge off the cameras and sound equipment
conspicuously placed throughout the room.

Monica
set up her notepad with its little keyboard and began typing something or
another.

Rozanno
jumped right in. “State your full name.”

“Sharla
Denise Everson-Carter.”

She
answered a few more run-of-the-mill staple questions before he got to the
pertinent ones. “Where were you on the night of your husband’s accident?”

“I
was at home watching television while my son, Amani, was upstairs playing video
games with his friend, Jadan,” she answered with a slight upward tilt of the
chin. Once she’d given him an account of herself, that should have been the end
of the interview, as far as Sharla was concerned.

But
the detective pushed on, “What time did Jadan arrive at your house?”

She
guesstimated, “Six, six-thirty.”

“And
what time did he leave?”

“Around
eight-thirty. His mom came and got him.”

He
poked out his lips. “Were you there when his mom arrived?”

“Yes,
I was.”

“Did
you see her?”

“Yes…I
mean, no, I didn’t
see
her see her. She blew her horn. Jadan came
downstairs. He left.”

“So,
you were downstairs while they were upstairs.”

“Yes.”

“Did
you
see
Jadan when he left?”

“No,
but I heard him come downstairs.” Sharla grew impatient. “You can verify all
this with Jadan and my son, you know?”

 “No,
I can’t,” he said with a faint smirk on his mouth, “because if you didn’t
see
them, then they obviously didn’t
see
you for those two hours.”

“I’m
not an irresponsible parent. I wouldn’t leave two teenage boys in my home alone
for two hours,” she smacked.

Rozanno
started with the second round, “Mrs. Carter, where do you park your car?” 

The
momentary flicker of Monica’s eyes set off warning bells in Sharla. “No more
questions without my attorney. This interview is over.”