Stepping Down (19 page)

Mark
pressed her forehead into his neck. “Shhhh, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.” Her
hot tears spilled onto his shoulders.

“No,
it’s not. Maybe Bria found out. Maybe she’s going to turn me in for bribery,”
Sharla huffed.

“Baby,
if she turns you in, she’ll have to turn her mother in, too.”

“I
know, but,” Sharla sniffed, “evil people stick together. They could come up
with some crazy story and turn against me. And send me to jail. And get Amani
ba-a-ack,” she huffed. “I think that’s why the detective has been giving me
such a hard time. He knows more than he’s saying—even Hernandez said so.
He’s building his case against me.”

Mark
kissed his wife’s forehead as she continued to bounce with every sob. “Shhhh,
it’s going to be okay.”

He
wanted to believe his own words, but how could he? If Sharla’s bribe came to
light, which was highly possible, given Lisa’s state of mind, his wife might
actually end up with a conviction on her record, or serving time. Or even
losing Amani, as absurd as that might be after all this time.

Now
Mark’s heart ached doubly. How could Sharla have done such a thing? What if
they lost Amani on top of whatever punishment Sharla might face? It had gone
from a civil case, which he hadn’t even told Sharla about, to something with even
more grave possibilities. He could only fathom one way through. “Baby, let’s
pray.”

Amani’s
long face in the rearview mirror pained Mark the whole way back to Houston.
Obviously, the boy had done a lot more than enjoy himself. He’d experienced the
sense of family that he’d been longing for, only to be ripped from it after a
few days.

If
Mama B weren’t getting married, he’d ask her to let Amani come up for a few
weeks when some of the cousins were there. But he wouldn’t dare impose now. She
needed some time to get settled with her new husband. Plus, from what Mark
gathered, Mama B was moving into Frank’s house. She was going to rent her place
out after a while, probably. It wouldn’t be the same.

Amani
deserved the opportunity to know his biological family. The boy was wired for
connecting with people, no wonder he was miserable. Even if the Logans turned
out to be every bit as crazy as Sharla believed—as crazy as Bria had been
before she met Christ—they were still his blood. Somehow, sooner or
later, he’d have to persuade Sharla to put her pride aside and let Amani meet
his people, for his sake.

“You
tired yet?” Sharla asked. She was at it again already—nagging.

“Nope.”
He was in perfect control behind the wheel for the first time in almost two
weeks. Once they hit the highway, it was a straight shot, no sudden turns,
nothing he couldn’t handle.

But
Mark didn’t want to waste energy getting annoyed. He had bigger fish to fry
once he got back home.

He
didn’t know how big those fish were until after they unpacked their bags and
got comfortable Sunday evening. “I’m gonna go next door to the Moor’s and get
the mail,” Sharla said.

When
she returned, Mark took one look at her shock-ridden face and braced for
trouble. “What?”

Sharla
stood with one paper in hand, a wad of envelopes tucked under her armpit. “Oh.
My. Word. Mark, this is just the facility fee from the hospital. It’s almost
eleven thousand dollars!”

“Let
me see that.” Mark bolted from the couch and grabbed the paper from her. Sure
enough, there it was in black and white: $10,846.92. “Okay. We got this,
Sharla. We got eleven thousand dollars.”

“Yeah,
eleven thousand dollars that we’ve been saving up to move into our dream
house!” she yelled.

“Well,
God knew this was coming up. Maybe that’s why He had us saving our money. He
knew we’d need it—”

Amani
came jumbling down the stairs, cutting Mark short.

“What
the matter?”

“Nothing.
Go back upstairs,” Sharla ordered.

“Doesn’t
sound like nothing.” Amani shot toward the window. “Is the press here again?”

“No.
The press is not here. Hopefully, they’ll never be here again,” Mark redirected
Amani’s thoughts.

Amani
continued to survey the yard through the slats. “Well, y’all are arguing about
something.”

“Go
on back upstairs.”

This
time, Amani obeyed.

Mark
clutched Sharla’s wrist and led her to their bedroom. He closed the door behind
them. “Sharla, I know this isn’t what you’d planned on spending this money on.
And it’s very possible that we’ll get it back after the dust clears with the
insurance.”

“But
what if it doesn’t?” She slammed the bill on the dresser. “Mark, this is just
the
beginning
of the bills. We’ve still got doctors, surgeons, labwork,
X-rays... You haven’t even started rehab, and the doctors said you’d need at
least one more surgery. We’ll be lucky to keep
this
house, let alone
move into the dream house.”

“Hey,”
he stopped her. “We don’t do
luck
, alright? I need you to quit gettin’
all dramatic on me, acting like we don’t have a God.”

Sharla
bit her bottom lip hard, gazing out the window. “I just…I don’t see how.”

Mark
could almost see the wheels churning in Sharla’s head. She was trying to
formulate a solution.

“We
need to start moving money overseas, getting stuff transferred to somebody
else’s name just in case we’re getting ready to lose everything.”

“Listen
to yourself,” Mark interrupted her think-aloud.

“What?”

“This
is the problem—this is exactly why we’re both in our messes, trying to
solve our own problems instead of leaning of God.”

She
bugged out her eyes. “I’m just trying to be
practical
here.”

“Baby,
this is
it
! This is
it
! This is where we…where we stop playing
the
role
of believers and actually
believe
. Together. Didn’t we
just invite Him into this marriage last night?”

She
shrugged. “Yes.”

“And
didn’t we both decide that we are going to trust Him with everything.
Everything
?”
he pumped her up.

“Yes.”
Sharla shifted her weight nervously.

“Then
what better time to start than right now? No more Ishmael’s, baby. It’s me and
you, ride or die with Christ. You in?”

With
quivering lips, Sharla sucked in a breath. She wiped a tear from her eye. “I’m
in.”

Mark
had preached a similar message to the congregation a hundred times before. And
he’d believed every word of it because the Bible said so. But as he exhorted
his own wife in his own household, he realized that actually stepping out on
faith—him first, with Sharla right behind—was about to, as he told
her, “
take this here thing to a whole new level
”.

The first order
of business Monday morning was personal prayer time at six, followed by family
devotions and communion—a solemn practice both he and Sharla wanted to engage
in  intimately, thanks to their experience in Peasner, TX.

Amani
fussed, of course, because Mark had all but yanked him out of bed at eight-thirty
on a summer morning. “Why do we have to pray so early? God will still be up at
around, like, twelve or one, right?”

“You
can talk to Him again at that time if you’d like. But your Momma and I have
some family business to handle today at ten. So, we’re praying now. Not that I
even
owe
you an explanation,” Mark cautioned. “When I was your age, I
was up at seven during the summertime so I could mow the grass before it got
hot. Matter of fact, tomorrow morning, we’re getting up early so I can teach
you how to mow.”

“What?”
Amani objected a little too loudly.

Mark
raised an eyebrow.

Amani
slumped. “Yes, sir.”

They
gathered in the dining room, with Mark and his Bible sitting at the head of the
table. He read from Hebrews chapter 11, teaching his wife and son about faith.
Both Sharla and Amani had questions. Mark had to hide his disappointment
because they were asking him things he thought they should have already known
by that time. After all, everyone sitting at the table had grown up in the
church.

But
he had to admit to himself, he’d grown up in the church, too, and yet had very
little revelation because he rarely cracked open a Bible between Sundays until
he was in his mid-twenties. Aside from all that, he could only blame the man in
the mirror. If he sat up week after week preaching to hundreds of people, but
failed to take the lead in his own household, that was on
him
.

Lord,
I repent
.

Sharla
had crushed a graham cracker and poured a small amount of fruit juice into
three Dixie cups they would normally use for mouthwash. As soon as Mark closed
the devotions in prayer, she brought the elements to the table on a plate,
handing them to her family.

Amani
looked at the crackers and juice and snarled his face. “But…wait a minute…this
is a
graham
cracker and this is
not
grape juice. Should we be
doing this?”

Mark
fought his urge to snigger. Poor Amani had grown up around so much tradition,
he didn’t realize the power was in his faith. “What matters is that we remember
Christ’s sacrifice. He blesses what we bless.”

Amani
surrendered, “If y’all say so.”

“We
do,” Mark ratified.

Mark had insisted
that Danny Hernandez accompany him and Sharla to what would, hopefully and
prayerfully, be a last meeting with Rozanno. After listening to Sharla explain
in great detail what happened during the “interview”, Mark had decided that
crazy detective wasn’t going to keep messing with his wife about shooting into
the car. And whatever other suspicions Rozanno had, he needed to put them on
the table so Hernandez could adequately prepare a defense.

Granted,
Mark was no attorney. But the more he prayed and meditated about the situation,
the more he felt led to get in Rozanno’s face.

From
what Mark could tell, Rozanno didn’t appear to be quite the big man Sharla had
described him to be. Yet, he probably came across forcefully when he was
sitting alone with a woman. He had that air about him—like he’d buck up
to a woman, but put his tail between his legs with another man.

Hernandez
was a little late, which gave Mark an opportunity to sit in the chair across
from Rozanno and just stare at him. Study him. Ask God for insight into him.

“Can
I get you some coffee?” the detective offered with a pinch of nervousness in
his tone.

 “No,
thank you,” Mark declined, eyes dead set on Rozanno.

“Sorry
I’m late,” Hernandez breezed into the room, sitting on the other side of
Sharla. He looked at Mark. “We haven’t started here, have we?”

“Nope,”
Mark answered.

“Good.”
He homed in on Rozanno. “We’re ready to officially clear my client’s name so
she can move forward with her life, right?”

“Not
so fast. The results from the car sweep were inconclusive.”

“What
the—”

“Hold
your horses, counsel,” the detective challenged. “I think we can, however,
exclude her on the basis of other eyewitness testimony. As I understand it,
Bria Logan is fully conscious. If she corroborates Mr. Carter’s testimony, that
will suffice.”

Hernandez
laughed cynically, “We don’t want to leave this technicality lingering. It’ll
give the insurance companies enough of a loophole to keep her in court for
months. I don’t understand how the car sweep was inconclusive; we’re not
talking DNA, here. Either you found gunpowder residue, tire irregularities, or
whatever the heck you were looking for, or you didn’t. Which one is it?”

“I
don’t tell you how to do your job. Don’t tell me how to do mine. You got that?”
Rozanno shot back.

“Look,”
Mark tried, “I was in the car. I know my wife wasn’t shooting at us.”

“What
color was the car that chased you?”

“I
don’t know,” Mark admitted.

“Was
it a male or female who shot into the vehicle?”

“I…I
can’t be sure. It all happened so fast.”

“Then
you’re not a reliable witness,” the detective concluded. “Plus, you’ve got a
motive to clear your own wife, just like she had motive to kill you.”

“That’s
not true!” Sharla interjected.

Mark
went in again, “What about Boomie? My wife told you that Bria’s family said
someone named Boomie was the shooter who also forced me to have the accident.”

Angry
lines crossed Rozanno’s forehead. “That lead never panned out.”

“Was
it ever
in
the pan?” Danny questioned.

“I’m
not at liberty to discuss another person of interest with you at this time,” he
avoided the question.

Mark smelled a rat.

Hernandez must have smelled it, too. He slurred, “I seeeee.
So, if my client is no longer a suspect and you find no other leads, the
investigation stalls. Everything’s just accidental, and that’s the end of it.
Leave the
real aggressor
on the streets.”

Rozanno shrugged. “Maybe. They
are
still looking for
the
real killer
in California, you know.”

Finally, Mark received discernment. The “real killer” was an
allusion to the Nicole Brown Simpson case. As far as law enforcement was
concerned, the guilty man had gotten away with murder.

Sharla wasn’t guilty, of course, and this was no murder. But
it was clear to Mark that Rozanno wasn’t going after Boomie, regardless. For
all Rozanno cared, Boomie might come back to finish Bria off.

Mark decided to test his theory. “I’d like to offer a reward
for the capture of this Boomie character.”

Just as Mark thought, the blood left the detective’s face.

“Great idea!” Hernandez roused. “We could involve the press,
the church. It would be great!"

“Wait!”
the nearly ghost-white man yelled. “Listen, I can promise you a report that
pretty much exonerates your client. Isn’t that what you want, Hernandez?”

“Yes.”
The attorney stood and shook Rozanno’s hand. “We’ll expect it by week’s end.”
He looked down at his clients. “Let’s go.”