Relentless (6 page)

Maxwell took anxious strides as he walked up the steps of the city hall building, his eyes scoping out every minister and politician he recognized. A barrage of oohs and aahs forced him to turn around and see just what commanded the crowd's attention. The shiny black automobile held onlookers captive. It was elegant, big, and bold. The taunting chrome grille accented the car's sleek body along with the signature crafted rims. It was unmistakably a top-of-the-line Mercedes, and there was no confusion about who the owner was.

Bishop Jones stepped out of the car, pulled at the lapels of his suit jacket with both hands, and plastered a wide grin onto his face. Walking away, he turned to aim his key ring at the luxury vehicle. The car's alarm engaged, sounding off with some sort of customized trumpet and saxophone blended melody. The bishop supposedly relied on God for other conveniences. Maxwell wondered why a man as holy as the bishop professed to be wasn't trusting God to watch over his mighty fine vehicle.

“Bishop, how are you? God sure is blessing you,” were just a few of the greetings he received.

Jones shook hands and puffed out, “Praise the Lord,” repeatedly as he moved toward the courthouse.

At a faster pace, Maxwell continued up the steps with the intent of making a noticeable entrance into the meeting while intentionally avoiding the bishop outside.

The conference room was packed with those whose voices sang out in conversation to pass the time, waiting for the meeting to start. Maxwell and his determination entered, being announced with every step as the heel of his shoe struck the floor. At least three clergymen were robbed of their voices when they recognized Maxwell. He watched one minister stop in midsentence and latch onto him with a cringing stare; just the effect he wanted to have. They knew who he was and feared why he was there.

Maxwell claimed the last open seat on his side of the long table, reared back in the high-back leather chair, and pulled a gold engraved pen from his jacket pocket. Now the show could begin. He was ready, sitting in the premium seat near the head of the table. He was a little more than an arm's length away from where he expected Jones to sit. There were a few nods and several glances directed his way but no one shook his hand or welcomed him to the table of community concern. Maxwell didn't care as he drank in the familiar faces. There was no mask to hide their trepidation with a civil attorney who held a near-perfect win record sitting among them. Confident, Maxwell made visual contact with anyone who was willing to accept his challenge. In his mind only the guilty would have no peace. He smirked.

Jones's wide body filled the doorway as he paraded into the room flanked by the mayor. Jones sat at the head of the table while the mayor walked down to the other end shaking hands as he passed. Wiping his forehead with a monogram handkerchief, Jones shifted left to right, perhaps to prevent his body from spilling over both sides of the chair. A gust of cologne sat at the table with him. Maxwell brushed his index finger under his nose floating a wide-eyed glance at Jones.

“Good morning and thank you for being here,” Jones began. “We're here today with a joint mission. We all want to identify a plan of action that will help young men who are at risk as well as reduce the gun violence that is robbing our children of their livelihood. We can no longer allow our streets to be war zones with our children enlisted as soldiers.”

Maxwell's gaze rolled around the long table assessing the attentive group. He flashed back to the picture of the Last Supper that hung on his living room wall as a child. Half hearing what Jones was saying, he noticed the bobbing heads, scribbling pens, and the occasional amen that one or two men couldn't refrain from spurting out. All of them were caught up in the spell that Jones cast with his thick, melodious voice. He promised to make a difference in the community by trading opportunities for headstones.

Maxwell squinted, lowered his head slightly, and homed in on Jones, jumping in on the heels of his last words. “Bishop Jones, your interest is commendable; in fact, I applaud your efforts here today.”

Jones turned his head toward Maxwell; his thick eyebrows sank down under the weight of the wrinkles that creased his forehead.

“You have one of the largest followings in Philadelphia, and I believe you have a large group of young people in your congregation.” Maxwell studied the blank stares of those near him but wasn't deterred. “I'd like to ask a few questions about the success of programs you have underway.” A response wasn't immediate which promoted Maxwell to continue tinkering with the subject. “You've surely managed some youth outreach programs that have already been successful. How many youth have received GEDs through your federally funded ‘Not Too Late to Learn' program? How many moved from failing grades to passing grades after participating in the ‘Afterschool Home Work Club' hosted at Greater Metropolitan?”

Piercing stares crawled across the table and onto Maxwell like leeches desiring his blood. He didn't flinch a bit. Maxwell was pretty sure Jones's intense demeanor was sculpted by the thoughts tumbling around in his head while he grasped for quick answers that would keep him from looking ineffective. Maxwell didn't need Jones to toss out numbers. He knew the answer to each question. He was sure the community would be interested, too, especially since Community Development Block Grant funds and Federal Faith Based Initiative funds were awarded based on taxpayers' money.

Jones leaned forward with his right forearm pressed into the table and his left hand anchored to the arm of his chair. “Are you questioning the church's motive and commitment to community change?”

Maxwell decided to let Jones off the cross. It wasn't his intent to persecute him publicly just yet. He only wanted to sow a few seeds. “Not at all, Bishop; I'm sure those programs were successful and the money put to good use.” Maxwell could taste his own unsavory lie. “We should consider some of the best practices that you implemented and use them as a stepping stone toward the objective of our meeting.”

Maxwell began to paint with a broader stroke of his brush. Commanding the room, he pulled everyone in, and he continued with his previous line of questioning. “How many young men have you bailed out of jail and put into mentoring programs? How many young gang members have you invited to the church to settle a turf war with a rival gang? How many drug dealers have you tried to help get a job? Have any of us done enough?” Maxwell included himself to disguise his covert mission. “These are questions each of us should ask ourselves. Our at-risk youth aren't going to stop doing what they're doing. They're not going to stop making poor choices until they have alternatives.”

The thick aroma of contempt and unrest in the room dissolved, allowing Maxwell to witness fewer pinched foreheads and several men relax in their chairs.

“I knew you would have some valuable input, Mr. Montgomery,” the mayor said. “We should all accept some level of accountability for what's wrong in our communities. And we all must share in the responsibility to steer our youth down positive pathways and identify ways to derail those who are already on a locomotive headed toward destruction. What you've said is a great segue into a strategy that Bishop Jones and I have been discussing for several weeks now.” The mayor stretched his hand out toward Jones and nodded his head for him to have the floor again.

A calm satisfaction washed over Maxwell, much like when he finished an opening statement in court. He settled into his chair, twirled it slightly to the left, and locked in his line of vision on Jones. He picked up his pen ready to take notes. Maxwell didn't want to miss a single word that fell out of Jones's mouth. His very words could possibly be used as a wrecking ball later.

 

 

The meeting drew to a close after a half day of discussion. Maxwell's time was premium at $1,000 an hour, although most of his money came from contingency payments after his client won a case. He gladly offered his services pro bono this morning. If asked, he would have easily stayed another four hours. His ax had been sharpened. Notification had been duly served to his adversaries. Every crooked clergyman under his foot was subject to be crushed at his whim. That's how he felt, and if they didn't realize it, shame on them.

Maxwell gathered his belongings and prepared to exit as quietly as he'd entered the room. The mayor approached him extending additional gratitude for Maxwell's participation and an invitation to sit in on follow-up sessions. He gladly accepted, pleased that the other meetings wouldn't cost him any money. The investment he'd made with Garrett was already paying dividends.

“Excuse me, Mr. Montgomery,” Maxwell heard someone say. He looked up to find a slightly familiar face but the name didn't readily come forward. “I'm Pastor Renaldo Harris.”

“That's right, you're at Faith Temple.” Maxwell recalled the young face. It was the local minister from one of the mega churches on his watch list. Harris hadn't officially made the top priority list like the bishop, but Maxwell was sure his time would come. He was a prime candidate pastoring a mega church with lots of money coming in. “I've seen several of your commercials,” Maxwell said.

“Good to hear. We try to reach the people through every available media,” Harris said with a certain confidence that made Maxwell take notice.

If it had been anyone else, except someone in that meeting room, Maxwell would have interpreted the tone as one of sincerity. But, not with that pack of wolves. Oh no, he wasn't that naive. Harris had a racket and when Faith Temple moved up on the hit list, Maxwell would find out what it was.

“I won't take up any more of your time, Mr. Montgomery. I just wanted to officially introduce myself and to let you know that your ideas were on point regarding the youth programs. I believe there's quite a bit we can do together to bring these programs to fruition much quicker than we discussed here today.” The pastor reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a business card. “When you get a chance, please give me a call. I'd love to talk more.” He handed Maxwell the card and followed with a firm handshake. “Feel free to give me a call or, better yet, stop by one of our services. We have a service Saturday evening at six and two on Sunday, eight in the morning for the early risers and a second one at eleven. I hope to see you soon.”

Maxwell didn't know quite how to take Harris. Because Faith Temple wasn't in his crosshairs, there wasn't much immediate ammunition he had available. A few quick background checks in the past hadn't revealed anything meaningful and had annoyed Maxwell. As curious as he was about Harris and what he might be up to, he couldn't get sidetracked. Philadelphia public enemy number one was Bishop Ellis Jones. That was the prize and no distractions could veer Maxwell off course. It had taken decades to sit at the seat of judgment and be within arm's length of the bishop. Maxwell wasn't about to lose ground now. Harris would have to wait in line like the rest of the lowly so-called holy men scampering from the room. He continued gathering his belongings and didn't extend any other courtesies. Hypocrisy wasn't his style. There may have been one or two men in the room who he respected, maybe, but as far as he was concerned it wasn't likely. He briefly contemplated the odds of having integrity in a room lined with preachers and politicians. For Maxwell, each group was corrupt and in need of neutralization. He decided to give the politicians a free pass. They could keep lying, stealing, cheating, and defrauding the people. Maybe one day, when all the ministers had been banned to the outer edges of the earth, and he had another lifetime to live, then perhaps he would start on them. Until then, he'd tackle one priority at a time. He'd learned from the mistakes of others over the years to only handle one venomous snake at a time. If he got too cocky and tried handling several simultaneously, he was likely to get bitten.

Losing wasn't an option in a battle where he'd dedicated his entire adulthood to winning. There was only one acceptable outcome—total annihilation with no exceptions. Glancing around the room, he was committed and on track. He left the room thoroughly satisfied.

A day faded into a week without an ounce of enthusiasm seeping from Maxwell's veins. His continued vigor compelled him to open the leather-bound planner on his desk. He pressed up and down on top of an ink pen, counting the clicking noises it made with each down stroke of his thumb. Maxwell drew a red X through dates. It was the eighth consecutive mark he'd made since beginning the arduous task of tracking the number of days it would take to bring Jones down. Each red X represented a crack in Jones's foundation that would soon crumble and fall down around him, leveling his naive and adoring community. Maxwell's disgust warmed. It couldn't be soon enough for him. He was eager for folks to look beyond the layers of lies and tailor-made suits to see clearly the man in front of them.

The longer Maxwell stared at the page, the more it seemed to bleed with a sea of red that stared at him in defeat. The alarm on his PDA demanded his attention. He pushed a button to silence it. Fueled by his self-imposed 11:00 a.m. appointment, excitement streamed through him pushing Maxwell to his feet. He'd gotten to the office earlier than usual determined to get some work done before leaving so early in the day. He had time to go over his precision-crafted lines once again before taking off.

Maxwell tapped twice on a page in the day planner with his index finger and closed it. He walked to the far side of the office and stepped into his private bathroom. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, he fidgeted with the knot in his tie. He scrutinized his tall frame from head to toe determined to look stylish but not overstated. Gaudy watches and bright suits had no place in his wardrobe. Looking at his reflection, he repeated the lines he'd drafted for presenting his youth proposal to the bishop, paying close attention to the rise and fall of his voice and the expression on his face. He ran through the lines repeatedly. The delivery had to be perfect and the message clear, sincere. Satisfied with the last run-through, he was now off to set a challenge in motion.

He bolted from the bathroom, grabbed his suit jacket and took an extra few minutes to get it on perfectly, readjusting his shirt sleeves, cuff links, and tie again. Not a thread could be out of place. His meeting was too important to be overshadowed by a wardrobe malfunction. He hustled to the door, and then stopped. He'd forgotten something. He went to his desk to pluck out an envelope and a small sheet of paper from the top drawer. He opened a box in the drawer and counted out $860, leaving it practically empty except for fifteen bucks. It didn't matter. He'd taken cash from his pocket in the past to cover the bill. Hatred was a heavy load to bear. Holding the hospital bill in his hand, admittedly there were instances when it had to take a rest.

Maxwell rushed from his office and stopped at Sonya's desk. “I'll be gone until three.” He handed her cash. She looked befuddled. He stuffed the bill inside the envelope and gave it to her. “Can you please take care of this for me? It's ready to go, but I don't have time to get a money order or to address the envelope.”

“Is it the same one we've used before?”

“Yep, the hospital and not the house address.”

“Then I have it.”

“But, I need it in the mail today.” He took a step and then turned to say, “Oh, and please don't use a return address.”

“I know, I know,” she chimed, waving him off.

He walked away looking down at his watch.

Maxwell maneuvered the expressway like a race track zipping in and out; slicing between cars that didn't have the high-performance engine that a Porsche offered. He pressed a button and warm sunlight invaded the car along with the cool wind that whisked inside. He went over his lines again, regulating the infliction in his voice. As he neared the church, he sealed the resolve in his heart as the plan of attack was etched in his mind.

The engine of Maxwell's car simmered down to a taunting purr when it rolled into the parking lot. He couldn't resist parking next to the space labeled B
ISHOP
E
LLIS
J
ONES
. The letters on the sign were big and bold, proclaiming the presiding bishop's reign. Maxwell gripped the steering wheel hard enough to feel his pulse throbbing in his fingertips. Releasing his clutch, he leaned back on the seat while his gaze scaled the massive edifice in front of him. Stained glass windows showcased the etched imagery of angels, the Virgin Mary, and Christ being crucified on the cross. The steeple on top of the church housed a bell tower that sounded off. Maxwell counted the last three explosive bongs: ten, eleven, twelve
.
He could feel the impact of each striking blow that dispersed sound waves rippling through him and draining his enthusiasm.

He remembered going to Sunday school all those years ago. His mother would pick up the pace as they approached the former church building determined not to be late. Deacon Montgomery always left home early to get the church opened up for those who were sure to pour in and fill the pews. Maxwell shook his head tossing out the shadows of more woes that tied him and his family to Jones.

The church's parking lot didn't provide an automatic comfort zone. Climbing the steps, Maxwell turned and pointed his keys at his car to engage the alarm. At the top of the steps, he pulled at one of the double doors and went inside. Once through the foyer, the church secretary greeted him warmly as he approached the office door.

“Praise God, how can I help you?”

“Maxwell Montgomery to see Bishop Jones.” His pulse wanted to surge. Instead, he gave the secretary a weak simper and drew on his ability to conceal true emotion.

“Have a seat, Mr. Montgomery. He's in a meeting, but I'll let him know you're here,” she said picking up the phone.

Maxwell took a seat and set his attention on the closed door leading into Jones's office. Though he had dropped by without an appointment, waiting for this man to grant him any kind of permission annoyed Maxwell. The secretary's ringing phone drew Maxwell's burning gaze from the door that kept Jones's meeting private.

Abruptly a gentleman emerged from the office seeming to avoid eye contact. Maxwell recognized Councilman Chambers, a local politician who stayed in the headlines. His presence had Maxwell intrigued. What business did the councilman have with the church?

“I'll talk to you later, Bishop,” the councilman said and fled. Maxwell turned and got a glimpse of him scuttling away.

“You can go in now, Mr. Montgomery.” The secretary walked ahead of Maxwell, allowing him entrance.

Maxwell went inside the office and his interest in Chambers immediately dissipated. Jones stepped from behind his desk just as Maxwell extended his hand. He was hesitant feeling like the seventeen-year-old he once was when he'd last stood this close to the bishop.

“I apologize for interrupting your meeting,” he told the bishop standing face-to-face with him, still apprehensive.

“I've been expecting you for some time now, ever since I saw you at the mayor's meeting.”

“Really?”

Jones cleared his throat. “Excuse my voice. I've had several speaking engagements this week, not to mention my sermons.” The bishop approached Maxwell with a glare and generic grin, crowding him, forcing Maxwell to take a step backward. Jones said, “What took you so long to get here?”

Geez,
Maxwell thought. He was hoping to avoid this moment when the bishop recognized him as the son of Paul Sr., his former treasurer at the old church in Chester. This round of direct hand-to-hand combat was over. The sneak attack had to be aborted. He'd leave without incident and find another way to expose Jones.

“Maxwell Montgomery, have a seat,” he offered motioning his hand toward the chair in front of his desk. “The powerful attorney with two first names,” he told Maxwell as he sat behind his desk. “Come to think of it, I knew a Gayle Montgomery years ago in high school. Any chance you're related?”

“No,” Maxwell firmly replied.

“Well, it's a common name,” Jones replied. The phone on the desk rang and Jones held up his index finger, saying, “Just a minute.”

Maxwell was relieved. Though he was glad Jones didn't recognize him, Maxwell was agitated that the name Montgomery hadn't set off an alarm. Jones had destroyed so many that one family must have been as forgettable to him as the next. Evidently Ethel and Paul were absolutely nobody, not worthy of so much as an empty reference during small talk. The prison time they'd served because of the bishop rendered no gratitude or asterisk in his memory. His parents were merely weeds trampled under Jones's feet. Maxwell was erupting inside. To think that his parents chose this man over stability threatened to set off his own alarm.

Watching Jones on the phone caused his level of agitation to escalate. Maxwell spread his fingers and pressed his fingertips against each other determined to hold it together until Jones ended his call. A struggle was mounting the more he remembered how much Jones had forgotten. A resolve washed over him, content that one day Jones's memory would be forcibly restored.