Come Sunday Morning (8 page)

T
he alliance between Cynthia Pryce and Sandra Kelly had been forged six month earlier. Though their motivations for outing Hezekiah Cleaveland were different, the means served each of their purposes well. Sandra had introduced Cynthia to Phillip Thornton, the
Los Angeles Chronicle
publisher, after Cynthia told her about the e-mails between Hezekiah and Danny St. John during a dinner party at the Cleaveland estate.

The table in the dining room had been set to perfection. An elaborate floral arrangement in the center of the table was illuminated by the massive crystal chandelier above. Eight place settings held so many utensils, plates, bowls, and goblets that even the most sophisticated diner would have been at a loss determining what their specific uses were.

Four servers wearing black vests, dark pants and skirts, hovered unobtrusively near each guest. They poured wine and anticipated the needs of the guests before the diners had the chance to lift their hands or catch an eye for attention. Plates of ranch quail, grilled over vine cuttings, with red wine sauce, chanterelle mushrooms, potato cakes, and herb salad were placed before each guest.

Hezekiah sat at the head of the table. To his right and left were Hector Ramirez, the mayor of Los Angeles, and his wife, Miranda. Then came Percy and Cynthia Pryce, and next to them Sandra Kelly and Kenneth Davis. Samantha sat facing Hezekiah at the opposite end of the table.

“I've lived in Los Angeles my entire life and I've never seen as many homeless people living on the streets and in the parks as there are today,” Cynthia said to the mayor. “Can't the city do more to help them?”

“I was downtown at a meeting yesterday and I was amazed at how aggressive panhandlers have become,” Kenneth chimed in. “Two to three people on every block stopped me to ask for money. I like to think I'm a compassionate man, but that was a bit overwhelming for me.”

“I don't feel that way at all,” Percy said. “I always carry extra cash so I can give it to people when they ask.”

“I think that does more harm than good, Reverend Pryce,” Sandra said between sips of white wine. “Most homeless people are either addicted to drugs and alcohol or mentally ill. Giving them cash only perpetuates their addiction.”

“Nonsense,” Percy said defensively. “I'd rather give a dollar directly to a homeless person than to some of these so-called ‘nonprofit agencies' that take forty cents off the top of every dollar they collect.”

“That's a gross generalization,” Hector said, leaning forward in his seat. “Many of the organizations that the city funds to serve the homeless are doing amazing work and are fiscally responsible.”

Hezekiah finally spoke. “I agree. I know of an outreach worker who works for an agency downtown”—Hezekiah contained his passion and spoke cautiously—“He is a selfless and compassionate guy. He does amazing work with some of the most destitute people in this city.”

Cynthia's ears perked up. She could not believe Hezekiah had the audacity to talk about his lover in such glowing terms in front of everyone. “He sounds like a wonderful person, Pastor. What's his name?” she asked slyly.

Hezekiah looked at her with an innocent expression and said, “I can't remember offhand, but I know he does good work.”

“Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying there aren't any good social service agencies out there,” Percy said before he could swallow his most recent bite of quail. “The point I'm trying to make is if I give the money myself, I know it won't end up in the pockets of some overpaid administrator.”

“Since I've taken office, the city has doubled its budget for social service programs. We've built three new shelters and two new community clinics,” Hector replied defensively. “But it's still not enough. The reality is governments can only do so much to address the social ills that face this city. We need to develop more public and private partnerships with the corporate and faith communities.” Hector looked to Hezekiah. “We need churches like yours to step up to the plate and help us.”

Hezekiah smiled and said, “Don't you start on me too. New Testament Cathedral has been on the front line in the fight against poverty. We have clothes and food drives. Our members volunteer at shelters, and we make generous contributions to several agencies around the city.”

“That doesn't sound like the front to me,” Sandra said. “Sounds more like the tail.” The table fell silent. “Homeless people don't need more hand-me-down clothes or dented cans of tuna. They need affordable housing. They need affordable health care and drug rehabilitation programs.”

“Is that so?” Hezekiah asked. “Then why don't you tell us how much you give to the homeless? And I don't mean giving them your doggie bag after you've dined at Spago.”

“Hezekiah, you shouldn't ask her a personal question like that,” Samantha interjected. “Sandra, ignore him. He's just being provocative.”

“No, I think it's a fair question,” Sandra said, laying her fork gently on her plate. “First of all, I haven't eaten at Spago in years, Hezekiah,” Sandra said, leaning back in her chair. “I didn't know anyone other than tourists still went there. And as for your second question, last year alone my law firm worked over one thousand hours pro bono on discrimination cases involving low-income housing. And, before you ask, I personally have donated a substantial portion of my own income to multiple charities in Los Angeles and New York.”

Hezekiah looked coldly at Sandra and said, “That's admirable, Sandra, but I don't think that places you in a morally superior position, nor does it give you the right to criticize what we do at New Testament Cathedral.”

“I hadn't intended for it to. I simply wanted to answer your question.”

There was an uneasy tension at the table. The easy chatter that had preceded the most recent exchange was now replaced with awkward glances and a preoccupation with bread crumbs that had fallen on the table. The servers' pace slowed a notch as the tone of the party shifted.

There was a brief silence, and then Percy spoke. “Sandra, Hezekiah is right. I don't think that is a thorough or fair depiction of the significant impact New Testament Cathedral has had on the lives of poor people in this city,” he said diplomatically. “Hezekiah gives something more important than housing. He gives them hope with his message. He feeds their soul.”

Sandra rolled her eyes but did not respond, and Cynthia coughed as if choking on the words her husband just spoke.

“That is very important,” Miranda said, “but with all due respect to Hezekiah, and all other ministers in this city, a sermon doesn't keep a person warm and dry at night when they are sleeping under a bush in Griffith Park.”

Hector looked at his wife sharply. “Miranda,” he rebuked. “I'm sure Hezekiah is doing his best. As you can see, Miranda is very passionate about this issue.”

“That's all right, Hector,” Hezekiah said. “Miranda is right. The church should be doing more. Samantha and I have been thinking of ways we can get more involved in the issue.”

Hezekiah looked to Samantha for support, but instead, she placed her napkin on the table and said, “Why don't we all go into the living room? We can have our coffee and after dinner liqueur, if you'd like, in there.”

The guests filed in pairs from the dining room into the living room. They were greeted by the sound of a Mozart sonata played by a pianist on the baby grand in a corner of the room. A lavish silver coffee setting had been placed on a table behind the sofa, and a server stood near another table, which held a full brandy decanter and matching Baccarat glasses.

Miranda and Samantha sat chatting in chairs that faced the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Pacific Ocean. “I hope I didn't offend you with my comment earlier,” Miranda said. “I get so upset when people criticize Hector on his homeless policies.”

“I wasn't offended. I'm glad you said it. Hezekiah needed to hear that,” Samantha replied. “I tried to convince him that we should have built an affordable housing complex instead of the new cathedral, but you know how men are. It's all about ego and power.”

“The same could be said about Hector. Sometimes I think if he could marry his ego, he would have no use for me at all.”

The two women laughed in unison.

“Behind Hector's painted-on smiles and expensive suits, there really is a man who cares about people,” Miranda continued. “It hurts him to see so many people living on the streets in this city. I think, if he could, he would build a shelter in every neighborhood, but people won't let him.”

“I wish I could say the same for Hezekiah,” Samantha said, “but he only has himself to blame for doing so little to help the homeless. It was his idea to build the cathedral, and once his mind is set, there is no changing it.”

Hezekiah and Hector stood near the fireplace, sipping brandy. “I'm sorry about what Miranda said earlier,” Hector said. “Sometimes she says things without thinking first.”

“Not a problem, Hector. Samantha is the same way. I've had to apologize for inappropriate things she's said in public more times than I'd care to remember.”

“The real problem this city faces in addressing homelessness is its lack of coordination of services,” Hector continued. “There are five different departments that fund and monitor programs for the homeless and none of them know what the other is doing.”

“You should hire Samantha,” Hezekiah said with a smile. “She knows what every department in the church is doing and where every dime is spent.”

Kenneth and Percy accepted cups of coffee from the server. “Sandra was completely out of line,” Percy said quietly. “She took shots at Hezekiah every chance she got.”

“I think the rumors are true about her,” Kenneth said while stirring his coffee and clinking the inside of the cup with a silver spoon. “Did you notice the way she looks at Samantha?”

Cynthia and Sandra were huddled in a remote corner of the living room, having their own discussion.

“It's so sad how he cheats on her. I don't know why she puts up with it,” Cynthia observed.

“I guess she loves him enough to ignore the other women,” Sandra said in defense of her friend.

“All the other women he's had affairs with are bad enough, but…” Cynthia stopped midsentence.

“But what?” Sandra inquired.

Cynthia looked over her shoulder to ensure the other guests at the party were preoccupied and said, “Let's just say, I know for a fact that Hezekiah has recently expanded his horizons.”

Sandra led Cynthia into the foyer. “You know something, don't you?” she inquired forcefully. “Spill it, girl. What's he done now?”

“I don't like to gossip, but I hate to see a wonderful woman like Samantha get hurt,” Cynthia replied sheepishly. “I found out, purely by accident, mind you, that Hezekiah is having an affair….” She paused, and then whispered quietly, “With a man this time.”

Sandra quickly covered her mouth to prevent a gasp from reverberating through the room. “Cynthia, you must be mistaken. Hezekiah is a lot of things but I don't think he's gay.”

“I know, girl. I was just as shocked as you are.”

On the last word Samantha walked up behind them. “There you two are. Why aren't you circulating? I'll be glad when this is over. I want to get this over with as soon as possible. What are you two talking about?”

Sandra was still in shock and could not respond, so Cynthia quickly interjected, “Sandra was telling me about the new case she's working on.”

C
ynthia Pryce greeted guests in the banquet hall of the Bonaventure Hotel. Her vanilla linen pantsuit followed perfectly each elegant gesture of her body.

It was the fifth annual Los Angeles Women in Business Awards Luncheon at the Bonaventure Hotel and Cynthia was the honorary chair. Due to time constraints Samantha Cleaveland had not been able to accept the honor, so the organizing committee viewed Cynthia as a suitable alternative.

Cynthia shook manicured hands and air kissed taut rosy cheeks as the powerful, the beautiful, and the well-heeled filed past her. The room was a sea of pinks and pastels, accented by sparkling china settings and crystal goblets. A string quartet played chamber music for those entering the room. Waiters mingled among the dense crowd as they balanced silver trays of shrimp, stuffed mushrooms, and cheeses skewered with colorful toothpicks. Large vases arranged with exotic bouquets dotted each table.

Sandra Kelly was the next in line to greet Cynthia.

“Cynthia,” Sandra said, approaching with a glass of champagne in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

Sandra leaned in, kissed Cynthia on the cheek, and whispered, “These old divas look like they belong on a poster in a plastic surgeon's office.”

“Sandra, you made it,” said Cynthia. “I called your office but they said you'd be in Sacramento until this evening. How's your new case going? I hear the surrogate mother wants to claim her parental rights now.”

“It's turning into a nightmare,” said Sandra. “Never mind that. What's happening with the story?”

Cynthia took Sandra by the arm and led her to an unoccupied section of the ballroom in the Bonaventure. “Lance had to delay the story. He said he needed a quote from Hezekiah before the editor would approve it for publication.”

“Has he got it yet?” Sandra asked.

“I don't know. He had a meeting with Hezekiah on Monday, but I haven't heard anything.”

“I hope he didn't tell Hezekiah we're the source,” Sandra said. “Our hands have to stay clean in order for this to work.”

“He won't. Our agreement was that we anonymously provide him with the proof of the affair, and he keeps our names out of it.” There was a long pause; then Cynthia said, “I hope Hezekiah's ego doesn't stop him from stepping down.”

“Trust me, Cynthia, he'll resign,” Sandra said, placing her now empty champagne glass on a vacant surface nearby. “Hezekiah's ego may be out of control, but he's not an idiot. Besides, if he doesn't, there is no way the board of trustees will accept a gay man as pastor, even if that man is the great Hezekiah Cleaveland.”

Cynthia waved at an anonymous face across the room and then continued, “Does Samantha know anything about this?”

“She knows Hezekiah is having an affair, but she didn't tell me it's with a man.”

“Not that. I mean, does she know anything about the article Lance is writing?”

“I don't think so. If she did, she would have told me.” Sandra waved off the question and continued. “I've set up a meeting tomorrow night at my home with Phillip Thornton. He wants to talk to you face-to-face.”

“Why?” Cynthia asked nervously.

“He doesn't want to face Hezekiah's wrath if we get cold feet on this. He needs assurances that we'll stand behind the story in case Hezekiah pursues legal action against the
Los Angeles Chronicle.
”

“Okay,” Cynthia agreed hesitantly. “I'll be there, but I don't trust Phillip. He and Hezekiah go way back.”

“I don't either, but it's a risk we have to take.”

The two women embraced and walked arm in arm to the front of the ballroom.

 

It was three o'clock and Cynthia still had not heard from Lance. The luncheon at the Bonaventure Hotel had ended and throngs of admiring women had heaped praise upon her for hosting the successful event.

“Where is he? Why hasn't he called yet?” Cynthia said as she and Sandra Kelly drove out of the circular driveway of the hotel. “Hezekiah must have scared him off the story,” Cynthia said. “We're screwed if he drops the ball on this.”

Sandra veered her hunter green Jaguar into the flow of cars on the street and drove toward Cynthia's penthouse.

“Lance can take care of himself, Cynthia. This is the biggest story of his career. If he brings down Hezekiah, he'll be able to work for any major newspaper in the country. He won't screw this up.”

“What if he buckled and told Hezekiah that we're the ones who leaked the story?”

“Cynthia, you're getting paranoid. Slow down, honey. Call Lance now, if it'll make you feel better.” Sandra handed her a cell phone. “I'm sure he's at his dingy little desk at the
Chronicle
right now, finishing up the story.”

Cynthia dialed Lance's number.

“Hello, this is Lance Savage,” came the recorded message. “I'm not available to take your call. Please leave a message at the tone and I will contact you as soon as possible.” The familiar
beep
sent a jolt through Cynthia's body.

“Damn it, Lance. This is Cynthia,” she said into the wireless void. “Where are you? Have you interviewed Hezekiah yet? Call me as soon as you get this message.” Cynthia disconnected the line and threw the sleek black telephone onto the seat of the car.

“Cynthia, you need to relax. We've come this far, right? This is no time to panic.” While driving with one hand, Sandra reached into her pocket and handed Cynthia a vial filled with white pills. “Here, honey,” she said, “take one of these. It'll calm you down.”

“What are they?” Cynthia asked, reaching for the little brown bottle.

“It's Xanax. Just take one, honey. You'll feel better.”

Cynthia eagerly consumed the tablet. “I could use a joint right now, too. This is driving me crazy.”

Sandra looked cautiously in her rearview mirror, then reached into the glove compartment and produced the leafy prescription Cynthia had desired.

“I shouldn't be doing this but you look like you could really use this right now,” Sandra said nervously, looking in her rearview mirror and from side to side. The two women passed the joint between them as they drove along Wilshire Boulevard.

A woman driving beside them recognized Cynthia from the luncheon and waved while waiting at a red light. Cynthia clamped her smiling red lips shut to prevent a stream of smoke from escaping and dutifully waved back. Cynthia burst into a combination of laughter and coughs that filled the car with billowing white smoke after the woman had proceeded to a safe distance ahead.

“That bitch almost killed me.” She laughed while coughing out more smoke. “I thought I was going to pass out.” Cynthia considered what her next move would be as the Xanax and marijuana mixed in her brain. “I don't know what we're going to do if this doesn't work.”

“It is going to work, and you're going to do just what we've planned for the last three months,” Sandra said impatiently.

As Sandra turned the car into the covered carport of her high-rise building, Cynthia tossed the remains of the marijuana cigarette out the window of the rolling vehicle. The women embraced and an attendant rushed to open the car door for Cynthia.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pryce,” a round-faced man, clad in a red uniform, said as Cynthia extended her leg to the pavement. “Reverend Pryce just arrived only a few minutes ago. He should be in your apartment by now.”

Cynthia hesitated for a moment and looked to Sandra.

“Do you want me to come up with you? Are you going to be all right?” Sandra asked.

“I'm fine now. I'll call you as soon as I've heard from…” Cynthia stopped when she realized the doorman was listening. “I'll call you.”

Cynthia walked toward the double glass doors of the luxury building. Two rows of potted palm trees lining the carpeted path bristled from a slight breeze under the massive blue awning. The attendant sped past her to the glass doors and flung them open.

“Thank you,” she said without looking at the man's anxious face.

The foyer sparkled from the afternoon sun. Classical music played as several residents retrieved mail from boxes partially hidden behind another cluster of potted plants. New overstuffed chairs and couches dotted the room. Two elderly ladies sat reading the afternoon newspaper in front of an oversized mahogany framed fireplace. From the lobby's cathedral ceiling, a massive chandelier glowed from internal and external light.

Cynthia walked quickly toward the elevator doors, hoping to avoid the inevitable greetings from omnipresent neighbors.

As she pressed the button, she heard, “Hello, Mrs. Pryce. The reverend went up a few minutes ago. You just missed him.”

When she turned, she saw Carl, the building security guard. He moved toward her as he spoke.

“Seems like he's in a pretty bad mood today. Nearly bit the head off poor Mrs. Nussbaum, in 17D. She was complaining about the homeless guys who have been urinating behind the building. Said she walked up on one of them this morning as he was taking a leak. ‘Nearly scared me to death,' she told the reverend, and before she could even finish her sentence, Reverend Pryce lit into her like there was no tomorrow.”

Cynthia listened intently to the account from the overly familiar guard.

“He said to her, ‘You wouldn't have seen him taking a piss if you weren't always lurking around the building. Maybe that'll teach you to mind your own business.' I thought she was going to cry after he got through with her.”

“I'm sure he didn't mean to offend her,” Cynthia said while pressing the elevator button again, hoping to speed its arrival. “He probably has a lot on his mind today. You know how he gets sometimes.”

Carl gave her a knowing smile. “I sure do, ma'am. I've been on the receiving end of his sharp tongue a few times myself.”

The elevator doors glided open.

“I will apologize to Mrs. Nussbaum the next time I see her,” Cynthia said as the doors closed between them.

She pressed the button, causing the elevator to rise with a jerk.

The
ding
of the elevator alert told her it had reached its final destination and could ascend no farther through the artery of the building. As the doors slid open, Cynthia took a deep breath, then another, before stepping into the empty hallway. They shared the top floor with a reclusive tenant, a neighbor whom she had not seen or even heard through the walls in over five years. The double doors to her apartment seemed to throb as she walked toward them. She could hear footsteps from behind the doors when she turned the key.

“Percy,” she called out, stepping into the empty foyer. “Honey, are you home?”

 

The two senior ministers of New Testament Cathedral sat around a large table in the conference room of the church. Hezekiah entered the room with his usual flare. “Good afternoon, Brothers,” he said. “Let's get this meeting started.”

Each man had his Bible placed on the table in front of him. Although no one wore black robes, the air still smacked of reverence and piety. Hezekiah sat at the head of the table with Rev. Percy Pryce to his right and Rev. Kenneth Davis to his left.

After a short prayer Hezekiah began the meeting. “The first thing on the agenda is the funeral for Mabel Smith. It's scheduled for this Friday and I'm going to be out of town for the weekend. Reverend Pryce, are you available that day?”

Percy retrieved his BlackBerry from his breast pocket. “Yes, I can officiate.”

“Good. Next item.”

Both men at the table shifted slightly in their seats and exchanged curious glances in response to the curt manner in which the pastor conducted the meeting.

“Someone needs to represent the church at the thirty-fifth anniversary of Mount Zion AME on the twenty-sixth,” Hezekiah continued. “Neither Samantha nor I will be able to attend.”

Reverend Pryce cleared his throat. “I can do it, Pastor. I'm very close to the pastor at Mount Zion.”

Hezekiah looked up and said, “Thank you, Percy, but I was hoping Reverend Davis would cover this one.”

“I can represent us. I had planned on attending, anyway,” said Reverend Davis while looking sympathetically at Percy. “You can attend with me, if you'd like, Reverend Pryce.”

Percy did not respond.

Hezekiah pressed forward. “I'll be here this Sunday, but Samantha will be preaching on the following Sunday. I won't be there, so I expect each of you to be present to support her.”

The tension in the room grew thicker. The two men could sense Hezekiah was preoccupied. When the last agenda item had been discussed, Hezekiah placed his hands on the table and said, “Gentlemen, I have a question for you. What would the two of you do if I were no longer able to serve as pastor?”

The room was silent for a chilling moment as the question hung in the air. They all had thought about the possibility from time to time, but no one expected Hezekiah to raise that subject.

Confusion rushed through the head of Reverend Davis. He could not imagine New Testament Cathedral without Pastor Hezekiah T. Cleaveland.

Reverend Pryce spoke first. “Pastor, I'm not sure what you mean. Is something wrong?”

“No, but it is part of your responsibility as senior ministers of this church to think in these terms. I could die at any time and then what would you do? Who would replace me? How would you select him?”

Reverend Pryce leaned in closer. “Pastor, as you know, the decision of who will serve as pastor in the event of your departure does not fall within the authority of this body. It is the responsibility of the board of trustees to select your replacement, should the need arise.”

Hezekiah gave him a sharp look. “I know what the bylaws say. I wrote them. But the trustees will look to you for counsel. They'll want to know what you recommend and you all need to be prepared to answer. Not as individuals but as the team of senior ministers.”