Dying Declaration (2 page)

2

HE LEANED FORWARD
and put his back into it, pulling the large green plastic trash can down Atlantic Boulevard. The trash can had built-in wheels on the bottom, but he still strained against the load, his lean cablelike muscles glistening with sweat. It was a typical June night in Virginia Beach—sweltering hot with suffocating levels of humidity.

He was quite a sight, this young black man with the square jaw, intense brown eyes, and electric white smile. And he drew more than his share of stares, even on a sidewalk lined with lunacy. But he was used to it, and he felt like a natural part of the cacophony of personalities that made Atlantic Avenue hum. There were skateboarders, punk rockers, rednecks, beach bums,
surfers, and sunburned tourists. They wore baggy shorts, bikinis, obscene T-shirts, tank tops, and visors. They sported every color and cut of hair imaginable. His own cut, a close-cropped flattop that accentuated his angular features, added nothing unusual to the mix.

He had walked more than a half mile from the parking lot, but he had a few more blocks to go. He wheeled his contraption past a hip-hop band, with their baggy pants, boom box, speakers, and amps. This was their corner, and they had gathered a small crowd in a semicircle, clapping and gyrating. The boys were rapping, and the boys were dancing, just plain getting down, dreadlocks flying everywhere.

“Yo, Rev,” the man with the mike said.

The man pulling the trash can stopped, pointed a finger at his hip-hop friend, and smiled. “’S’up, dog.”

“We gonna bust a little freestyle for the rev,” the man with the mike announced. Without missing a beat, he started a new line. “B-boys in the front, back, side, and middle. Check out my b-boy rhyme and riddle.” The b-boys—the break dancers—let loose as the crowd pulsed in approval. “Rev teach the black book smooth as butt-ah, but po-lece and white folk dis the broth-ah.”

The man with the trash can smiled and nodded, soaking in the energy from the brothers. Pleased, the singer attacked his impromptu rap with more vigor, each line growing worse than the one before, feeding off his own angry energy. After a few wholesome lines about the rev, the lyrics degenerated into the more familiar fare of sex, drugs, and the next punk to get whacked. When the rev had heard enough, he thumped his chest and pointed at the man. “Peace out,” he said.

The brother nodded back, continued his rap uninterrupted—more vulgar than before since the rev was now leaving—and the man with the trash can moved on down the street.

By the time he hit his favorite intersection, his T-shirt was already sporting sweat stains under the arms and a thin line down the back. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his cargo shorts and wiped his brow. People passed him on every side. He smiled and greeted the tourists as he started unloading.

“Praise God, Brother. How ya doin’?”

No answer.

“God bless, sir.”

A strange look.

“What’s happenin’?”

“Hey, man.” Finally a response, a returned smile.

The preacher handed the man a tract. “Stick around,” the preacher said. “We’re gonna have church.”

The tourist walked away.

Charles Arnold reached into the trash can and unloaded his wares. A karaoke boom box. Two large speakers. A well-worn Bible. A tangled web of cords. A microphone and a twelve-volt Wal-Mart car battery.

He hooked up the juice, popped in a CD, and transformed his trash can into a pulpit, his corner into a church.

“It’s time to get our praise on!” he said into the mike, half-yelling, half-singing. The gospel tunes blared from the boom box, the cheap speakers distorting the sound. Charles started singing and swaying to the rhythm. The tourists cut him a wide berth.

“He’s an on-time God’oh yes He is. . . . He’s an on-time God—oh yes He is. . . . Well, He may not come when you want Him,
but He’ll be there right on time. . . . He’s an on-time God—oh yes He is. . . .”

The crowd grew slowly but steadily. Charles pumped the volume of the music and raised his voice to match. He placed an empty coffee can in front of his trash can pulpit. The can was labeled
Tithes and Offerings
. There was not a penny in it.

Some people stopped to sing. Others gawked. Motorists drove by and yelled encouragement or insults.

He swapped high fives with tourists passing on the sidewalk and interspersed his singing with “God bless you, sirs” for those who ignored him. He smiled at everyone. And he shrugged when the teens drove by in their souped-up cars and hurled their insults.

A few stragglers stopped. The crowd grew. A couple of young girls started singing along and dancing off to the side. He grabbed one by the hand and brought her up front to share the mike. Her friends followed, and soon he had a choir. Drivers blew their horns as they passed. A few turned up their stereos, but Charles’s speakers drowned them out.

The tithes and offerings started rolling in.

Then a robust older woman with shorts too tight for her age, a painful sunburn, and a great voice started bellowing a solo.
“Amazing Grace.” The anthem of the street. He noticed smiles in the front. The nodding of heads. The soloist’s husband had tears in his eyes. It was time to preach.

Charles thanked the lady. The crowd gave her a huge hand.

“You’re probably wondering why I called this meeting,” Charles began. A ripple of laughter. “Tonight, I want to speak with you about the sinfulness of man, the faithfulness of God, and the forgiveness of Christ. You are here not by
my
appointment but by
divine
appointment. This could be the most important night of your life.”

He worked the crowd as he talked—pacing, shaking hands, letting his voice rise and fall in rhythm. He warmed to his subject,
and the passion began to flow.

“You’re crazy, man,” two kids yelled from the back as they walked by.

“It’s called the foolishness of the Cross,” he responded into the mike. “Is it crazy to be out here preachin’ on this street corner when I could be out partyin’ at the next one?” A few in the crowd shook their heads no; a few “tell its” drifted up. The kids stopped and looked.

“Is it crazy to get high on Christ when I could be trippin’ on crack?”

“No sir, brother,” a voice in the crowd said.

“Is it crazy to trade in the rotting riches of this world for a heavenly hookup in paradise?”

“It ain’t crazy!” A different voice.

“He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose.”

“Amen, brother.”

Charles had a few supporters in the crowd, but the skeptical teens were not impressed. He could see the smirks forming on their faces. They brushed him off with a wave of the hand, snickering as they walked away. “That boy is skitzing,” one muttered.

Charles shrugged and returned to the faithful. He regained his rhythm, and the crowd swelled by a dozen. Most of the newcomers regarded him from a distance with bemused curiosity. But a few—there were always a few—crowded closer. They egged him on with their
amen
s and
uh-huh
s and
tell-it
s right on cue—the preacher and crowd in a spontaneous sermon dance. Synchronized emotions rising and falling.

Charles was in his glory. He was so focused that he didn’t see the squad car pull up behind him, didn’t even know it was there until he sensed the crowd disconnect as they looked past him, over his shoulder. The faithful shuffled back.

He turned just in time to see the boys in blue lug themselves out of their car and lean against the hood, arms folded, scowling at the street preacher. The older man, the one who disembarked from the driver’s door, was a middle-aged guy with a severe-looking face—white pockmarked skin that had not recently seen the sun, sagging jowls, and a scar on his left cheek. He stood at least six-two, reminding Charles of a large oak tree, the kind that adds a ring of girth to the midsection with each passing year.

The younger man mimicked his partner’s scowl but without the same intimidating effect. On his less-worn face, the frown morphed into a maddening frat-boy smirk, making it hard to take him seriously. This officer had pumped his share of iron, his tight blue uniform straining against bulging biceps and massive pecs. He looked like the kind who had wanted to be a cop his whole life, the kind who lived for nights when a black man might try to resist arrest.

Charles fought hard to suppress the feelings welling up inside. The po-lece . . . tic tacs . . . PO . . . looking down their nose at this black street trash. He felt the full weight of the nation’s racial divide bearing down on him. He felt a powerful urge to lash out at these men verbally, to strike at those who were dissing him with their smug and pompous looks. But he also knew it was just what they wanted, an irrational black man starting something.

Charles Arnold had been there before.

“Take for example the boys in blue back here,” he said in a friendly tone as he walked toward them. “If they catch you speeding,
they give you a ticket. And it’s no defense to say that everyone else is going faster. Right, men?”

No response. Stone faces.

Charles turned back to the audience. “It’s the same way with God. It’s no defense to say that others are worse than we are. This is not a competition. ‘For
all
have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.’ And
all
means
all
. . .”

Suddenly the volume died. Charles turned to see the hand of the weight-lifter on the control knob, the snide smirk still on his face. The older man, leaning against the hood of the car, motioned Charles over with his finger.

“Excuse me a minute,” the street preacher said to his retreating audience. “I believe I’m being paged.”

3

THOMAS HAMMOND GENTLY PLACED
Joshie back in his mother’s lap, then walked across the living room and knelt down in front of his other children. He put his beefy arms around both Tiger and Stinky and gave them a hug. He leaned back on his knees to talk with them.

“Joshie’s not gonna die,” he said. “He’s been kinda sick for a couple of days, but there were a lot of people in the Bible who were sick too, and Jesus healed ’em. We’ve just gotta keep prayin’. Does that make sense?”

Both little heads nodded. Stinky’s curls bounced up and down.

“Are we going to take him to a doctor?” Stinky asked.

“Honey, you know what we believe about doctors,” Thomas replied firmly. “We pray to Jesus instead.”

“Was Jesus a doctor?” Tiger asked.

“No, Tiger.” Thomas frowned at his son. “Who told you that?”

“Jesus healed people,” Stinky said helpfully. Her big eyes sparkled at her dad.

He opened his mouth to respond, to give her the rote answers that had been drilled into him at church. But the words never formed.

He had been strong, even stubborn. He had been full of faith and prayers for three long days. Seventy-two agonizing hours. His mind flashed to the story of Abraham. Called by God to sacrifice his own son—something that God had no intention of allowing Abraham to do. Then, at the last moment, as Abraham raised the knife to slay his son, God stepped in and provided another sacrifice.

Was God now calling Thomas to the hospital? It went against the grain of everything he had learned at church. It seemed so unlike God, but so did Abraham’s call to sacrifice his son. If Thomas obeyed, would God miraculously intervene and heal at the last minute? perhaps even on the way to the hospital or just before a doctor saw the child? Maybe so. Maybe God was testing him even now.

Maybe God was calling him to Tidewater General Hospital.

While Thomas wrestled with his thoughts, Tiger and Stinky fidgeted in front of him. Thomas could read the anxiety in their faces, the concern for a baby brother as listless as a rag doll.

“Get your cowboy boots on, Tiger. Stinky, get your sneakers. We’re not just going to one doctor. We’re going to a hospital that’s chock-full of doctors.” Thomas saw their eyes light up, and he smiled. “Joshie’s gonna be all right.”

Stinky threw her arms around her dad’s neck. Tiger went racing down the hallway to find his cowboy boots, the only thing he would wear on his feet in public these days.

“Awright!” he yelled. “We’re going to the hopsicle.”

Behind Thomas and Stinky in the living room, Theresa pulled little Joshie against her chest even tighter. She placed her cheek on his forehead and felt the intense heat of the fever. She glanced up, her eyes filled with tears.

“Thank You, Jesus,” she whispered.

4

THE OLDER COP LEANED
against his car while Charles stood obediently before him, the microphone dangling in Charles’s right hand, as the preacher endured a lecture on permits and noise ordinances. Charles glanced down at the guy’s name badge—Thrasher.
Probably fits,
Charles thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, Charles noticed his small crowd beginning to scatter. The diehards would stay, but the curiosity seekers were leaving fast. Thrasher seemed to notice as well and took his time. He drew his words out slowly and stopped occasionally to spit on the sidewalk, building up a nice little pile of foamy white saliva.

“Preacher Boy, you know the noise ordinance. You been talked to ’bout this before.” Thrasher paused, spitting another bull’s-eye on top of the others. “You got no permit for that sound system, and you’re disturbin’ the merchants. Why can’t you get that through your nappy little head?”

“Nappy little head.”
The veins started pulsing in Charles’s neck. He tried to concentrate on the little pond of spit but couldn’t keep from thinking about the Beachfest riots, where thousands of African American college students, in Virginia Beach for spring break, had fought against the beach police. It took years to sort out the brutality. This guy had probably been there.

Stay calm. Stay focused.

“Officer, I’m just out here making the beach a better place.” He paused, raising his eyes from the sidewalk to the cop, waiting for the man to blink. “Are you a believer, sir?”

The weightlifter moved next to Charles, violating his space, trying to intimidate. Charles took a lateral step and froze the weightlifter with a sideways stare.

“Buddy, we’re not gettin’ into that,” Thrasher snapped. “You can preach till your lungs fall out, but you crank up that sound system again . . . and we’ll impound the system as evidence and take you into custody. And I guarantee ya, you’ll do some time, Preacher Boy.”

Charles sighed. The stupidity of these guys. “Don’t tell me I’ll do time, Officer. You think just ’cause I’m a black street preacher that I’m stupid? I’ve got First Amendment rights—”

Thrasher lunged from the car in a flash—quick moves for a fat guy. He stuck his nose in Charles’s face, and the weightlifter inched closer, moving just behind Charles’s shoulder.

Thrasher lowered his voice to a threatening growl, emphasizing each syllable. “Don’t give me that garbage. . . . Don’t tell me your rights.” The man blew out a hot and putrid breath that recoiled Charles. “You pack up and go home, or you’re gonna have a heap of trouble. You got that?”

“Hey, leave the man alone.” A voice drifted up from what was left of the small crowd.

“Yeah, he ain’t hurtin’ nobody.” Another bystander.

“Are you telling me I can’t preach out here, even without my sound system?” Charles kept his voice measured as he spoke.

“I’m telling ya, if you know what’s good for ya, that tonight you’ll just pack up and go home.” Thrasher still spoke slowly and simply, as if addressing a child. But Charles could see the man was losing control, didn’t like the crowd turning against him. “And I’m also tellin’ ya, that if you know what’s good for ya, you’ll never bring that contraption out here again unless you have a permit.” The officer raised his eyebrows and nodded, a signal that he was done lecturing and it was time for Charles to go.

“That’s what I thought you were saying,” Charles said evenly. He turned, walked around the weightlifter, then stooped down next to his karaoke boom box. He looked back over his shoulder at the cops, took a deep breath, turned up the volume, then stood and started singing with the CD. “He’s an on-time God, oh yes He is. . . .”

It was apparently the moment the weightlifter had been waiting for. He stepped over and jerked the mike from Charles, tossing it to the ground. He wrenched both of Charles’s arms behind his back, farther and harder than necessary, and slapped on the cuffs. As the few remaining crowd members jeered, the weightlifter wrenched the cuffs tight enough that they threatened circulation,
and then began reading Charles his rights.

“You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. . . .” As he spoke, he shoved Charles into the back of the squad car, banging Charles’s head against the doorjamb. Meanwhile, the cop named Thrasher dismantled the sound equipment and stuffed it in the trunk. They would confiscate it, all except the trash can, as evidence for their case.

“You guys are pigs, man. Leave ’im alone,” a goateed man said as he watched Charles get manhandled.

The muscled officer pointed at him like a championship wrestler calling out his next foe. “You shut up or you’re next,” he warned.

“I’m scared,” the man said. Then he turned and walked away.

They had been riding in the squad car for several minutes, with Charles working hard to maintain his cool. Thrasher was driving and radioed in the report, talking about Charles in the third person—the “perp” this and the “perp” that, as if Charles were a big-time drug dealer. Charles’s head ached from where the muscled officer had banged it against the doorjamb.

“Uh . . . guys, you’ve got these cuffs on too tight,” Charles shouted through the bulletproof glass that separated him from the officers. “I mean, it’s not like I’m a flight risk or anything. . . .”

“Shut up!” the weightlifter barked, turning sideways in the front passenger seat to glare back at Charles. “You’ve done enough talking for one night.”

“Oh, so now the First Amendment doesn’t apply in the squad car either? Is that it? Virginia Beach is a Constitution-free zone now?”

“The reverend back there thinks he’s cute,” Thrasher said to his younger partner. “I think he’s cute too. His type look particularly cute when they’ve got chains or cuffs or Dobermans on ’em.”

The officers guffawed. Charles swallowed the urge to spit on the glass. No sense giving these guys an excuse to bruise him up.

“Hey, Tubby, what’s the charge?” Charles yelled to Thrasher. “You guys ever think about telling a man what he’s been charged with?”

“Public ugliness,” Thrasher responded. The officers laughed again; then Thrasher turned serious. “Look, Reverend, you were out there blatantly thumbing your nose at the noise ordinance. We were gonna cut you a break and just give you a warning. But you couldn’t take a hint. So . . . now we’ve got you for resisting arrest as well.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Charles protested. “No way that’ll hold up in court.”

Thrasher raised his palm and glanced in the mirror. “Don’t tell us how to do our job,” he shouted over his shoulder. “You do your job out there on the street—but leave the sound system at home next time—and we’ll do ours.”

“It’s not my job,” Charles responded. “It’s my ministry.”

“You mean the reverend is gainfully employed?” the weightlifter mocked. “A taxpaying citizen—now that changes everything.”

“Where do you work, boy? KFC?” Thrasher snorted.

“I teach,” Charles said.

“A teacher.” The weightlifter grinned. “Imagine that, teacher by day, preacher by night. Maybe we should call him prof. Where you teachin’, Prof?”

“Regent Law School,” Charles answered.