When It All Falls Down (3 page)

In West Virginia the snow falls like ash from the sky. I thought Detroit was cold, but West Virginia looks like a blizzard has taken permanent residence here.

“Thank goodness your heater is working,” I say.

“Yes, sir. You're used to sunny California, where the weather don't know what it wants to do these days. Our weather has its mind made up,” Mr. Willard says.

We drive along a road that has endless trees and few neighborhoods in-between. There is one conclusion I draw as I ride along and listen to Clint Black: the people who live out here pay for seclusion.

“Listen, I better not be in danger and those things better be put away.”

“Don't worry; he doesn't keep them in the house. He has a caretaker,” Mr. Willard says.

Mr. Willard is the church's attorney. Given the uniqueness of the services this church provides, I will say that having a lawyer on retainer is a smart move. West Virginia is a drastic change from the cold that Detroit bought and the warmth that Houston brought. West Virginia brings a picturesque setting with tall trees covered in snow; it feels like Christmas has already arrived. The snow is as white as Mr. Willard's hair. I feel small as the minivan whips around on a two-lane highway.

We continue down this one road and I wonder which is faster: the plane ride or the ride in the car. Right now, the plane ride was relaxing and this car ride is never-ending.
I know I am going into the rural part of West Virginia, but this is absurd.

This next case is ripped from a horror movie and even though my instincts tell me to stay away from this case, my greed speaks louder. Finally we turn off the road and towering trees that resemble Greek columns lead to a white mansion. The mansion is surrounded by a gate that needs to be fixed, but it still works. My contact, Mr. Willard, pulls up to the intercom.

“Praise the Lord and welcome,” I hear a voice from the intercom.

“It's Mr. Willard with our guest,” Mr. Willard says.

I roll my eyes at the over-the-top greeting. The gate opens and Mr. Willard drives around the full-circle gravel driveway to the front door. A family of three walks out of the house. The wife is wearing a white dress that is brighter than her skin. The son is decked out in a white suit, and the husband, Reverend Mac Swagger, has on white slacks, and a white collar shirt minus the tie. I can see the angle this family is trying to portray.

“God bless you, Minister Dungy.” Reverend Swagger shakes my hand. “This is my wife, Martha, and my son, Ezekiel.”

“How do you do?” Martha asks.

“Good afternoon and God bless,” I say before I shake the wife's and son's hands.

“I'm so blessed that both parties agreed to meet here. I'm having Rosa whip up something special for lunch.”

I hate the rich because they think that their level of comfort can cover up the most egregious actions. For a moment we stand outside in the cold for no good earthly reason and I forget the reason I am here until another car pulls up to the gate. I am surprised that this Mercury Sable survives the trip; its noise of a failing engine precedes the car's arrival.

“Rosa! Our other guests are here!” Reverend Swagger says.

Moments later the car rolls through the gate and stops just behind the minivan. I remember my reason for being at the Swagger residence when a woman and her preteen child emerge. The boy has his arm in a sling and the mother has on a sundress with black stockings that do nothing to define her figure, and a thick wool coat that is an even greater fashion offense.

I turn back to look at Reverend Swagger. His “Praise the Lord” smile has disappeared and he now has a look of disdain.

“Hello, Meredith,” Martha says. The two women have met before.

Reverend Swagger insisted that all involved parties meet at his home. Swagger, I figure, wants the home-court advantage, but for now Meredith and her son, Joel, have the emotional advantage. There are serial combustible elements at work here and this situation can easily get out of hand.

“Well, let's go inside, shall we, before we freeze to death?” Mr. Willard makes a gesture for all parties to go inside.

I trail behind the boy as the rest of the group walks into the house. This house must've been designed for a giant because it is ten feet high; when I walk inside there is a chandelier that is big enough and bright enough to light up Vegas. Martha takes Ezekiel upstairs and we enter the living room that is designed for a pharaoh. Gold-rimmed coffee tables and expensive vases; Reverend Swagger makes a killing as a preacher.

“Please have a seat,” Reverend Swagger says.

We all sit on the ultra-plush couch and I feel my five foot eight inch frame as it sinks into the couch. Once I have established some level of comfort, I notice the eighty-inch plasma TV on Swagger's wall. Meredith helps Joel onto the couch and I don't know if I should've helped or remained on the couch. After all, Reverend is the client.

“So should we discuss why we're here?” Mr. Willard asks.

I hold up my hand. “Actually, thank you, Mr. Willard, this is the part where I come in. But before we get started, since we are here in the spirit of doing things according to God's will, let us pray.”

Reverend Swagger is reluctant but he takes Ms. Lancing by the hands. I take the young boy's hand and Mr. Willard completes the link.

“Heavenly Father, we gather here to seek wisdom and comfort in this difficult time. Lord, we know that your Word does not want disputes among Christians to be settled in the courts. So I ask in Jesus' name that we have an open mind and an open heart. In Jesus' name we pray. Amen.” I conclude my prayer and the parties don't waste any time loosening their grips.

I get up and go into my briefcase and remove a CD. I make my way over to the entertainment center and after a few moments of fumbling around I manage to get both the TV and the DVD player to work. I stand next to the TV like a driver's education instructor and wait for the movie to come on.

A video comes on with Reverend Swagger in an outfit identical to the one he has on today. “Praise the Lord and praise the courageous faithful,” Swagger says.

The video seems like a normal church service, except Reverend Swagger has two rattle snakes in his hands. Snake handling is outlawed in most states except for West Virginia, Kentucky, and a few other Southern states.

I find it hard to imagine that in an age when there is a black president, cell phones that can play movies, and maps that talk to you, there are still people who believe in foolish traditions like snake handling. I wait until I have everyone's attention before I stop the video.

“On October fourth of this year Meredith and Joel Lancing attended your snake handling service, during which twelve-year-old Joel was bitten by a snake and had to be rushed to the hospital. We're here today to settle this matter without the involvement of the courts and the media.”

I take a look at Reverend Swagger and his face is flushed as he rubs his lips. Meredith comforts her son as if the mere image of the snake causes her to relive the episode all over.

“I want you to pay for what you did to my son.” Meredith words are full of vile and disdain toward Reverend Swagger.

“The Word clearly declares in Matthew 17 that if you have faith, you can trend upon serpents. It breaks my heart what happened to your boy, but that's because he lacks faith.”

I want to backhand Reverend Swagger for his backward thinking, but $25,000 is my fee and that is more than enough reason to give me pause. “Look, the point is that no one wants to drag this out in court, which is why I have Mr. Willard here to notarize an agreement between two parties.”

“I want $200,000,” Meredith says.

Reverend Swagger lets out a curse word and does not bother to apologize.

“You're going to burn in hell. I've racked up twenty thousand in medical bills.”

$20,000 for a snake bite might be an exaggeration, but then again nothing is out of bounds when it comes to health care.

“Hold on! Now let's put the emotion aside and work things out,” I say.

“I refuse to pay $200,000 for doing the Lord's will,” Reverend Swagger says.

“Well, how much are you willing to pay?” I ask.

Reverend Swagger picks up a notepad that is on the coffee table. He pulls out his gold ballpoint pen and starts writing. He takes the note and folds it before he hands the note to me. I open the note and read the figure: $10,000. I hold back the smirk. This man is incredible.

“Can you do math?” I ask Reverend Swagger and the question was rhetorical. “Multiply that number by five.”

“Fifty thousand dollars!” Reverend Swagger is floored by my counter offer.

“That's it!” Meredith says.

“That's a fair deal. Mrs. Lancing, you went to this church willingly, and judging by your economic situation a good defense lawyer can make a case that you were looking for a payday. The last thing you need is to rack up a legal bill on top of your medical bills.”

I turn to Reverend Swagger. “And, Reverend Swagger, seriously? Your ministry brings in two million a year; fifty thousand is a parking ticket.”

Reverend Swagger sits back in his couch and rubs his face. “Okay, done!”

“And a new car!” Meredith says.

“I actually agree with that,” I say. Meredith's car is an embarrassment.

Reverend Swagger rubs his face and nods his head in agreement. Mr. Willard types up the agreement on his laptop and prints it from Reverend Swagger's office. Both parties sign and my work in Virginia is done.

In retrospect, I could've gotten Meredith to accept the $10,000 without a new car, but sometimes I like sticking it to the wealthy loony tunes.

I love red-eye flights. Give me a plane filled with exhausted businessmen, grieving family members, and a few children and I am a happy passenger. I prefer a somber plane ride as opposed to a vibrant one with people who are on their way to Disneyland or whatever vacation spot they have lined up. On a red-eye flight, we are all on the same accord; we are all trying to get to our destination with minimal annoyance.

Most of the passengers are in their second REM cycle of sleep, which means a drop in cabin pressure or a little turbulence is unlikely to wake them up. Otherwise the rest of the plane settles into a night of uncomfortable sleep. The workaholics punch away on their laptops. I stare out of the window in awe of how far our aviation program has come. We float above the clouds in the cloak of night. I have plenty of leg room and for the first time this trip I find comfort.

While the plane cruises above 30,000 feet I often think about plane crashes. I know it's morbid to think about plane crashes while on a plane, but I can't help but to think about what went through the minds of the plane crash victims right before the crash. Did they have plans for when the plane landed? Of course. Did they feel like they had all the time in the world? When reality hit them that this could be the end, were there regrets on how they spent their time? Did they think about God and what awaited them in the afterlife? In my case, I would have regrets and wish that my life would've gone in a different direction.

To be fair, for the last year I started to question whether I still had the temperament to be a church problem solver. The job itself is taxing both spiritually and mentally. I created a job out of an infrastructure that is supposed to only have one problem solver: Jesus Christ. I often wonder after I finish a job if in fact it is my last job, and I will retire from the problem-solving business. Maybe God has a different profession for me. Maybe I can go back to school and complete my doctoral work in sociology. I even considered a career in real estate; I am sure that the market is bound to recover. I believe if anyone would understand my plight it would be God. He would understand why I've grown weary working with His people.

“Are you reading that?” the woman in the seat next to me asks, but I am not sure what she is talking about until I turn toward her and look down to where she points. She points at the magazine that sits on top of my tray table. The latest copy of
Gospel Magazine Today
has Bishop Wade of Everlasting Christian Center. Bishop Wade is on the rise and his church averages at least a hundred new members per week.

“No, no, I wasn't. Go ahead.”

The woman takes the magazine before I can reach a period on my sentence. “I just love him. He has such a great anointing,” she says from her chocolate lips.

“Yes, he does,” I say while mentally I recall a call from Bishop Wade's wife years ago. She needed me to come in and help with Bishop Wade's closet homosexuality problem. A member of his congregation was ready to come forth and expose Bishop Wade. It was nothing more than a greedy person who wanted a quick payday, so we paid him hush money and Bishop Wade sought counseling and help.

Wade went on hiatus, and if it were not for me and the love and devotion of his wife and, of course, God, Bishop Wade certainly would not be on the cover of
Gospel Magazine Today.

“So what do you do?” the woman asks.

“I'm in the PR profession,” I say, which is not a lie. I am in the PR profession, but that does not stand for public relations. My employers tend to have me deal in private relations. They pay a great deal of money to have me resolve their issues and they pay me even more for my silence.

“My firm could use you,” the woman says with a smile.

“What type of law do you practice?”

The question catches the woman off-guard. Rather than ask me how I know she is a lawyer, the woman does a quick scan to see if she left any evidence. The woman has legal briefs on top of her tray table. The notes scribbled on her yellow legal pad are all tell-tale signs, but I look deeper than that. The woman has to be in her early forties but if someone had to guess her age most men would say thirty-five at best.

She has a manicure that can't be more than two days old. Her hair is styled and she has impeccable posture, which means that she gives off an aura of strength.

“Business law. I don't even want to think about the day I will have in the morning.” She lies back and rests her head against the seat.

“You'll do fine; just remember who you serve.” I can't help but to smile.

“Ain't that the truth? So what church do you go to?”

“I don't belong to a particular church, but I do go as much as I can. God knows my heart.”

“He does and that's all that matters.”

Now for someone who travels on the road as much as I do, it is difficult to call one place home. I have an apartment in Carson, California to store my clothes and receive mail. Nestled between Compton and North Long Beach, Carson is a city filled with predominantly working-class African Americans who desire a safer neighborhood and the house of their dreams. I love the area, but with the expansion of businesses and the construction of the Home Depot Center, even this once-familiar city is starting to become foreign to me.

I am grateful when the plane touches down at Los Angeles International Airport. LAX on a day like today is perfect for film crews.

After going from one extreme weather condition to the next, it's nice to be back home where the wind has a subtle presence and the sun has held back the brunt of its force as 747 planes both depart and touch down. I taxi my way to the long-term parking lot to pick my midnight blue BMW 325. In retrospect, I bought the car to have some semblance of my success. The problem-solving business has brought forth serious monetary gains. But the car has been subject to constant neglect by my hands. I hardly wash it, hardly keep up with the maintenance of it, and the smell of leather has long succumbed to the smell of menthol.

Without traffic on the 405, which is rare, I get from the airport to Carson inside of fifteen minutes. It's a beautiful drive and right now the jazz radio station is playing such a great collection of music that it makes me want to stay on this freeway until I reach San Diego, but I am hungry and I can't ignore my appetite.

At R & R Soul Food I decide to indulge in some grits and eggs with wheat toast and coffee. I find peace in the quaint restaurant that is adjacent to the Home Depot Center. Ten years ago that area was all unused land that sat on the grounds of Cal State Dominguez, but it is nice to see that despite the city's growth, most of the restaurants here have been around through the decades. I find solitude as I read the sports section of the
Daily Breeze.
My life is full of turmoil. I have no interest to read anyone else's turmoil that finds its way on the front page.

“Nicodemus Dungy, the living legend.” Paul Wallace, an old college friend and reporter for the
L.A. Times,
approaches my table and takes a seat.

“What's up, P?” We exchange fist bumps.

Like the majority of college students, I floated back and forth between majors before I settled down on one. I took journalism classes and public relations classes. I thought about a career as a criminal defense attorney, so I took criminal justice classes until I became fascinated with the function of society and people and decided to follow sociology. Paul was one of the friends I befriended while writing for the school newspaper.

“You tell me.” Paul signals for a waitress to come over. “Coffee please, black with sugar,” Paul says as the waitress goes away.

I know that this will not be a short visit. Even though Paul and I are close, he often plays devil's advocate and our friendship reminds me of a bad marriage. We love each other, but we can't stand each other.

“So how is the dinosaur?” I ask, which I know is a low blow. Paul desperately clings to his job, which has become a relic of the past. The printed word cannot compete with a twenty-four-hour news cycle. What is the point of reading about something that is considered old news by the time it is printed?

“How's the cloak and dagger business?” Paul shoots back.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” I take a bite of my eggs.

“Seriously? You're going to play that game?' Paul says.

“You're going to ruin my breakfast?” I ask.

“Maybe, depending on how you answer this next question.” Paul does not wait for me to respond before he speaks again. “How was Detroit?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I say before I stuff more eggs into my mouth. My clients pay for both my skills and my silence; I can't afford to betray either of them. I am curious to know how Paul comes up with this information so fast. He knows my job and does not hold back in displaying his disapproval.

“You weren't in the Motor City recently?” Paul says.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Of course you don't. You're sworn to secrecy. I know former CIA operatives who are more forthcoming.”

Paul is more agitated than usual. I can read people better than anyone and I can tell that my friend knows something that pertains directly to me.

“I'm a travelling evangelist.”

“Yeah, that's funny, because I can't recall ever seeing you on TV. In fact, I don't know too many ministers who can out-drink me on a Tuesday night.”

“Look, why are you busting my chops? I'm trying to have a relaxing breakfast.”

“Why are you being obtuse? You're lucky that you're my only friend; otherwise, I would light you up right now.”

I can tell that Paul is irritated about something. I hate the fact that Paul knows something that I don't know; and only Paul is sharp enough to beat me to a story. I am glad that he is my friend and not my enemy.

“Look, I don't know what kind of so-called ministry you do, but I know it's not God's will. Now I'll be first to tell you that I haven't been to Sunday School in quite some time.”

“I would hope so. Sunday School is not for adults,” I say before I take a sip of my coffee.

“Don't get cute.” Paul points his finger at me, which means that he is really upset. “As I was saying, I may not be a model Christian, but I know what you're doing is wrong. If you were truly a warrior of light you wouldn't look in the shape that you are in.”

My brain starts to spin out of control.
Something went wrong with one of my clients and Paul knows.
I don't know which but I know my business has been compromised.

“Look, Paul, I ain't got time for this. There's a reason why you're here so tell me what it is and let's be done with it!”

“Well, it's a darn shame what happened,” Paul says with a look of disgust.

“What happened?”

“They found a pastor in his home. He shot himself.”

The news steals the air in my lungs and causes me to cough. I can't believe what Paul has just said.

“What?” I ask.

“Pastor Lewis shot himself!”

The words flash on and off in my head like a neon sign and I am stuck without a word to say. I have lost my first client.