Guilt by Association
Kelvin L. Reed
GUILT BY ASSOCIATION
a novel
by
Kelvin L. Reed
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Kelvin L. Reed
Guilt by Association
Copyright 2012 by Kelvin L. Reed
ISBN 978-1-47647-798-8
Cover design by customgraphics.etsy.com
www.kelvinlreed.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Also by Kelvin L. Reed
Rookie Year: Journey of a First-Year Teacher
Midnight Sunshine
President Pro Tem
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PROLOGUE
Reverend Isaiah F. Bradley peered through the dirty, cloudy back window of his weather-beaten sedan; an eighteen-year-old vehicle that groaned as it idled near the curb in front of Mount Calvary Baptist Church. The presence of four teenage boys loitering across the street about thirty feet away made him uncomfortable. No doubt he could dash inside, grab the book he needed and be back in a minute or two, but he didn’t want to leave his twelve-year-old daughter—snoozing in the car—by herself, even with the doors locked.
The reverend glanced at the needle hovering over the red E on the car’s fuel gauge and reluctantly turned the key in the ignition switch. The engine sputtered, gasped, then finally shut down like an old man on his deathbed. He turned to scrutinize the boys again. They looked to be about fifteen or sixteen years old. Just going to end up getting themselves in trouble, being out so late on a Saturday, if you ask him.
Reverend Bradley sighed and wished the narrow avenue that hosted Mount Calvary, located in the inner city of Boston, didn’t adjoin a busy, four-lane street. Even at nearly midnight, foot and automobile traffic still passed by the eighty-year-old structure every few seconds. The reverend understood that the twenty-four-hour convenience store down the street and the spring weather enticed people to leave their homes; the early May daytime temperature had approached seventy, but the night air had chilled to the mid-fifties. He studied the front of the building and frowned. It appeared darker than usual. The street light above it had been out for weeks. It just wasn’t a priority for local bureaucrats to help make black folks’ lives easier, he groused. On Monday he’d call his city councilor and complain—again.
The reverend turned once more to check on the boys and regretted that as a black man he had to be careful around his own people late at night. He hadn’t harbored such feelings for the first four years of his tenure as the spiritual leader of the small, always financially-struggling church. However, in the past two years the place had endured seven break-ins. Drugs were to blame, the minister assumed. No, he wouldn’t leave his only child in the car alone.
The reverend resumed watching the teenagers and reached for the half-broken door handle on the driver’s side of the vehicle. He was about to perform the deft, often-repeated act of opening the door without pulling the handle off, but stopped to examine his daughter’s gentle, peaceful face. She had inherited her mother’s dark brown color, not his medium brown complexion. Even with the streetlight not working, he marveled at how much she resembled his dear departed wife, God rest her soul. Veronica was all he had left to remember his beautiful Dora Mae, struck down by a drunk driver—a white man born into a San Antonio family with old money. The reverend grimaced at the thought of how little time the man had served in prison for killing the wife of a minister and mother of a five-year-old. Three years. It just wasn’t right. Since then he held deep contempt for high-priced attorneys who secured lenient sentences for murderers.
The silent car engine allowed him to overhear the teenagers’ conversation, such as it was. He scowled at their language.
“Man, fuck that shit!”
“So I told that muhfucka…”
The forty-nine-year-old pastor noticed that two of them held lit cigarettes. Kids today had no respect, he lamented, even when near the house of God. But they weren’t entirely to blame for their behavior, he had concluded. The fault lay with their parents—and institutional racism, which had destroyed black families.
He shook the assessment from his mind and poked his daughter on the shoulder. “Wake up, baby,” he whispered. “You come with Daddy.”
The child whimpered a bit, then opened her eyes. “We home, Daddy?”
“We’re at church, hon,” the girl’s father replied. “Daddy’s gotta get a book to finish his sermon for tomorrow.”
The reverend inspected the vicinity again. Finally, no pedestrians in sight—and the teenagers hadn’t moved any closer. He felt a little foolish for being so careful. Those feelings shifted to regret. Maybe he shouldn’t have changed his mind at the last minute and allowed Veronica to go to that birthday party, but the girl had fussed and pleaded so.
Still, the child was supposed to be home by ten-thirty, dropped off by the mother of her best friend, Nicki, his daughter’s confidante for six years since her first day at Mount Calvary. But the mother had called at eleven saying her car wouldn’t start, so he had to get dressed, go get the girls, drive Nicki to her apartment, and then bring his own child home. Maybe just as well, though. He hadn’t been able to finish writing his sermon because he needed a translation of a few Hebrew words.
Veronica rubbed her eyes, then opened the car door. The hinges creaked, testifying to their losing battle against a stronger opponent. The girl smiled and pointed at the church. “Can I go turn the lights on, Daddy?”
“No, hon,” the reverend said. He smiled back. Her angelic face warmed his heart. Maybe he was a tad overprotective. She was so thin, like her mother, and small for her age—and she had always been such a sweet child. That’s why he had allowed her to attend that party and had even run out and bought her a new dress. “You stay with me.”
“When we get inside can I get a drink of water in the kitchen?”
“You can get some water when we get home, baby. It’s late.”
Veronica folded her hands together. “Please, Daddy,” she begged. “I’m thirsty.”
“From eating all kinds of junk food, I bet.”
“Oh, it was so much fun!” the girl gushed.
The reverend smiled again and shrugged. Better not get her going about the party or she’d be up half the night. “Just half a glass,” he conceded. “But don’t be long.”
It took less than three minutes for father and daughter to enter the church, take care of business, and prepare to exit. Reverend Bradley, standing at the narthex clutching the book that had been the purpose of his jaunt, pushed open one of the double front doors leading outside only inches at a time. He peeked and winced.
The four boys now stood directly across the street.
The reverend could feel the blood in his fingers pulsing while pressed against the heavy, wooden door. He hugged his daughter with one arm and whispered into her ear, trying to sound nonchalant. “It’s late and you should’ve been in bed. Let’s get home. Okay?”
Veronica yawned and nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”
The Bradleys slowly d
escended the eight crumbling concrete steps and stopped at the passenger side of the waiting car. The reverend unlocked Veronica’s door, then eased around the rear of the vehicle to the driver’s side. With his back to the boys—gathered only a few feet away—he wiped his sweating forehead with his left hand and fumbled with the keys in his right hand. The boys lowered their voices and began whispering, which unnerved him even more. He kept his head down, but raised it when he heard a car door open.
“I left my purse in the kitchen,” Veronica announced and bolted out of the car.
“No!” the girl’s father rejoined her. “It’s late and we ain’t got time for—” Helpless, he watched Veronica jet up the stairs. She unlocked the front door to the church with her own key and disappeared. Not knowing what else to do, he checked the watch his daughter had given him the Christmas before last. Exactly midnight.
He zipped up his worn out, discount store jacket and stepped around the car to the wide open passenger side door. He glanced at the boys, who continued to watch him and whisper. Before he could close the door, he noticed a yellow sweater in the backseat; Nicki’s sweater. Apparently, the talkative girl had been so busy offering post-event fashion critiques she had forgotten about her own clothing, for which her mother had no doubt spent hard-earned money.
The reverend fumed at the position in which he found himself: unnerved by four loiterers across the street, his own daughter running around a dark church by herself. Kids could bring their parents such grief these days, he lamented. They got their heads all full up with parties and hanging out on the streets and whatnot. When he was younger, growing up in Texas, he didn’t have time for such nonsense because his folks saw to it he had plenty of chores to do.
He opened the backseat door, grabbed the sweater and sniffed it to make sure it hadn’t been exposed to any cigarette smoke. Nope. Still, he had to be careful and keep his eyes and ears—and even nose—open. Make sure his little girl didn’t end up like so many pretty little things at Mount Calvary—at home with no husband totin’ babies instead of going to college. He exhaled with relief and tilted his head backward to search God’s heaven. The vast black canvas offered no trimmings. Clouds and the working streetlights had joined forces to hide the moon and the bounteous stars.
He checked his watch again. How long did it take to grab a purse? Well, if attending one party caused Veronica to lose all common sense, he would just see to it she didn’t go to another, no matter how much she pleaded. The reverend tossed the sweater onto the front passenger seat and pushed both doors closed. More peeved at his daughter than fearful of the four teenagers, he marched toward the church still clutching the reference book.
It took him only a few seconds to reach the front door, where the explosion met him head on.
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