Still Guilty Read online

  “God’s trying to get someone’s attention. No, make that a whole lot of folks’ attention.” She waved her hand in the air, stepping closer.

  “Well, the Lord’s got it, because every media outlet in the area is probably enjoying this.” When she reached out to touch him, he moved back, disturbing a pillar of flowers.

  “Rainey, this is not about you.”

  He grunted in disgust, jiggling keys to his black metallic BMW. The jiggling was a habit that annoyed others; still, he allowed the nuisance to fester when he was irritated. “That’s where you’re wrong, twin. This is about the Reynolds family, our reputation, and integrity. I will not believe our father intentionally ran over Mrs. Beacon’s husband with his car and then cowardly left a man to die. Not only can he lose his medical license, he can go to prison for something he didn’t do. It’s a good thing that bullet grazed his shoulder, or he would’ve been dead.”

  Cheney scrutinized her brother from his leather designer shoes to his troublesome thick, wavy curls. His face was smooth except for a thin mustache and a goatee. As toddlers, people had doted on them, calling them cute. Now, standing regal, Rainey’s looks could only be described as breathtaking, heart-stopping, and eye-bucking distinguished. His convictions—right or wrong—were tighter than matted hair.

  His intellect was exceptional, and his career was soaring as one of the most sought-after new orthodontists in the St. Louis area. Being the son of the assistant director of obstetrics and gynecology at St. James West Hospital had its privileges. Rainey’s style of dress was a war between conservative and contemporary. The result was his signature collection.

  “Judgmental doesn’t compliment you.” Cheney shook her head.

  “We’re talking about some serious allegations here. You’re way beyond rational.” He balled his fists, jiggling his keys again. “I have every right to be angry. It’s going to be a media circus around the courthouse.”

  “Don’t you think I know it?” Cheney folded her arms and tapped her shoe. “I know you’re not blaming me for stirring the pot.” This time she backed up, sidestepping the matching pillar of flowers. “You don’t have to say it. Your eyes reflect your thoughts.”

  She gracefully planted her hand on her luscious hips, as her husband described them. She lifted a brow and exhaled. She counted to two-and-a-half before she was about to release her fury.

  The power of life and death is in the tongue, God intercepted with a portion of Proverbs 18:21.

  “I love you, Rainey,” she said so unexpectedly, she surprised herself.

  He frowned, clearly caught off guard. Forgoing an endearing reply, Rainey dared one last jiggle, shook his head, and opted to march away. He followed the stone path outlined with red petunias to his sedan parked in the semicircular drive. Before he disengaged his alarm, he looked back. “See you in court.”

  Cheney sighed. That didn’t go well, she admitted, watching him rev up his motor. Rainey barely waved good-bye before he sped off. Cheney stared until his BMW disappeared. As she shrugged in defeat, the Lord dropped a chorus of an old church song, “Victory is Mine,” in her mind. It managed to lift her troubled heart.

  She strolled to the opposite end of the driveway to her Altima. Yes, she was walking a fine line between a natural bloodline and spiritual kinship, but she loved Mrs. Beacon almost as much as her father. Emotionally torn was too mild to describe her present state of mind.

  Earlier, Cheney had stopped by her parents’ home to prove her solidarity before the start of her surrogate grandmother’s trial. She was just as upset as her family about the shooting, but they didn’t believe her. Despite talking to God before she arrived, it didn’t take Cheney long before she had to escape the suffocating silence from her family. It was as if they were having a prayer meeting without praying. She hadn’t made it an hour before she announced she was leaving.

  “That’s probably best, Cheney,” her mother, Gayle Reynolds, agreed, standing to signal the end of Cheney’s visit.

  Cheney would never accept the mean streak that possessed her mother’s spirit. Gayle could disconnect herself from Cheney without batting an eye. Her mother had not always been that way. Their relationship changed when she found out about Cheney’s abortion in college. Cheney had thought all that was behind them. Gayle had embarked on a closer walk with God, confiding in Cheney that she wanted to rebuild their strained mother-daughter relationship.

  Some fell on stony ground, where it had not much earth. And immediately it sprang up, because it had no depth of earth, God’s voice echoed Mark 4:5 in Cheney’s head.

  The bottom line was that her mother wouldn’t let forgiveness take root. Finally, what little Bible knowledge she had embraced, Gayle quickly discarded. Cheney refused to give the devil the satisfaction by giving up hope.

  Her father didn’t try to intervene in her dismissal as he sat quietly in his La-Z-Boy Crandell recliner. His movements were non-existent; he gazed with a frozen stare, as if he were contemplating his next chess move. The strong black man with a warm personality had become an old, broken man in a matter of months.

  Cheney’s older sister, Janae, a shorter and darker version, rocked her sleeping three-year-old son, Alex, in her lap. Most times, she didn’t acknowledge Cheney’s presence, unless she uncoiled her tongue to lash out at her. As expected, Janae didn’t react to Cheney’s announcement with a weak wave good-bye or exaggerated nod.

  “I love you guys,” Cheney whispered, coming to her feet to leave. She swallowed the knot in her throat as she kissed her nephew’s head then her dad’s cheeks.

  “Then act like it,” her sister stated, purposely twisting her head so as not to accept Cheney’s show of affection.

  Suddenly, the spacious room was overpowering. Cheney felt as if she were being sucked into an abyss. She walked out of the room and didn’t look back. Though Cheney had not requested an escort, Rainey trailed her to the door.

  God spoke swiftly and fiercely: You are responsible for bringing your family together.

  She gasped. “You’re kidding me. Lord, not only am I not feeling that, I’m not seeing that either. I’m going to need some spiritual backup.” Cheney had long ago shed the anger she felt at Mrs. Beacon for shooting her father, but it took some soul searching.

  Ironically, to date, Cheney still struggled to forgive her father’s trespasses against her. Roland had used his professional connections to gain access to her medical records in another state. Throughout the notes of the surgeon, anesthesiologist, pathologist, and medical staff, the only phrase that doomed their father/daughter relationship was complications of an elective abortion . The guilt trip he put on her for a very personal decision was almost unbearable.

  Mrs. Beacon’s actions were entrenched in loneliness, bitterness, and retaliation. The widow constantly reminisced about Henry, the love of her life. Her husband had been in his late fifties when he was killed by a hit-and-run driver. Twenty-seven years after the accident, Roland confessed to Parke that he had been the one behind the wheel; then he talked to Mrs. Beacon. Cheney was the last to know, but under the advisement of his attorney, Roland formally entered a not guilty plea.

  Cheney discovered there was more behind Rainey’s steadfast disgust. It was a deep-rooted hurt. Ten years earlier, Rainey’s then girlfriend, Shanice, who was four months pregnant, aborted their baby. She boasted it was her payback for him dating other women.

  When Rainey found out what Shanice had done, he was beyond ballistic. He still harbored ill feelings on the topic of pro-choice. Where Shanice purposely destroyed their relationship, Cheney’s reason to undergo an abortion was to save a relationship. In the end, Cheney and her college sweetheart split anyway, and the doctor who performed the procedure massacred her womb. It was a matter of time before Rainey transferred his hostility to her. She loved him too much to return the sentiment.

  Her brother and her husband were one of a kind. Both, contrary to public misperception about black men, welcomed fatherhood; both were
cheated.

  When Roland uncovered the truth about why Cheney made excuses about coming home, he maliciously leaked bits and pieces and hints. Soon Cheney’s entire family had put the puzzle together. Roland’s rage against Cheney had been his cover-up, fearing his sins might be exposed.

  After the initial shock that their father would commit such a heinous act, Cheney defended herself, stating she was responsible for only her sins. She refused to bear the punishment for someone else, as her brother fully expected. That was the purpose of the cross.

  Cheney disengaged her alarm and slid behind the wheel. She took a deep breath. It had been a long day. It seemed as if peace was about to take an extended vacation. Looking around at the estate, she often wished her life was as tranquil as her parents’ lawn.

  She noted the time on the dash. She had flown back in town a few hours earlier from Dallas for the start of the trial, after attending a two-day management seminar. Cheney was eager to see Parke and their daughter. Strapping her seat belt, she turned the ignition and said a quick prayer of thanks for the blessings and even the heartaches in her life. She drove away, leaving the city. Cheney was in North County and at Mrs. Beacon’s house in less than thirty minutes.

  Parking at the curb, Cheney sat in her car and stared at her former real estate investment—her first home. As therapy, she had restored the neglected house and lived there for almost two years before she met and married Parke. Afterward, she sold it to a dear friend.

  Moments later, that friend, Imani Seagall, bounced down the porch’s stairs. Born with a mischievous streak, Imani appeared suspicious. She bypassed her Mustang convertible in her driveway. Like a schoolgirl at recess, she did an impressive hopscotch across Mrs. Beacon’s invisible property line onto her thick, chemically treated grass.

  It was the first rule Cheney was forced to memorize when she moved on the block: the perimeter of Mrs. Beacon’s front yard and the threat of relentless harassment if she came within inches of the boundaries. Cheney was positive Imani knew that too. Obviously, Imani was willing to take her chances.

  Divorced and childless, Imani matched wits with Mrs. Beacon, who was also childless, but somehow earned the nickname Grandma BB from neighborhood children. The thirty-something and seventy-something women were worthy opponents. Their daily mission was to outdo the other in the annoyance department.

  When Imani noticed Cheney, she froze then laughed at her silliness and waved.

  Getting out of the car, Cheney met Imani halfway. “Umm-hmm. I saw what you did, and I’m tellin’.”

  “Oooh.” Imani shivered. “I’m scared,” Imani mocked before they hugged. Cheney held on a little longer, almost collapsing in her arms before Imani nudged her back and squinted. “Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay. Grandma BB going to jail may be a good thing.” She paused then added, to Cheney’s look of horror, “For the neighborhood, of course.”

  “Imani, this is serious,” Cheney fussed after momentary speechlessness.

  “I know . . . I know, but I had to say what some neighbors are probably thinking. Okay, I’m sorry.” Imani rubbed Cheney’s arms. “You know God has your back.” Imani smirked. “I borrowed that line from you. That’s what you always preached to me when I used to be a stewardess working those international flights.”

  Nodding, Cheney mustered a smile, remembering how Imani suffered from occasional panic attacks before boarding a plane. Imani wouldn’t let her off the phone unless Cheney talked to Jesus on her behalf for at least five full minutes. Now Imani was out of the travel industry. Unfortunately, she had become a casualty of downsizing.

  “If prayer doesn’t work, I can always buy a lottery ticket.”

  Cheney sobered instantly. She would never let Imani get away unscathed when it came to God. “I thought we were talking about praying during the trial. How did you manage prayer and gambling in the same sentence?” She lifted a brow, twisted her mouth, and tapped a finger against her leg. “Maybe you haven’t been listening to me praying.”

  “I have.” Imani fanned her hand. “And every time I buy a lottery ticket, I pray to win, and you know what? It works. Sometimes a dollar. One time, I won thirteen thousand dollars. What’s the saying? You can’t beat God givin’.”

  “Which is not scriptural, but what does the Missouri lottery have to do with someone possibly going to jail? Plus, I’ve warned you about putting your faith in a number instead of God anyway.” Cheney wasn’t amused by Imani’s bad imitation of slapstick comedy. “Here’s a scripture you need to think about right before you hand over your money: ‘What does it cost a man to gain the whole world, but lose his soul?’ ” Imani’s slip of the tongue opened the door for Cheney to recite a portion of God’s word. Imani always needed divine intervention, since she had yet to embrace salvation.

  “Don’t start. Bible class is not in session. Listen, I’ve got to run.” Imani shifted her weight on what appeared to be four-inch stilettos. “If I didn’t have these job interviews lined up, I’d be there too. Maybe by the time your dad’s trial begins, I’ll have another job with a flex schedule, and I’ll be right there for you. Although it’s a toss-up on whose side I’d root for. What a choice: your supercilious family, or your former—my current—wacko neighbor. Girl, you should’ve warned me.”

  Shaking her head, Cheney smothered a smile. “I did.” Imani had painted accurate sketches of her loved ones.

  “Too bad I didn’t believe you. Good luck with Grandma BB. She’s brought weird to a whole new level.” Imani leaned close as if Mrs. Beacon had a magnified hearing device buried underground. “Besides wearing her army-polished Stacy Adams shoes, she’s now modeling them with dashikis. I think she’s lost it.” She shrugged. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Oh, and her houseguest moved in a few days ago. I think you’ll like Joe. Bye. Love you. Smooches, and as you say, take Jesus with you, be blessed, and all that religious stuff you tell me.” Balanced on her heels, she swayed her hips back to her car in case a good-looking man drove past them.

  “Just when I thought the scriptures were sticking to her bones.” Cheney proceeded to Mrs. Beacon’s red-brick bungalow. It didn’t have the height as some neighboring homes, but it was commanding as the block’s snapshot postcard. It was larger than Cheney’s old house, with an enclosed area connecting the main house and the garage. Three large dormers made the half story appear like a full second floor.

  She refocused. Beginning the next day, Cheney would become a stickball between opposing teams—Reynolds versus Cheney and Reynolds versus Beacon—all in one courtroom. The scenario was sure to be repeated when it was her father’s turn to go before the judge as the accused. When the rounds were over, there would be no winner, but she was praying for an acquittal, or both her dad and Mrs. Beacon could go to jail or maybe prison, depending on the severity of their convictions.

  Cheney sighed and knocked. She knew her friend had a houseguest, but with so much going on, Cheney hadn’t had time to introduce herself. Unfortunately, knowing Mrs. Beacon, it wouldn’t be a surprise if it was someone of the opposite sex.

  The door opened, and Imani’s assessment proved accurate. Mrs. Beacon stood dressed in her customary Stacy Adams, a dashiki top, and pants. Cheney was familiar with Mrs. Beacon’s idiosyncrasies, but the altered fashion statement hinted that a mental evaluation may not be a bad idea. Mrs. Beacon was going to plead insanity. Cheney was convinced.

  “Friend or foe?” Mrs. Beacon didn’t crack a smile. A Biblical David-size woman to Cheney’s Goliath height, Mrs. Beacon was five feet in heels. She had wrinkle-free mocha skin, which was the envy of any makeup artist.

  “Friend. You know that.” Cheney stepped closer, but Mrs. Beacon didn’t budge from the doorway.

  “What are you going to be tomorrow? You know I can’t stand any two-faced hussies,” she challenged, folding her arms. She tapped her shoe to the energetic beat of Beyoncé’s “All the Single Ladies,” blasting in the background.

  “I’m on Daddy’s side and your side. M
ost importantly, I’m on Jesus’ side. When everything is settled, we’ll have to forgive.”

  “I don’t have time for a group hug.” Mrs. Beacon whipped a finger mid-air. “Last time I read it, the Word didn’t say anything about forgetting.” Cheney nodded as Mrs. Beacon sang, butchering the chorus, “If you like it, you shoulda put a ring on me. Oh, oh, oh. I’m a single woman, single woman . . .”

  Cheney groaned as she whirled around and backtracked to her car. “Another song Grandma BB can’t remember the words to.” It was definitely praying time.

  CHAPTER 3

  The legal process intimidated Cheney. She had barely gotten enough sleep the previous night, fearing Mrs. Beacon wouldn’t survive one day behind bars. Hardened criminals would skin the widow alive—or maybe not. As far as Cheney knew, the only infractions with the law that her surrogate grandmother had were complaints that she threatened trespassers in her neighborhood.

  To make matters worse, Cheney was running late. It definitely wouldn’t score any brownie points with her family. She arrived at the courthouse and parked in the garage. After Cheney cleared the building’s metal detectors, she secured the purse strap on her shoulder. Cheney opted for the stairwell and hurried up the steps to the second floor.

  Reaching her destination, Cheney opened the door and halted. As she sucked in her breath, Cheney momentarily became disoriented. Her effort to squeeze through the hordes of ladies in red hats was useless. “Excuse me, excuse me,” Cheney mumbled to a couple of plump ladies decked out in red-and-purple attire. “Pardon me.” When she stepped to the right, they shuffled to the left and blocked her path.

  “Friend or foe?” the Munchkins demanded in unison.

  Where did she hear that phrase before? Cheney frowned and shifted to the other side. They glided to match her move as if they were ballroom dancers. Cheney tried to hide her irritation, but she was wasting time. The sweet, old, grandmother-looking women were in her way.