Guilt by Association

GUILT BY ASSOCIATION

a novel

by

Kelvin L. Reed

Smashwords Edition

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Published on Smashwords by:

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 descended 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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CHAPTER ONE

Jayson Cook surreptitiously sniffed the air, taking in the gentle bouquet of expensive scotch. The handsome, dark-skinned man found the plush armchair supporting his six-feet, one hundred eighty-pound frame to be comfortable enough. His host had broken out the high-quality stock, but Jayson held no illusion his summons had been a social call. The thirty-five-year-old attorney raised a tumbler to his lips and sipped, showing off a monogrammed cuff and gold cufflink, and listened to Judge Robert O’Hare recount his grandchild’s exploits at her first ballet recital.

While currently a highly-paid criminal defense lawyer, Jayson anticipated that, God willing, in the not-too-distant future he’d be sitting in the same room bending some poor lawyer’s ear about his daughter. Toward that end, over the years he had contributed to the right political candidates and attended the right social events, hoping to be noticed by the right people. Of course, after accepting his robe and the keys to his chambers on the fifteenth floor of the McCormack Post Office and Courthouse building in downtown Boston, he would brighten the place up a little. The dark paneling on the walls would be first to go, and the place needed, as his wife would say, more cheerful lighting.

Jayson liked O’Hare, not only because he hoped to occupy his chambers some day but also because the judge had always been fair with him. Furthermore, he found the man amiable enough outside of court. However, inside the courtroom, Bob By-the-Book O’Hare could be impatient with lawyers making arguments based on emotions rather than law. He treasured efficiency and brevity. His motto: Never say in ten words what you can say in five. Young assistant DAs and defense lawyers who entered his sanctum sanctorum unprepared, stumbling over words or searching in their briefcases for a lost file, did so only once.

Eventually the burley judge finished his ballet story, and the two men shared a few laughs about the perils of being six years old. O’Hare, clad in a shirt and tie but no robe, glanced at his watch before engaging in one more bit of small talk. You’ve got a little one yourself, isn’t that right, Jayson? he asked.

Jayson smiled. Yes, Judge. About the same age as your granddaughter.

Well, O’Hare mumbled, thanks for letting me go on about my little ballerina.

Not at all, Judge, Jayson replied. I rather enjoyed it. I know the feeling. His words were sincere. He didn’t mind listening to a man nearing retirement brag about his grandchild, even on a Friday evening. As a husband and father himself, he appreciated and respected a man’s pride in his family. Besides, this was a side of O’Hare he had never seen. So, Your Honor, you asked to see me?

The judge stirred a few papers on his desk. You’re familiar with the Stone case, aren’t you?

Um, the Stone case? Jayson asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but his weak voice gave him away. His stomach started to do flip-flops at the mention of the name. He frowned at the realization of why he had been summoned. Of course he was familiar with the Stone case. Who wasn’t? He peeked at the pictures on the judge’s desk—handsome, elegant wife and five smiling grandchildren—then refocused on the judge and decided to not answer the question. Your Honor, I’ve got too many cases of my own to worry about someone else’s, you know?

O’Hare nodded. Um-hmm, he muttered, apparently allowing Jayson to indulge in his sin of omission. Brian Stone is a white supremacist who’s been sitting in jail for over a year and a half awaiting trial for that bombing two years ago that destroyed a church, killed a twelve-year-old girl and put her father—the minister of the church—in the hospital for a month.

Oh, Jayson replied and nodded. That case. I don’t know much about it other than what I’ve read in the papers. Like I said, I’m doing my own thing. He ran his long nails over his head, covered with only a very thin coating of hair.

Um-hmm, the judge muttered again, indicating his patience had begun to wane. Well, Stone and his second public defender don’t seem to be hitting it off any better than the first. He was arraigned and bound over for trial, but the whole thing’s been moving slower than a glacier—and now he’s insisting that I appoint him yet another lawyer. The judge sipped his drink and continued. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure another PD is the best way to ensure that he gets a fair trial.

Jayson squirmed in his chair and finished his drink. I see. Well, I’m sure you’ll do what’s best.

I want you to take over his defense.

Jayson pointed at himself. Me? You’ve gotta be kidding! He raised his hands as if defending himself. No offense, Judge, but from what I’ve read, the guy’s some kind of super-conservative racist. If he’s having problems with his white PDs, he’s certainly not going to want his fate in the hands of an African American, liberal lawyer. Besides, I’m far from a public defender these days.

O’Hare opened his hands. But you were once, and a damn good one, too. He finished his drink and poured a splash more into his glass. Another?

Jayson covered his glass with his hand. No, thank you, sir—and thank you for the compliment, he said, but you know the routine: put in a few years to get some experience, then—

And you acted as court-appointed lawyer with the State Bar Advocate System for a few years after that, the judge reminded him.

And I recently stopped taking those cases, too, Jayson said. To be honest, my private practice is going pretty well and I don’t want to take cases for a fraction of what I could—

Charge your drug dealers, murderers, embezzlers, rapists, et cetera?

"Alleged drug dealers, murderers, embezzlers, rapists, et cetera," Jayson shot back politely, with his index finger in the air.

The judge ran his hands over his thick, white hair and sighed. Jayson, you’re one of the best goddamn lawyers I’ve ever seen in all my years on the bench, and one of the most successful. I don’t want to see this case kicked back on appeal ‘cause the man said he didn’t get adequate representation. You’re good, and you give a hundred percent for your client, no matter who he is. He pointed at Jayson. If you’re the man handling this there’ll be no questions about Stone getting the best legal representation in the county—the whole goddamn state, for that matter.

Jayson stood. But you can’t afford me. He repositioned his tie inside the jacket of his pricey but off-the-rack suit.

The judge smirked. Sit down, counselor, he commanded gently. His silver cufflinks reflected the dim light in the room.

Jayson did.

However many hours you bill for you and your staff, the state won’t question.

Jayson widened his eyes. Really? He thought for a few seconds. A big murder trial could mean several hundred billable hours. He resisted the temptation and shook his head slowly. Well, the money part was in the second place. In the first place, the man’s not gonna want a nigger for a lawyer.

He asked for you.

Jayson stood again.

Sit doooown, counselor, the judge ordered, clearly enjoying himself.

Jayson returned to his seat. The two men sat silently for a few seconds while the younger one collected his thoughts. What do you mean, he asked for me?

O’Hare shrugged. Whatever the man is, he’s no fool. He knows that just by getting you to sit next to him a jury might think maybe he’s not so bad. He gestured toward the opposite side of the room. Let me show you something. One of my clerks got this for me. He reached into his desk drawer, produced a remote control stained with faint traces of ketchup, mayonnaise and other condiments, and waved it in the air at a twenty-inch TV/DVD player across the room.

Jayson adjusted his muscular torso in his chair and watched the television behind him. He saw the screen flicker, then an attractive Asian woman in her late twenties appeared clutching a microphone. Jayson recognized the area: the lobby of the John Adams Courthouse in downtown Boston. The woman, one of about ten reporters huddled on the right side of the screen, spoke over her jostling colleagues. Jayson stood on the left side in the foreground, his hair about a quarter-inch higher than at present. A white, middle-aged, bald man stood next to him. Anyone with eyes could see the man, although only half-visible, grinning as if he had just left a whorehouse.

Mr. Cook, Michelle Ling opened breathlessly, are you and Mr. Morgan and Professor Greenberg and the ACLU pleased with the court’s ruling today that Mr. Morgan can hold his group’s rally at the Boston Common? She extended the microphone closer to Jayson’s mouth.

Jayson nodded at the woman and spoke in a low, measured monotone. We’re all pleased that the First Amendment will be applied to everyone, regardless of his or her views—as long as those views are expressed peacefully.

The woman, who measured nine inches shorter than Jayson, quickly asked a follow-up question. And does it bother you, sir, as an African American, that Mr. Morgan is the leader of an organization that preaches what many consider to be racist beliefs against African Americans and other minorities?

Mr. Morgan’s views are not the issue here, Ms. Ling, Jayson retorted. The issue is whether the state can restrict the right to free, peaceful speech based on its content. The Supreme Judicial Court, the highest court in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, says it cannot. By safeguarding anyone’s right to free speech, we safeguard everyone’s—including yours and mine.

Other reporters shouted questions at him.

In O’Hare’s chambers, present-day Jayson grimaced. Okay, okay, Your Honor, he grumbled, adjusting himself to face his host again. I remember all this. Your point?

The judge pressed the button and shut off the television. The point is, Stone must’ve heard about you and figured that if you busted your ass for one of his brothers, so to speak, you’d do the same for him.

But that was different, Jayson insisted. There was a principle involved, you know: free speech couldn’t be restricted just because we don’t agree with its content. This is a first-degree murder trial about the killing of a young girl. He leaned forward and