Chapter Seven - Kenya
Chapter Seven
Kenya
K enya sat in the car and allowed the song to continue playing for a few minutes longer. She closed her eyes and got lost in the lyrics of “The Way” as Jill Scott’s vocals soothed her. It was one of her favorites. One of those songs that made her stop whatever she was doing—no matter how important—to move her neck from side to side and sing the chorus right along with Jill. She remembered that time she and Glen had made the almost-three-hour drive to Newark for her concert. He loved Jilly from Philly just as much as she did. They had camped out on his buddy’s couch before heading back the next morning, stopping for breakfast along the way.
As she sat in her parents’ driveway, engine running, windows rolled up, she needed a moment to herself before going inside. Sunday morning service at her father’s church could be exhausting, but she made it there at least twice a month. Today had been the church’s anniversary service, so she certainly couldn’t miss that. She thoroughly enjoyed Sunday dinners, particularly since she wasn’t the best cook. Most days she grabbed something on her route home or ordered takeout, so having her mother’s cooking every now and then was a treat.
She was in her zone, had already worked her way into the ad-libs when a tap on her window startled her. She opened her eyes and then glanced over at the set of bright brown eyes that only two people in the universe shared—her father and her younger brother, Xander. Xander was eyeballing her and motioning for her to lower her window. Reluctantly, she did.
“Do you mind?” she asked him.
“How long are you going to sit out here?”
“I was having a moment to myself before I have to go inside and deal with your family.”
Xander laughed. “I don’t blame you, Sis. They can be a handful.”
“Tell me about it,” she said. “Why weren’t you at church?”
“Work.” He pointed to the name badge pinned to his shirt. “Got a gig.”
Xander, who was two years younger than her, was great at getting a gig, but keeping it had always been his weakness. Kenya wished her brother would find a gig that aligned with his engineering degree, but for some reason he wasn’t interested in pursuing those types of jobs. Instead, he worked lower-paying jobs that barely required a high school education and quit after only a few months. The hours were always wrong, the pay wasn’t enough, or someone had it in for him. She also wished he was better at coparenting with his ex-girlfriend. Their five-year-old daughter needed him, but he couldn’t seem to manage that either. He loved Emma more than life itself, that much was true, and if love were enough, he’d be father of the year. Though she was the healthiest, happiest little girl on the planet, she needed more than her father’s love.
“Good for you! You gonna keep this one?”
“Yeah, Sis. The benefits are great: medical, dental, life insurance. Even has a good pension.” He pulled a Newport cigarette out of its package, lit it, and tugged his jacket a little tighter. “Now I can finally get my own place. Move out of our parents’ house. Pull my weight with Emma.”
She’d lost count of how many times she’d heard this same song and dance. She also couldn’t count the number of times Yvonne had called and asked her, “Kenya, can you please talk to your brother? I don’t want to file for child support, I just want him to be a responsible adult.” Even when they were a couple, Kenya had always been their referee, their sounding board, had always offered an objective ear. It was who she was with her entire family—the perfect balance.
“That’s good, Xander. Yvonne needs your help.”
“I know.” He took one last draw and threw the butt of the cigarette on the ground.
Kenya rolled up the window, turned off her car engine, reached for her purse, and stepped out of the car. She and Xander went inside. He disappeared upstairs. The smell of fried chicken and the subtle smell of collard greens reminded her of growing up in her family’s two-story, three-bedroom house in Brooklyn. After her father’s retirement, her parents moved from Brooklyn to Chelsea Heights, a suburb in New Jersey. It was where he’d built his church.
Inside, her father was perched in his recliner in the corner of the room. He’d changed out of his Sunday suit in which he’d preached his sermon earlier. Now he wore a pair of sweatpants and a Morgan State University T-shirt. Walter Lewis was proud of his alma mater, had wanted Kenya to attend there, but she’d chosen NYU instead. It was Xander who had followed in their father’s footsteps and attended the historically black college, excelling in their engineering program.
Walter was engaged in a loud conversation about absolutely nothing with his longtime friend, Henry Adams, who was always at her parents’ house on Sunday afternoons. Kenya often wondered if he ever went home to be with his wife on the Sabbath, wondered if the poor woman even knew how to cook a Sunday meal.
“Sweetheart, you’re just in time to settle a debate for us.” Walter leaned up in his recliner when Kenya walked in. “I’m trying to tell Henry here that Marvin Gaye was the best entertainer who ever lived.”
“And I’m trying to tell your daddy that Ray Charles was the real legend. His music catalog was far greater than Marvin’s. He won all sorts of awards and Grammys.” Henry looked her father in the eye. “He was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, the Country Music Hall of Fame, and some black music something or other.”
“I think he might have you on that, Daddy.”
“So, you’re taking his side?”
“It’s not about sides. What Hall of Fame was Marvin Gaye inducted into?”
“You’re missing the point. You both are missing the point.”
She was grateful to hear her mother’s voice cry out from the kitchen, “Kenya, is that you, honey? I need your help in here.”
Kenya welcomed the escape and entered the kitchen. She kissed her mother’s cheek. “Thank you.”
“I figured I’d give you a hand.” Melba Lewis’s entire face lit up when she smiled. “But I do need you to whip up a pan of corn bread.”
“Of course.” Kenya washed her hands in the sink, dried them, and then grabbed a mixing bowl from the cabinet.
“How are Lu’s wedding plans coming along?”
“Wedding plans are good. I finally got fitted for my dress and I’m almost finished with the song that I’ve written for her.”
“That’s wonderful, baby. I know how close you two are. I love your friendship; it’s strong and genuine. I would love to hear the song you wrote for her wedding.”
“Now?”
“As good a time as any.” Melba gave Kenya a smile.
Kenya unlocked her phone, searched for the lyrics that she’d written and kept in her notes. She began to sing the words that expressed her love and happiness for Lu. Though a cappella, she hit all the notes perfectly.
Her mother smiled and clasped her hands together. “Baby, it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I’ll sing it after the nuptials. It will make her cry and mess up her makeup,” Kenya said with a laugh.
Melba shook her head. “Your dad is excited to officiate. He feels honored that she asked him.”
“Of course. She loves you both.”
“And we love her. And are so very happy for her and Zach.” Melba went back to her cooking.
Zach . The mention of his name made Kenya cringe. She wasn’t happy with him at all.
“Lu had an emergency arise and she’ll be leaving for California soon. I’ll be taking over the inn for a few weeks.”
“How will you do that?”
“Taking a much-needed vacation.”
“Wow, really?” Melba asked. “What about the firm, your cases? What about Deacon Charles’s case?”
“We still have time before he goes to trial. I’m on top of it.”
“I hope so, honey.” Melba placed her hand against her daughter’s cheek. “Everyone is counting on you. Your father, the congregation, the deacon. Everyone.”
“No pressure, right?” Kenya asked sarcastically.
“I’m just saying. We all have so much confidence in you. He’s lucky to have you as his attorney. You’re the best there is. And for the church to pull together to pay his legal fees that says a lot about what they think of him and you .”
When Deacon Charles was arrested for the murder of his business partner the previous month, it was the church that had posted his six-figure bail. Kenya was hesitant about taking the case, had all but insisted that her cocounsel, Mitch Murphy, take the case. After all, Deacon Charles was her father’s friend and had been a deacon at their church for years. But no matter how hard she tried to pass him off, Deacon Charles insisted that Kenya represent him. He didn’t trust his life in anyone else’s hands.
She had no doubt that she could win the case. She was confident—borderline cocky. It was because she’d only lost three cases in her entire career. She was a barracuda in the courtroom—relentless and respected. She knew the law and she was an expert at commanding the room when cross-examining. She left no stone unturned. Her team was the best in the state. Deacon Charles was in good hands.
“Well, if it isn’t the golden child.” Patricia stepped into the kitchen from the back door, the palm of her hand massaging her protruding belly.
Kenya was particularly fond of the little person who followed her sister into the house, her nephew, Malik. She stopped what she was doing, grabbed him, and lifted him into the air, then kissed his plump cheek. “How’s Auntie’s baby?”
“Fine,” he said, wrapping his arms tightly around her neck.
“Fine? Oh, you’re fine?” She tickled him and he giggled right out of her arms.
“Where’s Pop Pop?” he asked.
“You know where he is.” Kenya watched as he rushed into the living room in search of his grandfather.
“No running, little boy,” Patricia warned her son.
“Hello to you, Tricia,” said Kenya.
“Are you having supper with us today?” Patricia asked. “I’m just asking because usually after church you bolt right out the door headed back to Cape May to your friends .”
“Don’t start,” Melba warned her oldest daughter as she stirred a pot of greens while giving her an evil eye.
“Yes, I’m staying for supper. In fact, I’m whipping up a nice pan of corn bread right now.” Kenya returned to her mixing bowl, dumped the box of corn bread mix into it, and then reached into the refrigerator and pulled out the carton of eggs and milk.
“It’s not like you can cook much else.”
“Oh, that’s cold,” said Kenya.
“It’s the truth,” Patricia said. “Are you here because you’re working on that case of yours with the deacon?”
“I’m here to spend time with my family.”
“Well, that’s a first,” Patricia mumbled.
“That’s enough, Patricia Ann!” Melba said. “Now take off your coat, grab some plates from the shelf and set the table. Please.”
With a huff, Patricia removed her coat and headed to the living room to hang it up. She returned to the kitchen and reached for the plates from the shelf. Then she took them into the dining room.
“What’s her problem?” Kenya whispered.
Melba shrugged. “You know your sister.”
She did know her sister, at least she thought she did. They’d grown up in the same home in Brooklyn, slept in the same room, swapped clothes, attended the same schools. Tricia had been her first best friend, her confident. That is, until Kenya went away to college. Though she was only a few miles away at NYU, Kenya had a new life and made new friends, only returning home during the holidays and school breaks. Tricia had opted to join the workforce rather than attend college as her parents had desired. She’d been at the same government agency since then, so she’d certainly built a career over the years, fighting her way through the ranks. It hadn’t been an easy climb. Nor had her love life, as she’d endured her share of bad relationships over the years. Her high school sweetheart, whom she’d hoped to marry, actually ran off and married another woman, leaving her an emotional wreck. Her most recent relationship had been with a married man, Malik’s father—a huge disappointment to their father, particularly since Devin Jackson and his wife had been longtime members of their church. Their family was still recovering from the scandal.
Kenya popped the corn bread into the oven. “Corn bread’s in the oven, Mother dear. Is there anything else you need from me?”
“No, baby, thank you. We’ll be eating soon.”
“Okay.”
Kenya retreated to the den, seeking peace and quiet for a moment. That peace didn’t last long, though, because the moment she collapsed onto the sofa she heard her father’s voice.
“Kenya, come quickly!” he called.
She rushed into the living room, where everyone was gathered around the television set.
The redheaded newscaster, dressed in a plaid blazer, stood in front of Deacon Charles’s home in Ventnor City, New Jersey. “Prominent businessman Donovan Charles, who was formally charged with murder just a few weeks ago by the Atlantic County prosecutor’s office, was seen on video leaving the scene of the crime on the night of the murder. The owner of the bodega across the street from the victim’s condo released the footage to the press this afternoon. ACTV5 was the first to report on this new information in the case and now we’ll show you the video footage.”
In the video, a man who appeared to be Deacon Charles walked briskly into the breezeway of the condominium subdivision where his business partner lived. The man wore a wool peacoat pulled tightly, a scarf wrapped around his neck, and a skullcap on his head. He briefly turned his head toward the camera. Kenya couldn’t tell beyond a shadow of a doubt whether it was him, but it certainly appeared to be the deacon. She covered her mouth with her hands as she watched.
The newscaster continued, “. . . before this video was released, Mr. Charles had maintained that he was innocent and had an alibi. He also stated that he had not been near the scene of the crime that night. However, the video shows otherwise. . . .”
Kenya dialed Deacon Charles’s phone number.
“Kenya, this is crazy! I don’t know what to do. . . .” Deacon Charles’s voice sounded panicky.
“Calm down,” she told him.
“They’re in front of my house. Reporters are everywhere!” he exclaimed.
“Stay put. I’m on my way,” she told him and then hung up.
“Oh my goodness,” Melba said.
“Baby, did you know about this video footage?” her father asked.
“What are you going to do about it?” her mother asked before she could reply to her father.
“Do you need me to go with you?” Her father walked over to the hall closet and grabbed his hat and coat.
“No, Dad, I don’t need you to come. You stay put. I’ll handle this.”
Their questions were coming all at once. Kenya’s head was spinning. She needed to get Mitch on the phone. She dialed his number.
“I’m already on it,” he said before she could say anything. “The owner of the bodega originally claimed that their cameras were inoperable that night, but then out of nowhere, boom . . . video footage is leaked to the press.”
“Why wasn’t I made aware of this? How does this stuff get leaked to the news media before I’m made aware of it?”
“Your phone has been going to voicemail all afternoon.”
Kenya shook her head and sighed. “I turned the ringer off during church and forgot to turn it back on.”
“I’m headed to Charles’s place now. I’ll meet you there.”
“Thanks, Mitch,” Kenya said. “If that’s really him in that video, we need to know why he lied to the police, or better yet, why he lied to us.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll see you there.” She hung up.
“What does all of this mean, baby?” Walter Lewis’s eyes were filled with concern for his friend.
“I don’t know, Daddy. I’ll keep you posted.” Kenya grabbed her coat and slipped it on. “I’ll be back for that fried chicken in a bit.”
She rushed out the door.
* * *
Mitch pulled up at the same time. The two of them fought their way through the mob of reporters, declining to answer any of their questions as they made their way to the front door of the home. Kenya rang the bell, and Deacon Charles answered. He swung the door open so they could come inside.
The three of them stood in the foyer with its marble floors and grand staircase. Expensive art hung on the walls.
Kenya cut right to the chase. “Deacon, I have one question for you and I need for you to be completely honest with me.”
“Of course.”
“Did you visit Julian Miller’s condo the night of the murder? And before you answer, I need you to know that the camera footage resembles you a lot.”
Deacon Charles was completely silent. He wrung his hands together. His wife, Eleanor, came from the kitchen and stood next to him. Kenya nodded a hello to her.
“If you lie to me, I can’t represent you! You must tell me everything or you’re going to find yourself rotting in a jail cell. Is that what you want?”
“No, that’s not what I want.” He hung his head.
“You have my father and the entire church congregation on your side. I’m on your side . But if you lie to me, I’m dropping this case. Today.”
“I admit it. I went to his condo that night. I needed to get his signature on some documents. That’s all. I was only there ten, maybe fifteen minutes. I assure you, he was very much alive when I left.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this? I could’ve gotten in front of it.”
“I thought it would make me look guilty.”
“Well, you look guilty now.”
“I didn’t do this.” His voice was soft, his eyes pleading.
As damning as the video was, Kenya believed him. Now she had to prove that someone else had visited Julian that night, someone who wanted him dead and killed him.
“Do you know of anyone who might’ve wanted Julian dead? Business deal gone bad? Love interest?”
“He was seeing a woman. Some . . . mystery woman.”
Kenya’s eyebrows raised. “So, you don’t know her name?”
“All I know is that she’s married.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this? This is important information.” Kenya turned to Mitch. “We find this mystery woman and maybe we have motive.”
“Maybe,” Mitch said.
“In the meantime, do not talk to the press,” Kenya told Deacon Charles. “Keep a low profile. Go about life as usual.”
“I will,” he assured her, grabbing her hand. “Thank you so much, Kenya. You’re a godsend.”
“You have an army of people on your side, praying for you, Deacon. We’re going to fight this.”
“I know,” he whispered.
Sunday dinner with her family was usually just that—Sunday dinner. However, this Sunday had been anything but. She couldn’t wait to return to Cape May, her peace, her bubble. Her home.