Chapter Thirty-three - Kenya
Chapter Thirty-three
Kenya
K enya sped from her downtown law firm all the way to the Chelsea Heights neighborhood where her father had built his church over ten years before. She still remembered the groundbreaking ceremony and then, eight months later, the ribbon-cutting that took place on those grounds. Walter Lewis had been so proud, standing next to the mayor and a few board members of the church. Deacon Charles had been at her father’s side from the moment they’d signed the contract on the new church home and before that. He’d been there when they’d barely had a place to hold Bible study and resorted to holding it in her parents’ den. After the ribbon was cut, she remembered how the two men had embraced; strong, genuine. It had been a proud moment for both. Kenya hated the predicament that Deacon Charles had found himself in now—facing second-degree murder charges.
She had just attended his church on Sunday. She had sung her praises and hugged and chitchatted with just about every single member in attendance. Even Sister Caroline, who talked more than anyone in the world, made it her business to corner Kenya every single Sunday, asking when she was going to find a nice man to give her some babies . Try never, lady! However, when she said it this Sunday, Kenya couldn’t help but think of Gideon. He popped right into her head, as if it were perfectly natural for him to be there. Though she tried with all her might to erase him from her thoughts, lately he seemed to show up more often than she needed him to.
She pulled into the neighborhood and fought her way past the police cars lined up haphazardly along the street. Blue lights flickered and strangers had started to gather to see what the fuss was about. Kenya parked her black Mercedes a block away, stepped out, and locked the doors. She strolled down the block toward her father’s church, her red bottoms click-clacked against the pavement. She spotted Walter chatting with a police officer. As she got closer, her eyes veered toward the church. The word Murderer was spray-painted on the mahogany brick wall in huge black letters, just below the steeple.
“Daddy.” Kenya lightly touched her father’s arm.
“Hey, baby girl. I’m glad you’re here.” He pulled Kenya into an embrace.
“What’s going on?”
His tone emotionless and with a look of pain all over his seventy-two-year-old face, he said, “When I pulled up for afternoon prayer, I saw this. I canceled the prayer service, called the police, and then called you. I hope I didn’t interrupt any of your meetings.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad you called.”
“Who would do this?” Walter asked to no one in particular.
“Someone who clearly has no respect for the Lord’s house.” Kenya was saddened as she stared at the graffiti.
The officer handed Walter a business card. “If you think of any more information, sir, you can reach out to me at this number.”
Walter took the card and glanced at it. “I certainly will. Thank you.”
The officer walked away and joined his team, who were in search of clues.
“I’m sorry about all of this, Daddy.”
“I’m just glad they didn’t break in or burn the place down, you know? This is something that can be cleaned up.”
“Have you already called someone?”
“Not yet, but I’m going to as soon as the cops are done.” He gave Kenya a pointed look. “And listen, I do not want your mama knowing anything about this. It will only make her worry.”
“Well, it’s a little too late for that.” Kenya nodded toward the swarm of news trucks that had already started pulling into the neighborhood.
“My word! They’re like bloodhounds. I can’t wait until this trial is over and Deacon Charles is acquitted of all charges so we can get back to the Lord’s work.”
“Tomorrow is the last day of jury selection and we go to trial next week. I’m hoping it’s a quick trial. I’m anxious to get this over with as well. Your deacon is working my nerves.”
Walter gave her a subtle laugh. “He means well.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Kenya shook her head. “Anyway, don’t say anything to the reporters. I’ll handle it.”
The reporters and cameramen rushed toward them, microphones and cameras in hand.
“Work your magic, baby,” Pastor Lewis told Kenya.
“Pastor Lewis, can you tell us anything about the graffiti on the building? Does this have anything to do with the charges that have been filed against your parishioner, Donovan Charles?” The blonde-haired woman stuck her microphone directly into Walter Lewis’s face.
“Pastor Lewis declines to comment regarding this,” Kenya intercepted.
“Wasn’t Mr. Charles formally charged with murder just recently by the Atlantic County prosecutor’s office?” another reporter asked. “And aren’t you his counsel, Miss Lewis?”
“Yes, he was, and yes, I am,” Kenya announced. “He goes to trial next week.”
“Wasn’t it Mr. Charles who was seen on the video footage retrieved from the bodega across the street from the victim’s condo?”
Kenya grabbed her father’s arm and ushered him through the crowd. “No further comment,” she said.
“Do you think the graffiti is a message from someone with information regarding the crime?”
“I think that illegally spray-painting someone’s property is vandalism, which is a punishable crime. And we have nothing further to say. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” Kenya and Walter pushed past the reporters until they reached her father’s pickup truck. “Go home, Daddy. Call someone to clean up this mess.”
“Okay, sweetheart.”
“I’ll call you later.” She kissed his cheek, wiped the lipstick traces away with her fingertips, and then headed toward her car.
Once inside, Kenya grasped the steering wheel tightly and leaned her head back against the leather seat. She had represented many criminals over the years, some innocent, others she knew were guilty; precarious clients, some of the most unsavory characters in New Jersey, but never had her career crept into her personal life in this manner. This was the first time her family were involved—her parents, the church. She glanced over at the graffiti-ridden brick wall, stared at the spray-painted words splattered across the front of it. She needed to win this case and fast, so the world would know once and for all that Donovan Charles was not a murderer .