Chapter 51
CHAPTER
Bria Gaines
VICTORY BAPTIST CHURCH UNION SPRINGS, ALABAMA
It was Sunday morning, just eight days before her trial would begin at the Bullock County Courthouse. And Dr. Bria Gaines was late for church.
The timing was intentional. Bria had been a member of Victory Baptist since she’d moved to Union Springs. She’d joined the church straightaway; it was how she was raised, in a family of serious, Bible-thumping Christians.
The congregation had embraced her, back when she joined. They’d praised God for bringing her to town. Flocked to her clinic for medical care.
After the felony charge was filed against her, Bria stopped attending services.
She stayed away for a number of reasons, any one of which provided sufficient cause.
Fear of rejection, ostracism, the cold shoulder.
Or the opposite: She dreaded a verbal confrontation.
Accusations, insults. The very real possibility that her church family might kick her out of the fold, excommunicating her from their community of faith.
The prospect of those reactions had been sufficient to discourage her from crossing the threshold.
But when she got out of bed on that particular Sunday, with her trial a week away, Bria decided that she needed to return.
Her soul felt battered, weary, restless.
She longed for the feeling of peace she’d always received when sitting in the wooden pew with her head bowed.
In eight days, when jury selection began, Bria would need courage and strength. The kind of fortitude that only a higher power could provide.
Give it up to the Lord, her heart told her.
She could hear the congregation singing as she left her car and walked up to the front entrance. Bria had missed the call to worship and the responsive scripture reading. They’d moved on to the first hymn: “How Righteous Is Our God.”
The timing of her arrival was perfect. Everyone was on their feet. Singing, hands raised. Some with eyes shut, moving with the spirit. She couldn’t have picked a better moment to slip in unnoticed.
Or so she thought.
Bria intended to take a seat in the back. Wasn’t easy, not that Sunday. The church was packed. Reverend Erskine generally commanded good attendance, but this was a record-setting crowd. Like Easter morning, they’d placed folding chairs at the end of each row, to provide additional seating.
While the churchgoers sang the final verse of the hymn, Bria managed to find a single bare space in the pew, a spot just large enough for her to slide in.
That inconspicuous spot in the back was a blessing.
She hadn’t come to church to be recognized.
She wasn’t seeking fellowship. She was looking for God.
She wanted to pray. To petition the Lord to give her the strength to withstand the rigors of the trial that she would have to endure in the coming days.
As she slid into the back row, the organ music hit the final notes: Amen.
Everyone took their seats. Reverend Erskine had taken his place at the pulpit. He stood there, a forbidding figure in black and white.
His solemn face broke into a beaming smile. “On this beautiful Sabbath morning, brothers and sisters, let’s turn to welcome one another, for the passing of the peace.”
The sound of pews creaking, bodies moving. A babel of voices rose up as members leaned over for hugs and handshakes, exchanging friendly greetings.
Bria Gaines was seated directly beside a young couple with two children between them. The younger child bounced in his seat, exclaiming, “Mama! It’s Dr. Bria!”
That sweet voice made Bria smile. “Good morning,” she said to him. She turned to the boy’s mother, seated close beside her, and whispered, “A pleasure to see y’all this morning.”
The woman would not meet her eye when Bria spoke to her. Didn’t even incline her head in Bria’s direction. But the woman gave a light touch, a friendly pat, to Bria’s arm.
The woman’s demeanor made Bria’s spirit plummet. Her reaction was physical; she had to clutch the wooden pew in front of her for balance. Why had she decided to attend that morning?
After the volume of voices had peaked, Reverend Erskine lifted a black-bound Bible. “Please stand for the reading from the Old Testament.”
Folks took to their feet. A hush fell over the congregation. Bria bowed her head, closed her eyes. Hoped Pastor had chosen an uplifting verse. Something to carry her through the coming days.
“Jeremiah chapter 1, verse 5. ‘Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born, I set you apart; I appointed you as a prophet to the nations.’”
An elderly woman raised her arms, crying out. “Praise be!”
“You may be seated,” Erskine said. He waited for the congregation to get settled.
Then he placed his hand over his heart. “Brothers and sisters, the words of this book have inspired my sermon for today. God tells us in the Book of Jeremiah that he is the true Creator of every baby in a mother’s womb.
‘Before I formed you in the womb,’ God says.
The Lord God made us all! Can I get an amen? ”
“Amen!” The chorus of voices was so loud, Bria jerked in her seat.
“The Book of Psalms says the same thing. Gives us the same powerful guarantee! Psalm 139, verse 1—‘For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.’”
A woman across the aisle from Bria jumped to her feet, raising her arms. “Praise Jesus!”
Bria recognized the voice. A knot of dread exploded in her chest as she leaned forward to peek down the row.
It was Starla Jones, occupying the back row, on the opposite side of the sanctuary. Starla’s brood took up most of the pew. She’d brought all five children with her.
Nova sat on the far end, near the narrow stained-glass window. Staring straight ahead. Not watching her mother as she danced, moving with the spirit, with her arms reaching up to heaven.
Two of the Jones kids were rassling on the pew, fighting over a paper copy of the church bulletin. Nova didn’t shush them, didn’t intervene. She sat in the pew like a bronze statue, unmoving, facing the pipe organ.
Reverend Erskine’s voice rose. A sheen of perspiration made his face glisten.
“The Good Book confirms it. From the Book of Psalms: ‘I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made, your works are wonderful.’ Do you hear that, brothers and sisters? Each and every one of us, we are fearfully and wonderfully made!”
“Praise the Lord!”
“Amen!”
They were all rising, all getting fired up. Only Bria remained seated, it seemed. She peered around the sanctuary, then peeked down her row, trying to sneak a glance, to see whether other backsliders had kept their seats.
Only one, besides Bria.
Nova Jones.
“The good Lord, in all his wisdom and mercy, has decreed that we humble human beings are his own creation. So! Tell me, brethren. When one of God’s people is intentionally murdered; when that life is taken, before it had the chance to begin.
When someone kills a precious baby before it is even born—what do we call that, brothers and sisters? ”
“MURDER!”
It was a group chant, so beautifully timed, it sounded rehearsed.
Pastor’s voice began a crescendo. “God gave us his commandments. He gave them to Moses on the mountain. The Sixth Commandment is clear as day. Thou shalt not kill!”
Bria’s mouth was dry, her heart pounding. Nausea was coming in waves. She had to leave. She couldn’t bear it, could not remain in that sanctuary any longer.
She stood, tried to scoot in front of the couple who’d made room for her to sit with them. The woman who had reached out earlier to pat her arm made way to let her pass. But the husband was like a column of stone; she couldn’t squeeze past him.
Her heart raced, making her dizzy. She moved the other direction, pushed past two old women standing to her left. They didn’t try to trap her inside the pew. They scooted back, clutching the pew for support. One of the ladies looked up as Bria surged past. The auntie’s eyes were wet with tears.
She stumbled out into the center aisle. She didn’t mean to look at anyone. Certainly not Nova Jones, or her mother. Step-by-step, she focused on her escape, keeping her eyes fixed on the brass handle of the church door.
A woman appeared by some bad magic, just as she reached it.
The preacher’s wife, Doreen Erskine, wrapped her hand around the door handle before Bria could touch it.
Bria stumbled back a step. Did the woman intend to prevent her departure?
Did the Erskines mean to keep her a prisoner in the church sanctuary?
A hush fell over the sanctuary. She heard bodies shifting in their seats to watch the drama unfold.
Bria’s mouth was pressed shut. She sent a pleading look to Doreen Erskine, a silent plea. Let me go.
Doreen Erskine’s face was a frozen mask of condemnation. The pastor’s wife pulled open the church house door, and she uttered two words. “Get out.”
Bria bolted. As the door closed behind her, she could hear a wave of voices rise again. She couldn’t make out what all they said.
But as she drove away from Victory Baptist, the pastor’s words were locked inside her head. Refusing to be silenced.
Murderer. Killer.