The load of buckshot struck Virgil in his left knee, shattering the patella, blowing out most of the supporting cruciate ligaments and muscle. Six hours of surgery later, Virgil Robinson awoke in a hospital bed, his dream of playing professional football gone forever, the nightmare of adulthood about to begin.
The former star left the hospital a week later and was sent to jail to await trial. The judge sentenced him to three years.
When the Reverend Morehead read about Virgil’s fall from grace, he approached the judge and offered to take the youth in as part of the church’s work-release program. In the former high-school star Quenton saw yet another downtrodden youth whose soul needed to be saved… and a potential son-in-law in the making.
And so Virgil Robinson moved in with Reverend Morehead and his foster-daughter, Madelina. Encouraged by their ‘matchmaker,’ the two began dating. After three weeks, the reverend promised Virgil he would use his influence to have the rest of his prison sentence commuted, but only if he agreed to marry Madelina.
Faced with another two years of incarceration, Virgil wholeheartedly accepted.
A quick Sunday ceremony and the deed was done. As a wedding gift, Quenton gave the young couple use of a dilapidated stucco home the church owned, but could find no one to rent. Before anyone could say ‘early parole’ the newlyweds headed off to begin their lives together, blessed with all the hardships poverty and a lack of formal education could offer.
For a short while things seemed fine. With Quenton’s help, Virgil landed an assistant manager’s position with one of the big sugar companies. By day, he supervised sugarcane workers, by night, he would return home from the fields to find comfort in his young bride’s loins. As for Madelina, with Quenton out of her life, the girl finally felt safe. Medication kept the ‘voices’ at bay, and she began saving money to purchase a nicer home. There was even talk of starting a family.
And then Virgil’s drugging resurfaced.
It started innocently enough-a few missed NA meetings here, a few hits of coke there. But drug addiction is a disease only abstinence can contain, and before Madelina realized what was happening, her husband had spent their savings on his all-night binges.
Madelina was forced to dip into her medication money just to afford groceries. Depression set in, and with it, all of the girl’s old fears. ‘Remember girl,’ Quenton always said, ‘the Devil will take your soul if you’re not strong…’
To make matters worse, the college football season was upon them, the time of year that stoked Virgil’s anger to its fullest. Watching the University of Florida’s games on TV, his internal rage would build until he had to lash out at something… or somebody.
Madelina told Quenton she had broken her arm while mending the roof. The punctured lung-that had come from a nasty fall on her bike. She told the intern at the clinic that she broke her nose slipping in the bathtub.
The beatings subsided briefly in late January of 2013 when Virgil learned his wife was pregnant. The news seemed to calm the former football star. A son could be put to work in the fields. A son could be taught how to play football. Virgil Jr. would live the life denied his father-he would return glory to his old man by making it in the NFL. Twenty years from now, old Virgil Robinson would be able to retire in wealth, living off the fortunes of his prodigal son.
Life in the Robinson home stabilized… for the moment.
And then the world seemed to lose its equilibrium, and sobriety was not an option.
Reverend Morehead enters the strip club, his senses immediately seized by the smell of alcohol and smoke and sex. It takes him several minutes to find his son-in-law, who is in a back room, receiving a lap dance.
‘Virgil! Get your heathen butt home, your son’s on the way!’
‘Aww shit, Quenton, give me two more minutes.’
‘Now boy!’
‘Sumbitch!’ Virgil climbs out from beneath the stripper, squeezes an exposed breast, whispers, ‘Call you later, baby,’ then follows Quenton into the parking lot.
Boca Raton, Florida 2:13 a.m.
The parking lot is quiet, the National Guard having cleared the hospital and its grounds. Only authorized personnel are allowed entry, no one permitted on the third-floor maternity ward without President Chaney’s personal approval.
Dominique sits up in bed, gazing through heavy lids at her new family. Edith beams like a proud grandmother as she coddles the dark-haired twin. Ennis Chaney sits back in an easy chair holding the fair-haired infant, the gruffness gone from the old man’s weathered face.
Rabbi Steinberg sits on the edge of Dominique’s bed, taking everything in. ‘So? Have you decided on names? You know, it’s Jewish custom to use the first initial of a deceased loved one to honor the dead.’
‘I’m going to name the dark-haired twin Immanuel, after Isadore.’
Edie looks up, the mention of her late husband, causing her eyes to moisten. ‘Your father would be honored.’
‘We’ll call him Manny for short. He has Hispanic blood running through him, you can see it in his eyes.’
‘And what about this blue-eyed fellow,’ Chaney asks. ‘How about an ‘M’ name, after the father?’
‘The father’s not dead!’ Dominique blurts out the words, the unexpected burst of anger exploding from her mouth.
‘Doll, take it easy.’ Edie hands Immanuel to the rabbi, then takes Dominique’s hand.
‘Sorry… I’m just tired. It’s been a long night, a long pregnancy.’
‘It’s okay.’
Dominique looks at the infant sleeping in the crook of Chaney’s arm. ‘Mick’s father, his name was Julius. I thought I’d name the baby Jacob.’
The rabbi smiles his approval. ‘A wonderful choice. Jacob is Hebrew for “he will prevent.”’
‘I also want Mick’s last name. Rabbi, can you marry us in absentia?’
Steinberg nods. ‘I think we can do that. Dominique Gabriel it is.’
‘And Ennis, I’d like you to be the boys’ godfather.’
‘An old fart like me?’ He smiles. ‘Be my honor. Now you listen,’ he rasps. ‘I’ve made arrangements to move your family to a private compound on the Gulf Coast, someplace you can live without being under the constant watch of the media. Gated grounds, your own personal chef, housekeepers, and a twenty-four-hour-a-day security team. The twins’ll have private tutors when they get older, and starting today, I’m assigning my own personal bodyguards to your family. You and yours will never want for anything. That was my promise to Mick.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiles through tears of relief. ‘There’s just one other thing I need from you. Julius Gabriel had a journal. It was confiscated after Mick… disappeared. I want the twins to have it. I want them to be… prepared.’
Belle Glade, Florida 2:13 a.m.
Reverend Morehead hears the sounds of a baby crying as he reenters the sweltering stucco home. ‘Madelina?’
The heavyset midwife is in the kitchen, an infant in her arms. ‘Look. There’s your grandpa. Say hi, Grandpa!’
‘My Lord, will you look at his eyes, I’ve never seen eyes so blue.’
‘Silly, it’s not a he, she’s a little girl.’
‘A girl?’ Quenton feels the hairs rise along the back of his neck.
‘Where’s the father?’
‘Puking his guts up outside. Quickly, take the child and-’
The screen door slams open and Virgil approaches, a line of spittle running from his lower lip to his stained tee shirt, a ring of white powder visible in his left nostril. ‘Okay, le’ me see my boy.’
Quenton and the midwife exchange frightened looks. ‘Now Virgil-’
The minister steps in front of the wailing infant.
‘Outta my way, Quenton, I said I wanna see my son.’
‘Virgil, the Lord… the Lord has blessed you with a child. A daughter.’
Virgil stops. Facial muscles contort into a mask of rage. ‘A girl?’
‘Easy, son-’
‘A girl ain’t shit! A girl’s nuthin’ but another goddam mouth to feed and clothe and listen to her whining.’ He
