meant.
Be cool.
When Clarke moved to approach Byrne, a pair of uniformed officers grabbed him and hustled him away from the building. More flashbulbs.
'Tell us Detective! How do you feeeeeel?' Clarke shouted.
Clarke was drunk. Everyone knew it, but who could blame him? He had just lost his wife to violence. The officers took him to the corner of Eighth and Race and let him go. Clarke tried to smooth his hair, his clothing, find a little dignity in the moment. The officers-a pair of big kids in their twenties-blocked his path back.
A few seconds later Clarke disappeared around the corner. The last thing any of them heard was Matthew Clarke screaming 'This… isn't… over!'
A stunned silence held the crowd for a moment, then the reporters and cameras all turned to Byrne. Beneath a blitzkrieg of flashing bulbs, the questions rang out.
'— could've prevented this?'
'— anything to say to the victim's daughters?'
'— would you do if you had to do it all over?'
Shielded by a wall of blue, Detective Kevin Byrne headed back into the building.
14
They met in the church basement every week. Some weeks there were as few as three people attending, other times there were upwards of a dozen. Some people came back over and over again. Some came once, unburdened their sorrows, and never returned. The New Page Ministry asked for no fee, no donations. The door was always open-sometimes a knock came in the middle of the night, often on holidays-and there were always pastries and coffee for all. Smoking was definitely permitted.
They would not be meeting in the church basement for much longer. Contributions had been coming in steadily for a bright, airy space on Second Street. They were currently renovating the building-in the dry- wall stage at the moment, paint next. With any luck they would be able to meet there around the first of the year.
For now the basement of the church was a refuge, as it had been for years, a familiar place where tears were shed, outlooks renewed, and lives mended. For Pastor Roland Hannah it was a portal to the souls of his flock, the source of a river running deep into their hearts.
They had all been victims of a violent crime. Or were related to someone who had. Robberies, assault, burglary, rape, murder. Kensington was a hard part of the city, and hardly anyone walking the streets was untouched by wrongdoing. These people were the ones who wanted to talk about it, the folks who had been altered by the experience, the ones whose souls cried out for answers, for sense, for salvation.
Today six people sat in a semicircle on unfolded chairs.
'I didn't hear him,' Sadie said. 'He was quiet. He come up behind me, hit me over the head, stole my pocketbook, and ran.'
Sadie Pierce was in her mid-seventies. She was a slight, skeletal woman with hands long knotted by arthritis, a head full of henna-dyed hair. She always dressed in bright red, head to toe. She had once been a singer, working the Catskill circuit in the fifties, known as the Scarlet Thrush.
'Have they recovered your belongings?' Roland asked.
Sadie glared, all the answer anyone needed. Everyone knew the police were neither inclined nor motivated to track down some old lady's taped and patched and frayed pocketbook, regardless of its contents.
'How are you faring?' Roland asked.
'Just so,' she said. 'There wasn't much money, but it was the personal items, you know? Pictures of my Henry. And then all my papers. You can't hardly buy a cup of coffee without your ID these days.'
'Tell Charles what you need and we'll make sure you get bus fare to the appropriate agencies.'
'Thank you, Pastor,' Sadie said. 'Bless you.'
The meetings of the New Page Ministry were informal, but they always moved forward in a clockwise direction. If you wanted to speak, but needed the time to organize your thoughts, you sat to Pastor Roland's right. And so it went. Next to Sadie Pierce sat a man they all knew only by his first name, Sean.
In his twenties, quiet and respectful and unassuming, Sean had drifted into the group a year or so earlier, attending more than ten times. At first, not unlike the actions of someone entering a twelve-step program like Alcoholics or Gamblers Anonymous-unsure of his need for the group or the group's usefulness-Sean had hung around the periphery, hugging the walls, staying some days for just a few minutes. Eventually he got closer and closer. These days he sat with the group. He always left a small donation in the jar. He still had not told his story.
'Welcome back, Brother Sean,' Roland said.
Sean reddened slightly, smiled. 'Hi.'
'How are you feeling?' Roland asked.
Sean cleared his throat. 'Okay, I suppose.'
Many months earlier Roland had given Sean a brochure for CBH, the Community Behavioral Health organization. He did not think Sean had made an appointment. Asking about it might make things worse, so Roland stayed his tongue.
'Is there anything you would like to share today?' Roland asked.
Sean hesitated. He wrung his hands. 'No, I'm fine, thanks. I think I'll just listen.'
'The good Lord loves a listener,' Roland said. 'Bless you, Brother Sean.'
Roland turned to the woman next to Sean. Her name was Evelyn Reyes. She was a large woman, in her late forties, a diabetic who walked with the aid of a cane most days. She had never spoken before. Roland could tell that it was time. 'Let us all welcome back Sister Evelyn.'
'Welcome,' they all said.
Evelyn looked up, from face to face. 'I don't know if I can.'
'You are in the house of the Lord, Sister Evelyn. You are among friends. Nothing can harm you here,' Roland said. 'Do you believe this to be true?'
She nodded.
'Please unburden your sorrows. When you are ready.'
Tentatively, she began her story. 'It started a long time ago.' Her eyes welled with tears. Charles brought over a box of Kleenex, retreated, sat in his chair by the door. Evelyn grabbed a tissue, dabbed her eyes, mouthed a thank you to Charles. She took another long moment, continued. 'We were a large family back then,' she said. 'Ten brothers and sisters. Twenty or so cousins. Over the years we all married, had children. We would have picnics every year, big family get-togethers.'
'Where did you meet?' Roland asked.
'Sometimes in spring and summer we would meet at Belmont Plateau. But mostly we would meet at my house. You know, over on Jasper Street?'
Roland nodded. 'Please go on.'
'Well, my daughter Dina was just a little girl in those days. She had the biggest brown eyes. A shy smile. Kind of a tomboy, you know? Loved to play the boys' games.'
Evelyn's brow furrowed. She took a deep breath.
'We didn't know it at the time,' she continued, 'but at some of these family gatherings she had… trouble with someone.'
'With whom did she have trouble?' Roland asked.
'It was her uncle Edgar. Edgar Luna. My sister's husband. Ex- husband now. They would play together. Or at least that was what we thought at the time. He was an adult, but we didn't give it much mind. He was family, right?'
'Yes,' Roland said.
'Over the years Dina got quieter and quieter. All through her young teenage years she didn't play much with friends, didn't go to the movies or the mall. We all thought it was a shy phase she was going through. You know
