and took a deep breath before I said, 'You see, I think my client is your grandson, Mr. Washington.'
His hand found the .357, tightened around the grip, but not in any threatening way. I sensed that the gun was his friend and he needed to feel its presence. 'My
I spilled out the whole story, my words coming fast, my mouth growing drier with each passing minute. I had to keep looking away, down at my hands, out the side window, anywhere to stay away from his intent stare. His sadness seemed just as deep and strong as what I had seen at the prison, the same expression that Frank Simpson captured in Lawrence's eyes with his 35mm camera.
Mr. Washington said, 'You're saying Lawrence has a child, this Will Knight, and we never knew about him?'
'Oh, I think Lawrence knew he was about to be a father. He picked up that blanket, after all. Did he have a steady girlfriend?'
'Not that me or Clara knew about. You had to understand Lawrence. He was a shy boy. It was only when he was on the baseball field that we saw the other side of him. The aggression. The need to win. He wouldn't have told us nothing about a girlfriend.'
'You know something?' Mr. Washington went on, squinting as if looking back in time. 'I do recall Clara and I thought Lawrence might have had a crush on a girl. He spent a lot of time at that church, and we thought God wasn't the only one he was visiting. She must have been a fair-weather friend, though, 'cause she never showed up to visit him in jail and never went to the trial.'
'She was in his youth group, perhaps?'
Mr. Washington said, 'If he had a girlfriend in that group, she was white. We found out after Lawrence's arrest that they was all white kids over there. Lawrence being a big-cheese athlete, seems they invited him. Place is north of the space place—NASA. Long drive from here, and I don't mean in miles. What bothers me to this day is that if Lawrence hadn't been in that neighborhood, maybe whoever really killed Miss Mason would have been caught. That cop Dugan got himself a scapegoat in Lawrence. Black kid in a white neighborhood? Could it get any better for the police?'
I hated to admit it, but he was right. 'Officer Simpson did indicate in his notes that the church was close to where Amanda Mason was killed.'
'Yup. I go that way for my diabetes checkups. Got a doctor in the Medical Center and then have to visit a lab way in the other direction. Medicare makes some sense, huh?'
'Not to me or you. Who takes you?' I asked.
'Joelle borrows her friend's van. Don't know what I'd do without that lady. Got to say, I hate driving by that prissy church. Place gets bigger and fancier every day. I see their ads in the religion section of the paper all the time. Not Baptist like Lawrence was raised, neither. Nondenominational, he said. Clara and I were troubled he wanted to abandon his church home, but he was old enough to decide. God doesn't care where you visit Him, I guess.'
'You think a girlfriend might have had more to do with this desire to change his religious affiliation than any conversion?'
'Remembering how I was at that age, I would've bungee jumped off the Transco Tower for Clara—if I'd heard of such a thing as bungee jumping and if she'd asked me to.' He smiled, but it was a small, sad smile, the kind memories create.
'No idea who this girlfriend was or if she even really existed?'
'Nope,' he said with a shake of his head.
'Did you mention a possible romantic interest to Officer Simpson? Because if he wrote about it in his notes, I missed it. In fact, he indicated Lawrence had nothing going on with anyone as far as he could tell.'
Mr. Washington hung his head, fiddled with the binding of his plaid blanket. 'I mighta told the police officers there was no girlfriend. Wasn't exactly a lie. See, I was afraid if Miss Mason attended that church, if Lawrence knew her, dated her, well, that would be like pounding a nail in my own son's coffin. I told myself they could figure it out themselves.' He looked up. 'You get what I'm saying?'
I nodded. 'I understand, but suppose he did have a relationship with someone in that youth group—not Amanda Mason, which we know for sure—but maybe another girl. Would Lawrence have confided in anyone about her?'
'Maybe today he might have, but not back then. Not if she was white. Besides, Lawrence didn't talk much, and never about that sort of thing. He went about his business... school, playing ball, planning his future. We raised a fine young man, Ms. Rose.' Mr. Washington's voice cracked and his eyes grew moist. 'He may have sinned and conceived this child you're talking about—and that whole idea still ain't sunk in—but he would never take a life. Not ever.'
I believed him. This man may not have known anyone in that church group, but he knew his son, and about now, the scapegoat idea was sounding pretty damn good to me. 'I have the church's address from Frank's notes— the Church of the Reverent Life, if I remember right. You say they're still in the same location?'
'Bought up property around them and built an even bigger complex not long ago. They're right off the freeway feeder in south Houston.'
'I suppose the ministry there has turned over since Lawrence attended,' I said.
'The assistant minister, the one who visited Lawrence after he went to prison, is still there. Read in the paper he took the big job—Pastor-Teacher or something like that. His name is Rankin.'
'Pastor Rankin visited Lawrence in Huntsville?'
'Yup. I got to the prison early one Saturday and couldn't get in 'cause he was there. Sort of ticked me off him taking away my time with Lawrence, but those are the rules. He was the youth minister back then, and his wife ran the Bible study for the kids. 'Course I had to hear all this from Frank, not my son. God, I wish Lawrence and I woulda talked more.' Mr. Washington shook his head.
The would-haves and could-haves. I knew about those, too. 'I thank you so much for your help, Mr. Washington. Guess I need to find out about these friends from Lawrence's group.'
I walked to the door with Thaddeus Washington wheeling behind me.
When I opened the door, his chair suddenly rammed into me and Mr. Washington shouted, 'Get down!'
I fell forward onto the threshold, instant pain blasting through both knees. I squeezed my eyes shut. That's why I didn't see who was shooting at us, though I did hear glass breaking. That's
'Some idiot in a hotdog red car,' he yelled once I was on my feet and my assaulted eardrums began to function again.
Damn. I missed getting that plate number again.
17
I've been shot at before, and it's not something you get used to. My hands were shaking when I called Jeff and explained what had happened. He said to sit tight, he was on his way.
Meanwhile, Mr. Washington called 9-1-1, but someone else must have done the same, because a few seconds after I disconnected from Jeff, two HPD squad cars came to a screeching halt in front of the house.
Fortunately we avoided a SWAT team appearance or helicopters descending on us when a neighbor woman came out and explained what she'd seen to the patrol officers and assured them that Mr. Washington and I were not the threat. The threat had sped away in a red car.
Then it was all happy reunion time with the four officers who'd responded. Seems Mr. Washington and his gun were well known to these guys. Meanwhile I had two blue-red indentations across both knees and an attitude that matched the pain. I'd missed that Lexus-driving jerk again.
By the time Jeff arrived, I'd shown my PI license to every smirking, uniformed face, tried to explain why I was here and listened to their skepticism about this assailant being the person who'd followed me yesterday. There were a million red cars in Houston, I was told, and since Mr. Washington had a history of firing at drive-by shooters,
