Twenty minutes later a Chevrolet sedan pulled up along the curb, an Uber sign lighting up the front window. Seconds later, Stanton emerged wearing a light jacket over black pants and a shirt. He wore his clerical collar, the one he was never supposed to wear again due to his agreement with the church and the victims. He quickly jumped into the back seat of the sedan. I followed a couple of cars behind as the driver made his way south through a maze of narrow streets before turning onto the expressway. Stanton pulled his phone out and talked on it for a few minutes before ending the call. The driver entered the local lanes and worked his way through the light traffic until he took the Garfield Boulevard exit, where a group of young boys with sagging shorts and shiny white sneakers loudly beat drumsticks against empty buckets, panhandling for tips from the drivers stuck at the red light. A gas station advertising a $2.99 fried-chicken-and-fries special washed the corner in a neon glow. Dark figures walked nonchalantly through the parking lot, disappearing in the darkness of the adjacent vacant lots.
The Uber driver made a right turn on Garfield, then headed west, the drummers holding up their empty hands in disappointment. What was Stanton doing in this struggling South Side neighborhood, far away from the comforts and safety of the North Side? And what was he doing wearing a clerical collar? I followed closely as they left the black neighborhood and turned right onto Ashland, where the Hispanics mostly controlled the streets. The stores were all dark, the heavy padlocked gates protecting their windows. Most of the signage was bilingual, and the businesses were mostly related to cars—used-tire shops, glass replacements, auto parts, body shops. The streets were mostly deserted save for a late-model sports car with tinted windows and chromed-out rims that sparkled like diamonds in a tiara. Its music was loud enough to shake the windows in my van.
I continued following Stanton’s Uber through several turns, then down a couple of side streets and into an area that was predominantly residential. Two-story buildings and small town houses dotted the narrow roads. The Uber driver finally pulled over in front of a low, flat building with two large windows. Light emanated from behind thick curtains. Two young boys in jeans and polo shirts stood outside the unmarked door, typing on their smartphones. They looked up and smiled and put their phones away when they noticed Stanton emerging from the back seat of the car. He gave each of them a hug, ran his hand along their heads, then walked through the door with them following quickly.
I pulled over and turned off the van and waited. Within minutes, others suddenly appeared, families pouring out of rideshares, some arriving enthusiastically by foot and bike. Mostly young Hispanic and African American men made their way through the small unmarked door, many of them coming alone or with sisters and girlfriends. They were dressed in jeans and sweatpants and solid-colored T-shirts; the girls wore shorter dresses, their hair falling below their shoulders and makeup carefully applied.
I got out of the van, locked the doors, and walked across the street, joining a small family that had just pulled up in an old Nissan. I could hear the music when I hit the sidewalk. A soulful guitar joined an equally rhythmic percussion ensemble and piano. The door opened into a surprisingly large room lined with several rows of folding chairs that faced a small stage in the front of the room. The rows of chairs toward the front were completely filled, so I quickly took a seat in the back against an aisle. A gaunt old Hispanic woman with dyed jet-black hair sat next to me, her head bowed and eyes closed as she held rosary beads. Her lips moved softly in prayer.
The bright rectangular room felt like an office space whose tenants had suddenly packed up what was most important and left behind a bunch of worthless metal folding chairs. The walls had been freshly painted a dull cream, and the one window on the right side of the room had been covered with a black shade that had several cracks from sitting exposed to the sun for too long. Two standing fans pushed around warm air, their hum occasionally heard during gaps in the music. Mark Stanton sat authoritatively in a cheap replica of a throne you’d expect to find in an old English castle. The serenity in his face was heightened only by the self-righteous grin that didn’t part his thin lips. This was his flock, and they had come to see him.
By the time the music had slowed to a harmonious ending, Stanton was standing in the middle of the small stage, no lectern, just holding the microphone in his left hand and waving triumphantly to the audience with his right hand.
“Praise God,” Stanton said.
“To the highest,” the audience responded collectively.
“From him all blessings flow,” Stanton said, walking across the small platform.
“To him we give the glory,” the audience replied.
A teenage boy walked up from the first row and handed Stanton an open Bible. Stanton placed the microphone back in the stand and softly ran his fingers through the young boy’s thick hair. Seeing this made my heart pound and my muscles tighten. He was a calculating predator who pretended to come in love and peace, when really he was simply waiting for the right moment to attack. I wanted to run up there and pummel his pretty face until it was bloody and his nose was left hanging by only the skin. But this was not the time or place nor sufficient justice. He deserved to suffer.
Stanton smoothly led the gathering through
