Sins of the Mother (36 page)

D
ECEMBER
2009

T
HERE WAS NOT A WORD
in any language that could describe what was brewing.

Rage—that was not enough. Fury, wrath—they were not even close.

Nothing could describe the diametric emotions that were colliding inside of him. The joy—for the return of his daughter. The pain—for what Jacqueline had been through.

She was raped . . . Most likely, repeatedly.

Those words were grenades in his heart.

Hosea pressed his lips together, tried to keep the scream inside. But it exploded anyway, bursting through his lips, reverberating throughout the car, making even the windows quake. Gripping the steering wheel, he rounded the corner onto 119th, then inched down the street until he saw an open
space in front of a fire hydrant. He turned off the ignition and, with military precision, scanned the area.

The day was growing older, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows against the gray brick of the police precinct house. In front, patrol cars were parked perpendicular to the curb, and people—civilians and officers—moved in and out and about.

Right in the center sat the van, and Hosea sighed with relief. This was the vehicle—the car that would transport Harvey Jonas from the station to Rikers.

Harvey Jonas. The lowlife scum. The suspect, as Detective Foxx had called him when they’d talked.

As Jasmine and his father had rushed behind Dr. Stewart, Hosea had turned the other way.

“Hosea,” Detective Foxx had called after him as he marched down the hall.

He kept on, but the detective caught up, and matched him step for step. Silent seconds passed as they strode toward the front. It wasn’t until they were outside of the hospital that Detective Foxx stopped him.

“Where are you going?” he asked, resting his hand on Hosea’s shoulder. “I thought you would want to see Jacquie.”

Hosea shook his head. “Not yet. I can’t . . . see her yet.”

It didn’t take even a full moment for the detective to understand. “Hosea, come on. This isn’t your fault.”

“I didn’t protect her, Fred,” he said, calling his friend by his first name. “And I can’t see her until I know she’s safe.”

Detective Foxx reached out to Hosea again. “She’s safe, man,” he reassured him. “We found him with her. He’s in custody, and this time he’s not going anywhere. Trust that. Trust me.”

With a nod, Hosea looked back toward the hospital, trying to decide—should he go back in or not? “Who is he?” Hosea asked.

“The suspect? There’s not a lot to tell. We found him at his mother’s apartment on the Lower East Side,” Detective Foxx said. “She takes in foster kids, and that’s where he was with Jacquie. He was kinda hiding . . . in plain sight.”

With his forefinger, Hosea pressed the spot at the top of his nose, right between his eyes. But that did nothing to ease the throbbing. “Jacquie was that close? All of this time, she was just a couple of miles away?”

Detective Foxx nodded. “It happens that way. I’m sure he never let her leave the house.”

“So,” Hosea began, “he took my daughter to his mother’s.”

“Seems like it.” Detective Foxx sighed. “I’ve seen this too many times—a mother who knows what her child is doing and looks the other way. We’re not sure if that’s what went down, if his mother knew, but we’ll find out her role in this soon.”

Hosea opened his mouth, made a wide O, stretched his jaw. But that didn’t do it either—nothing stopped the throbbing. The throbbing.

Detective Foxx said, “But here’s the thing, man, more than his mother, it was us. The system blew it this time; we were the ones who let Harvey Jonas get away.”

Harvey Jonas.

The detective’s hand was back on Hosea’s shoulder when he said, “But we got him now. And he’s not getting away this time. I’m headed over to the precinct; Jonas is being processed, and we’re taking him by special van over to Rikers. We’re not even going to hold him for another group; we’re taking him by himself. I’m riding him, so you don’t have to worry.” He patted him on the back. “It’s over.”

Hosea shook his head, his eyes once again on the hospital’s revolving doors. “It’s not over.” He sniffed back tears, held back rage. “My little girl . . . what she went through.” He faced the detective. “What’s going to happen to her?”

Detective Foxx exhaled. “I’m not sayin’ it’s going to be easy. But she has you and Jasmine and a whole bunch of other people who love her . . . we’ll all help her through. The thing to remember—what’s most important—is that she’s home.” And then, as if he needed to reassure Hosea, he added, “She’s safe.” Another pause. “Go back in there, Hosea. You know Jacquie wants to see her daddy. You take care of your baby, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Hosea had nodded, turned, and pushed through the hospital’s revolving doors. But the moment Detective Foxx was out of his sight, Hosea swung through the doors again and went right back onto the street.

Now he sat in front of the precinct house.

With his eyes still on the building, he reached under the seat. His fingertips searched until he felt the box. He lifted it up, rested it in his lap.

His eyes scoped the perimeter of his car. But even though people passed by, no one was close enough to see through the tint of the windows.

Carefully, he unhinged the box, then fingered the eight inches of stainless steel.

She was raped!

Then Jasmine’s howl,
“But she’s not even five!”

It was Jasmine’s cries that made him cry. It was Jasmine’s cries that made him secure the scope on top of the weapon. Click it in place, then reach for the shopping bag he’d folded on the passenger seat. Gently, he placed the gun inside the bag, then he slid out of the car.

As he closed his overcoat and locked the car, he glanced around, but no one seemed to notice him. He was in Harlem. And here he was nothing but an average black man, next to an average SUV, carrying an average shopping bag, probably filled with Christmas gifts.

On the passenger side, he leaned against his car and glanced at his watch, as if he were an ordinary New Yorker, waiting to do an ordinary thing. He didn’t have to linger long.

He first saw the activity through the side-view mirror. No one else seemed to notice the way two officers trotted down the steps, their hands on their holsters, looking around the whole time.

Then Hosea saw Detective Foxx peek out before he stepped back inside then exited again, this time flanking a man, about five feet seven, dressed in jeans and a leather bomber jacket. The man’s wrists were bound by metal handcuffs attached to a long chain that led to the shackles at his feet.

Harvey Jonas.

The man shuffled along, clearly off balance. The shackles made him move slowly.

Perfect.

With the shopping bag at his side, Hosea moved down one car, never taking his eyes away from Harvey Jonas.

It surprised him, the look of the man. His quick assessment was that Jonas was well over fifty—his gray hair visible even at this distance. He was slight, probably weighed no more than 160, 165 pounds.

One hundred and twenty pounds more than Jacquie.

The sun and the shadows gave Hosea the advantage—his view of the enemy was clear. He crouched down, placed his hand into his bag.

Detective Foxx and Harvey Jonas moved down the first step.

Hosea counted:
One, two.

The pervert and his protector moved to the second step.

Three, four.

They were within range.

When they reached the bottom, Hosea snatched the gun
from the bag, jumped in between the two parked cars. He knew he had three seconds, tops.

He bent his knees.

He focused.

He kept his gaze steady through the scope.

He aimed.

He fired!

The shot exploded through the air.

Screams! Screeching cars! Cries for the Lord!

Pandemonium!

He heard, “He’s got a gun!”

Hosea didn’t wait to see if he’d hit his target—he hit the ground, scraping his chin as he made contact with the asphalt. He tossed his gun aside, underneath the car. Then he lay still, spread-eagle, palms up.

Just three seconds—that’s all it took for the officers to tower over him, guns drawn.

He heard his friend’s cry, “Hosea!”

But he didn’t look up. He didn’t make a move. He was a black man in New York City who’d just fired a gun—he knew the drill.

“Oh, God! It’s Pastor Bush,” one of the officers above said.

Hosea grimaced as another shoved his knee into his back, cuffed his hands. Then two policemen pulled him from the ground.

There was still mayhem all around. More police running out to assist. More people screaming, pointing. The officers lugged Hosea from the street onto the sidewalk.

That was when he passed his friend. Their eyes locked.

Detective Foxx looked like he was going to cry. “Why didn’t you just go back to Jacquie?”

Hosea’s eyes were clear as he tore his glance away, stared down at Harvey Jonas, who was already being attended to by
medics. The man who’d stolen and violated his daughter lay facedown at the front of the van, blood seeping from beneath him and spreading across the pavement.

When Hosea looked back at Detective Foxx, all he did was shake his head. He’d simply done what he had to do.

Now he could see his daughter.

N
EW
Y
ORK
, N
EW
Y
ORK

S
EVEN MONTHS LATER

“T
HE VERDICT’S IN
.”

Jasmine didn’t even say good-bye before she hung up. She knew Dale would certainly understand.

It took a moment for her to steady herself, and then another before she was able to take the few steps to the sofa.

Her heart was blasting.

Though that was nothing new. For the last seven months, on the regular, Jasmine’s heart had beaten like it was trying to escape.

It had started on that day—a day that had been filled with the best of her dreams and the worst of her nightmares.

The best hadn’t started out so wonderfully. Even though it was beyond a blessing that Jacqueline had been found, it had still been so difficult.

When she and Reverend Bush had barged into that room,
Jasmine’s eyes had locked right in on her daughter. And her eyes had filled instantly with tears.

Jacqueline was lying on a broad bed, although she wasn’t taking up much space. Her tiny body was pressed against the wall, as if she was trying to disappear into it. But her eyes were wide and aware, focused on a red-haired, bun-wearing, plump woman in a black suit whom Dr. Stewart said was the child psychologist.

The woman sat at the edge of the bed whispering words that Jasmine could not hear. Not that it mattered, because every one of Jasmine’s senses was trained on Jacqueline.

“My baby,” Jasmine had cried softly.

At that sound, the girl bolted up, her eyes darting around the room. She slipped back even farther, cowering in the corner. Her eyes moved from here to there, searching, searching, as if she was trying to find a place to hide.

Jasmine didn’t even try to stifle her cries as she took in the sight of her gregarious child trying to curl herself into a ball. She ran to her daughter with open arms, and even though Jacqueline screamed, terrified, Jasmine pulled her close and tight.

“Oh, baby. My baby,” she cried.

Jacqueline cringed inside her mother’s embrace, and after a while Jasmine pulled back. “Jacquie, baby,” she said, trying to look deep into her child’s eyes. “It’s me . . . it’s Mama.”

Though Jacqueline’s eyes were clear, there was not a single sign of recognition—as if the horror of nineteen days had expunged her memory.

“Oh, baby!” She kissed the top of her daughter’s head, where the girl’s long, dark brown curls had been chopped off and traded for a style that was dyed deep black and spiked so stiff that it had to have been set with a heavy gel. “You’re home, baby; you’re home,” Jasmine whispered as she cradled her daughter.

Still, Jacqueline trembled.

“You may want to give her some space,” the psychologist had whispered.

Jasmine looked at the woman with wide, wild eyes. Some space? Her daughter had been missing for almost three weeks. She had no plans ever to let her go.

“Hey, precious.”

It was then that Jasmine remembered that she was not alone. Not taking her glance away from Jacqueline, she said, “Jacquie, Papa’s here.”

But all Jacqueline did was fight to break free from her mother.

Then Reverend Bush started singing, “He’s got the whole world in His hands . . .”

As if those words were magic, Jacqueline’s whimpering began to subside.

Still softly, still gently, he kept on, “He’s got me and Jacquie, in His hands . . .”

Jasmine watched as her daughter calmed. Her eyes were downcast, but now she sat like stone and listened to her grandfather sing. It took twenty-three stanzas before Jacqueline slowly raised her head. And then she raised her eyes. And then she raised her arms, the signal that she wanted to be lifted.

When Reverend Bush held her, she cried. And he cried. And Jasmine cried.

That was when Jasmine knew that the bad part of the good dream had come to an end.

But that was when the nightmare began.

For long minutes, Jasmine and Reverend Bush had sat quietly on the bed with Jacqueline between them; their arms were wrapped around her and each other.

Until Brother Hill busted into the room. He stared, for a
moment, at the sight of the trio before he made his way toward them, his arms open, welcoming the girl home.

But then, as suddenly as he’d come in, he abruptly stopped. Cleared his throat and spoke. “Ah . . . Jasmine, can I talk to you?”

She shook her head. Did he really think that she was going to part from her daughter? Nothing, no one, could make her step away from Jacqueline.

So Brother Hill summoned Reverend Bush instead. As Jasmine cradled her daughter, she watched the two men huddle. She saw their frowns, heard their gasps. Then she watched as her father-in-law turned back to her with astonished eyes.