Testify
Testify
Ms. Michel Moore
www.urbanbooks.net
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Prologue - I Got the Best Hand
Chapter One
Chapter Two - Lynn Banks
Chapter Three - Clay
Chapter Four - Clay
Chapter Five - Unlikely Allies
Chapter Six - Clay
Chapter Seven - Trinity Walker
Chapter Eight - Nosy Neighbors
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve - Reverend Richards
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen - Trinity Walker
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen - Clay
Chapter Nineteen - Clay
Chapter Twenty - Clay
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two - Retribution
Chapter Twenty-three - The Manhunt
Chapter Twenty-four - The Cops
Chapter Twenty-five - Lynn Banks
Chapter Twenty-six - The Cops
Chapter Twenty-seven - The Lawyer
Chapter Twenty-eight - The Aftermath
Urban Books, LLC
300 Farmingdale Road, NY-Route 109
Farmingdale, NY 11735
Testify Copyright © 2018 Ms. Michel Moore
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used in reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-6228-6621-2
This is a work of fiction. Any references or similarities to actual events, real people, living or dead, or to real locales are intended to give the novel a sense of reality. Any similarity in other names, characters, places, and incidents is entirely coincidental.
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Acknowledgments
As I have crafted numerous novels throughout the years, the list of people that support me has grown. My mother, Ella Fletcher and my daughter, author T. C. Littles, have been here to see my visions even when I don’t. My husband and rock, author Marlon PS White, holds me down daily and has been since 1999. Major respect and love to all the readers and local folk that stop by my bookstore, Hood Book Headquarters here in Detroit. And lastly, to the Hood Book Ambassadors: you are the greatest book club and moral support a girl could ever have. I salute you all. God bless!
“Revenge is one cold, black-hearted bitch . . . and then you die! Just like that—done—over! And so the bullshit begins . . .”
Prologue
I Got the Best Hand
“Come on now, Rev, have some pride about yourself. Be a man about yours like you wanted me to be so damn bad. Boss the fuck up just one time, old man—one freaking time.”
“Wait! Wait! Come on now, please, wait! This is a mistake; nothing but a huge misunderstanding between two men. This ain’t right, son, it ain’t.” Easily, you could hear the sound of sheer uncut desperation drag out in each syllable of each word. Praying to God he was anywhere else other than where he was at this very moment, he defensively held up his hands. Taking several deep breaths, he felt his chest heave in and out. It was hard to speak, all things considered, but the reverend pushed through. “Do you know what you doing? You can’t, you just can’t,” he shouted answering his own question.
“Say what? Are you serious, old conniving house nigga,” the reply came swift, knowing time was ticking by and the police might show up at any given moment.
“Are you high on something? Wait; put that gun down. Put it down. Please.” Once more the overly desperate words rang throughout the entire city block. “Remember, ‘vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord.’ You need to think about what you’re proposing to do, son. This ain’t God’s way.”
“You funny as shit right about now, but it ain’t gonna work out for you, playa. Not this time, not today. You official fucked in the game.”
“No no no! Hold up! This ain’t right,” the preacher’s bargaining to live to conduct another Sunday service continued. His mouth kept moving, but the words coming out were obviously redundant and falling upon deaf ears.
“Shut the fuck up.” The tension grew as the jaws of several people standing around dropped wide open. “Matter of fact, Rev, shut the fuck up before I shut you all the way up. See, I’m a real nigga 24/7 with mines. I don’t talk shit and strong-arm motherfuckers. I say what I mean and mean what the fuck I say. So stop begging and negotiating; you done.”
There was nothing but tears on both cheeks. With warm stinging piss running down his creased pants leg, Reverend Richards waved his tattered, covered Bible wildly in the air. At this point, he would do and say just about anything to escape his punishment. He showed absolutely no pride. Time for all of that was over. Praying his words would work and the hardened criminal, seasoned thug would show him a small bit of mercy, the reverend continued. “Look, you gotta listen to what I’m saying. Please, I don’t deserve this. I’m begging you. It was all just a misunderstanding; a big damn mistake.”
“You don’t deserve this, huh? Yeah, right. Come on, now, Rev—don’t play yourself and don’t be standing out in these grimy Detroit streets acting innocent. Begging is out of season around these parts. Correct my black ass if a nigga wrong, but I warned you not to jump out there with me. I done told you I’m one of them motherfuckers that make fools act right whether they want to or not.”
“Please, Clay, please. This ain’t God’s way,” the terrified man continued to plead, hoping for a Hail Mary miracle. “Let him handle my final judgment. He has the final say.”
“God’s way—old man, please. I got the final say today; trust that. And would you stop pretending like you give a damn about me and my fucking soul? Keep it a hundred, with your money-hungry ass.” Clay’s clean-shaven bald head sweated in the scorching hot summer sun. As his blue jean shorts slightly sagged, showing the upper band of his boxers, his unlaced Tims stayed firmly planted on the curb. Tightly, he held the rubber grip handle of the gun. Strange as it may be, it seemed to be eagerly urging Clay to hurry the hell up and kill the lying son of a bitch standing in front of him taking a cop. “Rev . . . You know you ain’t about nothing. And all these weak-minded cowards out here looking at me like I’m half crazy after you done blackmailed them should know the bullshit too. Man of the cloth—yeah, right; you straight foul. I’m surprised somebody ain’t been bodied your punk ass.”
“Don’t do it, son. He ain’t worth the bullet,” a random voice nonsympathetically shouted from the small group of spell struck spectators. “He’ll answer for his sins one day.”
“Listen, if you or anybody else don’t wanna see this nickel slick Negro pay for what he done did, then I suggest y’all go home—’cause today is his fucking day,” he responded after hawking a huge glob of spit in his soon-to-be victim’s face. Clay wasn’t in the mood for any interference of what he planned on doing. He was 100 percent official with his. Raised in the streets, he couldn’t be easily manipulated. He wouldn’t be conned by “the Word,” like so many others in the uncompassionate crowd the preacher had “worked his magic on” in the past had been. The blank, dark expression in the youngster’s stare told it all. It revealed he could care less about the many potential eyewitnesses that stood idly by. If he caught a murder case, then so be it. It was
what it was. Clay was intent on revenge, and today was that day.
Reverend Richards, dry throat, struggled to speak. Short of breath, he grew nauseated. He was sick to his stomach. Panic-stricken, his breakfast and lunch wasted no time reappearing. Gagging from the smell and sight of his own vomit, his heart rate increased. Realizing the local dope boy wasn’t trying to hear one of his long drawn out sermons, he hyperventilated. He knew the end was drawing near as the tears flowed from his eyes and snot slid down his jaw. Life in Detroit had never been more real in his fifty-one years of living than it was at this moment. He had never been so terrified. He had never been so regretful of his actions. He wanted to repent for everything wrong he had done or said over the past few decades but knew it was way too much for God to forgive. He wanted to believe a miracle was seconds away, but it had yet to come.
“Son, just listen to me. You gotta listen. Hear me out,” Reverend Richards, with hands folded, begged in vain, stalling the inevitable. Where are the authorities when you need them? What’s taking them so long? Why haven’t none of these people called the police? God, please help me! Please stop this savage from what he has planned. I know I’ve been doing wrong and not honoring your Word, but please, Lord. Please save me from this boy’s wrath. I can change. Just let help come. Desperate, he wondered when, and if, the police would show up in time to save his life. “I can switch things up. I can clear up all the confusion that has you so angry. I’m serious. Clay, just let me make a call to my people. Let me call my brother. It was just a huge misunderstanding. I swear,” he loudly alleged, begging for his life. “Please, for God’s sake—one call.”
That was it. It was over, and Clay had heard enough. No more time-outs; no more reprieves; and no more lies of making right all the wrongs he’d done. Fed up with hearing the man beg, Clay let one round off. His aim was dead-on. Striking the so-called man of the cloth directly in the left kneecap, stunned neighbors covered their ears to deaden the sound. The good reverend dropped his Bible. From that point on, it was as if everything were moving in slow motion. In agony, not able to stand, the constantly scheming preacher collapsed onto the pavement. His head just missed slamming into the edge of the litter-filled curb. With an immediate gush of dark-colored blood quickly leaking through Reverend Richards’s dress pants, one elderly woman looked away while strangely, another person wickedly smirked with satisfaction.
Slowly walking up on the now-sobbing pastor, Clay didn’t smile. He didn’t frown or show any real true sentiment about what he’d just done or was about to do. This was a part of street life to him; revenge on his enemy when need be. Towering over the cowardly older man, Clay finally sneered with contempt. With his gun still held tightly in one hand, he made use of the other. Ruthlessly, he snatched the gold chain and diamond cross from the wounded man’s neck, letting it fall to the ground. Clay was hell-bent on what had to come next. God can’t save your ass this time. You done fucked over way too many motherfuckers. Still showing no emotion or regret, Clay coldly placed the muzzle of his pistol to the trembling, corrupt preacher’s wrinkled forehead. As the small crowd of neighbors watched in disbelief . . . but oddly content, Clay taunted his moaning prey one final time.
“You fake hypocrite—you predator. One call. Is that all you need, one more call? Your credibility is like below zero with me,” Clay, standing over the man, vengefully mocked his victim, still showing no mercy. His winter-white wife beater showed off every angry, bulging muscle and every ink-carved tattoo. Lifting his right boot, Clay slammed the sole directly into the middle of the older man’s chest. “Your days of ‘making calls’ and ‘fixing thangs’ around the way are over. Negotiations are over—believe that. You gotsta give another pint or two for all your sins. How about that for God’s so-called homeboy?”
“But no—no; wait, wait,” the unscrupulous preacher raised one hand upward. In excruciating pain, the other clutched his bloodied, bone-shattered knee. His eyes desperately searched the onlookers he knew so well for compassion but found none. “Don’t y’all see this?” he belted out with tears flowing and his voice cracking. “After all the things I’ve done for each of you—why isn’t anybody stopping him?” His weakening tone vibrated with every syllable that passed across his quivering lips. “Oh my God, one of y’all, please, call the police before he shoots me again! I’m begging in Jesus Christ’s name, help me.”
Reverend Bernard Richards, the head director of West Side Outreach Ministries, lay bleeding to death in the middle of the pothole-filled Detroit street. Residents were stunned but not budging from where they were. Instead, they stood around whispering. Yet strangely, no one bothered to call for help as their once-beloved minister had asked. Not sanctified senior citizen Thelma Gale, who lived in the apartment building on the crime-ridden block. Not nosy Mr. Jessie, the Block Club president, who wanted things to go back to the days of the past. Not Mr. Jessie’s constantly depressed wife called for help. Troubled, drug-addicted teacher, Lynn Banks, teenager Abdul and his little sister all had the opportunity to dial 911 on their cells. Hard as it was to believe, they chose not to. Trinity, a young single mother, nonchalantly cleaned underneath her fingernails while she recorded the altercation-soon-to-turn-murder on her Android. It was as if the group was merely watching a movie rather than being firsthand witnesses to a cold-blooded murder about to take place. Nevertheless, none of the preacher’s seemingly loyal parishioners who he “supposedly helped” shed a single tear. He was on his own and had to face the music by himself. God was about to call him home . . . or the devil one. Either way it went, Clay was gonna end his life.
“Look at you . . . the all-so-great-and-above-the-laws-of-the-hood Reverend Richards. Out here begging the next dude and the neighborhood people for mercy that you shit over on the regular. Imagine that; you acting like a real pussy right about now. A real little bitch around these parts,” Clay grinned, finally feeling a true sense of accomplishment as he went on. “You need to man up ’cause you can’t do jack for me or with me no more. That’s history.”
“No . . . Wait, Clay.”
“No, you wait. Truth is, playtime is over, fool. You earned each one of these hot motherfuckers you about to get. Time for you to go all the way to damn sleep. I’m tight on you.”
“Please, Clay.” In denial, the man’s eyes grew wider while still holding on to hope, holding on to the notion his wrongdoing was bigger than the game itself.
“Tell the devil I’ll see him later. Now, bleed out, bitch nigga.” Clay happily let loose another deadly deliberate round.
Squad car sirens were finally blaring in the far distance answering a mysterious “shots fired” call. All the seemingly innocent bystanders scattered, disappearing into their homes. No one wanted to risk getting questioned by the law. No one wanted to get judged for not being the one who had not called the authorities. There was a motionless body outside of their dwellings. It was sprawled in the middle of the street on display, leaking blood from the gaping bullet holes. Peeking out from behind their curtains and front doors, no one truly cared as the county coroner lastly arrived on the scene. Officially pronouncing the good Reverend Richards dead in the middle of the street, his now sheet-covered body was removed. As far as the neighborhood witnesses were concerned, the reverend was just another casualty; another statistic in Detroit’s ever-rising homicide rate. However, to the Detroit Police Department, he was the front-runner-to-be-elected mayor’s half brother and top priority on the long list of murders to solve. Discovering the true, raw, uncut circumstances that led to a supposedly godly man being laid out in the middle of an open-air, drug-infested street in broad daylight is where they had to start.
Chapter One
It was extremely early. The morning dew was still moist, and a slight breeze stirred in the air. Residents of the once-upon-a-time tight-knit West Side community were just making their way out of their houses and apartments. Monday was Monday, which was traditionally filled with folk dragging in their ass from the weekend. Wh
ether it be trying to nurse a hangover or having had broken up with your significant other . . . It was the worst. The beginning of the week brought a chance for people to either get it all the way right or all the way wrong. Either way, there was no avoiding the flow of life in the hood. Most had to go to work, others to school, and some to doctors’ appointments. The UPS man making deliveries, bums begging, and low-income folk standing in line to get free food or other assistance from Reverend Richards was the norm. Whatever the case, on this warm summer day, the neighborhood was starting to take shape. It would soon be full blast, buzzing with everyday trials and tribulations.
No one seemed to be paying much attention to the everyday goings-on, but as the old saying goes, everyone is being watched even if they don’t realize it. Every shut eye ain’t closed, and it’s never any secrets in the heart of the ghetto. The streets stay talking and slow gathering information low key on the regular. However, at one particularly dilapidated two-family flat located only a few yards down from the church outreach building, it was apparent the block was being eagle-eyed. Clay, the resident dope peddler, was arrogantly standing on the porch. Stretching his tattooed arms upward, he frowned with disdain. He’d been on the block for some time now doing what he did. Which, truth be told, was causing more harm than good. Although he was definitely lining his pockets, he was tearing down the once-tranquil environment. Yet, in his judgmental eyes, he was far from the problem. People out here straight foolin’. It ain’t no way in hell it could be me. He tugged at his forever-stiff manhood through his dark denim shorts. Staring up the street, he then shook his head. Clay’s attitude was one of contempt. Although he could have overlooked his neighbors’ daily routines and behavior patterns, he chose not to do so. He stood firmly in judgment. I wish to hell I would let the next man dictate my cash flow. I’ma ball till the day they bury my black ass. These niggas out here like some worker bees; no pride.