Justice Denied (J. P. Beaumont Novel) by Jance, J. A.
PROLOGUE
LaShawn Tompkins saw the sole white woman, a nun, huddled under her umbrella in the pouring rain as he turned the decrepit Windstar van off Rainier Avenue South onto Church Street. The cracked rubber on the wiper blade wasn’t doing much to clear the windshield. Through puddled raindrops he caught only the barest glimpse of an anxious white face illuminated in the yellowish haze of a feeble rain-washed streetlight. His headlights flashed briefly on the gold-embossed lettering of the book she carried.
LaShawn didn’t have to read the words printed there to recognize the book for what it was—the Holy Bible. It wasn’t uncommon for fearless missionaries of many denominations to venture into this part of Seattle’s central district to spread the word about their particular brand of salvation, but it was unusual for one to do so alone. LaShawn suspected that the nun’s proselytizing companion or companions were merely out of sight somewhere, knocking on doors or chatting in someone’s living room.
Not his mother’s, though, LaShawn thought fiercely. Whoever these heathen-seeking women were, they had no business dragging their skinny white butts (he was teaching himself to weed the profanity out of his words, so he didn’t even think the word “asses”) out here where they didn’t belong. And where it wasn’t safe. Didn’t they know their Bibles or their skimpy little Watchtower magazines would be zero defense against random violence or against the stray bullets likely to culminate any number of drug deals gone bad? Maybe they were counting on God to protect them.
“Well, good luck with that,” LaShawn muttered under his breath as he pulled into the short driveway of his mother’s south Seattle cottage.
LaShawn was both a neighborhood pioneer and a survivor. As a juvenile he had been one of the original gangbangers who had helped turn the quiet of Church Street into a deadly drug-dealing no-man’s-land. Most of the kids LaShawn had grown up with were either deceased or in prison by now. The fact that his mother still lived there—the fact that Etta Mae Tompkins refused to live anywhere else—was one of God’s little practical jokes. It was like He was saying, “See what you did, Shawny? You planted them weeds and now you gotta watch your momma live in that garden.”
Zipping up his bright yellow King Street Mission windbreaker, LaShawn stepped out of the dented van into a wholesale downpour. This wasn’t the usual dry drizzle—the gentle and ever-present rain—for which Seattle is famous. No, this was a warm, heavy spring rain, the kind the weathermen liked to call a Pineapple Express. If the heavy precipitation prematurely melted the mountain snowpack, there might well be a water shortage the next summer. Another one of God’s little jokes. If He sent too much rain in March, Etta Mae’s flowers would thirst to death the following August.
LaShawn glanced up the street. The nun was still there, standing on the corner. Where were her buddies? Or was she maybe waiting for a ride to come collect her? Fair enough, LaShawn muttered under his breath. Long as you don’t come nosin’ around here.
If one of them tried knocking on Etta Mae’s door, LaShawn would be there to send her packing. Etta Mae Tompkins may have been LaShawn’s mother, but she was also the most godly woman he had ever known, bar none. She didn’t need some busybody white lady coming around door-to-door and telling her what she should or shouldn’t believe.
Ducking his head against the rain, LaShawn hurried up onto the porch. He came here twice a day, morning and night. So far Brother Mark had been good enough to let LaShawn use the shelter’s van for these filial visits to care for his ailing mother. Unfortunately, the situation at the shelter seemed to be going downhill fast. LaShawn didn’t know how much longer he would be at the mission, to say nothing of having access to the van. But for now he was still able to come by each morning to make sure Etta Mae was up and around and to fix her breakfast. During the day Meals-on-Wheels dropped off packets of fairly decent, already prepared food. In the evenings LaShawn came by again to make sure Etta Mae actually ate it.