“Do you know who Nicole’s parents are?” I asked.
He studied me for a very long time, then said, “Before Bunny and I were saved, we were sinners living in the world, committing sins of the flesh. Bunny is Nicole’s mother.… But you already knew that, didn’t you?”
I nodded. “And her father?”
“To be honest,” he said, “we don’t know. And I almost feel it’s better that way. I became her father. And loved her as much as any father ever loved his child.”
It was only through years of discipline and training that I kept from laughing at that.
“How long have you known?” I asked.
“About Bunny?” he asked. “She was pregnant when I married her. It was a test from God. I passed. I accepted her, the way Hosea did Gomer, the way God did Israel, his beloved, even when she played the harlot.”
“Is there a possibility that Nicole’s biological father could’ve been at the service that night?” I asked.
He tried to act surprised, but didn’t pull it off well. “Like I said, we don’t know who he is.”
“But he might’ve been?”
“It’s possible,” he conceded. Then glanced at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got a meeting and then a prayer luncheon to speak at.”
“Just a few more questions, please,” I said. “What exactly does DeAndré Stone do for you?”
“Provides security for and assists Bunny,” he said. “He’s part of our Freeing the Captives program. Sometimes a judge will actually send a troubled young man to us rather than putting him in prison. I have several men on parole and probation working for me-I want prison outreach to be the center of my ministry. God’s given me a heart for them-I am them.”
“Did you know there are a lot of rumors of criminal activity in your organization?”
“No, but it doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “You know how people envy and talk about successful people-especially ministers. Besides, as I said, I employ a lot of ex-offenders and parolees. Not all of them are saved. We’re working with them, but they’re still fallen human beings. I’m sure some of them are still in the life. But it really surprises me that you listen to rumors.”
“Did you know that DeAndré was at the prison this past Monday night?”
“What?” he asked in what appeared to be genuine shock. “Are you sure?”
“Positive,” I said. “He attacked Nicole’s father and later, after the Larry King show, me and my wife.”
“Did he say why?”
He had flinched when I said ‘Nicole’s father,’ but quickly recovered and apparently wasn’t going to pursue it.
“I figured he was doing it for you,” I said.
“Me?” he asked in even greater shock and I was convinced it was authentic. “Why would I–I invited you here to offer you a position on my staff. I really respect you… but even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have anybody attack anybody-I can’t believe you could think such a thing about me.”
Standing, Bobby Earl led me back through the opulent mansion that made me think of a thriving Victorian whorehouse more than anything else.
“He works for you,” I said. “It’s not as if I made an enormous leap.”
“He works for my wife,” he said, “but not any longer-if you’re certain he did these things.”
“I’m certain,” I said. “Did you know that NOPD has an ongoing investigation into you and your organization?”
“I knew the IRS did,” he said. “They hound every major ministry in the country. Are the police helping them?”
Either he was truly out of touch with what was going on in his organization or Bobby Earl Caldwell was a tremendous loss to stage and screen.
I shook my head. “They’re looking into allegations of abuse, extortion, and homicide.”
“Homicide?”
“Yeah.”
“No wonder you don’t want to join my staff,” he said. “But I can assure you there’s some kind of mistake and I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I’ve noticed that a lot of inmates donate significant amounts of money to your ministry,” I said. “Why-”
“Chaplain,” he said in a voice that sounded scolding. “You know good and well most inmates don’t have much money. It is true that some of them make small contributions, but I can assure you that they don’t even cover our expenses when we conduct a crusade.”
“The really large amounts go to a post office box here in-”
“I don’t have a post office box,” he said. “All our mail is delivered directly to the headquarters.”
“Well, I’m telling you an awful lot of money payable to you is leaving our prison addressed to you at a post office box over here.”
He hesitated a moment, his eyes moving around as he thought about it. “I have a very large organization,” he said. “I guess some of our departments may have post office boxes to keep things separate. I’ll check into it. I will, but right now I’ve got to go.”
“Okay,” I said.
“Please consider coming to Nicole’s service,” I said. “I’m sure the media would like to get a statement from you about it.”
“The media’s gonna be there?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, as if I knew, “I think Larry King may even do a follow up show afterwards.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “And you please consider my offer. I can assure you the rumors you’ve heard are not true. You’ll get three times what you’re making now just to attend a few meetings a year and answer the occasional question about prison ministry from time to time. Plus, I’ll give you a signing bonus of say, a hundred K.”
“No,” I said, as he ushered me out the door, “I’m not worth that kind of money.”
“Maybe not, but what you know is,” he said, just before closing the door, and I left wondering if what he thought I knew had anything at all to do with prison ministry.
CHAPTER 46
That evening, with the sun beginning its descent behind St. Louis Cathedral, I bought a bag of beignets and a large coffee at the Café du Monde, crossed Decatur to Jackson Square, and found an empty bench on which to enjoy them.
Slowly, the sounds of jazz bands were dying out, the street artists, mimes, and magicians being replaced by fortunetellers, tarot readers, and guides for vampire, ghost, and graveyard tours.
The breeze blowing off the Mississippi filled the air with a briny pungency and humidity that mixed with the cooking food and confections of the Quarter, riding on its currents the soft, sad sounds of a lone saxophone coming from Pirates Alley.
With the crowds and noises of the day gone, I had hoped to think about the case, integrating what I knew with what I had learned since arriving in New Orleans, but it was not to be.
Both the bag and the beignets were filled with powdered sugar that stuck to my fingers and face, a light dusting of which was accumulating on my clothes. I was trying to wipe it off when Bunny Caldwell walked up.
“I heard you and Bobby Earl talking at the house,” she said.
She was wearing dark shades and a hat that hid much of her face, her nervous moves and paranoid glances highlighting the fact that they were intended as a disguise.
“How?” I asked.
She looked confused.
“That was a crack about its size,” I said. “Have a seat.”
Glancing around furtively, she sat down next to me without trying to avoid the powdered sugar covering the bench.
“Bobby Earl grew up poor,” she said.
“Well, he’s making up for it now.”
She smiled. “Trying.”
“Except you can’t,” I said.
“You can’t make up for anything you didn’t get in childhood, can you?”
“Sounds like maybe you’ve been trying, too,” I said.
She nodded. “Yeah,” she said, more to herself than to me, and I knew some of what I had heard about her was true.
Across the way, a homeless man rose from where he had been sleeping on the grass, walked over to the fountain, and began washing his face and hands.