For anyone who would like to get an idea of my first book, read on for the first two chapters! You can find it on Amazon here.

Chapter 1

“There are rules, and there’s what’s right. God is somewhere in between.”

• Lucas Hood, Banshee

“Forgive me, Fatha, for I’ve sinned.” Father Jac Lloyd had heard this opening line in the confessional thousands of times over the years, and every time he heard it, he felt the need in the voice behind it. Sometimes it was regret or remorse, while other times, it just seemed to be the expected words of an empty ritual to abdicate the speaker from being responsible for their actions. This time it was the former, the confessor’s voice quivering, almost as if they were both saddened by their behavior and fearful of the consequences of the actions they were about to confess to. “”It’s been tree weeks since my last confession.”” the voice continued quietly, then abruptly stopped, as if the speaker wasn’t sure how to continue. 

“I understand, my son, and it’s alright. Just relax, take your time, and take solace that your words will never leave this confessional. Whatever you need to say here is between you and God. No man has any concern about them.” Father Lloyd always held confession as sacred, and ensured any member of his parish, or anyone at all who came to the church seeking help, were treated with the same amount of respect and dignity. “Whenever you are ready to continue, I am here.” 

The confessor was quiet for a few moments, as if struggling emotionally with what he was about to say.”Fatha… I don’t exactly know how to say dis… I saw a murda, and… I lied ‘bout who did it. I said it was somebody else.”

The experienced Catholic priest could feel the anxiety and tension in the voice behind the screen. “I see, my son. The question you need to ask yourself is why you did it, was the reason behind the lie and cover up for personal gain or for personal safety. If you need to work through this, we can continue.” 

The voice on the other side of the screen hesitantly continued. “It was a police officah who shot a woman—a reporta—who was diggin’ inta corruption in the police depahtment. I work da night shift at a convenience sto’, and… I’m also an informant fo’ dis cop. He stopped me a while back fo’ drivin’ while Black, then planted drugs in my car. Said I was gonna go to prison fo’ dealin’. I told him dey wasn’t mine, dat I ain’t had nothin’ to do wit’ ’em, and he said, ‘Who da courts gonna believe? A Black man from da Ninth Ward, or a white cop?’ Then he told me he could make it all go away… if I gave him information. I didn’t have a choice, Fatha. My mama needs me to help pay her bills, take care o’ her. I couldn’t go to prison, ’specially fo’ somethin’ I ain’t do. She don’t got nobody else.”

 The confessor’s words came out in a rush, the tension he felt, the anger and frustration caused by a broken, corrupt system could be heard in every syllable he spoke. “I had to agree to be his informant. Then dis lady reporta comes ’round askin’ ’bout police corruption and brutality toward folks in da Ninth Ward. I told her I ain’t know nothin’. I ain’t want NOPD harassin’ me or my mama. But den dis cop, he finds out ’bout her and tells me to set up a meetin’ at my sto’ to talk to her. I did what I had to do… I ain’t know he was gonna kill her. After he shot her, he told me to make it look like a robbery gone bad. And if I didn’t, he said he’d make sure his report said I was part o’ the robbery, and I’d end up in jail. So I had to lie. Had to say it was a Black man wearin’ a mask. I know it was wrong, Fatha, but… I ain’t have no choice.”

 The anguish in the confessor’s voice pulled at the priest’s heart, and he could understand the sadness and struggle the young man was dealing with. It was already hard enough for a young black man in the ninth ward, struggling to make ends meet while also taking care of his mother, just to have racism and corruption in the NOPD magnify the stress and struggle. 

“My son, the lord understands you have only done the best you could to make sure your mother is taken care of. He is not going to hold a sin committed in the act of protecting another against you. If you feel the need for reconciliation and absolution, then pray upon what you need to do to find it. Having you say a few Hail Mary’s isn’t going to help you feel better unless you believe that’s what it will take.” 

“Lyin’ and coverin’ up dis murda… dat ain’t what’s botherin’ me da most, Fatha. It’s da lack o’ justice for dis innocent woman. Her killah’s a New Orleans police officah—a man wit’ power, a badge, and da authority to kill folks and walk away clean. I’m torn, Fatha. Do I keep hidin’ who da real killah is so I can take care o’ my mama? Or do I risk it all to get dis woman da justice she deserves? But who’s gonna believe me—my word—against a cop’s? I know what da right thing to do is… but doin’ da right thing? I don’t even know if it’s possible.”

Father Lloyd sighed, as the complicated mess this young man was in did not have an easy answer. “My son, you have expressed that your responsibilities are to the care and welfare of your mother, which is noble of you. God would agree with that choice. And while you also feel responsible to make the truth known to help this woman find justice, God would also agree that if one responsibility conflicts with another responsibility, you have to choose which responsibility is greater, which you have done by maintaining the lie to make sure your mom is safe and you can care for her. Don’t feel bad for committing a sin for the right reasons, try to understand the difference between the letter of the law and the intent of the law. You are following the intent of God’s laws, and therefore you should not feel guilty of the minor sins you have to commit to continue to follow the intent of God’s laws.” 

The young man on the other side of the screen felt a little bit relieved. “Thank ya, Fatha. I feel real bad ’bout dis lie, and I wanna see dis innocent woman get da justice she deserves… but I also gotta make sure my mama’s okay.” 

“Go with God, my son, and be certain that God’s will shall be done. No man can prevent the will of God, and it is not your responsibility to ensure God’s will is done. You are doing the right thing by taking care of what you can, and leaving the rest in God’s hands.”

The priest waited for a few minutes after the confessor left the confessional. He knew the person, knew everything about him, but for the sake of confidentiality, he waited so the individual would feel secure in his anonymity. As he stepped out of the confessional, the bishop’s secretary, Grace Stanley, was waiting down the aisle. “Excuse me, Father, the Bishop would like you to come up to his office, if you have time.” 

Looking around the church and not seeing anyone else waiting to give confession, Father Lloyd smiled and said “Sure, Mrs. Stanley, I can head up now.” It was rare for anyone in the church to have their own secretary, but the Bishop was very busy, and had requested support staff to help administer the church business. While Mrs. Stanley technically held a position to assist with any administrative duties the church had, Bishop Stephan Rummel kept her busy, and it was known that she almost exclusively worked for the Bishop. Nobody had any real issue with it, as Bishop Rummel handled almost every administrative task and duties to allow the priests to focus on helping the parishioners. The people of the parish kept the priests quite busy, asking for church guidance and support on a daily basis. It felt like an endless task, but Father Lloyd loved it. He welcomed the responsibilities of the clergy, and often sought out what else could be done to help the people.

Near the front of the church, off to the right of the large crucifix, was a door that led to a small stairwell. Father Lloyd passed through the dark mahogany door into the stairwell, walking quietly up the steps. 

He already knew what the bishop wanted, this was merely a formality that allowed the bishop to feel like he was in charge. As a priest, he himself  did not have any aspirations of power or position, as he preferred to help people directly. The administrative side of the Catholic church was too much like a business to him, trying to increase profit while reducing expenses, with little thought or care about what the individual person needed. Father Lloyd considered this to be a weakness of the church, and he felt the potential corruption of organized religion was too great of a threat where power and money was concerned. While he didn’t feel that Bishop Rummel was doing anything directly wrong, he couldn’t help but feel the farther away from the people a position of power granted you, the easier it is to stop seeing them as human beings with needs and instead as numbers on a report. 

As the church’s bishop, Bishop Rummel was in a position to direct resources to help people, as well as decide what people would be denied resources based on availability and cost. Father Lloyd worked hard to help people with the issues they faced while also keeping operating costs as low as possible, as that allowed him to help more people at greater lengths. 

Reaching the top of the stairs, the middle aged priest followed the hallway to Bishop Rummel’s office, its door open, the fortyish senior clergy seated behind a large wooden desk. He looked up from the file he held in his hand, waving the older man into his office. 

“Father Lloyd, please come in. I have a new case I would like you to take a look at.” Father Lloyd sat in one the chairs opposite of the desk from the bishop, leaning forward to take the file the bishop held out to him. 

Opening the file, he quickly read through what information the file had, as there wasn’t much yet. “This says that Mary Johnson has requested an exorcism? I thought the church’s stance was that exorcisms were not actually needed, that people have seen too many tv shows and movies involving exorcisms, and now it’s the first thing they want to jump to.” 

The Bishop folded his hands and smiled at him. “Yes, it is the church’s stance that exorcisms are rarely, if ever, actually useful. Yet because we have yet to get our parishioners to understand that, we still take the request. Conduct your inquiry, and you recommend what support or service they actually need. I know the Cardinal doesn’t like us using the term exorcism, but we do need to make sure our parishioners are feeling like they are being heard and taken seriously. So Mrs. Johnson thinks her son Dion needs an exorcism. That is what we put in the file as the initial complaint. Just because we put that as her complaint doesn’t mean that is what we are going to do. I trust your recommendations, Father Lloyd. You know this. So if you don’t mind, please set up a day and time to conduct an inquiry, see what is really needed, and we will proceed from there.” 

Standing up, the priest nodded in acknowledgement. “As soon as I have something, I will give you a full report.” 

Turning to go, Bishop Rummel stopped him. “One more thing, Father Lloyd. I know you want to help people reconcile their lives, but the church’s official stance is that all sin is wrong, no matter what the reason.” 

The older man paused at the door, turned slightly back to face the Bishop, and replied “I understand, your excellency”, and walked out the door.

Chapter 2

Father Lloyd paused in front of the address he had for Mrs. Johnson. It was a shotgun style duplex, two shotgun houses built with one continuous roof over both of them. The shotgun style was a mildly humorous way to describe these kinds of houses, as they had a straight hallway from the front door to the back door, with rooms off to each side of the hall. Even though the original design was to make it more efficient to cool, as with both the front and back doors open, a breeze could flow through the house. The name came from the way it was often described, “a house with a hallway straight down the center, and if you stood in the front door and fired a shotgun at the back door, it would go clean through the house without hitting anything.” 

The front of these houses were coated with paint that was old and faded, and the worst disaster to ever hit New Orleans still evident on the front walls. A faded spray painted letter X, with the date of inspection at the top, the emergency unit that checked it to the left, and the number of dead found at the bottom. This was one of the places hit hardest by Hurricane Katrina in 2005, and while Mrs. Johnson’s house had a zero at the bottom of the X, the other house in the duplex had the number 2 at the bottom. The people who lived through Katrina had been through some of the hardest times anyone had in recent history, it was no surprise that the people in the Ninth Ward were the ones he seemed to help the most.

From what he had read in the file, Mrs. Johnson was one of those people who had lived through the death and loss of Katrina. Father Lloyd knew the people of the Ninth Ward very well, just as he knew the routine very well. Usually, a parishioner comes to the church, believing their child’s behavior is possibly due to a possession. The bishop summons the older priest, asks him to look into the case, and if it is deemed necessary, perform an exorcism. The Bishop often followed whatever advice the exorcist gave him, as the Bishop’s main concern was keeping the parishioners happy. 

Upon arriving at the address, Father Lloyd knocked on the door of the house in Bywater, and was met by Mary Johnson, a tired yet spirited creole woman raising her son Dion on her own. She welcomed her favorite priest into the house, offering him a cup of coffee at her kitchen table. Seated across from this tired woman at the table in her home where she fed her family, the priest began the interview with a straightforward question. “So what exactly is Dion doing that makes you feel he needs an exorcism?”

Taking a deep breath, gripping her coffee mug tightly, her brown eyes reflecting the fear and frustration she felt, Mary thought about what she was going to say. After a moment had passed, she  looked up from her coffee, her gaze moving to the priest’s collar, and tried her best to maintain her composure and articulate the need she felt was present. “He’s always so mad when he’s dealin’ wit’ adults, Fatha. Don’t seem like he cares ’bout his grades no more. He’s always runnin’ off wit’ his friends, and I know he’s been drinkin’ and smokin’ weed. He’s already missed so many classes ’cause he just won’t go. And he’s only 15, Fatha—he ain’t got much time left before he’s outta high school. And ya know how it is out dere… if he don’t go to college, he gonna struggle his whole life, just like I have.”

 She paused for a moment, as if the weight of her world was preventing her from talking. Yet she was a strong woman, shifting that weight to steady herself, and continued. “Even before he was born, Dion’s life been hard. He lost both his big brotha and his daddy to Katrina, Fatha—my husband Alexandre, and my first baby, Alex Junior.”  Mary stared at the wall, her eyes no longer registering the world around her as she recounted the tragedy she experienced, so many years ago. She inhaled deeply, preparing herself to relive that experience, and Father Lloyd sat quietly, his mind conjuring a visual representation of the tale as Mary spoke.

“We knew da hurricane was comin’, we used to ’em. Alexandre was worried ’bout Miss Etta next door—she was 82 years old and lived by herself. We spent most o’ da twenty-eighth gettin’ ready. We figured there’d be some floodin’, so I stayed busy wit’ AJ—Alex Junior—while Alex was next door helpin’ Miss Etta get her important stuff off da floor. He wanted to make sure she could get up high enough to stay safe if da water came in.

Even though dey said Katrina was a Category 3, we didn’t think it would hit us head-on. We figured, at worst, we’d catch da edge of it, like usual. We was jokin’ ’round, talkin’ ’bout da week comin’ up—makin’ da best of things, like we always do.

We was up early da next mornin’, ’round six, cookin’ breakfast just in case we lost power—which we did, not long after. Da wind outside was strong, and we knew we couldn’t go out in it ’til da storm passed.

Den da floodin’ started—not too bad at first, just a couple inches, but we kept watchin’. After a few hours, da water was risin’ fast, already up a few feet. We thought dat had to be da worst of it, but it kept comin’. Da city told folks to evacuate, but dat wasn’t an option for us. Our car barely ran, and we didn’t have nowhere to go anyway. We thought it’d be like always—just wait it out.

Da water kept risin’, and Alex decided to go check on Miss Etta, make sure she was still okay. As soon as he opened da door, we saw how fast it was risin’, and da rain just wouldn’t stop. I was only a couple months pregnant wit’ Dion, so I could still move around okay and take care o’ AJ while Alex went to help her. Our car was parked out on da street, but dere was no way we could drive it anywhere—da water was already too deep, and it kept risin’.

While Alex waded out into da storm to get to Miss Etta, I told AJ to get up to da attic. We started haulin’ candles, food, and water up dere, but da water came in even faster, rushin’ down da street and pourin’ into da house. By da time I made it to da ladder, it was up to my chest. I called out for Alex, prayin’ he’d be okay, but all I could see through da open doorway was da car almost completely underwater, startin’ to move wit’ da current. I grabbed onto da ladder and climbed up into da attic.

AJ was already at da little window, starin’ out at da storm. I’ll never forget da look on his face—pure terror. No mama should ever have to see her child like dat.

‘Mama!’ AJ cried out. ‘Dere’s people in da water!’

I rushed over, grabbin’ him and pullin’ him back from da window. ‘Don’t look, baby. We gotta focus on stayin’ alive right now. We gotta stay calm.’

But AJ pulled away from me and ran back to da window. ‘But Dad’s still out dere! We gotta help him!’

I couldn’t believe it—wit’ everythin’ goin’ on, I’d forgotten ’bout Alex and Miss Etta. I ran to da window myself, lookin’ out, hopin’ to see ’em. But it was too hard to see much—the storm was ragin’, and da slope of da roof blocked most o’ da view of da front o’ da house.

I rushed back to da ladder, thinkin’ I’d go down to find Alex, but da water was almost up to da ceilin’. Dere was no way to get down. So I climbed back to da window and tried to open it, but it was stuck. AJ and I both pushed together, and finally, it slid up. Da wind and rain rushed in so loud it was like a freight train.

I leaned out da window and yelled, ‘Alex!’ But I couldn’t hear nothin’ over da wind. Dat’s when AJ started climbin’ out da window. ‘I gotta find Dad!’ he said.

I grabbed him, strugglin’ to pull him back in, rain pourin’ in on us. ‘No, baby! You can’t go out dere! Your dad’s gonna be okay—I’m sure he got Miss Etta up into da attic.’ I hugged him tight, my whole body shakin’, prayin’ God would keep us all safe. I finally decided to close da window and wait for da storm to pass, hopin’ for da best.

I don’t know how long it was before da wind finally started to calm, but as soon as it did, AJ was back at da window, insistin’ we had to check Miss Etta’s attic. I opened it and looked out. Da water was almost up to da window sill now.

‘We should check Miss Etta’s attic,’ AJ said real quiet. ‘See if Dad is in dere.’ I wanted to know if Alex was okay just as bad as he did, but I didn’t know what to do. I leaned out da window and yelled again, ‘Alex!’ But all I could hear was da water slappin’ against da house, and people cryin’ and yellin’ from other houses.

Before I could stop him, AJ climbed out da window. ‘I’m goin’ to Miss Etta’s attic—maybe dey’re in dere and just fell asleep or somethin’.’

I knew I shoulda stopped him. Shoulda pulled him back. Shoulda protected my baby. But I was frozen. AJ was just like his daddy—strong-willed, stubborn, always thinkin’ ’bout helpin’ somebody else before himself. I just watched, helpless, as my baby climbed out onto da roof and disappeared ’round da side of da window frame.

Losin’ sight of him snapped me outta it, and I leaned out da window, watchin’ as AJ moved careful-like across da roof to Miss Etta’s attic window. My heart was in my throat. I couldn’t even breathe, scared to death he’d slip and fall.

Finally, he made it over to da other attic window. He wiped at da glass, peerin’ inside. ‘I don’t see nothin’, Mama,’ he said. ‘It’s all dark in here. I can’t tell if Dad’s in here.’

‘Be careful, baby,’ I called, hopin’ Alex would appear, reachin’ out to AJ to let us know he was okay. But nothin’ happened.

AJ started tryin’ to catch da edge of da window wit’ his fingers. ‘It’s stuck, just like ours was,’ he said, shiftin’ to get better leverage. I saw him strugglin’, pullin’ on it as hard as he could, when it happened.

I watched in slow motion as his fingers slipped, and part of da window frame broke. He lost his balance on da wet roof and fell backward.

‘AJ!’ I screamed as I saw my baby hit da water, his arms stretchin’ out, tryin’ to catch somethin’. I leaned out da window as far as I could, willin’ my arm to grab him, to pull him back. I saw his hands come up outta da water, flailin’, before da current carried him away.

I collapsed against da window, sobbin’. I don’t remember much after dat. I don’t remember bein’ rescued or leavin’ da attic or even where I went after. Dey told me later I was in shock. But who wouldn’t be, Fatha? Who wouldn’t be, after watchin’ dey baby get taken away like dat?”

As Mary finished her tale, her eyes were misty, her shoulders slumped. It was clear that losing her first born and husband was a significantly stressful event for her. The priest set his cup of coffee down and pulled out a small notepad and pen from his inside coat pocket. He flipped open his notepad and flipped through it to find a blank page, his grey eyes barely registering much as he was in deep thought. 

He scribbled a few notes, sighed, and brought his gaze back to Mary, ready to continue. “I am so sorry for the traumatizing loss you have suffered, Mrs Johnson. That was a truly terrible time for our city. If you need me to, I can come back another time.” 

The tired woman took a deep breath, composing herself, wiping the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes. “It’s been fifteen years, Fatha. I been grievin’ every single day since den—fifteen years. Time ain’t helped so far, and it ain’t gonna make no difference if we keep goin’ now or wait ’til later. And please… just call me Mary.”

 The clergyman nodded, impressed by Mary’s strength and practicality. Deal with things you have to in the moment, and grieve later when you have time. “What school does he attend?” 

“Well, I had him at St. Augustine ’til he got hisself kicked out, so I moved him to Frederick Douglass, but he got expelled from there too. I got him enrolled in one o’ dem online high schools now, but it don’t matter—he won’t do dat neither. I just don’t know what to do, Fatha. He used to be such a good boy, and… somethin’ changed dis past year or so. It’s like he turned into somebody completely different.” 

The frustration in Mary’s voice was heart wrenching for the priest, even though he heard the same frustration, interwoven with notes of sadness, many, many times before. “Has Dion expressed any issues or concerns about his time at St. Augustine or Frederick Douglas? Does he attend mass or any other service? How has his emotional state been lately?” 

“No, no, and angry—so angry. Sometimes he acts like a wild animal, Fatha, screamin’ and thrashin’ ’round when I try to make him go to school or to da church. One time… he acted like he was gon’ bite me, just screamin’ all crazy, sayin’ stuff I couldn’t even understand! It was like da devil hisse’f had taken control of my boy!” She replied, visibly shaking and overcome with emotions. 

The priest jotted down the information, frowning, his brow furrowed in thought. After a few moments, he looked back to Mary, reaching across the table, taking her hand in his to offer some comfort. “I’ll take this to the Bishop, and he’ll most likely approve my recommendation. I am so sorry you have had such difficulties with Dion, but rest assured, I’m here to help, and I will do everything in my power to help your son.” 

The tired woman squeezed his hand, her eyes filled with grateful tears, a glimmer of hope in her face. “Thank ya so much, Fatha. I don’t know where I’d be wit’out da help from da church.” 

Closing his notebook, he gave Mary the warmest, most comforting smile he could muster, squeezing her hand before putting his notebook back in its pocket and standing up from the table. “Keep strong in your faith, sister Mary, I will return as soon as possible.”