Without Faith by Leslie J. Sherrod Page A

Gone.
    I had not felt that emotionally and physically close to a man like that for sixteen years. And RiChard found a way to ruin it for me.
    Now it was just me, the bright moon, the flutter of moths overhead, and the lingering scent of Leon’s cologne.
    What is wrong with me?
    I didn’t have time to answer that question. I had my son to think about. My son and that lion’s head ring I wanted to recover before it was discovered.
    â€œGood, you’re back.” Sadie Spriggs nodded as I descended into the basement once more. “I told you he still worked for channel 55.” She was pointing to the television that someone had turned on in my absence. The eleven o’clock news was on.
    â€œYes.” I nodded back. “I knew that Brother Tyson . . .” The rest of the sentence became lodged in my throat as I tried to make sense out of what was flashing on the television screen.
    Oh my, Jesus, what is going on? I prayed in horror, not believing my eyes.

Chapter 9
    Brother Lazarus Tyson, or Laz as we called him, had been a news anchor for channel 55 for several years. A graduate of Morehouse College, he had previously worked for networks in Atlanta, then in Houston, and, right before returning to Baltimore, New Orleans. His brave, risky coverage and on-air political rants during Hurricane Katrina had earned him the nickname “Brass Laz.” The rants had also marked him as a potential troublemaker for news stations. With no other networks across the nation willing to take a chance with his unscripted and unapologetic live commentaries, he’d been forced to accept the only job opened to him, back in the newsroom of the Baltimore-based network where he had interned as a teen.
    He was a mystery at our church. The heavily opinionated and brazen journalist barely said a word to anyone on Sundays. Sitting in the back row, he came late and left early, usually walking right out the door after walking around the sanctuary to drop his customary fifty dollar bill in the offering plate each service.
    But all of that was irrelevant to me at the moment.
    â€œTurn that up,” I demanded as I marched over to the flat-screen TV my father had hung over his overly used wet bar.
    â€œThis is Lazarus Tyson reporting live from the Baltimore City Police headquarters. Back to you in the studio, John.”
    â€œWait a minute, what . . . what did he say about the girl whose picture was just up on the screen?”
    My parents and Yvette were arguing about some money she owed them. Sister Spriggs was rocking back and forth in her chair, humming, watching them all go at it.
    No one even heard my question, so I was certain they had not been paying attention to the news story that had gone off seconds earlier. I picked up the remote, wondering if my father had paid the extra money with his cable subscription to have the ability to rewind and record.
    He had.
    I pressed the rewind button to see the entire clip of Laz’s story.
    â€œPolice are asking your help tonight with the reported kidnapping of a young woman in the neighborhood of Fells Point.” Laz spoke somberly into the live camera shot, his signature brown trench coat whipping in the nighttime breeze, his brown fedora barely holding on to the side of his head. I held my breath, waiting for the snapshot that had grabbed my attention moments earlier to flash on the screen again.
    â€œWitnesses describe a horrifying scene of an African American woman who looked to be in her early to mid-twenties come screaming out of an alley, begging and pleading for help,” Laz continued. “She appeared to be bleeding and residents of this quiet neighborhood immediately contacted police, who are reporting that at least ten 911 phone calls were made from community members between 9:06 p.m. and 9:08 p.m. However, by the time police arrived at 9:10 p.m., there were no signs of her.
    â€œAt least two witnesses are reporting that immediately after she