The Truth Shall Be Revealed

By Evon Davison

The Truth Shall Be Revealed is the continuing saga of criminal life on the streets of Seattle, Washington. Twists and turns abound as greed and manipulation take a front seat to the true meaning of life, love and friendship. The desire to rule the seedy underworld will uncover secrets, lies and unbridled passions; souls will be sacrificed to expose the holes in the ethical backbone of truth and justice.
Lives will transform and unfold on the pathway to unlawful street supremacy; love will be lost and friendships will be questioned before the truth is revealed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499047288

Evon Davison

Evon is a 20 year veteran of the United States Army. she currently resides in North Carolina. This is her fifth novel.

Book preview

1

She could feel the cold, wet, familiar Seattle rain slither down the back of her neck as she peered from behind the bushes. Her hooded sweatshirt could not stop the unremitting drips of water from penetrating the cloth and soaking her to the bone. She shivered as she looked up at the overcast sky; typical of a fall afternoon in the Pacific Northwest.

A slight breeze drifted through the air, slicing through most of the open pockets in the brush that she had deemed her hiding place. The autumn-hued leaves on the bushes flapped loudly each time the placid wind picked up. They fell and scattered to the ground with each gentle gust. Her hiding place was obscure; she looked over the crest of the hedge plant to monitor any activity in the graveyard. Nothing yet.

She lay on her back and relaxed for a moment and breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a long, exhausting week, and she wanted to take a nice long sleep, but not now. She had so much to do and little time to do it. Instead, as she stared up at the angry sky, she noticed a cluster of black clouds forming with eerily familiar shades. They triggered childhood memories of when a hurricane or tornado was about to come barreling through the coastal area she grew up in.

Seattle was not a tornado zone, and if it were, the sky would be pinkish. Here in the Northwest, the only natural disasters were rain, more rain, occasional snowfall, volcanic threats from Mount Saint Helens and more rain. She was sure a hurricane wasn’t about to strike, because the sky had not turned an evil hue of black, and the winds and torrential rains were not strong enough. She was intimately familiar with the warning signs, having survived a couple of hurricanes when she was a kid growing up along the coastal towns in Mississippi.

The worst hurricane to unleash it’s fury on the Mississippi Gulf Coast Camille in 1969. Angela was five years old at the time, but her memory of the horrific event was still intact. Camille was a real bitch, if a hurricane can be labeled as such. She remembered the old timers spinning tales about how the storm’s devastation was unprecedented. Camille came gushing through the rippling waters like a betrayed, angry lover, destroying million dollar beachfront dwellings as she rolled eastward. The bitch came tumbling towards their ramshackle house on Elder Street like a raging thief in the night.

Angela vividly remembered hiding underneath the dirty clothes in the tall, pitch black laundry closet in their house. In fact, the whole family huddled in the closet underneath the dirty clothes every time an impending storm approached, as it was the safest place in the house. On this day they listened and clung to one another as they waited for Camille to quickly descend upon their tiny, modest quarters.

As Camille violently rolled in, the air exploded with a loud whistling sound that was excruciating to the eardrum. They covered their ears and waited until she descended upon their property. When she hit ground, the noise sounded like an eighteen wheeler plowing into another eighteen wheeler, metal on metal, guaranteed destruction and chaos. The impact of the collision was horrible, while the wind whipped and tore at every angle of their rented property. They could hear the roof lifting off of the little green shack as it shook and rattled like a madman was kicking a tin can along the street.

After the horrifying rains and winds subsided, the family cautiously gathered outside to survey the damage. Angela remembered her father extending his balled fists upward, cursing God and the powers that be. Her mother provided comfort to him, telling him that God does not make mistakes. Camille had stolen half of their roof, which was already in bad shape. She had catapulted the huge oak trees from their front yard to the sides of the house, and she had destroyed the six yellow bikes the kids had gotten for Christmas the year before and the baby’s yellow tricycle. She had even stolen the damned raggedy shoes and tattered second hand clothing for the children that the rich white folks had given their mother, Elaina. Everything they cared about was ruined. Their front yard and the street they lived on looked like a scene from a horror movie. Power lines were strewn across the street; there were snakes, cats, dogs and other woodland creatures washed up in their yard and in middle of the street. The trees were turned upside down with their giant roots sticking up out of the ground.

When they saw the remnants of their yellow bikes, she and her siblings were pissed! There were pieces of yellow metal everywhere! There were bicycle wheels across the street from their house; there were handle bars caught up in the fallen trees. Fuck the hurricane! What were they supposed to do once this bitch blew over? They would have no bikes to ride, no trees to cover them from the scorching sun during the summer, no animals to play with and maybe a half-ass repaired roof that would still require buckets in every room to capture the fucking rain! Then there were the feeding zones the Government would set up to issue food and containers of fresh water to residents along the coastal communities. They were the worst, or at least she remembers her parents saying so.

Angela and her siblings knew what the food lines meant: Damned just the thought still made her shiver. That nasty ass welfare cheese, clumpy powdered milk, dusty powdered eggs and that despicable canned meat. Forget the canned meat, forget the powdered milk that tasted like a mixture of flour and water, forget the green powdered eggs and to hell with the welfare cheese.

The pig meat was bad, but the welfare cheese was the worst. Of all of the foods the Government issued them during the storm, the cheese had been the worst. The only thing that was a sure-fire guarantee after eating the Government issued cheese was a well deserved bowel movement, times nine (everybody included). Imagine having to share a toilet that never worked properly. The family had to use a bucket of water to force the waste down the sewer system and sometimes a lazy ass kid would neglect to fill the bucket with water and leave the crap in the bowl; the stench and the sight would be a major upset for the next person in line to take a leak or a dump. Naw, the Government cheese was guaranteed to leave everyone who ate it backed the hell up!

The salty pork with the picture of the pig on the front of the can was slightly better, but not by much. Opening the canned meat was comparable to opening a can of Spam; the difference being Spam tasted like caviar and the canned meat tasted and smelled like swampy back-water shit! Once the lid was pried open, the contents quickly slid out of the silver can, with that picture of the laughing welfare pig printed on it, leaving a trail of coagulated fat in its path. The shit was not fit for consumption by a pack of wild dogs. If a kid had an issue with being fat or with being called ugly pig-like names, the freaking picture of the pig surely didn’t help before, during or after consumption. That kid was an open target for ridicule.

There were a few overweight kids on Elder Street. Cleon Jenkins, the little fat, weird kid who lived down the street had a very hard time dealing with the ridicule and name-calling if someone caught him eating a piece of the fat loaf. Hell, Cleon stood about 5 foot 1 and weighed about 280 pounds by the time he was nine years old. His grandmother fed him all the shit Angela and her siblings couldn’t afford to eat. Cleon would waddle down the street with his thumb stuck in his mouth, looking stupid and happy, all the while huffing and puffing as he went about his way. Shit, the whole neighborhood gave that little fat bastard a hard time. Not saying it was right, but it was damned sure a lot of fun.

Poor, pathetic Cleon. He didn’t stand a chance in a neighborhood like theirs. Their ‘hood was a mixture of crazy jailbirds like the Brewsters, who never stayed out of jail long enough to know there was a sun in the sky. They were a menacing brood who would kick ass, anybody’s ass, at the drop of a hat. The entire family walked with their arms extended, like cowboys getting ready for a shoot-out. Then there were the Parker girls-fat and ugly to the core. They could steal your underwear while they were still attached to your ass and you wouldn’t have the slightest clue they had taken them. They were the housing project’s version of slick, professional thieves. It was nothing for them to walk into a shoe store wearing worn out, turned over shoes. Once store employees turned their heads, they’d take new shoes out of the box and replace them with their filthy, smelly shoes. All before any store employee could figure out what the fuck had happened. They were a hefty clan who would also steal from the local grocery stores around town. They hit up every Piggly-Wiggly and Wade Lou’s grocery stores along the coast line. The crew often consisted of the girls and their mother, Ms. Dot. They would stuff whole picnic hams and pork chops in Styrofoam packets of pork chops underneath their dresses or somewhere up their asses and simply walk away. It was obvious they didn’t wash their asses when they sold their cheap meat to their poor customers in the neighborhood. The meat was a little raunchy and wet" but what the hell was a little stench when a family like the Johnsons rarely had meat to eat at all. And like the Johnsons, a piece of inexpensive meat that smelled a little like ass was a welcome feast to most families in the neighborhood. Those heifers almost never got caught by the cops, and if they did, they bargained their way out-with a little meat and not always the meat they had stolen from the stores. Nope, the only thing Cleon Jenkins had in common with the other kids was poverty. No one liked him.

Cleon lived with his old wrinkled up grandmother, Nana Jenkins. She would call him to come home and eat dinner at 3:30 in the afternoon every Saturday. No one could ever figure out what she cooked because they still used kerosene to cook their food and to light their shambled house. Angela had been in there once or twice; the place was dark and gloomy. No wonder the boy always acted so wild. The outside world, even with the worst weather, was far better than the inside of his house. Cleon, who acted like he was semi-retarded, would haul ass down the road to get a meal of who knows what. He would run extra fast if the Brewster boys had him in their sights. By experience Cleon knew that if the Brewsters caught his ass before he got to his darkened home, his fat rolls would be sore for a week.

Neither the Brewsters nor the Parkers were a match for Camille. She was the worst bitch Angela remembers dealing with as a kid. She was worse than Ms. Mary, the little old lady who lived next door; she whipped all of the neighborhood kids’ asses on a regular basis. All the kids swore that Ms. Mary had roller skates tied to her house shoes because she could easily outrun any of them, and she looked to be every bit of ninety years old. Even Ms. Mary couldn’t hold a candle to Camille though. Camille was the first woman to turn her world upside down, but she certainly wouldn’t be the last.

Angela came out her reverie of the past and focused on what she was about to deal with in the present. She had read in the Seattle Times a few days before that the Carter woman’s final resting place was going to be at the Higher Reach Cemetery on today, Saturday at 2:00 p.m. There was a picture of her placed above her obituary write up. It was a nice write up-it mentioned her achievements and also mentioned her family-a husband, a daughter and extended family members, blah, blah, blah . . .

The paper that she had read a couple of days ago indicated that she had suffered from blunt force trauma to the head and torso; a bullet to the head, execution style was the cause of death. The paper also indicated that an investigation into the murder had been launched and a confession had been made by one of the perpetrators. The authorities were in the process of interviewing other suspects. She shrugged her shoulders. Same ole shit.

As she continued to read the article, a chill crept up her spine and her emotions took over as she remembered what had really taken place that night. Jesus, this did not happen! I was not supposed to die like this! She could feel her emotions rising and taking over, forcing knots to swirl in the pit of her stomach. I was supposed to live long enough to see Lindley grow up; I was supposed to live long enough to spoil my grandchildren. How could he have arranged such a violent end for me? How could he have the nerves to take a mother from her child? He’s an animal, he is truly a Carter. If he thought for one moment that I was still alive, he would hunt me down and kill me again! I’ve got to be very careful how I maneuver around this damned city! I was known in this city and people are interested in following this high profile case. Who knows what would happen if I’m discovered and exposed?

Angie, you’ve got to be smarter than the average bear! Think girl, think! They all think you’re dead; no one’s looking for you! Angela steadied her shaking hands and inhaled a breath of fresh air. She had to focus on her mission. There was a serious method behind her madness and she had to be in the flesh to see it all unfold. Knowing the date and time of her funeral allowed her to plan and get to the cemetery an hour and a half before the funeral began.

On the way to Higher Reach she stopped at a Dollar Store on Seventh Ave. and bought a cheap wool blanket, a note pad, black ink pen and a blue 4’X6" plastic tarp to place on the ground; it had rained heavily the night before. She wanted to jot her thoughts down on the paper when she went back to the temporary hiding place she called home, the Roosevelt Hotel located on Seventh Avenue and Pine. It was positioned in the middle of Seattle, near Pike Place Market and the Seattle Center. She had been there for a week now, relaxing and getting some well-deserved rest. Randy had taught her to disguise herself well. No one noticed the delicate woman with the slight limp on her right leg, who smiled and chatted with the clerk at the check in desk. The limp was fictitious, but it worked, and although she was confident about hiding her identity, she was always cautious. Bad luck could be her enemy at any time.

Angela had trusted Randy, had told him about her double life. She even took his advice on certain issues. Besides Ellie, Randy was the only other person she told about her living as Angela and Angelo. He was great to be around, switching his butt and snapping his long, feminine fingers; he was great at his craft-make up and disguises too. He hooked Angela up when she decided to go undercover as Angelo. No one on the streets ever knew that Angelo was really a woman. She credited Randy with making her carry out her secret disguise.

Angela also planned to purchase a backpack, snacks and water from a local food mart. As she entered both stores to make her purchases, she hung her head low, trying to avoid being recognized. She had donned black shades and a wig, the same disguise that she had been using for a week now; she covered her head with the hood of her sweatshirt. She paid for her items at both stores and was again relieved that no one took the slightest interest in her; besides she was dressed like any other street person who lived or hung out in the Emerald City. With her gear in tow she walked a mile and a half down Garfield Street to Fifteenth Avenue and cautiously entered the cemetery gate.

The cemetery was so spacious that she had to walk down path after path to find a hiding spot. She finally chose a cluster of shrubbery that was secluded and roomy enough to lay her tarp and blanket. Once this was done, she got back on the path and walked for nearly three hundred feet when she spotted two men digging a fresh grave on the north side of the cemetery. She positioned herself behind a large fir tree and observed them until they finished their task. After thirty minutes of digging and sweating, the men threw their shovels and other equipment into the back of their truck, hopped in and drove through the wrought iron gate, taking a left onto Fifteenth Avenue. Angela peered from the behind the tree, carefully scanning the area around her, and wandered over to the freshly unearthed dirt. The plastic covered nameplate at the burial site read Carter. In an instant, she could feel her life spilling forward; that horrible night, the craziness and the train wreck she once called a life. She gazed down into the hole that would later be her final resting place in less than an hour. The dirt looked cold and uninviting; she reached down and picked up a fistful of the rich soil, letting it slither through her fingers. She looked down into the infinite hole again. Six fucking feet under! If only those sons of bitches knew that I am really not going to be the guest of honor today. Oh yeah, Mr. Carter and company, I definitely will not be the guest of honor. Her insides screamed out I will not be defeated! I am here to STAY! Instinctively, she stood up and raised her arms upward, shaking her balled fists above her head, reminiscent of the scene from the movie Rocky, when Sylvester Stallone reached the apex of the government building in Philadelphia, claiming his physical readiness to battle the reigning boxing champion.

Satisfied that her personal space, a.k.a., the six foot deep hole, was good enough to accommodate her casket, she resumed her position behind the shrubbery and waited. Angela quickly slumped down onto her blanket, sentient of her surroundings. She was so tired from dealing with all of the events of the past week that she could feel her eyelids getting heavy . . .

She must have taken a quick nap because when she opened her eyes and peeked over the hedge, she could see two limousines, one behind the other, snaking their way along the twisting road. The cars were headed towards the northern portion of the grave yard; over to the open dirt pit that she had gazed down into an hour earlier. She also saw a blue, metallic BMW Z4 convertible trailing the limos. As the car passed by the hedge, Angela could see that the driver was Danielle Spencer, who she had not seen in the almost year and a half since Ellie, Danielle’s lover, had died in a horrific car accident. It seemed like only yesterday when she and her friends were at the theater, celebrating Randy’s theater debut. After the show they went to out to the club and dance; they had a hell of a time. They laughed, danced and drank, then danced some more. She left the club around 1:30 in the morning to go home to her family, only to be roused at 3:00 a.m. to be told that her good friend and confidant, Ellie, had been killed in a terrible drunk driving accident. The driver who caused the accident didn’t know where or who he was when the paramedics pulled him from his car. This had been his fourth drunk driving offense; he was finally sent to prison for manslaughter. Danielle and Randy spent a long time recuperating from their injuries.

She had been there for Danielle, helped her figure out how she was going to continue living without the love of her life. It was a rough time for everyone. Shortly after the car accident, Danielle left Seattle and returned to Hampton, Virginia to recover from the tragedy, physically and emotionally. Now the poor girl was going through some more catastrophic shit.

Angela watched as Danielle parked her car on the side of the path, about 50 feet beyond the burial area. She strolled over towards the burial site and Randy appeared from within the crowd. He hurried towards Danielle and hugged her neck. They had tears in their eyes and clung to one another. Look at my best friend Randy; he was always a good actor.

Suddenly, it occurred to Angela that she needed to somehow get Danielle’s attention. With the exception of her family, Danielle was the only other person in the crowd that she would trust with her life. This is my one shot and I’ve got to take it. She sat down on her blanket, took out her pad and pen and scribbled.

Danielle, I’m not dead! I am here at the cemetery. Stay behind after the others leave. Please! Make sure Randy leaves too. Please! Please! I really need your help!

A.C.

Angela folded the note and slid it into her sweatshirt pocket. This next move has got to be smooth and timed just right, and now is not the right time. She peeked over the hedge again. It was a waiting game at this point.

She watched as the immediate family exited the limo and was escorted to their seats by personnel from Hobbs Funeral Home. The look on their faces told the tragic story of her death. They gathered around the casket, most had their hands clasped in front of them. There were people everywhere, people she didn’t recall ever knowing. Some appeared to be jovial, like they were at a social event. They were standing around the burial site like they were waiting to be served at Antonio’s, an exclusive restaurant on Lake Washington. Antonio’s offered an after dark experience that came with a hefty price tag, but money and price meant nothing to most in this crowd.

There were smiles on most of their faces; she didn’t quite know how to gauge the smiles, didn’t know if they were glad to be finally rid of her or if they smiled in celebration of her short life. There were a few people with somber looks on their faces, but the overall scene was akin to a Hollywood movie. It was truly disgusting to her.

Even from her limited line of sight, she could see the diamonds and pearls sparkling each time the rain-drenched sunlight caught their jewelry at an angle. The women wore huge multihued, animated hats that matched their chic attire and trinkets, while the men wore tailor-made Armani suits, supplemented by expensive cuff links that shined like new coins against the sun. Angela was so very familiar with Armani suits-hell Armani was her preferred designer when she was at the height of her power as Angelo. Yeah, those flipping suits got my ass into a lot of trouble; landed me right in this graveyard. Armani my ass! Angela shook her head as she glared from behind the shrubbery. The only people, who were normal and dressed decently, in her opinion, were her family and her precious daughter, Lindley.

The pastor who presided over the funeral was the Reverend Doctor Leroy Reynolds, the pastor of a mega church called The Greater Mount Zion Church, over on Lee Street. The church had over three thousand worshippers and three additional pastors. There were two services every Sunday; one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Almost everyone who was in high social positions in the community were members of this church

Reverend Reynolds was flamboyant; oh the man could preach. He would have his congregation jumping up and down, singing and shouting Hallelujah! after listening to his sermons. Yeah ‘ole Leroy Reynolds could conjure up fire and brimstone right there in the pulpit. It was nothing for the church to have over a hundred visitors seated on a Sunday. People flocked from all around Seattle to hear him preach and he was forever recruiting. He had panache about him that many women found simply irresistible. He was a very good looking man of about forty—tall, around 6’2", with olive skin and deep, striking brown eyes. The wisp of grey hair nestled around his temples made him look important and distinguished and very attractive to the women. His charming disposition and good looks often got him into unsavory situations, or that’s how rumor had it. The clever reverend was rumored to have had affairs with many of his female parishioners; one rumor circulating throughout the church was that he fathered more than one child outside of his marriage. He was a whoremonger. It was no secret that the reverend loved to bed any woman but his wife. Angela guessed by looking at his wife that she was once a nice looking woman with a decent figure. That must have been before she started having kids. Now she was slovenly and fat, and wrinkles dominated her face. She probably earned them by worrying about her husband and his philandering ways.

One particular Sunday, one of the members named Sister Noble, stood up in church and accused the pastor of being the father of her child. She just out right blurted out the accusation. The adulterous accusation sent shivering hush waves throughout the church congregation that morning. All eyes landed on the reverend, whose quick wit turned the accusation into humiliation, targeted at the helpless, defenseless woman standing before a vicious crowd of supporters. Sister, how can you stand up in the house of the Lord and dare accuse your pastor of such a ridiculous thing? Now listen here, church folks. He made sure he rotated his head as he spoke. I don’t have to disclose this information, but as your pastor in a situation like this, where I am wrongfully accused, I feel that I need to. I’ve had a vasectomy for many years; my wife and I decided that three kids were enough for us to bring into this world. The information I’ve just told you should indicate that I couldn’t possibly be the father of that child. He turned his head in the woman’s direction. Sister Noble, you need to go outside of this church house and find the father of your child ’cause he sho ain’t sitting or standing in here. The reverend let his long buried Southern dialect slip out of his mouth as he spoke. "Reverend I hope God forgives you for lying in his House.

You know you’ve been with me and you know you are the father of my youngest child. And I plan to have you take a DNA test to prove it."

Ha that will be the day! he declared. With that the reverend turned his back and shot poor ole sister Noble a sneering look. Embarrassed, the woman stood up and started down the aisle, her head hung low; her tear drops dripped down on her dowdy dress. The only reaction from the parishioners was silence and ugly glares at