A Prayer for the Penitent

By Jesse Wimberly

Jeb Johnston is a successful trial attorney practicing in St. Anselm Parish, Louisiana. He has a weakness for the downtrodden and those abused by the powers-that-be. His old school southern sense of chivalry compels him to look into a New Orleans halfway house when one of its residents sends him a call for help.

She and the other women of the halfway house are being abused by the legal system and other influential donors and members of New Orleans society. Upon further investigation of corruption, Jeb becomes tangled in a web of sex and scandal. He uncovers secrets that the operators and board of directors want to remain hidden at any cost, even murder.

In this case, the powerful prey upon the weak, often in the guise of religion. Jeb fights to reveal the exploitation of the so-called religious charitable community, as threats rain down around him. The faithless façade of organized religion is exploiting the weak and innocent, and Jeb will do anything to save these women from further attack.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Apr 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665720977

Jesse Wimberly

Jesse Wimberly is the author of Body of Deceit, Waterproof, A Prayer for the Penitent, Broken Chains, Louisiana Ghost Stories-Tales of the Supernatural from the Bayou State, Louisiana Ghost Stories II--Lagniappe, and Louisiana Ghost Stories III-Trilogy. He resides in St. Tammany Parish, Louisiana, with his wife Alysha, a recording artist.

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Copyright © 2022 Jesse Wimberly.

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brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents,

organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products

of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, New International

Version®, NIV® Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica,

Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2096-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2098-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-2097-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022905493

Archway Publishing rev. date: 4/13/2022

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my wife and children

and all the people who saved my life.

A Prayer for the Penitent

Eleemosynary: of, relating to, or dependent on charity

Scars have the strange power to remind us that our

past is real. The events that cause them can never

be forgotten, can they? —Cormac McCarthy

Sooner or later everyone sits down to a banquet

of consequences. —Robert Louis Stevenson

Even the best life is a tragedy. —Jeb Stuart Johnston

Contents

Chapter 1   The Halfway House

Chapter 2   Drug Court

Chapter 3   Jenna’s Story

Chapter 4   The High and the Mighty

Chapter 5   The Foundation is Laid

Chapter 6   The Shot Is Fired

Chapter 7   The Mission

Chapter 8   Shelter From the Storm

Chapter 9   Scars

Chapter 10  The Bell Rings

Chapter 11  Danger Rears Its Ugly Head

Chapter 12  No Dream

Chapter 13  Be Prepared

Chapter 14  Hiding and Dancing

Chapter 15  Judgment Day

Chapter 16  Speculation Is Over

Chapter 17  The Culprit

Chapter 18  The Grand Plan

Chapter 19  The Hunter Becomes the Hunted

Chapter 20  Justice Is Done

Preface

She’d had a tough life through no fault of her own. She’d been remanded to the care of the State of Louisiana, trapped in a parasitic system cloaked with the authority of Christianity, and left wondering why she was clearly cursed, unloved, and therefore unlovable and defective in some way. After all, this didn’t happen to good people, did it? So she comforted herself by thinking that scars laid upon scar tissue would somehow create a suit of armor for her heart. Of course she was wrong. Somewhere in this process, she vowed never to let her hopes get up again and never let anyone inside.

Chapter 1

THE HALFWAY HOUSE

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Monday

D espair has its own scent. It gets into your nose and leaves a taste on the back of your tongue. Once you smell despair, the aroma will never leave you.

I was familiar with the smell and vibe of jail. Several years doing criminal defense had exposed me to it, and I never drew more-welcome breaths than when I made my exits from the human zoo. This wasn’t jail, but nonetheless, the unmistakable odor of fear, desperation, and hopelessness filled the air. I could smell it. I could taste it.

My cousins and I were touring an old property that had been left to us by our parents, who had inherited it from their parents. The main building had been built in the 1920s and had housed our family’s insurance business. In those days, the Orleans Benefit Insurance Company employed over fifty people who traversed the entirety of the city collecting premiums for life and burial insurance at the rate of 50¢ per month. It was hard to believe in today’s economy that such an endeavor could have ever been profitable, but it was. It provided jobs for fifty collectors and administrators and provided life, death, and burial benefits for many generations of New Orleanians.

The business was shuttered when our common grandparents died, the heirs having moved on to other occupations and the business of death having moved into corporate hands. At the time, it was leased to Agape Ministries and served as a halfway house for female prisoners transitioning from jail back into society—before 82 percent of them would find themselves back in jail.

Despite its biblical name, Agape Ministries was a nonprofit that charged Louisiana a per diem for the transition from incarceration to freedom. The directors made sure that at the end of the fiscal year, all revenues had been spent on various and sundry matters thereby making it a nonprofit. Many of those involved in this so-called ministry received six-figure salaries, hefty per diems for the obligatory meetings, and other perks including health insurance. The revolving door of criminal activity ensured a robust pool of customers for Agape.

The Greeks had studied love and developed a theory that there were eight types of love: agape, eros, philia, philautia, storge, pragma, lupus, and mania. I was pretty sure there wasn’t much unconditional love in that old building, which was what the word agape stood for.

I didn’t have much use for the criminal justice system or anything associated with it and certainly not anything designed to turn a profit on the misery of the incarcerated. However, the building was in a less desirable part of town, and tenants weren’t lining up to take the place. Insurance and property taxes were high, and it was a triple-net lease. I had only a 25 percent interest, so I had to go along with whatever my cousins wanted, and at the time, they wanted to tour the place and try to lock in the lease for another five years.

We were met on the site and escorted by Sharon Jensen, the director of the facility. Sharon seemed like a good sort who had a calling to work with the less fortunate. I had my doubts about the directors of the endeavor based on my experiences with eleemosynary organizations in general and specifically with those that cloaked themselves in the mantle of religion, but for the day, the face of the ministry was the affable Sharon. Sharon appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties, and she exuded an aura of quiet competence as she led us through our inspection of the property.

And here we have the sleeping quarters for the guests, she said as she swept her arm across first one wall and then the next like an over-the-hill model on The Price Is Right.

I peeked into one of the doors and saw two single beds against the far wall. Each bed had a pink bedspread meticulously made up with what looked like military precision after the previous night’s use. The splashes of color in the otherwise drab room did not lift the spirits; for some reason, the pink bedspreads just made the place all the gloomier. I thought Sharon must have given this tour before because she read my mind and launched into an explanation of the routine at the facility.

"The ladies are awakened at five a.m. and allowed sixty minutes to make themselves presentable. They are required to make their beds and square away anything taken out the night before. The rooms are inspected for order and cleanliness at six, and breakfast is served after inspection. Breakfast is followed by Bible study from six thirty to seven thirty, at which time the ladies receive instruction on taking their GED exams if they do not already have a high school diploma.

Those who already have their diplomas are required to report to the unemployment office or go on job interviews. The idea is for them to transition out of here with a basic education, a job, and the chance for a fresh start. They are required to check in at noon and be back here to the facility no later than four unless they land a job, and then they must return within thirty minutes of quitting time. Any questions?

Her tone of voice signaled that she hoped there weren’t. Her eyes confirmed that impression, so I kept my 25 percent mouth shut and deferred to my cousins. They had no questions, so we proceeded to the recreation room and dining facilities.

The kitchen was off to one side, and the food was prepared and set out in large institutional serving trays. Old, Formica-covered, picnic-style tables that seated six were set out in a grid. They were empty and clean. No pesky salt and pepper containers or condiments were in sight, adding to my impression that there wasn’t much spice in the lives of these girls.

This area is ordinarily empty during the week, but because this is Sunday, the ladies are not engaged in work or job hunting.

She used the word ladies as if she were the headmistress of an exclusive women’s college in New England. I wasn’t sure if that was her trying to respect the status of the inmates or her trying to elevate her job, which in essence was warden.

There were a number of young ladies—girls really—sitting on straight-backed chairs at tables that each had a single book open on them. There was a television in the corner, but it was not turned on, and I doubted it saw much action. The entire room was configured against the TV leading me to believe this was a room for study, reflection, and continued penance. I didn’t have to look at the open books. There was no doubt in my mind they were Bibles.

The residents kept their heads down and did not acknowledge our group. They were either completely immersed in the Good Book or more likely had been told not to interact with any outsiders. I had represented enough of those who had found themselves afoul of the law, and I was quite certain that this group was not a sect of Bible scholars.

When we had completed our cursory inspection of the euphemistically titled recreation room, our group turned to head toward the front of the building and the administrative offices, where I would have to watch in silence as my cousins and their 75 percent negotiated the fate of my 25 percent. I was the last in our group and was perhaps only three or four feet behind my cousins when I felt a small hand slip something into mine. I turned to see who had handed me the crumpled piece of paper and saw that it was one of the residents who just a moment before had been immersed in her religious studies. She quickly placed her finger to her lips giving the universal sign for quiet and slipped quickly back into her seat. The entire incident took less than five seconds, but that was enough time for me to note the terror in her face. I turned quickly to catch up with the group and slipped the paper into my pocket.

The meeting in the executive offices seemed to drag on forever, but it was probably only about an hour. I was consumed with taking out what I presumed was a note, but I didn’t want to draw any attention to myself or tip off Jensen that I had received something from one of the residents.

At the end of the ordeal, we had a verbal deal for five more years at the same rent, triple net, and Agape agreed to put a new roof on the place. My 25 percent was actually pretty pleased, and the cousins got to keep their flow of mailbox money. There would also be five more years before I had to participate in this awkward process again.

I had parked my car inside the fence of the thrift store that operated next to the facility and was happy to see that the car had not been stolen or vandalized. I fired up the engine and put the AC on max hoping to clear my lungs and clothes of the lingering funk of that place. I thought about driving straight home or to my office to read the note, but my curiosity got the best of me, and I reached into my pocket for the crumpled piece of paper.

The paper appeared to have been torn from a book and was perhaps a blank page that preceded the actual text in one of the Bibles. It had been hurriedly folded by an anxious writer who I presumed was the same young resident of the facility who had risked some sort of reprisal to hand it to me.

I unfolded it and read, Please do not let them know I gave you this. If you decide to help me/us, they can never know this came from me. If you won’t help, destroy it please. One of the girls said you were a lawyer. Please help us. I have drug court tomorrow. I will wait and hope.

There was no signature. I guess she was too afraid of whatever reprisal might be in store for her to irrevocably tie her name to this plea for help. That was probably pretty smart, but it made my job tougher. If I decided to take the bait, I would have to first find out who she was. I couldn’t very well arrange a job interview for someone without a name, and I sure couldn’t call the place and ask the officious Jensen for a list of the residents. That would have alerted her to something suspicious and would probably have prompted a call from her to the person or persons who really ran the place.

Drug court started the following morning promptly at 8:30, and though I didn’t have anything in that court that morning, I did have a civil matter in another courtroom, and I knew I’d drop in on drug court when I was finished. My Achilles’ heel had always been a damsel in distress. Sometimes, I thought I was born too late, but don’t we all have a problem with where fate drops us into the game of life? I placed the note to my nose and detected the delicate, sensuous, and unmistakable scent of cattleya, jasmine, and roses—Flowerbomb perfume.

Chapter 2

DRUG COURT

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Tuesday

I had tried to phase out of criminal law in the previous few years, and the case I had handled for the client who had made a complete fool of me was over and several years in the past. But as luck or fate would have it, I did have that civil pretrial that morning in the same courthouse where drug court aired its depressing laundry. I also knew that civil matter or not, I was going to be at drug court that morning. I had decided that the previous day.

You might wonder why I would get involved in something that was really none of my business, and I really couldn’t answer you because I simply didn’t know. I wasn’t sure myself, but it was a pattern I recognized in myself that had no logical explanation. I had a streak of anarchy and chivalry mixed together. I hated bullies, and that also meant the government and its hordes of bureaucrats and the