Dominion by Randy Alcorn

liberal. It was amazing how much of your agenda you could hijack even into a simple sports column.
You’re going to be livid, Laurie.
He smiled. Like a sidelined quarter horse able to run against the competition once more, for the first time in a week Clarence felt really good, on an emotional high. If only it could last.

Clarence entered the Justice Center pretending not to be nervous. He walked directly to the elevators on his right, as if he belonged there. He got a nod of recognition from one uniformed officer and cold stares from two others. As usual, he was glad to be wearing a suit. There were probably at least a hundred other black men in this building. Eighty percent of them, however, were behind bars.
He stepped in the elevator, which gave him only five options despite the building’s sixteen floors. Floors two and three were courtrooms, four to eleven were jail floors, both accessible only from the other side of the building and only by authorized personnel. Twelfth floor, his first option, was ID, Intelligence, Juvenile, and Narcotics. Thirteenth floor housed Internal Investigations, the DA’s office and a hodgepodge of smaller departments. Fourteenth, the button he pushed, was the detective floor. Above it were the Chief of Police’s office and the media room. He’d been to the media room only three times, all in the last few years. His first fifteen years on the sports beat never brought him into contact with the police. The last three years, with player scandals ranging from drunk driving to girlfriend beating, had changed that.
The elevator stopped at the twelfth floor. A young woman in a sharp business suit stepped on. She forced a smile because she knew she should, Clarence thought. But he felt her uneasiness. She looked educated. Maybe she told herself she shouldn’t feel what she was feeling. But she felt it nonetheless, he was certain.
I’m only going up a few more floors, lady. No time to mug or rape you.
The acid of his cynicism burned deep. This woman had learned society’s lessons well, he supposed. Black men are ruthless crooks and killers. If you had to share space with them on an elevator, put one finger on your mace spray.
Nearly everyone wore plain clothes on the detective floor, so Clarence didn’t stand out, except his tailored suit was sharper than the shop-worn standard here. Unlike the other floors, which allowed free access to hallways, detective division had only one place the general public could go—the reception desk, with a thick bulletproof window and no door that opened from the outside.
“I have an appointment with Detective Chandler,” Clarence told the receptionist. Five minutes later Ollie Chandler came through the lone door on the far end of the floor, licking his fingers. This was Clarence’s first daylight view of him. He sized him up. Ollie’s stomach and chest were battling to occupy the same space. Clearly, his stomach was winning. Clarence’s impression was of a man in no danger of being mistaken for a regular on Baywatch.
“Come on in, Mr. Abernathy.” The raspy basement voice seemed even lower than Clarence remembered from outside Dani’s. “Just finishing up a steak sub in chili sauce. From the vending machine. It’s not Tony Roma’s, but when you’re stuck in the office it works. Hungry?”
Not anymore.
Clarence shook his head.
Ollie escorted him to his desk in an open area. It was reminiscent of the Trib , but much smaller and less segmented, with greater separation between desks and therefore a little more privacy.
“Hang on just a second,” Ollie said, stealing a chair from an unoccupied desk and rolling it to Clarence. “Got to make a quick phone call.”
Clarence looked beyond the desks, out the huge windows. He soaked in the breathtaking panoramic view of the city. It all seemed so tranquil from up here. So ordered and peaceful, the stately buildings testifying to man’s ability to create beauty, the bustling shops and offices his