Chapter One
Detroit, Michigan
October 2003
Shivering with cold, thirty-three-year-old Sarita Grayson
walked over to the worn pea coat hanging on a nail behind
her desk and put it on. Even though it was only mid-
October, the temperature inside her office in the old
warehouse felt like below freezing. During the day, if the
sun was out, being inside the drafty old eyesore wasn't
too bad, but once evening rolled around, the temperature
dropped like a stone, and cold ruled. The building's
ancient heating system was kept running with duct tape,
hairpins, and prayer. It was two-faced, however, and would
cut off at a moment's notice, so Sarita and her staff
didn't like turning it on until the weather outside made
it absolutely necessary.
She blew on her hands to keep them warm, then dug through
the mountain of papers atop her lop-sided desk looking for
the notice from the city. She picked it up and read it
again for maybe the fiftieth time since it had arrived in
the mail three days earlier. The words had not changed.
Block red letters, three inches high screamed eviction
proceedings across the top like a tabloid headline. The
day it arrived the shock had paralyzed her. Even now, her
hands shook a bit. She and her people had been using this
abandoned warehouse for many years, working hard to
transform the abandoned hulking structure into the hub of
the struggling community surrounding it. The space offered
the children a safe environment in which to learn and play
and gave the senior citizens a place where they could meet
and stay connected to life and the neighborhood.
But now, because the city wanted to auction off the
property, they were being threatened with eviction.
The building had originally housed a food distribution
company. After the owners moved the operation to the
suburbs back in the early eighties, it sat empty,
attracting gang graffiti, rats, and crackheads. One summer
night in 1990, the local Baptist church down the street
caught fire and burned to the ground. Having no place for
the congregation to worship, Pastor Otis Washington and
the elders approached the city about moving into the
vacant building temporarily until money could be raised
for a new church. The city gave its permission on the
condition that if the building were sold, the church would
move its services and neighborhood programs elsewhere.
Washington and the congregation agreed. The new church was
built, but the out-reach programs dedicated to kids,
seniors, and unwed mothers remained housed in the old
warehouse. Because of all the neighborhood crack and
crime, neither the city nor the congregation envisioned
anyone's buying the place.
Obviously, times had changed; the city received a bid for
the property two weeks ago. Sarita had taken over the
running of the William Lambert Community Center after
Pastor Washington's death in 1998, and if she could come
up with the money to match the seventeen-thousand-dollar
offer, then she and her people could stay -- if not, they
were on the street. How in the world the city expected her
to come up with that much cash, and in six days no less,
was beyond her.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Silas Devine
sticking his gray head in the doorway. After the death of
Sarita's grandmother and great-uncles, Silas had become
the elder in her life. She loved him dearly.
"Afternoon, General," he said to her.
It was his pet name for her, and she gave him a
smile. "Afternoon, Silas. How are you?"
"I'm okay. Any luck?"
She knew he was talking about the seventeen-thousand-
dollar dilemma. She shook her head. "So far, nothing."
Silas was her right-hand man. He looked after the
plumbing, mowed the grass, helped out with driving the
homebound seniors wherever they needed to go; anything
Sarita needed, Silas did. He was also the only person
she'd told about the eviction notice.
"Something will come up," he said confidently. "This place
is too important to shut down. You'll see."
Sarita agreed with him on the Lambert Center's importance
to the neighborhood, but wasn't sure the city officials
who'd sent the eviction notice felt the same way. "How's
the van this morning?"
Their donated van was fifteen years old and on its last
legs. It needed a new engine, muffler, and struts, and the
floor was almost rusted through; but, somehow, Silas kept
it running.
"It woke up in a pretty good mood," he told her. "Started
right up."
They shared a grin, and Silas added, "I'm on my way to
take Mrs. Black over to the train station so she can get
to Chicago for her brother's funeral."
"Okay. I'll see you when you get back."
He nodded, then studied her silently for a moment, before
saying, "Don't give up. Somewhere up in heaven, Pastor
Washington and that grandmamma of yours are all pulling
strings. We'll get through this, I know we will."
She shook her head in agreement, but in reality, didn't
share his optimism.
After his departure, Sarita got up from her cluttered desk
and walked over to look out of her small, wire-screened
window. The center's uncertain future filled her with a
sense of helplessness that was totally out of character.
In the years she'd been in charge, she'd always, always
been able to effect some change in a seemingly unsolvable
situation -- able to do a fast shuffle here, call in a
favor there to keep the ship afloat, but this time she
wasn't so sure. School had let out about an hour ago, and
out of her office window she could see the children
playing down below on the cracked, broken pavement of the
building's parking lot ...
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