Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Good Fight

The church itself was nothing remarkable.

The building had existed for years, in various incarnations. Once a Catholic Church, then fire station, then a community center, and now once more as a place of worship.

The stained glass windows near the rafters weren’t religious at all, more abstract than sacred. Blues, reds, and golds in cracked mosaic, filtering light that danced across the worn wooden pews. You could tell they’d seen decades of use. The cushions had long since flattened, and the varnish on the backs had worn down to a soft sheen from thousands of leaning hands.

The community board was a mix of all the languages in the neighborhood. Spanish, English, some creole. There were various different messages. Offers for jobs, for ESL Classes, a message for support for expectant mothers. And a poster board read “COMMUNITY POTLUCK: ALL ARE WELCOME,” with hand-drawn hearts and fading marker ink.

Daniel followed Reverend Georgia through the center aisle. The sanctuary was quiet, save for the soft creak of their footsteps and the distant hum of city traffic beyond the stone walls.

“This used to be a shelter,” she said, gesturing toward the altar, which had clearly been retrofitted over the years. “Back in the ’90s, when things got rough. Before that, I think it was a boxing gym. You can still see the outline of the ring on the floorboards beneath the rug.”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “You’re telling me sermons are held on top of an old boxing ring?”

Georgia gave a sly smile. “Seems fitting for the times, doesn’t it?”

Daniel walked towards the back, “This isn’t just a church is it?”

“No,” Georgia replied. “It’s a foothold.”

They walked inside her office, a small cluttered space that felt more like a lived-in study than any kind of formal workspace. Books on liberation theology, Spanish language guides, and frayed copies of The New York Times were stacked along the window ledge. The air held the faint scent of old paper and burnt coffee. Photos lined the walls, some of her in dusty villages, others surrounded by children, one clearly in front of a refugee tent.

A blanket and pillow were folded on the worn leather sofa, the kind that made it clear she’d spent more than one night sleeping there.

Georgia motioned toward a mismatched chair across from her desk. “Sit,” she said simply, already unfastening the collar at her neck with one hand while fanning herself with the other. It wasn’t particularly hot today, but Daniel could tell she’d been up and around all morning.

Daniel took his seat. “Long morning?”

“Always a long morning,” she said.

He found her accent to be quite charming. He’d heard some harsh English accents, this wasn’t one of them. It was lyrical in a sense.

“Can I get you some tea?” She asked standing.

“I’m all right, thanks,” he replied, settling deeper into the chair. He’d never been much for tea, not unless it was poured over ice and sweet enough to rot your teeth.

Georgia moved with quiet efficiency, setting a kettle on a hot plate near the bookshelf anyway. “Suit yourself. But I’m having some.”

Daniel watched her for a moment. There was something in the way she moved, fluid but deliberate, like someone used to carrying more than her share, physically and otherwise. She wasn’t what he’d expected. Not from the file. Not from the modest church.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

She smiled faintly as she reached for a chipped mug. “No. Brixton, originally. Spent a few years in Kampala. Then Baltimore. Been in New York about six.” She poured the hot water into her mug and stirred. “East Harbor’s the longest I’ve stayed anywhere.”

“And the church?”

“It was already falling apart when I got here.” She leaned against the edge of the desk, mug in hand. “But the community wasn’t. People still needed a place. So I stayed.”

Daniel nodded slowly, flipping his notebook open again, eyes scanning the notice from the city’s legal department. “And now they want you gone.”

“Not just me.” Her tone sharpened, just a touch. “The soup kitchen in the basement. The ESL classes on Tuesdays. The only clinic this side of the expressway that doesn’t ask for insurance or papers.”

She sipped her tea. “They’re not after me, counselor. They’re after what we represent.”

He knew what that was, had worked with marginalized communities, hell he’d been raised in one. And it always drew his ire, he’d been away from the fight for too long. He hadn’t felt this way in years, not at work, not in a courtroom, not in his personal life. But here, in this dusty room, with this tired woman staring down a city budget and a bulldozer? Yeah. This felt right. “All right,” he said closing his notebook, “Then we best get to work.”