If she doesn’t come through that door in a heap of sweat from working out and with a couple of bags of something-or-another as evidence of shopping, I will have to check with the IRS to make sure she doesn’t have a job I don’t know about. He hoped no one from the media had stopped her. Mark had gone so far as to turn off all ringers on the house phones. The reporters and ambulance-chasers somehow actually thought he would give them an inside scoop for a story or a scenario that might lead to a wacked-out lawyer representing him. No matter how many times he told them that there was nothing to report, they kept calling. “What’s your relationship with Bria Logan?” “Is Bria Logan your child’s mother?” “Pastor Carter, why would anyone want to kill you?” He could end the phone calls with the simple flip of a switch. But the blogs were merciless. There was no way to stop people from slandering him in cyberspace. People were comparing him to fallen ‘80s televangelist, Jim Baker, calling him a “pulpit pimp”
