Orlando Williams walked into the Sacred Heart Catholic Church with a heavy heart. He was pleased to feel the warmth of the church since it was cold this morning—sixty, which was cold for Los Angeles—but this was not enough to raise his spirits. He looked at the wall to his left, seeing the reflection of his black face in a mirrored crucifix with a small gold Christ hanging in its center. The church had a unique smell—a smell he"d never smelled before; although he couldn"t explain why he believed it the smell of history and tradition.
Orlando looked ahead at the hallway, carpeted with gaudy lavender carpeting with white spots, and saw three connected mahogany confessionals on the left side, against the wall just ahead of the entrance to the sanctuary. The two farthest booths were roped off
