I AM SEEKING ANSWERS REGARDING THE DEATH OF MY SON, JEREMY LEWIS,,,, JEREMY WAS 23 YEARS OLD AND HAD HIS WHOLE LIFE AHEAD OF HIM UNTIL HE JOINED THE UNITY PROJECT. JEREMY DIED CUT OFF FROM HIS FAMILY AND FRIENDS WITH NO MONEY, NO PROPERTY, AND NO HOPE AND I BELIEVE LEV WARREN’S CULT (YES IT IS A CULT!!!!) IS DIRECTLY RESPONSIBLE. IF ANYONE HAS ANY INFORMATION OR STORIES OF THEIR OWN ABOUT THE UNITY PROJECT PLEASE SHARE THEM HERE,,,,, I NEED SOMEONE TO HELP ME EXPOSE THE TRUTH AND TELL THIS STORY!! LEV WARREN IS A MURDERER!!!! HE MURDERED MY SON!!!!! VICE, NBC, CNN LOOK INTO THIS CAN YOU HELP ME
His profile picture is the photo of Jeremy he keeps in his wallet. He’s tagged The Project, tagged the media. He’s commented on his own post; a single word: jeremy, as though he’d started typing something and hit enter before he was finished and walked away from the screen, leaving it for the rest of us to complete. It’s almost sadder than I can bear.
I scroll back up to the photo again, to save it. They’re so close, Bea and Jeremy. They look like good friends. I think of the other photos I glimpsed on Arthur’s phone, her whispering in his ear and wonder, for the first time, what else she might have been saying to him beyond my name. When I think of Bea, I think of a girl held hostage by both her grief and the people who took advantage of it. But where is the line between what circumstances have turned you into and who you choose to be?
A couple hours later, I refresh Arthur’s page to check for new activity. It’s gone.
* * *
It’s freezing rain by the time I leave work. I’m walking back to my apartment, shoulders hunched to my ears, when my phone rings. I step aside while people hurry past, digging into my pocket. I check the display. CASEY BYERS. I let the phone ring just a little too long, then bring it to my ear, hovering under the awning of Roth’s Baked Goods, the rich scent of bread cutting into the cold, dirty air.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Lo. It’s Casey.”
“Where’d you get this number?”
“You’re not that hard to find. I’m calling on Lev’s behalf,” she says. “He’s decided there are certain things that need to be discussed if we’re ever going to move forward in understanding.”
I stare out at the road and watch as an SUV hits the brakes and skids just a little before stopping at the light. “I don’t want to talk to Lev. I want to talk to Bea.”
“You need to understand that what’s about to be offered to you has never been offered to anyone before and if you refuse, then … I suppose we’ll each proceed in the manner we think best.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“No more than you’ve threatened us.”
“I thought The Project let their work speak for itself.” I lean against the building, watching as a couple moves past, a girl’s arm laced through another girl’s arm, two pairs of eyes only on each other. I wonder what that’s like.
“We do. And you are more than welcome to take it on.”
I clear my throat. “What exactly is this offer?”
“Come to Chapman House. Talk with Lev. He’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
“And Bea?”
“Bea has other obligations.”
I shake my head, as though she could see me.
“That’s not good enough—”
“Look, can I tell you something, Lo?” she interrupts. “And it’s nothing I’ve been told to say, but it’s something I think you need to hear.”
I close my eyes. “Go nuts.”
“You’re approaching this from a place of … of finishing something. I think it’s going to make a world of difference for you if you approach this as its start. I really, truly believe you’ll get so much more out of it if you do that.”
“It’s just strange how you wanted nothing to do with me when I was too young and too powerless to fight back,” I say, opening my eyes. “Now I’ve got you and suddenly The Unity Project has room for me? Last we talked, you were calling me angry and insolent, Casey.”
“That’s because you are,” she returns calmly. “But you were never powerless. You just weren’t ready for the truth. So will you meet with him to hear it or not?”
“… When?”
“He can make the time midweek.”
“Chapman’s pretty far out,” I say. It’s downstate, Dutchess County. I’d have to hit Poughkeepsie just to get to it. “There’s got to be something halfway.”
“That part’s not negotiable,” she says. “I’ll pick you up at the train station. We’ll make sure you get home safely. Now, will you meet with him or not?”
Casey waits for me at the Poughkeepsie station.
She’s dressed in jeans and a black wool jacket, a messenger bag slung over her shoulder, her hair in a tight knot at the back of her head. She’s far from the woman in the white dress with her red hair flowing over her shoulders, wearing her faith in Lev like an accessory. This is more the Casey I know. The one who constantly stood in my way.
“How was your train ride?” she asks.
“Uneventful.”
“Better than the alternative.”
She gestures for me to follow her. We navigate the crowded station to the parking lot, where a dirty white SUV awaits us. Casey takes out her key fob, pushes a button and with a light chirp, the doors unlock. She gets behind the wheel and I climb in beside her, buckling my seat belt as she turns the ignition on, then the heat. As the car slowly warms, she digs into her bag.
“Before we get there, I’ll need something from you.”
I eye her warily as she produces a piece of paper. She holds it out to me and when I make no move for it says, “I can read it to you, if that’s what you want.”
I take it from her none too gently to look over.
As a guest at The Unity Project’s Chapman House on November 22, 2017, I understand that I may have access to confidential information about The Project, its history, its members, its inner-workings and daily operations … a space at the bottom for my signature.
“You want me to sign an NDA?”
“It’s for the duration of your visit today.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Why do you think we haven’t left the station?”
“This is a goddamn gag order.”
“We’re protecting our membership.”
“Do you treat all your guests this way?”
“We pride ourselves on our transparency as an organization, but our members are entitled to privacy. You are a member of the press—and you’re headed into their home.”
“Do you treat all your guests this way?” I ask again.
She looks at me. “We don’t have guests at Chapman House.”
I bite my lip, furious, and turn away from her, staring at the cars pulling out of their parking spots, onto the next leg of their destination. Clever, bringing me all the way to Chapman and then shoving this in my face. Most people would rather hold themselves hostage than feel like they wasted their time. The NDA forbids me from sharing my experiences within the walls of Chapman House without prior written permission from Lev or Casey.