“How is that easier?” Deja asked.
“I didn’t have time to focus on what happened, and, I knew if I showed my face, I’d be dead. From this distance, where there’s no danger, it sounds exciting. But when you’re that scared, all the drama goes away. Then before I had any time to think, I was living on the other side of the world in Thailand. Staying cool so I could think and plan was a lot easier when that’s all I could do. Even though your sister might be okay later, and my brother was already dead, I think keeping your head is harder, a lot harder, than it was for me. That’s why Deja and I are here—to be strong for you when you can’t be.”
Nikky looked at Michelle and Deja and fresh tears followed in glistening tracks down both cheeks. Again, she closed her eyes, and shook her head. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“So what do we do?” Deja asked.
“For one, we need to agree not to do anything alone,” Michelle said. “If one of us sees Jerome, we call the other two. We wait for at least one of us to come for backup. Can we all agree to that?”
Both Nikky and Deja agreed.
“How about you?” Nikky asked. “Will you agree also?”
“Yes,” Michelle said. “As bad as I want that rat bastard, I’ll wait for you.”
“Even if you have a good shot at him?”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
“Then I’ll wait”—Michelle nodded—“even if he’s in the open with a safe, clean shot. It’s not a problem. He’s stupid, so we can catch him a second, or even a third time.”
“And I can wait,” Nikky said, “because when the time comes, I’ll do him up close and personal, so he hurts bad.”
“Whatever you want, sweetie.”
“What she said, whatever you want,” Deja added.
Nikky glanced down at her watch. “I promised Mom I’d bring some of her stuff to the hospital. She wants to spend the night again with Taye.” She rose and gathered up some of her mother’s items. The friends said their goodbyes and drove off in three different directions with three quite different destinations.
A few hours later, while Michelle sat at her desk with a Glock 17 field‑stripped, its parts neatly lined up, her phone chimed.
“Sup?” she answered.
“I didn’t mean to, but I screwed up, big time,” Deja said in a small, apologetic voice.
Michelle straightened in alarm. “What happened? Where are you? Are you hurt?”
“No. I’m okay. It’s just that I’m in big trouble.”
“You’re not hurt?” Michelle asked again.
“No. Oh, Michelle you guys are going to be so mad at me.”
“Mad? Why? What did you do that would make us mad?”
“I’m in county jail for stabbing Jerome.”
Sixteen: Bad Day In Court
MICHELLE GOT THE most important facts from Deja, and then called Trevon, who agreed to represent her and arrange bail.
“No problem then?” Michelle asked.
“Shouldn’t be any problem,” Trevon replied. “She stabbed him in the hand with some manicure scissors. She should be out in a couple of hours.”
Late the following afternoon, they met in court.
Deja sat, dejected and angry, her hair still fresh from yesterday’s do, a stark contrast to her scrubbed, makeup‑free face and ill‑fitting orange jumpsuit. Trevon, dressed in a precision‑tailored suit, occupied the chair next to her at the defendant’s table.
The judge, a balding man with a close‑trimmed gray beard, and the prosecuting attorney, a young, cherub‑faced man with a severe haircut, were the only White people in the front of the courtroom. The bailiff was an older Black man, the female deputy who’d brought in Deja was also Black, and the court reporter was a stereotypically diminutive Asian woman with long, straight black hair, grey‑streaked and tied back in a low ponytail by a butterfly clasp.
Behind the barrier, several of Deja’s friends filled the public section.
“Attempted murder in the first degree?” Trevon said, incredulous. “Your Honor, the prosecutor knows this should be no more than an aggravated assault. Not even that. The facts will irrevocably prove it was self‑defense; the accused acted out of fear for her life. Given the isolated nature of the video evidence before the court, I ask for a charge of aggravated assault, and a release into her own recognizance.”
“Mr. Prosecutor, your turn,” the judge said.
“Your Honor, the accused is the known estranged girlfriend of Mr. Jerome Johnson. She was seen by numerous witnesses and caught on surveillance video savagely stabbing Mr. Johnson, who was unarmed.”
“You go, girl!” a female voice shouted from the back of the room, loudly enough to be heard, but not to be disruptive.
“Damn right,” another female voice agreed.
The prosecuting attorney continued. “Further, there is a history of violence. Mr. Johnson, while involved in an intimate relationship with the accused, was shot on three different occasions, each one significantly more heinous than the previous. The last shooting resulted in Mr. Johnson losing a testicle.”
“Hell, if it had been me,” cut in a loud female voice from the back of the courtroom, “Mr. Johnson would’ve lost his johnson along with that testicle!”
After a moment’s hesitation from the judge, in what looked like he hid a smile, he addressed the prosecutor. “Anything else for the state?”
“Yes, Your Honor. Outbursts aside,” the prosecutor said, “this is a serious matter.” He turned and, putting his fists on his hips, pointedly stared at the vocal group with a stern expression that came off as childish and about as threatening as a marshmallow.
“Your Honor,” he went on. “I draw your attention to a recent gun battle that took place in our community. Six people died. The violence even continued into the hospital, the very sanctuary of human life.” He paused. His clearly rehearsed expressions and gestures of thoughtfulness, shock, and concern for the dead gave the impression of a little boy playing house.
“An innocent man, a barber working in his shop, was brutally shot and remains in the hospital fighting for his life as we speak. The Dis—”
“You’re a big lie!” another female voice rang out from the back. “G‑Baby’s my fiancé. He was shot in the arm. He’s already back home.”
“Your Honor, please,” the prosecuting attorney said.
The judge banged his gavel. “Any more outbursts,” he told the group of women, “and I’ll remove you from the room.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
“It wasn’t for you, Counselor. This courtroom will be treated with respect, like it or not.” The judge stared over the top of his glasses at the crowd sitting in the back of the room. Focusing on Deja’s support team: Mrs. Washington; her sister, Nissy; and her dad; Michelle; Nikky; Baby‑Sister; Miss Betty; T‑Dog, and seven of her girls; plus five others from the Pussy Squad. “And this means all of you,” he said.
Deja’s support in the courtroom was quite obvious, though others, like Mrs. Harris, had stayed with Taye in the hospital, and Sugar and her crew were absent. For a conservative White judge, it was probably best not to have a half‑dozen or more street prostitutes visibly, and most likely too verbally, on Deja’s side.
“Where are you taking this?” the judge asked the prosecuting attorney.
“Your Honor, the District Attorney is serious about stopping this wanton violence from spreading, so the state asks Your Honor and this court to help until the police can assist us in getting things cooled down. It’s in the public’s best interest to keep the accused off the streets.”
Trevon jumped up. “I strenuously object, Your Honor.”
“Objection overruled.”
A murmur rolled through the courtroom.
“Councilor, continue.”
Not skipping a beat, Trevon went on. “The previous assaults on Mr. Johnson were not in any way con
nected to Miss Washington. I’m sure every man in the city can sympathize with Mr. Johnson; being shot and losing a testicle would be horrifying. On a personal note, I am happy Mr. Johnson didn’t lose his johnson but, however bad, those incidents are completely separate from this case.”
Trevon paused to scrutinize the young prosecuting attorney as though inspecting a bug under a magnifying glass, then he turned to the judge, and said, “Your Honor, my colleague is trying to grandstand. In my opinion, his miserable failure is only eclipsed by the sheer transparency of this ploy. The prosecutor is using scare tactics for publicity. This is nothing more than a sophomoric attempt to create some good press to obfuscate the trouble the DA’s in over recent events.”
The opposing councilor leaned over and, placing his hands on the table, shook his head in denial.
“Those events are completely irrelevant to the case,” Trevon said, “and are not linked to my client by any stretch of the imagination. She has not been implicated in any of the shootings. If anything, it goes to show the lack of character of Mr. Johnson. I ask, who gets shot on three separate occasions for no reason? Unfortunately, people are shot in accidents or in acts of anger, even aggression, all the time. Common sense tells us, to be literally shot in the balls requires complicity; Mr. Johnson had to have done something rather extreme to receive such treatment. So again, my client is not remotely connected with any of these acts against the state’s witness.”
Murmurs of agreement and shuffling sounds drifted from the back of the courtroom.
“Unlike the state’s witness, Miss Washington is an employed, stable member of the community. Born and raised here, she has strong family and community ties. Her social ties are witnessed by her support in the gallery today.” Trevon swept his hand toward the large group of Deja’s friends and family, at whom the judge nodded in recognition.
“As the video evidence will show,” Trevon continued, “this was a spontaneous act, completely without premeditation, and a charge of attempted murder in the first degree does not apply. Further, additional evidence will show Mr. Johnson is guilty of significant and continued abuse, so the full facts of the case support self‑defense. My client should be released, with all charges dropped, and a restraining order placed on Mr. Johnson.”
Again, the prosecuting attorney shook his head, but Trevon ignored him.
“However, in light of recent events, I understand the court’s reluctance to make a hasty decision. Therefore, I suggest the charge be, at most, aggravated assault, with a strong emphases on ‘aggravated.’ So again, I move the charges be reduced to aggravated assault and Miss Washington be released on her own recognizance.”
“Normally I would tend to agree with your arguments, Councilor,” the judge said. “However, as you say, in light of recent events, and in the interest of public safety, I will be more careful. I’ll modify it to a charge of assault with a deadly weapon and two million dollars bail.”
“Your Honor, two million dollars bail effectively denies my client the possibility of release,” Trevon protested.
“Yes,” the judge said, “so it would seem.”
*
Trevon laid a comforting hand on Mrs. Washington’s wrist. “You’ll do fine.”
She had the lost, hesitating, unsure attitude of all first‑timers going into the visiting room at the county jail. He directed her to a seat at the wood counter that crossed the full length of the long room, where visitors sat on one side of a vertical, ten‑inch‑tall partition and prisoners sat on the other.
Like a tourist in a new city, Mrs. Washington looked around the room while they waited for Deja. Old cigarette burn marks dotted the counter’s edge, though no cigarette smell remained; too many years had gone by since smoking had been banned in public buildings.
For Trevon, it was a familiar place. Still, he closed his eyes and softly inhaled. Not quite a gym. Wet cement and people? It’s different, like a floor mopped with a dirty mop. Clean, but not really.
The body language of the prisoners varied greatly. Several women talked in hushed tones with attorneys wearing suits; they tended to sit straighter, be less expansive than the woman at the end, who was obviously at ease. She laughed and spoke in a loud voice that carried throughout the room, while her visitor, a man of about the same age, lounged in his chair, equally relaxed. They acted like it was all old hat to them.
One young woman sat hunched with a dejected expression and red‑rimmed eyes, withering under the harsh tones of a woman who, because of the strong family resemblance, had to be her mother. A large, well‑dressed man, overflowing in the chair next to the mother, broadcast his disdain and arrogance.
Mrs. Washington touched Trevon’s hand, indicating the man with a sidelong look. “That’s one pompous prick of a minister,” she whispered. “He’d never make it at our church. That poor child needs support, not the load of guilt those two are heaping on her.”
Trevon glanced at him and shook his head. “Bets? Ten to one, he’s screwing the church secretary.”
Mrs. Washington chuckled. “That, Mr. Trevon, is a sucker bet.”
Across the room, the electronic door lock click‑buzzed loud enough to be heard over the conversations. Deja strode through, no cuffs and dressed in an orange jumpsuit. She approached the officer sitting in a tall booth in the corner, said a few words, and then, with a big smile, bounced over and took the chair opposite her mother.
“Oh, my sweet baby,” Mrs. Washington said. “How’re you doing in here, sweetheart?”
“I’m all right, Momma,” Deja said. “Hey, Trevon. Did Michelle send you?”
“Yeah,” Trevon said. “I brought some legal business we’ll review in a minute. But first, you guys go ahead. I can wait.”
“Baby, honestly, how are you?” Mrs. Washington asked.
“You know, while this jail is a real shithole, I can hold my own.”
“Before I forget, Michelle sent you a message. She said to tell you she’s sick to death they couldn’t get you out. But she said not to worry; they’ll take care of everything legal. And don’t even think about the cost, she has that covered.”
“Really?” Deja looked at Trevon.
Trevon nodded. “Don’t worry about the costs. Michelle’s taken care of it.”
“Thank God, because I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Also,” Mrs. Washington added, “she said this is the most important thing to tell you, and she made me repeat it to make sure I had it exact, she said: no matter what, you’ll never do any joint time. Whatever it takes, she’ll get you out of this mess. She told me to say that part to you again—whatever it takes.”
“Thanks for telling me, Momma. That helps. I hate being in here, but I’ll keep my head high and stay strong.”
“I know you will, sweetheart.” Mrs. Washington turned to Trevon. “What do you think Michelle means by ‘whatever it takes’?”
“I think that is a message for Deja, and not one I could comment on,” Trevon answered.
“Exactly what she said,” Deja replied. “She means anything, everything, whatever it takes. She’s my rowdog, and I know I can trust her with my life.”
Mrs. Washington gave a tearful smile. “Even with you sitting here in this jail, you’re a lucky woman. Not many people have friends like her and Nikky, friends who won’t ever put their friendship on the shelf when things get hard.”
“You sure got that right, Momma. Now, Trevon”—she turned to him—“what’s this business we need to discuss?”
Seventeen: Street Action
PANTING, CATCHING HER BREATH, Michelle focused on the sweat glistening on Trevon’s light brown skin.
“Mmmm, mmm, mmm, a perfect start to a wonderful evening,” he said, falling onto his side next to her.
“I agree, two times is a good start. But seriously, would you say ripping my clothes off and ruining my blouse is a perfect start?”
“Quid pro quo, pretty l
ady. Quid pro quo. What about my shirt? That Sean John is—was—brand new.”
“What the hell is ‘quid pro quo,’ lawyer man? And why do I care about some name on a shirt? My blouse was pure silk, and you owe me eighty dollars.”
Trevon slid across her equally sweaty body to get out of bed, making it an erotic journey. “First, do you want some wine or Courvoisier? Second, ‘quid pro quo’ means ‘this for that, mine for yours.’ You give me something, and I give you something of equal value in return. My shirt cost sixty‑five dollars. So discount your blouse because you’d already worn it, and I think you owe me about ten bucks.”
“Bring some ice with the Courvoisier. We’ll see who owes who when I finish showing you what I can do with a little thing like an ice cube.”
After the worry and stress of the past two days, a sexual healing was the perfect answer.
*
Michelle and Nikky searched all of the normal places they could think of to find Jerome, but he wasn’t to be found. So they stopped in at Miss Betty’s to ask her if she had any news.
“Not yet,” she replied from her steps, “but I’ll call as soon as I hear anything.”
Michelle and Nikky stepped off the porch and onto the front walk.
“All right. Thanks again, Miss Betty,” Michelle said. “We’ll see you la—”
“What was that?” Nikky interrupted, grabbing Michelle’s arm.
“What?”
Nikky took off running toward a van parked up the street.
Michelle shrugged, then ran after Nikky. She rounded the back of the van to find Nikky pushing a man away from a woman who leaned awkwardly against the van’s bumper. With a violent, right‑handed sweep, the man knocked Nikky’s hands off of him. With his left, he grabbed the front of Nikky’s shirt. He hit her on the side of the head with a solid right fist. Nikky stumbled against the van, dazed.
Michelle ran past the man, slamming a powerful right hook on his ear. Apparently, he hadn’t registered he was fighting two people yet as he kept his focus on Nikky and swung at her again. The other woman kicked him hard in the thigh. It twisted him slightly, causing him to slam his fist into the van.
Get Even: A Michelle Angelique Urban Action Adventure Thriller Series Book #2 (Michelle Angelique Avenging Angel Assassin) Page 12
