“Problem, Ms. Thompson?” a youngish white male guard with tattoos up both arms posed, approaching the confrontation from the back of the line.
Cornrows looked at him through the corner of her eye and spat, “Nah—none at all.”
The guard looked at Kerry. “You okay?” he asked rather politely. He’d been working at the jail for over five years and in that time he’d seen Thompson and her cornrows come and go and stir up trouble in the jail each time. Kerry was new to him.
“I’m fine,” Kerry lied nervously.
“Move it along then, Thompson.” The guard nudged Thompson in the back with his index finger.
After taking two steps, she looked back at Kerry and mouthed, “You mine.”
Fear shot through Kerry’s veins like electricity and she would’ve tried to run right out of that cafeteria had it not been for a whisper in her ear from the inmate serving green beans beside her.
“Girl, don’t mind Thompson. She all talk. She’ll set shit off, but if you buck up at her, she’ll back off,” she said, dumping green beans onto another inmate’s plate. She was Angelina Garcia-Bell, a Latina with a short black buzz cut and beautiful long eyelashes that looked out of place on her mannish face. She was one of the two friends Kerry had made since she’d been locked up—the other was the inmate who’d gotten stabbed in the tit. “I told you that you can’t let these chicks see you all scared. Bitches feed on that shit in here.”
“How am I supposed to seem like I’m not scared when I am scared?” Kerry whispered, watching Thompson continue to peek back at her as the guard forced her down the line. “I’ll just be glad when this is all over and I can get away from these people. When I can go home. See my family—my little boy.”
“Won’t we all be glad when that day comes?” Garcia-Bell agreed, scooping out another serving of green beans. “Won’t we all?”
Most evenings after dinner, Kerry didn’t go into the recreational common area to watch soap opera reruns on the outdated projection television with the other inmates. Instead, she’d head to the library, pick up a book, and sit at one of the tables in the back of the room where volunteers taught GED prep classes. There, she could read and think and pretend none of this was happening to her.
But Kerry didn’t do that after the incident in the cafeteria with the macaroni and cheese. To avoid a confrontation with Thompson, she went straight to her cell and climbed into her bunk, vowing to stay there until the lights went out and later the sun came up. Maybe tomorrow would be different. Maybe Thompson would’ve forgotten their spat in the cafeteria. Maybe Kerry would wake up and be away from this place altogether. Tomorrow, she’d be sitting on the back deck of the Tudor off Cascade drinking margaritas with Marcy. Tomorrow, she’d be driving up I-85 in the old Range Rover with the windows down and the air-conditioning on. Music blasting, open road in front of her. Going to wherever she wanted. Tomorrow, she’d see Tyrian. Jamison. Home.
Kerry laid back in her bottom bunk and looked up at the picture she’d tucked into the spring beneath the top mattress. Two faces smiled down at her. A man and a boy with the same brown skin, dark eyes, and pug noses. They were standing beside a large wooden sign that read CHARLIE YATES GOLF COURSE AT EAST LAKE. The boy, who was a little taller than the man’s waist, held a golf club in his hand. The man’s right arm was draped around the boy. Both looked proud.
A tear left Kerry’s eye and rolled back toward the pillow beneath her head. She closed her eyes tightly and tried to go back to the day she’d taken that photo. It was Tyrian’s first golf demonstration, about nine months earlier. She and Jamison were already divorced by then, but that day was peaceful. Agreeable. Tyrian woke up that morning so nervous, anxious, and excited that he wouldn’t stop asking his mother questions.
“What if I lose? What if it rains? What if it snows? What if I faint? What if my coach faints? What if no one comes? What if too many people come?” he listed so intensely Kerry wondered how a six-year-old could come up with so many worries. But he’d always been very smart. Advanced. Precocious. Like his father.
“And what if everything is perfect? Just perfect?” she’d said, placing his clothes on his bed. “Have you thought about that, my little worrywart? What if everything is wonderful and everyone has a great time?”
Climbing from beneath his bedsheets, Tyrian looked off to consider this like he was much older and wiser. “Okay,” he said after a long pause. “It could be perfect. You’re right, Mama.”
Kerry winked at Tyrian, kissed his cheek, and said, “I’m always right.”
And she was right. While her ex-husband was usually late to Tyrian’s practices at the golf course and had gotten into the habit of using his recent victory in a tight race for mayor of Atlanta as an excuse to be absent to most of Tyrian’s scheduled events, he was waiting outside the golf course, right by the sign, when Kerry and Tyrian arrived. Sitting in the backseat of his mother’s truck, Tyrian squealed with the delight of a six-year-old son when he saw his father standing beside the sign.
“Daddy’s here! Daddy’s here already! He really came!” Tyrian cheered, tearing off his booster-seat seat belt before his mother could pull into her parking space and turn off the engine.
She was about to tell him to wait for her before he hopped out of the truck and bolted right to the person who’d become his favorite as of late—but she decided to let it slide that morning. All of the other little golfers unloading from their parents’ cars had both mother and father in tow. She knew Tyrian wanted that too—for his parents to be together like everyone else’s. And at that moment, he was just ecstatic that his life would look like all of the other kids’ lives that day.
“My big boy!” Jamison said, gathering his son into his arms. “Man, you’re getting heavy. I’m not going to be able to pick you up much longer!” Jamison laughed. The phone in his pocket was already vibrating with other things he needed to do, but he didn’t reach for it. He promised himself he wouldn’t. Today was about Tyrian.
“Hi.” Kerry’s greeting was flat and uninspired when she walked up carrying the golf bag Tyrian had left behind for her to caddy.
Jamison looked over at his first wife. “Good morning,” he offered, smiling civilly.
“Good morning,” she added to her greeting.
A few parents walked past with their little golfers straggling behind, waving at Tyrian. The whole time, just seconds really—but to the exes it felt much longer—Jamison and Kerry eyed each other for signs of anything new. Kerry had recently cut off her long, black permed hair and was wearing a short, natural do that Jamison thought made her look younger and thinner. Maybe she’d lost weight too. Jamison was wearing a new, expensive watch. He had the collar on his old gold fraternity golf shirt popped up to hide a hickey on his neck, but even with the carefully planned disguise and brown skin, and two feet of distance, his first wife could see it.
“Think we need to get to the clubhouse. I’m sure they’re starting the demonstration on time,” Kerry said drily.
“Of course. Of course,” Jamison agreed and then added, “Hey, can you take a picture of Tyrian and me?” He pulled his phone from his pocket and stretched to hand it to Kerry.
“Guess so,” she said, taking the phone.
“Cool!” Tyrian cheered, standing beside his dad.
The three organized the perfect photo shot in front of the club sign and just before Kerry was about to take the picture, Jamison added one of Tyrian’s golf clubs from his bag.
Kerry held up the phone and took a few shots. In the background, a new spring had the grass emerald green.
Once all were satisfied that the moment had been captured, Kerry was about to hand Jamison the phone when it rang and a familiar name came up on the screen: Val–Jamison’s sultry assistant, who was making it pretty clear she was sleeping with her boss.
“Here,” Kerry said, rushing to return the phone to Jamison.
“Wait, Mama! You get in the picture!” Tyrian posed with a big smi
le. He was becoming quite the diplomat. “We can take one with all of us.”
Kerry and Jamison looked at each other like they were heads of nations always on the brink of war. The phone was still ringing with Val’s name on the screen.
“Oh, we can’t do that,” Kerry said, handing the phone to Jamison. “There’s no one to take the picture.”
“I’ll take it!” A fourth voice cut into the negotiations suddenly.
Behind Kerry was a young man in a Morehouse College golf shirt, holding what was clearly an expensive camera in his hand. An overstuffed camera bag with Fox Five News stitched into the top flap was hanging over his shoulder.
“It would be an honor to take a picture of our new mayor and his family,” the man remarked.
“Thanks, brother,” Jamison said, flashing his practiced public smile. “We’d appreciate that. Hey, what’s your name? I love meeting my Morehouse brothers, you know?” he continued, reaching out to shake the young man’s hand.
“I’m Dax Thomas—a reporter with Fox Five News Atlanta,” he said. “Good to meet you, Mayor Taylor. You’re doing us Morehouse men proud.”
“At your service,” Jamison said and the men chuckled at some inside joke.
Kerry reluctantly got into the picture, standing behind Tyrian’s shoulder opposite Jamison.
In minutes, the image would be featured on Fox News’s main Web site. The caption: An awkward moment at East Lake Golf Course this morning, when Mayor Taylor takes a picture with his ex-wife, Atlanta socialite Kerry Ann Jackson, and six-year-old son, Tyrian.
The bottom bunk where Kerry lay remembering her past rattled with a thud. She quickly opened her eyes, ready to react and jumped up, hitting the top of her head on the bottom of the upper bunk.
“Owww!” she let out, looking at a boot on the floor beside her bed that was no doubt the source of the rattling. Her eyes left the boot and nervously forged a path up the orange jumpsuit to the face of the kicker she was certain had come to pummel her.
“Damn! Calm down, boo! It’s just me!” Garcia-Bell held out her hands innocently as she laughed at Kerry’s head bump and fearful eyes. “What? You thought I was Thompson coming to kick your ass?”
Kerry rolled her eyes and looked out of the cell past Garcia-Bell. “Where is she?” She sat up, rubbing her head.
“Probably somewhere starting more shit with someone else. You in here hiding out?”
“Basically.”
“Well, what was you gonna do if I was her? This ain’t some dorm room. She can see your skinny ass right through them bars,” Garcia-Bell said, pointing to the open cell door as she took a seat beside Kerry on the bottom bunk.
The mattress above them was bare. Kerry’s first cell mate, a white woman who’d stabbed her boyfriend five times in the head, had bonded out.
“Guess I don’t care,” Kerry said. “If I’m going to get beat up, what does it matter if she does it in here or out there? I’m still getting beat up.”
“It would be worse in here. No one around. It’ll take a while for the guards to get here,” Garcia-Bell explained. “Plus, Thompson got a lot of enemies. You never know if someone might want to sneak some licks in if she starts something with you on the yard.”
Kerry looked off and laughed a little to herself.
“What? What’s so funny?” Garcia-Bell asked.
Kerry’s mind switched from inside the walls of the prison to outside, where her world was so different. A simple word like yard could mean so many other things; however, none of them included a tiny outside space with nothing but dry, depleted dirt and female prisoners fighting fiercely over turns to use deflated basketballs and rusting gym equipment.
“That word—yard—it reminds me of where I went to college,” Kerry replied, not knowing if she should mention her alma mater, Spelman College, if Garcia-Bell would’ve heard of the historically black college or knew what the term meant there. In 1998, Kerry’s time on the yard included watching her best friend Marcy step with her sorority sisters, sitting on the steps in front of Manley Hall, chatting with her Spelman sisters and professors about images of black women in the media, the future of the black woman in politics and, of course, black love. There she was a third-generation Spelman girl, was called “Black Barbie,” and had dozens of Morehouse brothers from the college across the street chasing after her. There she met Jamison.
“You gonna have to let that shit go—all that shit from outside—who you were, who you thought you were—if you gonna make it in here,” Garcia-Bell cautioned. “Ain’t no tea and crumpets behind these here bars. In order to survive, you gonna have to knuckle up.”
“Knuckle up?”
“Fight, Kerry. You gonna have to fight. Ain’t nobody ever taught you how to fight?”
“You mean, like actual fisticuffs?” Kerry said, watching a group of prisoners who always stuck together walk by her cell.
“Don’t ever say that word again, but, yes, that’s what I mean,” Garcia-Bell confirmed, laughing.
“No—no one taught me how to fight. Who would? Who taught you?”
“Mi madre,” Garcia-Bell said, as if it should’ve been obvious.
“Your mother? Please. The closest Thirjane Jackson came to teaching me to fight was how to keep the mean girls in Jack and Jill from talking about me behind my back,” Kerry said.
“Jack and Jill? Like that nursery rhyme?”
“Yes. It was a social club my mother made me join when I was young,” Kerry explained. “Had to be her perfect little girl in Jack and Jill.”
“Well, you far from that now. And thinking about that out there ain’t gonna do nothing but get you caught up in here.”
“That’s the thing: I don’t plan on getting caught up in here. I’m not staying here.” Kerry had convinced herself of this. After days and weeks and months of not seeing the sun rise and set, and missing the joy of witnessing the summer season shift to a muggy Georgia fall while enjoying a walk through Piedmont Park, she promised herself she’d be home by the holiday season. She’d be with her family. Dress Tyrian as a pirate for Halloween. Help make Thanksgiving dinner. Trim the tree for Christmas without complaining. Dreams of those simple things kept her hopeful.
“Hmm. You keep saying you’re getting out by this and that time, but then I keep seeing you here in the morning.”
Kerry had already told Garcia-Bell all about her case—about how when she ran up to the rooftop of the Westin to find her ex-husband that gray morning, she knew something was wrong, knew something was going to happen. There was a woman up there. The woman was the one who threw Jamison over the edge to his death. Not Kerry. Kerry still loved Jamison. In the hotel room where they’d been cuddling just hours before, they’d talked about getting remarried. Kerry would be his third wife—after he divorced his second wife, Val.
Garcia-Bell already knew the whole story. Like everyone else in Atlanta, rich and poor, young and old, black and white, criminals and noncriminals, she wanted to know how in the world the city’s fourth black mayor—who’d come from nothing and promised the people everything—ended up split wide open with his heart and everything hanging out and his face crushed beyond recognition in the middle of Peachtree Street during morning rush-hour traffic. She’d even heard this very version of events from Kerry’s mother when Thirjane Jackson had been interviewed by a reporter with Fox Five News. But she let Kerry retell it all a few times anyway. She felt Kerry needed to.
“Well, one day you’re going to come looking for me and I’m not going to be here. I’ve got people in my corner rooting for me. It’s going to work out. I believe that,” Kerry said.
“People?” Garcia-Bell struggled not to sound cynical, but it was too hard. “By that you mean your ex-husband’s widow? The one who’s supposedly going to bust you out of here and help you find the killer?”
“Yes. I do,” Kerry replied resolutely. “I told you, she knows I didn’t do this and she has proof. It’s taking her a little time, but she’s helping my
lawyer build my case and soon, everyone will know the truth. I’m innocent.”
“Sure’s taking her a long time.”
“These things take time. You know that yourself.”
Garcia-Bell had shared the particulars of her case with Kerry too.
“Well, there’s long and then there’s loooonnnng,” Garcia-Bell pointed out.
“What’s that mean?”
“Nothing.” Garcia-Bell stood up, ready to leave. She didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings. Since she was a teenager, she’d been locked up for some reason or another and she knew the worst thing in the world was knowing the one person on the outside who could do anything about her case was doing absolutely nothing. She didn’t want to put that on Kerry.
“Come on, spit it out,” Kerry pushed.
“It’s nothing. It’s like I said—it’s taking a long fucking time.”
“But you know the situation. You know Val can’t just bust me out of here,” Kerry pleaded in a way that sounded like she was actually coaching herself.
Garcia-Bell pointed to the top bunk. “White girl stabbed her old man in the fucking head five times and she bonded out. Ain’t got no kids. Ain’t have no job. They got a fucking confession out of her. She home.” She pointed to Kerry. “Ain’t nobody see you throw your husband from the roof. You got a child. A career and you say you innocent. And you rich. You mean to tell me that woman and that lawyer she hired to get you out of jail can’t even get you out on bond? Come on, girl. You ain’t stupid. I know that.”
“It’s not that simple,” Kerry tried.
“To me it is. You said it yourself: Y’all hated each other. Then your ex-husband threw her ass out on the street after she had a miscarriage and you and the broad got all chummy just because you gave her a couple of dollars so she could get a hotel room. Then your ex-husband ends up dead while she’s still married to him and she’s got all his money and is living up in his house and running the business you partially own. But you think she rushing to get you out of jail? You believe that?” Garcia-Bell paused and looked at Kerry with a friend’s concern in her eyes. “Please say you don’t. I mean, maybe you want to believe it because she the only card you got to play, but wanting to believe it and actually believing it—that’s got to be different things.”
Power, Seduction & Scandal Page 29
