Chapter 15
“All rise. The Honorable Judge Meyers presiding.”
Jordan stood with his client, waiting for the judge to take her seat, then motioned for Robinson Fields to sit. When the case of NY v. Fields had been placed on the calendar he’d expected a male judge. He’d always found himself at odds whenever a female judge presided over a rape case. But he continued to believe that justice was blind. After all, she was a woman.
“I don’t want you to make eye contact with Ms. Chance until you’re on the stand,” he whispered to his client. He didn’t have to coach Robinson or tell him to wear a suit. The bespectacled young man was highly intelligent and articulate.
He’d gone over the case file with Kyle and had decided to lean heavily on the so-called victim. There was no way Jordan was going to allow a twenty-two-year-old college graduate with his whole life ahead of him to go to jail because of a spurned, spiteful young woman.
The prosecutor began his opening statement damning men like Robinson Fields.
The D.A. sat down and it was Jordan’s turn. He stood up, noticing for the first time that Aziza sat in the back of the courtroom. Forcing his gaze away from her, he approached the jury box, then turned and stared at Roslyn, who was dabbing her cheeks with a shredded tissue. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m here to prove that Robinson Fields didn’t rape Miss Chance. He didn’t have to.” He paused when there came gasps from those sitting in the courtroom. He turned to the judge. “I’d like to call Miss Chance to take the stand.”
A soft murmur rippled through the courtroom when Roslyn stood up and walked to the witness chair. She was tall and slender with long red hair and sparkling blue-green eyes. She stated her name for the record, then clasped her hands together to still their trembling.
Jordan unbuttoned his jacket and pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He glanced down at the floor for several seconds, then smiled at the witness. “Miss Chance, I know you’ve been under a lot of stress, so I’m going to be mindful of that when I question you. Okay?” She nodded.
Jordan angled his head and smiled. She’d unclasped her hands. “Miss Chance, when did you meet Mr. Fields for the first time?”
“It was in Atlanta.”
“When and where in Atlanta, Miss Chance?”
“It was four years ago…no, four and a half years ago. He was a freshman student at Morehouse and I was a freshman at Spelman.”
“Why did you decide to attend Spelman College?”
“Objection. Irrelevant,” shouted the D.A.
“It’s not irrelevant,” Jordan argued. “I’m trying to prove a point as to why Miss Chance decided to attend Spelman College when she could’ve gone to Sarah Lawrence or Barnard.”
“Overruled,” the judge intoned. “Please answer the question, Miss Chance.”
Roslyn lowered her head. “I don’t know. I suppose I wanted to go to a college in the South.”
Jordan decided to press his attack. “Why did you apply to historically black colleges, Miss Chance? Howard, Bethune-Cookman, Dillard, Wilberforce, Fisk and Hampton. All private black colleges.” He paused. “Miss Chance, is it true that you and Mr. Fields have history? In other words, you and the defendant were a couple when you were in college.”
“We went out a few times,” she whispered.
“Speak up, Miss Chance,” the judge ordered.
“We went out a few times,” Roslyn repeated.
“Just a few times, Miss Chance? I have proof that you and Mr. Fields went out more than a few times. During four years, neither of you ever dated anyone else. Is this true?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t you tell your roommate that you were in love with Robinson Fields and that you expected him to propose marriage after you graduated?”
“Yes. I mean no.”
“Which is it, Miss Chance. Yes or no?”
Red blotches dotted her cheeks. “We talked about getting married, but we never set a date.”
“Did you continue to date Mr. Fields after you returned to New York?”
Running her fingers through her hair, Roslyn held it off her face. She glared at Robinson for the first time. “No. He told me that we had to ‘cool it.’”
“How did you feel when he told you that?”
“I was very angry.”
“Angry enough to… Let me rephrase that. You were angry, so how did you react?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you curse at him? Throw things?”
“No. I just walked away.”
“But didn’t it hurt to be rejected like that?”
“Of course it hurt! I wasn’t as mad at Robbie as I was with his parents. They had no right to put that kind of pressure on him. Why couldn’t he marry who he wanted?”
“What about your parents?” Jordan asked, continuing with his questioning. “Did they know you were dating an African-American man?”
Roslyn looked at her parents. They sat motionless, impassive expressions frozen in place. “No. They never knew I was dating Robbie.”
“What do you think would’ve been their reaction if they’d found out?”
“Objection. That calls for conjecture.”
“Overruled. Answer the question, Miss Chance.”
“They would’ve been very angry. My parents are racists.”
Jordan frowned. “That’s a very strong word, Miss Chance. Perhaps they’re biased or bigoted, but not racist.”
“No, they are racists.”
“And despite what they’d told you, you still dated a black man?”
Resentment filled Roslyn’s eyes when she glared at her mother and father. “Yes!”
“Did you ever see Robbie again after he said you had to cool it?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the time frame from your last encounter? One month? Two months?”
“Six months. I saw him, but he didn’t see me.”
“Where did you see him?”
“He was at the South Street Seaport.”
“Was he alone?”
“No. He was with a woman.”
“Was she a black woman?”
Roslyn closed her eyes. “Yes.”
“How did this make you feel?”
She bit her lip. “I was angry.”
“You were angry because you saw him with a black woman, who could’ve been his sister or cousin.”
“She was hardly a relative. She was wearing an engagement ring and they were touching and kissing each other.”
“If you and Robbie were no longer seeing each other, how did he end up in your apartment?”
“I called him and asked him to come.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to ask him about the woman I’d seen him with.”
“Did he agree to come?”
“Not at first, but when I started to cry he said he would.”
“Where were your parents, Miss Chance?”
“They were vacationing in Europe.”
“So, you were home alone?”
Roslyn slumped in the chair as she affected a bored expression. “No. A maid lives with us.”
“You have a full-time live-in maid?”
“That’s what I said.”
Judge Meyers removed her glasses. “Miss Chance, it’s yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“So, you invited Robinson Fields to your apartment when you knew your parents would be away. What happened, Miss Chance?”
“We talked.”
“What about?”
“His girlfriend. He told me she was in her first year of medical school.”
“Did he mention that he was going to marry her?”
“He said he’d given her a ring.”
“What else did you talk about, Miss Chance?”
“I asked him if he was sleeping with her and he wouldn’t tell me. I started screaming at him and he just stood there, then turned to leave. I’d risked everything to be with him and I just couldn
’t let him walk away from me.”
“What did you do, Miss Chance?”
“I hit him.”
“Where?”
“Across the face.”
“Did he hit you back?”
Roslyn glared at Robinson, nostrils flaring when she compressed her lips. “No. I wanted him to hit me, but he wouldn’t. I made it to the door and set the alarm. He couldn’t get out without setting it off. He asked me to disarm it, but I told him I wouldn’t until he made love to me. He grabbed my arms and shook me and that’s when I started screaming. When Sophia came I told her he was trying to rape me.”
Jordan shook his head. “You accuse my client of attempted rape when all he wanted was to get away from you.”
“I’d do it again and again and again!” she screamed, pointing at Robinson.
After the outburst, Judge Meyers ordered the charges dropped. “Jurors, you’re dismissed.”
The courtroom was in an uproar with Roslyn screaming hysterically when she was handcuffed; her mother had collapsed and her father was screaming obscenities at the judge who was trying to restore order by banging her gavel.
“Mr. Chance, you’re under arrest for contempt.”
Jordan gave Robinson Fields a rough hug. “Go home with your parents. I’ll call you in a couple of days.” Gathering his file and leather portfolio, he wove his way through the spectators and out the courtroom. He saw Aziza standing in the hallway outside of another courtroom.
She looked very corporate in a black pantsuit, white blouse and low-heeled pumps, her hair in a loose twist. A trench coat with a Burberry inner lining was tossed over her shoulders.
He lowered his head and kissed her mouth. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you in action.”
“You did not come all this way to see me discredit a young woman.”
Aziza’s eyes communicated what she didn’t and couldn’t say. She wanted to see him before he flew out to Los Angeles for the Super Bowl. They’d spent every weekend together since the beginning of the year, and for her it still wasn’t enough.
“No. I have a meeting with a potential client this afternoon, so I decided to take an early train and watch my boyfriend in action. You were really dynamic. Your client never had to take the stand.”
“That’s what I plan for you, darling. That you won’t have to take the stand.”
Aziza nodded. Jordan planned to fly into Westchester County Airport Monday night, stay over at her house, and Tuesday morning they would initiate the action to charge Kenneth Moore with sexual and racial harassment. They weren’t certain how long it would take the case to go to trial—if it ever did—but at least Kenneth would be put on notice, and hopefully other women would come forward once the charges were made public.
She glanced at her watch. She had less than an hour to meet with Raymond Humphries. The call from Raymond Humphries had come as quite a surprise. He’d claimed to have gotten her name and number from a client she’d represented during a home closing, and because she was familiar with real estate, he wanted her to oversee a special project. “I have to go. I’ll see you when you get back.”
Placing an arm around her waist, Jordan pressed a kiss to the column of her neck. “Have fun with the girls.”
“Oh, we plan to. Maybe we’ll get some male strippers for our halftime entertainment.”
Jordan gave her an incredulous look. “You wouldn’t.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. It all depends how much we’ll miss our guys.”
“If you want a stripper, then I promise to strip for you when I get back.”
Aziza sucked her teeth. “Yeah, right.”
“I will.”
Going on tiptoe, she kissed his jaw. “I’ll see you when you get back. Safe trip.”
“Thanks. Love you,” he said glibly.
She smiled. “Love you back.” Aziza walked away, feeling the heat of Jordan’s gaze on her back. They’d ended telephone calls with the two words, but it wasn’t the same as I love you, so she didn’t make much of it.
She walked out of the courthouse and headed for the subway.
Aziza had searched on Google for Raymond Humphries and had been surprised to find more than twenty pages of information on the real estate mogul. She was intrigued but cautious. Whenever she contemplated taking on a new client, she always adopted a wait-and-see attitude. She’d always eschewed ambulance-chancing lawyers who accepted any client for money.
She liked her clients, loved running her own practice and if she were truly honest with herself, she would admit that she was falling in love with Jordan Wainwright.
Aziza was escorted into Raymond Humphries’s private office for RLH Realty. The exquisitely maintained three-story town house was in the Mount Morris Historic District and two blocks from Ivan and Nayo’s brownstone and another five blocks from Kyle, Ivan and Duncan’s offices.
Raymond smiled when Minerva closed the door. The photos of Aziza Fleming hadn’t done her justice. She was stunningly beautiful in person. Her large eyes and lush mouth caught and held his rapt attention. It was easy to see why Jordan Wainwright was taken with her.
His smile was still in place when he extended his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
Aziza transferred her calfskin glove to her left hand and took his, surprised to find it as smooth as a baby’s bottom. It was obvious the man hadn’t done any hard labor in his life. “My pleasure, Mr. Humphries.”
“Please, let me hang up your coat.” Raymond made a mental note to get on Minerva about not taking the woman’s coat. She looks and smells nice. The lady lawyer was batting a thousand. Physical appearance, fastidiousness and intelligence went a long way with him, and it was apparent Aziza Fleming had all three.
He hung her coat in a closet. “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering a light repast because it is technically the hours wherein lunch is still being served. Please, sit down.” Raymond pulled out a chair from under the table in the alcove he used for small, intimate meetings.
Aziza sat, staring at what Raymond Humphries considered a light repast: mashed potatoes, meatloaf, baked chicken, collard greens, sweet potatoes and corn bread. She’d only had a cup of coffee for breakfast but had planned to stop and eat at a restaurant near Grand Central Station before catching a train for home.
“Everything looks so good.”
Raymond smiled. “It is. There’s a little eating place that’s not much more than a hole in the wall that serves some of the best food Harlem has to offer. Are you from Harlem, Miss Fleming? It is miss, isn’t it?”
She stared across the table at the man who owned so many parcels in Harlem that people had stopped counting at one hundred. He was short and slight, but there was something about him that made him appear a much larger man. His thinning hair was salt-and-pepper, and he’d been blessed with wonderful skin. It was so smooth it appeared poreless. The information she’d gleaned on him indicated he’d recently celebrated fifty years of marriage to the same woman—not an easy feat nowadays. He was the father of one and grandfather of two. A recent update said his son-in-law had decided on a political career, challenging a long-time incumbent for his state assembly seat.
“Yes. It is Miss Fleming. Answer one question for me, Mr. Humphries.”
“What is it?”
“Why me and not some other lawyer? Why not one based here in Harlem?”
“That’s two questions, Miss Fleming.” Raymond chuckled as if it was a private joke. “I’ll answer the second one first. I have a team of lawyers working for me, and none of them have offices or live in Harlem. Therefore, they have no vested interest in the community. They do what I tell them to do and for that I pay them very well. And, to answer your first question. Why you? Why not you, Miss Fleming? As I told you on the phone, you come highly recommended, and it’s about time I come into the twenty-first century and hire a female attorney. And one that is African-American.”
A shiver of remembrance raced up
Aziza’s spine. It was something similar to what Kenneth Moore had told her during her interview. She’d wanted to tell him he didn’t have to concern himself with affirmative action because her law school transcript validated that she was more than qualified for the position.
“So, I’ll be your token female?”
Raymond clasped his hands in a prayerful gesture. “No. I’ve lived long enough to come to hate that word—token black, token female, token whatever. You are a person, not some symbol for what someone wants to flaunt. I’ve made it a practice over the years not to put all my eggs in one basket, and this applies to my properties. I divide them up between the legal and accounting staff. This year you may handle the properties in the grid from 125th and Fifth to 125th and Frederick Douglass Boulevard. Then the following year it will be the parcels in Morningside Heights.
“People tend to think of Harlem as one homogenous community the same way they think of black folks. We may look similar, but there are very distinct differences among us. Hamilton Heights is different from the St. Nicholas and Mount Morris Historic Districts. Not only does the architecture differ but the people who reside in these areas differ. I’m currently looking to pick up several parcels off 118th and St. Nicholas. The owner of the properties died eight years ago and his children, who are handling his estate, have been dragging their feet about selling it.”
“It is occupied?” Aziza asked Raymond.
“No. That’s what makes it so bizarre. They’re paying taxes on unoccupied units. Initially, it was taken over by squatters and crackheads, but they did manage to pay someone to get them out and brick up the buildings.”
“How many units are you talking about?”
“Forty.”
“Are you looking to turn them into condos or rentals?”
“Condos. I think of renters as transients. Folks who own property tend to take care of it.”
“What exactly do you want me to do, Mr. Humphries?”
“I want you to convince the current owners to sell the buildings to RLH Realty, and I’m willing to pay them fair market value.”
“Do you have a time frame?”
“Say what?”
Aziza knew she’d shocked him with her query. “I’m asking because I’m going to send you a statement each month for billable hours. I can either work to tie it up quickly, or I can drag it out for a couple of years and make a small fortune.”
Because of You Page 19
