Allegedly

by Tiffany D. Jackson

  As soon as I see the building, my feet stop working. Sounds drown out until I can hear nothing but teeth tap-dancing in my mouth. This building . . . all these windows . . . they’re watching, waiting . . . to take me.

  “Mary? Come on.”

  Ms. Cora pulls my arm. I shake her off and clutch to a nearby bus sign, but my legs still want to run.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  The shakes start, bad. I can’t go in there. I can’t! It’s the last place before this whole nightmare started, the doorway between the then and the now. If we never went in there, if Momma never . . .

  “They’re going to give me a cheeseburger and take me away again!”

  Ms. Cora stops pulling me and straightens, her eyes softening.

  “Mary, I’m sorry, but what they did to you was wrong. They questioned you without an attorney present and your mother gave them permission to do so. It was a setup. But this time, I’ll be there. I promise, they won’t pull that bullshit while I’m there. I won’t let them take you. No burgers. Now, let go of this dirty thing!”

  They put me in the same room they did before and I think the same thing as I did back then: the floor is so nasty. Momma would be disgusted. The door opens and a memory walks in.

  “Hello, Mary. Do you remember me?”

  Mr. Jose hasn’t aged one day. Still has dark black hair with a little bit of gray in his beard. Tall, lean, and tan with a thick accent like Marisol.

  My chest tightens as he closes the door. He has a file in his hand, a real thick one, and a little recorder. He sits across from us, just like last time.

  “Nice to see you again,” he says, smiling, like he cares.

  You’re no Benson. You don’t care, you suck at your job.

  “Can I get you anything? Water? Maybe a—”

  Ms. Cora grabs my hand as I rocket up from the chair, stopping me.

  “It’s okay! It’s okay! No burgers, remember? We talked about this.”

  Mr. Jose glances between Ms. Cora and me a couple of times. He puts his hands on his thighs, closer to his gun. I think about the knife in my bag and change my mind.

  “Sit down,” she says, not as patient as before.

  A whole twenty seconds pass before I sit, but push my chair closer to the door. Ms. Cora smirks, shaking her head.

  “Can I just say, strictly off the record,” she says to Mr. Jose. “When I called, you didn’t seem surprised to hear from me at all.”

  He smiles and I move my bag between my legs.

  “You know, sometimes you just have a hunch about things. And this case . . . I always had a gut feeling there was a big piece of the puzzle missing.”

  Gut feeling?

  “You mean evidence?” Ms. Cora asks.

  He grins.

  “No, there was plenty of evidence. But . . . nothing seemed to add up. Their stories never matched the evidence found. I said that plenty of times, but people told me to leave it alone. Same people won’t like that I’m talking to you now.”

  “Well, people tend not to think clearly when a black girl is suspected of killing a little white girl,” Ms. Cora says, crossing her arms.

  “No, people tend not to think clearly when a baby is murdered. Period. At the end of the day, what’s important is finding out what really happened to that little girl, bringing the person responsible to justice.”

  Ms. Cora nods in agreement and Mr. Jose looks at me.

  “So, are you ready to talk?” he asks.

  My gut flips as I count the grays in his beard. Maybe he is a little like Benson. Still, I don’t trust him. He was the one who put me away. Gave me my cheeseburger and took me to the crazy house. Only said yes to the cheeseburger because I’d never had one before. That’s what I get, trying to be sneaky without Momma knowing. Should’ve said no.

  “Mary, you don’t have to be afraid anymore,” he says. “Whatever it is, I’m here to listen. Just give me a chance to set the record straight.”

  I look at Ms. Cora, who smiles and touches my back.

  “Go on. It’s okay. I’m here with you.”

  Ms. Cora says she won’t let them take me this time. Maybe Ms. Cora is like Elliot Stabler, Benson’s partner. She reads through the bullshit. I believe her. I trust her.

  So I close my eyes and tell him the real story.

  Transcript from the November 23rd Interview with Mary B. Addison, Age 16

  Detective: For the record, can you please state your name and age.

  Mary: Uh . . . my name is Mary Beth Addison. I’m sixteen years old.

  Detective: Alright, Mary. Now, just tell me everything that happened. From the very beginning.

  Mary: Okay. Ummm . . . Alyssa was crying from the moment her momma dropped her off. Momma kept trying to rock her to sleep. She didn’t like the way she was being rocked, I don’t think. She cried louder and louder. I took her and rocked her and she fell right asleep. Momma said, “Fine, she should sleep with you then.” Then Momma set the crib up in my room.

  We were asleep when Alyssa started crying again. Momma came into my room cursing. She was having “a day.” I asked if she was taking her pills; she slapped me. Then told me to get them for her. I went and got her pills. She said, “Stupid, I told you to bring your pills! I need to calm this baby down.” Alyssa was crying really loud. I got my pills and gave them to her. Then she told me to warm up a bottle. I went into the kitchen and put the bottle in the microwave. I was gone for thirty-five seconds, because that’s how long Mrs. Richardson always told me to heat the bottle for. When I went back in the room, Momma was stuffing something in Alyssa’s mouth. I thought it was the witch stuff that Mrs. Richardson uses, but it was the pills. Then Momma tried to shove the bottle down Alyssa’s throat. She started choking. Momma grabbed her hard and tried to save her, hitting her back. But she was hitting her too hard. She stopped crying and wasn’t breathing. I ran and tried to call 911, because that’s what you do in an emergency, we learned that in school. But Momma slapped the phone out of my hand.

  She told me stop because if they come and find Alyssa dead, she’ll go to jail. She said we had to bring Alyssa back. She told me to bring her Bible and her cross. I kept saying that we can’t, but then she was hitting me and I started crying. She went in my room with Alyssa and locked the door. I heard noises. Like she was hitting something. I kept banging on the door but she wouldn’t let me in. Then I broke in the room. Momma was swinging her, by her feet, and singing, chanting. I tried to grab Alyssa but she flew out of my hands and hit the wall . . . I didn’t mean to throw her. I was trying to save her! I didn’t mean to . . . I’m sorry.

  Detective: It’s okay, Mary. It’s okay. Take your time. Do you need a break?

  Mary: No. No, I’m okay. Then Momma . . . shoved me out the room again. The phone was ringing and ringing, but I was too scared to answer it because I dropped Alyssa and I knew that was bad.

  Detective: Then what happened?

  Mary: I don’t know how long it was, but Momma came out. She sat me on the sofa and said she couldn’t save her and that she was dead. I was crying and Momma held me. Then she said, “How much do you love your momma, baby girl? You wouldn’t want nothing to happen to your momma, right?” Then she told me all the stuff that would happen to her, how they would beat her up in prison and maybe even give her the death penalty and that I would be in foster care, getting raped by men. But, she said they go easy on kids and that I wouldn’t even go to jail. That I would be free real soon and we would move away, start over, and she would buy me a puppy. She said, “So if anyone ask, tell them you did it, baby girl, you tried to save her. They won’t punish you too bad. You won’t get a beating. And you’ll be saving your momma.” She made me promise, swear on her Bible.

  Then she gave me a blanket with all this stuff inside and told me to bury it in the backyard. “Bury it deep or we be dead meat,” she said. I was so scared, I didn’t want to get into trouble, so I ran outside and started digging with my hands. It was so c
old out, felt like I was digging forever. It had been raining all day. My nails . . . there was so much dirt under them, mud all over me. And lights . . . these little flashing lights. Our neighbor had his Christmas lights on. Momma came outside and told me I was in the wrong spot. “Not this tree, the other tree!” So I ran over by another tree and started again.

  Then there was this big light, like a flashlight. Mr. Middlebury turned on the lights in his backyard. He was yelling at me; I didn’t know what he was saying. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran to tell Momma. When I ran inside, the police walked in. I thought Mr. Middlebury called them.

  Then I heard Momma tell them, “I don’t know what happened. She was alone in the room with her.”

  Detective: Why didn’t you say anything when the police got there?

  Mary: Momma told me not to. And she was watching . . . I’d get a beating if I did, because she made me swear on the Bible. Swear to God.

  Detective: Do you know what kind of pills your mother was taking at the time?

  Mary: Not really, they had long names.

  Detective: And . . . this cross you mentioned, what did it look like?

  Mary: It was small, and gold, used to be on a chain. It had these different color crystals on it.

  Detective: What colors were the crystals? Can you remember?

  Mary: Umm . . . like blue and yellow and red. Definitely red.

  Detective: Did your mom wear the cross a lot?

  Mary: All the time. It was her mother’s. She never took it off.

  “You did good in there,” Ms. Cora says on the car ride back to the group home. “I’m really proud of you.”

  I don’t say nothing. I can’t stop thinking about what just happened. That was exhausting, pouring the entire truth out after holding it in for so long, like holding your pee forever and finally letting it go. I’m drained, light-headed, and a little nervous. At least Mr. Jose asked all the right questions this time. He has been close to the truth all along.

  “So what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” she asks.

  Damn, that’s coming up, I forgot all about it. I was supposed to spend it with Ted. We were going to go to the parade and Boston Market. Not anymore.

  “I’ll be at the group home.”

  “Well, why don’t you spend it with me and my family?”

  “No thanks.”

  She frowns, stealing a glance, and I wonder what she is thinking.

  “Okay, I won’t pressure you,” she says. “But, if you have no plans for Christmas, then you should come. That’s when we have our big party.”

  I don’t want to think about Christmas yet. Christmas reminds me of Alyssa. And I don’t want to think about Alyssa any more than I already do.

  Momma is cooking.

  She’s probably stuffing the turkey right now. Already cleaned the greens, shredded the cheese, and boiled the sweet potatoes. Did she make her sour cream pound cake? Or her cranberry sauce with the orange peels? She probably won’t glaze the ham until later. It’s early and she still has the rice and peas to take care of.

  “Mary! Quit daydreaming and put the water on!”

  Ms. Stein is directing Thanksgiving dinner from her seat in front of the TV, watching the Thanksgiving parade. The kitchen counter is covered in cans and boxes, the makings of our dinner: Glory’s collard greens, string beans, corn, three boxes of Kraft macaroni and cheese, two boxes Stove Top Stuffing, one can of cranberry sauce, and one box of Entenmann’s pound cake.

  Marisol and Kelly went to their families’ houses for the day, which leaves Tara, Kisha, China, Joi, and I left to cook. New Girl walks down the stairs, all dressed up, her hair washed and blow-dried straight. She looks pretty, not sick and mousy as usual.

  “My dad is picking me up today,” she said earlier in our room, busy deciding what she was going to wear. “We’re going to my aunt’s house in New Jersey. I’ll be back after nine, but he said he would talk to Ms. Stein about curfew.”

  She puts on her peacoat and sits on the bench by the door, smiling. I’ve never seen her this happy before. She can’t wait to see her dad. I would be the same way if I knew who he was.

  Ms. Reba shoves the turkey in the oven. She seasoned it with butter, salt, a little pepper, and nothing else that would make it taste good. She also threw the turkey neck and giblets in the trash. Momma would’ve had a heart attack if she saw that.

  “You ain’t spending today with your moms?” China asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Why?”

  That’s a good question.

  I put on the water for the macaroni and cheese. China shrugs and starts to open up a can of green beans while Tara struggles to read the Stove Top Stuffing instructions.

  I guess this is better than spending Thanksgiving in baby jail. The food will taste the same but with better conditions. The COs hated working on any holiday and were extra mean. I spent most holidays on lockdown, the day passing like any other.

  “After that’s done, set the table! And don’t forget the cups. And put them rolls in the oven when the turkey’s done,” Ms. Stein says.

  The turkey will take at least four hours, so I have some time to kill. I sneak upstairs and check my phone. Two voice mails from Ted, begging me to call. The last message is from Ms. Cora.

  “Hi, Mary! I was going to call the house but, well, you know. Anyways, I have good news. We filed the post-conviction motions yesterday. They’ll review and we should have a hearing by the beginning of the year. I’ll call you next week so we can start to prepare. Anyways, enough of that legal talk. Hope you’re having a happy Thanksgiving.”

  A hearing? A trial? Wow, this is really happening.

  I grab yesterday’s newspaper and dictionary and lay down, circling a new word: perfidious. It means unfaithful and disloyal, like Ted.

  Momma . . . maybe I should talk to her again, make her see . . .

  Bean makes me so tired it’s hard to keep my eyes open.

  “Goddamn it, Mary! I told you to set the table!”

  My eyes fly open and the sun is setting. So much for a quick nap.

  I rush downstairs, the house smelling of turkey. New Girl is exactly where I left her, leg tapping like she has some type of nervous tic. She looks up at me, her eyes big and watery.

  “He . . . he’s just running a little late,” she says, her voice cracking under her fake smile. “Traffic. Lots of traffic. He’ll be here any minute.”

  It’s been five hours.

  I don’t say nothing. Instead, I go to the kitchen and find the turkey out of the oven. Beige in color, dry as a paper bag. Not even some of that generic gravy could help this bird taste better. Joi pops the cranberry sauce out onto a paper plate.

  Tara turns the Stove Top Stuffing into mushy slop, similar to what we used to eat in baby jail. China does her part by at least adding some seasoning and butter to the green beans, corn, and greens while Kisha mixes the Kool-Aid. I push the dinner rolls into the oven and start setting the table. Ms. Stein bought Thanksgiving-themed paper plates and a matching tablecloth.

  New Girl stares off into nothing. Her pale face is sweating from sitting in that hot peacoat for so long. China walks in and sets the sides on the table. She glances at New Girl.

  “I don’t think her peoples is coming to get her,” she whispers, uncovering the dishes. “She should probably just give up.”

  Our eyes meet, both knowing it ain’t that simple to give up on people you love that don’t love you the same.

  “Dinner is ready!” Ms. Reba announces, bringing the dry turkey to the table. Tara brings in her stuffing, knowing damn well she should throw it in the trash.

  Ms. Stein hobbles into the dining room. She looks over at New Girl, but doesn’t say anything. China is the only one kind enough.

  “Aye, New Girl. Why don’t you come over here and eat with us while you wait for your peoples.”

  New Girl shakes her head a few times.

  “No . . . no. My dad will be here any
minute. I don’t want to . . . spoil my dinner.”

  Ms. Reba and Ms. Stein glance at each other, sharing a guilty look.

  “Poor child,” Ms. Stein mumbles as she sits at the head of the table. Tara sits down next to her, greedy as ever.

  “Who gonna say grace?” Kisha says.

  “Grace?” Ms. Stein grumbles, while Ms. Reba sharpens the knife.

  “Yeah,” China says, looking at me. “We got a lot to be grateful for.”

  She’s right. God didn’t abandon me. I’m alive. I’m out of baby jail and got a lawyer that’s gonna help me keep Bean and set the record straight. I’m gonna go to college. And Ted . . . well . . . I don’t know. I rub my stomach and glance at New Girl, who’s struggling to hold back her tears.

  She pretends she doesn’t see me coming, remaining frozen while I sit next to her.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she whispers, her head hanging low. “I’m stupid, right? To just sit here . . . but he wouldn’t . . . he just wouldn’t. He’s just . . . running late. There’s a lot of traffic today, with the parade going on.”

  I put my hand on New Girl’s knee and don’t say what we’re both thinking. Because I’ve been there before, I know what she’s feeling. Parents aren’t supposed to disappoint their kids like this. It’s the cruelest type of punishment. I tap her knee and stand. She nods, takes off her coat, and follows me to the table.

  “Just for a little while. I can’t have too much. Don’t want to ruin my dinner.”

  Ms. Veronica is late. Again.

  But Ms. Stein don’t care; she has us all sitting in our circle in the basement, waiting. No supervision, no one to stop all of them from ganging up on me at any moment. I sit closer to the storm door, farthest from Kelly.

  “Damn yo . . . this is so fucking stupid,” Joi whines. “Where is this bitch? I have to call Markquann before lights-out. He was supposed to take me shopping today and I haven’t heard from him. I’m worried about my boo.”

  Marisol chuckles. “You still think you dating that nigga? Estúpido.”

  Joi rolls her eyes.

  “Whatever bitch, mind yo’ business.”

  “I’m so sick of this shit, man. I don’t need no doctor like you bitches. I’m straight,” Marisol says, flipping back her hair. Kelly chuckles and crosses her arms.