by J. D. Mason
“Oh, Lonnie,” Desi gasped. “That’s … oh…”
“We can do better than calling the police, Des. We can go to the media, blow that shit wide open.”
“I can’t believe … kids.”
“I’ll e-mail you the pictures.”
“Alright. Yeah. I need to see them.”
“See, what did I tell you, Desi. Everybody’s got a secret, some worse than others. While he was sitting up on that bench passing judgement on you, he was probably molesting somebody else’s child.”
“That’s a damn shame,” Desi said, sadly.
“We’re ready for you now, Miss Green.” Lonnie heard the salon attendant say to Desi.
“I’ve got to go, Lonnie.”
“I just hit send on those files, Des. They’ll be in your inbox when you get home.”
Desi hung up without saying good-bye.
“Let he who is without sin…” She murmured at the irony. He had made his living judging other people. But wasn’t that always the way? Dirty bastards ran the world, doing whatever the hell they wanted to do, under the guise of privilege. He’d screwed one child and sent her to prison, probably sitting on that bench trying to figure out how to screw another one and he deserved whatever came of this.
Stormy Weather
Jordan was tall like his father, but he wasn’t as light as Mr. J had been, and he didn’t have blue eyes. He looked more like his mother and he looked like he’d been born in a stack of money, wearing it with the same flair that he wore that expensive tailored suit, and silk tie.
“This bitch kills him and then gets his money? Somebody wake me the hell up from this nightmare!”
“Counselor,” the judge sitting at the end of the conference table said, sternly. “Please remind your client that that sort of behavior will not be tolerated in my court.”
She was fresh out of prison. Desi didn’t like judges, or lawyers because at any moment she felt like any one of them could’ve thrown her ass back in prison if she so much as sneezed. And Jordan Gatewood scared the hell out of Desi. The last time she’d seen him in person, he was young, just a few years older than she was, sitting behind her in that courtroom behind the prosecutor, glaring at her with laser eyes. Even then she didn’t have the courage to look at him. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him now.
Ida’s will had said that she’d left Desi all her belongings, including the house, and money that Desi didn’t know her mother had. No one knew she had that kind of money, not even the Gatewoods. Apparently, Mr. J had been sneaky in leaving it to her, figuring out some way to keep it secret. Jordan Gatewood didn’t find out about it until word got out that Desi had inherited millions. He got suspicious, set his attorneys loose on her, and found out that the only way Desi could’ve inherited that kind of money was if Julian had left it to her.
“She’s benefitting from the death of the very man she killed, your honor!” Jordan blurted out, ignoring his lawyer’s pleading that he keep quiet. “For all I know, she killed him to get the money. Maybe there’s your motive for murder right there! You killed my father because you knew he’d left millions to you!”
Desi leaned over to her lawyer and whispered. “I inherited my momma’s money.”
Jordan overheard her. He pounded his fist so hard on that conference table that Desi thought it would break in two. She jumped in her seat when he stood up, looking like he wanted to leap over that table, wrap his hands around her neck, and squeeze until he snapped it.
“That whore got that money from my father!”
Red flashed behind her eyes, and in a blur, Desi stood up, and hurled her purse across the table right at him. “Don’t you talk about my momma like that!” she yelled.
He swatted the purse like it was a fly.
“That’s it! That’s enough!” The judge stood up and yelled. “Get these people out of my court! Get them out of here, now!”
In the end, she’d won. There wasn’t a person in that room who thought she’d had a snowball’s chance in hell of getting that money, least of all, him. A man like that wasn’t used to losing to anybody. And the fact that he’d lost to her, ate him up inside.
Desi inhaled her cigarette. She stood in the middle of her empty living room, tapping the ashes into an soda can.
“What the hell is my problem?” she murmured to herself. She’d been living in this place like a visitor who could be told to leave at any minute. This was her home. It was shiny and brand new and it was hers. When was it going to finally sink in that she deserved a house like this? When was she going to accept the turn that her life had taken? After all, she’d earned it. She’d paid with her life for this place. Her mother had paid for it with her life. And Mr. J? He’d wanted Desi and Ida to have that money. He’d gone to such great lengths to hide it from his family and fancy lawyers, because he didn’t want anybody else to take it from them, because he loved them. He loved them as much as they had loved him. And maybe in some way, he had loved them more than he’d loved his real family.
They were all liars. Even Ida Green had been a liar, by not telling Desi the truth about the man she loved.
“Is Mr. J your husband?” a very young Desi asked her mother once.
Ida smiled. “He is my husband here.” She placed her hand over her heart.
Desi thought about it, and then asked the only other question she could ask. “Is he my daddy in my heart?”
Ida’s smile faded. “He’s your daddy all over, Desi.”
And he was.
Desi needed to finally put down some roots in this place. She began picturing in her mind the kind of furnishings she wanted in this room, and the way she wanted it to make her feel when she walked in. She’d only bought this big-house because she could afford it, and rich people lived in big houses. More than the house, it was the land she loved. Desi owned three thousand glorious acres of open space. She didn’t have another neighbor in sight, and even owned her own private road.
She’d spent more than half of her life living in a box, a six-by-six-foot cell. Now she lived in a castle, one that was way too big, but maybe she could find a way to make it fit.
It was time to make alot of things fit and not just the house, but the money, too. It was time to make the truth fit, all of it, especially the parts she’d ignored all these years and pretended like none of it ever happened. When Mr. J was alive, he’d taken care of Desi and her mother, and he’d made sure to take care of them after he’d died, too. That money Desi had inherited was rightfully hers, and not even Jordan Gatewood, with all his power, money, and attorneys, could take it from her.
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and visualized two words, while saying them out loud. “You won. You won. You won.”
The Man
“Dad, I need my car keys.”
Solomon Jones closed the refrigerator, leaned back against the kitchen counter, and casually twisted off the cap on his beer bottle.
Her car keys?
He finished half the bottle before finally coming up for air, releasing a room-shaking burp and looking at her like she’d lost her mind.
Right on cue came the eye-rolling, the folding of the arms across the chest, and the lip smacking. If he wanted to, he could write a thesis about a teenage girl and be right on the money.
“Daddyyyyyyy.” Sonya whined, dropped her arms, and stomped one flip-flopped foot, just like he knew she would. “You said I could have them back todayyyyyyy.”
“Did I?” he asked, indifferently.
When she was younger, and cuter, he’d fall for that shit every single time. But now she was a teenager. He hated teenagers, even his own, especially when she stood in his kitchen looking more like her mother, who’d decided after summer break was over and it was time to fly this child back to Chicago to go to school, that maybe it would be a good idea for her to go to school, that nice private one, in Texas so that she could spend more time with her father.
“You diiiiiiiiid.” Poke out bottom lip. Drop
chin to chest. Bat pretty brown eyes, and stomp over to Daddy the way she used to do when she was five. Hold out her hand, like she knows Daddy’s going to break down and give in to her little tantrum. Pout. “Please Daddy?”
Be strong, man. Don’t give in to that—Get your hand out of your pocket! Solomon! Man!
Big grin. “Thank you, Daddy.” Quick peck on the cheek, spin around and race out of the house before he comes to his senses and changes his mind.
“Be back by eight!” he shouted after her.
“Nine?”
“Eight thirty or I’m coming after you!”
“’Kay!”
Solomon and his wife, Tracy, had only been married for three years before the thrill of the sex wore off, the kid came, and they realized that they couldn’t stand being married to each other. A few years later, she remarried, move to Chi-town, and had a set of twin boys to keep her busy. Solomon counted his blessings. Those twins could’ve just as easily been his. Sonya was his baby girl and she was more than enough. She’d said she wanted to go away to college. Her mother was against it. He wasn’t.
Solomon had just sat down and turned on the Cowboy’s game when his phone rang. It was Mark Evans, a friend of his from the country club.
“So, I’m playing the seventh hole on the green when a friend of mine asks about you, some publishing contract, and a murderer. I stood there looking stupid, waiting for the punch line.”
Of course Solomon wasn’t surprised. If you wanted to keep something on the low in this city, all you had to do was not tell anybody about it.
“And you’re calling me, because—”
“Because Jordan Gatewood was playing in front of me on the eighth hole. Some dude in a suit and tie crossed the green to get to him, said something to the man, and the next thing I know, his nine iron goes sailing through the air and whizzing past my head. And then, although I could be wrong, I could’ve sworn I heard your name come up among quite a few choice profanities. But like I said, maybe I heard wrong.”
Solomon was used to people talking about him at the club. After all, he did represent some of the biggest names in the entertainment and professional sports industries. Somehow, though, he just knew that this was not going to be good.
“You going to tell me what’s going on?” Mark asked.
“I’d so much rather get back to this game I was just about to watch.”
“I see. Going into button-lip mode on me, huh?”
Solomon chuckled. “Like it matters, I mean, you’re calling me from the golf course telling me about it.”
“The only killer I know that could draw that kind of reaction from Gatewood is the infamous Miss Green,” Mark concluded.
Solomon took another gulp of his beer. “That’s the only one I know of too.”
“She was in your office less than a week ago?”
“You called Katy on a Sunday to ask her that?” Katy was Solomon’s administrative assistant.
“She and I go way back,” he said sarcastically.
“And she told you that Desi Green was in my office?”
If she had, then come Monday morning her ass was out of a job.
“No, she didn’t. She said she couldn’t comment on it one way or another and asked if in the future I’d refrain from calling her at home on the weekends.”
Good for her!
“Then how’d you know she was in my office?”
He laughed. “I didn’t, until now. Damn! I’m glad you’re not my attorney.”
Solomon couldn’t believe he’d fallen for that shit. “Fuck you, man,” he said, dismally.
“What’d she want?”
“None of your damn business.”
“That’s fine. You don’t have to tell me. I’m not going to take it personally.”
“You should.”
“I just called to tell you to be on your guard, man. And expect a phone call at the office on Monday, maybe even a visit. I have a feeling that Gatewood is planning on getting to know you a whole lot better than just in passing on the golf course.”
Solomon sighed. “I’ll be sure to heed the warning, man.”
“That’s all I ask. Go Green Bay!” Green Bay was playing Dallas.
“Go sit on your putter, man. Hard.”
He hung up the phone, watched Romo toss the ball twenty yards down the field to Miles, who dropped it. But his mind wasn’t on the game anymore. Without even trying he’d been pulled into the middle of World War Three, the endless battle between Desi Green and Jordan Gatewood. He’d seen it coming, though. The minute she walked into his office, and he agreed to be her attorney for this business transaction, he’d seen it coming.
The last thing he needed was controversy. Jordan was famous for shooting attorneys out of cannons at people who didn’t get with the program, his program. The way he saw it, Solomon could avoid all this nonsense by giving Desi back her contract and washing his hands of the matter, but then, that would be a punk move, and just like Green Bay was owning the Cowboys, Gatewood would own him.
Treasure Box
The old woman had special treasures that she kept in a box hidden in a compartment in her closet. Olivia wore the key on a gold chain around her neck.
She pulled a gold ring out of the box with a diamond so small, she had to squint to see it. Olivia laughed to herself. It was her first promise ring. She was just a girl when that young man gave it to her. Olivia pulled a neatly folded baby blue, linen handkerchief from the box next. “Something borrowed—something blue,” she murmured, fingering the royal blue embroidered lettering in one corner, OF, Olivia Franklin. Franklin had been her maiden name. On the opposite corner were the letters OG, Olivia Gatewood. Her mother had given this to her minutes before her wedding. She searched the box for another valuable item she’d held dear, and kept close. Olivia rummaged through it, pulling everything out and laying it neatly on the bed. “Where is it?” she asked, confused, sliding the contents that she’d placed on the bed all around, hoping to come across it, but instead, she came across something else.
It was an old section from the newspaper, folded and faded.
MILLIONAIRE JULIAN GATEWOOD MURDERED!
She didn’t bother unfolding it. Olivia had read through it a hundred times, and she knew what it said. “Shh, Olivia,” she said to herself. What they wrote—the papers—
She had kept every article ever written about Desi Green. Olivia’s memory wasn’t always clear or accurate. But the one thing she could never do was forget that child’s face. Olivia had never stopped hating her.
She looked so much like her mother, Ida. Olivia wondered how many of Julian’s business trips had been spent in that house, with Ida and that little girl? A wife has her suspicions. Something deep inside her warns her when her man is being unfaithful. Several years into their marriage, Olivia began to have her suspicions and late one night, after he’d come home from being gone most of the week, she confronted him with them.
Olivia’s babies were both asleep in their rooms down the hall. “You think I’m a fool?” she asked, exasperated. “You think I don’t know?”
Julian kept unpacking his bag, while Olivia stood over him, and followed him around the room, trying to corner him, to make him stop and look her in the eyes.
“Who is she, Julian?” Olivia sobbed. “And don’t tell me I’m overreacting, because I know I’m not!”
She grabbed him by the arm, and Julian dropped a handful of shirts on the floor. She’d never forget the look on his face, in his eyes.
“It’s none of your goddamned business, Olivia,” he said, gritting his teeth and jerking away from her.
She couldn’t believe he’d said that to her. Wasn’t she his wife? Wasn’t she the mother of his children? “It—it is my business,” she said, shocked that he’d had the nerve to suggest that it wasn’t. “I’m your wife. Julian! I’m your wife! It is my business!”
“Leave it alone,” he muttered, picking up his shirts and taking them into the closet.
Olivia was confused. She was angry, and she hadn’t expected his reaction. She’d expected him to lie, to tell her that she was worried over nothing. She’d expected him to tell her she was imagining things. She’d expected him to fight to try and keep her, and to keep their marriage together.
“I won’t live like this,” she finally said. “Julian, I don’t have to live like this!”
She stood up and stalked over to him again.
“Then don’t!” He looked into her eyes as he said it.
Stunned, she stumbled backward. “I’ll take the children.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “You do what you have to.”
Was he choosing her over Olivia? Was he really doing that? “Julian?”
He didn’t say a word. Julian’s crystal blue eyes locked onto hers, daring her to follow through with her threat. She never did.
When he was alive, Julian had not been a nice man. He wasn’t even a decent man, but Olivia had loved him anyway, even though he did what he wanted without giving any consideration to how the things he did might have affected her. Jordan was just like him. She’d seen Julian’s ways in him, in the way he treated his wife and in the way he ignored his daughter, making up for his shortcomings with money.
“Do you love her?” Olivia confronted Julian after finding out about Ida Green. “Do you love her more than me, Julian? More than your children?”
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she begged him to say it, to tell her the truth that had been breaking her heart ever since she found out about his affair with that woman. “Answer me, Julian!”
Julian pushed passed her without saying a word, and left not only their bedroom that night, but their house.
Desi Green was all that was left of Ida. And Desi Green, it seemed, would live forever, a constant reminder of everything she had loved and lost, her husband, her dignity, her salvation.
* * *
“I can’t pray enough.” Mary Travis had been such a quiet woman. She’d recently passed away, but shortly before that, she’d called Olivia.
