by J. D. Mason
“Madam Forewoman. How does the jury find?”
“We find the defendant guilty, Your Honor.”
When Mary Travis said those words, she looked right at Desi, like she didn’t know her. She looked at Desi like the two of them had never sat on that woman’s front porch drinking sweet tea together, while Miss Mary told Desi how important it was for her to do well in school so that she could get into a good college and make something of herself.
“Desi?”
Desi began to shake uncontrollably and glared at him. Not this time. She’d be damned if she let anybody do this to her again. “She fell,” she whispered through tears.
She wasn’t going back to prison!
“The paper said she fell.” Desi defiantly glared up at him.
He stood there. “It did,” he responded quietly.
Let him try to send her back to prison. Desi would fight him. She’d fight for her life this time, spending every dime of that money she’d inherited to pay some goddamned lawyer to kick some prosecutor’s ass in that courtroom.
Desi rose to her feet and stepped toward him. “Why are you here?”
He remained as cool as a cucumber. “I had to know. I had to look into your eyes when we had this conversation.”
Solomon had come all the way out here, playing his lawyer games, trying to push buttons and to get her to admit something that he’d only suspected.
Desi walked over to the door and held it open for him to leave. “Get the hell out of here!” she demanded, without looking at him.
She left the door open and walked away, turning her back to him.
Solomon didn’t move.
She turned to him. She couldn’t hold her tongue anymore. He was standing here, accusing her when his judgment should’ve been saved for his aunt.
“You think she was a saint?”
The look on his face told her that he didn’t like the question.
“Desi, don’t.”
“Don’t what?” She smirked. “Don’t tell you the truth? Isn’t that why you came here? She wrote me letters,” Desi confessed. She’d never told anyone about those letters. Not her mother. Not even Lonnie. “The woman sent me to prison and then had the nerve to write to me, telling me about how sorry she was for what she had to do.”
The confusion in his eyes almost made her feel sorry for him. He didn’t believe her, and Desi needed desperately for him to believe her.
“I saved them, Solomon. Every last one, written by her hand to me.” She pointed to herself.
His confusion turned to pain.
“Mary Travis was no saint, and nobody knows that better than me. She felt guilty. It ate her up and she tried to make it up to me by sending me letters! Like I cared!” Desi didn’t even realize that she’d started crying. “She was still free and I wasn’t because of her! And I’m supposed to give a damn about her being sorry?”
“Desi…” he tried to stop her.
“‘Shut up, Desi!’ Is that what you want me to do, Solomon?” She walked over to him and pointed her finger in his face. “I am sick and tired of shutting up! Now, I got plenty to say and I’ll be damned this time if I don’t!”
* * *
The two of them came to an impasse. Desi sat at the far end of the sofa with her feet curled underneath her, looking away away from Solomon. He stood staring at the open door long after she’d asked him to leave. Desi had shut down. She wouldn’t answer any more of his questions, and she knew that Solomon had to have had a million of them.
The woman was his aunt, his mother’s sister. Of course he wanted to believe the best about her, but now he had to wrestle with Desi’s version of who Mary Travis had been.
“I’d like to see those letters, Desi.”
She wouldn’t even look at him.
“I need to understand.”
To hell with him and understanding, she thought bitterly. Why should she care if he ever understood when Desi didn’t understand it either?
Eventually, Solomon did the only thing he could do. He picked up his bag and left. Desi took a long, deep breath when he did, and held it. For now at least, there was nothing for him to say. Nothing for him to do except to believe her … or not.
* * *
After he left, Desi called Lonnie. “He thinks I killed Mary Travis.”
“He can think what he wants. He can’t prove shit.”
Cabo
Jordan took a chance and had a courier deliver a plane ticket to Cabo San Lucas to Lonnie at her office. He thought about following it up with a phone call, but decided against it, and showed up at the resort hotel not knowing if she would take him up on his offer, or leave him to spend the weekend alone in the ocean-view suite.
She didn’t disappoint. “How’d you know that the way to a girl’s heart was a weekend getaway at a lux resort on the beach?”
Jordan stood on the balcony, with his back to the door, smiling to himself, as Lonnie came up behind him, wrapped two gorgeous arms around his waist, and nuzzled herself against his back.
“Lucky guess?”
She moaned, and rested her head on his shoulder. “How about a brilliant one?”
The two of them stripped down to nothing and lay out on the lanai on the chaise making slow, languid love all afternoon. The sun seemed to shine a spotlight on the woman, and she bathed in it, soaked in it until her beautiful dark skin glistened like something magical. Jordan loved looking at her. Lonnie’s parents were Nigerian, but Lonnie had been born in Omaha. Her career path had led her all over the world, but ultimately, for some strange reason, she’d decided to settle in Texas, which just didn’t suit her. Places like this—exotic, warm, and tropical—fit her like a glove, and if he could pack her up and leave her here for his convenience, he’d do it in a heartbeat.
* * *
“I saw your pretty wife on the cover of Texas Woman Magazine.” Lonnie bit into a fresh piece of mango, and fed him the other half.
“I didn’t fly you out here to talk about my wife,” he said, dismissively.
No married man liked talking to his chick on the side about his wife, and vice versa, naturally. But Lonnie liked watching him squirm.
“She’s breathtaking.” Lonnie smiled.
Jordan grunted.
“The article said that she’s starting her own fashion line. She sews?”
Jordan reached for his glass of wine, and sipped.
“I should change the subject?”
He looked at her. “Yes. You should.”
“How’s mom?”
Jordan still didn’t answer.
“You’re starting to make me wonder if all we have in common is sex. You don’t want to talk about her either?”
“Not with you?”
Lonnie frowned. “Ouch! That stung. So, what you’re trying to say is, I’m just the ass on the side and that I just need to lay back, spread ’em, and look pretty.”
He smiled.
She didn’t. Lonnie was surprised by how insulted she felt. Jordan had gotten his and was holding her captive here in Mexico. The pendulum had swung to his side and he was being smug about it, which pissed her off, the longer she stared at him.
“Claire’s the trophy, Jordan. Don’t make the mistake of getting the two of us confused.”
He lay back, pulled his shades down over his eyes, and ignored her. Lonnie was livid. She drew back her hand, slapped him hard across the face, sending those expensive shades flying over the stucco wall. Jordan grabbed her by the wrist.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Lonnie tried jerking away from him. “You’re what’s wrong with me! I’m not Claire, Jordan!” she screamed. “You don’t own me! You get it because I choose to give it to you! Don’t get it twisted!”
“I get it because I want it,” he growled in her face. “Don’t you get it twisted!”
Lonnie swung her free hand at him again, but he caught it before it could make contact, twisted both arms behind her back, and pulled her do
wn on to his lap. Jordan’s penis was rock hard.
Lonnie fought. She didn’t want him and she wasn’t about to let him take shit that didn’t belong to him. She tried raising her knee to his chest, but Jordan blocked it with his elbow. With one hand, he clamped both of her wrists behind her. He wrapped his other arm around her waist, raised her up, and forced himself inside her.
“You’re mistaken,” he grunted. “I own this!”
Jordan pressed his lips to hers and forced his tongue into her mouth. Lonnie bit down hard on it, hard enough for him to cry out, but he didn’t. Jordan’s stare locked onto hers and dared her to bite it off. Lonnie drew blood. He grabbed her by the neck and squeezed until she couldn’t breathe. Jordan drove in and out of her as deep as he could. Lonnie’s eyes rolled back in their sockets, her head fell back, and moments before she started to black out, he came. Seconds later, so did she.
* * *
The sun was starting to set, and Lonnie gazed lazily out at the ocean views more satisfied than she’d ever been in her life. Blood had dried in the corner of her mouth. Lonnie finally gathered enough strength to talk.
“How’s the tongue?” she asked, lazily.
Jordan made a smacking noise. “Sore. But I’ll live.”
She raised her head to look at him. “I loved it,” she confessed.
He ran his hand over her head, stared deep into her eyes and smiled. “I love you.”
The Rock Cried Out
“That’s her? You know? The one that killed that old rich man!”
“Girl! You lying!”
“I swear to God that’s her!”
Days and nights bled into each other in one long thread of time. Desi cried a lot, especially at night in her cell. During the day, she did whatever they told her to do without question, and it seemed to be enough.
“I want it clean in here, Green,” one of the guards told her, leading Desi into the bathroom. “Clean enough to eat off the floors or you’ll do it again. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Desi said quietly.
“You’ve got four hours,” she said, looking at her watch before leaving.
Work kept her mind occupied. Desi made small projects major ones, concentrating her efforts into the details. It made the time go by more quickly. It kept her from thinking about where she really was, if all she concentrated on was a toilet or a shower wall. Every line, every crack, every nook held her full undivided attention until she lost herself in the effort. The next thing she knew, she’d be done, and soon it would be time to go to bed.
“Desi? Is that your name?”
Desi looked up from scrubbing the floor around one of the toilets when she heard someone call her name. Three women stood in the doorway of the women’s bathroom.
“Y’all need to use it?” she asked, slowly standing up.
One of them looked like a boy, she even talked like one, and she came over to where Desi stood, and reached out to touch Desi’s hair.
“Pretty,” she said, smiling.
“She young, Ike. I told you she was,” one of the other women said. Desi looked up at her and noticed a green inked tattoo scrawled across her neck that read Da Fellaz. The one standing in front of Desi had it too, but it was written on the inside of her arm.
“They call you Desi?” the woman asked again.
She had heard about them. Da Fellaz liked girls. Desi’s heart beat like a rabbit’s. She nodded. She wanted to tell them that she didn’t want any trouble and that she had to hurry up and get this bathroom cleaned before the guard came back. She wanted to tell them that she didn’t belong here, but Desi was too afraid to say anything.
The woman smiled warmly. “My pretty girl.”
She walked Desi backward until her back was up against the wall. She wasn’t as tall as Desi, but she was thick. “They call me Ike,” she said, standing so close to Desi that she could feel the heat of the woman’s breath against her face. “You like Ike?”
Desi looked confused and she shrugged. One of the women laughed. The other just shook her head. Ike leaned in close and kissed Desi lightly on the lips. Desi shuddered, and squeezed her eyes shut. Ike laughed, and then backed away.
“A virgin,” she chuckled. “I ain’t had me no virgin in years.”
Desi reluctantly opened her eyes, and Ike blew her a kiss. “Keep it sweet for me, baby girl!” She winked then she and the others left. “I’ma put my name on that ’fore it’s all said and done.”
For the next month, Desi did whatever she could to avoid running into Ike. But if Ike saw her first, Desi was at her mercy. Ike pinched, groped, kissed, and winked. She tortured Desi, promising to take possession of her, and Desi could barely eat or sleep for worrying about Ike. One morning in the shower, though, she realized that it wasn’t Ike she should’ve been worried about.
Desi could feel Ike watching her, but she showered quickly, as usual. She slathered soap on her face, and when she rinsed it off, she saw Ike, standing in her stall, staring and smiling and licking her lips. Desi never even noticed the woman standing behind Ike.
“Get it good, Elise,” she heard someone say. “Tear that shit up!”
The woman scissored herself with Desi on the floor of the shower room, grunted like a man, then reached around to Desi’s lower back and pulled and pushed against her, until she started to shudder, roll her back, and grunted.
“Fuck! Ooooh! Fuck!”
Minutes later, she shoved Desi away from her and fell backward onto on the floor the wet floor until she finally caught her breath and stood up. Desi curled up and cried.
The woman stood over her. “I got that cherry,” she said, glaring at everyone else. “Who wants sloppy seconds?”
“Move!” Ike called out, rushing over to Desi. “I’m next!”
As soon as Ike touched her ankle, Desi sat up and swung, landing a blow hard to the side of Ike’s face.
“Bitch!” Ike spat, punching Desi so hard, she tasted blood.
* * *
Sue’s mouth hung open in shock and amazement after listening to Desi recount her violent experience in prison not long after she’d gotten there.
“I—I—don’t know what to say to that, Desi. I’m speechless.”
“Then don’t say anything,” Desi said unemotionally, as if she were telling someone else’s experience and not her own. “Just put it in the book.”
“H-How did you manage to survive in that environment?”
“How did I survive?” She stared in astonishment at Sue. “You want me to tell you how many times I cried myself to sleep, or thought about killing myself, or how many times I prayed until my knees swelled up, begging God to get me out of that place only to realize one day, that He didn’t listen to prayers from prison? Is that what you want to hear?”
Sue looked confused. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re fascinated with this martyr shit, Sue. You can’t get enough of it, but when it comes to writing about Billings and that mess he did, all of a sudden it’s gossip, it’s tabloid crap and not worthy of putting into your book.”
“I thought we’d gotten past all that?” Sue said, irritably. “Is that how this collaboration is going to be? Adversarial? You against me?”
“Not if you cooperate.” Desi smiled.
Sue frowned. “Meaning?”
“Meaning, you write what you like to write, and you write what you don’t like to write. If it comes out of my mouth, then it goes in the book.”
Sue thought about it for a few moments before responding. “Or else what?”
Desi defiantly folded her arms in front of her. “Or else, I’ll keep the really juicy stuff to myself and maybe even sell it to some tabloid later on.”
“That’s low,” Sue protested.
“Take it or leave it.”
It took only a few seconds. “I’ll take it.”
To Protect and Serve
Retired Police Chief Thomas Billings had faithfully served this small community of Blink, Texas f
or more than forty years before retiring seven years ago. Residents of Blink referred to Billings with warm and heartfelt regards, using words like caring, thoughtful, and fair. But it seems that the chief of police had a dark side. Maybe it was his warm and caring nature that compelled him to help sneak desperate illegals across the border from Mexico into Texas. Perhaps he believed that he was helping people build better lives for themselves. Or perhaps, Tom Billings was driven by greed and power, transporting desperate and trusting people from one hell into another. As the FBI closed in on one of the largest human-trafficking organizations in the country, they soon realized that they were closing in on public officials, hired to uphold the law, to protect and to serve.
Desi had come across the article over the Internet, and it read verbatim to the e-mail Lonnie had sent her detailing the role Tom Billings was suspected to have played in a large human-trafficking ring. Lonnie’s investigative reporter friend, D. Rohm, had followed up on a tip about Billings, and stumbled onto the biggest breaking story in his career.
When asked who his source had been, the man couldn’t say. The tip had been anonymous. Desi soon learned that Judge Fleming’s transgressions had been a part of a bigger picture that led D. Rohm to Billings.
“I’m not surprised,” Lonnie said to Desi after the reporter told her of the connection. “Fleming and Billings lie together, probably share the same little country-ass brain. They ganged up on you together. Why wouldn’t they be redneck deep in this shit together too?”
A Fevered Pitch
It was good to be home. As much as Sue loved New York, all the excitement and energy of that place wasn’t beans compared to her quiet home in the northern Virginia suburb. Virginia had trees, plenty of them. And Sue had a thing for trees. Mornings were the best. Sue brought her cup of coffee with her outside to the porch and sat in the swing she’d insisted her husband, Evan, have installed. She wore a pair of his socks, some old sweats, and a tank top, then wrapped herself in one of his sweaters to ward off the chill of the morning air. The sun was just starting to come up. Sue took a deep breath, a sip of coffee, and slowly exhaled, doing her best to reenact one of those fresh coffee commercials where the woman looked so perfectly content and beautiful as she savored one of life’s precious moments.
