by J. D. Mason
He laughed. “You don’t want to bite that,” he teased. “It’s tough and sinewy.”
“Just like your old momma.” She laughed.
Contrary Mary
Desi sat stoically across from Solomon in his office, waiting while he read through half a dozen of the letters Mary had written to her through the years. The first letter was dated nearly a year after Desi had been incarcerated.
Dear Desi,
I don’t expect that you’ll even open this letter, let alone read it after you realize who I am, but I pray that you will. That’s all I can do—pray. Lately, I’ve found myself praying more for you than for myself and hope that God is listening and watching over you. If he is listening to me, then I believe he will answer, if he knows that my thoughts are solely with you in that prison.
I am as convicted as you are, but for me there will never be a release. I am condemned to live out the rest of my life here in this miserable body, but that’s as it should be.
You will be free someday. I believe this. I know it. And when that happens, maybe then I can rest.
Truly and sincerely,
Mary
In the first few letters, spread years apart, Mary appeared to be begging for Desi’s forgiveness, but later, their tone changed, and she focused more on “her girls” as she called them, young and troubled girls in high school that she mentored and became somewhat of a surrogate mother to.
The graduation ceremony was lovely. Mariah looked so beautiful and so proud of herself. She wants to teach, like me. Of course, I am so hopeful for her. I told her that she’ll have to work hard, but that I would help her in any way that I could. Thankfully, the community college here doesn’t cost as much as a four-year university, but I told her that she can start here, and later, apply to school to finish getting her bachelor’s degree. Mariah is so patient and smart that I know she’ll make a great teacher, and helping her to achieve her goal is more of a blessing to me than it is to her.
Thank you, Desi.
Truly and sincerely,
Mary
After he finished reading, Solomon looked up at Desi. “Did you ever write back?”
Desi shook her head. “I never did.”
“So, why keep them?”
She shrugged.
“Why do you think she wrote them?” he asked, but Solomon was sure that he already knew the answer.
“Guilty conscience.”
Mary had been guilt ridden over sending a young girl to prison. Jurors felt guilty all the time. But Solomon had been quietly putting the pieces together in his own mind, and he didn’t like the picture they’d created. She’d used her own money to pay college tuition for several teenage girls, money that seemed to come when she needed it.
One of my girls, Brandy, was so upset when her mother put her out after finding out that she was pregnant. How could a mother, a good mother, turn her back on her child when she needs her the most? Brandy had nowhere to go, and no job. But I managed to find her an apartment of her own near a good school and across the street from a nice park. She was happy, but was so worried that she couldn’t pay me back the year’s rent I paid for it. I didn’t want her to pay me back, Desi. That money is doing some good for people who need it. It’s not mine. It never was.
“Do you think she took money, Desi?” he managed to ask, nearly choking on the question. He needed to hear it from somebody else. He needed confirmation that he wasn’t just jumping to an ugly conclusion about a woman he loved dearly.
“I do, Solomon,” she said, softly.
His gazed locked onto hers. “Why do you think she’d do something like that?”
“You’re asking me?”
Solomon’s heart sunk to his stomach. If the Gatewoods wanted to ensure a conviction, then all they had to do was buy one. Desi had been young, pretty, and it was possible that a jury would’ve felt enough sympathy for her to possibly find her not guilty. Maybe, they didn’t want to risk it.
“I am sorry for your loss, Solomon,” Desi finally said. “The loss of your Aunt Mary, and the loss of the faith you once had in her. But I’d be lying if I said that I gave a damn about her,” she said, bluntly. “If she thought she was doing me any favors by helping those other girls, then she was wrong.”
“People make mistakes, Desi. You should know that better than anybody.”
“Some mistakes you can’t recover from or make right. I do know that better than anybody.”
Solomon handed her back her letters. Desi took them and left.
He didn’t have the heart to share what he’d learned about Mary with his family. Obviously, Mary had made some mistakes in her life. And what was even more obvious—she regretted them.
* * *
Solomon sat in his office long after everyone else in the firm had left for the day.
A member of a jury trial had been bribed. How many more had been paid? How many sold their pleas for a price? One question led to another and another until it had snowballed to a monstrous proportion. All of a sudden, what had been so clear cut and dry, wasn’t. And if Mary Travis was no longer what he and so many others had believed her to have been all these years, who else involved in that trial was hiding behind a mask?
Desi’s perfume lingered in the air after she’d left. It was as soft and as understated as she was. Solomon had judged her and convicted her like so many others. She had every right to hate him. She had a right to hate all of them.
Sue Me
With Desi back in Texas and Sue back at her home in Virginia, the two had started collaborating over the Internet, using video chat.
“When you first told me about Tom Billings, I felt it would make you look vindictive, which would lessen the impact of your story,” Sue explained. “I thought it would turn the book into more of a soap opera than a memoir.”
Desi surprised her and laughed. “It is a soap opera, Sue.”
“No, Desi. If anything, it’s even more tragic than I thought it could be.”
“Don’t get depressed on me, Sue Parker.”
“I’m not depressed. I’m angry. This ordeal with Billings raises a lot of questions for me, questions that I never thought to consider before.”
“Like what?”
“What kind of law officer could he have been when he was capable of something so horrific?”
If she expected Desi to answer that question, Sue was disappointed. Desi had no answers.
“He had no integrity,” Sue said. “How can anyone ever trust any arrest he made, any decision he made?”
Again, Desi was silent.
“He wasn’t a good man, so therefore, how could he have been a good cop? He couldn’t have treated you fairly, Desi,” she murmured.
“No,” Desi finally spoke, “he couldn’t have.”
Sue took a deep breath, held it, then released it slowly. “Why did you kill Julian, Desi?”
Desi pressed her lips together and then blinked away tears. “I never said that I did.”
A big, old rock found its way into Sue’s stomach, as she recalled video footage of Sheriff Billings being interviewed when news of the trial went national.
“Sheriff, can you speculate as to why or how this happened?”
“It’s hard to say what goes on in the minds of young girls,” he said in this thick, Texas drawl. Billings adjusted his cowboy hat.
“Based on your report, things probably aren’t looking good for Desi Green.”
The reporter shoved the microphone back under his nose. He shrugged. “I’m not here to speculate, son, but—well, that’s for a jury to decide.”
All sorts of wild ideas began to run through Sue’s head. “You were convicted of murder, Desi. A jury says that you were guilty. I need to know why you did it.”
“‘You’re a smart girl, Desi.’” Desi started to repeat things told to her after her arrest. “‘Don’t say anything.’ ‘Let your lawyer speak on your behalf.’”
“Desi?”
“‘Be a big girl
for Momma. They’ll turn what you say around and make it sound like you confessed.’”
Sue’s heart broke. “Aw—Desi.”
“Money talks, Sue. I didn’t shoot Mr. J. Why would I? I loved him.” She bit down on her bottom lip before making the confession that would shake Sue to the core. “He was my father.”
“You mean he was like a father to you,” Sue asked for clarity.
“He was my father, Sue.”
* * *
After that revelation, Desi had to suddenly get off the computer. Sue sat stunned, shaking her head. Was it true? Was Julian Gatewood really her father? There’d never been any mention from any media outlet that Julian was Desi’s father. Was she making it up? Obviously, Desi Green was full of surprises and so much more complicated than Sue could’ve imagined. And this story—this story was turning into something messy, something Sue had never expected.
Sue’s phone rang and Jeremy’s name popped up as the caller.
Sue groaned. “Yes,” she said, wearily.
“Stop the presses,” he blurted out.
She was still in shock from Desi’s revelation. “What?”
“Literally,” he said, dryly. “We’ve been slapped with an injunction order from Gatewood. We’ve been ordered by the courts to stop all action regarding this book.”
“Are you serious?” she asked, stunned.
“Very.”
Sue sighed, and rolled her eyes. “Fuck!” she murmured.
Jeremy surprised her and laughed. “You know, until this moment, I believed that I’d let you talk me into making the biggest mistake of my career.”
Sue thought the man had gone mad. “And now you don’t?”
“Sweetheart.” He laughed even more. “Jordan Gatewood has just sold the first hundred thousand copies of this book for us. All of a sudden, Sue Parker, people are going to give a damn about Desi Green more than I ever thought they would.”
“So, this is a good thing?” she asked, sitting up straight.
“It’s fabulous. Hurry up and get me that story.”
“But I thought you said—”
“Since when have you ever listened to a word I’ve said?”
Do I Move You?
Her mother was buried out here. It felt strange coming back to Blink to attend Tom Billings’s funeral when she didn’t go to Ida’s, but ever since she’d seen on the news that he was dead, Desi had been—she’d been— She didn’t know how she felt. Just all of a sudden, a piece of the puzzle that had been her past was gone and she had to see it for herself. She had to see them put him in the ground.
“Why’d you shoot him, Desi? Why’d you shoot that man?”
Tom Billings, Sheriff Tom Billings, was as tall as Julian, white, with a face that always looked old, even when he was younger. Heavy lines were etched deep across his forehead and around his mouth and eyes. She remembered his hands, big and crooked hands, long fingers with big knuckles.
“You had the gun. You had the gun in your hand, Desi! I saw you! Unless you think I’m blind or something. Is that it? You think I can’t see what’s right in front of my face?”
“I—I—don’t—”
“I ain’t in the mood for your lies, girl! I got a dead man in that morgue at the hospital!” Cold, black eyes drilled into her, warning her that he didn’t believe her and that nothing she said was going to change his mind. “He’s dead because of you, and you’re gonna pay for this, Desi. I guarantee you. You’re gonna pay for this.”
Desi slowed the car down and pulled into a space along the curb behind one of the limos. She’d gone to the church where they had his ceremony. And she’d had every intention of going inside, but Desi waited outside in the car. She couldn’t bring herself to walk into that church. They said nice things about people at funerals. The last thing she wanted was to hear nice things said about Tom Billings.
The crowd was four or five deep around the grave site. Desi walked slowly, shutting out the sounds of whispers and stares of everyone around her, fixing her gaze on the coffin that held him inside. Tom Billings had shot himself. He’d put a forty-five underneath his chin and pulled the trigger. People parted and let her through. They knew who she was. Voices floated past her like clouds and time seemed to nearly stop as she stood there next to his coffin and watched them slowly begin to lower it into the ground.
Desi held her breath the whole time. The people here loved Tom Billings. He was their friend, family member, colleague. They admired him, and trusted him because he was, after all, hired to serve and protect them. He kept them safe. Arrested bad guys—and girls. These were the people who didn’t believe what they’d read in the paper about him or saw on the evening news. These were the people who would go to their graves believing that Tom Billings was every bit as good as he’d wanted them to believe.
Tom Billings was a criminal. He took women and children and sold them off to whoever had enough money to buy them. And he didn’t care what happened to them. He didn’t care that they might be abused, or mistreated. He didn’t care that they might be raped or killed. They were burying their good friend, their loved one, but they had no idea who he really was. Desi had no idea either. Back then, when he took her to jail, she believed what they all believed. That he was one of the good guys.
* * *
Russ Fleming could hardly believe his eyes. Desi Green stood on the other side of Tom’s coffin, looking nothing at all like that crying teenager he’d remembered. Wearing a simple fitted black dress and shoes, she wore her hair pulled back away from her face and dark sunglasses.
“What’s she doing here?” his wife whispered, leaning over.
Tom had been convinced that Desi had sent that letter in the mail to him. Russ thought he was crazy for even thinking something as outlandish as that, but now—seeing her here—he couldn’t help but wonder if Tom was right.
She stayed until Tom was put into the ground, and then Desi Green raised her chin and stared across at Russ. He couldn’t see her eyes on him, because of the shades, but he felt them. Slowly, she turned around, and walked back the way she came.
Jesus! What had she done? And more importantly, what was she planning on doing next?
A Rich Tale
False Friends
Seeing Jordan Gatewood in the papers or on the news was one thing, but seeing him in person was something else altogether. The man really was larger and more intimidating in person. Russ hadn’t seen him up close since he’d convicted Desi. Back then, he wasn’t much more than a boy, trying to be a man. He looked as scared as shit back then. Jordan had suddenly inherited a kingdom, and he had some big shoes to fill. Russ remembered feeling almost sorry for him and the challenge that lay ahead of him. And just like everyone else, he expected that boy to fall on his ass and lose everything his father had worked so hard to build. He’d surprised Russ. Hell, he’d surprised everybody.
You don’t call a man like Jordan directly and ask for a meeting. You especially don’t call him if the only thing he knows about you is that you took money from his attorneys to cover up the truth of his daddy’s murder. Russ Fleming was nobody to the Gatewoods. But Judge Russ Fleming had saved their reputation, their image. He’d done it for a price, though, a high one. Tom Billings had done his part as well.
Jordan refused to come to Blink, and he refused to allow Russ to meet with him at his home or in his Dallas office. They met in a small town thirty miles south of Ft. Worth called Lochner, a sleepy little town with a population of about twenty-five thousand. Russ waited inside the bar at a table next to the window, nursing a cold beer when Jordan pulled up in an old pickup truck. He stepped out of it wearing worn jeans, cowboy boots, and a hat. It was hard to downplay greatness, though. Russ watched the big man walk from the dirt-packed parking lot to the door. He listened to the long, heavy stride of Jordan carrying across the wooden floors to Russ. He was surprised that Jordan recognized him.
He sat down without saying hello. Russ let a nervous smile escape and regrett
ed it as soon as it did. It was obvious from the look on Gatewood’s face that he resented being asked to take this meeting. But he’d come anyway. Maybe history had compelled him. Maybe curiosity. Maybe a little bit of both. Dark, hooded eyes bore holes into Russ.
“You heard the news about Tom Billings.”
Tom Billings could’ve died and been buried as quietly as most men, but the story that broke in the papers the day after he died changed all that.
“Apparently, he wasn’t the man everybody thought he was,” Jordan responded unemotionally.
Russ was smart enough to read Gatewood’s expression. Tom Billings and whatever illegal activities he was involved in had nothing to do with him, and Russ had better have a more compelling reason for calling this meeting than to talk about Tom Billings.
Russ nervously gulped down some of his drink. “He uh…” He took a deep breath before continuing. “He called me the night he…” Russ darted a glance at Jordan. “He hadn’t been involved in any of that mess for years!” he growled.
“What do you want?” Jordan asked abruptly.
Russ had been going over the last conversation he’d had with Tom in his mind since the sound of the gunshot went off in his ear over the phone. Tom had been babbling about nothing—at least, that’s what Russ thought that night. But the more he thought about it, and after seeing Desi show up at that funeral, he had no choice but to think that Tom was probably on to something.
“Desi Green showed up at Tom’s funeral,” he said.
Something changed in Gatewood’s face.
“The day he died, he told me that somebody had found out about—what he’d been involved in…” His voice trailed off. “They had contacted him, sent him things in the mail.” Russ shrugged. “Evidence?”
He’d managed to get Gatewood’s undivided attention all of a sudden. “He thought it might’ve had something to do with her.”
