by Cydney Rax
“Okay, this is wonderful . . . except you spelled my name wrong. Would that cause a problem if I try to deposit it?”
It was now 4:54.
“I’m not sure, but tell you what. I will make a small modification on the check to correct your name and it should be fine. Your bank should know you anyway, as long as you have proper ID.” The old woman picked up her fancy pen and noted something on the check.
Then she stood up and handed it to Nicole.
“Good luck, young lady.”
Nicole stood up, too, and tried not to smile. “Yeah, I’m going to need it.”
She started to walk out of the office. “Oh, do you need to make a copy of this for your files?”
“Yes, good idea.” Mrs. Canterbury snatched the check from Nicole’s hand. She disappeared from her office. Nicole could hear a copier machine making noises. Then she returned and handed Nicole an envelope.
“There you go. I’m sorry, I must be leaving now. I have a flight to catch, and I don’t want to miss it. You take care, Mrs. Eason.”
“Yes, ma’am, have a great trip. Be safe.”
Nicole’s knees were shaking as she walked down the hall and out the front door of the Allstate office.
Nicole hopped in her Jeep and finally let out a loud scream. “Lord, have mercy, I was about to pee on myself up in there. That old lady is a hot mess, God bless her soul.” She buckled her seat belt and drove away. She still had time to deposit the check at her bank. Twenty minutes later, when Nicole reached the drive-through, she found a pen and filled out a deposit slip. She decided she wanted to withdraw five hundred dollars up front, and she was sure the bank would place a seven-day hold on the rest of the money since it was such a large amount.
When she reached in her purse and got the envelope that Mrs. Canterbury had handed to her, she pulled out what she thought would be her check. But all she found was the photocopy of the check.
“Fuck!”
Nicole couldn’t believe it. She knew it was hopeless at that point. That little old lady was on her way to Africa, and there wasn’t a damn thing Nicole could do about it.
* * *
That evening she finally got the call she’d been waiting on.
“Bella,” he said when she answered.
“Ajalon. What’s going on?”
“I need you to get that ten grand that is supposed to go to my henchman. He actually gave me thirty days’ grace, which is unheard of, but now I must pay up.”
“Um, I don’t have it.”
“You what?”
“I said, I don’t have it. I did not get the insurance money. The lady I was dealing with accidentally gave me a copy of the check instead of the real thing.”
“Well, get in touch with her. We need that money. I must have it by ten o’clock tonight.”
“What?”
“If you don’t give me all of the cash, a bounty will be put on my head. These guys don’t play, Nicole.”
“Well, I don’t know what to do, Ajalon. The insurance company is closed. It’s Friday night. They won’t open again until Monday morning.”
“Those goons don’t want to hear that.” She heard absolute fear in Ajalon’s voice. “You don’t understand how serious this is, Nicole. They have already threatened my family in Brooklyn.”
“But how did they know—”
“They know, Nicole. They know everything.”
“Even about me?”
He paused. “No. The hit was set up by me, and I left your name totally out of it.”
“Oh good.” She sighed.
“So, what are we going to do? Do you have access to any other money?”
“No, not that much.”
“What about the GoFundMe account? How much is left in there?”
“A thousand,” she lied. In actuality, Nicole still had five grand. But she refused to hand over all of her money to Ajalon. She needed cash to live on for the next few weeks. She knew that when she did actually get her hands on the insurance check, they’d place a seven-day hold on most of the funds. So she had to protect herself and her daughter. She already had a thousand dollars hidden away inside her apartment. She never knew if she’d have to flee or rent a car, or fly out of town really quickly.
Fear made Nicole do things she’d never before thought of doing. Fear made her even afraid of Ajalon, something she didn’t think could ever happen.
“Are you still there?” she asked.
“Yes. But for how much longer, I don’t know.” He paused. “Listen to this.” There was silence at first. Then Nicole heard the sound of a bloodcurdling scream. It was the voice of a woman pleading for her life. She yelled for Jesus so many times that Nicole lost count. The woman pleaded over and over. Then Nicole heard what sounded like a whip cracking. After that, total and utter silence.
Nicole was spellbound. “What was that?”
“A video that my henchman sent me. It was footage of someone else that he’d killed. Someone who told him she did not have his money. Two days later the woman was dead. Pushed off a ledge and found with a rope hung around her neck. Vultures ate most of her remains before she could be found. My henchman told me she was married. He said she had four beautiful kids. He told me she was a VP at an oil and gas company in Katy. He told me she was only thirty-eight years old.”
“Oh my God, Ajalon.”
“The man who I owe money to told me that the woman he killed was his first cousin, Nicole. A chick he grew up with.”
“Lord, no.” She wanted to throw up. She wanted to help Ajalon, but she was more concerned about herself. “Ajalon, that’s a horrible situation, and right now I don’t know what to do. I’ll try and think of something.”
She hung up.
Ajalon waited and waited for her to call him back. By ten minutes to midnight, he knew she wasn’t going to help him. His ride or die did not care if he lived or died. And that’s when he made a decision. Ajalon quickly left the house. He drove for miles and miles until he was on the other side of town. He sweated bullets and hoped that no one was following him. He found a truck store where he knew there would be a good chance to come across a pay phone. He inserted two quarters into the slot and dialed the Houston Crime Stoppers phone number. Ajalon told the police he had a tip on who had murdered Rashad Eason. He gave them Slipper’s name. And he told them that Nicole Greene Eason, the murdered man’s wife, was the one who’d solicited his murder and agreed to pay funds to the contract killer.
When he hung up the phone, he wanted to hang himself. But Ajalon decided to stick around and see what happened. He had enough money to rent a hotel room. He never wanted to return to his apartment ever again.
* * *
The police responded right away. They needed to verify the information that they got from the anonymous tip. Several credible informants agreed to take lie detector tests. The details were amazing. A neighbor was courageous enough to tell the police that a little man had asked him to discard of a leather wallet that looked like it was used. The neighbor handed over the wallet to the police. It had Rashad’s fingerprints all over it.
And one of the little man’s ex-girlfriends remembered how he beat the shit out of her one time. She worked as a nurse, and he loved to make her put on her uniform and then make sweet love to her afterward. They still stayed in touch. And when he showed up to her house in the wee hours of the morning the night that Rashad got killed, she thought it was strange that he wanted to come see her and post up at her place. She let him in. He got undressed, and she noticed the scars on his head, the scratches on his body. She made love to him until he fell asleep. She made sure he was sound asleep and then went poking around in his pockets. She had always been told you could learn all you need to know about a man by going through his pockets. She found his car keys and went out to his car. She felt underneath the car seat and found one black men’s sock and a voice disguiser device. The sock wasn’t his size. She took the sock out of his car and hid it in the bushes outside her
apartment. He woke up an hour later and never realized the sock was missing. She described the man to the police from head to toe, and they reviewed some video footage of the gas station that was next to the warehouse. This time they compared the description to the video. It seemed like a good match.
After reviewing the tapes slowly and carefully, they were able to identify the vehicle that had been spotted in the area that night: a low-to-the-ground two-door dark Nissan. The tape showed that the sporty-looking vehicle drove through the gas station lot. It did not stop at a pump, but they saw the vehicle park a few yards away from one of the pumps. A door opened. A short man, maybe five-foot-three, emerged. He wore dark clothing and a hat. He was seen emptying an unidentifiable object in a trash can. The guy seemed like he was trying to stuff the item deep into the can. Then he got back in the car and drove away. It was only a few seconds of footage, but enough for the police to see the plates and run them.
The owner of the vehicle turned out to be Federico Slipper Cuevas. The SWAT team began to search for Slipper. A cousin of his alerted the police that he was spotted on his street. He was playing basketball with a few of his cousin’s friends. Without him knowing, the police set up a perimeter. The second he noticed a canine unit, Freddy dropped the basketball. He ran to hide behind a car. Then he crawled underneath the car, scrambling to get away until he got situated under a truck. He maneuvered his body, but the undercarriage of the vehicle placed big holes in his shirt and punctured his skin.
The German shepherd barked and Freddy heard the sounds of footsteps getting closer.
“Federico, come out and give up. Put your hands behind your head.”
Freddy ignored their orders. He rolled from under a pickup and saw an escape. He lifted the top of a manhole and leaped inside. Slipper’s reputation preceded him. For all the HPD knew, sneaking into manholes was his specialty. He always frustrated the police, because he was able to stay three steps ahead of the sheriffs, deputies, and the Texas Rangers. He was proud of his legendary reputation. Tonight he did not appreciate the cops getting so close to him. This had never happened before. How did they know he was on this street? Who told on him?
Freddy was just about to pull the lid over his head and hide on the block for however long it took. But he heard a scraping sound. The lid was partially lifted. Then he heard another warning.
“Cousin, don’t do this anymore. Give it up, man.”
He recognized the voice. The brother of the female cousin that he’d killed. Freddy was heated with anger. He did not move. He took deep breaths as he sweated profusely, still inside the manhole. They called him to come out again.
He did not respond to them.
He heard someone yell, “If you have any weapons, throw them to us and get your ass out of that hole.”
Freddy thought of his mother. He whispered that he was sorry. He made the sign of the cross.
Soon multiple gunshots were heard . . . then silence.
The police carefully approached the manhole and lifted the lid.
The notorious shooter had put his own gun to his head. The police finally had Slipper exactly where they wanted him. The fifteen-year manhunt was over.
* * *
The following evening, Nicole was sitting in bed watching a movie on Netflix. Emmy was in bed next to her, snoring away. She had not heard from Ajalon since the last time they spoke. The apartment was quiet. Nicole’s eyes were on the movie, but her thoughts were on her life. She had no idea what her future held, and she could have kicked herself for not being prudent enough to check the envelope that Mrs. Canterbury had given her to make sure the insurance check was inside. She’d called the insurance company and explained what happened but they told her to wait until their coworker returned to the office.
As she sat in bed, the doorbell rang, and she heard persistent knocking. She got up and walked to the door. When she looked through the peephole, she saw the police.
She took a deep breath and opened it.
“Are you Nicole Greene Eason?”
“Yes.”
“What is your date of birth?”
The color drained from her face.
“Yes, I am Nicole. Please. Don’t hurt me.”
“I know you’re thinking about what you’ve read in the newspaper, what you’ve seen on TV. Not all cops are bad.”
“I know, but I’m still afraid. I don’t want to resist arrest, but I don’t want to do this, sir.” She thought if she could reason with him and not act like a typical thug, maybe he’d take it easy on her.
“I’m still going to take you in.”
“But why? How could I hurt him? I loved him.”
The deputy sheriff looked at Nicole and shrugged. “Like I read in a book one time: ‘A thousand times more crimes have been committed in the name of love than in the name of hate.’”
“Oh. That’s crazy.”
“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?”
Within ten minutes, she had been read her rights and was on her way to jail to get charged for the murder of Rashad Quintelle Eason.
“But my baby . . .” was the only protest she made.
“CPS will get custody of the baby until we notify your next of kin; that person can pick her up.”
“But I don’t have any kin. I don’t have . . . anybody.” Nicole was handcuffed and placed in the back of the squad car. Everything was happening so fast. She slumped in the seat and closed her eyes. Life couldn’t get any worse for her.
Later on, Nicole was booked and fingerprinted, and took a mug shot in which she refused to look directly into the camera.
After she was placed in a holding cell, it took four hours for her to be able to make a phone call. But she couldn’t remember Ajalon’s phone number. He’d recently gotten it changed and she kept inverting the digits. She hung up after five attempts to call him.
Please, baby, please be in sync with me enough to realize what happened. Please come to my arraignment and get me out of here. Don’t hold my past against me, because I actually did support you for months before I decided to give up.
Nicole felt like shit when she remembered the times when she’d refused to accept Ajalon’s phone calls from jail after being willing to hear from him in the beginning of his imprisonment.
She wondered if he’d ever come see her or if he’d forget all about her and leave her alone to rot. This was the state of Texas. They hated murderers. And they seemed to love to kill those on death row. But she refused to think the worst. She did not kill Rashad. That was a fact. And she had no idea who the murderer was, so she couldn’t be caught lying about that, either, when her trial came up. She tried to remain positive, but in that bleak atmosphere it was almost impossible.
* * *
Her attorney, Lloyd Johnson, told her he’d do his best to defend her.
“Did you kill your husband?”
“No, I did not,” she said.
“Did you pay someone else to do it?”
“No,” she said. They couldn’t prove it.
“As I am your attorney, you have to tell me everything.”
“And I have told you everything.”
“Why was there a major withdrawal from your GoFundMe account around April twenty-fourth, four days before the murder?”
“I had some business to take care of.”
“What kind of business?”
“Bills, shit.”
“Specifically?”
“Like car note, rent, gas, food, doctor bills, student loans, cell phone bill, Pampers, child care—happy now?”
“Nicole, I’m trying to help you. Make my job easier by cooperating, please.”
She apologized. She began to chew on her nails, biting on them until bits of nail were in her mouth. Attorney Johnson watched Nicole with unsurprised eyes.
He explained the process of collecting info for her case. Then he told her, “When it comes to committing a crime, a lot of people say they are innocent. That they did nothing wrong. That is their perce
ption. But, Nicole, according to the law, in my field we have something we call ‘culpable mental state’.”
“What?”
“Let’s say that you did pay someone to kill your husband. Five dollars, five grand, doesn’t matter. Money was exchanged, and a deed was done that caused him to die. Poisoned Kool-Aid, an accidental drowning in the tub, or even the occasional gunshot. If you knowingly and willingly asked someone to kill your spouse, you can be found guilty. But let me go back a second. There are four mental states of being when it comes to culpable mental state. You can act intentionally, knowingly, recklessly, or with criminal negligence. If I do my job defending you against any of these things, you will be found not guilty. If not, we have an issue, and a jury or judge will decide which of these was your mental state of being.”
“ ‘Recklessly,’ you say? What is that?”
“Here’s an example. You were driving down the street because you have diarrhea. You just want to make it home before you have an accident in the family car. In doing so, you are speeding through your neighborhood, where the speed limit is twenty miles an hour. But you were going forty-five. And you end up hitting someone, a pedestrian who was crossing the street. Now, you knew that you never meant to hit anyone with your car. You did not plan to murder that old man. But you did. That’s a reckless mental state. Do you get what I’m saying?”
“I’m not culpable, sir, not responsible, not anything, okay? Now, please leave me alone.”
But she knew he’d never leave her alone, for this was just the beginning of her sorrows.
* * *
In time, Nicole’s fate was sealed. She was charged with capital murder. Bail was set at two million dollars. She nearly shrieked when she heard what the judge said.
Lloyd Johnson placed his hand on her shoulder.
She could only hope that between Ajalon and her mother, she’d get to see the light of day again.
After the bail hearing, she was led back with shackles on her feet to her cell. Her eyes cast downward, she couldn’t bear to look at the faces of all the awful criminals as she shuffled her way down the hall. There were tall women who looked like they could have played for the WNBA. There were nonchalant women who acted like they didn’t give a damn about living somewhere with a jailhouse address. There were a few, a very few, who looked like they didn’t belong. They seem fresh-faced, somewhat intelligent, spoke the king’s English, and daily thought of all the strategies their attorneys could use to get them out of there.
