“Well, you’d remember Jessie. She can be a bit intimidating.” I exchange glances with Sam. “When Earl said we’d better watch our backs, Jessie was there and came to our defense. She may have said something about a curse, but believe me, she wouldn’t hurt a flea.” I’m doubtful my last statement is accurate, but it seems to be the thing to say at the moment.
“These days the courtroom doesn’t place credence on curses and hexes. This isn’t a Salem witch trial.” A smug tug pulls at the corners of Tory’s crimson mouth. “First, we’ll try settling out of court. If not, fingers crossed, let’s hope David Swartz will be our judge. He’ll laugh Earl out of the building.”
“Settling out of court? For what he did?”
“Settling a potential civil suit out of court would have no bearing on a criminal case. It wouldn’t even be admissible in one. No worries, ladies. When it’s all said and done, attempted kidnapping will translate to a significant amount of jail time. But we’ll see. The man’s likely deranged.” Tory taps her pen on a legal pad. “If he’s found to be legally insane, he’ll likely be found not guilty by reason of insanity, and hospitalized.”
“Given hospital time? He can’t get away with this.” I turn to Sam, grinding my jaws together. I swivel to face the lawyers. “Maybe he’s not crazy, after all.” My neck dampens as heat flushes through my body. “He’s simply evil to the core.”
“After the preliminary examination,” Wally continues, “the judge determines if there’s enough evidence for the case to go to trial.”
“When will that be?”
“Not for several months. Sentencing follows three weeks later.”
Sam stiffens, and the blue in her eyes seem to darken, taking on a hunted look. “Earl belongs under the jail, not in it.” Memories from that day haunt her just as much as they do me.
Wally clears his throat. “I’m reasonably confident he’ll receive the maximum sentencing. We’ll keep you posted.” He turns to his wife. “Shall I continue?”
“May as well. Gives them another reason to celebrate.”
“Turns out the whole of Detroit is not out to get Addie and Sam Jaworski.” He gives a thumbs-up. “Just one company. And only three people within said company—all folks with whom you’re familiar.”
I pull on Sam’s sleeve, and we lean in to hear more.
“When investigating the Twitter case,” he says, straightening his glasses, “we knew Brett and the electrician were brothers. But get this. Earl’s their first cousin.”
I glance at Sam, my mouth falling open. She cranes her neck toward Wally. “Come again?”
“Turns out they’re members of a notorious Detroit family. Their company operates out of a warehouse on 8 Mile. The operation serves as an umbrella corporation for a group of small businesses catering to the needs of restaurants. You may have heard of it. Restaurant Equipment Leases and Services.”
“I have,” Sam says, speaking quickly. “Before we opened, I looked up the business online. That’s where we found the electrician.” She nods at me. “You know, Brett’s brother. He works for the company. I also considered leasing a cooler from them, but their prices were absurd. I can’t imagine anyone renting equipment from that place.”
“Apparently, people anxious to expedite getting a liquor license for their establishment,” Tory says. She clears her throat and continues. “They’ve ties with the Alcoholic Beverage Control agency. They also have connections for obtaining code compliance certificates and are pros at fabricating bogus permits. That’s the part of their business—the most lucrative part of their business—not advertised. The operation is quite familiar with the inside of a courtroom, I can assure you. And surprise, surprise.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Their enterprises also include a linen company.”
With a start, my hand flies to my mouth. “Oh God. Linen Express.”
Tory nods. “Normally the linen company wouldn’t have approached the diner to solicit business. You’re small potatoes compared to their other clients.”
“The company boss couldn’t have cared less about you,” Wally adds. “He had no idea what his nephews were up to. In fact, the last thing he wants is additional scrutiny via litigation. But the three men took your review on Angie’s List personally. It pissed them off so much they decided to mess with you. In as many ways as they could think of. I imagine they had a grand time.” He puffs out his cheeks. “Until ol’ Earl got out of hand.”
“So how can you prove that Brett was our troll?”
“We secured a crucial bit of evidence that links him to the defamation of Welcome Home,” Tory says.
“It’s the most important piece in the puzzle,” Wally adds. “I had a hunch some of those tweets could have been made from the man’s office at work. As part of discovery, we were allowed to subpoena the hard drives from the computers he used at the warehouse.” Tory nods at her husband in admiration.
“You can subpoena a hard drive?” I ask.
“In certain matters of civil disputes, yes,” Tory says. “We believed it would have been tricky subpoenaing his personal PC—invasion of privacy, and so on and so forth. But not computers from his office. Fortunately, he doesn’t own the equipment. It’s all owned by the corporation. Usage is not the same thing as ownership.”
“As a rule,” Wally continues, “we can seek material regarding any nonprivileged matter pertaining to our claims. The court allows this as long as it’s reasonable and will lead to the discovery of admissible evidence.” His fingertips drum the tabletop. “The hard drive was imaged. A computer forensic expert inspected the files and shared what was relevant to our case. And certain juicy morsels of those files, my fine young women, are our smoking gun.” Leaning back in his chair, he takes a deep breath, as if to savor the moment.
“Bravo,” Sam says, clapping her hands in glee. She grins at me. “Of all the diners, in all the towns, in all the world, the two most brilliant lawyers walk into ours.”
“Oh, please,” Tory says, wagging her finger at us. “Payback is a wonderful thing. We’re having the time of our lives. Attempted kidnapping is one thing,” she continues, her voice growing serious. “But with online defamation, we’re treading terrain in a brave new world. And we’ve only just begun.”
Her eyes harden. “The bad news is that in the end it’s unlikely your troll will get the justice he deserves. Maybe a fine, at best.” She shrugs. “Who knows? But the good news is their family name will, once again, be dragged through the mud. Especially in the kidnapping case.” She leans back in her chair, stroking her neck while looking at the ceiling. “Maybe one day we’ll be able to bring the company down. I shudder to think of what that family has gotten away with through the years.”
“What about Gary?” I nod at Sam. “We’re worried he may have violated parole getting involved in the fight.”
“Please let Gary know that while he’s on parole his involvement may be subject to parole board review,” Wally says. “But since he helped stop a crime, it would be extremely unlikely that his behavior would result in a violation.” He knits his hands behind his neck and puffs out his chest, stretching his upper back.
Sam smiles. “Gary said he’d take a life sentence if it meant saving Sun Beam and Hero.”
“You should warn your staff they’ll likely be called in as witnesses,” Wally says. “Most certainly you two. This could be going on for months.”
“No worries,” I say, dreading the thought of having to see the Cyclops again. I now understand how Sylvia must have felt when she testified against her pimp. I nod at Sam. “We’re not going anywhere.” Her eyes flicker at me nervously as she clasps and unclasps her hands. I shake my head incredulously. “All of this stemmed from my giving that dude a bad review on Angie’s List? Everything I wrote about his work was the truth. I wasn’t being nasty or vindictive, just relating my experience. People need to be warned. But everything he wrote about us was a lie.”
She looks at me, smiling sadly. “It’s OK, Addi
e. It all makes sense. It was their form of payback.”
This is too much to wrap my brain around. I’ll have to assimilate it later. I’m ready to put this conversation to bed. I sigh, my shoulders sinking as I turn back to the attorneys.
“When you dealt with the contract, you said your time would be pro bono. That was so generous of you. But since you’ve taken on the troll and Earl, we aren’t comfortable with that arrangement anymore.”
“Addie,” Wally says, removing his glasses and leaning toward me to peer into my eyes. “You must understand. As we’ve told you many times, you two have sparked an energy that’s revitalizing the East Side. Tory and I want to be on that train when it pulls into the station.” He places his palm over Tory’s hand. “This is sport for us. Why deny us the many pleasures life has to offer?”
Tory smiles, nodding in agreement with her husband. I shrug, holding my hands helplessly in the air.
“We’ll be seeing you often in the coming months,” Tory says. “You should be proud of yourselves. We’ll all have a fine time sweeping up the mess in this city.”
Relief runs through my body at the thought of these nightmares at last being resolved. I smile at Sam, in an attempt to catch her eye. She doesn’t seem to notice. Her face is flushed, and she appears uneasy, her fingers raking through her hair. Then she reaches for her bag, making a great effort to look for something.
This behavior’s not characteristic of my cousin. She’s the one who’s carefree, the one who’d normally be jumping up and down in glee, practically airborne at this point. What’s up with her?
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sam
Heartbreak, misery, and tears are the baggage of hard decisions. At least when you’re following your heart. Knowing my choice doesn’t have to be forever consoled us both. Decisions don’t have to be permanent. They’re made to be broken, I had said to Uriah, before dissolving into tears. Tennessee’s only a nine-hour drive from Detroit. But we both knew the truth. Nine hours may as well be nine months in our worlds of complexities and schedules.
I direct my attention to preparing the soil for our first spring crop. I spade the soil again and again, and with each thrust, replay the dialog. And then, with the back of my trowel, I smooth the dirt, working out my feelings.
Today’s my birthday, which this year falls on Palm Sunday. It would be an anomaly for the occasion to slip by without a fuss, but with all the tumult in our lives of late, I’d be relieved if my thirty-second came and went unnoticed.
The weather, as it’s been all month, is unseasonably warm. The windows and doors of the Tabernacle are open. The swell of gospel singing accompanied by organ is interspersed with clapping, punctuated with shouts of Hallelujah—Amen! They’ve sung this hymn, “Shine on Me,” many times, and it’s one of my favorites.
From the garden, I regard the scene in the kitchen. Sylvia arranges Heartbreakers onto a pedestal. Paul shakes excess flour from a cut-up chicken, and places the pieces in a wire-mesh basket before lowering it into the deep fryer. My eyes shift to the office window. Addie’s head is bent in concentration, and her white-blonde hair falls over the keyboard. I take a sharp breath, and tears spring to my eyes. I feel the sisterly tugs on my emotions familiar to me since I was a child.
I rummage through a cigar box filled with waterproof markers, twine, and gardening bric-a-brac and locate the Popsicle stick labeled RADISHES. I stick it into the soil, and then wrap my arms around my knees, hugging them to my chest.
The garden has been repaired from the attempted kidnapping, cleansed of all ferocity and evil. We replanted the sorrel and chives, and Jessie burned sage at each corner of the vegetable plot, conducting her charms in the folds of the night.
My gaze rests on the doghouse, and I smile. Something that could have symbolized a horrific event has now been transformed into a bit of humor. With Sun Beam and Braydon’s assistance, Jévon made the finishing touches to the house with a customized graffito. He painted a caricature of Hero and Bon Temps greeting each other, bumping paws, the bubble from Hero’s mouth penned with the words “Wassup, dawg?”
I look down at my knees, my jeans grimy with dirt. I’m glad I thought to bring a change of clothes to work. I, at least, can honor my birthday by wearing something special: the vintage pale-peach dress with the green vines stitched at the hem. It carries a pale-pink discoloration at the bodice, the red wine souvenir from last year’s picnic. Despite Addie’s efforts, it never came clean.
I stand and grab the handles of the wheelbarrow, admiring my work, the tidiness of the rows. Glancing at the garden, I notice the bag of seeds on the ground, unopened. So preoccupied with my thoughts, I forgot to plant them. With a heavy sigh, I grab my trowel, kneel back on the ground, and dig into the earth.
The seeds, at last, are blanketed by rich black soil. Through the office window, I see that Addie’s place at the desk is now vacated. I check my phone: 11:05 a.m. The staff is transitioning from breakfast to lunch. She must be on the floor, easing the changeover.
I won’t tell her I’d even considered leaving Detroit in the first place. What would be the point? Surely everyone has the urge to run away from time to time. Listening to my heart, I decided to stay.
I grab the hose, twist the nozzle, and water the garden. Then, I rinse my hands and face in the icy flow. Task complete, I roll the wheelbarrow, filled with my gardening supplies, back into the shed. Humming under my breath, I stride into the office, where my dress hangs on a hook. I finger the hem, admiring the tight stitches. I haven’t worn this since last year, but the dress holds a day full of memories. I’d promised myself I’d never wear it again until I’d met a guy I was into. It’s strange I never thought to wear it with Uriah.
Uriah. I thought I’d follow that man to the ends of the earth. Why aren’t I feeling more pain? After telling him I’d changed my mind, choosing not to interrupt my life, we shed the expected tears, along with the words we would manage a long-distance relationship. Was it my imagination, or did I see relief creep into his eyes?
Maybe it was all too sudden, our relationship so accelerated it burned itself out, a wildfire smoldering before leveling a forest to ruins. Perhaps just knowing I’m capable of loving someone, of being loved in return—maybe that’s enough. I’ll take it for now. I pull down the window shade and slide the dress over my head. I like the way I feel when I wear it: feminine, strong, and victorious. I’m wearing it to please me. No one else.
I walk into the kitchen, grab a bowl, and fill it with potatoes. Vegetable peeler in hand, I take my position at the stainless-steel table. The fact I’m wearing a dress while skinning potatoes goes unnoticed by the kitchen crew. And I’m content, at the counter, peeling the skin off the tubers.
I consider other odds and ends that would blend well with the skins to make a delectable stock. Perhaps the celery stalks and carrots gasping their last breath, forgotten in a bin in the walk-in. Bay leaves, an onion, and peppercorns, for sure. I’m startled out of my reverie by a tap on my shoulder. I turn my head. Braydon.
“You’ll want to see this,” he says, pointing to the doors leading into the diner. Curious, I remove my plastic gloves and follow him to the floor.
Addie is sitting next to Angus at the counter. Between his outstretched palms rests a plate loaded with fried chicken, which is cozied up to a mess of khaki greens, the sunny tip of a corn pone peeking out from beneath. As he takes a long sip from a glass of iced tea, a tingling starts at the back of my neck, working its way down my spine and into my calves. Addie smiles at me, waving me over in a gesture to join them.
“The gospel music was gorgeous today,” I say, taking the stool on the other side of his perch, trying to make conversation, not wanting to make a big deal that his eating lunch at Welcome Home is a momentous occasion for us. “Don’t you love it when the weather cooperates, and the neighborhood can enjoy the performance?”
He swivels on the stool to face me. “Actually, I attended the service. It being Palm Sund
ay and all, Gary talked me into joining him. He’s still there, at the church. They made him an usher. Can you believe it?” He shakes his head in wonder. “Boy gets outta prison for robbery, and the parish trusts him to add up the collection-plate offerings. He’s also in charge of depositing the funds in the bank.”
Angus puts down his fork and gazes out the window toward the church. “And it was strange, sitting in the pew with friends I’ve known most my life. Same feeling I had after coming home from Nam.” He shrugs. “You leave the church, I guess, but it never leaves you. The music’s my favorite part.”
“You should hear my cousin sing,” Addie says, leaning in, her eyes twinkling at mine. “Sam has a voice that could coax an apple out of a cherry blossom.” Of late, her face gleams as if a spotlight has been lit in her soul. She’s never appeared so happy, or radiated such beauty.
“You’d be a welcome guest at the church,” Angus says, regarding me with red-laced, milky eyes. “You could even join. They’re always looking for another strong voice in the choir.”
Gospel singing satisfies a hunger for connection and community—a community I’m not welcome to join. The congregation seems to have placed a quarantine around the diner. And though I’d love to sing in their choir, Angus is wrong. They would never welcome me.
I force a smile. “Your choir doesn’t need my help. And I can assure you, they aren’t interested in breaking bread with us here at the diner.” I lift a brow at Addie before returning my focus to Angus. “But one day”—I shrug—“who knows?”
Frowning, seeming troubled by my words, his eyes travel to the ceiling as he shakes his head. And then the aromas of savory fried goodness ambush his concerns, and his eyes slide down to the plate resting in front of him. He selects a chicken thigh and sinks his teeth into the flesh. The skin makes a crackling sound, and juices seep out from around the bone.
The Welcome Home Diner: A Novel Page 31
