Jordan ended the conversation with Bradley, then answered, “Jordan Jackson, of Jackson, Johnson, and Jones.”
“Greetings, Ms. Jackson. This is Trent Wade with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We hear Langston Derby is meeting you at your house tonight.” He was upbeat. “He may still be assisting with kidnapping victims and selling them into human trafficking versus holding them.”
The agent had confirmed what Jordan suspected. Langston’s phone was definitely tapped. If hers wasn’t, it would be after this conversation. Not good for an attorney.
“How can I help? What’s your question?” she asked.
“We’d like to wire you before you go home and post up near your house later. If he tries anything with you, we can arrest him immediately. Is that okay? If so, we’ll have an FBI agent meet you at your office right before you leave.”
“I have a trial at—”
Interrupting, Wade stated, “We know. Judge Goodwin won’t hold the prospective jurors past five o’clock. How about we confirm six o’clock? You’re on Langston’s list.”
Jordan’s heart pounded. “For what?”
“Langston’s list is not the only one you’re on,” Agent Wade stated. “Be careful who you confide in. We’ll be at your office at six. Bye.”
First he was sending someone. Now he was coming, too? Trembling, Jordan terminated one call, then initiated another, contacting the person that would tell her exactly what to do.
“Jordan Jackson, how are you today?” Officer Dale, of the Atlanta Police Department, answered. “To what do I owe this call?”
She spared no time informing him, “Langston Derby just called me. He’s coming to my house tonight to explain he’s innocent.”
“Well, he’s playing right into our hands. Can you come by the station now? I’d like to wire you. Myself and another officer can do the stakeout.”
A stakeout seemed interesting when it was the FBI. Wearing a wire for two departments was frightening. Determined to get justice for Kingston, Jordan stated, “Trent Wade has that covered.”
Officer Dale commented, “Good ole Trent taking over. Wonder when he was going to let us know? We’ll let him do his job. Be careful who you confide in, Jordan. We’re here if you need us. Good-bye.”
There was no time to analyze Trent’s or Dale’s dialogues, but something was wrong with both of them advising her to be careful. Entering the courthouse, Jordan spoke with the solicitor regarding her client’s charges.
“Yes, my client had four ounces of marijuana, but there were four people in the vehicle. And they were in Atlanta proper. The arresting officer should’ve issued four fines for seventy-five dollars and my client should’ve been free to go.”
It was called job security. Police departments were going bankrupt with million-dollar settlements for wrongful deaths. If cops knew black people, like Offset, had money, they’d arrest them. If police believed a black couldn’t afford to post bail, they’d arrest them.
“Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms made possession of one ounce of marijuana punishable by fine, not time,” she told the solicitor.
“But the report shows it was bundled in one package,” he countered.
Jordan sighed heavily. Frustrated, but not emotional, she said, “It was separated into four small bags. But let’s go to trial. Waste taxpayers’ money, and see how many jurors we have to question before having my client found not guilty. Statistics show that more white people consume cannabis than blacks.”
To Jordan’s surprise, Judge Goodwin dismissed the case. Jordan’s client was free to go, and so was she.
Taping a small microphone to Jordan’s waist, Agent Wade said, “When you get home, change your top from white to black.”
* * *
Viewing her security camera, Jordan saw Langston at the gate’s call box. She hadn’t given him a code, yet she witnessed him pushing buttons repeatedly.
Through her speaker, she asked, “Are you done yet?”
“Nah. I mean yes. I thought my old code was still working. You know.”
Tapping on her screen, the gate parted, allowing him access. Instead of posting up in a nearby vehicle, the FBI agents were in one of her spare bedrooms.
Opening her front door, she greeted Langston by taking three steps back.
“You don’t have to be cold like that,” he said. “I’m the same Langston that made you scream when you came. And I’m a ‘make you do it again’ kind of man. I haven’t made love to you yet, Jordan. Tonight is our night.” Langston handed her a liquor bag.
Jordan opened it. Inside was a bottle of expensive red wine and a bottle of cognac.
“Thanks.” She set the cognac on the end table. “Have a seat here in the living room. I’ll get a snifter for you and uncork this for me,” she insisted, holding on to the cabernet. Retreating to the kitchen, she placed the wine on the counter as she removed the cork, then texted Wade, Can you hear everything okay?
He responded, Yes.
“Who were you texting?” Langston asked.
Knocking over the bottle, Jordan said, “Shit! I didn’t hear you enter the kitchen.” Quickly salvaging enough wine to fill her glass, Jordan attempted to power off her cell.
“Let me see your phone,” Langston insisted, moving closer toward her. Snatching the phone from her hand, he demanded, “What’s your code?”
Fearful Wade couldn’t protect her, Jordan wanted Langston out of her house. “I’m not giving you my code.”
He held the phone up to her face. “It’s not unlocking. What did you do?”
Jordan had no idea, but she was relieved. She took her phone from Langston, handed him a snifter, picked up her drink, then said, “Let’s go in the living room. You need to do more talking about what I saw on television. And I need to listen.”
Retrieving another snifter, Langston led the way back to the living room as though her home were his. He explained, “When I arrived at Kingston’s place, it looked pretty bad, babe.” He sat on the sofa.
As she sat in a chair next to the sofa and faced Langston, this was a moment for Jordan to let him continue lying. “When you left, why didn’t you contact me to tell me not to go there?”
“Theodore Ramsey,” he said. “He—”
Frustrated, she interrupted, “We’ll get back to Theodore, but why did you give me Kingston’s address?” The situation was becoming personal for Jordan.
Langston poured a shot of cognac, then downed his drink, as though it were water, then refilled his glass. “Have a drink with me, Jordan. What I have to do will hurt less if you have a drink with me.”
Jordan stood. “I have to use the restroom right quick,” she lied.
“Don’t take long.” Langston’s eyes were filled with sadness. “I want to make love to you tonight before we . . .” He paused.
Before what? she thought. Going to prison? Selling me into sex slavery? Quietly closing the restroom door, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her stomach churned.
“Hurry up!” Langston shouted. “Don’t make me come get you!”
She didn’t want to risk communicating with Agent Wade again. Jordan reaffirmed that her microphone was still in place. Returning to her seat, she walked slowly, sat on the edge of the chair. Jordan’s entire body perspired as she observed Langston shaking the bottle of cognac.
“You ready to get this over with?” he asked as soon as he saw her cupping her wine glass in her palms.
Jordan relocated to the chair across from the sofa, facing Langston, and resumed sitting on the edge.
Calmly he said, “You are going to drink your drink. Go ahead. Enjoy finishing your wine. Then we can have a shot of my favorite.” He stared at her.
Maintaining eye contact, she held her goblet with both hands. “Did Kingston tell you we went to elementary school together? I’ve been attracted to Kingston since we were in the third grade. I’d done some things to him then . . . and now, that I shouldn’t have. I’ve watched his career grow and end,” he
said somberly.
Jordan squeezed her glass with both hands. If she held it tighter, it my break. Long as Langston was talking, she prayed Wade and his team were listening.
“Our accidental meeting was no mistake. I used you to get to Kingston.” His head pivoted to the right as though he’d heard something.
“So, Theodore is to blame for what happened to Kingston?” Jordan wanted to run toward the bedroom but she realized people of all kinds, had hidden agendas for other people’s lives. She had to help get this lying bastard off the streets of Atlanta before someone became his victim.
“Nah.” Langston resumed looking at her. “I’d done my research. Knew what church he’d joined. Knew who his friends were. If I got to you, I could get to him. I’ve always known that Kingston was gay. I also knew that my going down on him in the janitor’s closet in the third grade made him curious. But I never thought my partner Theodore would fall in love with . . .”
Jordan nodded praying Langston would complete his thought out loud. If she interrupted the story, she might risk the FBI’s obtaining valuable information. “I’m listening,” she said. “You’re safe here,” she lied.
Slowly he filled two snifters with cognac from the bottle. Langston stood, removed the goblet from her wet hands, replaced it with one of the snifters.
He sat on the sofa, stared at her, then said, “Have a drink with me, Jordan. I’m not asking.” Calmly Langston returned to talking. “Have you ever been raped, Jordan?”
If the agents weren’t in the other room, this would be the moment where she’d run out the front door and scream for help. Many cases crossed her desk, but she had no firsthand knowledge on what it felt like to be raped.
“No,” she answered.
Langston held the cognac underneath his nose, inhaled. “When I was five, six, seven, eight, you can keep counting in your head as I continue, I was a child sex slave.”
Was he telling the truth? Or had Langston made this up for empathy so she would trust him?
“Jordan, this is the last time I’m asking. Drink the damn drink,” he demanded.
Placing the glass away from her lips, she paused, then asked, “So, is that why you became a trafficker?”
“Bitch!” Langston sprang from his seat, stood on the coffee table, then in front of her. He grabbed her jaws, then attempted to poured the drink in her mouth.
Sucking in her lips, Jordan swiftly turned her head.
Langston’s trembling hand, reached for the bottle. “Tell Kingston I love him. And I never meant to harm him.” Letting go of her cheeks, he gulped the cognac until the bottle was half empty.
Langston’s last words to Jordan were “I don’t want to be alone. Take a drink. Die with me, Jordan.”
Officer Wade rushed from the bedroom with his weapon drawn. “Don’t move! Langston Derby, you’re under arrest!”
Langston’s body fell to the floor like a tree in the forest.
Wade instructed the other two agents, “Handcuff him.”
One of the agents placed his fingers against Langston’s neck, then said, “Boss, he’s dead.”
CHAPTER 56
Kingston
“I’ve failed God.” Lying on his side in his hospital bed, Kingston asked Pastor Baloney, “Where do I go from here?”
“If you’re looking for pity, you’re not going to get it from me. Worse things have happened to other people. What you should do is, get healthy, and while doing so, start a nonprofit.”
As a survivor of sexual assault, Kingston decided he wanted to help others, but he never thought about launching a nonprofit for human-trafficking victims. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said.
Pastor Baloney opened his Bible app on his phone, then handed it to Kingston. “Read this aloud, son. The second chapter of Ecclesiastes, verses one through three.”
Kingston read, “ ‘The futility of pleasure. I said to myself, “Come now, let’s give pleasure a try. Let’s look for the good things in life.” But I found that this, too, was meaningless. “It is silly to be laughing all the time,” I said. “What good does it do to seek only pleasure!” After much thought, I decided to cheer myself with wine. While still seeking wisdom, I clutched at foolishness. In this way, I hoped to experience the only happiness most people find during their brief life in this world.’
“I think I get it,” Kingston told Pastor Baloney. “But what is your interpretation?”
The pastor placed his hand on Kingston’s head. “My son, I want you to memorize what you read. When I return to visit you tomorrow, we will discuss the first verse.”
Kingston expected the pastor to pray with him, for him, in his presence. But Pastor Baloney left him, instead, with what felt like a Sunday school assignment. “Thanks for coming, Pastor. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”
The hospital was a lonely place for Kingston. He prayed, God, let me get well enough to leave this place and go home to my family.
What had he offered God in exchange?
A text message registered. Kingston stared at his phone in disbelief as he read, How are you doing? I’d like to see you. Is it okay if I come by the hospital today?
Kingston had a trillion questions swarming in his head. Questions that only the person who’d texted him could answer. Afraid of how he would react if that person walked through the door into the room and stood close enough for him to grab the person by the throat and choke the last breath out of him, Kingston did not respond.
* * *
His door opened. Three unexpected visitors entered. Kingston had to remain lying on his side or else sit on that huge donut that was on the sofa across the room.
“Jordan Jackson, get over here.” Kingston hugged her with one arm. “I want you to know I prayed for you day and night. Man, y’all just don’t know how good it feels to see the group. I know one of you has one of those Popeye’s fried chicken sandwiches or some fried chicken from Ms. Icey’s in the bag for me.”
Kingston’s smile was only on the outside. The group had lightened his spirit. But the trauma could never be erased.
Victoria opened her oversized purse. She pulled out a clear plastic bag that had a brown paper bag inside. Opening both, she handed Kingston a fried chicken breast. “Brother Copeland never had a surgery, but every once in a while, they’d admit him for testing. And I’d always sneak him in a fried chicken breast.”
Holding the fried chicken breast with one hand, Kingston took the biggest bite he possibly could. “Somebody update me on what’s going on.”
The look on Jordan’s face—partially widened eyes, slightly lifted brows—made Kingston say, “Keep that to yourself.”
“I met this girl online that I actually like. A lot,” Chancelor confessed.
Taking another bite, Kingston chewed and talked at the same time. “What’s her name, bruh?”
Victoria’s eyes shifted to the side. Jordan laughed.
“Shanita Williams,” Chancelor said, appearing upset with the ladies.
Kingston nodded. “That’s what’s up. Why y’all laughing? She sounds like she knows how to kick ass and suck dick.”
Victoria and Jordan laughed hysterically.
Kingston handed Victoria the bone. “I know I missed a lot, but I appreciate hearing y’all laugh.”
“If you really want to hear what happened, I’ll—”
“Save it for the next visit. We came to cheer you up,” Victoria said.
The door opened. Everyone became silent. Kingston didn’t believe the person he loved most would visit him, when she had justification not to.
Monet entered, carrying a lilac designer handbag. A magenta-cotton halter maxidress showed off her curvaceous figure. Her hair was in a high ponytail that hung low. Large gold hoop earrings nearly touched her shoulders. It had been a while since he’d noticed how gorgeous his wife was.
Kingston said, “Guys—”
Chancelor interrupted, “Say no more, man, we’re leaving.”
“Do me
one solid before you’re out,” Kingston said. “Help me over to the sofa.”
* * *
Kingston sat on the sofa in his private hospital room. The inflated donut cushion prevented him from applying pressure on his ruptured rectum. He’d have to take it home after his discharge and use it everywhere he went for six weeks.
Monet placed her purse on his bed, sat beside him, then held his hands. “Do you want to come home? Or—”
Leaning toward her, Kingston held the nape of her neck, then vigorously kissed his wife. Monet placed her hand on his chest and leaned back. Rejection wasn’t acceptable. He needed his wife.
Kingston’s sob started slowly, growing into an uncontrollable, hyperventilating cry for compassion. With trembling lips, he told his wife, “I don’t deserve you. If you want a divorce, I’ll sign the papers and give you half of everything.”
Monet gently placed her hand on his cheek, softly wiped his tears, then said, “What reason would I have to divorce you? If you want a divorce, file for it yourself.”
Now that he had the opportunity to solely make the decision, Kingston didn’t want to accept his truth. “What if I don’t want to divorce my family? I want to continue being a husband and a father?”
Would he be happier with a husband? That question had to be answered.
Knock. Knock. “It’s Nurse Elizabeth. Can I come in?”
Kingston wanted to say no, but Monet got up and opened the door.
“Oh, I didn’t see you come in,” Elizabeth said. “I can come back.”
“I’m Kingston’s wife. Please come in,” Monet said.
Entering the room, Elizabeth handed Kingston a sheet of paper. Monet eased it from his hand, then said, “Test results.”
Kingston reached for the sheet.
Monet pulled it away. “Elizabeth, thanks. You can leave.”
“What kind of test results? Let me see,” Kingston insisted.
Staring at the sheet, Monet shook her head, sat beside him, then handed the paper to Kingston.
He scanned the results: HIV 1+2 AB+HIV1P24 AG, EIA Non-Reactive; GONORRHEA Non-Reactive; HEPATITIS B AND C Non-Reactive. Every result was the same.
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