by Aray Brown
16.
“Mr. Blevins, did you murder your fiancé’?” The prosecutor asked as she put her hands behind his back.
“No. I loved her and claimed those kids as my own. I was prepared to spend the rest of my life with her. I would never hurt her.”Maize said.
“What kind of woman was she?” She asked.
“Amazing.” Maize uttered.
“She was so amazing that she committed adultery right under your nose.” She said.
“First love is hard to get over.” Maize said.
“Is that all you have to say Mr. Blevins? What kind of a man are you? Weren’t you angry?”
“I didn’t know what was going on. It’s like you said, it was right under my nose.”
“So you claim.”
“I know she put a stop to it.”
“How do you know?”
“I know her. I’m not a violent man Ms Mills.” Maize said with authority.
“But someone turned you into a violent man, didn’t they? I think you’re lying. I think you knew about the affair. You hated Alex Price and that he had a hold on her. You wanted to kill him. Zoe stopped you. You were so blinded by hurt and anger that you made believe she was Alex Price, and you did to her what you wanted to do with him.” She replied.
“No, I’m innocent.” Maize pleaded.
“Tell that to the blood on your hands. The prosecution rests.”
“I remember when I fell in love with this country, and every single thing it stands for. I was proud to recite the pledge of allegiance. I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all. The operative words. Justice for all. If we let Mr. Blevins get by with just a slap on the wrist. The system fails. We fail. “She said, faced the jurors.
Spoonie smoothed out the suit and faced the people who held his friend’s life in their hands. He had the kind of confidence that some people mistake as being cocky and was calm, cool and collected for the most part, tried to force himself to think of this as just another case.
“We’ve heard numerous testimonies. But the one that should stick out the most is my client’s. He’s no cold-blooded criminal. He’s a victim. He’s hurting the same way those children are hurting. Yes, his fingerprints were found on the murder weapons, I’m not denying that. But all the evidence that’s presented before us has not been conclusive. He loved her. She loved him. He loved her kids. What was his motive? He knew nothing about the affair nor the baby. He was working late. Got a threatening phone call and rushed home to save his wife. But he was too late. His wife lay before him, an empty shell. If Mr. Blevins would have gotten there five minutes earlier, there would be two bodies instead of one. If you convict an innocent man, how will you sleep at night?”
Retracing steps, Spoonie wondered if the job was done to the best of his ability.
If the jurors were in favor of the prosecutor, he’d be held responsible. A great deal of weight was on his shoulders. This was his friend’s life he was talking about and the fact that he was a perfectionist didn’t help. Maize’s fate was unclear.
The bailiff hauled Maize back to the holding cell. Spoonie went back to the think tank, presumably known as his corner office at Hamilton & Dunn.
Spoonie traipsed past a bunch of colleagues and interns, the troubled demeanor fitting him like a glove, then making brief eye contact with the receptionist.
“I don’t want to be disturbed.” Spoonie said, roughly. She nodded her head in agreement. Twisting the knob, Spoonie gained entry to his lavish office, and then shut the door.
He treaded aimlessly to the desk, swiveled back in the lounger, propped his feet up, hands behind his head as he recalled the trial… until the intercom banged in his head like a drum.
“I thought I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.” He answered, annoyed.
“I figured this would be an exception sir.” She replied, sweetly.
“What is it?” He asked, harshly.
* * * * * *
“Have you reached a verdict?” The judge asked.
“Yes your honor.” The foreman replied.
“Will the defendants please rise?” The judge announced.
“What say you?”
“In murder in the first degree we the jury, find the defendant guilty.”
A hush fell over the crowd. Maize hung his head. The prosecutor beamed.
“Maize Blevins, I sentence you to twenty-five years in a maximum security prison. This court is now adjourned.” The judge thumped the gavel.
The prosecutor frowned. Spoonie smiled. It wasn’t the verdict he was hoping for, however it was a lesser sentence than planned. He directed his attention to the woman, acknowledged her, then Maize. He would be a free man at the age of sixty-five.
“Thanks man.” They shook hands.
“Wish I could’ve done more for you.” Spoonie said, sincerely.
They indulged in one final bro hug before the bailiff put him in cuffs and carried him off to the holding cell.
Spoonie packed up the legal briefs and strolled to the door. As soon as he entered the lobby, reporters swarmed toward him, blocking his passage way and bombarding with questions.
“What’s your opinion on the case?”
“Are you pleased with the decision?”
“Do you think you’ve done all you could for your friend?”
“Who killed Zoe Blevins?”
“What about the child? Do you think you’re responsible for putting her in therapy?”
“No comment. Excuse me.” He rarely cooperated with the press. This case had him disheveled. Maybe she can get the help she needs. He thought.
17.
March, 2010
It had been ten years since Medina laid eyes on her sister. She took up residence with a widow named Annalise, a barren woman who dreamt of having a child of her own someday. She was wise enough to know someday wouldn’t come. She tried but couldn’t carry them to term. Not really having a mother herself, she didn’t know how to be one. She had no family, except for an old decrepit granny. The woman was highly qualified, for a reason Medina could not understand.
The so-called social worker wanted to get rid of them. He pawned them off on anyone he could. He didn’t care for the kids he handled. He turned crooked, burnt out from the job, trading kids in for that almighty dollar. He got some kind of perverse pleasure from it.
She was forced to go to a new school, make friends and tolerate her existence.
They pulled up to a red brick building and sat in silence, the rambling engine overpowering their assessments.
Medina grabbed the backpack from the back seat, let out a quick “bye” and slammed the door inadvertently. She looked around, viewed the kids in their uniforms, the ones that didn’t have a care in the world and who never knew heartache or tragedy. She took a deep breath and walked towards Dagwood High, the 3rd most prestigious in Chicago. Medina felt out of place. So much so, that she placed the hood over her head to shut out the rest of the world.
She heard the bell and trampled down the hall to her first class. Her feet felt like bricks, movement becoming slower and slower.
Medina opened the door to her first class. It slammed shut at an abnormal pace, triggering her to recall moments from her dark past—the gunman shooting Zoe twice in the head at close range—execution style.
“Can I help you?” The teacher asked.
Medina didn’t say anything. She couldn’t even move, just stood there paralyzed for a split second.
She shyly passed him the note.
“What a nut job.” A classmate blurted out.
“Ah yes Medina. Take a seat in the back.” The teacher said.
Medina treaded to the back row, enveloping in the metaphorical dark cloud──losing herself in the downpour. She slunk down and stared at the clock.
“This ain’t much of a school if they let a freak show like you in
here.” Another kid uttered.
The peers followed suit, sneered whilst making knife stabbing and obscene gestures. The man who redefined the word teacher, turned away from the blackboard, leering at her tormentors “That is enough!” the words oozed out of his lips like a drill sergeant. They gasped. He returned to the board and began the lesson. They opened their books and quietly chanted. It was deemed unstoppable as the chorus swelled in numbers. The word “psycho” was carelessly thrown about like it had no meaning.
“Don’t let them get to you. They’re the REAL FREAKS. Mindless drones.” The biracial girl said. She was half Black and Half Asian, wore a butterfly tattoo.
Jordyss had black hair with blue streaks. She was interesting and didn’t conform like the rest. She was an outcast by choice.
“I know you. I’ve seen you around.” Medina said.
“My reputation precedes me.” Jordyss replied.
“Do you know what they’re saying about you?” Medina asked, almost a whisper.
“No, what are they saying.” Jordyss said, slyly.
“You set your old school on fire.” Medina said.
“Those are vicious rumors. I wouldn’t harm a fly.” She confirmed, shot a spitball at the leader of the drones. The dribble landed on his neck. The impact was enough to stir him around in the cold wooden seat. They locked eyes, her white hot stare smoldering in and out of his core as an awkward silence happened between them. In a split second the fear escaped him, and then went back to his studies. Medina chuckled, smiled. She hadn’t done that in a long time and had no reason to. The grin diminished remindful of the dilemma she had to brave. Isabel. Was she ok? Was she hurt? What kind of authority figure was she stuck with?
Medina didn’t know much about him except his name. It wasn’t much to go on but it was a start. She couldn’t begin again without her twin. She felt lost without her.
“Did someone kill your cat or something?” Jordyss asked, stoically.
“It’s my sister. I don’t know where she is. I have to get her back.” She said.
“Illinois department of children and family services, how may I direct your call?” A delicate voice answered.
“Where can I find Phil Saxton? I need to speak with him now!” Jordyss insisted, impersonating the potbellied overseer. Medina listened in.
“He’s at the club sir. Do you want me to call him for ya?” The man asked, excitedly.
“Uh, no, no I’ll go down there myself. What’s the name?” Jordyss asked, strongly.
“Donovan’s Titty Bar sir.” The man said with ease.
“It’s a topless bar right?”
“Yes sir. Isabel’s working late tonight.” The man said, barked like a dog.
* * * * * *
Donovan forced himself on her, robbing her of her virginity. Isabel felt the tears drop from her eyes. She had a feeling it wouldn’t be the last time. He was the kind of man who took what he wanted. And if you put up a fight, he would give you a solid thrashing. He was a self-made man, built the club from the ground up. The environment wasn’t solid, nor was it stable.
Donovan used the corrupt social workers to his benefit. He had a partnership with Saxton. Saxton would bring him the girls and in exchange Donovan gave him a piece of the empire.
Donovan attacked her on a regular basis. He told her she was his to do with as he pleased and if she disagreed he would give her a reminder to make sure she would never forget. Her living situation turned into a nightmare. Isabel had her vices to dull the pain, just like her father.
“I wanna go home.” Isabel said, slipped on her clothes.
“You ARE home. I’m your family now. You remember that.” Donovan said, grabbing her face, nostrils flaring.
Isabel treaded to the bathroom, looked in the mirror. She had a black eye and the cut on her lip.
Isabel wasn’t the person she used to be. It was a blur to her now. She was a woman but not the woman she desired to be.
“Showtime ladies! Let’s go, move your asses!” Donovan commanded, eyed her sternly, and paused.
“Issy, what do you think you’re doing?” Donovan asked.
“I’m not going out there.” Isabel was firm.
“Can you excuse us? I need to talk to her, alone.” He chuckled.
They left. Isabel was anxious. His emotions were on and off like a light switch.
“Why not?” He fiddled with the ring on his forefinger
“I don’t want to. I’m tired.” Isabel stammered.
Donovan locked the door, grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to the window. With one meaty hand, he raised it up, dangled Isabel outside until she agreed. Minutes later, she was shoved back in.
“Let me tell you what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna go in there and shake your ass like a good little girl. Clean yourself up. You’re on in ten.”
“Don’t cry. Don’t cry.” Donovan said, leaving the dressing room.
The reverberation of the slamming door clanged in her ears. Retouching her makeup, she opened a small drawer. Inside was a small canister of cocaine. She gazed at it. Isabel unbolted it, streamed a small amount on the table. She extracted a fifty dollar bill from her purse, rolled it up and snorted half of it. When it hit her, Isabel was on top of the world again. She was untouchable, uninhibited. Free.
18.
Medina waltzed into the club. The stench of sex perfused the atmosphere.
The women slid up and down the poles like a pro. Others were offering lap dances or a private dance. The place was packed with drooling men, money burning a hole in their pockets. Daniel De Bourg's "Damage" played over the loud speakers, drowning out the rest of the patrons. She reviewed every inch of the establishment. Her eyes settled on the bar, she leaned against it.
“You want something honey?” The bartender asked.
“I’m looking for someone.” Medina said.
“Everybody’s looking for someone honey. What’s your type? Blonde, Bru--“
“Brunette.” Medina interrupted.
“What’s her name doll?”
“Isabel.” Medina said.
“The main attraction.” She motioned to stage left.
Isabel gyrated on the pole. On the stage she was someone else. Men threw money at her and she loved every minute of it or she pretended to. She yearned for their attention. They were going crazy for her. They all wanted her.
Medina moved closer. One of the customers grabbed her leg. She tried to break free. The man tightened the grip and pulled, and then his friends joined in. She could feel herself slipping.
Eyeing the serving tray, Medina cleared it and flung it at him with full force. The metallic tray hit his neck. They released her on impact. The music stopped and Medina glared at them. Donovan came out, throwing his weight around.
“I don’t ever want to see you or your friends in this bar again! Get him outta here.”
His friends carried him out. Isabel walked offstage, embarrassed.
“Who the hell are you?” Donovan barked.
Medina walked to the dressing room and tapped her knuckles against the unlocked door.
“Come in.” Isabel said, paused.
“Hey, it’s good to see you. You should’ve told me you were coming.” Isabel embraced her, awkwardly.
“Is that all you have to say?” Medina asked.
“Did you enjoy the show?” She changed the subject, freshening up.
“You don’t have anything else to say to me? We haven’t seen each other since…” Medina trailed off.
There it was, their first awkward silence, two minutes before Donovan busted in wearing those five hundred dollar shirts he was famous for.
“Get your ass back out there! I paid good money for you!”
“This was her last set.” Medina said, a dead serious look on her face.
“Last set my ass! See I own her, don’t I sweetheart? And she ain’t done until I say she’s done. “He said, roughing her up.
Medina pulled out the full
y loaded revolver, a farewell gift from Annalise. With it, she became the judge, jury and executioner. A peep from the cocked gun stopped him cold. She saw him as nothing, disregarding his human life.
“I don’t want any trouble. I just want what she owes me.” He grabbed her, pulling her closer.
“Let her go.” Medina said.
“Or what?” He said, calling her bluff, laughing devilishly.
Medina’s hands quivered.
“Do it! Do it!” Donovan demanded.
Isabel shook her head as Medina placed her fingers on the trigger, gripping it. Nobody would miss him. I never killed anyone before. But killing him would be like killing a rat than a human being.
“Do It!”
The gun went off in Medina’s hand. Two bullets penetrated his chest. Donovan collapsed. Isabel cried over his body like a lost puppy, tears of anger and sadness in her eyes. Medina heaved her off him. They walked out, Price’s heart beating faster than normal which left her on edge. She’s never committed a murder.
In the common area, the crowd’s eyes were fixated on them, horrified at what they just heard. The bartender was on the phone to the police. Seconds later, she felt the cold steel of Price’s handgun to her temple. Fearing for her life, the bartender dropped the phone and put her hands up. Medina slowly advanced to the door, aiming the gun on anyone who dared to make a move. The crowd was still like a statue, too scared to say anything or make noise. Once they got outside they made a run for it but they didn’t get very far before their consequences caught up to them. They realized it was too late when they witnessed three police cars drive up. The cops considered it a hostage situation. The majority of them were on Donovan’s pay roll.
They were surrounded.
The twins mimicked each other’s movements, fearful out of their wits. The twins didn’t want this to dictate their near future. They didn’t know what to do. The odds of them making it out alive were improbable.
“Drop the weapon and put your hands behind your head!” An officer called out, pointing their weapons, ready to fire if necessary.
