by Kiki Swinson
“Look, Diane, I didn’t come here to stay and have tea and crumpets. I just wanted to pay Paulette back for what she had done for me. I was planning on giving her something, and I know deep in my heart she would’ve given you something,” I rambled off rapidly. All the way over here, I had rehearsed the speech I was going to make.
“I know you never loved me. I am not ever going to forget that stuff. But Paulette did love me. No matter what you tried to do to drive a wedge between us, my little sister did love me,” I croaked. I began crying. I was so mad at myself for losing it, but it was overwhelming.
“So just take this and make sure Paulette gets the burial she deserves. You can do whatever you want with the rest. That is the way Paulette would have wanted it,” I said with finality. I placed the check down on the table. For the first time in years, I looked Diane in her eyes. She was crying buckets of tears. I could tell she might have finally been sorry for everything she had done to me. I turned and began walking away.
“Melody!” my mother called at my back. I stopped short for a minute and closed my eyes. I was trying to squeeze the tears back in.
“I always loved you. I only wanted what was best for you. I didn’t always know how to deal with my feelings, but one thing always remained the same—I love you,” my mother cried out.
I started walking again. This time I let the tears fall down my face. It was the first time in my entire life that I ever remembered my mother saying the words I love you to me. It was something I needed to hear, but after all of the turns my life had taken by then, it was just too little too late.
I slammed my mother’s front door for the last time. The sound signaled the closing of a part of my life I would never open again. I exhaled and headed for the new life I had planned for myself. With three million dollars in the bank and no more worries, I felt vindicated in all aspects of my life. I felt free. Or so I thought.
As I drove out of the Tidewater area for the very last time, I smiled. “You are on your way, Melody. You did it, girl. You fucking did it!” I yelled out loud to myself. I pumped up the volume on the radio and sang along with Rihanna’s “Man Down.” It was crazy how that song was so relevant to my life right then. I headed back to Washington, D.C., to check the PO box I had opened for the purpose of receiving my documents. I parked the car and headed to the post office. Of course I had dark shades over my eyes; I felt like myself again thanks to a short shopping spree before I left Virginia. I had purchased a brand-new Louis Vuitton bag, a pair of oversized Gucci shades, and a couple of outfits, including a hot Nicole Miller dress. I didn’t know where I was going to wear it when I bought it, but I just fell in love with it. I felt like I no longer had a care in the world.
I walked into the post office ready to receive my birth certificate so I could go and get a passport. That was my main priority. The money was in my hands; now all I needed to do was get the fuck out of Dodge. I planned on leaving the country, maybe going to live in Europe someplace. I had not yet decided.
There was nothing suspicious about the post office or the blocks surrounding it. Maybe it was just that I was so focused on getting the fuck out of there that I hadn’t noticed what was staring me right in my face. I sauntered into the post office like I didn’t have a fucking care in the world. It even took me about thirty seconds to fish the PO box key out of my huge purse. “Ugh, there you are,” I said when I finally located that pesky little key. As I placed my PO box key into the lock, suddenly I heard rapid footsteps around me, and it quickly seemed like they were getting close to me. I turned around because the sound had grown loud like a herd of wild elephants trampling through the post office. I finally paused. I crinkled my face in confusion and turned to investigate the noise. When I whirled around, my eyebrows went from furrowed to high arches. I almost fainted when I was met with several guns in my face. “What the . . . ?” I gasped, mouth open wide. I dropped all of my mail and my jaw went slack. My shoulders slumped in surrender. I went to raise my hands to let them know I wasn’t going to fight them, but as I went to move, I heard a bunch of barking voices coming at me from every direction. “Don’t fucking move a muscle or you die! Keep your hands where they are! Don’t try anything funny or you will be shot!”
I froze in place. I could feel my sphincter muscle about to let loose. My knees were trembling. There had to be about one hundred SWAT officers surrounding me as if I were public enemy number one.
“Melody Goldman, you are under arrest for the murder of your husband, his lover, and your hired hit man,” one of the officers huffed at me as I was roughly thrown to the floor.
I closed my eyes and shook my head. I couldn’t figure out how they’d found out or found me.
“You’re mistaken! I didn’t do anything! I’m innocent!” I yelled as I was roughly handcuffed and dragged up from the floor. I was dragged outside, but this time I wasn’t fighting or trying to get myself another disorderly conduct charge for fighting the police. A crowd had gathered outside of the post office. People were pointing and hushed murmurs spread through the ever-growing gaggle of onlookers. “I’m innocent,” I yelled out. “This is some sort of mistake!” I screamed, looking right over at the crowd. This made the officers who held on to either side of my arms rush faster to get my ass into the back of the squad car. “Call the media! I am innocent!”
Right before my head was pushed down into the awaiting police car, I saw the female detective from the Tidewater police department. What the fuck is she doing here? What the fuck is going on? I thought. My eyes locked on hers. I looked at her strangely. She seemed to have a smile of satisfaction on her face. She whispered something to another detective in a suit. I didn’t recognize him. She handed the guy a writing pad and then she started walking over toward me as I was forced into the car. By the time my ass hit the seat and I adjusted myself so that the handcuffs weren’t stabbing me, the female detective was standing right at the door. She leaned down into the door with a fucking evil look covering her already manlike face.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Mrs. Melody Goldman, widow of the late—or should I say the murdered—Mr. Richard Goldman,” the detective remarked snidely.
I looked at her through squinted eyes. My nostrils flared. If I didn’t have these fucking handcuffs on, I probably would’ve tried to rip that bitch to shreds. “Did you think the day we came to tell you the investigation was over that we really meant it? Tsk, tsk, tsk. We thought you’d be smarter than that. You had been so clever throughout the entire thing. You almost had us. We didn’t find out about Lil Man until much later. I guess now that he’s dead, you thought you were in the clear. I don’t think so. May you rot in prison for the rest of your fucking life,” that bitch-ass detective hissed in my face. She was so close she looked like she wanted to kiss me.
I hawked up a wad of spit and shot it in her face. “Fuck you, you jealous bitch!” I spat. It felt so good to do that shit.
“Ahh!” the detective cried, stumbling back, frantically wiping the spit from her face. The next thing I felt was a fist slam into the side of my head. That’s when everything went black around me.
11
I sat in that fucking jail for an entire year. After my arrest, I had refused to speak to the police without an attorney. That was something Richard had taught me. Mark Blue, one of Richard’s fiercest competitors, had agreed to represent me pro bono. I knew Mark was doing it for two reasons: for notoriety and because it would be the best way for him to finally have one up on Richard.
Mark and I spent hours going over my defense. I found out that the police were basing their case solely on a letter that Scotty had sent them and a card he’d given me right before Richard’s memorial service. I never even realized I had dropped the card. Inside, Scotty had written: I did you a favor. Now when you get that money, I want my cut. There were a lot of ways that could be interpreted. Scotty never wrote, I did what you asked me to do. He wrote that he’d done me a favor, not that I had asked him to do it. The letter
he sent to the police was vague in the same way. It said something like, If I end up dead, it’s because Melody Goldman set me up because I killed her husband. Another dumb move. Still, Scotty could’ve gotten very detailed in his death declarations, but he hadn’t.
Mark was very confident that he could introduce reasonable doubt to the jury. I wasn’t so sure. One thing I was sure of was that they would never find the murder weapon. I had taken it apart and disposed of the pieces in several different places. The most important piece, the barrel, was left right in a plant pot on my mother’s porch. They would never think to look there, and I knew it.
The trial seemed to drag on and on. I had grocery-sized bags under my eyes. My hair had suffered and my nails . . . forget about it. The weight loss was something I welcomed, since I had put on a bunch of pounds while I stayed with Paulette. Depression had made me eat like a pig.
“Goldman, jury is in!” the CO hollered.
I walked slowly over to the cell bars and waited to be cuffed and let out. I had a strange feeling in my stomach. I can’t say that it was fear. I wasn’t scared. I had been conditioning myself for a guilty verdict. I had made it up in my mind that I would probably never benefit from the insurance policy money, which, through litigation, had been decided they could not snatch back. A civil court judge had ruled that once they paid the money to me, it was mine. The responsibility was on the insurance company to withhold the money if they thought anything was suspicious. That was another way the detectives had fucked up. They had not coordinated with the insurance company in time. Ha! I guess it was in the cards for me to have that money. Maybe it was really karma for what Richard had done to me.
I walked into the courtroom, and cramps invaded my stomach like a rogue army. I stood next to Mark and the entire defense team he had assembled to work my case. Mark reached down and squeezed my hand. I gave him a weak squeeze back and cracked a weak smile. The jury came in, and I couldn’t read their faces at all. My heart was hammering so hard against my chest that I felt like I’d faint right there on the spot.
The court officer announced the judge back in.
“Jury, have you reached a verdict?” the old, gray-haired judge asked perfunctorily. A tall black man stood up.
“Yes, Judge, we have,” the man said loudly.
His voice immediately annoyed me. I guess he was the foreman. For some reason I had the urge to look around the courtroom.
The courtroom was pin-drop quiet, and packed to capacity. The jury foreman stood up, the rustle of his suit making everyone in the room feel tense. He cleared his throat. The judge asked the foreman if the jury had reached a verdict. The foreman nodded and unfolded a piece of paper. He opened his mouth and the words seemed to come out in slow motion. I closed my eyes. I said a silent prayer, although I knew I shouldn’t be calling on God at a time like this.
“We the jury, in the case of the Commonwealth of Virginia versus Melody Goldman, find the defendant . . .”
I couldn’t really hear. For some reason I was suddenly weak and my ears were ringing. Mark put his hand on my back to stabilize me.
“. . . not guilty of the charge of first-degree murder in count one of the indictment.”
A loud round of groans and moans filtered around the room. My eyes popped open in utter shock. I had been sure they were going to find me guilty.
“Order!” the judge shouted, banging his gavel. Silence came once again.
The foreman continued apprehensively. He could feel the evil eyes from the courtroom crowd bearing down on him. “We the jury also find the defendant not guilty of the charge of manslaughter in count two of the indictment,” he finished up.
I almost jumped up and down. The courtroom erupted in pandemonium. There were screams and moans. Reporters were running out of the courtroom so they could be the first to break the news.
“Oh my God, Mark. We did it! You did it! I could never repay you!” I cried. Then I grabbed Mark in a long, tight embrace as relief settled on my shoulders like a cloak of comfort. I bounced up and down on my legs. I was overjoyed. I swiped away the happy tears from my face and mouthed, “Thank you,” to the rest of my defense team.
“I told you all we needed to do was introduce the remote possibility of reasonable doubt,” Mark whispered to me.
I was frantic inside. I didn’t know what to do with myself.
I could hear the news reporters and tabloid media personalities yelling outside the courtroom doors. “Melody Goldman may have just gotten away with two murders! The verdict has shocked the nation!” they were all saying at once. I was ushered out of the courtroom on wobbly legs, shrouded by my team of attorneys. I had to go through the process of checking out. There would be no more jail for me. I was finally free! Finally vindicated! We had done it. I, Melody Goldman, was a free woman.
I was released to Mark and the others. We smiled and hugged again. “Now it’s time to go celebrate your victory!” Mark exclaimed.
“You mean your victory,” I said excitedly. It didn’t matter who took responsibility for the victory. The fact was, I had gotten off scot-free.
Once we hit the courthouse doors, the throngs of reporters moved in for the kill. I quickly threw my hands up over my face. Mark pushed my head down and he threw his Brooks Brothers jacket over me. He had to lead me because all I could see were a bunch of feet.
“Ms. Goldman, how did you do it? How did you get away with murder?” the reporters screamed, all trying to drown each other out. I was just trying to get out of the building. “Stay down. Ignore them. Don’t say a word,” Mark was screaming in my ears.
I did just as he told me. I kept my head hung low, hiding my face with my arms. I couldn’t help it, but I was smiling. I don’t think anything felt as good as getting away with murder.
The Day of the Interview
“But did you know you’d be infamous?” Michelle blurted out, cutting in before I could say anything else.
Her words struck me like a gut punch. I grabbed the edges of the chair and gripped them tightly. I was more determined than ever to tell the story now. I opened my mouth . . .
“Melody? Melody? Are you all right?” Michelle Moyer was asking me. I exhaled and shook my head. “Melody, you seemed to be zoned out . . . in a trance,” Michelle said, shaking my shoulders.
“I-I’m so sorry. I-I was just thinking. . . .” I stammered. I looked around and remembered that I was supposed to be giving an interview about how I beat the murder charges.
I didn’t even realize that I had been flashing back to everything that had happened.
“Can I get a drink of water before we start taping again?” I asked, standing up.
“Sure. Get Mrs. Goldman some water,” Michelle called out.
I drank the water down in one gulp. I closed my eyes and shook off my memories. I had rehearsed for days the story I was going to tell Michelle during the interview, yet as soon as I started to think about it, the truth had completely came to the forefront of my mind. There was no way I could tell the truth about what happened. That would always be buried in my mind.
“Okay, I’m ready,” I said, smoothing down my skirt. I sat down in front of Michelle. The makeup people touched up my face and then Michelle’s.
“Starting from the top,” Michelle told her crew. This time I was going to give them what they were looking for. A television-special-worthy story of how I got caught between a gangsta and a gentleman and got away with murder and three million dollars. I had to smirk to myself. I guess the only truth that mattered was the one I told them.
“Well, first things first. My husband started off being the perfect gentleman,” I began.
I lay on an exclusive, celebrity-only beach in St. Tropez with huge oyster shell shades covering my eyes. I wore a bright yellow Tory Burch bathing suit and a black floppy hat. Not to mention the golden tan I had that was customary of St. Tropez. When I had chosen the French Riviera, it turned out to be the best place in the world for me. I had a lot of lazy days an
d exciting nights. Ahh, the life. I picked up the People and US magazines I had purchased earlier that morning. I was like a starstruck teenager when I saw my face plastered on the cover of both magazines. I smiled so wide I probably looked like the Cheshire cat. I couldn’t get rid of the smile if I tried. I had to say I was very proud of myself. It was a long, crazy road, but I, Melody Goldman, had finally taken her rightful place in the world as a fabulous celebrity.
I snickered as I read the stories. Some magazines were still repeating the exact story I had made up the day of my interview with Date Time. It was amazing how the media could take anything for fact. I guess telling the truth is just not that interesting. Next, I was expecting that big book deal. The publishing houses that loved the scandalous memoirs were already calling. I was thrilled; that would just be more money in my pocket. I had already been throwing some titles around in my head. “How about I Need a Gangsta?” I said to myself. “Or better yet, A Gangsta Instead of a Gentleman.” I busted out laughing at my own joke. I would pick a dumb-ass so-called gangsta any day. Those days I had spent with Scotty were probably the most exciting days of my life. Bored with reading about myself, I snapped my fingers at the boy who was serving the drinks. He was a fine hunk of French masculinity. He loved me because I always tipped well. Why not? I had it like that! The boy rushed over and brought me an icy mango daiquiri. He also handed me a small napkin that was folded in half.
“This note is for you, madam,” the boy said in his heavy French accent.
“For me?” I asked, curious and confused. I tilted my glasses down on my nose and looked at the little folded square strangely. I unfolded it and read it. I’ve been watching you. Can I get to know you? I raised my head and looked around frantically. Who the hell was watching me?
