“So you are going to listen to your husband for once?” He winked. I rolled my eyes. “Hey,” he called to me just before I shut the door. “You did good yesterday. It will all be over soon.”
I smiled back at him and then shut the door behind me, listened to the click as it locked shut, leaned against it, and stared at myself in the lighted mirror that hung over the sink.
Forty years old and I still had it.
My hair was crafted in an elaborate updo that took advantage of my natural curls, the occasional strands of gray blending in with the highlights of auburn and light brown, my new experimental look.
My eyebrows were arched at a perfect angle that highlighted my almond-shaped eyes and high cheekbones. Though my stomach poked out due to my pregnancy, my arms and legs still held true to the fit frame I’d worked myself into over the past year.
A lot can happen in a year, a truth that my swollen belly now testified. This time last year I was trapped in a dead-end relationship. I was angry, bitter, and hurt. Missing Leon. Now I was married to the one man I knew loved me for sure, and I was nearly eight months pregnant with his baby.
I looked at my stomach, and though the silvery stretch marks had seemed to multiply across my abdomen overnight like a crude spider web, I promised to love and appreciate each thread.
These marks showed growth in ways that superseded my vocabulary.
And to think I had been initially afraid to tell Leon about our child. Our child. The words brought fear, excitement, anxiety, joy all in one nauseating second. I thought about the day I told him that I was pregnant. That day had held all those feelings and some bonus feelings too.
Confusion. Dread.
I’d learned a long time ago to trust my gut. And my gut that day, in addition to being worn out and weary from first-trimester nausea, told me that there was more to Marta Jefferson’s tragic murder than the yellow police tape and the crowd of grieving women convening for Sunday chapel service.
A lot can happen in a short amount of time.
The black suit. I held it out in front of me, sighed, and put it on.
A year ago, I would have never imagined that I’d be married, pregnant.
And on the witness stand for a trial I hadn’t seen coming.
“Sienna? You done in there?” Leon’s voice and knock on the bathroom door hurried me along. Even outside of my dreams, it seemed like I found myself rehashing and replaying many different memories from the past few months as I prepared for the court case.
“I’m coming,” I answered, adding one last coat of wine-colored lipstick to my bottom lip. The black suit I wore looked tidy, efficient, and all business. Even my pregnancy looked official. I rubbed my belly, smiled at the kick that was almost eight months strong. Leon had been right. I should have listened to him yesterday and worn this black suit then instead of the bright yellow ditty that had me looking like a pregnant bumblebee.
“Look at my wife.” Leon nodded as I stepped out of the bathroom. His chin rested between his thumb and index fingers as his lips curled up into a delicious smile. “Mmmmm. I’ve never seen a forty-year-old pregnant lady look as good as you.”
“We should be packing for our anniversary trip, not dealing with this madness.”
“It’s okay, baby. We’re together and your testimony should be finished today.” He smiled and I smiled back, but we both knew that was wishful thinking at best. Seemed like my every word was the heartbeat of the case, for both the prosecutor and the defense teams. No way would I be cleared to leave anytime soon.
“I’m sorry, Leon. I should have listened to you and never gotten involved.”
“The past is the past and the present is the present. We’ll get through today and we’ll get to our trip.” He turned from me, looked out a window to the street eight stories below. I wished that I could see his face, read his features. I heard his words, but I could not make out the tone underneath them.
“Hopefully this case won’t drag along any longer than necessary and mess with our flight plans. Dr. Baronsen promised to give me a note allowing me to fly as long as I’m not nine months.” I realized that I had turned away as well. “Again, I’m sorry. I should have left it alone.”
He left the window and began heading toward the door for the trip across the street. I could already see the growing swarm of journalists and onlookers crowding around the courthouse.
How did I let it get this bad?
“Leon?” I didn’t bother to hide the angst from my voice. “I’m not convinced that Sweet Violet had nothing to do with the murders. You still don’t think I should tell anyone about her?”
“Sienna.” He’d stopped walking. His back was to me. “Please, for once, listen to me. Leave it alone. That homeless woman has nothing to do with anything. You’ve done all you can for her. Now, for your sanity, for me, for us, please leave Sweet Violet alone and out of all this.” He turned to face me and I saw the strain in his eyes. “Just stick to your testimony, which is the truth about what you know for sure, and this whole thing will be over soon. Please, I’m asking as your husband. I’m asking as your friend.”
I gave a slow nod, stepped toward him, toward his outstretched hands. I let myself fall into his embrace.
“You smell good, baby,” I murmured as I pressed my face, my nose into his shoulder. Dressed in an olive green suit and smelling like spice and body wash, I wanted him to know that I had no problems leaning on his shoulder, that I needed him, respected his thoughts, feelings, and, that, like him, I didn’t want to delay the current drama by introducing the unknown variables of Sweet Violet. I didn’t even know where she was.
Sugar. That’s what was missing from his scent.
He hadn’t been at his bakery in three weeks, ever since the media firestorm went truly frenetic with the start of the case.
And it was all my fault.
“Thank you for your support with all of this, Leon,” was the only thing I could say.
“Of course, Sienna. Of course.” He patted my arms and stepped away. “We need to go before that prosecutor, Alisa Billy, calls up here for you, right? Before Alisa the Billy Goat Gruff starts lighting up your cell phone. She’s worse than that nurse at Metro Community, KeeKee.”
KeeKee. Metro Community. The night when it all began. Why had I agreed to carry that pager?
“Let’s go, Leon. I’m ready.” I let his arms drop off of me then I picked up my briefcase filled with notes I didn’t need and marched to the door. I needed this day, this trial, and this craziness to be over.
Just as I reached for the door handle, a knock sounded, sending me back two steps. Did someone know I was here? I gasped, knowing that housekeeping and room service usually announced themselves along with a knock, just for this reason.
Leon, in one motion, ran to the door ahead of me, set me behind him, and peered out the peephole, a hand reaching under his suit jacket.
Was he carrying a gun?
That realization startled me more than the knock at the door. If the biggest threat was the media, why would he be carrying a gun?
Leon stepped away from the peephole and looked at me, biting his lower lip. He unlocked the door, turned the handle, pulled it open, and stepped away.
“Mom.”
“Roman.”
We spoke simultaneously and then said nothing at all.
“I’m going to head down now and let Alisa Billy know you’ll be down in a little while.” Leon left, closing the door behind him.
My husband, my advisor, my protector, and self-proclaimed bodyguard. Even he had enough sense to leave the two of us alone.
As I stared into my son’s narrowing eyes, and felt my own eyes narrowing back at him, I knew that we were going to need more than a few moments just to get past hello.
Roman, my Roman. Before there was Leon or social work degrees or anything else, there had just been me and Roman, clinging to each other, surviving pain and devastation from his absent father, confiding, plotting, planning
, arguing, and forgiving. We’d had our ups and downs over the twenty-one years of his life. He’d run away once; twice if you counted his decision to go to college on the West Coast to form a relationship with my first husband’s “other” family, against my initial wishes.
But we’d made it through all of these storms together, stronger, closer.
Now as we stood facing each other, I knew both of us wondered how we would get past the chasm that had formed over his winter break. It was now spring and we still hadn’t mapped a bridge.
Over what was supposed to be Christmas dinner, Leon and I had shared our news of the upcoming birth with him. Roman, for his part, had broken news to us that shattered every perception I had of him; that made me question if he’d gotten a single message I’d tried to instill in him when I labored in the trenches as a single mother; that made me question his sanity.
The reality that he’d missed such a key, pivotal lesson I’d taught him from the time he was born had been a swift kick to my gut. I was still emotionally bowed over, holding my stomach trying to recover.
And his foot had stayed in kick mode. He hadn’t called. He wouldn’t answer my calls. We’d never been this separated this long.
But he was standing in the doorway, waiting to be let in. Or waiting for me to come join him in the hallway.
A ding sounded in the hallway and I heard an elevator door open and the sharp commands of Alisa Billy spilled out.
“Sienna, we need to go now. This judge does not like any delays.”
Roman stepped aside, letting me exit the room and close the door behind me. “I’m only here until six this evening,” he said. “I have to be at the airport by eight.”
I heard his whisper, but saw the stubbornness in his stance. Why had he even shown up if he knew that we wouldn’t get a chance to talk? His actions, his decisions were deliberate. He hadn’t come to talk, I realized, just, perhaps, to say good-bye.
For good.
Chapter 10
He sat in the back of the courtroom, squeezed in tightly with the audience, just outside the reach of the television camera’s constant focus.
My son.
The fact that he didn’t want to talk to me, yet insisted on watching me in this arena, bothered me.
“Ms. Sienna St. James Sanderson, are you ready, or do you need another moment to daydream?” the defense attorney snapped.
I looked back at her and smiled. “I’m ready, Ms. Deen.”
The defense attorney had on a black suit similar to the one I wore, except she didn’t have the round belly I had. Her waistline looked like it could fit in my pants pocket. Once I have this baby, I’m going to get my waistline back, no matter how long it takes.
Yeah, I was clearly distracted and not focused on my task at hand. I knew why, too. My son was watching me make a spectacle of myself and refusing to talk to me about the matter that had us currently separated.
And I didn’t want to accidentally bring up my concerns about Sweet Violet. Leon’s insistence for me not to made sense to me at the moment. The court, the lawyers, the police, and investigators know nothing about that woman, or my dealings with her. No need to bring more confusion to an already head-spinning case.
I looked over at the defendant, a young man the same age as my son. He glared back. They had him dressed in a black suit too.
We were all in black. I guessed to mourn the victims.
Ms. Marta had been the first one.
“Now, Ms. Sanderson St. James Sienna, you stated yesterday that you had no relation to any of the victims. Are you continuing with that assertion today?”
“Of course. I’m under oath and I have no reason to fabricate a story.”
“A simple yes or no would suffice,” the attorney snapped again. Alisa even looked at me annoyed. “Just stick to the script we practiced,” the prosecutor spoke to me with her eyes. I looked back at the defense attorney, Shanay Deen.
“I am sorry. Yes, I am still stating that I have no relationship with any of the unfortunate victims.”
Shanay nodded. “None of the victims were clients, friends, relatives, or coworkers of yours, correct?”
“I did not know any of the victims in any capacity.” I moved my mouth closer to the microphone. Did the woman not hear okay?
“Thank you. I have no further questions at this time.” The defense attorney nodded again, smiled as she turned back to her seat. I looked over at Alisa Billy who sat with the prosecuting team, raised an eyebrow, wondering why after such an intense first day of questioning, I was only asked one question on day two.
“The witness may—” the judge began. He was an older man with a heavily cratered and bumpy face. Reminded me of a bulldog for some reason. I guess that’s why I was surprised the defense attorney cut him off midsentence.
“I’m sorry, actually, I do have one more question for you, Ms. St. James Sienna Sanderson.” The young lawyer looked excited, was almost breathless as she turned around and walked back toward me. “You stated that you did not know any of the victims, yet we have evidence that you had a phone conversation with the first victim, Ms. Marta Jefferson, just hours before she was found dead at an entrance of the women’s shelter where she worked.” The attorney blinked at me, her face unreadable as the entire courtroom seemed to suck in a deep breath and lean closer in toward me.
Suffocating.
That’s how I felt at the moment, and that was also the final autopsy report for Marta Jefferson. Before the single bullet pierced her head, she had been suffocated by an unknown object, from behind.
Close. Personal. The prosecution had used those words to describe the circumstances surrounding her death. I swallowed hard, the question that had been floating in my head for months back again at the forefront of my consciousness.
But Leon didn’t think I should bring her up. Sweet Violet had nothing to do with any of it. She was harmless. Senile. A lost old woman who loved to dance to the music only she heard in her head.
“Well?” The attorney tapped a foot. She wore black heels that soared for days. Didn’t her feet hurt in those things?
My mind seemed determined to stay on anything but the moment.
“I’m not sure what you’re asking me.” It was an honest statement. What was the evidence that I had talked to Marta? Phone records? A recording? My documented notes in Sweet Violet aka Frankie Jean’s hospital chart? They’d kept her name “Jane Doe” in the hospital records, I knew from KeeKee. Does the hospital staff know about her? The questions fired off in my head. Leon said not to bring her up. It would only complicate matters for an already complex case where all the evidence pointed to the man at the defendant’s table.
Delmon Frank. Twenty-one years old. The same age as my son.
Our eyes met.
During my first conversation with him, he’d been smoking a cigarette.
Had asked if I was a cop.
“Ms. St. James, can you please explain why you stated that you did not know any of the victims, yet there is evidence that you spoke to at least one of them mere hours before her untimely demise?”
“I do not know what evidence you have, Ms. Deen, but I am being one hundred percent honest in saying that I did not know any of the victims. I spoke to Ms. Marta during a routine call related to a hospital matter. I called the women’s shelter in an effort to assist a patient I was charged with that night.”
Even from several benches away, I could see Leon’s eyes flutter in agitation. He didn’t want me to say anything further. No purpose would be served other than to stir up confusion. The killer, who had piles of evidence against him, was already on trial. No need to throw in a monkey wrench on a case the prosecution fully expected to win.
Last year my gut feelings had helped me uncover a terrorist who wasn’t even on the government’s radar. I swallowed over the large, heavy lump in my throat.
That was a different situation. My gut was pretty certain. What I felt now was more of a question, and not firm enough of
a question to bring up that dancing old woman and my unfounded suspicions about her.
Leon and I had an anniversary trip to take before our baby was born. Today needed to be my last day of testimony so that the case could move forward and I could board our plane to Florida.
“Can you share more about the conversation you had with Ms. Marta? What exactly was said?”
“Objection.” Those words sounded sweet coming from Alisa Billy. She was already on her feet at the prosecution desk. “This line of questioning has nothing to do with anything. Our witness, Ms. St. James, is not the one on trial. Delmon Frank is. Whether or not Ms. St. James had any interactions with the victims is irrelevant.”
The judge and the jury and the cameras turned back to the defense team.
“Your Honor,” Shanay Deen spoke slowly, and with a smile, “if I can establish that Ms. St. James is not fully and/or accurately disclosing her relationship to any of the victims, then all of her testimony, whether as an expert witness or an eyewitness, will need to be questioned. And if questioned, then, I would argue, her testimony would need to be thrown out.”
“Your Honor,” Alisa was not done, “Ms. St. James is a social worker. Within the normal realm of her tasks and duties, it is very possible that she could have interacted with the victims in the past. All of them have connections to the issues and matters Ms. St. James addresses within her profession.”
I felt like I was watching a Ping-Pong match, and was happy to see the lively back and forth between attorneys, until I realized that the ball was now back in my corner.
Seemed like the whole world was looking at me again. Had I missed something?
“Ms. St. James Sienna,” Shanay Deen was asking me, “to be clear for the record, is it your testimony that you do not want to disclose whether you may have had any interaction with any of the victims, in or outside of your professional tasks and role?”
“I did not personally know any of the victims.” It wasn’t a lie. I hadn’t known any of them personally, though I had some form of interaction with two of them just before their deaths.
Sweet Violet and a Time for Love Page 6
