A.K.A.

by TL Alexander

  “Don’t worry. It will hold.”

  “You maybe. I’m what, over a foot taller and hundred pounds heavier.”

  “Cane is much stronger than it looks.”

  “Maybe when it’s not one hundred years old.”

  “Please,” Hodges says again.

  I nod and sit across from him. “I think—no, I know—that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say.”

  “Sorry about that. I’m terribly shy.”

  “Shy?”

  “Yes. You, like many, have misjudged me. I’m not the weasel everyone thinks I am.”

  “I never thought…”

  Hodges raises a brow.

  “Okay, I did think that, and called you that.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been called much worse.”

  I look around. “What is this place?”

  “This is the house I grew up in.”

  “Seriously?”

  He nods.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but why am I here? It’s not the most quaint place to meet in.”

  “This is also where Terrance grew up.”

  “Mary told me he was from the other side of the tracks, but I didn’t think this far over.”

  “My mother raised seven kids here. Six of her own and Terrance.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “I know he told you stories about his wonderful mother and his carefree childhood. None of them are true. My Aunt Judy, Terrance’s mother, dropped him off for her sister, my mother, to watch for a few hours. She never came back.”

  “Why would he lie? Was he ashamed?”

  “That’s part of it.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  “Terrance could never accept who he was or his station in life. He was dirt poor, lived in a shack, and shared a bed with two of his cousins. In his mind, he was rich, lived in a mansion, slept in a king-sized bed.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with him dreaming. Wanting to better himself.”

  “You’re right. There’s nothing wrong with that. But I’ve always believed you must know where you came from before you can own your future.”

  “You might be right.”

  “I am right.”

  “Before we get into whatever it is that I’m here to learn, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “Mary said that my father was disowned when he changed his name.”

  “He was.”

  “She said he did it because Papa Caldwell made him. And my dad said—”

  “First of all, no one can make you do anything, Drake. We always have a choice. Terrence had a choice. I had a choice. You had a choice.”

  I nod.

  “I know what he told you. None of it’s true. There’s no secret or second trust. Caldwell International is Mary’s company.”

  I say nothing.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “No, I do, I just…”

  “I know it’s hard to learn that you’ve been taken by someone you thought you could trust.”

  “It is hard.”

  “You’re a new player in Terrance’s games, Drake. Can you even imagine how Mary felt when she discovered most of her adult life was a charade, a fantasy?” He shakes his head. “Telling and showing Mary the truth was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”

  “Why did you?”

  He pauses and looks down at his hand. Then he looks up and says, “I did something terrible and I needed her help to make it right.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me what you did.”

  “I am going to tell you, Drake. Everything comes out of the cracks today.”

  “I can understand why my dad walked away from his family, but why did you go with him?”

  “I hadn’t planned on it. I’d planned to go to college.”

  “Not following.”

  “Terrance claimed that changing his name didn’t bother him, but it did. Not because he lost his family and his name, but because someone upped him, and nobody upped him. He had all of us believing he was in love with Mary. But Old Man Caldwell knew the truth. He knew Terrance was a selfish, vindictive, greedy man. He knew the only reason Terrance married his daughter was for her money, her position, and the company.”

  “But you just said he lied. He didn’t get the company.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “Why do you think Terrance wanted to get into politics, become a senator?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he thought he could help others.”

  “Not even close. He became a senator because Papa Caldwell had never been one.” He laughs. But it’s not a ha-ha kind of laugh. “Papa Caldwell died five days before the election. Terrance was livid at him for dying before he could show him that he was the better man, he was the one going to Washington. And then he found out Papa Caldwell had put the company into a bloodline trust.”

  “I’m guessing he wasn’t happy about that.”

  “It pushed him over the edge. He told me he would have the last laugh. He would make Papa Caldwell’s daughter pay for his sins.”

  “But he said… he told me—”

  “He lied to you, Drake. All those stories about his childhood, lies. All his stories about Nancy, how much he loved her, all lies.”

  “But Mary said they had an affair.”

  “That part was true. Nancy fell into his web like so many others. But when she learned who he really was, she wanted nothing to do with him.”

  “All the other stories?”

  “All lies, every one of them.”

  “But why?”

  “He’s a sociopath. He’s the grand manipulator. He uses people by exposing and then exploiting their weaknesses. What he shows you is an act. He’s the man behind an iron mask of deception and greed. That’s why I’m here, Drake. I’m going to show you the man behind the mask.”

  He reaches for a briefcase I hadn’t noticed because I’d been so taken aback by his presence. He opens it and removes several files and then sets it back down on the worn, wooden floor. He hands me the top file.

  I take it. “I know why you left with him.”

  He raises a thin brow.

  “I’ve seen the way you look at Mary. You love her.”

  “I did and I guess a small part of me still does.”

  “That’s why you didn’t go to college. You were afraid of what he might do to Mary.”

  He nods.

  “Does my father know you’re here?”

  “Of course not. Terrance thinks he’s winning this game, but I checkmated him months ago.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Terrance has two major flaws. The first, he thinks he’s a god.”

  “The second?”

  “You.”

  The endgame occurs when there are few pieces left on the board. The exact line between the middlegame and the endgame is blurred. But during the endgame, the pawns become more important, and the king comes into play to protect his pawns.

  THE QUEEN IS THE MOST VERSATILE AND DANGEROUS

  I used to make notes on a pad I kept in my office desk drawer, upper right-hand side next to my stash of weed and condoms. I referred to it as my “after I’ve been the DA for ten years and retire at age fifty, I’ll write my first book” notes.

  I wrote about my cases, what I had learned, what I would do differently, that kind of stuff. But to be honest, a lot of it was random and sometimes nonsensical thoughts. By nonsensical, I mean thoughts that after I’d had time to chill, roll my eyes, and smoke a joint didn’t always make sense, just like the book I’m reading now.

  The author of the book is my dad, Jack Steel. I’m at the beginning where he’s introducing a character he swears isn’t based on me. He introduces her (me) as the murderer who doesn’t fit any mold. He does this by explaining the mold.

  The majority of murderers are men, ten to one. More than half are raised in or near pover
ty. Most are neglected and themselves victims of emotional, verbal, and physical abuse. Many are exposed early, before the age of five, to violence. One third have genetic precursors toward violence or brain damage due to an injury. Just under half have a smaller or underdeveloped prefrontal cortex, resulting in loss of self-control and poor decision-making skills, predisposing them to a life of crime and violence. Many murderers are mentally ill and have never been properly diagnosed or have been misdiagnosed. Two thirds are heavy drug users or addicts.

  And then he goes into the theory of me. I’m the murderer who doesn’t fit into the norm of stats or within a category. He even had the audacity to call me a “misfit.”

  I dog-ear the page and set the book down. Jack Steel’s books are very popular in this library; all but about a dozen of his fifty plus novels reside here. I use the term “library” loosely. It’s just a room with around four hundred random subject, well-used paperbacks.

  I also use my job title “librarian” loosely. I stack and check out books from 1:00 p.m.—4:00 p.m. It’s boring, but the reading, the stories, are a welcome escape for an otherwise regimented day.

  I’m lucky to have gotten the job. It’s considered a cream-of-the-crop position at South Florida Penitentiary for Women. Not because you get to sit and read, but because it’s the only room with oversized floor-to-ceiling windows. It doesn’t matter if the view is a twenty-foot wire fence and a guard station. It isn’t gray cinderblock or water-stained ceilings. It’s sunlight and warmth in an otherwise cold hell.

  The table I sit at is positioned against the wall, facing the entry. One of the first lessons you learn in prison is to watch your back and your surroundings at all times.

  I have my share of enemies for many different reasons. I am a former ADA, worse than a cop. A cop only arrests you; a prosecutor puts you away, sometimes for life. Others dislike me because I’m educated and privileged in their view, or just because they can. But there are a few who I’m certain have been paid in one capacity or another to make my life a greater hell than it already is. None of them readers however, granting me a few hours to relax my shoulders and my mind. Jack Steel always said to never trust anyone who doesn’t read. I happen to agree with him on this.

  I’m not without friends among the prisoners, the guards, and the staff. I am no longer a license-carrying badge-wearing ADA, but that doesn’t stop me from giving legal advice when I can. Most of it is minor to midlevel legal issues. But I was able to help a sweet grandmother, whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time, get her conviction overturned. My side gig has no doubt helped keep me alive, but I know I’m on borrowed time.

  At five minutes before four, Carol, a woman who killed her abusive husband and son, nods to me before she exits. At three minutes until four, I clean the tables of books and put them away. At 4:01 p.m., Officer Rimes, a pocked-faced fifty-something who likes herself a bit too much, and loves a few inmates even more, stands just inside the entry.

  She smirks when she sees my face. “Nice green and black eye shadow, Steel.”

  I say nothing.

  “What? No clever comeback.”

  I remain silent. It’s her fault my face is a mess, and responding to her taunt would be a waste of oxygen.

  Officer Rimes isn’t the baddest bitch of the bunch, but she isn’t good by any standard. I only trust one guard, Terry Willis, who happens to be a good friend of Detective Rice, who is now Miami-Dade County’s lead homicide detective. Unfortunately, I’m incarcerated in a private for-profit prison where Rice has very little to no influence, and Officer Willis only works on weekends, leaving me with no guard I can trust the majority of the time, which has resulted in more than a few black eyes, cuts, abrasions, and bruised ribs.

  My last altercation was by far the worst. When it was over, a minor concussion, a broken nose, a bruised cheek, and a fractured finger was the least of my worries. I was told, without ceremony, my time is running out. My tormenters didn’t bother to tell me who sent the message. It isn’t necessary, I already know.

  I hold out my wrists, and she cuffs them. Anytime an inmate is transferred from one area to the next, she is cuffed and sometimes leg-chained.

  “Did you remember the key?” I ask.

  She’d conveniently forgotten her key while transferring me to lockup. That’s when I was beaten, when I didn’t have the full range of arm movement or the protection of a guard who wasn’t fucking inmates for favors.

  “There’s that smart mouth of yours. The one that’s going to get you killed one day.”

  I don’t think Rimes is a paid participant in my abuse. She “cooperates” when a cunt she wants is up for exchange. She touched me inappropriately once, and I backhanded her, resulting in three weeks in solitary. Fortune did shine on me a little that day. A few friends witnessed it, and Officer Rimes was cautioned. One more caution, and she’ll be suspended for a month without pay, so I heard. So she’s keeping her distance from me, at least.

  It’s Wednesday. Every Wednesday at 4:15 p.m., I speak with Dr. Harrison until 5:30. He’s a man I’ve come to respect, a shrink who has helped me through the most difficult time in my life.

  I went off the deep end, a little. A combination of external forces and internal trauma colliding before exploding was the cause. The trial, the betrayal of a man I’d given my heart to, loss of weight, and hormonal and metabolic changes triggered a depression, a fog I didn’t want to leave and wouldn’t have without Dr. Harrison’s help.

  Dr. Harrison is one of those true do-gooders. He’d retired from his private practice shortly after my incarceration and began volunteering his time and expertise for a select few inmates. I’m lucky to be one of them. He kept me sane, while another person kept me on course toward redemption.

  Office Rimes opens the door to Dr. Harrison’s outer office. The door to his inner office is open so she removes the cuffs and leaves. I walk in just as he’s ending a call.

  He waves me in without looking. “I’ve got to go. Yes. Everything is on track. Don’t worry,” he says and ends his call.

  He makes notes on his tablet as he points to a chair.

  I sit.

  “Sorry about that,” he says and finally looks up at me. “My God!” He stands. “What the hell happened?”

  I motion for him to sit down.

  He hesitates.

  “Please.”

  He sits and looks me over. “Anything broken?”

  I point to my nose and then hold up my right index finger.

  He sighs. “This isn’t normal… abuse, Morgan.”

  I nod my agreement.

  “That’s it? You’re not going to talk to me about it?”

  “I’ve got it handled,” I lie. I don’t want him involved in my mess. Too many innocent people, people I care about, have been caught up in my mess, making it their mess. No more.

  “Morgan, I—”

  “The medication is helping.”

  He frowns, telling me my change of subject isn’t welcome. “I’m glad. Do you take it every night?”

  “Yes,” I lie, again. He’d prescribed meds to help me sleep. I only dare to take it on weekends, when I have someone watching my sleeping back.

  “If you’re not going to tell me about”—he waves a hand my way—“that mess, tell me what else happened this week.”

  I lean back into the chair. It’s a folding style, but at least it’s padded. “Carol Madden’s public defender agreed to let me help her. She doesn’t belong in here. What they did to her…” I shake my head.

  “I agree, it was brutal, but…”

  “But what?”

  “She needs to be… somewhere.”

  “Because what she did was deemed excessive?”

  “Yes, but she… Damn you, Morgan. You know I can’t talk about a patient.”

  I push him because I’ve enjoyed our debates. Hell, I enjoy any intelligent conversation. But I know even he has limits. “She told me about the sexual abuse. Her views
on sex.”

  His brow rises.

  “What? You don’t believe me?”

  “I—it took me forever to get her to talk about that.”

  I chuckle.

  He frowns.

  “Okay. Not funny. But you must agree that her abuse as a child messed her up.”

  “Your point is valid, Morgan. And I’m not about to debate the law with you. I just think—”

  “Her abuse doesn’t forgive or warrant her actions?”

  “Yes.”

  “I used to think that. I used to think people who hid behind excuses were cowards or losers. I steal because I was neglected. I rape because I was abused. I murder because I have a flaw in my code. Give me a break! I said that to myself and others all the time.”

  “But now?”

  “I don’t feel that way.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  “Okay, I still feel that way, sometimes. But Carol’s not using her abuse as a child as an excuse. Like you said, it’s not even in her file.”

  “So now you’re the doctor.”

  I smile. “No, I’m not the doctor. But I do have some advice for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Get her to talk about her mother.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s all I’m going to say. I might not have legal attorney-client privilege, but I still uphold the principle.”

  He looks more than happy to move the conversation on. “Anything else you want to discuss. Something I can actually comment on or help you with?”

  “I have a confession.”

  “Go on.”

  “I sent the letter a couple of months ago.”

  Both brows rise with this news. “I thought we decided it wasn’t a good idea.”

  “You decided that. Not me. I feel great about it by the way. I needed to do it. I needed…”

  “Revenge.”

  I shake my head. “No. I’m not looking for revenge. I’m looking for redemption. But not from him.”

  “From who then?”

  “From myself. For myself.”

  He looks more than pleased with that answer. “It wasn’t exactly a kind letter, or one of letting things go, so to speak.”

  “I agree.”

  He looks as if he wants to continue on this line, but moves on. “This ‘game’ you talked about it the letter.”