Harlem Redux

by Persia Walker

  “And what about his alibi? The roommate who Sweet said was there all night—did Sweet buy him?”

  “He didn’t have to. Charlie Epps. Good ol’ Charlie. He don’t know if Jimmy was there all night ‘cause he wasn’t there himself. He spent the night having fun with a lady friend. Naturally, he didn’t want the missus to find out.”

  “So Sweet was supposed to be his alibi?”

  She laughed. “He didn’t know he was going to be Jimmy’s alibi, too.”

  “Clever,” was all David said.

  Her smiled faded. “I’ll tell you who was clever—I was.” She leaned forward, her small hands curled into fists. “Jimmy came back here, did what he had to do, and drove back to Jersey. It went down fine. Then Annie found your address. As soon as I knew you were coming back, I decided to go to work on you. Jimmy didn’t like it. But somebody had to keep an eye on you.” Her tone became syrupy sweet. “I knew you’d trust me.”

  His temples throbbed painfully. How many times had she misled him? In how many ways had she masked her lies? She’d been so fearful when he shared his suspicions against Sweet and so relieved when he found no evidence to support them. He recalled how she denied the importance of her history with Sweet; praised Sweet as a husband; dismissed Lilian’s pregnancy as imagined; and tried to dissuade him from seeking Gem––all because she herself had ordered Gem’s death.

  He listened, outwardly calm, as she told him that at the beginning, she had simply wanted to keep him in line—and get him to leave Harlem as soon as possible. She had pressed him to accept Lilian’s death as suicide. But then she had seen that he was determined to dig deeper, and that had frightened her. Horrified at his discovery of Lilian’s diary, she’d tried every argument to dissuade him from taking on Sweet. And when that didn’t work, she’d had to do some quick thinking.

  “I decided to tell you what you wanted to hear.”

  “And when you offered me your loving—”

  “It was a little insurance. I had to get you to trust me again. But yes, I wanted you.” She leaned toward him. “I’m not as terrible as I sound. Part of me, the part that was scared of being found out, couldn’t wait for you to leave Harlem. The other part, the part that still loved you, ached at the thought of it. Every time you came by, I thought it might be the last time I’d ever see you.

  “When you showed up, asking about Isabella, I was shocked. And then when you proposed .. .” She shook her head. “I just couldn’t believe it. It looked like the Lord was finally gonna answer my prayers. Everything I ever wanted was right there for the taking. I could have it all. Not just the house, but the McKay name. I was so happy ... and then, I remembered Sweet.”

  She felt, she said, as though she were walking a tightrope. On the one hand, she hoped desperately that he would never uncover what Sweet had done, for that would mean her own unmasking; on the other, she hoped that he would get rid of Sweet for her, so she could fulfill her dream of living with him on Strivers’ Row. She only killed Sweet, she said, because Sweet forced her to.

  “Letting me go to you was Jimmy’s biggest mistake. He never guessed that I’d fall in love with you again.”

  “Rachel ... I don’t think you have the faintest idea what love means.”

  Was that pain in her eyes? She looked stung. “Don’t judge me. Your family put me through hell. I know what you think of me. I can see it in your eyes. You think I’d use anyone and anything to get my way. You see something wrong with that and maybe you’re right. But your family ain’t no better. That pile of money you sitting on, your daddy didn’t get it by doing good deeds. Anybody and everybody’ll tell you that. Maybe that’s why he was so fixed on making you into some kind of social hero.”

  “My father never plotted to kill—”

  “He put people out on the street. In the middle of winter, in ice and snow. Whole families, children and old people. When they couldn’t pay the rent, he’d take the best of their furniture, sell it and trash the rest. Now don’t act like you don’t know about that.”

  Yes, he did know about his father’s cruelty. Thank God, he also knew about Lila’s kindness. She’d made it her business to quietly find new homes for every single family Augustus evicted. Everyone in the neighborhood knew about it; everyone but Augustus.

  “Perhaps you have a point,” he said firmly, “but we were talking about you.”

  “Fine. I did what I had to do to survive. But I didn’t use you, David. I gave you what you wanted. A way to ease your conscience. You felt guilty about Isabella. But it wasn’t me making you feel guilty. That was you. It wasn’t even me who told you about Isabella in the first place. That was Annie—”

  “You knew she’d eventually tell me—”

  “It wasn’t her place. Me, I would’ve never said nothing. I got too much pride for that. When you asked me to marry you, I even turned you down. I gave you a chance to back out. Whatever else you can say about me, you can’t say I used you and you can’t say I used my baby’s memory to get you.”

  And that, David realized, was, to a certain degree, the truth.

  The jury deliberated for four hours––One hour for every year I was away, David mused––and returned its verdict mid-afternoon. As the twelve men filed in and sat down, David noticed that they avoided looking his way. Bad sign. His chest tightened. Nevin touched him on the elbow and they rose to hear the decision.

  “In the death of Jameson Sweet, we, the jury, find the defendant, David McKay, guilty of murder in the second degree.”

  Guilty.

  The word echoed within him. It meant the death penalty.

  He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Mayhem exploded behind him. He heard cheers and whistles, catcalls and boos. Amid the uproar, he barely heard Nevin’s whispered promise: “I’ll get it reversed on appeal.” There was the bang of Richter’s gavel and a stern demand for quiet. The order was ignored. Richter banged his gavel again and again. David forced himself to take a deep breath and straightened up. He glanced behind him and saw that a fistfight had broken out in one corner of the room. Guards pulled the men apart. Richter was furious. He declared a twenty-four-hour cooling-off period and said he would postpone sentencing until the next day.

  David listened with half an ear as the judge ordered his return to the Tombs. Annie, Nella, and Snyder had rushed to his side. Nella’s sapphire eyes glittered with what looked suspiciously like tears. Snyder squeezed him by the shoulders. Toby’s mother stood by her chair, afraid to approach. Roy shook his head sadly, his eyes watery.

  David felt numb. All around him was pandemonium. People wagged their tongues and slapped hands as if settling bets. Others looked sadly at David and shook their heads. Reporters pushed and shoved and finally climbed over one another in a mad dash to file updates.

  David caught Canfield’s eye. The aristocratic lawyer sat stock-still, his back ramrod straight, his disapproving face as hard as chiseled stone. He rose and approached David. Nella and Snyder dropped back. Canfield looked David in the eye.

  “I never thought I’d rejoice to see twelve white men put one black man behind bars. But men like you shame us all.” His rigid demeanor momentarily softened. “Thank God your father isn’t here to see this.”

  David’s bit back a response. Granting a glance to the little group at David’s side, Canfield gave a curt bow, clicked his polished heels, and turned away. David watched him blend into the crowd and disappear.

  Then he saw Rachel. There, in a corner, by the door. Their eyes locked. He saw her relief at the verdict and he remembered her words, If you’re waiting to hear me say I’m sorry, you’ll be waiting a long, long time. He felt another spurt of anger and reminded himself to be patient. Her time was coming. And soon. He would make sure of it. He forced himself to give her a courteous nod. She responded with a smug, feline smile and blew him a kiss, then turned and sashayed out the door.

  Nevin gave David a grim pat on the back.

  David turned to him and said. “We have t
o talk.”

  Nevin raised an eyebrow and said, “Yes, I think we’d better.”

  Nevin told David he had already begun work on an appeal. He would soon have it ready to lay on Richter’s desk. He was claiming several points of error in the trial. He was maintaining that the jury was biased against David from the beginning. At least two of the jurors had been heard to make racist remarks. A juror named Jack Dawson had reportedly said, “[It] does my heart good to see a nigger go down. If they choose me for the jury, ain’t no way I’m gonna let that nigger go.” A number of people had overheard a second juror, “Sling” Monahan, say it was a shame the state was “gonna waste ‘lectricity frying a spade. Just string him up and get it done with.”

  Nevin was also contending that the virulent news coverage and raucous crowds gathered outside the courthouse had poisoned the atmosphere and intimidated the jury, excluding any possibility of a fair trial. He maintained that Nyman’s gossipy testimony about David’s alleged sexual adventures should have been excluded. The testimony was inflammatory and unsupported, he said.

  And he was concluding his appeal with the refrain that the prosecution’s evidence as a whole was weak, circumstantial, and “of questionable taste.”

  Nevin explained all this the moment he, David and Annie were back at the Tombs. Then he said, “But that’s not why we’re sitting here, is it?”

  “No,” David said.

  Nevin looked tired and worried. “It was Rachel, wasn’t it?”

  “You caught Schmuck’s comment.”

  “Of course.” He studied his client. “Was that your first inkling? Or have you suspected her all along?”

  “Not all along, no, but … at one point, a while back, I …” David wiped his face with his hand. “Nevin, sit down. This is going to take a while.”

  Nevin exchanged a look with Annie. She frowned, said to David, “You mean you didn’t tell him?”

  “Tell me what?” Nevin said with impatience.

  “About the druggist report,” David said.

  “The what?” Nevin’s voice went up a notch.

  David hesitated.

  “Go on,” Annie said. “Say something or I will.”

  David returned her look, but began.

  Nevin listened grimly until David was done, and then asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

  “Yes,” Annie said. “That’s what I wanna know, too. Him knowing all that, it coulda helped him set you free.”

  David shook his head. “The report wouldn’t have been enough. Introducing it as evidence might’ve even done more harm than good. It doesn’t prove that Rachel did it. It doesn’t even prove that Sweet got the drugs from her. Baker would’ve argued that Sweet could’ve gotten the drugs anywhere. He might’ve even argued that Lilian drugged herself. What he definitely would’ve argued is that my believing that Sweet drugged her proved that I had a grudge against him, that I felt I had reason to kill him.”

  Annie looked to Nevin.

  He reflected, then reluctantly agreed. “I hate to say it, but David’s right. Still,” he sighed. “I wished you’d said something. You got any more secrets?”

  “No,” David shook his head.

  Annie pressed her lips together unhappily. She looked from one man to the other. “Well, what are we going to do? I hope you two ain’t planning to just sit back and let her get away with it.”

  “No, I have a plan,” David said.

  “Oh?” Nevin raised an eyebrow. “Exactly what did you have in mind?”

  Annie leaned forward. “I want to hear this.”

  In baring her embittered soul, Rachel had shared so much with him, so many ugly details. He’d spent hours going over her words, hearing her voice repeating them again and again. Finally, he’d found it, the one detail that he could hang her by.

  Now, the time had come for him to share it –– and to share how to use it.

  39. The New Mistress of the House

  The next morning, Annie walked into her kitchen and found Rachel going through the cupboards. Annie halted in midstride. Her mouth sagged open. Rachel turned, saw Annie, and put her hands on her hips.

  “This kitchen is a mess. It has to be redone.”

  “‘Scuse me?”

  “This kitchen,” repeated Rachel bitingly, “is a mess. I’ll show you how I want it—”

  “But I’ve got my kitchen just the way it should be.”

  “This is not your kitchen. It’s my house and my kitchen.”

  Now, Annie put her hands on her hips, too. “Look here, I done run this kitchen for years. I cooked your meals here when you was just a young visitor. And I did it just fine—”

  “Well, I’m not a visitor anymore. I’m the mistress of this house and I want changes.”

  “But Miss Rachel, Mr. David don’t like it when someone else is in this kitchen—”

  “Mr. David isn’t here. He’s gone and he’s not coming back. This is the beginning of a new day—my day—and you’ll do what I say.”

  Annie crossed her arms across her chest. Her dark eyes swept over Rachel.

  “All right, I’ll take my orders from you. But first, tell me one thing.”

  Rachel waited.

  “How could you say you loved him?”

  Rachel’s eyes widened. Her hand flashed out to slap Annie, but Annie caught Rachel’s arm in midair. Her strong, callused hands closed around Rachel’s bony wrist and forced it down. Rachel tried to yank herself free, but Annie held tight.

  “Miss Rachel, I done watched over Mr. David since his mother died, so I got the right to ask a mother’s question. One mo’ time: How could you say you loved him?”

  Annie’s eyes were hard. Rachel stared back at her, defiant, but she couldn’t hold out against the old woman’s strength. Rachel’s gaze faltered. Her angry pride buckled and a shadow of shame flitted across her face. She looked down, struck silent, and Annie, with a look of contempt and pity, released her. Rubbing her wrist, Rachel stumbled to the doorway. She halted on the threshold and turned. Her face was drawn and haunted; her voice hoarse.

  “You ask a mother’s question; I’ll give you a mother’s answer. I used to love David. But that love is dead and gone. I left it buried with a baby in a D.C. graveyard.”

  Annie put a hand to her chest, but after a moment took it away. Rachel had a right to her pain, but she’d been wrong to let her disappointment and grief embitter and twist her. She’d been wrong to do things that any sane person would have a hard time forgiving.

  Rachel stalked out and Annie wondered if that would be the end of it—for now––but minutes later, she heard disquieting sounds overhead, sounds of drawers being opened and slammed shut.

  “Lord, help us,” Annie whispered. “What’s she up to now?”

  She went upstairs as fast as her rheumatoid legs could carry her and found Rachel in David’s bedroom. Rachel was hastily packing her few things. Annie stood just in the doorway, bewildered. What was going on? Was Rachel actually moving out? For a moment, Annie felt a glimmer of hope.

  Then Rachel looked up. “You can stop thinking what you’re thinking, ‘cause I’m not going nowhere. I’m taking over the master bedroom.”

  “But Mr. David don’t want nobody in there.”

  Rachel slammed the lid of her second suitcase shut. “Old woman, you better learn to listen to me.” She pointed to her two bags. “Now, take this stuff for me.”

  Annie took a step back. “No, ma’am. You wanna move in there, you gotta do it by yourself.”

  Seething, Rachel grabbed her bags and dragged them out of the room. Annie followed her down the hall to Lilian’s old room. She watched Rachel from the threshold. “Mr. David—”

  Rachel spun around. Fury contorted her pretty face. “Get out!” She shoved Annie out of the room and slammed the door. Standing in the corridor, Annie heard the sound of things smashing and thumping.

  She took a deep breath and cracked open the door.

  Rachel stood i
n the middle of the room, her narrow chest heaving. Her gaze fell on Lilian’s beautiful collection on brushes on the dressing table. She crossed the room and raked them all into a trash can. In a fit, she went through the room, tearing down every sign of Lilian, every photo, perfume bottle, book—she tossed them all to the floor.

  And when she was done, she stood in the middle of that empty, sanitized room, looking lost and alone. Then she sank to the floor and wept.

  40. A Way Must Be Found

  David welcomed his new visitor with polite words that belied their antagonistic past. “I’m sure you never expected to find yourself here. Thank you for coming.”

  Byron Canfield inclined his head. “I can’t imagine what you would have to say to me—not unless it’s to finally clear your conscience with a full confession.”

  “Actually, that’s sort of what I had in mind. A telling of truths.”

  Now Canfield was interested. “Well, then. Let’s hear it.”

  And so David told him. Everything. From the who to the what, the why, and how of it, he told it all. From Gem’s duplicity to Rachel’s conspiracy and Sweet’s final fall.

  To his credit, Canfield listened. He listened without interruption, but by the time David was done, Canfield’s face was dark with rage.

  “You,” he sputtered. “I’ve never known such a liar! Jameson Sweet never would’ve—”

  “He would and he did.”

  “You have no proof, no real proof. It’s all circumstantial.”

  “So was all the proof against me.”

  Canfield’s nostrils flared. “You’re here because you’re guilty.”

  “No, I’m here because I did something that our society fears more than murder. And we both know it.”

  Canfield threw his arms up. “I’m not here to argue with you.”

  “No, you’re here, because deep down, you sense that something’s wrong, too.”