He and his partner got out and rang Richard’s doorbell. A sleepy teenage boy answered.
Officer Hatch pointed the high beam of his flashlight in the boy’s face. “Does Richard Clark live here?”
“Yeah, but he ain’t here.”
“Who are you?” Officer Hatch asked.
“I’m Damion, his nephew.”
“Where’s Richard?” Officer Hatch’s partner asked.
“At the hospital with my auntie.”
“Which hospital?” Officer Hatch asked.
“Rush-Presbyterian.”
Officer Hatch and his partner looked at each other. That was the same hospital where Portia was and where they had picked Anthony up from. “Let’s go,” Officer Hatch said to his partner. They both hurried back to the cruiser.
Officer Hatch got behind the wheel and started the engine. He turned the red and blue warning lights on and sped away from the curb.
* * *
Back at Rush-Presbyterian hospital, Officer Hatch, his partner, and Anthony approached the nurses’ station on the eighth floor. Officer Hatch flashed his badge to a nurse sitting behind the information desk. “We’re here to interview a patient by the name of Tamara Clark.”
The nurse looked at the badge and then pointed to her left. “She’s in room 824.”
The three men walked to room 824 and stood outside the door. Officer Hatch looked at Anthony. “You’re gonna be cool, right?”
Anthony knew what his answer had better be. “Yeah, Deac, I’m cool.” Later Anthony would repent for the lie he’d just told.
Richard and Tamara were asleep when Officer Hatch, his partner, and Anthony walked into Tamara’s hospital room. Richard lay next to Tamara on a rollaway bed when he felt a tap on his leg. He stirred, opened his eyes, and saw two police officers and another man standing next to the rollaway bed. Richard noticed that the officer standing the closest to him had tapped his leg with a nightstick.
“Are you Richard Clark?” Officer Hatch’s partner asked.
His question stirred Tamara. She opened her eyes and saw what was taking place.
Richard sat up on the bed. “Yeah. Why?”
As soon as Richard confirmed who he was, Anthony rushed from behind the officers and slammed his fist into Richard’s nose.
Tamara’s eyes grew wide. She saw the officers pull Richard up from the bed with blood dripping from his nose. “What’s happening?” she asked. Her voice was just above a whisper.
Richard knew why the police were there. As for who Anthony was and why he hit him, Richard had assumed that Anthony was somehow related to Portia.
Officer Hatch’s partner read Richard his rights. When Tamara heard him tell Richard that he was being arrested for the rape and attempted murder of Portia Dunn, her already-weak heart started to skip beats. She became short of breath and she lay in bed panting for air that wasn’t forthcoming.
Officer Hatch handcuffed Richard and turned to lead him out of the hospital room. As they passed Anthony, he took the opportunity to punch Richard in his face again.
“You like to hit women? Huh? Is that what you’re into, punk?”
Blood spewed from Richard’s nose to Tamara’s bed sheets.
Officer Hatch pushed Anthony back. “Tony, man, I told you to be cool.”
Anthony looked at his friend. “This is cool, Deac, I ain’t got warmed up yet.” He slammed his fist into Richard’s face again. More blood spewed onto Tamara’s sheets.
Richard was helpless with his wrists in handcuffs behind his back.
“Tony, that’s enough,” Officer Hatch insisted. “How am I gonna explain this to my sergeant?”
“The suspect resisted arrest,” Officer Hatch’s partner answered. “He gave us a hard time.”
When they dragged Richard out of the hospital room, nurses were rushing in to see why Tamara’s heart monitor was singing. She was having a full-blown heart attack. At the same time Richard was being placed in the back seat of the police car, Tamara’s eyes rolled to the back of her head. Her heartbeat became slower until there were no beats at all. Tamara was dead.
Chapter 8
When Enough Is Enough
It was almost five-thirty a.m. when Ginger returned home from the hospital. She pressed the button on the garage door opener. She saw that Ronald had parked his car in the middle of the two-and-a-half-car garage leaving no room for Ginger to squeeze her car in.
“He’s so darn ignorant.” She sighed.
Ginger was not in the mood to attempt to ask Ronald to move his car over. The request would only escalate into an argument. Ginger had been up all night. She was tired, irritable, and sleepy. Ginger put the gear in reverse and backed down the driveway. She parked on the street and went inside.
It was almost daybreak and Ginger knew that if she lay down, not even the loudest alarm clock would be able to wake her up in time for work. In the bedroom, she saw Ronald in bed snoring loudly. On the nightstand was an empty forty-ounce bottle of beer. On a plate next to it was a sandwich-size Ziploc plastic bag containing a small amount of white powder. Ginger knew it was cocaine.
Lord Jesus, give me strength. I’m so tired of this crap.
Ginger showered, slipped into a nightgown then sat at the kitchen table to grade papers. Fifteen minutes had elapsed when she heard the toilet flush. Ginger froze. Oh, God. She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. She remembered that she didn’t raise the toilet seat after she used it. There was going to be trouble.
Ronald came and stood in the kitchen doorway. “Where you been?” His eyes were bloodshot and his speech was slurred. He was intoxicated and high.
“I was at the hospital with Portia.”
“You’re a lying whore,” he spat. “You were out screwing around.”
Ginger had enough of the abuse. Verbal abuse, mental abuse, and physical abuse. Seeing Portia lie in a hospital bed with a battered face and broken body, clinging to dear life, made Ginger’s own situation a reality. She realized that if she continued to allow Ronald to use her as his personal punching bag, she herself would have to be admitted to a hospital. While driving home Ginger thought about how it could have easily been her, instead of Portia, lying in a hospital bed, beaten and broken, at the hands of a lunatic. Ginger also recalled what Officer Phyore Montgomery had told her:
“You are a beautiful black woman. Learn to love yourself. It hurts me deeply to get called to a house and find one of my black sisters unresponsive from domestic abuse. And I’m gonna tell you something, Miss Brown. Eventually he will kill you. It happens like that all the time.”
Ginger boldly stood and walked to Ronald. “Well, heck, where were you at two this morning when I got the call about Portia? Huh? I called your cell but you didn’t wanna answer. So, if anyone is allowed to point the screwing-around finger, it’s me.” Ginger took it a step further with Ronald. “And what if I was out screwing around? What are you gonna do about it?”
Ronald was lethargic but not incoherent. It took him a long moment to realize what Ginger had just said. He wondered if she had really just challenged him. “What?”
Ginger stood her ground and folded her arms across her chest. She spoke very slowly so that her words would penetrate through the cocaine Ronald snorted. “If I was with a man, there ain’t a darn thing you can do about it.”
A sober Ronald would have had his hands around Ginger’s throat in less than a second. But right then the alcohol and drugs weren’t on his side. He lunged toward Ginger but lost his balance and landed on the kitchen table instead. The table legs gave in to his weight and Ronald crashed to the floor.
Ginger knew that in the state Ronald was in, she could take him. After almost losing Portia at the hands of a man, Ginger vowed to never let Ronald put his hands on her again. It was a brand new day for Ginger and if Ronald touched her, he was in for a new awakening.
Ginger saw Ronald trying to get to his knees and knew that the time to take back her life was right then. The moment had come for
her to defend herself. With all of her might Ginger kicked Ronald in his side. He yelled out and fell back onto the floor.
Ginger rushed to the telephone on the kitchen wall and dialed 911.
“911. What’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.
The two years of dramatic acting classes Ginger took in college were getting ready to pay off. She screamed into the telephone, “Help me, please! He’s tryin’ to kill me!”
Ginger sounded hysterical. The dispatcher tried to calm her down. “Ma’am, please take your time and tell me what’s going on.”
Ronald was trying to get up. Ginger set the cordless phone on the counter, picked up a chair, and broke it across Ronald’s back. He hollered and fell back to the floor. Ginger got back to the telephone and pretended like she was auditioning for a role in a thriller.
“He’s going crazy! Please, please help me!” Ginger let out a shriek that almost busted the dispatcher’s eardrums.
“Okay, ma’am. The police are on their way. Stay on the line.”
Ginger placed the telephone in front of her mouth and screamed, “No, Ron, no. I’m sorry. Please don’t hit me again,” before disconnecting the line. She looked at Ronald lying on the floor mumbling and moaning. She heard him call her the B word. Ginger looked around the kitchen for something to beat the crap out of him with. She remembered the wooden rolling pin in the utensil drawer. Ronald had thrown everything away except the rolling pin. That had to be God working in her favor, Ginger thought.
She got the large wooden rolling pin out of the utensil drawer and hit Ronald across the back of his head as hard as she could. Either he was too drunk to feel it or he was dead because he didn’t move. But that didn’t matter to Ginger. She had seen too many movies when the woman thought her attacker was dead but wasn’t. Ginger was going to make sure Ronald wasn’t getting up. She raised the rolling pin over her head and swung it at thirty miles an hour. She hit Ronald so hard across his back, the rolling pin cracked.
She raised it again and with all of her might, she slammed it onto the left side of his brain. Ginger heard something break. She hoped it was Ronald’s skull. He wasn’t moving. Blood ran out from under Ronald’s head.
* * *
Outside on the front porch police officers were knocking on Ginger’s front door. “Police, open up.”
When the police broke down Ginger’s living room door, they found her in the kitchen straddling Ronald. She was still bashing his head.
An officer pulled his gun from his holster and pointed it at Ginger. He saw what looked like a very small bat in her hand. “Put the bat down!” he ordered.
She looked like a madwoman. Ginger was sweating profusely and her hair was pasted to her face. She was breathing heavy.
The officer walked farther into the kitchen with his gun aimed at Ginger’s head. “I said put the bat down.”
Ginger refused to drop the rolling pin. She wanted to kill Ronald before he got the chance to kill her.
A female officer appeared in the archway to the kitchen. “It’s okay,” she said to her fellow officer. “Lower your weapon. This is a domestic situation.”
When Ginger saw Sergeant Phyore Montgomery she dropped the rolling pin and started crying uncontrollably. Sergeant Montgomery went to Ginger and pulled her off of Ronald. She led Ginger out of the kitchen. “Call an ambulance,” she said to the other officer.
Sergeant Montgomery took Ginger into the dining room, pulled out a chair, and sat Ginger down. She knelt before Ginger. “What happened?”
Ginger was a basket case. Her body shivered. She was covered in Ronald’s blood. “I wasn’t gonna take it anymore. One of us was gonna die.” Ginger stared into Sergeant Montgomery’s eyes. “And it wasn’t gonna be me.”
“Didn’t I tell you this was gonna happen?”
* * *
Two paramedics rushed in and tended to Ronald. “We have a pulse,” Ginger heard one of them say.
Ginger was disappointed. “I didn’t do it right,” she mumbled. “I should’ve killed him. Ron deserved to die.”
“Don’t ever say that again,” Sergeant Montgomery scolded Ginger.
The paramedics loaded Ronald on a stretcher and proceeded to carry him through the living room and out the front door.
Ginger jumped up from her chair and blocked them. “Take him out the back door.”
Both paramedics frowned.
Ronald demanded that Ginger not enter the house through the white, immaculate living room. And she didn’t want him to travel though it either. Ginger didn’t care that he was on a stretcher. “Take his dirty behind out the back way,” she demanded.
Sergeant Montgomery pulled Ginger out of the paramedics’ way. “Let them through.”
The first officer who had arrived on the scene approached Ginger and Sergeant Montgomery. “I need a statement.”
Sergeant Montgomery spoke. “She did what she had to do to get him off of her.”
Ginger looked at her with a surprised expression. She had expected Sergeant Montgomery to arrest her.
“I’ll write the report myself,” Sergeant Montgomery said. She gave Ginger a reassuring smile. “We’re done here.”
* * *
When the police had left, Ginger went into the kitchen. The amount of blood that was on the floor and the splatter on the walls made up the perfect crime scene.
Ginger thought about the miscarriages she suffered at Ronald’s hands. The rapes and beatings flashed before her eyes. But she had taken her life back. No more beatings. No more verbal abuse. And no more miscarriages.
Ginger opened the pantry door and got a pail and mop. After she cleaned Ronald’s blood she showered, then called Celeste’s house.
* * *
Anthony stood at the kitchen counter with his right fist submerged in a bowl of ice cubes. Celeste came into the kitchen from the bathroom with a small box of gauze wrap.
“Tony, I can’t believe you and Deacon Hatch did that to Richard. Have you ever heard the term ‘crooked cop’?”
Anthony didn’t feel the least bit guilty for what he’d done. “Celeste, please. Deacon Hatch and Portia worship at the same church. She’s his sister in Christ.”
Celeste looked at Anthony. “Tell me something, Tony. How did God get the glory out of Deacon Hatch handcuffing a man’s hands behind his back and you beating the crap out of him?”
“Why you gotta bring God into everything? Some things He lets us handle on our own.”
Celeste looked at Anthony as though he were insane. Before she could comment the telephone rang. “Who in the heck is calling at seven in the morning?” Celeste asked.
Anthony answered the phone with an irritated greeting. It was Ginger. She told Anthony that she and Ronald had gotten into a fight and she had beaten him with a rolling pin.
“What the heck is going on? It must’ve been a full moon last night.” Anthony glanced at the knuckles on his left hand. “I got one good fist left. Is he still there?”
Celeste heard Anthony’s question. “Is who still where?” she asked.
“No. He was taken away in an ambulance,” Ginger told Anthony.
“Are you all right? You want us to come over there?”
“Come over where?” Celeste asked.
“No. I’m okay,” Ginger answered.
“Well, call us if you need anything. Anything at all.” Anthony hung up the telephone and told Celeste Ginger’s story.
Celeste couldn’t believe the events that had taken place over the past five hours. “My Lord. Has this been a wild morning or what? Is Ginger okay?”
“Yeah, she killed Ronald.”
Celeste’s eyes grew wide and she shrieked, “What?”
“My bad,” Anthony said. “She should’ve killed him.”
* * *
Later that day Richard was charged for the attempted murder and sexual assault against Portia.
Chapter 9
New Beginnings
Four months later, after mo
rning service, Celeste kissed Anthony good-bye then walked over to where Portia and Ginger were standing in the vestibule of the church.
“Tony has a meeting with Pastor Ricky Harris. Let’s go and hang out at Leona’s. A sista can really go for chicken fettuccini right about now.”
Portia looked at Celeste. She stood rubbing her very small protruding belly at sixteen weeks pregnant. “Look, we ain’t trying to hear what you and Celeste number two have a craving for. Ginger’s got another pressing issue.”
Celeste looked at Ginger. “Like what?”
“Like that foine brotha behind you,” Portia answered. “The tall one in the navy suit. He’s pretending to be in a deep conversation while at the same time he’s keeping one of his eyeballs on our girl here.”
Celeste turned around and saw who Portia was talking about. She saw the man in the navy suit and sure enough his eyes were glued to Ginger while talking with another man. “Hey, isn’t that Joseph Banks? The new guy who reports the news on WGN channel nine every morning?”
For the past month, every morning at six o’clock sharp, Celeste and the citizens of Chicago and the surrounding suburbs, awakened to Joseph’s handsome face dressed in tailor-made suits.
Portia’s mouth dropped open. “OMG, it is him. He looks even better in person.”
Celeste turned back around. She nudged Ginger’s arm. “All right, Ginger, girl. You got a famous man sopping you up in the church. But how can he look at you and hold a conversation with someone else at the same time? You think he’s a li’l cockeyed?”
Portia laughed at Celeste.
“He ain’t cockeyed,” Ginger said, eyeing the copper-colored specimen standing about fifteen feet away from her. “A skilled man can do that.”
Portia nudged Ginger’s shoulder. “So, uh, what’s up with him? You’ve been holding out on us or what?”
“Do you know him personally?” Celeste asked Ginger.
Ginger shook her head from side to side. “Nope. I don’t know him nor am I interested.” The latter portion of Ginger’s statement was untrue. She was very much interested in who Joseph Banks was. No other man had looked at her that way before.
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