Don't Ask My Neighbor Page 8

  “You’re surprised?”

  She scowled.

  I’ve heard many careless whispers around here that had been silenced since Jelani and I began our courtship. Nothing they said prevented the inevitable. It was chit-chatter that I easily dismissed. I kept my eyes on the one prize that had eluded the hungry women who salivated at his mere presence.

  “Who are you?” I asked, looking at her as if the woman standing before me had lost her damned mind. Clearly she had.

  “Felicia Cassandra Hailey,” she responded with a smirk. “But you already knew that.”

  For the first time, Felicia didn’t appear as drab as her apparel. Her tweed faux-leather trim blazer appeared as if she had finally found something that fits. Her black pencil skirt stopped just above her knees. She didn’t look like she bought one and got two free. I guess she’s what you would call top heavy, since the black patent flax pumps gave her lift and accentuated the curves in her legs.

  “I mean. Are you like those other women around here, disappointed because they wrote off the eligible Mr. Jelani Graybourne as someone they can’t have? Does it piss you off that I, out of nowhere, now have this man in the palm of my hands and between my legs, too focused on the sweet ride to even notice you bitches around here? I may not have written the book on love, Felicia, but I’ll have to commend myself for knowing how to fuck my way to his heart.”

  “Can you even hear yourself?”

  “He has standards,” I continued, dismissing her question as magniloquence.

  “And is that what you call yourself, standards?” she asked, folding her arms.

  She observed me from the floor up and shook her head.

  “Don’t feel bad, Felicia. It’s not your fault he doesn’t give his attention to a woman who walks with her head looking for her reflection in raindrops and puddles. If that were the case, you, my dear, would be the one he takes to ecstasy, going to places unknown without any directions from you. But it isn’t you, is it? And when you leave here, tonight you’ll still be sleeping and waking alone. That’s your life.”

  She didn’t retreat from my closeness, and she laughed.

  “So you think you’ve arrived because you’ve managed to snag the elusive J.B.? These women you think he’s dismissed so easily, it wasn’t because they did nothing to him. They just didn’t have the things he would eventually fall in love with. But what are you going to do when you can no longer keep up this game of charades?”

  With her last spoken word, there was a knock at the door.

  “Ladies,” Jelani interrupted.

  He looked in my direction and smiled, oblivious to the tension that existed between Felicia and me. He held his black leather-bound notebook in his right hand, the one he’s carried to every meeting. He looked at his watch.

  “You ladies will be on time for the meeting, right?” he asked and winked.

  Felicia kept her back toward him. I could only imagine her thoughts at the sound of his voice. She kept her eyes fixed in my direction, and allowed me to respond for both of us.

  “We will be.”

  “Oh, by the way, congratulations on your award, Attorney Wells,” Jelani added, grabbing the doorjamb and pulling himself back into view.

  I don’t know why he insisted on being so formal around these non-essentials. Then he had to settle for a simple “thank you”, but I would be giving him a more appropriate gratitude later.

  After Jelani disappeared again, Felicia began another attempt to leave my office. This time she stopped at the door on her own accord. She turned. Her penetrating look darted through me.

  “Tell me this, Samantha. How did you do it?”

  I looked at her through perplexed eyes. I wasn’t sure which situation she was referring to with her question, so I silently pleaded the fifth. I wondered if she knew I was good at getting rid of people who stood in my way of getting what I wanted. I would be more than willing to lay out my past for her, but I didn’t want to run late for a very important meeting. So far, everything was working out according to plan. I’d executed the perfect scheme to get rid of Lyle Lucas, made partner in less than five years, and was poised to marry Jelani Graybourne. I don’t know what Felicia had cooking behind those unflattering glasses in that small brain of hers, but if she thought she would be the reason why I won’t become Mrs. Jelani Brennon Graybourne, she had another think coming.

  Eleven

  ______

  Blind Sided

  Ryle

  “MR. LUCAS, PLEASE CALL YOUR NEXT witness,” Judge Kessens ordered.

  I stood at the desk and waited for the jury’s reaction to Craig Wilson’s testimony to subside.

  Judge Wisdom Kessens appeared lethargic, as if a case of the itis crept in and took up residency in the merlot-colored high back leather chair next to him. He sat looking displeased, with his head tilted slightly to the left. He rested the side of his face on the back on his left hand, and stared at me over the top of his spectacles. In his defense, he had been in that chair all day, shifting from time to time, breaking only for lunch and a fifteen-minute recess. But with his forty-five years wearing that black robe and banging his gavel, he should be accustomed to these proceedings.

  “Defense has no other witnesses, Your Honor,” I replied, feeling energetic and confident in my client’s testimony.

  “So, does the defense rest?” he asked, sounding perturbed.

  I sat and looked at Samantha before responding to the Judge’s simple question. I picked up the pencil I’d left on the binder before firing off my last set of questions to my client and made a note. I glanced in the jury’s direction, gauging my performance by the looks on their faces, though some had mastered the ability to remain stoic throughout this three-week ordeal; cause that’s exactly what it had been.

  “Defense rests, Your Honor,” I said, my response wrapped in confidence.

  “Good.”

  Judge Kessens acted as if I had put on a circus in the courtroom and he was finally tired of my shenanigans. If what I’d done was a circus, I had put on a damn good show. I still had my closing argument, one final opportunity to lay out all the facts on my client’s behalf. What happens once the jury got the case was out of my control.

  “Mr. Atkins,” Judge Kessens called out.

  Prosecutor Arlen Atkins leaned forward and rested his elbows on top of the bench. He suddenly looked as if he had received a burst of energy in my decision to rest my case.

  “I have no questions for Mr. Wilson, Your Honor, but I would like to call a rebuttal witness,” the Prosecutor said with excitement. He was arguing his first case. He was doing so with a ruthless bravado, as if he’d been on that stage before. He’d listened keenly during my opening argument, and seemed to memorize every response from the witnesses. I don’t know where his firm had been hiding him, but he had been well groomed and ready for action.

  He stood, removed his jacket, and placed it on the back of his chair. He rolled his left sleeve, and then his right. He then removed his watch from his right hand and placed it lightly on the desk. He tapped his pencil slightly on his yellow writing pad.

  “Mr. Atkins,” Judge Kessens yelled again, interrupting the prosecutor’s rhythmic drumbeat.

  “I’m going to assume I don’t have to remind you of the purpose of…” Judge Kessens began his warning.

  “No, you don’t,” the prosecutor interrupted.

  The attorney held his head down and then turned to look at me. He smiled. Before then, I hadn’t paid much attention to Prosecutor Atkins’s flamboyance, his tailored suit, or his power tie that didn’t give him much power.

  “I’d like to call Ryle Lucas.”

  Prosecutor Atkins glared in my direction. I sat up and looked around, hoping to see my namesake making his way down the aisle and to the witness stand. No one moved. The double doors to Courtroom 3 hadn’t swung open, and there wasn’t some star witness with a handful of research ready to poke holes in my client’s testimony. I turned, looked at S
amantha and shrugged my shoulders. She remained indifferent.

  “The prosecution calls Mr. Ryle Mitchell Lucas,” the D.A. repeated, his volume turned up just a notch.

  I listened in doubt as my name rolled from his tongue with emphasis. I wanted to move, but my legs wouldn’t take me where I was ordered to go. Eventually, I walked in a cloud of confusion, taking what seemed to be an everlasting journey. I felt lost in the middle of nowhere.

  “Wait,” Priscilla interrupted.

  She listened quietly. She wasn’t screaming out her usual demands, rushing me to get to the point.

  “How the hell did your name end up on the witness list as a rebuttal witness for the prosecuting attorney?”

  Priscilla turned her entire body toward me. The morning sun heightened the flush on her face.

  “That’s a very good question; one I didn’t have the answer to at the time.”

  We stopped at the corner of First and New York Avenues in Northwest D.C. Ahead of us, traffic crept by slowly, making its way through the construction and over the New York Avenue Bridge, heading toward highway 295 and route 50. This was the middle of the morning rush hour. It seemed there was never a reprieve from this madness. In the evening you were met with the same insanity, and there were never any real explanation to this occurrence. Even the reconstructions that were supposed to ease traffic added to the congestion.

  A cold morning wind whispered at the windows. The clock on the dash of my Camero confirmed the fifty degrees I stepped out into a little over ten minutes earlier. It was 10:05 a.m., and everything about this morning’s traffic all but confirmed my fear of a late arrival to meet my client.

  After my oath, I sat and adjusted the microphone. I looked at the judge, wishing he could provide some explanation to the D.A.’s scheme, but even he appeared clueless. He sat reclined in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. From his position, he stared down at Mr. Atkins, and with his gaze, permitted him to proceed.

  “Mr. Lyle, what is your relationship with Mr. Craig Wilson?” the D.A. began.

  He postured in the center of the floor between the judge’s bench and his desk. He appeared even more confident, and flashed a cynical smile after his question.

  “Mr. Atkins, my relationship with Mr. Wilson was established at the beginning of these proceedings over two weeks ago. But just in case you’ve forgotten, Mr. Wilson is my client.”

  He smiled again.

  “And before these proceedings, as you say, before you were acquired as his attorney, you’ve never had any previous contact with Mr. Wilson?” he asked, turning finally to look at my client, who looked on with questioning eyes. He avoided eye contact with Mr. Atkins.

  “No, Mr. Atkins. Do you have a point you’ll eventually get to?”

  “So you say you’ve NEVER met this man before?” he asked, shaking his head as if I couldn’t understand his words, and pointing behind him at my client.

  He began his walk toward his desk. When he got close, he reached for a folded piece of white paper from his associate attorney who, for most of the trial, had left the bulk of the talking to Mr. Atkins. Not even a cough came from the associate’s mouth. I looked at Samantha, but got no reaction from her. Though she kept her focus in my direction, it was obvious she looked right through me. I wished I could read her thoughts. I waited for her to object, or ask for permission to consult, but she did nothing to interrupt the prosecutor’s onslaught. Mr. Atkins began his slow approach to the witness stand, unfolding the paper. He stopped in his advance, studying whatever inscription the paper contained. He folded the paper and placed it in his pocket.

  “Mr. Lucas,” he said, looking up. “Nothing about Mr. Wilson looks familiar to you?”

  “I…”

  “Your Honor, earlier in the trial, I asked the defendant if he’s ever killed anyone. He responded, and I quote, ‘I’ve never killed anyone in my life’. I asked your client, Mr. Lucas, if he was sure that in his thirty-plus years on this earth he’s never killed anyone. You, Your Honor, even gave the defendant an opportunity to consult with his attorney, and the defendant responded ‘I don’t need to consult. I’ve never killed anyone in my life.’”

  I was puzzled.

  “Mr. Lucas, does the name Craig Larkin ring a bell?”

  I sat in silence. I tried to ignore every urge to look at my client, but I was sure he had the same look of wonder on his face, too.

  "Is it coming back to you now, Mr. Lucas?” Mr. Atkins spoke with a smirk. “What about Jalisa Larkin? No?”

  I leaned back in my chair. The answers Mr. Atkins required, I couldn’t bring myself to give him. The fragmented scenes were being piece together in my mind. Pieces of a puzzle I’d long forgotten were coming together to create a big picture I had no problem forgetting.

  “Isn’t it true that your client is, indeed, a murderer? Take a good look at your client, Mr. Lucas. That man,” he said, pointing in Craig Wilson’s direction. “That man is Mr. Craig Larkin. You assisted that man in committing a crime. You, Mr. Lucas, aided in the killing of one Mr. Terry Sparrow after you and Mr. Larkin walked in on a rape in progress. Who was being raped, you ask? Good question. The rape victim was Mr. Larkin’s sister, Jalisa Larkin. You, Mr. Lucas, are knowingly defending a man who killed, not once, but twice.”

  The prosecutor walked to the judge’s desk and handed him the piece of paper he’d folded and placed in his pocket.

  “Mr. Lucas does recognize his client as his childhood friend, Your Honor,” the D.A. said, placing one hand in his pocket. “Mr. Lucas encouraged his client to commit perjury, and he’s obviously forgotten the oath he took here or at the association.”

  Mr. Atkins was right. It all came back to me, but it did so the moment I met Craig. Besides being a little taller, and having a darker complexion, thanks to the Texas sun, he hadn’t changed much. He still spoke with the same lisp I used to tease him about.

  “So, to answer your question, Priscilla. I ended up being called to the witness stand by the D.A. because Samantha Wells made sure I got there. She had complete access to Craig Wilson, even without me present. My guess is she made it clear that Craig needed to tell her anything he thought would eventually come up and jeopardize his case. She received that information, purposely kept it from me—except that I already knew—and somehow managed to convince Parker Chandler to play along with her plan to deceive me. She busied herself making backdoor deals with Attorney Atkins, and when he realized I had the case locked, he pulled out that weapon.”

  I wasn’t standing in the way of Samantha’s claim to J.B. Graybourne—at least I didn’t think so—but she saw me as an obstruction, not only to him, but also to her ascension to partnership and a corner office.

  “Why did you take the case when you realized who Craig Wilson was?”

  “That is precisely why. I was defending Craig Wilson. He was never tried nor convicted for what he did as a kid. I wouldn’t have put myself in jeopardy of a mistrial had I known what Samantha’s plans were. She blamed her revelation on her conscience; she had to tell. But what she did was found her opportunity to destroy me, and that’s exactly what she did. I played right into her hands.”

  Priscilla did not respond.

  I turned the car down Potomac Avenue, drove past the Congressional Cemetery on my right, and headed into the parking lot of the Correctional Treatment Facility. After parking the car, Priscilla sat soundless. She looked nervously at her hands, and then looked over at me. She looked as if she was considering asking me a question, but the correct phrasing hadn’t yet come to mind.

  “Ok, what is the burning question you have brewing in your mind?” I asked, gearing the car into park.

  “Did you kill Terry Sparrow?”

  There was no hesitation in her inquiry. She was asking me the one question I had avoided answering since I was thirteen years old, the same question I wished Samantha had the courage to ask.

  Twelve

  ________

  …Again On My Own


  Samantha

  “SO, I’M GOING TO WALK YOU through this one more time, even though something tells me as soon as that phone rings, you’re going to forget everything we’ve talked about over the last week. Even though you’re acting like it’s the thing you least expect, you know he’s going to call, like he does every year around this time.”

  I sat in my mother’s house like we always did on her birthday, after my father died, when it was just she and I. My younger sister, Sabrina, sat next to her, mimicking the brushstrokes my mother perfected in the vanity mirror. Joyce had gotten so good at being treated badly that she allowed the good Dr. Garrett to come into her life and do just the same.

  “And what are you going to do?”

  “Ignore him,” she answered, staring at herself in the mirror. “And if he leaves you another long-ass message about how he can’t help but think about how you and him used to celebrate, what are you going to do?”

  “Erase it without even listening to his first lying word.” “’Cause what is he going to do?”

  “Break my heart, disappoint me, ‘cause that’s all he knows. It’s the only book he’s ever read; how to fuck me over every chance he gets,” Joyce said, imagining the laundry list of fuckery she been through with him.

  “Ok. I think you’re ready. Breathe.”

  I left the room and came back with a small birthday cake for my mother. It was her favorite: red velvet with vanilla icing.

  “Happy birthday, Mother,” I said and then kissed her on her right cheek. Sabrina repeated and followed my gesture, kissing her on the left side of her face.

  "Awww, thank you Sam," she said, her voice beaming with excitement. “You, too, baby,” she said, turning to Sabrina. "You're welcome. Aren't you going to make a wish?"

  "I wish..."

  "No," I interrupted. "You're supposed to close your eyes and say it to yourself."