When Malcolm eased his lips from her, a shudder passed through Naomi. She’d genuinely been kissed.
Chapter eleven
Franklin Women’s Facility
Hartwell, Georgia
The walls were dull and colorless. Tareef could tell at one point there was a color, maybe gray, but the intensity of the color had long since faded. The only thing in the room other than him was a steel table with handcuff hooks on one side while he sat on the other and two chairs, one he already occupied. It’s not that Tareef had never sat in an interview room before, waiting on a client to arrive. He had more times than he could count. Yet, this time was different. There was something about this case that was different. He’d read all the files, watched all the courtroom videos, read every newspaper article, and blog post about it. And for some attorney’s that would be enough. But it wasn’t for Tareef. He wanted to know for himself what he was dealing with. And not just because this case would be precedent setting. It was bigger than that, and Tareef knew it.
Despite how many times he’d been inside a jail or a prison, Tareef could never get accustomed to the clank of the bars and the thud of the locks as they opened and closed, controlling movement within the cinder block walls. The sound was a dead sound, a dead thud that echoed against the colorless walls. When the bars opened and closed this time, his client walked in.
Her hands were handcuffed and connected by a rusty heavy chain that connected the cuffs on her ankles. The two guards that escorted her in remained in close proximity as they sat Jennifer Whitman down at the table, careless about how hard they pushed her into the chair. But she didn’t respond. She hadn’t even lifted her head. It was cast down. The only thing Tareef could see clearly was the top of her bowed head; the cornrows of her hair no longer neat, the parts on her scalp obliterated by lack of care. The guards didn’t acknowledge Tareef until his client’s hands were locked to the handcuff hooks on the table, securing Jennifer even more than she was already secured.
“You can leave us,” Tareef said, directing his comments towards the guards who assumed their position on either side of the inmate.
The two guards regarded the attorney and then looked at each other. Their reluctant steps indicated they weren’t pleased with being asked to leave, but they did. Attorney-client privilege even applied to undeserving murderers. That’s how they saw inmate Jennifer Whitman. That’s how a lot of people saw her except for Tareef. He wouldn’t cast judgment without first giving her an opportunity to share her story with him. He’d learned a lot about her, but it was from an outside entity’s point of view. Tareef wanted to know directly from the person impacted the most by this situation.
“Mrs. Whitman,” he addressed.
Tareef reached up and smoothed his tie as he waited for her to respond. But she didn’t. Mrs. Whitman didn’t move a muscle. The only way he could tell that she was alive was the slight lift and lowering of her slumped over body as she breathed. But Tareef wouldn’t be dissuaded, not that easily.
“Mrs. Whitman, My name is Tareef Ali. I’m your attorney assigned through the Legal Defense Fund.”
There was still no response. She didn’t bother to look up.
Tareef pressed forward, hoping to connect with her in some way.
“The defense fund has decided to champion your case because there are questions as to whether you were properly represented during your trial and whether the sentence you received was fair. Do you understand?”
“I’m not dumb,” she whispered. Her words were barely audible, but they were clear. Tareef was glad for any response at all. He continued.
“Mrs. Whitman,” Tareef said but was quickly interrupted.
“Don’t call me that.” It was almost a hiss in the way she cut him off.
“What would you prefer I call you,” Tareef asked, hearing the clarity in her tone.
“Whitman was his name, something he gave me I no longer want to be associated with,” Jennifer explained. “Call me Jennifer, or Ms. Williams, but never Mrs. Whitman, again.”
“Understood,” Tareef agreed. “Ms. Williams, clemency has never been granted in the state of Georgia in a case like yours. We want that for you, clemency, not another trial, not a reduction of sentence but a full pardon and your freedom. Is that something you want as well?”
“It sounds like you’re the one that’s dumb.” Jennifer’s effect was as flat as it had ever been.
Tareef’s brow furrowed, and his head took on a slight tilt.
“Why would you suggest that?” Tareef was genuinely curious to hear her thoughts, Jennifer’s assessment.
“It’s not a suggestion, Mr. Ali,” Jennifer replied, much more firmly than her previous comments. Slowly, her eyes raised until they met Tareef’s. “If you think that a pardon is possible, that clemency is possible, that my freedom is possible, then you’re the one that’s not so bright.”
“Again, I ask, why do you think those ideas are so farfetched?”
“Did you read my case, Mr. Ali?” There was challenge in her voice but not disrespectfully, although Jennifer had been groomed by her husband that any backtalk, especially to him, was disrespectful.
“I did,” Tareef replied.
“Did you skip over the part that I killed my husband?”
“No, Ms. Williams, that’s why we’re here.”
“Did you miss the part that my now-dead husband was White?” Her brows knocked together, and her eyes tightened as she raised the question.
“I took note of it,” Tareef answered.
“Well, then I know it’s more than you being dumb,” Jennifer continued. “It also means you’re blind.”
He liked her; Tareef really did. But he didn’t smile, reflecting his sentiment. Jennifer might find it curious or be insulted by it. Instead, Tareef tried to engage her further.
“Ms. Williams, please start from the beginning,” he encouraged. “Treat me as you suggested like I’m blind and dumb.”
She sighed. It was a heavy sigh like the slump of her shoulders was a result of the weight she carried, not just on her shoulders but on her soul.
“Listen, I’ve done this before, the first time I came up for parole,” Jennifer began. “They sat some public defender down in front of me who had more cases than he could manage. He was overworked and underwhelming because he knew nothing. I was just a case file, Mr. Ali. A number amongst a whole lot of numbers. He was dumb and blind. My case didn’t matter. He was woefully unprepared and probably didn’t care. Yet, he had the audacity to make similar promises, trying to give me hope. But the deck was stacked against me like it was in my trial. So, forgive me if I am not forthcoming in reliving that part of my life for you so you can do the same thing. Only this time, I know not to buy what you’re trying to sell.”
Although her words were poignant, they were delivered with no effect. Her voice was flat without inflection. She wasn’t defiant. Jennifer was defeated.
“I hear you,” Tareef replied. He rested his elbows on the table and steepled his fingers. “I hear the disappointment. I hear that the system has failed you more than once. But I want you to hear this. I am listening. I am willing to pick up the mantle and fight. You don’t need to ask for my forgiveness. I just need you to talk to me. Tell me your story. I need to hear it from you. Sure, I can go into court and regurgitate what the files say, but as you said, they didn’t do the best job. I don’t want to rely on what has been provided. I need to hear it from you. So please, forgive me for asking you to relive that part of your life again. But that doesn’t mean I’m not asking.”
Jennifer kept steady eyes on him, reading his posture, listening to his tone, measuring his authenticity. Going back was not something she wanted to do. But there was something about Mr. Ali.
“I won’t start at the beginning because the beginning doesn’t matter nearly as much as the end. Just know our relationship didn’t sit well with anybody; seems like. Him being a white man, me a Black woman, living in the south, even in this
day and age. But it was Roger’s willingness to love me through all of those societal and family challenges that bonded me to him. He told me it was him and me against the world, and it was true. It was us. We had to stand up to everyone who thought our relationship should not be. I had total faith in his love for me. And then I couldn’t.
See, at first, when he isolated me from friends and family, he said it was to protect me because they disapproved of our relationship. He made himself my sanctity, and we were on an island together. Being disconnected from his family was no big deal. They didn’t like me, anyway. So, we existed on that island, him and me, for a while, and it was good. The first time he raised his voice at me, I was startled. I had reached out to a friend, and he didn’t like it. I broke the rules in our relationship that were reiterated and implied. He reminded me that he was my protection. He was the one that kept me safe.
Then, the yelling became more frequent. The reasons didn’t matter as much anymore. Roger didn’t feel like he had to justify his actions anymore. He had already made it clear why. Anything that happened was because of the why. The first time he called me a bitch, I didn’t like it. The first time he called me a Black bitch, he broke my soul. When he called me a nigger, he ripped my heart out of my chest.
Roger apologized like every abusive husband does, and because my entire world revolved around him, I had no choice really but to accept it. See, he was good. He made sure that not only was I emotionally dependent on him, but I was also financially dependent on him, too. He was the breadwinner. He was the boss.
The first time he hit me, I really wasn’t surprised. It was what followed naturally. He had already beaten me with his words, with his dismissiveness of my individuality. Roger started to get angry about the things he initially told me were attractive to him. So, he beat me because I had an opinion. He dogged me out because of my size, whatever he could come up with as the reason, he used his fists against me.
I took it for five years, every insult, every backhand, every closed fist. I took it because underneath it all, he was still my savior, the man who claimed that everything he did was to protect me because he loved me. The question always comes up, and you’re probably thinking it to, why didn’t I call the police, why didn’t I report him, tell somebody? I tried. I called the police more than once. But Roger was good. The bad bruises, the cracked ribs, the bruised spleen were never readily visible, and my dark skin hid most of the black and blue marks that would have been. The cops would come. They’d see his white face and my black one. Whether they said it or not, something in them made his opinion more important than mine. They gave me the option to file a police report while simultaneously explaining to me that the moment I did, I would ruin my husband’s life.
That was part of the ammunition they had against me in court, that I never filed a report although I claimed I was beaten for years. I had no evidence, no pictures, no reports to record it. There were hospital records of some of my worse injuries, but I was the one who agreed with the explanation my husband gave as to why they were there. Even when the explanations didn’t make sense, and I didn’t say anything or tried to give them a look or something to make them look at the situation differently, it wasn’t enough. He was more convincing, and I was too scared, too deflated to convince them it was any different. I helped the system stack the deck against me.”
“What happened that night,” Tareef asked.
“Oh, you mean the night I ended my husband’s life, that night?”
“Yes, Ms. Williams. What happened that night?”
“Everything in me was worn down, Mr. Ali, everything. I had taken all I was going to take. Roger wouldn’t let up, though. He picked a fight with me earlier that day over nothing, and for the first time, I stood up to him. I told him I was tired, that I wasn’t taking no more shit off him, that it was over. He didn’t like it, the fact that I stood up to him after taking it from him. He hit me harder than he’d ever hit me before. I knew something in him snapped because he didn’t care where he hit me. He busted my lip and blacked my eye. Roger didn’t care. I fought back as best I could, but he was physically stronger than me, so my fighting back didn’t last long. He beat me into submission and left me broken and bleeding on the floor.
But that night, he went to sleep. He decided to go to sleep after stomping me and bloodying me. He had that kind of confidence that he laid down and went to slip like what he did was no big deal. But it was a big deal because just like something in him broke that night, something in me broke, too. So, I went to the shed. I picked up a hammer. I walked back into the house. I walked to the bedroom that I had shared with him for all those years. I stood over him and listened to him snore. He didn’t stir, but he snored like he was sleeping so peacefully. And I looked at the man who claimed he loved me, and I lifted the hammer over my head, and I hit him. I hit him every time he hit me. I hit him for every time he thought about hitting me. I don’t even remember if when if he woke up or screamed or fought back or uttered a mumbling word, but I hit him until I was too tired to pick up the hammer again.”
“What happened after that?”
“That part is a little foggy, still. It was like I blacked out or something in the middle of it. All I knew is I couldn’t be in that house anymore. So, I walked down the hall and out the front door. I walked down the porch steps and the walkway, but I didn’t stop there. I just kept walking down the sidewalk and onto the street. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I refused to stay there, so I waked. Then, I heard a horn blow and tires screech. The driver almost hit me. I was walking down the center of the street with the hammer in my hand, and blood on my nightclothes.”
The same disconnected look Jennifer described feeling is what showed on her face. Her eyes weren’t vacant, but they weren’t focused either.
“They saw the blood on my clothes. They saw the hammer in my bloody hand. They traced it back to my house; the police did when someone called 911. The rest is history.”
Tareef appreciated Jennifer’s candor in sharing.
“Did you agree to the defense that was offered on your behalf, Ms. Williams?”
“You mean, the argument that I was mentally ill? That something was wrong with me for fighting back?”
“I take that as a no,” Tareef supposed.
“Something did happen, Mr. Ali. I did fight back, but I don’t think that makes me crazy. I think I was crazy when I didn’t fight back.”
“I appreciate your willingness to go through it again so I could hear it from you,” Tareef offered. “If you will have me, I would like to represent you, Ms. Williams.”
When she looked at Tareef, her eyes narrowed, and her gaze was focused. It was hard for Jennifer to trust.
“I have mixed feelings about the whole situation,” she began. “What I’ve never told anyone, not any lawyer or public defender that sat in front of me. Hell, I don’t even think I told God,” she chuckled. “But I’ve never fought to get out of prison because that’s where I found my freedom.”
“Freedom?”
“Yes,” she answered. “I know it’s hard to understand because I’m behind bars, chained to this desk, shackled like a slave, told when to eat, when to shower, when to wake up when to sleep. But inside these walls, I found my freedom. The hell I lived in on the outside was the real prison. This, with no one beating me, demeaning me, killing me, this has been my freedom.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to stay here to keep it, though,” Tareef offered.
“No, I don’t,” Jennifer replied. “But I never thought being free on the outside was possible. I didn’t want to hope. I didn’t want to believe there was a chance I could get out. But if you are willing to take me on, then I’m willing to consider it.”
They were in agreement. Tareef signaled to the guards, and they promptly returned to the room from outside the door. This time when they unshackled Jennifer from the desk and pulled her up to standing, her head was not bowed. The guards quickly reattached her handc
uffs to the chain that also shackled her ankles and moved her towards the door. She paused before crossing the threshold.
“One more thing, Mr. Ali,” Jennifer said as she looked over her shoulder.
“I want my freedom, but what I want just as much is my name, mine, not his.”
Tareef understood.
Chapter Twelve
Two Weeks Later
“You’re late,” Racquel chastised when Naomi walked into her office.
Naomi paused long enough to look at her watch and then at her friend.
“I am two minutes behind schedule,” Naomi countered, taking the seat in front of Rocky’s desk. “That’s hardly tardy.”
Rocky waited until Naomi got comfortable in the seat and dismissed her earlier chastisement.
“Not to work, Naomi, late in letting me know what the hell happened on your date with Malcolm.”
“Oh!” Naomi squealed, her eyes widening and recognition registering in her mind.
“About that,” Naomi began.
“I’m waiting,” Rocky replied, resting her elbow and the desk and cradling her chin against her fist.
“I didn’t call,” Naomi sighed.
“That’s just now dawning on you?” Racquel challenged. “And I would have accepted that commentary had it been the first time you forgot to check-in.”
Racquel watched as Naomi’s face transformed. Her eyes became distant, and she started to smile.
“It was a hell of a date,” she sighed. “They were amazing dates.”
“Enough to make you forget check-in again.”
“It did, and I’m sorry about that,” Naomi offered, clasping her hands together in a praying posture. She pouted her lips and turned them down and tilted her head ever so slightly.
“So not falling for that one,” Racquel mused, waving her hand dismissively. “But it was good, though?”
“It was,” Naomi agreed. “Every time we go out, Rocky, the dates get better and better. We’ve done fun things, romantic things. We’ve gone from five-star restaurants to his favorite hole in the wall that had the best food, might I add. And our connection feels so strong even though we haven’t known each other that long.”
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