by Tom Pitts
This was Delma. No-holds-barred, no punches pulled. Straight shooting. For all the time Oz spent in SoCal practicing politically correct sensitivity, he missed this kind of curt conversation and someone getting right to the point.
“A little,” he admitted.
“You followed the case from California?”
Oz nodded.
Rodney’s trial monopolized every tabloid and cable news channel five years ago. Couldn’t have missed it if you tried. Ten + 1 Media took a helluva hit, each branch of the company tree rattled, the aftershock felt all the way to the Pacific. Anyone paying attention could’ve seen Rodney was trouble. Oz wasn’t going to say that to Delma. But considering where he’d come from, his crimes, though startling, shouldn’t have been a total surprise.
“Why don’t you tell me what you know, Oscar? It will save us time.” This was not a topic he wished to broach with her. Sensing this, she reassured him. “It’s all right. There is no detail of this case, however salacious, with which I am not intimately acquainted.”
“Rodney was convicted of…sexually assaulting…his step-niece.”
“There is no ‘step.’ I adopted Rodney, outright. He is my child same as Jackson and Janelle. Juniper was my granddaughter. Rodney, her uncle, blood or not.”
“Sorry. Rodney…sexually—”
“You can say ‘rape.’ Rodney was charged, convicted, and sentenced to life in prison for raping and murdering his niece, my granddaughter. No matter what kind of PC language you spin or how you try to sugarcoat it, those were the charges leveled and the sentence given.”
“I can’t imagine how hard this must’ve been for you and your family.”
“No, you can’t. But I’m going to fix it.” Delma rang a bell, and one of the girls returned. Delma shook her head, twirling a finger in pantomime. Moments later another smaller Cuban girl entered.
“Esther, please bring me…that thing…we discussed earlier.” Delma glanced in Oz’s direction, then pointed to her bedside and an empty china cup. “And some more tea. Thank you.”
Esther closed the doors, sealing them back in the chamber. Delma caught his attention. “How is Tania?”
“I think you mean Anne.” Tania was Oz’s college sweetheart. She had just started her degree in Miami when he took the job in L.A., and attempts at a long-distance relationship didn’t pan out. In fact, the bar fight that cost Oz his knee had started because of Tania. Not that it mattered now. We all have the one who got away.
“My apologies. Of course. Anne. How is she?”
“She’s doing well.”
“You two thinking of having children?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Not sure? How much time do you think you’ve got?”
“I’m not that old.”
“That’s not what I mean. I had Jackson when I was twenty-five. Janelle, a year after that. Garrison, my first husband, God rest his soul, died three months later. Heart attack on the seventeenth hole. I’m sure you see my point.”
Oz nodded.
“It made me a better person, being responsible for others. I believe that is what we are put on this earth for—to be of service to others. You keep running around, servicing your own needs, your own wants, you never fulfill your true potential. We must assist one another to grow.”
“I think everyone knows how much you’ve done for others, Delma.”
“Tell me, Oscar. Do they still call me the Godmother behind my back?”
He laughed.
“Yes,” she said, with a sly grin. “I knew all about that nickname. I always liked it, to be honest. Made me think of the Southern fairy tales my mother used to read to me as a child.”
Delma gazed out the window, at the iguana in the banyan tree, its long, scaly arms hanging down, tail drooping, body slack like a Salvador Dali painting of clocks melting in a desert sun. Whereas Oz only saw this brainless thing frozen on the early rungs of the evolutionary ladder, no ambition to move up the ranks, Delma’s expression toward the creature seemed to betray an odd pity, almost comradery.
Esther returned with a folder, passing the contents curtly to Delma. She did so with such poise and grace, he half expected a curtsy before completing the grand exit.
Delma took the folder, peered inside, rearranged a couple pages, then stacked everything in order, presenting the entire package to Oz like a Bible at a baptism.
“Well,” she said, “take it.”
He reached for the file, which had to be an inch thick, and peeled back the cover. The name “Rodney Dupree” jumped out, followed by words like “rape,” “aggravated assault,” and “murder.” Medical and police reports, court orders, assorted legalese. All very official-looking. He closed the folder. “What do you want me to do with this?”
“I want you to find who really raped and murdered my granddaughter.” Delma cleared her throat, repositioning her hands, one stacked upon the other. “Rodney is innocent.”
Click here to learn more about Occam’s Razor by Joe Clifford.
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