No One in the World
Page 1
ALSO BY E. LYNN HARRIS
In My Father’s House
Mama Dearest
Basketball Jones
Just Too Good to Be True
I Say a Little Prayer
What Becomes of the Brokenhearted: A Memoir
A Love of My Own
Any Way the Wind Blows
Not a Day Goes By
Abide With Me
If This World Were Mine
And This Too Shall Pass
Just As I Am
Invisible Life
ALSO BY RM JOHNSON
The Million Dollar Demise
Why Men Fear Marriage
The Million Dollar Deception
Do You Take This Woman?
The Million Dollar Divorce
Dating Games
Love Frustration
The Harris Family
Father Found
The Harris Men
Stacie & Cole
Simon & Schuster
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by The Estate of E. Lynn Harris and Marcus Arts LLC
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition June 2011
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Designed by Jill Putorti
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Johnson, R. M. (Rodney Marcus).
No one in the world: a novel / RM Johnson, E. Lynn Harris.
p. cm.
1. African Americans—Fiction. 2. Twin brothers—Fiction. I. Harris, E. Lynn.
II. Title.
PS3560.O3834N6 2011
813'.54—dc22 2010043440
ISBN 978-1-4391-7809-6
ISBN 978-1-4391-7811-9 (ebook)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
RM Johnson Remembers E. Lynn Harris
I met E. Lynn Harris in 1998 at a book event. He wasn’t the self-important man I assumed a brilliant, nationally bestselling author to be. He was humble, personable and funny and even offered to help me spread the word about my then soon-to-be released first novel, The Harris Men.
He fulfilled his promise. The book was a success, and I credit my longevity in this field to his help.
He was a great man. I loved him as a brother and looked up to him as a mentor, and he graciously considered me his mentee. We appeared at several book signings together around the country. He allowed me to benefit from his successful name through association, but I wasn’t the only one. E. Lynn Harris helped dozens of up-and-coming authors by sponsoring their tours, inviting them to appear at his signings, or promoting their books as his favorite reads. He was that kind of man, just as concerned about others’ success as his own.
Lynn would often say, “We just need people to find out about you.” So in 2004 he mentioned the idea of the two of us writing a novel about twin brothers. We played with that idea over the years, often meeting to take notes or discuss plot, but never completing any serious work until early 2008. Both of us living in Atlanta, Georgia, we met often, coming up with some really great characters, story lines and plot twists. We worked well together, as I knew we would, and created what I believe is a fantastic book, which reads both like a classic, drama-filled E. Lynn Harris novel and a suspenseful, fast-paced RM Johnson story. We were both so proud of what we created.
He always said how excited he was about going on the road and promoting our book together. Unfortunately, as we all know, our dear friend passed July 23, 2009.
There will never be another writer like him, another individual like him. He graced us with his talents, inspired many of the authors writing today and left us with his ingenious body of work. The book you’re about to read was very dear to him. It was something we both thoroughly enjoyed writing and eagerly awaited to present to you all.
I would like to thank all those responsible in one way or another, for bringing this project to its deserved end. Ma
ny thanks go to Kerri Kolen, our tireless editor, and Andrew Stuart, my devoted literary agent. To Mrs. Etta Harris, E. Lynn’s mother, thank you for bringing such a wonderful person into this world, and into our lives. He has touched so many of us, and we will never be the same. To all of E. Lynn’s fans and to my own, to all the bookstore owners and operators, the publishing people and media people, the book club members and manuscript readers and, most of all, to our loving friends and family members, we could not have come this far without you all.
No One in the World
1
My opposing counsel was defending a sixteen-year-old boy accused of a double murder. My name is Cobi Aiden Winslow, and as I stood to give my closing argument, I told myself I would try to put this clown away for life.
“If it pleases the court, Your Honor,” I said to the bearded, black-robed judge. “And the jury . . .” I said, nodding slightly to the haggard-looking twelve men and women who had sat through six days of testimony.
Before starting, I walked over to the boy being charged, stared him in the eyes till he looked away shamefully. DeAndré Marquis Moore was his name.
The police had found him a month ago, hiding in his girlfriend’s garage. He had been gangbanging since he was eleven years old and had been picked up several times for truancy and an assortment of other misdemeanors, but nothing ever as serious as this.
The crime had happened on a beautiful Saturday evening. A thirty-two-year-old father and his seven-year-old son were walking down Jeffery Boulevard, when someone wearing a hooded jacket ran up behind them. The assailant pointed a gun at the back of the father’s head and pulled the trigger, killing him in front of his son. He then turned the gun on the startled child and shot him twice, killing him as well.
There were eyewitnesses. Four separate individuals identified DeAndré in a lineup as the gunman.
DeAndré Moore’s attorney was one of the best in Chicago, a man named Milton Crawford. He was a handsome white-haired gentleman who had once told me he was practicing law when I was still just a dirty thought in my father’s head. I wasn’t sure of his age, but he looked to be well into his sixties. Since I was thirty-three, Mr. Crawford was probably right.
His firm did pro bono work for the community, often defending violent cases involving the poor and disenfranchised like this one. Most of those cases were losers, but they kept the firm’s name in the news and its phones ringing.
Milton Crawford argued that his client had acted in self-defense. Crawford stated that DeAndré had been deprived, destined to fail since birth. His father was absent, his mother a prostitute. DeAndré had cared for himself since he was seven years old, had no guidance, no love, no discipline. He was raised by the streets, taken in by a gang, and treated as a mascot till he became of age. At which point he had to commit a murder to become a member.
During Mr. Crawford’s closing argument, he leaned on the jury box’s railing. “He was told by one of the gang leaders, and I quote, ‘If you don’t do a killing, then we’re going to do a killing on you.’ My client was only trying to preserve his life by taking another,” Mr. Crawford said.
It was the most ridiculous defense I had heard. All it did was make me angrier and more motivated to put this boy away.
It was my turn now, and as I stood over DeAndré, I shook my head in disgust before walking back toward the jury.
“Kevin Jones and Brandon Jones,” I said. “Those are the names of the father and son that the defendant murdered in cold blood. Kevin has a wife, and two more children—little girls—at home. Kevin and Brandon have been forever taken from their family, from this world by—” I shot a finger at DeAndré “—by him!” I paused to calm myself. “Who or what gave him the right? His circumstances? Yes, he was raised in the streets. He had no father. His mother gave him no attention. He had to fend for himself. But do those facts justify murder?” I paced away from the jury. “Do you know how many children grow up the same way? Does it give them the right to take lives? Does it give them the right to act outside the law? It does not. DeAndré was given life, and with that life he could’ve done whatever he wanted, despite his circumstances. I cannot and will not suffer fools who let the hand they’ve been dealt determine what they will do, and who they will be, and neither should you. DeAndré Moore was given a life, yet he chose to take two others. For that he must be punished,” I said, walking back to the jury box. I took a moment to look each of the jurors in the eye one by one. “For DeAndré Moore, there is no other verdict but guilty.”
2
Not long after lunch, the jury reached a decision. DeAndré Moore was found guilty. He was charged as an adult and sentenced to twenty-five years in a maximum-security prison.
As I drove my Audi S6 home, tension from the day still coursing through my body, I thought about how if it were up to me, I would’ve put him away for life.
I pulled into the circular drive of the historic brick mansion I lived in with my parents. Work had been hard, but considering what was going on here, I knew that today home would be harder.
Once inside, I went to my mother’s bedroom to check on her. I stood outside her door and knocked gently. I didn’t want to walk in on her if she was crying again.
“Cobi, is that you? C’mon in.”
My mother was standing next to her bed in front of an open, half-packed suitcase, holding a lavender blouse up to her chest. “Do I need this?” She smiled, although her eyes were red, like she had been crying not long ago.
“Mother,” I said, taking the garment, folding it, and laying it on top of the other neatly folded clothes. “Just take it. You never know.”
“Was work good today?”
“It was work, like every day. These things that people do . . .” I lamented. “And some of them are practically children. I put a sixteen-year-old animal away today for twenty-five years.”
“Don’t call them that, Cobi. You don’t know what they’ve been through. Some of them have no fathers. They grew up in foster homes,” my mother said.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s—”
“Not everyone had it as nice as you growing up. What if that was you out there? What if you were forced to . . .” My mother reached for her box of Kleenex, snatched two, and pressed them to her nose. “You were lucky,” she said, tears rolling from her eyes, her voice trailing off. “There was a chance . . .” my mother started to say but abruptly stopped herself.
“What was that you said, Ma?”
“Nothing, Cobi.” She walked away from me, blowing her nose into the tissue.
Last week, my mother received a call from Alabama. It was from Uncle Carl, my mother’s brother in-law. She told me his voice was solemn as he regrettably told her that her sister, Rochelle, had died in her sleep. My mother told me she held the phone to her ear, staring into the space before her, gasping for words that wouldn’t come.
“She went peacefully,” my mother said Carl had said.
I loved Aunt Rochelle. She looked just like my mother. They shared the same cornflake-colored complexion, the same sandy brown hair, the same bright smile. The only difference was that Aunt Rochelle was shorter and funnier. When I was a child, whenever she saw me, she would tell a new joke. If I didn’t think it was funny, she’d tickle me till I was in tears with laughter.
But I had not seen nor spoken to Aunt Rochelle in five years. She and my mother had fallen out. My mother had never told me why, and whenever I asked, she would simply say, “It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with.”
The funeral was to be held tomorrow. My parents intended to fly to Alabama sooner, spend time mourning with the family, but the business demanded that they stay for a meeting held earlier today.
There was trouble with the family business. Profits were down, our competition was gaining, and the future of the company’s value was uncertain. Cyrus, my father, had even mentioned the idea of selling. The situation had to have been terribly bad for him to think of such a thing.
Our
company, Winslow Products was started by my grandfather, in a single-boarder room he rented back in 1959. Through hard work, dedication, and anticipating the needs of Chicago’s African American population, Charles Winslow grew Winslow Products into the most successful and recognized black hair care line in the country. I knew it would’ve killed my father to sell it.
I lowered the top of the suitcase and zipped it. “That’s everything, right?”
My mother pulled another Kleenex from the box and pressed it to her nose, her back to me.
She was starting to cry again. I took a step toward her. She held out a hand, instructing me not to come any closer.
There was something gravely wrong, something my mother was not telling me. I knew she was mourning the loss of her sister, but this seemed like something more.
I stood three feet behind her, looking at our reflections in the mirror. I was tall, six foot, with an athletic build I maintained by going to the gym at least four times a week. My skin was not the color of cornflakes like my mother’s and Aunt Rochelle’s, but darker, like raisin bran flakes. My facial features were keen, my teeth straight, my nose broad, my eyes jet black beneath thick eyebrows, and my hair buzzed low, razor lined, where just a shadow could be seen.
Other than our difference in skin tone, I looked a great deal like my mother, a miracle, considering I had been adopted when I was three years old.
“Mother . . .” I said, my voice low.
She didn’t answer. She pulled away the tissue, and I could see tears in her eyes again.
“Ma.” I felt horrible. All I wanted to do was give her a hug, beg her to please tell me what else was wrong, because I knew it was something. My mother could never keep anything from me. It was she who, against my father’s wishes, sat me down when I was eight years old and told me I was adopted.
My father was a quiet man—a man of few words. But when he spoke, everyone listened. He showed very little emotion. I don’t remember a single time when he hugged me. He had told me he loved me before, but I could never feel the emotion in his confession. It always just sounded like something he thought he should say.
To tell the truth, I wouldn’t have been surprised if my father didn’t love me at all. We had a few issues, like any father and son. But I was sure, one day, we were going to work them out. I had actually told myself that when my parents returned home from Aunt Rochelle’s funeral, I was going to sit Cyrus down, whether the man liked it or not, and have a good father-and-son talk with him.