Power, Seduction & Scandal

by Angela Winters

  Tears returned to Kerry’s eyes. A lump in her throat obstructed any response to Garcia-Bell’s damning assessment.

  Garcia-Bell sighed and cursed herself inside for opening her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, bending down to look at Kerry. “Look, don’t stay in this cell. Get out until lights-out and if you need anything, you holler for me.” She looked into Kerry’s eyes and kissed her on the lips quickly before walking out.

  Save the guards and guns and jumpsuits and poorly selected paint, visiting day at the women’s jail in Fulton County might look like it was a family reunion or big birthday party. Children and grandparents were everywhere. Babies being burped over the shoulders of mothers who were strangers, husbands sneaking in kisses. Aging parents begging their daughters to do it right the next time she got out. Sons and daughters, silent but hopeful, some still young enough to think Mommy was away studying at college and led to believe this place with cinder-block walls and bars was a dormitory and not a jail. And it could look like that. It was a women’s jail, so the guards kind of pushed back when the families came to visit. With too many limitations the women could become bothered and act up later unnecessarily, so the warden—whose mother had been locked up for writing bad checks when she was just seven years old—told the guards to keep a close eye, but not pry. The women were prisoners. Not their families.

  The day after the incident in the cafeteria, Kerry was actually surprised when one of the guards showed up at her cell to announce that she had visitors waiting. She hadn’t seen anyone in three weeks. She kept calling Val, but there was no answer. Even her lawyer seemed extra busy whenever Kerry got through. After her divorce, her best friend Marcy had been in Haiti working with Nurses Without Borders for months. While she promised to be at her Spelman sister’s side as soon as her contract was up and she was stateside, the village where Marcy was assigned had few working phones and the mail system was spotty at best. And Kerry’s mother? Well, Thirjane was no jailhouse regular—even with her daughter there. That’s why Kerry was surprised a second time when she got to the visitation room and found Thirjane sitting in there on a bench. Tyrian was beside her, looking down at his feet. Thirjane placed her hand on his knee when she saw Kerry walking toward them with her hand over her mouth, like she was already holding back a cry.

  Tyrian looked up and bolted for his mother like she was running in the other direction and he needed to catch up.

  While this wasn’t an uncommon scene in the visitation room, where over fifty inmates were sitting with their families, most everyone paused to get a look at the reunion. This wasn’t just any seven-year-old son greeting his mother. It was the dead mayor’s fatherless child wrapping his arms around the murderous ex-wife, who half of them believed was a woman scorned—and . . . well . . . hell hath no fury . . .

  Kerry got down on her knees and let her only baby smash right into her with his arms open. He nearly knocked her over and certainly knocked the wind out of her, but she was grateful for the intensity of the greeting. She’d need to hold on to that feeling for as long as she could.

  “I love you,” she whispered into Tyrian’s ear once she wrapped her arms around him. “I love you so much.” Saying she missed him always sounded like a given when she was coming up with something to say to Tyrian, during the few times her mother had brought the boy to the jail. She decided she’d go with the one thing she wanted him to think of when he was away from her: that she loved him.

  She backed up and looked him over. Saw how much he’d grown. Those front teeth were almost back in place now and he was so much taller, had long arms and legs. Kerry touched them like maybe they were fake. She thought of Jamison. How he’d feel seeing Tyrian looking like this, becoming a little man-child. The tears she’d promised she wouldn’t let loose were rolling down her cheeks.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” Tyrian asked like he’d done something wrong.

  “Nothing, baby. You’re just all grown up. Getting so big and tall,” Kerry said as they walked to the bench and table where Thirjane was waiting.

  “You always say that, Mama. But I ain’t taller. I’m the same,” Tyrian said.

  “No, you’re growing. You just can’t tell because you don’t see yourself all the time. It’s perspective,” Kerry said.

  “Perspective?” he asked.

  “It means point of view—like how you see something or someone is based on your point of view,” Kerry replied, stopping in front of her mother.

  Thirjane stayed seated in her red St. John’s suit. Her quilted Chanel purse was on her lap, her hands clasped over the top. She snapped, “It’s not ain’t, Tyrian. That’s not proper English. I told you to stop using that slang.”

  “Sorry, Nana,” Tyrian mumbled, sitting down beside her.

  “Hello to you too, Mama,” Kerry said, bending down to kiss her mother. Through thirty-five years of trial and error, she knew better than to be upset that Thirjane didn’t run toward her with open arms, saying how much she’d missed her daughter in the month since she’d been to see her. This was Thirjane Jackson. All old black money, blue-vein Atlanta. She was the kind of Southern belle who likely had a silk handkerchief with her initials stitched into it in her purse. She was the kind of Southern belle who took pride in openly revealing that she had no idea on God’s green Earth where a motel, crackhouse or jailhouse might be located. Now, here she was, visiting her only child in a jailhouse, and everybody knew it.

  Kerry kissed her on the cheek and she pretended to do the same, but really only kissed the air. She’d begged her daughter not to marry that Jamison Taylor boy. He wasn’t even a real Morehouse man like Kerry’s father had been—not with having only gone to the school because he lucked up on a full scholarship. That wasn’t good breeding. That was a handout—a hand down. Who were his people? She never forgave Kerry for marrying him and the current situation seemed like punishment for both of them for that one betrayal.

  Kerry sat down and went through all of her motherly questions with Tyrian. She asked about his schoolwork and his golf game. Listened to more stories about his new teeth and new friends. The girl in his class who was so pretty none of the other boys would speak to her. But he always did. He always sat right next to her and said something nice.

  Nana Thirjane was on hand to correct each of his poorly selected words—both those with bad grammar and weak diction. Kerry smiled and listened intently, but as the judging went on, she couldn’t help but to remember when her mother would carry on like that whenever she tried to get a sentence out.

  “Sounds like you have a crush,” Kerry joked with Tyrian.

  “I like her,” Tyrian admitted, poking out his chest a little, “but I’m keeping my options open.”

  “Options?” Kerry repeated, looking over at her mother and laughing at how adult he sounded. “Boy, what do you know about options?”

  “My daddy told me it’s not enough for a woman to be beautiful. She has to be smarter than she is beautiful. And nice. Be really nice to me, always. Nice to everyone.” Tyrian looked proud to remember his father’s advice, but also sad. As could be expected, he’d taken the sudden death very hard.

  Kerry reached over the table to touch Tyrian’s hand. “Your daddy gave you some good advice,” she said softly. “Very good.”

  After a while, Thirjane sent Tyrian off to play with some other children who were putting a massive puzzle together on the floor in the center of the room as the adults took time to chat.

  “So how are you doing?” Thirjane asked.

  “How do I look like I’m doing?”

  “Well, your hair is growing out. Maybe you could perm it again. It’s so nappy.” Thirjane reached over the table to finger Kerry’s gray roots. “Could definitely use some hair dye.”

  “I’m in jail and you’re worried about my naps and grays?” Kerry snapped. “There’s no one in here to impress, Mama. Not your sorors or their stuffy sons.” She flicked her mother’s hand away like she was thirteen again and being forced to
wear her hair up in a bun to attend one of those Jack and Jill balls she so hated.

  “That has nothing to do with anything. What did you go bringing that up for?”

  “Why haven’t you been here to visit me in a month?”

  “I was just here three weeks ago.”

  “You promised you’d bring Tyrian every week. You said you’d do it.”

  “So you want me to bring my grandson to a jailhouse every week to see his mother?” Thirjane leaned toward Kerry and whispered through her coffee-stained dentures, “You know that boy is urinating in the bed almost every night? And that’s on the nights when I can actually get him to sleep without crying his eyes out about missing you and his father. How’s seeing you in jail going to help him?”

  “His therapist said—” Kerry tried, but Thirjane cut her off.

  “That therapist doesn’t know a thing about raising a black boy!” Thirjane said so directly Kerry knew to leave the matter alone. “Got me bringing my grandbaby to a jail to see his mama. Then when he’s sixteen and ends up here on his own, everybody’s going to wonder why. The less he’s here, the better.”

  “Fine. Just once a month then, Mama. Please.” Kerry sounded like a teenager negotiating curfew.

  Thirjane cut her eyes hard on Kerry. “I know. It’s only been three weeks. And have you thought about me? About me coming here? What people are saying?”

  “Yes. I have. Because this is all about you. Right?” Kerry pointed out sarcastically. Every time her mother visited, it went this way—it would somehow go from being all about Tyrian to all about Thirjane; Kerry was always last. And it was interesting too, because as ashamed as Thirjane claimed she was, aside from her onetime interview on the news, she was hardly involved in Kerry’s case. She cried and promised to avenge her child when Kerry had gotten arrested, but as soon as the cameras turned on her and one detective suggested that maybe she’d had something to do with the murder too, Thirjane quickly disappeared. She wouldn’t even talk to Kerry’s lawyer. She’d hired her own and said she needed to protect herself and her “interests.”

  “Don’t be flip with me, Kerry Ann. You’re not the only one suffering here. That’s all I was saying,” Thirjane said. “And what’s going on with your case, anyway? I thought that Memphis girl and that Jewish lawyer you two hired were getting you out on bail, at least until the trial starts, anyway.”

  “Under the direction of District Attorney Brown, the judge agreed that due to the nature of the crime, I’m a threat to society.” Kerry waved at Tyrian, who’d held up two pieces of the puzzle he’d fit together.

  “A threat? That imposter of a DA, Chuck Brown, is the real threat to this city—sleeping with any woman who’ll open her legs. And to think, he’s a Morehouse man.” Thirjane put her nose in the air after that comment.

  “Well, Chuck Brown also cited your connections and my money and Jamison’s money—adding that I’m a flight risk.”

  “That’s a sack of manure—pardon my choice of words. But I don’t believe that for one minute. Seems that lawyer and Val could do something about it. Listen to me, girl: that whore means to keep you in here. Meanwhile, she’s out in the world living it up like her kind never knew how. You know she moved her mama into Jamison’s house? In Cascade? Driving his cars. Using his club memberships.” Thirjane clutched her purse and whispered, “I saw her at the country club.”

  Kerry looked down.

  “Hmm . . . She’s living high on the hog and you’re living here.” Thirjane looked around at the prisoners and guards, the walls and discreetly placed bars.

  “Well, if you really feel bad about it, you can always help with my case. It’s not like I have a whole lot of people in my corner right now. I just know Val has my back and she was the only one who stood up when I needed her” Kerry said, looking into her mother’s eyes.

  “What am I supposed to do? Put my house up to bust you out of here?” Thirjane whispered angrily.

  “You know I have money. It’s not about that.”

  “I’m an old woman. I’m not cut out for this. I have Tyrian and he’s already a handful. Between his grades and acting up in school, I’m just holding on here.” Thirjane’s voice weakened like she was about to cry.

  “Right. Sure.” Kerry was getting tired and she refused to placate her mother.

  The buzzer sounded over the loudspeaker in the room, letting the inmates and visitors know visiting time was over.

  As the guards started walking through the room to facilitate the proper good-bye procedures, Thirjane reached out and held Kerry’s hand.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” she said with her wrinkled, diamond ring–clad fingers shaking a little under early symptoms of palsy. “More sorry than you’ll ever know.”

  Tyrian appeared and hugged his mother with his arms around her neck. He was already crying. He knew what the buzzer meant.

  “I want to stay here with you,” Tyrian mumbled in his mother’s ear. “I promise I won’t pee in the bed.”

  Kerry kissed him on the cheek. “It’s not about that, baby. You just can’t stay here. That’s not how it works.”

  “But you didn’t kill my daddy. You shouldn’t have to stay here,” Tyrian said a little louder.

  “What?” Kerry backed up and looked at him hard. “Where did you hear that?” She looked at her mother, who shrugged.

  “In school. Matthew Warrenstein said you did it—said you killed my father, but I know it’s not true, Mama. I know you didn’t do that.”

  “No. I didn’t.” Kerry’s hand was wet from wiping away both her and Tyrian’s tears. “And you don’t believe that. You don’t listen to those boys at that school. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  The room was clearing out and a guard walked past to give Kerry a sharp stare before she came back to inform her that it was absolutely time for her guests to depart.

  “I’ll see you next time.” Kerry tried to loosen Tyrian’s arms from around her neck, but he wouldn’t let go.

  “No! Mama! No!”

  “Don’t do this,” she said, feeling his heartbeat quickening against hers. “Please.”

  “No!”

  Thirjane stood and put her purse over her shoulder before reaching for Tyrian. Once she touched him, the boy started hollering and tightening his hold around his mother’s neck.

  “No, Mama! No! Don’t make me go! I can stay. I’ll be good. I won’t pee in the bed!”

  His tears were coming too quickly for Kerry to wipe them, so she started the heartbreaking task of peeling her son’s powerless, pencil-thin arms from around her neck.

  “No, Mama! Don’t!”

  She closed her eyes to escape the scene.

  The boy’s hollering turned to something like funeral wailing. It went deep down to his gut and sprang out with so much register the guards knew there was no way his grandmother would be able to get him out of that room by herself.

  “No! No! No!” Kerry cried when two guards stepped in to pull Tyrian away. “Please don’t. Please!”

  “Mama! No!” Tyrian hollered furiously with the guards, who were nice enough, calling him “son” and such, physically lifting him off of the ground and carrying him away from his mother, kicking and screaming.

  Kerry left the catastrophic farewell a wreck. She was crying so hard, the other inmates just moved out of her way as she headed back to her cell. They’d heard Tyrian’s screams. It was a mother’s pain too many of them knew. They made a little pathway for Kerry to walk along, undisturbed. Some showed support by patting her shoulder knowingly as she passed. Others called out, “It’ll be okay” and “Be strong.” It was one of those moments when being a woman or being a mother superseded all other circumstances and surroundings for these inmates in a jailhouse.

  But Kerry couldn’t really see or hear or feel any of this. Though she was moving along, every part of her being was with her child, hurting and aching, mourning the reality of separation. The only thing that kept her putt
ing one foot in front of the other to get to her cell was knowing his little face was waiting there in the picture above her bed. She could lie down there. Let her pain fall back into the mattress. Close her eyes and be with him again that morning in his bedroom before they took the picture. She would tell him everything was going to be okay. It would be perfect. He would say, “It could be perfect. You’re right, Mama.” She’d wink at him and kiss his cheek.

  But all of that would have to wait. Because only a few steps from the cell, someone blocked Kerry’s pathway.

  “What? You thought I forgot about your ass-whipping?”

  Thompson was standing there, cracking the knuckles on her fat fingers.

  “I’m not in the mood for this,” Kerry said, sounding more tired than fearful. “I just saw my little boy and—”

  Thompson cut her off. “I don’t give a fuck about that.”

  “Thompson, I just said I’m not in the mood for this,” Kerry said solemnly. “I can’t deal with you and whatever pathology you’re demonstrating right now. I just want to—”

  “Path—what? What you call me?” Thompson poked Kerry’s shoulder enough to push her back a few steps.

  Some of the women gathering in a tight fight circle started telling Thompson to back off and leave Kerry alone, but all still stayed to see what would happen.

  “I didn’t call you anything,” Kerry said. “I’m just letting you know I’m not trying to fight you. I’m upset about my son—”

  “Fuck your son!” Thompson spat, stepping in so closely to Kerry’s face a spray of saliva dotted the bridge of Kerry’s nose.

  “What did you say?” Kerry asked, feeling some switch of anger flicked on within the mix of sadness, loneliness, and now humiliation. “What did you say about my son?” Kerry didn’t know it, but she was stepping up higher, up on her toes a little bit, so she could be eye to eye with Thompson. She was also balling up her fists and tightening her jaw.