Dying Declaration

by Randy Singer

  “It must be my lucky day.”

  By the end of the conversation, attorney Smith had promised to send Nikki a copy of the Armistead deposition. Smith didn’t remember much about the case, except that Armistead was arrogant and defensive at his deposition. It had not been a pleasant day.

  “By the way,” Nikki said, as she prepared to sign off, “how was your day in court?”

  “About as fulfilling as that new case you promised my receptionist,” Smith said.

  They both laughed and ended the call.

  There was one more item that Nikki needed to check before she returned the court files to the clerk and went looking for her little terrors in the hallway. She thumbed through a few more documents and found what she was looking for—the inventory list from the search of the Hammonds’ trailer. For some strange reason, she had a bad feeling about this.

  She forced herself to look down at the page, read the single item on the list, and frowned. The police would never have seized it if it didn’t contain damaging evidence.

  It was not, of course, presently in the file. The Barracuda would have it locked up somewhere in an evidence closet. Nikki jotted a note reminding herself to visit the commonwealth’s attorney’s office and look at it. But she wouldn’t really need the note. The single entry was already seared into her memory, causing her to speculate wildly.

  The Prayer Journal of Theresa Hammond, it said.

  Thomas Hammond couldn’t believe his eyes. He had risked his life for Buster Jackson, and this was the thanks he received? If Thomas hadn’t put himself in harm’s way, if he hadn’t tackled A-town and taken him out, Buster would be a dead man. And now the man who owed every breath he took to Thomas was standing there gasping for air, sucking in the precious oxygen, and pointing directly at Thomas in response to the question of who had caused the attack.

  Thomas would have said something in protest, but he immediately realized that he had no defense. A-town, the instigator of this mess, was lying on the ground unconscious. Buster, the same man who had tried to choke Thomas yesterday, had just been nearly strangled to death with the bench-press bar. And the most likely man to be seeking revenge, Thomas himself, was standing there with a switchblade in his hand.

  “That man’” Buster coughed, as he pointed at Thomas and tried hard to catch his breath—“saved my life.”

  “And that man—” he turned his accusatory stare and big index finger on the fallen A-town—“tried to kill me.”

  Thomas slowly exhaled and dropped the knife. “Thank You, Lord,” was all he could think to say.

  On the ride back to Nikki’s apartment, the questions started flying.

  “Why is my daddy in jail?” Tiger wanted to know.

  Nikki hesitated for a beat. This was sensitive, and she wanted to choose her words wisely.

  “Because some people are confused and think he did something wrong and ought to spend some time in jail for punishment.”

  “What did he do wrong?” Tiger pressed.

  “It’s kind of complicated,” Nikki said, again speaking slowly and reassuringly. She didn’t know how much to say, but sooner or later they would figure it out, so she might as well be the one to break it to them. “When we get a chance to tell the judge in the big courtroom what really happened, I think they’ll let your daddy out of jail. But some people think it’s his fault that Joshie died.”

  “That’s not true!” Tiger exclaimed. “It wasn’t my dad’s fault that Joshie got sick. And besides, my daddy took him to the hopsicle.”

  “I know, Tiger. That’s what we’ll tell the judge.”

  They drove on in silence for a few minutes while Tiger and Stinky appeared to be deep in thought.

  “I miss Joshie,” Tiger said at last. His voice quivered.

  Before Nikki could respond, Stinky’s motherly instincts kicked in. “I miss him too, Tiger. But he’s in heaven now, and we’ll see him again someday,” she said reassuringly. “Right, Miss Nikki?”

  “Um, sure,” Nikki said.

  “Did the police take Daddy away?” asked the little boy in the backseat with a million questions.

  “Yes, they did.”

  “Are the police good guys or bad guys?”

  “They’re good guys,” Nikki said. At least some are, she thought.

  “Then why did they take him away?”

  To a woman with more scruples this would have been a tough question. But Nikki answered it without hesitation.

  “They were just following orders, Tiger. Doing what they were told.”

  “Who gave the orders?” he asked, just like Nikki knew he would.

  “That mean lawyer lady you met in court the other day,” Nikki responded, glancing at Tiger in the rearview mirror.

  He stuck out his lips, lowered his eyebrows, and wrinkled his forehead.

  “I knew it,” he said. “I just knew it.”

  Even the stubbornness of Thomas Hammond had its limits. Those limits were reached as he loaded up his tray for Thursday night dinner and looked around the crowded mess hall. There were a few extra seats at Buster’s table, generated by the absence of A-town and his boys from the general inmate population. But tonight Thomas would steer clear of that trouble. He had seen enough of Buster for one day. It was time to start taking Nikki’s advice. “Every man for himself.”

  Thomas headed to his left and took an empty chair at a table of white boys, on the opposite side of the dining hall from Buster. As usual, Thomas found a seat where nobody occupied the chairs next to him or across from him. Amid the din of the mess hall, he was looking forward to eating alone.

  He bowed his head and whispered a prayer.

  “Thank You, Lord, for this food and for protecting me during rec time today. Thank You that Buster was not kilt. And I just wanna pray for the young man with the knife, that You will heal him and not allow him to suffer long from the blow I gave him to the back of the head. Forgive me for my sins. Keep Theresa and the kids safe and give them Your strength. And if it’s Your will, please get me outta here as soon as possible. Amen.”

  When he looked up, the seat across from him was no longer empty.

  “This seat taken?” Buster asked. He had already placed his tray down.

  And he was not scowling.

  “It is now,” Thomas said.

  Buster pulled out the chair and took a seat. “Thanks,” he said.

  Thomas nodded, then attacked his food. For the rest of dinner, the two huge men ate in silence.

  24

  CHARLES COULDN’T BELIEVE how nervous he felt. He hadn’t seen Denita in what, six months, maybe more? They hadn’t been alone together in nearly two years. But still, he had lived with her for three years, fought with her for four. Why should meeting with her now make him so ill at ease?

  He glanced at his watch for the third time in the last five minutes, knowing how conspicuous he looked in the Grate Steak restaurant sitting alone at a table for two on a Friday night. She had insisted on driving from Richmond to Norfolk for the meeting. Probably so she wouldn’t be seen by anybody she knew, Charles thought.

  Thirty-five minutes late. She had called ten minutes ago. “I’ll be there in a few minutes,” she said. “Sorry. Some things came up.”

  “No problem.”

  So here he sat. Ten minutes later and still no Denita. He would punish her with silence when she finally came.

  “Sorry I’m late,” a sweet voice behind him said. He recognized the potent mixture of White Diamonds perfume and Vidal Sassoon shampoo immediately, the smell alone bringing a rush of emotions. Before he could respond, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

  How’d she do that? he wondered. He had been keeping one eye on the entrance the whole time and still she had managed to get behind him. Vintage Denita. One step ahead.

  “Thanks for driving all this way,” Charles said as he half stood and watched her slide gracefully into her seat. “You look great.”

  “Yo
u look good yourself.”

  Though she had put on a few pounds since the last time they met, Charles was immediately reminded of why he had fallen for her in the first place. She had a handsome face: a strong jawline, long forehead, smoldering brown eyes, and long ebony hair. She had braided her hair tonight and pulled it away from her face, the way Charles used to tell her he liked it. A simple but stylish black skirt and white blouse gave her a dignified, professional look.

  She had an athletic build and stood five-ten without heels. “You would make a great basketball player,” Charles used to say, though she would just scoff at the notion. “I’m tall and I’m black, so I must like basketball and chicken,” she’d reply. And after watching her shoot around once, resembling something like Bambi on roller skates, Charles learned to drop the subject of Denita and basketball. Still, for the three years of their marriage, he harbored secret thoughts of making great little basketball babies—a whole team of future LeBron James superstars.

  All this and a hundred more thoughts and memories—some good, others dark—flashed through Charles’s mind during the first few seconds of small talk and nervous gazing at the woman he had once loved more than anything in the world. After a few minutes of catching up, a waiter arrived and took their orders. Denita, always counting calories, went for the fresh salmon—at a steak place!—and Charles ordered a twelve-ounce T-bone. After the waiter disappeared, Denita mustered the courage to talk about the one thing they had both been working so hard not to mention.

  “Thanks for calling me after Catherine Godfrey’s visit.”

  “It’s the least I could do.” Charles paused and tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” Denita took a sip of iced tea that Charles had ordered for her even before she arrived. She set the glass down carefully and fixed her gaze on the table, avoiding eye contact. Charles couldn’t remember when he had seen her this nervous. “And thanks again for meeting with me,” she added. “I didn’t want to talk about this over the phone.”

  He nodded, though she still wasn’t looking at him.

  “Charles, I don’t know how to start . . . how to say this. So I’ve got to ask you to just hear me out. Let me stumble around a little. Okay?”

  She looked up at him with sad eyes. He had braced himself for a lot of emotions tonight—anger, frustration, even a rekindled emotional attraction. But he had not expected the sympathy he now felt. Denita had never been one to cast herself in the role of a victim.

  “Sure.”

  She leaned forward, reached her hand out, and laid it partway across the table. Was it an invitation? a natural gesture? manipulation? Charles’s instincts told him to reach out, hold her hand, lean forward, and smell the White Diamonds while the last four years melted away—but he willed himself to sit back. What he had to say would not be easy under the best of circumstances. No sense making it tougher.

  “Maybe I didn’t try hard enough, Charles. I don’t know.” A pause. A sigh. “But you changed so much . . . so fast. All that God talk and pressure about coming to Christ and everything. I guess I just freaked.” Denita scratched lightly at the tablecloth with her long fingernails, then withdrew the hand. Another sip of tea. “I mean, it was like, ‘Who’s this religious freak and what did he do with my Charles?’”

  Charles stared without emotion. He kept his voice low and even. “We’ve been through this, Denita. I can’t change who I am.”

  “I know, and I’m not asking you to.” She looked into the distance for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “Charles, it just seemed like all of a sudden you didn’t care about anything but the church and . . . well, getting me saved.”

  “You’re the one who filed, Denita.” For divorce, he meant. The words came out colder than he intended.

  “I know,” she admitted quickly. Too quickly, in Charles’s opinion. He knew she wanted something and would say whatever was necessary tonight, even if it meant eating a little crow. “I didn’t come here to fight, Charles. And I know I can’t undo what’s happened.”

  “Then what do you want, Denita? Why did you come here?”

  She sucked in a breath. “I want this appointment to the bench, Charles. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. It’s what we dreamed about in law school—making a difference, standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves. I’ve put in my time defending corporate America. It’s time to get back to my roots, give back to my people.”

  As she talked, Charles swallowed his rising frustration. He wanted to laugh at the idealism flashing in her eyes, shake her by the shoulders. Can’t you see what you’re saying? “I sold out, Charles. But when I get the power I lusted for, I’ll use it to defend those less fortunate. Forget the fact that I had to trample the less fortunate to get here.”

  Denita had always been the master at insinuation. She could make her point without ever really saying it and then deny that’s what she meant. But there could be no mistaking the point she was making now. She wanted to be a judge. And Charles was the one person who knew the one secret that could keep her from that dream.

  Somehow, Denita had overlooked an obvious flaw in her theory.

  “Catherine Godfrey knows, Denita. And I didn’t tell her.”

  Charles expected to see Denita’s face register shock, just as he had done when Godfrey had dropped the bomb on him. Instead, Denita just gave him that smug little smile that he had learned to detest years ago.

  “All she knows, Charles, is what I told her. And all I told her is that there might be one skeleton in my closet . . . but it’s a skeleton that only my ex-husband knows about. I didn’t tell her what that secret was, and she didn’t ask.”

  At this, Charles experienced a sense of momentary relief—our dark secret is safe—followed by the increased weight of a new burden. It was like he had traded in a small backpack for a boulder that someone had now strapped to his back. “And as long as I keep my mouth shut, you’ll get your chance . . . is that it?”

  She narrowed her eyes and studied him. “I’m asking you to honor the confidentiality that is part of being husband and wife. If the tables were turned, I’d do the same for you.”

  “You can’t ask me to lie, Denita.”

  “You won’t have to. There are some things that will never be asked.”

  She had this all figured out, he realized. An answer for almost everything. But not quite everything. She still needed her ex-husband to be an accomplice. She still needed him to promise his silence.

  “Denita, you may find this hard to believe—” he lowered his voice until it was almost a whisper—“but I still care about you.” Her eyes showed her skepticism, though he meant every word. “But there are principles at stake here. Important principles. Biblical principles. How can I stay silent and just deny everything I believe?”

  Denita did not hesitate, did not even blink. She had probably rehearsed this answer the entire two-hour drive, Charles thought. She even managed a weak little smile. “That’s my Charles,” she said. “Never wrong. Never in doubt.” Then she leaned forward, and her eyes drilled into him. Now she was all business. “People change, Charles. Even without getting all religious like you, people still change. What I did was wrong, but I’ve changed. You’ve got to trust me on this. Let me prove it to you.”

  For this moment he had steeled himself. In truth, he could have scripted this whole evening—the braids, the perfume, the soft apologies, the subtle attempts at flirtation followed by an appeal to sympathy and his duty as a husband—it was all part of a careful plan to persuade him. Denita Masterson—always the temptress, always the lawyer, always the potter who could mold Charles like wet clay.

  But not tonight.

  “I’ve got to think about it,” he said.

  Denita pulled back and shook her head. “You think I’m just trying to play you, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. Why deny it? She could see right through him.

  She stood. “You don�
��t understand me at all. Never did.” Charles saw the anger rising in her face, the tight lines that had become so familiar a few years ago. “I’ve got nothing to bargain with. No weapons, Charles. . . . This is your dream come true.”

  “Denita . . .” He stood and reached out to gently touch her arm, trying to calm her down.

  She pulled the arm away, not roughly, but decisively. She kept her voice low. “I mean it, Charles. My whole future’s in your hands. You can crush me if you want. It’s totally up to you.” She paused long enough to throw fire with her eyes. “Just make sure you can live with yourself afterward.”

  Then she turned and left the restaurant, even before the waiter returned with her salmon. He would now have two meals to deal with, and he was no longer hungry.

  “You can crush me if you want. . . . Just make sure you can live with yourself afterward.”

  25

  BY 10:00 A.M. ON SATURDAY Rebecca Crawford had already been at the office for two hours. Before coming in, she had worked out, rushed through some relaxation techniques a counselor once showed her, squeezed into a black pantsuit—the blasted pants kept getting smaller—then grabbed a granola bar and a cup of coffee at a convenience store.

  She made two calls from her cell phone on the way. One went to a junior prosecutor and another to an investigator. Both could have waited, but she wanted to make a point. Her Saturday morning calls were legendary among those who wandered the halls of justice. The workaholic never rested, they said. She didn’t want to let them down.

  She had downed most of her third cup of coffee before the child psychiatrist joined her in the cramped conference room.

  Dr. Isabell Byrd was a kind and spirited woman who had gone to bat for Crawford before. Juries liked Byrd. She was small and thin, spunky, and quirky enough to keep things interesting. She had married into the Byrd name, but it seemed to fit her perfectly—a little busybody hummingbird. Isabell had short gray hair and sharp little features with a pointy birdlike nose, half-moon glasses, and inquisitive eyes that darted everywhere. She had seen more than her share of abuse cases during her twenty-eight years of practice, and she was willing to say whatever needed to be said to put the bad guys away.