Nappily Faithful

by Trisha R. Thomas

  “Thank you,” Airic said to Trevelle. “I appreciate you understanding. And I swear, I’ll explain everything. But right now I have to go somewhere and close my eyes.”

  “No problem, sweetheart,” Trevelle said. She gently put both her hands on each side of his face. The day-old scent of smoke and alcohol assaulted her senses. He hadn’t respected her enough to even shower. A picture painted a thousand words and his story was told. She didn’t need him explaining anything. “Go rest,” she said complacently, ’cause you’re going to need it.

  She walked over to the chaise and picked up the phone. She dialed and didn’t bother saying hello. “Everything set?” Her face was tight with determination. “You’re sure, no mix-ups. I can’t leave this in the hands of the judge.” She smiled with assurance. “Perfect. The wonders of what money can buy. Thank you, Eddie, I’ll put you in my prayers.”

  She could relax now. Her white leather-bound Bible was never more than a reach away. The pages practically opened themselves. She read Psalm 35 out loud. “‘Plead my cause, O Lord, with them that strive with me: fight against them that fight against me. Take hold of shield and sword, and stand up for my help. Draw out also the spear and stop the way against them that persecute me. I am thy salvation. My soul shall be joyful in the Lord, it shall rejoice in his salvation.’” She closed the book and rested her head, knowing all would be right again soon.

  51

  Venus

  I’d tossed and turned all night thinking about my failed and final meeting with Airic. Now your husband will put a hit on me like he did his accountant. I couldn’t figure out if Airic was really afraid or just doing a little mudslinging. Either way, it hit right between the eyes.

  Jake and I had decided to never speak about Byron Steeple, though it was always between us. We’d made a silent pact to never broach the subject in open air. BYRON STEEPLE, BEATEN TO DEATH, a huge headline stapled across both our foreheads. By never talking about it we’d hoped it would go away. But it never disappeared. Always imprinted on our minds and spirits no matter how far we tried to run. The night Jake told me everything, I was prepared to accept the fact that maybe I didn’t know my husband as well as I thought I did. Turns out that part was true.

  After Jake found out Byron Steeple was siphoning off millions of dollars, he set out to prove it. He hired an auditing team to investigate, find out how the money was being taken and where it was stashed. They came up empty. Byron had cleaned his trail spotless, all the while denying everything. To add insult to injury he leaked the information that JP Wear was near bankruptcy, ripe for the picking by anyone who wanted a piece.

  Conveniently, Fenny Maxwell, a woman exec for one of his biggest department store buyers, made an offer to buy JP Wear for half its worth. Jake immediately suspected foul play. She threatened to pull the plug on millions of dollars’ worth of orders if he didn’t comply. He had no choice. Sell, and quick, or JP Wear would be left in financial ruin. It didn’t take long to add up the connection between Fenny Maxwell and Byron Steeple. Their secret alliance sent Jake into a tailspin. He wanted retribution, if not with the return of his money, then maybe with blood.

  He wasn’t sure what he was going to do the night he followed the thief to his brand-new Bentley, compliments of the embezzled funds from Jake’s company. He followed him for what seemed like forever, an endless maze through traffic and streets until landing in the West Hollywood nightclub district. Byron pulled over, rolled his window down, and flagged bills for attention. The street boys flocked to his car, vying for the job Byron was willing to pay for.

  He’d trusted Byron as the money man from day one. When Jake’s company made its first million Byron was right there crossing the i’s and dotting the t’s. He knew how to make the cash flow work, turning it over with the right investments. The day Byron sat Jake down and asked to be a partner he almost thought it was a joke. “Doesn’t have to be a huge split, just like thirty percent,” he proposed. “I’ve busted my ass for this business, went the first year on slave wages just to help a brotha out. I’m just thinking it’s time for just rewards.”

  “You’re paid. You want more money, that’s cool. But I’m not giving you part of my company, man. I’ve worked too hard to start giving away what I’ve built.”

  “A lot of us have worked too hard.”

  “No doubt. And I appreciate everything you’ve done.” Jake noticed the beads of sweat across Byron’s forehead. “Look, man, I know coming to me this way wasn’t easy. Let me give it some thought. You know, just give me some time to think it over and I’ll get back with you.” They shook hands that day … two years later and Jake never got back with him. He never broached the subject and neither had Byron. Their arrangement stayed intact. Byron was the money man and that’s all Jake cared about. Until that night, Jake knew nothing of the man’s personal life.

  “Shut up and get ya ass out of the car.” Those were the words Jake heard coming from a short distance away as he watched from the street. Two men, one on each side. He thought he was seeing things when he caught a glimpse of a gun.

  “What the hell are you doing? Get your hands off me.” Byron tried to roll up his window but one reached inside and hit him hard across the back of his head. “Say another word and I’ll blow your head off,” he yelled.

  Byron tried to struggle. Even with passersby looking on, they struck him again, then shoved him over to the passenger side of the car, then the other trotted back to a dated Mercedes parked across the street.

  The Bentley moved fast into the street and sped off with the Mercedes close behind. For a split second Jake sat still, shocked. Had he just witnessed a carjacking? Then without reason, he started his car and hurried to follow. What was his plan, to save Byron Steeple’s life? He didn’t know. All he knew was the man was being kidnapped in plain sight and no one had offered a shred of help or concern, including himself. He pulled out his cell phone and steered with one hand while the other prepared to dial 911. All he needed was a license number. And then he remembered who he was dealing with, the LAPD. The Los Angeles Police Department and black men were like oil and water, and did not mix. No matter how innocent, he’d get drawn in and somehow assumed guilty. Whether it was this crime or one that happened a year ago, he’d become a suspect and he wasn’t about to sacrifice his own life to save Byron’s.

  All Jake could do was follow, slowing when they slowed, speeding when they did until finally reaching Byron’s long driveway. That’s when he knew it was more than a carjacking. Far more personal.

  Jake parked on the street just far enough away not to be seen and got out and stepped lightly through the densely landscaped path. On the other side, the Bentley idled but inside Jake saw bodies moving. He pushed himself behind the tall shrubs and waited, scared to death. He cursed himself for being stupid enough to be so close. What had he planned to do? he kept asking himself. He also kept telling himself to Go back, turn around, and run.

  But he couldn’t. He stood crouched in the brush, in shock by what he was seeing and hearing.

  The car windows were down. He heard voices, whimpering, and sobbing, then a few moments of moaning and grunting. Jake knew what was going on, but thought, no. He wasn’t witnessing a man being sexually assaulted. “Bring him in the house, man. I want him on some of those fine sheets he got in there.”

  “Naw, the accountant likes it raw and dirty,” the assailant said in between grunts. “Ain’t that how you like it, baby?” Byron tried to struggle in the backseat of his car, determined not to go in the house.

  Jake watched in horror, he felt the clamp on his chest, the asthma taking hold. He stood holding his breath, afraid his next inhale would be a loud wheezing. He needed to go back to the car, get a crowbar. Just start swinging. He couldn’t stand there holding what little breath he had left. God, help me. He pulled out his cell phone. He stared at it briefly, realizing the dialing might make beep tones. Why couldn’t someone invent a phone that didn’t sing every tune, or bleep
every touch of the key?

  Byron started to yell something but before he could get two syllables out the sound of a fist landing against flesh and bone shut him up temporarily.

  “Where’s the appreciation? At least I used a little ChapStick.”

  “How … considerate of you,” Byron said weakly.

  “Hey, you mess around with the bull, you gonna get the horns.”

  “I’ve got money … in my safe. I’ll give it to you, please.”

  “We know, man. What’d you think, this was a social call?”

  “Then let me go inside and get it.”

  “Naw, naw. Then you come out blasting with that little twenty-two you got in there for sissies.”

  “How’d you know …” This gave the conversation new meaning for Byron. He must’ve thought he knew who’d sent the men. “No … he wouldn’t do this to me. You did something to him … you threatened him. I’ll kill you.” He mustered enough strength to try and fight again. The sound of slapping and hard thuds calmed him.

  “Somebody’s gon call the police up here. Let’s go, man.”

  “Right,” the main one said. “Okay, here’s the thing, you give me the combination. I go inside and handle business and then we’re on our way.”

  “Kiss my ass!” Byron spat.

  The sound again and again. Hitting, thick serious connections. By this time Jake was bordering on collapse. Just give ’em the combination.

  Byron had stolen from Jake and now someone was stealing from him. Made sense. They weren’t going to kill him. He could relax and wait them out. He’d call 911 from Byron’s phone for the paramedics as soon as the goons cleared out. But then something ridiculous happened.

  “I rather die than give you shit,” Byron said with a mouth full of blood and spit. “You think I care, I don’t care.” The blows became deftly concise. One, two, three, like beating a pillow, only it was now Byron’s swollen head.

  “Play nice, and we go, simple as that.”

  “Mutha—” Before Byron could get the rest out, he went silent.

  “Aw, man, now what. He’s out cold.”

  “Get the water hose.”

  The one who never got his turn started toward the garden patch near the entry. He was only a foot or so away from Jake while he uncoiled the hose. He walked back and shoved it through the open car window. Byron came to. He still refused to cooperate, even after they used the hose for more than soaking him down.

  “He’s done,” the main guy said. “I didn’t get paid enough to be putting in overtime.”

  “We still don’t have the money.”

  “We got paid, anything else was going to be a bonus.”

  Within minutes it was over, the two men drove in the Mercedes and Jake was still afraid to move. He forced himself to take a step, then another, approaching Byron’s car. Jake went to open the door then thought twice. He used his jacket cuff and covered his hand before touching the handle. Water flooded out where they’d left the hose on. “Byron … man, wake up. Can you hear me?” His face was ballooned and bleeding.

  A mild moan was music to Jake’s ears. Byron’s closed eyes moved from side to side behind his lids.

  “It’s Jake, man. Come on, try to sit up.”

  “You … ?” Byron’s accusation was slurred. “You ain’t shiiiit.”

  “What … no. I’m trying to help you, man.” Jake pushed the Bluetooth symbol on the steering wheel of the Bentley, ready to dial 911.

  “You know what they say, a fool and his money will soon part.” Byron let out a ragged cough. “I just took it before you lost it anyway. You’re never gonna see a dime of it.”

  All that could be heard was the laughter coming from the inside of the car. Jake could see his bloodied tongue and teeth gleaming with a smile. He yanked Byron out the car by his collar. “Fool, I’m trying to help you and you’re still trying to play me.”

  “Don’t hate the play—”

  Jake let go of Byron, letting him slide to the wet ground, running water snaked around his limp body. “You probably got exactly what you deserved.”

  “And you got what you deserved,” Byron said weakly.

  Jake stood up and pressed 911 and listened to the operator ask, “What is your emergency?” The question came again as he stared at the man on the ground and felt nothing but contempt.

  He said he could’ve saved Byron if he’d called for help sooner. I knew who Jake was and I didn’t think he was capable of killing anyone. But I truly learned how big his heart was when he cried for hours, wishing he’d done something. Wishing he could turn time around. He’d been awash with guilt and heartbreak. He was convinced every bad thing culminated from that moment. We lost our son. A life for a life. Now we were going to lose Mya. When would the debt be paid?

  52

  The Chosen

  The courthouse was ominously quiet. The usual storm of anger and bitterness had shifted and moved and Delma wondered where. Somehow feeling it was a trick, she walked cautiously through the halls waiting for danger to jump out and grab her.

  So used to dealing with human misery on a daily basis, she felt confused by the calm. No solemn faces or arms folded over chests. No screaming children in the halls. No screaming adults for that matter.

  Hudson greeted her as she came through the heavy oak doors. “Hey, lady.”

  “Is it a holiday I forgot about?”

  “No. But I will agree it’s quiet out there. Not one single argument taking place in the halls. I even moved straight through the security line. No one trying to get a single weapon through.”

  “What is it, a bomb scare or something? And why are we the only ones still left in the building?” She’d come in prepared for the chaos that would take place in the courtroom when she read her judgment over who would get Mya Fisher. But now the eerie calm threatened her disposition. “I’m serious … what’s going on around here?”

  “For one, it’s the first day of fishing season. Calendars are empty. All except yours, of course. Today’s the big day.”

  “You don’t have to remind me, trust me. I’ll be in my chambers.”

  “Oh no you don’t.” He followed fast behind her. “Let’s see it.”

  She paced a few moments before opening her briefcase and pulling out the ruling she’d spent all night writing.

  He eyeballed the piece of paper shaking in his nervous hands. Hudson read silently for a few minutes. “This is perfect.”

  “Oh stop patronizing me. Bottom line, I feel like I’ve made a deal with the devil, no matter how I’ve painted the decision.”

  “You have no choice. If someone’s going to win, someone else is required to lose. You’re doing what you have to do, and that’s that.” He headed for the door. “Forget about everything and focus on what you have to do.” Hudson gingerly touched her chin before leaving her alone.

  Delma knew he was right. “The best interest of the child,” she repeated to herself, while trying to settle down. There was no other purpose to be discussed or initiated. In this case, it just happened it was her own child, Keisha, who she was thinking about. And the best interest for her was to never know who her biological mother was and to make sure Trevelle went away quietly once and for all.

  By the time she had settled with herself, Hudson was knocking on her door again.

  “It’s time.”

  “I’ll be there in a minute.” She picked up the paper with her statement typed out. She read the first sentence out loud, “In the case of Venus Johnston-Parson versus Airic P. Fisher regarding minor child Mya Fisher, the court has entered a decision.” Her voice cracked at the start of the next sentence. Delma balled up the paper, crushing it to its smallest form before throwing it in the trash. She walked to the wood-paneled wall and stared at seemingly nothing until she reached out, sliding aside a small circular disk. She pressed her face against the hole. There they were, both sets of parents. Poor Mya was somewhere else without a clue her life was about to be changed forever.
/>
  “Father Lord, Jesus, give me strength.” Delma straightened her robe, picked up her gavel, and headed out to make what would be her third most regretful decision, the one that could end her career, her relationships, and all things as she knew them.

  53

  Venus

  “All rise.”

  The scattered group stood up while the judge settled into her wooden throne. She adjusted the bifocals at the rim of her nose before gazing over her captive audience. “Good morning. How’s everybody doing?”

  No one answered back, as if it were a rhetorical question. Jake and I continued standing, waiting for the magic word to be seated. Airic stood next to his lawyer. The swelling on his face had gone down, but the dark ring was still visible where he’d been hit the hardest. I craned my head around looking for Trevelle and met the eyes of our attorney who stood unassumingly behind us, ready to intervene at any given moment but discreet enough to not be a distraction. She winked and smiled for assurance. Trevelle stood a short distance away. I smelled her before I saw her from the corner of my eye, the thick well of heavy-handed perfume. The well-placed makeup and extended lashes couldn’t mask the exhaustion around her tired eyes.

  The clerk stood up and read off the names while gesturing to the empty tables in front. “Airic Fisher and Venus Parson go ahead and take your seats.”

  Jake and I both moved, assuming the position. I felt like we’d been sitting in the same spot of judgment for months, since the first night Airic called and said those debilitating words, I want to see Mya. She’s my daughter.

  “This decision was not easy for me,” the judge started out slowly. She turned her attention directly to Airic. “To some of us, three years isn’t much time at all. Most of us don’t even remember what we were doing three years ago because usually it’s the same thing we always do, busy moving from day to day, week to week, month to month. Birthdays, Christmas, New Year’s, days we take for granted, assuming they will just keep coming.