One of the guards showed up at the door and opened it so Lebowski could lead the women out of the room and into daylight, but Kerry grabbed Lebowski’s arm just before he stepped over the threshold. Val and the assistant were behind them.
“I almost forgot. Did you get the ten thousand dollars you requested?” Kerry asked him. “I know it’s an odd time, but I just want to make sure it’s taken care of.”
“What ten thousand dollars? My office didn’t send a new invoice,” Lebowski declared, looking at his assistant.
Kerry turned to Val. “But Val said she was—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Val stepped in. “I must’ve gotten the invoices confused. We’ll check on it. Okay?”
There was this long, distressing silence as both parties, Kerry and Lebowski, added up the inconsistency, felt that something must be wrong, but then assured themselves that they were just being suspicious. Still, notes were taken. Dispatches received. Ears and red flags raised and that was clear in Kerry’s tone when she said, “Sure.”
The guard holding the door said something to rush the party along and Lebowski grabbed Kerry’s shaky and sweaty hand like he was leading her into the doorway at the senior prom.
“It’ll be fine,” he said to her with Val looking over Kerry’s shoulder. “Just fine.”
When the doors of the jail finally opened, the media and a crowd of onlookers swarmed in from every angle. There were cameras and flashing lights, microphones, and people hollering out questions that sounded like charges to the two Mrs. Taylors.
“Did you kill your ex-husband and now you’re getting away with it?” Kerry heard.
“How could you support the woman who killed your husband?” Val heard. She felt eyes digging into her from all angles. Like they all knew what she had done. Knew her part.
Kerry glanced over her shoulder at Val and grabbed her hand knowingly as Lebowski led them, pushing through the crowd en route to a blacked-out SUV waiting by the curb.
From the cameras hovering from the news helicopters above, it seemed like people were just everywhere. Tightest at the nucleus where the little group was moving and then thinning out from there. On the outskirts, people held up signs that read “JAMISON IS ALIVE” and “THE CIA KILLED TAYLOR,” contradicting ideas that somehow seemed to unite certain groups.
While Lebowski hadn’t intended on saying too many words to the media and wanted to wait until his client was safe at home before releasing a statement, as the crowd tightened around them, he knew he would have to say something to wet their tongues before he asked for privacy or they would follow the SUV across town, on the highway, and line the street outside of Kerry’s home.
Nearly at the SUV, he stopped and signaled for Kerry and Val to stay behind him.
“While my client is very excited and anxious to get home to her son and family, we know that you are all equally excited and anxious to hear something from us. I’ll answer a few questions and then we’ll ask for privacy until we release an official statement.”
Ready with questions, reporters jumped right in, organizing their microphones in front of Lebowski to be sure to capture every utterance.
Lebowski ignored most of them and pointed to one of the journalists he knew in the crowd.
“Please, tell us how you feel, Kerry. Over three months in jail, and now you’re released. What does it feel like?” the reporter asked.
The crowd went quiet, anticipating Kerry’s response.
“I’ll speak for Mrs. Jackson,” Lebowski said. “She just told me that she’s only thinking of her son right now. A good Southern mother, she wants to be home with him so they can eat dinner as a family tonight, she can tuck him into bed and say prayers with him. While tragedy has struck this family, they thank God that they have a lot to be thankful for.”
Lebowski nodded to another reporter he knew.
As he listened and answered the second reporter’s question, Val pretended to listen, but she was busy looking through the crowd. In the faces before her there were people she knew who hadn’t been so nice to her when she was the first lady of the city. Some who’d put pictures of her online and made her the punch line of jokes about the mayor marrying a stripper. One who’d plastered her face on the cover of a magazine and put the headline “THE LADY IS A TRAMP” over her forehead.
Kerry could feel Val drifting away and looked through the crowd too, as Lebowski was doing a fine job with answering each question aimed at her.
Kerry noticed some of the protestors who’d been there when Ras, Jamison’s old roommate, was killed, seemingly after the grassroots leader signed up to help Jamison with the community project and was jailed and released just like her. There were also some of Jamison’s fraternity brothers there. Some still held alliances with Jamison when he died. Others had stabbed him in the back when the governor flashed checks and promises of promotions before their eyes. Behind one was a black man with a boy toddler perched on his shoulders. The baby was wearing one of the old Free Ras T-shirts people had been wearing when Ras was locked up in the jail right behind them. Kerry had pushed Jamison to do everything in his power to get Ras out of jail. She broke one of her rules after the divorce and got into Jamison’s business, telling him Ras was only being persecuted because he was trying to do something right in the community. After all, he had been the one who’d rolled up his sleeves and come up with the muscle behind Jamison’s big plans. These were his ideas. His connections. His theories. Jamison was the one with the metaphorical megaphone who’d gotten all of the attention and glory and accolades, but Ras was the catalyst. And because of that, he was a target. Kerry remembered this—and what Auset said happened to targets—when the man with the boy on his shoulders caught Kerry’s stare and pumped a black fist into the air.
Something in Kerry quickened. It was like a butterfly in her stomach, only more fierce and tugging at her gut for a response of some kind.
Kerry blinked and looked back at Lebowski, to find that he was quiet and listening to something his assistant was whispering into his ear. In fact, as she looked and listened, she realized that everyone was quiet and looking down at their cell phones. Something had happened—was happening.
“What’s going on?” Kerry heard Val ask.
“I don’t know.” Kerry looked back at Lebowski, whose once-confident stare had turned distant and obscure.
He looked out at the crowd. The crowd looked at him. There was an air of solemnity all around.
Kerry could see Lebowski’s Adam’s apple roll down his throat as he struggled to swallow. This was bad news. Very bad news.
She looked at Val and shrugged.
“I’ve just received the news and a confirmation, I suppose like most of you at this point,” Lebowski started softly, “that unfortunately and sadly, the DA was just found dead in a hotel room by the airport of an apparent suicide. While reports are still forthcoming, I do have confirmation that a suicide letter was found with the body and his wife has confirmed that the pistol found in the room belonged to him.”
Chatter erupted everywhere.
Val felt like everyone had turned and looked at her. Suddenly the sun above became mercilessly hot.
Some news teams united and raced to their trucks for the fastest lead to the hotel.
“What?” Kerry looked at Lebowski as he spoke.
He said, “My client has also just learned of the news and we are not prepared to comment at this time. Right now, we can only hope that God is with District Attorney Charles ‘Chuck’ Brown’s family in their time of need. That is all.”
Lebowski began pushing through the crowd toward the SUV again.
“He’s dead? He died?” Kerry looked at the assistant frantically; honestly not knowing what she should be doing or saying.
Noticing again that Val was quiet, she turned to her and saw that her face was blank and her cheeks were flushed like she’d just seen a dead body. She looked like Tyrian always did just before he vomited.
“You okay?” Kerry asked Val as Lebowski got into the SUV.
“I’m fine. Just feeling a little light-headed.”
The driver held the door open and Kerry let Val get into the SUV first.
While most of the news crews had already left to check in on-location about the DA’s suicide, a few loyal, ambitious, and militant crews had stayed.
“Wait, Mrs. Jackson, can you let us know how you feel about all these conspiracy theories that maybe your ex-husband is alive and in Cuba?” someone asked just as Kerry was about to get into the car behind Val. “Do you think there’s any connection to the DA’s suicide?”
Kerry stopped in her steps and searched the crowd for the voice.
“You don’t have to answer that,” Lebowski said. “Best you don’t.” When Kerry didn’t move, he added, “Just get into the car.”
“No. I want to,” Kerry said and then that quickening in her body cleared her throat and vocal chords and pushed out sounds that gathered in the air as words she had no idea she intended on speaking.
“I believe it,” Val heard Kerry saying outside the car, so she inched over and poked her head out to look at her.
“Shit!” Lebowski grumpled beside Val in the SUV as he scurried to get out. “What is she doing?”
Kerry went on speaking so loudly that the now smallish crowd could hear her as clearly as if she was speaking through a bullhorn. “I believe Jamison is alive and wherever he is, he went there because he was trying to escape.”
“Escape what?” someone shouted.
“This system,” Kerry said, setting her eyes to the back of the crowd where the man with the toddler on his shoulders was still standing. “The system that originally had him under investigation by the FBI and the same system that had me in jail for his murder.”
“No, stop!” Lebowski urged Kerry through his teeth as he smiled for the cameras and tried to force her into the SUV. “Okay, that’s all,” he said, trying to speak over Kerry, but she only got louder.
“I didn’t believe that for a long time; I didn’t want to listen to people who were saying it,” Kerry shouted. “Like everyone else, I called their thoughts ‘conspiracy theories,’ but now that I am listening and I have my ears wide open, I think it’s no coincidence that the DA chose to release me from jail. I don’t know what happened to him, but I think he knew exactly what’s going on here and soon, soon, we’ll all know.”
“Okay!” Lebowski snipped, nearly tossing Kerry into the back of the SUV at that point.
But it was too late again. Amid cheers and fists in the air from the people in the back of the crowd with the banners and a few supporters up front, Kerry had stepped onto the floorboard of the SUV and was hollering along, “Revolution! Revolution! Revolution!”
“That’ll be all.” He waved at the crowd.
Once Lebowski had finally gotten Kerry into the SUV and they were about to drive off, her little scene brought out the Brooklyn Jewish boy in the now-distinguished attorney.
“What the fuck was that? Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Lebowski cursed at the end of a series of worse expletives that had his assistant very nervous in the front seat with the driver, but the black women seated beside him in the back hardly moved and were more focused on how red his face was getting as anger consumed his body. “I told you to follow my lead—let me talk. The fuck was that, Kerry?”
The driver tried to pull away from the curb, but he couldn’t move too quickly or he’d hit some of the bystanders who’d encircled the automobile.
“I wanted to answer the question,” Kerry said, still high off of the electric response the crowd had given her. She’d felt like a superstar: Betty. Coretta. Winnie. Kathleen. That night, lying in bed, she’d imagine that Auset was in the jail watching her from a window with a fist in the air.
“Why would you want to answer that question? It was a dumb-ass question. A crazy question! What were you thinking? Were you even thinking?” Lebowski fired.
“I was thinking about the truth,” Kerry said boldy.
Val and Lebowski and the assistant and even the driver looked at Kerry like she’d pulled out a crack pipe.
“What?” Val asked, with her tone matching the concern on her face.
“Okay, listen,” Kerry said, noting the stares. “I’ve been reading about Jamison’s death online and, I know it sounds like a stretch, but there is proof out there that he’s alive.”
“Oh shit,” Lebowski said, tapping his assistant on the shoulder. “Contact our guy at the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and tell him we are retracting all of the statements Kerry just made outside the jail. Tell him . . . she’s obviously mentally drained and possibly suffering from depression.” He looked at Kerry and added, “and likely delusions.”
“I am not delusional. I am not depressed. I’m smart and I know what I’m saying,” Kerry countered.
Lebowski ignored her and tapped his assistant on the shoulder again. “And get in contact with that trial psychologist—the one from Emory—and get an appointment for Kerry. First thing tomorrow morning.” He turned to the driver. “And why are we still sitting here?” he asked. They’d moved only a yard or so from the curb.
“I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing I can do right now. We have to wait a second until the crowd gets out of the way.” He pointed to the many militant bystanders who’d started chanting, “Torkwase! Torkwase!”
“What is that? What are they saying?” Kerry asked.
“Don’t know. Don’t care!” Lebowski answered. “My only focus right now is getting you out of here and getting you some help.”
“Help? For what? I’m not crazy.” Kerry looked at Val, whose expression had changed. “Why is it so hard to believe that he’s alive? And that there might be more to what happened at the hotel than we know?”
Val asked sharply, “Why is it hard to accept that he’s dead. Is dead and been dead?”
Sensing that Val’s abrasive words and tone might lead to further conflict, Lebowski jumped between the brides with, “Kerry, you’ve been through a lot, more than any of us. You haven’t had time to mourn the loss of someone you loved. Someone who loved you. And if you need more time, we understand. But let us help you.”
The driver was about to pull off from the curb but there was a solid fist banging on the window.
“Just one more question for Kerry Jackson,” the group in the SUV heard a woman’s voice say.
“It’s a reporter,” the assistant said, before signaling “no” to the final visitor.
As if she hadn’t heard any of Lebowski and Val’s pleas for silence, Kerry pressed her finger on the button to lower the back window beside her.
In what seemed like slow motion, poor Lebowski went to stop the tinted glass from disappearing into the door frame, but his effort was in vain.
“Driver, put your foot on the gas and get us out of here,” he ordered, seeing these indiscretions adding more distance between him and his imagined victory. “If we move, they’ll move!” he added, pointing to people in front of the car.
“No!” Kerry barked behind the driver with so much power that he had to listen to her. “We can’t leave!” Sitting beside the lowering window, she was the only one in the car who could see the face on the other side of the door. It was no reporter. Just a familiar foe with red hair and a long history with Kerry.
“So now he’s alive and on the run from the CIA?” Coreen said, looking over at Kerry with all of the contention between the two women, the first wife and the first mistress, clear in her stare. “That’s funny. That’s really funny. Because a few months ago you were so sure that I was the killer. Had every detective in Georgia down my throat.” Coreen was pointing her index finger at Kerry and this got the attention of a few cameramen who immediately started recording the incident.
“I was just telling them what I knew. What I heard and saw that day,” Kerry said in what sounded like an apology but could never be. The last time she’d seen Coreen the two women were in a church and Ke
rry was still trying to fight to save her marriage. She’d given Coreen a sharp warning that was more like a threat. She’d told Coreen to stay away from her husband “or else”; well, Coreen clearly hadn’t listened, and that threat was still there.
Realizing who Kerry was talking to, Lebowski was back to his foul language and begging the driver to plow over the bevy of photographers and whoever else was blocking the SUV’s trajectory. All of that while simultaneously trying to keep Val from jumping out of the truck and charging at Coreen herself because she was all curses and threats too. He was a seasoned veteran, and so he’d expected some of these little bumps in this escape plan, but nothing like this. Nothing like this at all. Later, while replaying the circus of Val trying to claw her way out of the SUV to get at Coreen and thus nearly tearing the collar off of his shirt, he’d tell his brother and best friend, “It was like a bunch of black woman with baby mama drama. These girls wanted blood.” While he’d admit a part of him was entertained being in the center of the melee, he said he had to maintain only two goals: keep his team in the car and get out of there as fast as possible.
“You killed Jamison, Kerry. Period. You threw him from the roof because you were jealous of his relationship with me and his relationship with his son. Admit it!” Coreen said.
“What did she say?” Val asked Lebowski, trying to get out of his hold.
“Jealous? Do you really think I could ever be jealous of you? Some random ass he flew across the country to see and then left?” Kerry said to Coreen. “His little secret?”
“His little secret who ruined your marriage,” Coreen replied nastily.
“You did. Sure you did,” Kerry admitted. “Does that make you feel good? Make it easier for you to sleep at night? Does it? Knowing the only way you could ever get a man like that was by stealing him? That you had to get on your back and open your legs just to have him? And that even then, you still didn’t get him? He still wasn’t yours? Right? Because after all of that—after taking him and trapping him with your bastard son and even after our divorce—he still didn’t marry you. He married someone else. Does that make you feel good?”
His Last Wife Page 15