Love Always,
Ms. Desiree
That was it. I fell to the floor. I had nothing left. I curled my body into a ball and closed my eyes. I finally relived what I’d done. My eyelids were like a movie projector as I watched it unfold.
Chapter 17
Kelsi Jones
I waited for Ms. Desiree to get off work. Just like I’d practiced with Big K, I waited for her to go into the parking lot where I knew she’d wait fifteen minutes for a ride home.
Big K had timed it all out for me. He had been watching Ms. Desiree at work for months because he thought she was cheating on him with some doctor. He was the one who told me which stairwell to hide in near the elevator she would take to her ride’s BMW.
She had her bag flung over her arm and she was humming a tune when she got off the elevator. At that moment I wondered what the fuck she could be so happy about. She was buying a house and trying to leave me behind! That’s what I told myself.
I took my last swig of Patrón from the flask Big K had given me. I winced as it burned my chest going down. I can’t lie; it eased my nerves a lot. I fingered the Glock that I had in my hoodie jacket pocket. It’s now or never, I told myself. I stepped out of the darkness.
“Waiting for someone?” I asked in an eerily low voice. Ms. Desiree jumped so hard she almost tripped and fell.
“Ah! Oh my God! Kelsi! Why would you scare me like that?” Ms. Desiree huffed, holding her chest in a clutch-the-pearls manner. “What in the world are you doing here? And how did you . . . ?” she rambled, her voice still trembling from the scare.
“Don’t talk. Please stop talking,” I demanded. I felt the alcohol taking over my speech. My heart hammered so hard I felt short of breath.
Ms. Desiree’s eyes went wide. She had seen the gun before I intended for her to see it. “Kelsi! What are you do—” she started.
“Shut up! Shhhh! Don’t talk I told you! If you talk it will make this harder!” I growled at her. I looked around.
Big K had told me to keep my back to the left where the camera was. With the black hoodie on, I’d look like a robber.
“Okay. I won’t,” Ms. Desiree whispered. “But think about—”she started again.
“I’m done talking. I said shut up!” I hissed, this time I pushed the gun toward her chest.
Ms. Desiree started blinking rapidly in response. She was too shocked to speak. Tears started falling from her eyes. “Why?” she mouthed.
Even in the haze of my intoxication, I felt something in my heart burst. I felt myself about to give in to emotion and run away. I had come too far for that. Now that Ms. Desiree had seen me with the gun she would report me to the police if I left things as they were.
“You could’ve walked away and left him with me! Why didn’t you just do that? You tried to move to a house and leave me!” I said through my own tears now.
Ms. Desiree was shaking her head from side to side. “Please, Kelsi. What is the matter? Are you on something?” Ms. Desiree whispered. Her lips trembled so fiercely she couldn’t even pronounce the L in please. “Can’t we talk about this? I . . . I . . . can . . .” she murmured, tears dancing down her cheeks.
I heard a noise on the other side of the parking garage. I jumped. Ms. Desiree went to open her mouth. I guess she was going to scream. That’s when I panicked. I had gone over the time that Big K had given me to get the job done.
“Oh shit!” I huffed. Boom. Boom. I pulled the trigger twice. The sound of the gun exploded in my ears. I didn’t anticipate it being so loud. I immediately felt nauseous. I went deaf in both ears. I couldn’t concentrate on the pain throbbing at the center of my eardrums. I took off running as fast I could go. As I ran, the hood flew back off of my head. I knew then that one of those surveillance cameras in that parking garage was going to get me. I couldn’t worry about that. I ran and I ran until my body finally gave out.
Chapter 18
Cheyenne Turner
August 2010
There were so many news reporters outside of the courthouse after the sentencing. Li’l Kev and I had all types of microphones and recording devices being shoved into our faces. I didn’t have anything to say.
We stood behind the prosecutor while he took the opportunity to speak about how justice had been served. Through the crowd, I saw his face. He was fighting his way toward us. Finally, he started up the courthouse steps. He had a serious look on his face. My heart skipped a beat. I balled up my toes inside my shoes.
“Congratulations,” he said, grabbing my hand and giving it a squeeze. I was fighting back my tears.
“Thank you for keeping your promise,” I whispered to Detective Brice Simpson.
He squeezed my hand again. “Thank you for letting me,” he replied.
I felt an inner peace come over me. Everything for a reason, I thought. Everything for a reason.
The last I heard about my father, he’d been murdered six months after his conviction for the murder of my mother. I didn’t attend his funeral. I received a package a month after with a stack of letters he’d written to me and Li’l Kev. My brother and I sat together and burned them in the backyard of the home my mother had bought before her death. We burned the letters without ever reading them. A month after that, I received a check for $1.5 million from National Benefit Life Insurance Company. I was the beneficiary on my father’s insurance policy. My mother was still looking out for us.
Torch
Chunichi and Meisha Camm
Chapter 1
Mental Interrogation
“Shall we begin?” the strange-looking woman asked.
Her hair was grey and stringy and her clothes were old and crumpled. She was a frail old woman who looked as though she should be at home knitting or making cookies instead of here with me. Nevertheless, I played along.
“Yes, I’ve been ready.” I nodded my head after taking a sip of my warm Sprite in a can.
“My name is Dr. Gilman. I’m the chief resident psychiatrist for this facility. Do you know where you are?” she asked as she pulled out a notepad and pen from the desk drawer.
“I am at the Virginia Psychiatric Institute,” I replied.
“What’s your name?”
“Angela Farmer.”
“Angela, do you know what day is it?”
“Today is Tuesday, first thing in the morning.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“I’m here because I stabbed my mother, Pamela Farmer. But not only did I stab her, I strategically mapped it out. I was sure to place the knife perfectly so that I did not hit any major organs or arteries. I wanted to be sure she stayed alive long enough to feel every part of her body slowly burn after I lit the flame and set her ass on fire,” I said with a satisfied grin across my face.
Dr. Gilman seemed unmoved by my story and continued with her interrogation. “How old are you, Angela?”
“I’m twelve years old. How old are you, Dr. Gilman?” I returned the question. I was starting to get quite bored with this stupid question and answer game.
“Let’s stick to me asking the questions, please,” Dr. Gilman quickly redirected me. “You seem a little advanced for a twelve-year-old. Tell me a little bit about your education. ”
“Well you seem a little old for the position you’re in, but you don’t see me asking about your credentials,” I spat back.
“Again, Angela, please just answer the question,” Dr. Gilman said with a blank face.
“Fine. I’ve spent a lot of time reading. I’ve been reading my grandma’s old encyclopedias since age four when I first learned to read. It’s my only way of escaping the terrible place we call life,” I explained.
“Please explain why you feel life is so terrible.”
“Life is unfair. Some people are just lucky enough to be born into greatness while others are born into hatred, poverty, and illness. Then, we’re taught to thank this great spiritual being, God, for our blessing and pray to Him for our shortcomings. Now yo
u tell me, does that make sense?”
“Hhhmmm . . . interesting thought,” Dr. Gilman said as she scribbled on her notepad. Then she continued, “So, do you feel you were treated unfairly by God?”
“Yes.” I nodded my head.
“With that said, do you feel bad for what you did, or do you feel it was justified?”
“No, I do not feel bad at all. If this God being and heaven and hell really exists, then my mother was going to hell, right? So me killing her only made it so she could dance with the devil quicker than she expected,” I said with little emotion.
“Angela, tell me a little bit about you,” the doctor suggested.
“I will tell everything you need to know, but first you have to agree to become me,” I bargained.
“I’m not sure I understand what you mean.” The doctor seemed a little apprehensive of my request.
“Close your eyes and imagine yourself a six-year-old little girl. Not the average happy six-year-old playing with dolls, but a dirty six-year-old who hadn’t had a bath or a decent meal in weeks. Picture yourself wandering into a neighborhood crack house with twenty dollars’ worth of food stamps going to buy a ten dollar rock for your mom’s crack addiction, then stealing from the corner store just to have a snack to eat.
“Now imagine yourself at age seven. Crack is no longer good enough and Mommy has turned to heroin. At night, you sleep on a pallet of old newspapers in a cold apartment because Mommy has sold not only your bedroom furniture but all the furniture in the apartment. Your only friend since birth is a raggedy Minnie Mouse doll and eventually Minnie was taken away too.
“As if your mother and best friend being taken away isn’t enough, envision at age nine your virginity is taken as well. It’s traded for fifty dollars worth of drugs. At ten, you finally think things are getting better when Mommy finds a boyfriend. He puts the family in a nice apartment with furniture and provides clothes and food. You’re going to school and finally starting to make a few friends, but everything has a price. Soon, things turn dark again when you began getting raped by Mommy’s boyfriend almost every day after school. You tell Mommy but she doesn’t care because her boyfriend pays the rent, electric bill, and keeps her drugs coming regularly.
“Imagine at eleven years old, the boyfriend is gone but so is Mommy. For a week, you didn’t eat anything because Mommy got her tax return and went on a drug binge and left you home with no electricity or food. At twelve years old, imagine Mommy dressing you up nicely and putting makeup on you, then handing you over to three men in exchange for drugs. She smiles and assures you everything will be okay as she walks out of the room and closes the door behind her. For hours these men beat and rape you. Then, when it’s all over and you’re crying uncontrollably and begging for an explanation your Mommy dearest smacks you and orders you to stop crying because she has a bad headache. When you refuse, she locks you in a closet for three days.”
I paused as the emotions from that day began to take over and my eyes filled with water. I struggled to continue my story. “As you lay in darkness for seventy-two hours in your urine and feces with hunger pains shooting through your body, your hurt turns into fury.”
“You can stop now. I’ve heard enough!” Dr. Gilman yelled. She opened her fearful eyes with tears streaming down her face.
I quickly wiped my tears and began to smile because I knew I was getting to the best part of the story. “So to answer your question, no, I do not feel guilty.” I continued, totally ignoring her request to stop, “As my mother’s body was burning I laughed. Every time she begged for mercy I kicked her in the stomach and then in the face. I’m glad for what I did,” I explained with a huge smile on my face and breathing hard. This rush of energy came over my entire body. This newfound energy made me feel powerful.
“Our session is over,” Dr. Gilman said, jumped up from her chair, ran toward the door, opened it, and signaled for me to leave.
“Enjoy the rest of your day,” I said as I rose from my chair and skipped out the door merrily.
The door slammed behind me.
Chapter 2
A Day in Court
“Angela Farmer, please rise,” the judge ordered.
I didn’t know what to expect next. The timid little six-year-old inside of me was so afraid. I hid my head behind my lawyer’s arm.
“Your Honor, may I have a small recess with my client?” my lawyer requested.
“What does recess mean? Is this when we go outside and play? I thought that was only at school,” I said to her, tugging on her sleeve.
“It means you and I will talk alone for a few minutes,” she whispered back to me.
“Yes, I will call a fifteen-minute recess. After we reconvene, I would like to speak with Ms. Farmer in my chambers,” the judge requested.
“No,” I shouted out.
“Your Honor, with everything Angela has been through, she does not feel comfortable being around anyone of the opposite sex. Besides, an agreement has been reached between my client and the prosecution,” my lawyer explained.
“Very well. Ms. Farmer will not have to speak with me in the chambers.” He nodded.
During the recess, all I could think about was if I was going get to go home. For nearly two years, I’d lived in the psych ward waiting for my case to be over. I had no place to go if I got out, but I was ready to be released. My maternal grandmother died years ago and my mother never mentioned any other relatives to me.
“Ms. Farmer, do you realize what you have done?” the judge asked after court was back in session.
It was as though those words brought out a new being in me. I dropped my lawyer’s hand that I’d been holding so tight. I stood up straight and looked the judge in the eye as I responded. “Yes. I have saved my life and been given a gift of not ever being abused again in the process,” I said proudly with no remorse. I knew I was too young to be tried as an adult.
My lawyer looked down at me in shock as she tugged my sleeve and gave me a stern look that read “shut up.”
“The prosecution recommends no jail time,” the judge said reluctantly.
I looked at the judge and gave him a satisfied smile.
“The prosecution and I have agreed to a reasonable sentence,” my lawyer stated.
“Let’s hear it,” the judge said, obviously unhappy with the option my lawyer and the prosecution had arranged.
“Ms. Farmer will plead no contest. Her record will remain sealed and placed into the juvenile system. Upon turning eighteen years old, the record will be destroyed,” my lawyer explained.
“Do you understand how you will plead?” the judge asked me.
“I do understand,” I said.
“How are you feeling?” the judge asked.
“Failed,” I said.
“Explain please, young lady.” The judge seemed intrigued by my statement.
“The justice system failed me. I told neighbors how I was being abused. I even stopped a police officer in his patrol car eating his lunch. I begged him to take me with him, but he didn’t. I realize now that it’s not as if no one believed me, it’s just that no one cared enough to do anything about it.” I gave my statement.
“We’re here now,” Ms. Frazell, my lawyer, said as she attempted to give me a hug.
I turned away. Who cared if she just won a court case for me? She was still a stranger in my eyes.
“Angela, may I ask you one more question?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you know the names of the men who hurt you?”
“Just as I told the detectives, I don’t know their names,” I lied.
The police were still trying to find the men who my mother let rape me years ago. I guessed they were having trouble finding them. I didn’t care either way. I knew their day was coming—with or without the help of the police.
Chapter 3
A Place to Call Home
“Where are we?” I asked the social worker while clinging to the seat belt of her
SUV. We’d pulled up to a home that was unfamiliar to me.
For the past months, social services had been trying to find any known relatives of mine to possibly adopt me. Even though my story gained local television attention, no one had come forward. I have been living with my social worker, Betty Hill. She was good to me. More importantly, she didn’t ask me a lot of questions about what happened in my past.
“Well, you’re in the city of Suffolk. It’s a little country. A new environment will be good for you. Someone wants to adopt you. Angela, take a chance and open up your heart. Not all people are bad,” she expressed before getting out of the truck and heading to the front door of the house.
I watched as she knocked on the door and it swung open. Betty was met by a woman wearing a big old smile. She turned back and signaled for me to come. I took my time getting out of the truck. I slowly walked toward Betty with my head down.
“Hello, Angela. Please come right in,” the friendly woman said.
“Hi,” I replied. The palms of my hands were becoming sweaty.
“Hey, Mrs. Miller, I know we’re a little early. The weatherman called for rain. I wanted us to get here wet free,” Betty explained. Then, the both of them started laughing.
“So, you’re just going to leave me,” I said. My heart was beating so fast. Betty was only the person I sorta trusted.
“Not at all. Come sit down before you get yourself all worked up for no reason. I’m going to stay the next few days while you transition to this household.”
“Angela, you don’t know me and I don’t know you. I’m here to help, that’s all,” Mrs. Miller said.
“If you don’t like it here, you can come back with me,” Betty stated.
“Okay.” I nodded my head.
“Now that we have talked about the business for today, it’s time for some fun. I will take your bags and put them in your room. Follow me, this way. On the bed, I placed a T-shirt and a pair of overalls for you. We’re going to milk some cows and feed the chickens before it gets too hot outside,” Mrs. Miller stated.
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