by J. D. Mason
“Why are you calling me?”
Olivia knew of Mary Travis. She was the forewoman presiding over Desi’s trial.
“Because I had to hear your voice,” she said, her voice raspy and weak. “We’ve never said two words to each other.”
“Why would we?” Olivia asked, annoyed. This woman had no business calling her. The two of them had nothing to talk about.
“Because we made a mistake, Olivia,” she said dismally. “We were wrong.”
Women like Mary Travis didn’t travel in Olivia’s social circle. And the woman certainly wasn’t familiar enough with her to call her by her given name.
“You are entitled to your opinion, Mrs. Travis,” Olivia said smugly. “But what’s done is done,” she said, nearly choking on that statement. What was done still lingered in the air like a foul odor, even after all these years. “None of us can change the past. I can’t bring my husband back, and you can’t have back whatever it is you lost.”
“My soul?”
“That’s between you and God.”
“God?” Mary Travis repeated appalled. “God turned his back on me a long time ago. He turned his back on all of us. He doesn’t hear us. He doesn’t see us. We’re dead to him.”
Olivia rolled her eyes at the dismal melodrama spewing from that woman’s mouth. “Us? There is no us, Mary Travis! I don’t know you and you don’t know me! We had an agreement,” Olivia continued. “I kept my part of the bargain and you kept yours.”
“We were wrong,” Mary sobbed.
“Then you worry about your own salvation, and leave mine the hell alone!” Olivia slammed the phone down before that woman could say another word. One of her attorneys told her about the woman’s death a few days later.
“Mary Travis had been confined to a wheelchair. For some reason, according to the coroner, she must’ve tried to stand and fell and hit her head on the side of the coffee table,” he explained. “A neighbor found her a day later. She was dead.”
“God turned his back on me … on us.” Mary’s words came back to Olivia’s memory.
She didn’t expect to take the news of that woman’s death so hard. But Olivia found herself crying after hearing about her passing. Only, she wasn’t crying for Mary. She cried for all of them.
This Song Is About You
Jordan had been sitting in his Bentley for nearly an hour before Desi finally pulled up into her driveway. She sat in her car for several minutes before finally getting out and walking up the pathway toward her front door, carrying armfuls of shopping bags. Obviously, she was making good use of his father’s money. She glanced quickly in his direction when he climbed out of his car and walked toward her.
“Leave me alone, Jordan!” she snapped, letting herself inside.
She’d said his name out loud. He had never heard her say his name before. Somewhere along the line she’d found herself some courage. He had to take his hat off to her for that.
She tried closing the door behind her, but Jordan pushed his way inside. Desi dropped her bags where she stood.
“Get the fuck out of my house!” she shouted, pointing at the door behind him.
“Money buy you some guts, Desi?” he asked, bitingly, stuffing his hands casually into his pockets.
“I want you out of my house!”
Jordan had never hit a woman in his life, but then, this one here wasn’t a woman. She was the shit he stepped in on his ranch that he scraped off the bottom of his shoe before he went into the house. As enticing as the idea was to slap the hell out of her, the last thing he wanted to do was dirty his hands with this bitch.
“You don’t want to write that book, Desi,” he said, taking a step closer to her.
Desi matched it and took a step back.
She clenched her jaws, and put on her best rendition of brave. “And you don’t want to try and tell me what to do, Jordan.”
He shrugged. “I don’t get it. You took the man’s life, his money, blood money, and now you want to smear what’s left of his reputation?”
“Don’t you mean your reputation?”
“My reputation is not at stake here,” he explained, glaring at her. “Unless you know something I don’t,” Jordan said, sarcastically. Never in a million years would he ever mistake Desi for a genius, but the thought did cross his mind, briefly, that she could be the one behind those texts and e-mails he had been receiving.
“This has nothing to do with you!” she shouted. “What I do with my life has nothing to do with you!”
Just listening to her, he concluded that Desi Green was an idiot. Nobody that dumb could be capable of tripping up one of the best IT techs in the business. Jordan stepped toward her again. “I feel like I’m on an episode of Punk’d or something, as if at any moment some comedian is going to jump out of a closet with a film crew, laughing and telling me that this is all one big crazy gag.
“Just go,” she started to cry.
He looked at her, disgusted. “What the hell did that old man see in y’all’s ignorant, country asses?”
“Get the hell outta my house!”
“That bitch’s pussy must’ve dripped honey.”
She lunged at him this time. “Mother fuck—” Desi swung.
Jordan caught her arm in the air by the wrist, and twisted her arm until she dropped to the floor on her knees.
“Stop it!” she cried. “Let me go.” She cringed.
“Don’t you ever raise your hand to me!” he growled. “I could break this shit clean off and not give it a second thought?” He twisted it again, one more time before he finally did let go. Jordan pushed her sending her falling backward onto the floor.
He squatted down in front of her and looked her square in the eyes. “All I care about is my family. And the last thing I want is for them to have to go through the humiliation, again, of having their lives played out in the media, for the whole goddamned world to see.”
Desi clutched her wrist and sobbed.
“They don’t need your lies, Desi. Or whatever bullshit you plan on making up to try and redeem yourself.”
“I don’t have to lie,” she said, threatening. “I know what happened the night he died!”
“Of course you do.” He shrugged. “You shot him. You pulled the trigger and shot my father. A convicted killer’s version of the truth.” He laughed. “Shit, maybe I should just leave you alone and let you write this book of yours.”
A jury had convicted her the last time. Maybe this time, Desi would convict herself. Jordan stood up and decided to leave. If anybody was crazy enough to pay money for that damn book, he could always sue her for libel and take whatever money she did make from it.
“Sounds like the only fool to come out of all of this will be you.”
“Is that what you think?”
He studied her for a moment as she managed to get to her feet. She had cleaned up well. But then, money did that to people, made them look so much better when deep down, they were garbage.
Jordan was finished. “You go ahead and write your book, Desi, and when it’s finished, I’ll sue you for slander and take every dime you have.” He smiled as he turned to leave. “See you back in court.”
* * *
Desi stumbled over to one of the walls in her living room after he left, braced herself against it, and slid down to the floor. Her heart was racing, and her wrist throbbed from where he’d grabbed it. Jordan Gatewood believed he ruled the world and he believed he could rule her too.
It had taken everything inside her not to blurt out the things she’d planned on telling Sue Parker to put in that book. If he wanted to believe she was just writing it to try and get even, then let him. As long as he believed she was angry and dumb, then that was fine. If she had told him the truth as she planned to tell it, he’d have killed her. And being Jordan Gatewood, he would’ve gotten away with it.
A Dirty Tale
Confess with My Mouth
“I had hoped that everything would turn out al
right.”
“Everything didn’t turn out alright.”
“We begged him to take the death penalty off the table. You know how the judges are here in Texas, tossing it around like it’s a baseball. I’ve always believed that they were too careless with death, doling it out as punishment.”
“So, the fact that you talked him out of the death sentence, you think that made what you did—what all of you did—alright?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Good. Because it doesn’t.”
“I should’ve died a long time ago, but the only thing that kept me going was waiting for this day to come. I needed to know and see with my own eyes that that teenage girl survived prison.”
“Most people can make it through if they’re strong and determined enough.”
“But some can’t because they’re not so strong and they’re certainly not prepared.”
“I don’t think anybody is ever prepared for prison, Mrs. Travis.”
“Please. Call me Mary. And you’re right, of course. How could anybody be prepared for something so dreadful?”
“But you all decided that fate for someone. You did it for money. You sold the life of another human being that wasn’t yours to sell and you did it without giving it a second thought, without blinking.”
“Oh, we blinked. And the sinful nature of what we did poisoned each and every one of us, killing us slowly through the years. For every day of that sentence, we all suffered.”
“Not enough, Mary. And the Gatewoods didn’t suffer either.”
“You’re right on both counts. Despite what they wanted the rest of the world to believe, the Gatewoods never truly did get what they deserved. I don’t think that they even suffered the loss of Julian. For all their crying and tears, I never believed that they felt the loss of that man.”
“The money meant nothing to them?”
“It was a drop in the bucket to them, and was more than any one of us would, under any other circumstances, ever see in our lifetime. Back then it was worth it,” Mary admitted, shamefully. “People like them buy and sell other people all the time. I’d never seen so much money. I never dreamed that I ever would. I promised myself that I would use it to help people. It kept me from admitting to myself that I was hurting someone else to do it.”
“You helped others to clear your conscience?”
Mary nodded. “For a time, it worked. It worked fine. But not forever.”
Pretty Things
The pretty one he held in his arms was thin, delicate, and fair with shoulder-length, wavy brown hair, full feather-soft rose-colored lips, moist and ripe for kissing. He closed his eyes and swayed slowly, back and forth to the music, taking great care not to be too rough or too clumsy.
Dancing had never come easily for him. More times than he cared to remember, his wife would limp off the dance floor, cringing after they’d finished dancing, with him trailing pitifully behind her, apologizing profusely for putting her through such torture. She’d always laugh, pat his hand, and smile. “It’s alright, honey. You’re good at too many other things for me to hold your bad dancing against you.”
God! He loved her. He loved her more now than he did when they were first married.
“I’m thirsty,” the sweet, young thing in his arms whispered in his ear.
He didn’t want to let go, though. Not until the song was finished. “I’ll get you something to drink, sweetheart,” he whispered back, “after we finish this dance.”
A man in his position was convicted by his transgressions every day, but it was nights like this that forced those guilty and weighing thoughts from his head. Nights like this he could forget his obligations and focus all of his energy on the intense pleasure he felt right now, in this precious moment.
The world was riddled with good and evil, right and wrong, joy and sadness. And his life was a lie. He spent his days and most of his nights pretending to be someone he wasn’t, denying himself the pleasures he craved most. Good ol’ boys like him didn’t entertain the thoughts he had. A real man wouldn’t dare do the kinds of things he did, and love them. Most of the time, he felt like he was suffocating, but he had to smile through it, laugh, and throw back a few beers. Coming here was a release from all that. Coming here, he felt like a free man, a world away from the burdens of his life and responsibilities.
This place had no name, just like none of the men who came here had names. It was called a number, 6C825, and it was just a small part of a larger network, just like it. He had VIP access, which he paid dearly for, but it was worth every single dime. There were doctors here, and lawyers, members of the clergy, even congressmen, all of them, men who served their fellow men and women one way or another, giving of themselves sometimes, at the expense of themselves. They came here to get instead of give, to be taken care of and pampered without guilt or shame, or regret.
He stopped dancing and held the long, slender, delicate hands in his, and then gazed longingly into beautiful brown eyes that set him on fire down in his groin. “Let’s go and get that drink now,” he said, raising the perfect hands to his lips and kissing them one at a time.
Another club member walked over to them, stopped, and stared approvingly at the lovely thing clinging close to him. “You sharing tonight?” he asked.
“Not tonight,” he answered, watching the beauty sashay over to the bar and lean seductively over the counter.
The other man smiled and tipped his Stetson. “Shame,” he said in that rich, Texas twang.
The pretty one at the bar looked seductively over a slender shoulder back at him, and smiled. No. It wasn’t a shame. There was nothing shameful about the flutter he felt in his stomach, anticipating the rest of the evening. He would take his time with this one, and savor every second of their encounter.
Judge Russ Fleming walked over to the young man just as he was getting his drink from the bartender. The sweet, young thing couldn’t have been more than seventeen, maybe eighteen. That’s what he told himself. That’s what he needed to believe.
“Let’s take it upstairs, sweetheart,” he said, putting his hand low on the young man’s waist. Russ guided him toward their destination.
Never Judge a Book
Solomon had been warned to expect a call from Jordan Gatewood, but it didn’t come from him. It came to the head of the law firm where Solomon worked.
Xavier Duncan was a relic. He occupied a huge office with picturesque views, walls lined with plaques, awards, degrees, and newspaper articles covering the cases he’d won on behalf of huge corporations. He was a symbol of more than an attorney these days, sitting behind his desk looking every bit as regal and stately as his reputation dictated.
“Sit down, Solomon.” He motioned to the chairs in front of his desk.
Xavier was seventy-five, with a head full of thick, silver hair, reddish-brown skin, wearing an expensive European-influenced suit. In the last year, this was only the second time Solomon had set foot in this man’s office.
“Tell me about Desdimona Green,” he said, directly.
Solomon was caught a bit off guard that the man would mention her name. That’s when it dawned on him why he had been summoned to Duncan’s office.
“She’s a client of mine,” Solomon responded casually.
Xavier was never one to beat around the bush and it quickly became obvious that today was not the day for him to break old habits. “Why?”
“She asked me to review a contract for her. I agreed.”
“Why?”
The challenge was on the table. Money talked. Bullshit walked. Obviously, Jordan Gatewood had decided to use his influence and change the course of things as he saw fit. And he was using Xavier to do it.
“Because she asked me to.”
Soulless gray eyes stared back at him. “It’s an uncomfortable situation to be in,” Xavier explained.
“Not for me.” Solomon shrugged.
Xavier smiled, revealing rows of the most perfect, whitest tee
th Solomon had ever seen. “For me.”
“I don’t understand,” he lied. Of course he understood. Gatewood was pissed about the book Desi was going to write. Solomon understood his reasons, but he’d been retained by Desi for this project. Sitting here now, he realized that he’d made a mistake by signing on to do it. It wasn’t going to net him a lot of money; not enough to matter in the grand scheme of things. It was a small project in comparison to others he was working on. In truth, it was a waste of his time and energy.
“You could tell her that you are no longer interested in pursuing this endeavor,” he said, suggestively.
Solomon nodded. “I could, but it’s done. The contract is signed and in the mail on its way back to the publishing house, Xavier.”
Xavier sighed, intertwined his fingers together, and leaned forward on his desk. “There are some relationships that are worth cultivating, Solomon. And some that are not. The success of this firm has been based, in part, on cultivating the ones that prove to be the most beneficial for the firm. Others are simply a waste and not worth the effort.”
Solomon nodded. “Okay, so what are you telling me?”
He leaned back. “To pick and choose your battles more wisely, Solomon. We need no part of this one.”
“Desi didn’t come in here asking for an army to fight any battles. She wanted me to look over a contract.”
Was this man serious? Xavier was threatening him with double-talk instead of just coming out and saying what he meant.
“And by accepting, you’ve managed to put me and this firm in a precarious situation.”
“What’s precarious about it?”
Solomon hadn’t just passed the bar exam. He wasn’t an idiot. Xavier recruited him, handpicked him to work at this firm, and now he was treating him like some trained monkey who didn’t have a brain.
“I’m asking you to cut her loose,” he said, strongly. “It’s just a contract. Not a big deal, and certainly not worth the time of an attorney of your caliber.”