by Ashley Smith
Stepping into my closet, I went straight to my plastic file drawers on the left-hand side. Sitting on top of them was the box of file folders that wouldn’t fit in those drawers. All of my files were labeled, and I knew exactly what this one folder looked like. Here it is. Opening it up, I started flipping through papers. My car accident report. Paige’s custody papers. My release letter from recovery. My letter to the judge about my progress. A copy of my wedding invitation. Those laminated articles about Mack’s death. Then: Here it is. Found it. Good.
I pulled out the sheet of paper, stuck the folder in the box, and walked back into the living room. Brian was standing beside the bar, next to that lineup of expensive tools he had taken from the agent.
“Look,” I said, walking toward him, holding out the piece of paper. “Look at this. This is what that man’s wife and kids are going to have to look at. This is what they get to go through. I did, and they will too. Look.”
Brian reached out and took the paper—it was a copy of Mack’s death certificate.
“Look here,” I said, standing next to him and pointing to the page. “See, this is how it says he died. Hemopericadium. See? ‘Stab/incised to chest.’ A knife through the heart. That’s how my husband died. Imagine what it was like finding that out. Getting this report and seeing that. A knife through his heart. His huge heart. And he got a knife right there.”
Brian didn’t say anything. He just stared at the paper.
“I watched him die, man. My husband died in my arms. And there’s no way I can describe to you how horrible that was.”
I remembered how heavy Mack’s body felt in my arms when he sank to the ground next to the truck. And then his eyes closing. And the blood just soaking through his white tee shirt. “Help me!” I was screaming. “Help!”
“We were there in that apartment complex,” I said to Brian, “because Mack wanted to go there to slap somebody and leave. That’s what he told me back at our house. I mean, we were in for the night. We’d had our Friday night out, and we were home now. We were safe. I had to pick up Paige in the morning from Mack’s mother. I wasn’t feeling good from those anxiety attacks. ‘You’re not going anywhere,’ I told Mack. But he wouldn’t listen. He was going and that was it. And I couldn’t let him go alone and get another DUI and wind up in jail.
“So we get to the apartment complex somewhere after midnight, I guess, and Mack goes to the door of this one place looking for the guy who did him wrong—the guy had accused him of being a narc. And this really big woman came to the door and cursed Mack. Just cursed him right there. ‘You’re gonna let her talk to me this way?’ Mack asked me. I just backed up, shaking my head. ‘I’m not fightin’ anybody. This is your deal.’
“Then the guy Mack was looking for came outside, and they started fighting. And soon these other guys came out and got in on it. They were all on this patch of grass kind of in front of the building, just whaling on each other. Mack would knock one guy down; then another one would come at him and Mack would take a hit. It just looked like mayhem. ‘This is enough!’ I was yelling. ‘You told me you were coming over here to slap him in the face and then we were leaving!’ But they just kept going.
“Finally things seemed to calm down—the fighting stopped. Guys were milling around, kind of staring at each other. It became less hectic. People started getting in their cars and leaving. It had to have been around three in the morning, and I thought for sure we were done. But then I saw Mack walk over to the truck and get out this wood pole he always carried with him.
“ ‘Okay,’ he yelled, ‘who wants some now?’
“I just about lost it. ‘Mack,’ I begged him, ‘we have got to go! This is insane! You’ve said your piece. You’ve done your damage here. Let’s go!’ But he wouldn’t listen to me.
“Then I saw people coming out of the apartment with bottles and grill tops, and I knew it was not going to be good. ‘No!’ I was yelling. And all those people just crowded around Mack, and right away they got the best of him. I turned away for a second, and when I looked over again, he was on the ground.
“ ‘Get away from him!’ I yelled. Everything was happening so fast. I was trying to get to the truck, get Mack to listen to me, stay away from the fight, avoid getting run over as people were leaving. I couldn’t focus. Then I turned away again and started yelling at some people across the parking lot. ‘Help him! Do something!’ But when I turned back to the fight, everything had changed. People were scattering. There was this weird quiet. And Mack was still lying on the ground.
“In a minute, he moved a little, got himself up, and began walking toward the truck. He was walking really slowly. In my mind I was thinking, ‘Okay, he’s gotten the crap beat out of him, but he’s finished now. We’re going home.’ But then I could see that something was wrong with him. He just looked weak. He got to the truck and opened the door and tried to pull himself up to get in, but he couldn’t do it. He was just barely holding onto that door.
“ ‘Mack!’ I yelled. I ran over to him, and he collapsed right there in my arms. And his eyes closed immediately.
“ ‘Honey, what’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ He wouldn’t answer me.
“ ‘Honey? Honey! What is it, what’s wrong?’ Then I looked down and saw all this blood coming through his tee shirt. ‘Help me!’ I yelled. I lifted up the shirt, and there was the wound and blood just everywhere. I thought maybe somehow those guys had turned Mack’s stick on him or something. But later I found out what it was—a knife. There was no way a stick could’ve done that.
“So I yelled for these two friends. ‘Come help me! He’s hurt! Pick him up and put him in the back of the truck. We’ve got to get him to the hospital.’ We lifted Mack and put him in the truck bed. I got in and started driving. But we only made it a few yards to the stop sign before the cops pulled up. I was just hysterical. ‘Help us!’ I screamed, jumping out of the truck. ‘Something’s wrong with my husband! Y’all have to get an ambulance! Get him to the hospital!’
“They pulled him out of the truck and we sat there. And you know what, Brian? We sat there for probably twenty minutes waiting on the ambulance. I know now that it wouldn’t have made any difference, because he died when he was in my arms. But sitting in that parking lot, I was just going, ‘Why couldn’t I have driven him to the hospital myself?’
“I remember the paramedics hooking Mack up to a machine that kept saying, ‘Give more air. Breathe. Give more air. Breathe. Give more air.’
“ ‘Give him some more air!’ I was yelling. ‘Help him breathe!’ I was thinking about Paige. In just a few hours I was supposed to go get her. Just a few hours. If he could just hold on. To see her. To see Paige.
“But they took him away. And they wouldn’t even let me identify his body. They just put him in the ambulance, and I didn’t see him again until I buried him. A paramedic asked, ‘Mrs. Smith, how long were y’all married.’ I said, ‘Two and a half years.’ Then he said, ‘We’re sorry, he’s gone.’
“ ‘Where’d he go?’ I asked, not understanding. ‘Where did he go?’ ”
Brian was holding the death certificate at his side now. He was watching me, looking in my eyes. And I knew he was hearing every word I said.
“Did anyone ever pay for it?” he asked.
“No,” I said, taking a deep breath. “No, they didn’t.”
“They didn’t? No one got caught?”
“No. They all ran off in the woods, and the police never found the knife. A couple of guys were held and then released. But no. No one has ever paid.”
I remembered something Paige had asked me. “Mommy, where are those people who killed Daddy?” How was I supposed to answer that? Almost four years and no one had paid. What was I supposed to say? “Well, honey, they’re out enjoying their lives right now”? I couldn’t say that. So I just said what I believed, what I hoped. “The police are working on it, Angel. They’ll find those people. Don’t you worry.”
“Here’s Mack,” I said to
Brian now, reaching over to the bar and grabbing a small pewter picture frame. Mack was standing up and holding Paige in the living room of our house. He was really tan and wearing a white tee shirt, some khakis, and a brown leather belt. He and Paige were looking at the camera. Mack was smiling. Paige looked stunned. And they both had that same little pug nose.
I held the frame out for Brian to see. “Yep, this is Mack and Paige. That must’ve been the summer before he died. He died August 18, 2001.”
Brian looked at the picture and shook his head.
“But you know,” I said, “they just took Mack away from that parking lot. I tried to get over to the ambulance, but the police were questioning me, and they said, ‘We’re putting you in the car.’
“ ‘Can’t I see him?’ I asked. ‘No,’ they said. ‘Somebody else can identify his body.’ And I’m like, ‘But I’m his wife.’ Still they wouldn’t let me go. They said they didn’t want me to touch him. And they took me into the station for like two hours and drilled me with questions. I remember saying to my mom, ‘Just please go get my Xanaxes.’ From that point on I didn’t want to feel anything.
“Then later the coroner called and said, ‘Your husband was stabbed to death through the heart.’ And I was like, ‘What?’ That was the first I’d heard of a knife. All I could think of was Mack’s huge heart and a knife going through him there and how horrible it was. And then I thought of Paige. I just kept thinking about what she would have to go through.
“I was staying at my aunt’s house then, and everybody there was talking about a funeral, and I was just like, ‘This is not happening to me.’ The story kept coming up on the news, and I saw Mack’s truck on TV, because they wouldn’t let me take it. And I kept hearing ‘fight’ and ‘Mack Smith.’ And I’m like, ‘This is not happening.’ I couldn’t handle it. When one Xanax would wear off, I’d just take another one.
“And when we had the funeral, people were walking in and going, ‘What did they do to his head? Why did they cut his head open?’ Somebody said, ‘Well, they had to do an autopsy.’ I didn’t understand any of that. I mean, that’s not the first time I’d been to a funeral, but as far as an autopsy goes—I didn’t know what they did.
“So here I’m handed this death certificate—that thing you have in your hand now—and I’m thinking, ‘I’ve lost everything. My provider, my best friend, my daughter’s father. Just everything. What do I have to go on? Nothing. I can’t raise her without him. That was what we fought for throughout our whole marriage—to be together for her. To make it for her. To be a family. How am I going to live now?’
“Brian, that’s what I was faced with. That’s what I went through. And the wife of that agent you killed is going through that same thing now. She’s gonna get a death certificate too. She’ll wonder why this is happening to her. She’ll read the cause of death. The time of death. All of it. All of that horrible stuff. Just like I did.”
22
making a move
I set the picture of Mack and Paige back on the bar and took the death certificate out of Brian’s hand. I knew he had heard what I said to him. I knew he was listening to every word. He didn’t say anything, but it seemed that he was really starting to feel my feelings and know who I was. What he does with all that is his choice, God. Just keep working with me here. Keep showing me what to do.
“Can I—?” he started. “Do you mind if I stay here for a few days? You know, just stay here and relax for a few days and then I’ll do it—turn myself in.”
Wow. “Sure,” I said. “I guess, yeah. You can stay here.”
I wasn’t telling him no. I mean, I knew I wasn’t staying here with him. I was leaving to go see Paige. And after I left here, he was going to have to make some choices. He couldn’t just chill out in my apartment while the whole world was looking for him. He had to pay for what he did. And he really needed to make the decision to do that now. He needed to go on and do it. I didn’t want there to be a big shoot-out in front of my apartment and people dying.
“I just need a few days,” he said again. “You know, to relax, smoke some pot, drink some beer.”
“Okay,” I said. “Sure.”
I had no idea where he thought he was going to get any pot. Did he think I would get it for him? Was he going to force me to stay here? No. I couldn’t think that way. I was leaving—I really felt he was going to let me—and at least he was talking about turning himself in now. He just needed to do it sooner. If he waited, he might change his mind. And if he changed his mind, then he would need money, and then he’d have to hurt someone to get it.
“I’ve gotta make a move,” Brian said again now. He keeps saying that. What is he talking about—a move? What, are we playing a chess game here or something?
“I have to get rid of this truck,” he explained. “It’s gonna be daylight soon, and I need to take this truck somewhere before they find it. And look, you’re gonna have to pull me out of here, okay? Are you familiar with this area? Do you know anywhere around here, you know, where I could leave the truck?”
I couldn’t think. “I mean, I’m kind of familiar with it,” I said. “Not really, though.” So he wants me to lead him to ditch the truck? I have no idea where to tell him. Maybe I could say I’m not going. But then those guns are in there.
“What about breakfast?” I asked him, pointing toward the kitchen. I just wanted to stay here and cook. “I was about to fix it.”
“No,” he said. “I’ve gotta move now. It’s almost daylight.”
I figured I needed to cooperate with him. I didn’t want to make him feel that he had to threaten me, and I knew he wasn’t playing when it came to ditching that truck. If I didn’t agree to help him, I thought, one of two things could happen. He could say, “I don’t need you anymore,” and just kill me. Or he could leave, and the police would never find him—or it would take longer—and then someone else would get hurt. I was feeling like he really was going to let me leave to go see Paige, so I needed to just keep cooperating. Plus, I knew that if we dropped off the truck, then he wouldn’t have a car anymore once I left at 9:30.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll go.” I looked across the kitchen at the microwave and could just make out the clock—it read 6:45.
I walked back to my closet with the death certificate now and slid it back in that box on top of my file drawers. I’ve got to change clothes real quick.
I stuck my head out the closet door and listened. I could hear him moving around in the living room, so I closed the double doors and looked at my clothes. Don’t let him come in here. Some sweats. There they are. I grabbed my navy blue Adidas sweats with the white stripes down the sides. Then I pulled down a red Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt from the rack. I dropped them both on the floor in front of me and got out of my jeans as fast as I could. Then I pulled the sweats on. Okay.
Working my feet into a pair of tennis shoes now, I pulled the sweatshirt on over my tank top and finally walked out of the closet, pushing the doors behind me. On my way out of the room, I grabbed a hair band off my dresser and pulled my hair back in a ponytail. Ready now. I can’t believe I’m headed out the door with this guy.
Brian was standing in the living room wearing his big red jacket and my brown leather clogs again. His feet were hanging way off the back.
Suddenly, I remembered my cell phone—it was still sitting on the glass column table. I really want that phone. For some reason I felt like I could just ask him for it. I didn’t know why. I mean, what if he flipped out and quit trusting me and then didn’t let me leave? But I wasn’t really afraid of that happening. I just figured I might as well ask. He had been listening to me talk about my life for hours. He knew what I wanted him to do. He was telling me he would do it—turn himself in—in a few days. I just thought I would take the risk. So I asked.
“Can I take my cell phone with me?” Please don’t let him get mad.
“Do you want to take your phone?” he asked. He didn’t look irritated or anythin
g—he just seemed matter-of-fact about it.
“Yeah,” I said. “I do.” Actually, I didn’t know at that point what I was going to do with my phone. I didn’t necessarily think it would be good to call 911, because then there could be violence, and I really believed, especially with the way he was talking now, that he was going to let me leave. But I wanted the option to make that call. I would feel safer with my phone.
“All right,” he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and handed me something—it was the battery. “Here. I took the battery out earlier as a precaution.”
“Okay,” I said, taking it from him. “Thanks.”
Was this actually happening? He was letting me take my phone with me in my car? And he was giving me back the battery? Man, I really do have this guy’s trust here. Something huge must be happening inside of him. But what did it mean? What did he think I wanted the phone for? I mean, didn’t he think I would call the police? Did he want me to call the police? Did he want me to turn him in? I didn’t know, but picking the phone up off the table, I thought I needed to be very smart about this.
Just then I stepped over to the kitchen to turn off the overhead light, and as I was about to hit the switch, I noticed something. There was one Xanax sitting out on the red place mat next to the microwave. The pill was sitting in front of the picture of Paige; it was the last pill in a bottle I had had for months now. I had thrown the bottle out the day I moved in and just set that one pill on the counter there. I hadn’t really seen it again until now. Quickly I went and reached for it and stuck it in my mouth.
“What’s that?” Brian asked. He was standing near the foyer watching me across the bar. I grabbed a glass out of the cabinet, filled it at the sink, and drank a couple of swallows.
I really just thought that pill would help me a little. I was exhausted. My emotions were everywhere. We were about to leave the house and ditch a truck this guy had stolen from a man he had killed. I’d been dealing with this guy for hours. And I just felt like I could use that Xanax. I didn’t really think I had a problem with Xanax anymore. When I was addicted to pills, I’d go through a bottle in a month or less. I didn’t do that now. Not even close. Of course, a drug addict shouldn’t be taking anything—nothing; but right then I just took it.