by Nikki Turner
“Fuck this bitch,” Brenda responded to Ice while glaring at Sandy. “It took her long enough to find out about us and our thirteen-year-old daughter. If she wanna—”
That was when Ice snatched Brenda out of the way and reached over and shut the shed right in Sandy’s face.
Thirteen years old. That’s the same age as Isis, Sandy realized. This motherfucker has been living a double life for thirteen fucking years. Oh, hell no! I’m not leaving until I get to the bottom of this.
Sandy began banging on the door, not caring if the neighbors heard. She even forgot about her own daughter, who was waiting back in the rig. “Ice! Ice! Come to this door right now!” Sandy yelled in between hits. “You cheating-ass nigga, you need to be man enough to face me!” She kicked the door. “Motherfucker, open up the door and come out here!”
Sandy paused to see if she was going to get any reply. She could hear Brenda inside the house still running off at the mouth.
“Don’t you know he don’t want you, you proper and prim, fake wannabe-model bitch? Bitch, you ain’t no model” were Brenda’s muffled words.
“Ice, get out here now. You owe me that much. I’m not leaving until you come out here, so you’re going to have to face me eventually, coward.” Sandy kicked the door as hard as she could, hoping that somehow the lock would pop and she could get in the door.
“Obviously he don’t want you, or he’d be on the other side of the door out there with you instead of in here with me. Now get away from my door, bitch. What the fuck you going to do? Come in here and get him?”
Just then, Sandy noticed the huge boulders that decorated the little flower bed next to the porch. As she struggled to pick up one of the rocks, she was distracted when she heard Isis call out to her, “Ma, what are you doing?”
“My daughter,” Sandy said, realizing the last thing she wanted was for her baby girl to witness her acting like a daggone fool.
She walked quickly back to the truck. As she hopped in, she said, “Baby, I apologize. I never want you to see me act like that, and I never want you to ever act like I just did. People may envy you, but you can’t let them see you act a damn fool. Even if you feel like one.”
“Was Dad there?”
“Yes, baby.”
“How come you ain’t let me go up there to get him?”
“It’s ‘didn’t let,’ not ‘ain’t let,’” she said, correcting her daughter’s English. “Because it’s grown folks’ business.”
After apologizing to her daughter, Sandy drove to the strip mall up the street from Brenda’s house. She gave Isis a twenty-dollar bill and told her to get something to eat.
While Isis was ordering her food, Sandy walked to the pay phone and called her brother. “Look, I need you to come and pick up Isis right now from McDonald’s on Nine Mile Road. I have some urgent business that I have to take care of.”
Sandy waited as Isis ate her food, and within fifteen minutes, Sandy’s brother showed up. Sandy left before he could get her to explain what was going on.
Sandy climbed back into the rig, buckled her seat belt, and took a deep breath, allowing herself a moment of reason. She started up the rig and cut on the radio. Betty Wright’s song “The Clean Up Woman” played. It was at that moment that Sandy headed back to Brenda’s house. She decided that she wasn’t leaving until she had gotten some results.
Once Brenda’s house was in sight, Sandy focused in on it. How dare this bitch tell me to come and get my husband. A few seconds later, a wicked grin spread across Sandy’s face. Ask, bitch, and you shall receive. Sandy gunned the engine and drove the rig smack through the middle of the house.
Bang! Crack! Rip! The house looked like a hurricane had torn through it.
Cheap furniture got hooked onto the front fender and was dragged through the bathroom to the kitchen and then to the back porch. The toilet, which was caught under the truck, made a pipe burst, sending a small stream through the house. Luckily, Ice still wasn’t going down on Brenda in the queen-size bed, because half of that was on the front lawn. Everyone on the block was in an uproar, as they came out of their homes and filled the street, looking for the source of the noise. But Sandy didn’t hear anything. It was as if someone had hit a mute button, silencing her world. Somehow she had blocked everything out—focusing only on one thing—getting some answers by any means necessary.
She reached under the seat of the rig and grabbed the nine-millimeter handgun that Ice kept for protection. Sandy opened up the door of the rig and hopped out. “Ice,” she shouted. She was greeted by Brenda. “Betcha didn’t think that I was going to come and get him, did ya?”
“Look, bitch…” Brenda, unfazed by Sandy or the big truck, was coming toward Sandy, but when she saw the pistol, she froze in her tracks. She changed her tune. “Look, let’s work this out.”
“This ain’t about me and you, as I told you before. Now stay out of this.” Sandy charged past Brenda, bumping her shoulder. Brenda could see the fire in Sandy’s dark brown eyes.
As Sandy continued to look for Ice, Brenda came up behind her and hit her with a pot. Sandy, who had never been in a fight in her life, hit Brenda with the nose of the gun and then picked up the pan and beat the shit out of her—literally.
“Ice!” Sandy screamed, and then shot the gun up in the air, bringing down another part of the already weakened house. “Motherfucker, where the fuck are you?”
“Look, let’s talk,” Sandy heard Ice call from outside.
She headed outside, following the sound of his voice. “I can’t believe you did this shit. Just what do you have to say for yourself?” Sandy said after laying eyes on Ice.
Ice stood there, clad only in his boxers. He was breathing hard, with his chest poked out and his shoulders square, his dark brown, six-foot three-inch frame a pose of defiance. But his eyes didn’t want any part of the charade he was putting on—they were filled with sadness, hurt, and shame.
“Do you know how this looks? Do you?” Ice yelled.
“How does it look, Ice?”
“It makes me look bad. It makes me looks like I can’t control my fucking wife. Yeah, so what, I had another child. So what? Shit happens. We could have handled this shit on the home front…not in front of every-fuckin’-body else’s home.”
She glared at Ice and repeated his excuse. “‘Shit happens’? ‘Shit happens,’ huh?”
“Yeah, shit happens. Get over it.”
Something broke inside Sandy at that moment, and the life she’d thought she had, the man she’d thought she married, the woman she’d thought she was, were no more. Sandy, the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect law-abiding citizen who had never even jaywalked before in her life, felt something that neither she nor anyone else had had any idea was in her.
Sirens were approaching, but Sandy didn’t hear a thing. Without blinking, she raised the gun and unloaded the rest of the clip. She missed Ice more than she hit him, but he lay bleeding, nevertheless. The sound of the gun brought Sandy back to her senses, because she now heard the sirens. That was when reality hit.
“My daughter.”
Sandy took off running like a gazelle as she tried to run back toward the McDonald’s where she had left Isis with her brother. With any luck, her daughter would still be there. With any luck, Sandy would get to see her one last time before the inevitable took place. But the police caught her before she could get there.
Sandy’s daughter and brother heard the commotion from down the block. They followed the sound of sirens to the block where Isis had last been with her mother. When they saw the rig, their first thought was that Sandy had been in an accident. Isis was out of the car and right up in the midst of the rubble before anyone could stop her. Then she saw him. She saw her father laying on the ground.
“Daddy, what happened?” Isis asked hysterically. “Where’s Ma?”
Ice looked into his daughter’s eyes and smiled.
“Someone help! Someone, anybody, please!” Isis scr
eamed after watching the blood spill from her father’s wounds.
“Sweetie, we’ve called for an ambulance. Please, come with me,” the first police officer on the scene said as he tried remove Isis from her father’s side, but she remained glued there.
“Daddy, tell me something.” Isis waited to hear something, anything from her father. She had watched a lot of television dramas, and it seemed like one was playing out before her very eyes.
“I love you,” Ice managed to say as he looked off into space.
“I love you too, Daddy. Please, please don’t die,” Isis begged in between sobs. “Please, Daddy. You’re gonna be okay. Just tell me what to do. Tell me what to do, Daddy. I don’t know what I’m going to do if you die, Daddy. Who’s ever going to love me like you, Daddy? I’m never going to love anybody as much as I love you, Daddy.”
He gasped for air and tried to look at his little girl. “Baby, you gotta love the one that loves you, you hear me?”
And he closed his eyes forever.
David “Dave” Davis
Live for yourself for a change. Let someone serve and wait on you.
Chapter 1
Another Statistic
The woman was snapped out of her daze by a loud, irritating voice.
“Phoebe Cross!” a man’s voice boomed.
Isis sat in the waiting room at the state police headquarters. She was slow to respond to the false name—her sister’s, actually—that she had given to the Department of Corrections so that she could be approved to witness the execution of her man, David Davis. It had been five years since the events that caused her man to be convicted of first-degree murder. Five years of letters, phone calls, and Saturday-morning visits. Appeal after appeal had been filed to prevent his death sentence, and every single one had been denied. Today would be his final day on Earth.
Her auntie always used to say that there was more than one way to bake a cake, and not only was her auntie a master baker but also she never told a lie. In the state of Virginia, friends and relatives of an inmate weren’t allowed to witness the execution of their loved one, although the victim’s family can have a front-row seat and watch the convicted accuser be put to death. But if anyone thought that the state of Virginia’s fucked-up laws were going to keep her from watching Dave take his last breath and sharing the last bit of air with her man, then they had shit really fucked up. Isis had told Dave that she would be there for him until the end. And by all means, she intended to do just that! Dave was her first everything: her first kiss, her first date, her first boyfriend. She had even lost her virginity to him.
It had been love at first sight for the couple. Though she had been only fifteen at the time they met, if it had been up to her, she would have married Dave the first time she laid eyes on him. Everyone said that it was only puppy love, but she was convinced it was real love from the start—that kind of real love Mary J. Blige sang about.
On their very first date, Isis and Dave made a pact. They agreed that they would stay together until death. And although such a thing was strange for a fifteen-year-old girl, Isis meant every solitary word it. She felt that kind of commitment toward him. It didn’t matter that Dave was locked up on death row for most of their relationship. Isis was one of those rare chicks—rare people, for that matter—who always kept their word. If she said it, she meant it.
It was 7:15 PM, and there she sat, waiting for it all to be over. Everything that they had planned was out of the window, because of one foolish mistake.
“Phoebe Cross,” the man called again.
“That’s me,” Isis said, quickly wiping her hands across her eyes. She rubbed her cold arms, trying to warm up a little, which made her think about how years ago, when things were good, she used to stroll through her high school hallways wearing Dave’s Avirex jacket. It had been too big for her and had practically swallowed her up, but it hadn’t mattered because she’d been sporting her man’s jacket and had wanted the world to know it. The memory gave her a brief moment of happiness.
“I’m sorry,” she told the man as she stood. “With the long wait, I must’ve fallen asleep.” Even so, she wondered how he could not have known it was her name that he was calling out; she was the only woman in a room full of men there to be a witness.
She walked toward the officer who had been calling her alias. He handed her a green visitor’s pass and instructed, “Please put this where it can be visibly seen, and get in one of the three vans outside.” He gestured toward the door leading to the outside parking lot. “The vans will transport us to the prison where the execution will be performed.” Performed. He made the ordeal sound as if it were a magic trick about to take place instead of a man being put to death.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the pass from him. All eyes were on her as she placed the tag on her sweater and exited the small building to proceed to the van. There were nine people logged in to witness Dave’s execution. The rest were men, seasoned vets who had witnessed many executions. They were curious about the innocent-looking young black woman whom they had never seen before.
It struck Isis as funny that none of the police officers recognized her; she had been in the courtroom every single day of Dave’s two-week trial. But the new Bulgari sunglasses she sported hid the pain in her deep brown eyes. The short spiked brown wig she wore was a contrast to her normal long black hair. What she couldn’t hide was her figure: Isis’s five-foot seven-inch physique, with every curve well placed, was breathtaking. Good thing a lot of rednecks think that all black people look alike, because who knows what they would have done to her if they’d discovered her true identity.
The police officer who had interrupted her thoughts continued to hand out the visitor passes. “Roland Pledge. Ronald Lassiter. Dan Martin,” he called out.
Each name rang a loud bell in Isis’s head. They were the police officers, detectives, and the prosecutor who worked on Dave’s case. Even the captain of the police department was there to serve as a witness. Because Dave had been in and out of the penal system, his execution was seen as a coup. Isis watched their demeanor. They all appeared to be ecstatic, as if their football team had just won a play-off game and life couldn’t get any sweeter. Five of the men, plus Isis, were there as official witnesses. There were three others who were alternates in case anyone changed his or her mind. The state of Virginia required that there be at least six witnesses to serve at an execution, and best believe the good ol’ boys were lined up to come out to see a black man fry.
After everyone was seated in the van, a couple of the detectives started to make small talk with each other. The van reminded her of one that she and Dave rode in when they had gone with her church to Kings Dominion one Saturday. She and Dave went on every single ride, including the Pirate, which had flipped them upside down and caused their spending money to fall out of their pockets. They’d had only six dollars left and had to split a hamburger. Dave had insisted that she eat the entire thing, but she wouldn’t eat it unless he had half.
“So, Ms. Cross,” one of the detectives asked, disrupting her good memory of Dave, “what made you want to witness the death of a monster like Dave Davis?” He asked the question that everyone wanted to.
“Are you somehow connected to the victims?” another detective probed.
“Or are you doing some kind of research?” another interjected. “You look like a college student.”
Isis turned around her head, locked her eyes with Detective Lassiter, and relayed the answer she had prepared in the event she was asked that question. “I’m in therapy.” Then she looked in the face of each man, one by one, as the state-issued white van started its engine and headed to Greensville Correctional Center. “And my doctor said that if I saw a life taken, maybe I would appreciate living my own a bit more.”
Her answer seemed to stun the rest of the witnesses, and they all stared at her. At first, the short ride was silent, and then one officer asked another, “What kind of snacks are we going to have thi
s time around?”
“I don’t know. Hopefully we’ll have the hot Krispy Kreme doughnuts.”
“The last time we had those awful-tasting doughnuts that were stale.”
A man is about to lose his life, and the only thing these motherfuckers can think about is some goddamn snacks, Isis thought with disgust.
As the van pulled up to the gate at the prison, the man sitting behind her, whom she recognized as the prosecutor, tapped Isis on the shoulder and asked, “Is this your first execution?”
“Yes, it is. Yours?” she asked.
Special Prosecutor Pledge answered, “No, actually this is my eleventh.” To Isis, he seemed to state the number with pride as if he were a runner and it was the eleventh marathon he’d run or as if he were an obstetrician and it was the eleventh baby he’d delivered.
“Oh,” Isis exclaimed. “How come you’ve viewed so many?”
“Actually, we’ve all witnessed quite a few.” He motioned to indicate the others in the van. “We know this process like the back of our hands. There’s no better feeling than to see what you worked so hard to make happen—take bad guys off the street for life—come to its ultimate manifestation. It’s what we live for.”
Isis was silent while the rest of the people in the van shared idle chatter. Then the prosecutor said to her, “You know, before the execution actually can happen, the inmate gets to appeal and has plenty of fair chances. As a matter of fact, he could still get a stay of execution.”
That would be wonderful. What if he could get off?…Stop thinking crazy, she told herself.
“Just curious—what are the chances of that really happening?”
“Slim to none because it’s a capital murder case.”
“Oh.”
I don’t know why I am torturing myself. I know better. They got a man’s head on the chopping block. It ain’t no turning back now.