by Emery, Lynn
“I was not torturing Kyeisha,” Jazz snapped. “I left the club and went to my apartment.”
“What time did you leave the club?”
“About eleven. Byron and my other employees had things under control.” Jazz chewed on her lower lip. When Miller glanced at her, she stopped. He was looking for a sign she was lying. Get it together, girl.
“So you went to your apartment at around eleven. How do you know the time?”
Jazz sighed. “I looked at my cell phone to check for messages as I was leaving.”
“I see. Did you go straight home?”
“It’s less than two yards out back. I decided not to drive,” Jazz replied. When Miller squinted at her, Jazz sighed again. “Yes, I went straight to my apartment.”
“You were home alone?” Miller went back to scribbling.
“Yes.”
Miller looked up briefly and then down again. “Did you leave?”
“No.”
“Anyone come over?” Miller looked at her again.
“I did paperwork and went to bed. Running a business means long hours. I don’t have time to party,” Jazz shot back with heat.
“So you were alone… all night?” Miller pressed.
“Yes,” Jazz hissed at him.
“Which means we can’t confirm you didn’t leave home,” Miller said mildly. He tucked the phone into his jacket pocket. “We’re going to the station.”
Her heart went from zero to sixty. “Wait a minute; you can’t arrest me with no evidence.”
“We have so much probable cause to hold you for questioning it ain’t even worth arguing about. C’mon.”
Miller marched Jazz to a marked patrol car. The female police officer put plastic handcuffs on her wrists and helped Jazz into the back seat. Jazz shivered at the sensation of being trapped even before the door closed. A bright light flashed causing Jazz to blink.
“Did you have anything to do with the murder of the injured woman’s boyfriend?” a reporter shouted as a video camera was aimed at her face.
“Has she been charged yet, Lt. Miller?” A tall Black female reporter stuck a microphone out toward Miller’s face.
“This is an on-going investigation. Back up and let us do our jobs,” Miller grumbled.
The police officer strode up as if on cue and slammed the door shut. Between the noise and solid glass of the cruiser’s windows, Jazz couldn’t make out what was being said. She stretched her neck to look for Byron.
Jazz leaned toward the metal grill that separated the rear passenger section from the police officer sitting up front. “What about my friends? They didn’t do anything.”
“Everybody gets a free ride downtown tonight, Miss,” the woman replied. She tapped entries in the laptop, spoke into the radio, and put the car in gear with efficient movements.
*
“Four hours of hell,” Jazz muttered. She dropped her forehead onto her folded arms on top of the cold metal table in the interview room. “That’s going to be the title of my book when I get out of this mess.”
Miller sat on one side of Jazz. A female detective, Audra Crawford, sat next to Jazz. She wore a brown suit with an orange handkerchief in the pocket of her jacket. Det. Crawford had done most of the talking since they’d brought Jazz in after processing, which didn’t take long. They hadn’t booked her though. Which Jazz interpreted as they didn’t have enough—yet. The song and dance they performed had the aim of getting a confession, but they were also waiting. Jazz figured they hoped forensics would come in with more information, or Byron would give her up.
“Tell us the truth and we can wrap this thing up,” Miller replied abruptly.
“I’m tired,” Jazz said without raising her head.
“You’ve had a rough night,” Det. Crawford said.
Miller pushed back his chair, stood, and unbuttoned his jacket. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be, Ms. Vaughn.” With that he strode out.
When the door bumped shut, Det. Crawford put a hand on Jazz’s shoulder. “Look, we’re just trying to get at what happened. I’m not after you or anyone who’s innocent. I want to help you.”
Jazz kept her head down. Her first instinct was to call Crawford on her bullshit approach. The old “show empathy” interviewing tactic. But smarting off would likely only result in more hours in this room. So she sat up, brushed her hair back and tried a different tactic.
“I got it. Y’all have to do your jobs. Hell, in your shoes I’d think I was guilty, but I’m not. Anyone who knows me would tell you I’m not stupid.” Jazz kept her voice soft. She put as much weariness into her performance as possible.
Crawford leaned in, as if sure she was about to crack the case. “I don’t think you’re stupid at all. You’ve gone from swinging on a pole to owning a business.”
She’s good. Jazz looked into Det. Crawford’s green eyes, bright with anticipation. She guessed her to be in her early forties. Lines fanned out from her eyes. Her reddish blonde hair had streaks of grey. Jazz also figured she used a self-tanner on her skin. Working long hours, this woman didn’t take time for sunbathing.
“Exactly what I’m trying to tell y’all,” Jazz said dramatically. When Det. Crawford nodded with a sympathetic expression, Jazz went on. “Kyeisha and I had a beef about the way she tried to stab me in the back. Not for real, I mean her and Lorraine keep trying to ruin my business. But I was going to work it out. I wouldn’t slice the girl up because of it though.”
“It must have been awful to know you faced losing everything you’d earned because of lies. With the city trying to shut you down is what I mean. Lorraine was happy to tell us she’d called the health inspectors and the city on Candy Girls.” Det. Crawford sat back. “Hell, she lost the place without any help from me,” Jazz spat.
“Yeah, we know about her tax problems.”
“So you know Lorraine and Kyeisha dug themselves into holes and more than once. You better go through the long list of other folks they both pissed off.” Jazz sat back. “Okay, listen. Kyeisha came by my place a couple of weeks ago maybe. She had the nerve to ask me for a favor. See, from what I heard, her boyfriend, that Brandon dude—”
“Yeah, he got shot in a drug house. Then Kyeisha went on the run,” Det. Crawford replied.
“This is just street talk because I don’t hang with dealers now. If I find ‘em hanging out in my club? Out they go. Anyway, I heard Brandon got killed, but Cleavon, Kyeisha’s other man, was the real target. Some kind of gang beef.” Jazz shrugged as though that’s all she knew.
“Filipe Perez’s boys think maybe Cleavon and Brandon helped him get put away. To add insult to injury, Cleavon might have taken his last big drug shipment and his cash. You used to run with Filipe.” Det. Crawford let the last sentence hang in the air between them.
Jazz blinked at her. Sticking close to the truth made sense. As Jazz read her, Det. Crawford had the same limited view as most police officers; the obvious explanation most likely always turned out to be true. Crawford also seemed to think criminals were simple and not as bright as they thought. The “you’re not stupid” speech didn’t ring true. Jazz cleared her throat.
“Right, right. Kyeisha thinks I’m still in touch with Filipe, but I’m not. I wish everybody would get over that bullshit theory,” Jazz said and stared at a corner of the wall. The small camera almost blended in, but she knew it was there.
“So Kyeisha wanted what from you?” Det. Crawford said with force to draw Jazz’s attention away from the camera.
“The girl practically got on her knees begging me to visit Filipe in prison and convince him she wasn’t hooked up with Brandon or Cleavon. Everybody knows different. Those three go way back. I told her no. Filipe is a way bigger bag of trouble than Kyeisha and Lorraine.”
“Agreed,” Crawford said with a stoic expression. “So things got physical between you two that night because Kyeisha wouldn’t listen.”
“I don’t care what Lorraine told you. I didn’t be
at up Kyeisha,” Jazz snapped.
“Kyeisha told several people, not just Lorraine. She had bruises on her arms they said.”
“Not from me. I shoved her after she jumped me, but then she got some sense and started begging for help. Kyeisha will lie at first, but she ain’t the sharpest tool in the shed. Keep questioning her and she’ll tell the truth after a while. Ask her.”
Miller swung the door wide before Crawford could answer. “Kyeisha can’t speak up for you, Ms. Vaughn. She died one hour ago.”
Jazz gulped in air to keep from screaming. She gripped the edge of the metal table until her fingers ached. “I want a lawyer.”
Chapter 10
The next day Higgins sat across from Jazz in the visiting area of the East Baton Rouge Parish Prison. The DA had agreed with the police that she could be arrested for Kyeisha’s murder. She’d been moved from the police station lock-up two days later. Jail wasn’t so bad. At least she’d been here before. Except this time Jazz had too much time to think about how she could spend years in a cell.
“How are you holding up? Yeah, stupid question. Sorry.” Higgins glanced around at the bleak setting.
“At least none of these other women are trying to mess with me. Once they find out you’re suspected of two murders, folks tend to leave you alone. I didn’t have to fight over my dessert or which bed was mine.” Jazz gave a grim laugh. “So if you gotta be locked up, get charged with murder is my advice.”
“Uh, okay,” Higgins said and cleared his throat. “You got a big problem.”
Jazz eased against the metal back of the chair. She crossed her arms as she gazed at him. “Shit, you’re damn smart. What was your first clue?”
Higgins spit out a laugh before he could stop it. “We have to get together socially when this is all over.”
“Yeah, when I’m not killing people, I’m a fun girl.”
He laughed again, and then lowered his voice. “Your sisters are hiring a top criminal defense attorney.”
“Sisters?” Jazz blinked at him.
“Yes, Mrs. Crown and Ms. Landry,” Higgins replied as he opened a slim leather folder.
“MiMi is telling people we’re sisters? That crazy lil’ heffa,” Jazz said with a grin.
“Your sisters care about you, Ms. Vaughn. That means a lot under these circumstances.”
Jazz’s smile faded. “Yeah, they’re…” Emotion choked her throat. “So who is this criminal attorney?”
“Keith Phillips. He’s represented several high profile clients in the past ten years, including that rapper David Saunders, aka Fast Dawg.” Higgins slapped papers on the table top.
“Oh right. I remember. Dawg performed at Candy Girls way back when Lorraine still owned it. I wanna say 2006, maybe 2007. That was before he blew up.” Jazz frowned.
“Keith got him off on the murder charge, but Mr. Saunders didn’t follow his advice to stay out of trouble. He ended up with a twenty-five year sentence on drug charges,” Higgins replied. “Keith has a solid record of winning.”
“Y’all on a first name basis?” Jazz looked at him.
“We know each other from Bar Association events and seminars. He’s one of the best. If they’d asked me, I would have put his name at the top of a short list. Tells me your sisters are doing their homework.” Higgins nodded with appreciation.
“I’m thinking Dion and Shawn helped. My foster brothers,” Jazz said when his gaze questioned her. “Naturally they’d tell you they’re my brothers, period.”
“Not many people can say family run toward them once they get in serious legal trouble. I can assure you of that fact. You’re lucky.” Higgins gazed at Jazz as if he had to revise his view of her.
If he mentioned Willa’s adoptive parents rushing to help she might not be able to stop a crying fit. She could just imagine Mama Ruby and Papa Elton ready to pitch in. Jazz shrugged off another fit of emotion.
“Yeah, they’re awright people most of the time,” she said.
“When I said you had a big problem, I didn’t mean the charges. I’m not Keith, but this case has reasonable doubt by the truckload.” Higgins held up a finger. “First, the conspiracy to murder this guy Wilks, flimsy is a kind description. Nothing links you to him; there’s no physical evidence and no motive.”
“I think Miller threw that in just to scare me,” Jazz replied. It worked.
“Yeah, they’re hoping Wilks’ murder is leverage and will make you talk provide information on Bennett’s gang. The murder charge is more substantial, but it has holes. A good attorney could make them even bigger. Keith isn’t just a good attorney, brilliant. The guy can twist up a DA’s case and toss it in the nearest trashcan.”
“Finally some good news,” Jazz drawled. “I hear the bad news about to come outta your mouth.”
“Second degree murder means your bail could be set at one million, or more. But I’m thinking once Keith starts working the DA will back down to manslaughter. Even so, the bail could be $60,000 minimum. But that means he’s got to get to work fast and hard.” Higgins’ dark eyebrows pulled together in a grave expression. “His retainer is fifty thousand up front. If the trial lasts longer than four months, then he charges by the hour. That’s the problem.”
Jazz nodded. “I’ll get a top attorney if I sell everything I own, but still have to sit in jail.”
“You don’t look shocked. Most clients, including men, would be wailing right about now.” Higgins seemed fascinated with Jazz.
“I grew up knowing how many strikes I had against me. Poor and black? You get introduced to the correctional system real quick. Even a public defender needs money to hire investigators and experts. So no, Mr. Higgins, I’m not shocked.” Jazz stared at him to get her point across. “What I am is very pissed off. I want a lawyer who is going to go after the DA’s case like a drug dealer’s meanest pit bull.”
Higgins stared back. “Your sisters are planning to mortgage everything they own—”
“Stop them,” Jazz said loudly. “Willa and MiMi got no damn business getting into debt because of me.”
A sheriff’s deputy came into view. “Everything okay in there?”
Higgins raised a hand. “We’re fine.”
“Fifteen minutes,” the man said and walked away.
“Sell the club, the building with my apartment, everything in them both. Do it.” Jazz fought to keep her voice from shaking.
“No need. Your investor is willing to give you a cash infusion of two hundred fifty thousand dollars. You heard right,” Higgins added.
Jazz squinted at him. “Why?”
“The mayor had a press conference the other day. Two major corporations are locating downtown. That’s a mere fifteen minute drive from Candy Girls, Ms. Vaughn. The city has also cleared six lots that were vacant or had abandoned houses on them. Developers are lining up to acquire them. With a name change and some renovations…”
“My place could be a trendy bar,” Jazz finished his thought.
“The city would lose interest in shutting down your place. Ames has high powered contacts.” Higgins slid the papers to Jazz. “Here’s the contract.”
Jazz glanced down. Only two paragraphs in and the legalese got heavy. “I’ll need time to read this.”
“I’ve highlighted clauses with notes explaining what they mean in laymen’s terms,” Higgins replied. He pulled out a duplicate of the contract with highlighted text in orange.
“Okay, you get points for thinking ahead. I still plan to look it over.” Jazz raised an eyebrow at him.
Higgins nodded. “I wouldn’t advise you to do anything less. Besides, your bond hearing isn’t for another day or so. Expect it to be high because of the seriousness of the charge. But…”
“Yeah, I knew that word was coming,” Jazz muttered as she continued to scan the contract.
“You can use a court appointed attorney, but Keith would do a much better job. So I wouldn’t wait too long to sign. Mr. Ames is eager to invest. He’s ready to
write that check, Ms. Vaughn. I’ll keep the original. Call me any time. I’ll get over here and get the money in my escrow account, pay Keith, and hold the balance for you.” Higgins slipped the original contract back in his leather portfolio as he talked.
“What balance?” Jazz retorted and grimaced. “By the time I pay salaries and expenses with what’s left…”
Jazz blinked hard against the tears that formed at the thought of people who depended on her. She’d never considered it before now, but her decisions affected them as well. Byron would struggle to find another job. So would Tyretta and the others. No employees might make her business less attractive to Ames, no matter what Higgins said. Unoccupied and untended buildings deteriorated fast in the rough side of town.
“Ames does want the business to keep bringing in cash. With his corporation’s reputation, I think the city might even back off. But that’s if—” Higgins broke off as though searching for way to frame his words just right.
“If the city thinks I’m no longer in control,” Jazz said.
“Exactly”.
Jazz tapped a finger on the metal table top. “Give me a couple of hours to read over the contract and then come back.”
“Are you sure?”
“I want this brilliant lawyer’s name on record so they call him for the bond hearing. You and I both know they could schedule it any time. The DA might want to move faster to keep me in here.” Jazz folded the contract.
“Good thinking. I’ll be back in two and a half hours. They’ll let you keep the contract because it’s from me.” Higgins stood and called to the guard.
As Jazz was led back to her cell, she wondered why she should even waste time reading the contract. They both knew she had no good choices but to sign away her business for now. Still, she wouldn’t trust Higgins to have her back. No doubt she’d find at least one decent jailhouse lawyer to help her decode the thing.