To Write a Wrong

by Robin Caroll

  Thomas seemed warm and genuine, even if he came across a bit prim and proper. Emily, on the other hand, glared at Riley every chance she got. Or so it seemed. Riley couldn’t quite figure it out. Had she done something to offend her?

  “What made you decide to open a store in Hopewell, of all places?” Hayden asked Thomas.

  “I wanted to get out of the New Orleans area. Too much crime.” Thomas smiled at Ardy. “Seemed like every month or so one of my neighboring businesses was getting broken into. My shop got broken into five years ago, and I said enough was enough.” He clapped his hands together. “I did some research on the outlying communities, found which had the lowest crime rates, and started looking for square footage to purchase. The rest,” he smiled at everyone up and down the table, “is, as they say, history.”

  Ardy stood and grabbed her plate. “I understand. Who wants banana pudding for dessert?”

  In record time, the table was cleared and everyone had coffee and pudding before them.

  “How’s your story coming, Riley?” Remington asked.

  “It’s coming.” She still was a little leery about sharing her opinions. Especially when she didn’t know exactly what she thought just yet. “The research is quite intensive.”

  “I bet.” Emily sneered across the table.

  Ever since Ardy had introduced them, Emily had been borderline rude to Riley.

  Thomas stood, pushing the glasses back up his nose. “It was a lovely dinner, Mrs. Simpson. Thank you.”

  Ardy wore a startled look. “You’re welcome. Are you leaving?”

  “Yes. As I informed Emily earlier, I purchased an estate-sale lot that is scheduled to be delivered this evening. I must be at my shop prior to the delivery’s arrival.” He swayed slightly, as if he had an injured foot, then steadied.

  “Oh. I see.”

  Emily leaned over and planted a kiss on her mother’s cheek, then Hayden’s, and finally Remington’s. “I’ll see y’all later.” She didn’t even bother speaking to Riley or Rafe. Maybe she had an aversion to all the Baxters for some reason.

  Riley and Remington finished cleaning the kitchen, much to Ardy’s argument, then Riley excused herself to her room to work.

  But the den, while large and comfortable, didn’t give Riley the inspiration she needed. She opened the patio door and slipped outside.

  The last rays of the sun streaked across the sky. Riley sat on the patio, the transcript of Armand Wilson’s trial lying open on the wrought-iron table. A breeze blew across the back of Ardy Simpson’s house, lifting the copy pages. Riley enjoyed this quiet moment. It was in times like these that she felt closest to God. Right about now, she needed to feel His presence more than ever.

  The door off the living room opened, and Hayden stepped onto the patio. “Am I interrupting you?”

  Yeah, but she didn’t mind. “Not at all. Just doing a little appreciating of God’s masterpieces.” She waved to the chair beside her. “Join me, if you like.” The irony that she acted like the hostess when this was his family home didn’t escape her.

  Hayden sat and peered out at the setting sun. He said nothing, just sat with her in silence.

  For the first time in a long time, Riley felt comfortable sitting with a man without forcing conversation. It was nice to share the beauty of the sunset and not feel compelled to have to say something.

  Another breeze floated across the bayou. A hint of fish and wet dirt surfed on the gusts, causing Riley to crinkle her nose.

  Hayden chuckled, making her realize that sometime while she’d been studying nature, he’d been studying her. She shifted in her chair.

  “Sorry. Sometimes I forget not everyone is accustomed to the smell.” He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes.

  “You like the smell, then?” How, she couldn’t imagine.

  “Smells like home to me.”

  She smiled and nodded. Riley wasn’t sure what to make of Hayden. He was handsome with that easy smile of his, that went without saying, but he also had an interesting depth to him. Something about his eyes drew a person in. Maybe because they pooled understanding and empathy. His whole demeanor was trust personified.

  It almost intimidated her. Hadn’t she thought Damon and Garrison were both trustworthy too? Look how those two turned out.

  “Are you nervous about tomorrow?”

  She jerked from her musings. “What?” Heat crawled up the back of her neck. Had he noticed her silently appraising him?

  “The parole hearing. Are you nervous about speaking?” His eyes were serious now but still full of understanding and empathy.

  “Not really—well, a little, I guess.” Now why had she admitted that? She hadn’t told Rafe when he’d asked her right after the delicious Sunday dinner Mrs. Simpson made. That woman’s red beans and rice was slap-your-momma good.

  “I can only imagine. I’ll be praying for you and Rafe both. You’ll do fine.” His smile was a little crooked, now that she looked at his face straight on. His imperfection was a bit endearing.

  “Oh. Yeah.” She wouldn’t admit she hadn’t been paying close attention to what he said, but if she had to, she could probably describe his voice and the way it made her pulse respond in no less than 250 words. The blush worked its way up to her cheeks. She ducked her head, hiding in the dusky hue of orangey red.

  Hayden motioned to the open transcript on the table. “Working?”

  “Yeah. For my series.” Wow, some journalist she was. Riley sat up straighter. “I’m reading the trial transcript, and already the facts seem a little . . . off.”

  “That’s good, right? For your story’s sake?”

  “I suppose. But if he is innocent, it’s reprehensible that this man has sat in prison for almost a year for a crime he didn’t commit.” She couldn’t quite accept someone in prison as innocent.

  “Although I hate it, especially in my profession, mistakes do happen.”

  She’d never considered something like this happening. Until now. She had always assumed if someone was arrested and indicted, he was guilty. Surely the police wouldn’t arrest someone they didn’t know was guilty. They had to have evidence of guilt, right? Prosecutors and grand juries didn’t indict unless an overwhelming amount of evidence existed.

  Maybe she was wrong. “I don’t understand how such mistakes can occur.”

  Hayden ran a hand over his chin and leaned back in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. “Some cops don’t take the right amount of time to properly investigate. They aren’t thorough. Some just flat-out make mistakes. They’re human.” He shook his head. “Sometimes, there’s political pressure coming down, rushing them to make a collar.”

  “But these are people’s lives. Surely due diligence should be taken, regardless of pressure or politics.”

  “In a perfect world, you’re right.” He sat up and leaned his elbows on the patio table. The light had faded so she couldn’t make out his facial expression. “But we don’t live in a perfect world.”

  Riley chewed her bottom lip.

  He tapped the transcript. “Want to run some questions by me? I’d be happy to help you if I can.”

  She smiled in the dark. “I appreciate it. Let me finish reading the whole thing, then if I still have doubts, we’ll talk.”

  “Fair enough.” He stood, his 100-percent male silhouette hulking over her. “You ought to come on in. The mosquitoes will be out soon.”

  She closed the file and slipped it under her arm as she let him pull out her chair. “Mosquitoes bad?”

  “Didn’t you know—the mosquito is Louisiana’s state bird?”

  Chapter Seven

  “This is what the LORD Almighty said: ‘Administer true justice; show mercy and compassion to one another.’”

 
ZECHARIAH 7:9

  Oswald.

  What kind of parents name their son Oswald? Did they despise him from birth? Before he even drew his first breath?

  As a kid, he’d looked up the meaning of his name in a couple of those baby name books in the library, positive Oswald had a noble and manly meaning. It did—God’s power. He’d been pretty happy to find that out. His mistake had been telling everyone at school that because of the meaning of his name, he had the power of God.

  He’d survived elementary school by being the punch line in a joke . . . junior high by being the punching bag. But he’d changed all that in high school.

  Oswald.

  He’d been the star of his high school’s track and field team. He was so good, he was awarded a scholarship. His future plans had included marrying Kelly.

  So, again, he had to wonder about his parents. What would possess them to bestow such an awful moniker on an infant? It wasn’t a family name. Those library books had stated the name had a German origin. His family wasn’t of German descent.

  Oswald.

  It just didn’t make sense. With such a meaning behind it, the name should’ve been strong . . . masculine . . . commanding. Not . . . him. Not even in his glory track days.

  But now, even with his appearance, no one would accuse him of not being commanding. No one would dare question his virility. At least not that it could get back to him. He had power now, and that was sexy in today’s world. That’s what brought the women to him. That’s what had people lining up to be his friends.

  Hadn’t hurt that he’d legally changed his name as soon as he could. His mother had never known. After high school, he’d walked out the door of their shabby double-wide with orange carpet and never looked back. Why should he? He was destined for a better life. He was better than the trailer park that housed the street drug manufacturers and small-town pushers. He was smart and powerful.

  He was full of God’s power, if he believed those library books. And if he believed in God. But he’d stopped believing in that fictional character about the same time he stopped waiting up on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus. Neither had been anything but disappointments.

  He’d continued in his destiny, fulfilling his fate. Even the one slipup had helped him gain insight and perspective. He was one of the most powerful names in the movers and shakers circle. Those on the outside of his group wanted to know him. Would beg just for him to look at them, really look at them. Those on the inside had a healthy fear of him. He was loved by many, feared by even more. A very real, very deadly fear.

  All warranted, of course. He hadn’t gotten to his level of power without learning to look out for himself first. He’d made enemies. In the business world, who hadn’t? But he made sure he had the documents to back up his threats, and he made it abundantly clear that everyone knew he wasn’t afraid to use whatever ammunition he had.

  He sat back on the leather couch and stared out into the black void again. It’d been a long time since he’d thought of his mother . . . longer still since he’d allowed himself to remember his father. Used to be, he’d think of his mother around holidays. Sometimes on his birthday. Not so much in the last couple of years. But tonight . . . tonight he let himself wonder about what life could have been.

  Kelly . . . all smiles and high school giddiness. Then her avoiding him. Not coming to the hospital. Eventually stopped visiting him all together. Not answering his calls. Then the gall to tell him she was pregnant with someone else’s baby.

  Oswald.

  He remembered the past of his youth, after his dad left, which he hadn’t allowed himself to do in a very long time.

  The therapy. The prescription drugs. The crack—a poor man’s cocaine. The parties. The police. The stench of sweat and vomit.

  Footfalls on the floor snatched him back to the present.

  The strawberry blonde opened the study door and stepped inside, wearing nothing but the silver fox fur he’d bought her tonight. “Looks like you’re done working to me.” She struck a pose, letting the desk lamp cast her in an attractive smoky-hue-type silhouette. She was, after all, experienced in using lighting to her advantage.

  He stood and moved to his desk. “I told you I’d be up in a few minutes.” He waited for her reaction, that trained pout she’d use to show her displeasure.

  She didn’t disappoint. “It’s lonely upstairs without you.”

  He knew the score. She didn’t care about him, only his power and what it could do for her. To her, and the many other women who sat by the phone waiting to be at his side in a moment, he was merely a means to an end—a way to get more out of life than they’d been dealt. He understood that. Strangely enough, he respected it even, on some level. It didn’t bother him. Or it shouldn’t.

  He reached out to the laptop open on the desk. The article still blazing on the screen mocked him, causing him to grind his teeth.

  “C’mon, you said you wouldn’t be long.” Had her voice been so whiny an hour ago when he’d brought her home? “It’s been at least an hour.”

  He shut the laptop and faced the night, no longer interested in the woman waiting.

  Because deep inside, despite the balance of his bankbook and the people who bowed to his will, he knew it could all come crashing down on him. With articles like the one he’d just read, he could be exposed. And if he was exposed, everyone would know he was nothing more than . . .

  Oswald.

  Riley toyed with the hem of her suit jacket as she licked her lips. The smooth linen against her fingers seemed out of place contrasted with the harshness of the prison. She straightened the scarf around her neck, despite her trembling hands.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Rafe whispered. He patted her hand. “It’ll be fine.”

  How did he know? He couldn’t be certain, no matter how confident he tried to act. She’d seen Simon’s sister and that other woman . . . had seen the board on the monitor—there was a very good chance he could be released early.

  Just the thought made her stomach knot.

  The air-conditioning unit kicked on with a hum. She rubbed her arms against the chill, knowing it had nothing to do with the actual temperature of the place but everything to do with the reason for being here.

  The room’s setup was basically the same as when she’d been here last week, except there wasn’t a chair for Simon since inmates weren’t allowed to attend the hearing where victims or their families spoke. This time, three chairs sat in front of the monitor. One for her, Rafe, and Mr. Patterson. Not for Maddie, who’d refused to come, which was a whole other reason for Riley’s irritation.

  The door swung open and the same official stepped inside. She looked as if she wore the same shabby outfit she’d worn on Friday. But today, despite her appearance, she was all smiles as she shook their hands. “I’m Betty Mason. Are you ready to get started?”

  Mr. Patterson nodded, then motioned for her and Rafe to take their seats while Betty turned on the monitor and tested the equipment.

  Moving along quickly, Mr. Patterson gave a brief statement of the facts of Simon Lancaster’s crime, then introduced her. They’d already determined she’d speak first, then Rafe. Mr. Patterson wouldn’t be allowed to argue for or against parole at this point.

  “As Mr. Patterson said, I’m Riley Baxter. Plain and simple, because of Simon Lancaster’s actions, my parents are dead.” She swallowed, then continued, having memorized what she wanted these people to know. “No, I’m not a child who relies on her parents, nor was I when they were killed. But there are some things that girls assume from childhood into adulthood my parents and I will never get to experience.”

  She licked her lips, remembering to speak slowly because when she got upset or excited, she tended to speak faster. “My father will never be able to walk me or my sister down the aisle at our weddings. He’ll nev
er be able to stand up as best man for my brother. He’ll never be able to play ball with his grandchild. Or teach his grandchild how to ride a bike.

  “My mother will never get to help me or my sister pick out our wedding dresses. Plan the best wedding ever.” Tears filled her eyes but she pushed herself. She owed this to her parents. “She’ll never be able to walk us through pregnancy, labor, and delivery. She’ll never cry the first time she holds her grandchild.”

  Rafe grabbed her hand and squeezed.

  She squeezed his hand back and let the tears spill. “My future children, and future nieces and nephews, will never know their amazing grandparents. They’ll never see how generous and giving these people were.

  “As a parole board, you can’t bring our parents back to us. You can’t undo the damage this man inflicted on my family and our friends. You can’t give our future children their grandparents.”

  Riley stiffened her spine. “But you do have the power to stop this man from causing such destruction and pain again.” She sniffed, then stared directly into the camera sitting on the tripod. “I beg of you not to let this man out and give him the opportunity to rob other families of their loved ones, and their future.”

  Riley ducked her head, wanting to sob like a child so badly but denying the emotions. She wouldn’t let the board perceive her as merely a weak and emotional woman. Composed again, she lifted her gaze back to the camera.

  Mr. Patterson addressed the satellite board and gave a quick introduction of Rafe.

  Rafe nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Patterson.” He smiled into the camera. “I am Rafe Baxter, the only son of Kyle and Mary Baxter. I can tell you that these were dedicated and loving parents. They were missionaries, opting to bring the good news of Jesus Christ to all areas of the world. Even when those areas were hostile. You see, our parents were willing to risk their lives to save the eternal lives of people they didn’t even know. That’s the kind of people they were.”