by Kiki Swinson
I assumed that she was probably their nanny, and this was probably extra hard for her. It was clear that wherever Mrs. Shapiro and the children were going…they were not coming back. As all of the long good-byes were being exchanged, I watched Paul, standing, watching his life walk out the door, leaving him alone with his troubles. Suddenly a black Mercedes G-wagon pulled up to the house, and Mrs. Shapiro, the children, and the hired help all turned toward the vehicle. The process of loading up the G wagon started, just like it had for taking the bags out of the house. One by one, piece by piece, slow and methodical, their lives—Paul’s life—were packed away in the back of a luxury SUV.
“Good for you, bastard. She should’ve left your ass a long time ago, fucking dirty piece of shit,” I mumbled, loving the fact that I had a front-row seat to Paul’s misery. I wished I could be up close to see his pain firsthand. After what he’d done to me, I wanted him to feel just how I felt, to go through just as much bullshit as I had to go through. I wished I could force-feed his ass a mountain of cocaine, just so he knew what being addicted felt like. I gripped the steering wheel in the rental car until my knuckles turned white. I didn’t even notice my rapid breathing, I was so furious.
I looked at Paul in the window and noticed he was holding something next to his head. “What the fuck is he doing? Oh, my God! Is that a gun?” I whispered aloud, secretly hoping it was. I couldn’t see very clearly, and I so wanted to get out of the car for a better view. But I couldn’t chance him noticing and recognizing me. So I stared at him and for one minute I averted my eyes back to his wife and kids. They’d finally gotten all but one of the bags into the G-wagon.
When I looked back up to the window, I realized Paul had suddenly disappeared. Bang, bang, bang! And then I saw that shattered glass from the window where Paul had been standing, not even a minute ago, was now lying on the lawn outside the home. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. Startled by the same sound, Mrs. Shapiro, the children, and the servants had all looked up toward the window where the sound had come from. And the next thing I knew, Mrs. Shapiro and the children started screaming. They all ran back into the house and left their door wide open. I could see straight into Paul’s foyer, but there was no sign of anyone. Then suddenly someone raced past the doorway, running frantically. I couldn’t tell exactly what had happened. Maybe it was a gun that Paul had held. Could it be that he had blown his own brains out right there in his house?
As I speculated, I noticed it—a large, wet, red spot on the top pane of the window. “Oh shit, that motherfucker did shoot himself!” I said loudly to myself, covering my mouth at the same time. I couldn’t believe it! His shit-talking ass took the coward’s way out and he didn’t even wait until his wife had left with the children. He blew his own brains out with his kids only a few feet away. That was some sick-ass shit, if you asked me.
It was crazy, because I saw White people doing that type of shit all the time. I mean, it could not have been that bad! Or could it? Shit, I knew that if my life was fucked-up, like his was, then I probably would have just gone into hiding. Fuck killing myself. There was not enough shit going on in the world that would have me wanting to commit suicide. That’s just not what I was made of. I had too much to live for, in spite of the fact that I had a ton of enemies.
Aside from that, I didn’t know what to feel, because the evil side of me felt vindicated, but a small part of me felt sorry for the kids. It was only a matter of seconds before the wail of ambulance and police sirens came crying down Paul’s street. It really felt strange how I was around when he killed himself. The shit was really bugging me out! I mean, how coincidental was that? But what was even stranger was the fact that I wasn’t satisfied. I wanted to see that motherfucker squirm on his stomach. I wanted him to get a taste of what it felt like to be behind bars, too. Everything I went through was because of him, and I wanted him to get a taste of his own medicine. But I now saw that was not going to happen. So I was going to have to take what I could get and keep it moving.
Realizing that the block was being flooded with the paramedics’ vehicles, the coroner, and at least a dozen cop cars, I decided it was time for me to get the hell out of Dodge. With this much action one of the local newscasters was bound to be out here in the next several minutes, and I could not afford to let them see me. I could see me now, face plastered all over the front page, with the headlines saying that I was the cause of his suicide. That was the kind of press I was going to stay away from. And the sooner I got off this street, the better my chances were that I wouldn’t have to face them or the police.
Also, I wasn’t even supposed to be anywhere near Paul or anyone else associated with Shapiro and Witherspoon, per the conditions of my release. As a matter of fact, the other conditions of my release were that Scott had to keep me under strict supervision and make sure I made it to all my court dates, since they figured I was a flight risk. In addition to that, I had to turn over my passport. I was mad as hell about that shit, too, but then I figured that that was a very minor request—considering I was getting my freedom.
Finally, after maneuvering around a few cars that were already in the neighborhood, I was able to make my escape without being seen. And when I got back to the main freeway, I raced back to the Ritz-Carlton. I was a little shaken-up. After watching Paul, I decided that I wasn’t ready to face the music of my situation. I was getting the fuck out of Miami, because either I was going to jail for murder one or I was going to be murdered by Sheldon Chisholm—neither of which were choices I had envisioned for my life. Back at the Ritz, in full disguise, I raced past the front desk.
“Hi, Ms. Aoki,” the concierge said.
I never answered her. I didn’t have time to talk or be nice today. I was now on a mission to get gone. The only reason I had even returned to the hotel was because I decided that I needed to get my real identification so I could go to my overseas stash account and retrieve the remainder of my money. I knew leaving the country would mean leaving Scott high and dry, and the strings he had pulled to get me out on bail were surely going to get him in trouble…but I had no choice. There was no fucking way I was going to deal with the trial and Sheldon Chisholm without losing my mind. I was already tired of disguising myself; if I had to do this for another day or so, I knew I would be on the brink of having a nervous breakdown. And I couldn’t have that, because how many people that you knew ever came back to their full capacity after that? I didn’t know any. So my best bet would be to keep my mind on target and to keep the drama to a minimum.
As I waited in front of the bank of elevators, I paced back and forth. Although the lobby was crowded with people coming and going, I didn’t notice anything strange, and I never made eye contact with anyone. Back in my room I dug through the little bit of things I had there and got my stuff together. My identification was the most important thing I’d come back for.
As I made my way around the room, I noticed a manila envelope on the bed. Ms. Lomax, it said on the front. My fucking heart immediately went still; I had to remind myself to breathe. No one at the hotel knew me as Ms. Lomax; in fact, only my clients referred to me as Ms. Lomax. Who the fuck knew I was there? Panic struck me like a hammer, crashing into my plans. I thought I’d done a great job keeping a low profile, but obviously someone had figured out my little game.
I looked around the room, feeling like I was not alone. Hands shaking, I slowly picked up the envelope and unwound the little red floss that held it closed. Inside were pictures, several pictures. I stared at the first of the stack; it was a picture of Mr. Santana. I furrowed my eyebrows as I stared at the picture. Mr. Santanta was strapped to a chair, naked and bleeding all over his face. Blood covered his entire chest. There was so much blood, I couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. One thing was for sure, I knew he wasn’t going to be alive after they finished with him.
“Oh shit!” I gasped, because deep down inside I knew that this had to be the work of Sheldon’s people. So to know that they had final
ly gotten to Santana before the police could, that gave me a bittersweet feeling. And then I started thinking about how in the hell they were able to get ahold of Luis. I mean, this guy always had at least ten bodyguards around him at all times. So I figured that this had to be the work of an inside job.
The next picture was of Adrianna and it was clear that she was already dead because of the way her eyes were rolled up into her head. All of her fingers were gone, her throat slit, and her body posed in a sexual position. The way I saw it, they wanted to humiliate her, even in death. The whole thing made me sick, and I began to gag.
As bad as I thought I was, and as much as I wanted revenge, this shit was crazy. What had I done? I was the cause of these people getting murdered—the solution I thought was the right one for what they’d done to my life. And although I didn’t want to see any more, something beyond me forced me to keep looking. So I continued flipping through the pictures, and the next one shocked the shit out of me.
It was a picture of Brad in a jail cell, and he’d clearly been beaten senseless. He had been hog-tied, his feet were blue, and he had what looked like a broomstick rammed up his ass. I held my chest in disbelief. What the fuck was going on? How did Sheldon find out that I even dealt with Brad? Now this shit was getting scarier by the second. Brad was dead. But why? I never saw anything in the media about his death or even about him missing.
Tears came to the front of my eyes but did not fall. Not until I looked at the next picture. It was a picture of my mother—feeble, skinny, and sick—sitting in her wheelchair and looking dazed and confused. She had not been harmed; I could tell that. Nonetheless, that picture was the thing that finally caused the tears to stream out of my eyes. These ruthless motherfuckers had gone and found my mother.
There was no doubt in my mind that he was threatening me with these pictures, basically sending me a message—telling me that he was capable of killing her if he wanted. But would they really hurt her to get back at me? I asked myself, although I already knew the answer.
I frantically moved on to the next picture. My hands were shaking so badly, I could barely hold on to the stack. The next picture answered my question. It was a picture of Scott Maxwell, my fucking lawyer, the only person I had left in the world to help me. He was still alive, his mouth duct-taped, and he was also strapped to a chair with a sign on his chest: PLEASE HELP ME, YOSHI. At the sight of Scott in bondage, my knees buckled. I looked around the room, scared as hell.
Suddenly the phone began to ring. My heart raced inside my chest so hard, it threatened to jump out. I got nauseous as hell because I knew Sheldon’s people could be anywhere. I mean, they had to be somewhere nearby to know that I was at the Ritz-Carlton. Not only that, they could’ve just come in and killed me right on the spot. But there was a reason why they hadn’t. It wasn’t about money with Sheldon, I knew that. He had plenty of money.
The phone continued to ring, but I was too afraid to answer it. Finally I said fuck it. But by the time I reached for it, it stopped ringing. So I stood still for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. But then after two whole minutes passed, I decided that the best thing for me to do would be to get out.
Just when I was about to walk away from the phone, it rang again. It startled the hell out of me. My heart started pounding, even harder this time. I waited for it to ring four times before I answered; then I nervously snatched the phone up.
“Hello,” I said in an audible tone.
“You have until midnight to bring Sheldon Chisholm’s money to the West Side,” a man’s voice threatened. Just the sound of him gave me the fucking chills. I was scared to death. But what was even scarier was that I had been gone from Scott’s house for only a couple of days and they’d already found me. So instead of responding, I slammed the receiver back down and fell to my knees; the sobs came in waves, huge waves big enough to crush a city. I cried and cried, feeling hopeless and trapped, until a knock at my hotel room door startled me out of my misery. I looked over at the door and felt like all of the blood had rushed out of my body. There it went again, a soft knock.
“Housekeeping,” a soft Hispanic woman’s voice sang from the other side. I didn’t trust a soul and I didn’t answer. I knew if it was really the housekeeper, she would be coming in with her card key, once she didn’t get an answer. I waited…but nothing. My hands became sweaty and my eyes darted around the room. I just knew any minute Sheldon’s men would come rushing in the door with machine guns blazing…but still nothing. I got up off the floor and crept until I was standing behind the door, listening. I could hear the housekeepers speaking Spanish to one another in the hallway. Then I heard someone put a key into my door; then there was a beep and a click. I ran inside the bathroom, but it was too late to close the door behind me. I stood still behind the door and waited to see what was about to happen next. My heart was beating uncontrollably as the door began to open wide. And then the housekeeper entered my room. I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw the little Hispanic woman roll her cleaning cart into the room. I stepped from behind the door.
“Ayi!” she screamed. “You scared me,” she said with her thick accent.
“I’m so sorry, but you scared the hell out of me, too,” I apologized.
“Is it okay for me to clean your room?” she asked.
“Yes, you can go ahead,” I said, and then right after I gave her the okay, an idea popped into my head. “What’s your name?” I asked as I moved closer to her.
“Blanca,” she said.
I walked toward her and extended my arm around her shoulder. “Blanca, would you like to earn some extra money?”
She looked at me, really puzzled. “What will I have to do?” she wondered.
“Come over here and I’ll show you,” I insisted.
Now, I honestly didn’t know if she’d go forward with the plan I had just come up with, but when it was all said and done, I was going to make her an offer she would not be able to refuse.
Playing for Keeps
My hands trembled as I used these dull-ass-bladed scissors to hack off the last long lock of my beautiful hair and let it drop into the bathroom sink. The sight of wads of my hair lying in that sink made me feel horrible. I’d always taken pride in my hair, keeping it long as a sign of beauty. But I now had to chop it off in order to save my own life. I felt like throwing those scissors and breaking the glass as I stared at my reflection in the huge vanity mirror; I was definitely a different person—inside and out. The new short, butchered haircut made me look gaunt in the face and it made my slanted eyes look even more prominent. “Damn!” I mumbled.
I officially looked like shit, but it was either look like shit for a little while or die at the hands of those psycho-ass Haitians. Now when Blanca had agreed to help me, I became elated as hell. I sent her on an errand to purchase me a bottle of Clairol fire red hair dye and a pair of almost an inch-long fake eyelashes. She also got me some press-on nails and a housekeeping uniform in my size.
When I first offered Blanca the $10,000 for her uniform, the little Hispanic lady started disrobing that second. As it turned out, though, I was too tall and too slim to fit her uniform. Wanting the money badly, she had told me to wait and she would get me a uniform from one of the younger, more slender housekeepers. Just like she agreed, she came through for me with the uniform.
When I offered her five thousand more, she ran to the store to purchase a few more things I figured I would need to complete this mission. When I was done changing myself into the new me, I came out of the bathroom to show Blanca what person I had turned into.
“Different, mami… you look very different. You don’t look like the same person at all, señora,” she told me.
When I looked at myself in the mirror, I thought “different” was an understatement. I looked like a pack of crayons had exploded on my head. Well, let me just say, I felt like I was going to a Halloween costume party. How those housekeepers wore that cheap polyester up against their skin every day was beyond
me.
After I was all done changing, Blanca showed me the staff entrance and exit to the hotel. There was no way I would be able to go out the front entrance, even in disguise. I was sure that these monsters probably had all of the exits covered. I also assumed that they would have the service exits covered as well, so Blanca assured me she knew a way to get me out of the hotel safely without alerting anyone.
I felt bad after I said this, but I lied and told her that I was running from an abusive ex-husband, a story I knew she would likely sympathize with. And I was right, because her face turned beet red and she immediately started flying off the handle about how she hated when men put their hands on women. I let her vent about her experiences as she escorted me through the back quarters of the hotel. By the time she finished with her story, she had taken me to where I needed to be. The only other thing I needed at this point was a ride out of here. So I asked her if she’d call me a taxi. That’s when she said, “Oh no, I call my boyfriend for you. He drives taxi.”
“Okay, great! Call him,” I insisted.
She pulled out her prepaid Boost Mobile phone and got her boyfriend on the line. I heard her tell him to get down to her job right now because she needed him. And when he told her that he’d be there in the next twenty minutes, she hung up. We stood around at the back entrance of the laundry chute and waited patiently.