by Zaire Crown
“I think you do remember me Ms. Knight. We had a nice long conversation in a room just like this, except out in Romulus.”
Tuesday stopped faking. “Love the new ’do, Agent Jackson. It’s a better look.”
She shrugged. “Had a cancer scare two years ago—my hair always grew slowly. And by the way, it’s Assistant District Director Jackson now.”
Tuesday offered congratulations that sounded genuine.
Ms. Jackson took the seat across from her. “I guess congratulations are due to us both. It’s not Ms. Knight anymore; you’re Mrs. King now.” She studied Tuesday’s massive diamond. “Or is it Mrs. Caine? Which do you prefer?”
“I prefer King because it’s my name. I thought we cleared that up before. I don’t know anything about a person named Silas Caine, Samson, or whatever.”
The agent waved her off like ‘bitch, stop.’ “You’ll notice I’m smiling a lot more this time because I know so much more. I’m not gonna lie, Tuesday, after the last time we met, I kinda made your husband a personal project of mine. Even became a little obsessed: Sebastian Caine, the myth, The Invisible Man. I’ve read every case file ten times where his name was even mentioned. I’m a bit of an expert now. Probably know him better than you.”
“Well I can believe that, cause I ain’t never met Sebastian Caine.”
She gave a knowing look. “We can just drop that for right now.”
It was then that Tuesday noticed she wasn’t the only one wearing a new ring. Ms. Jackson had a silver piece on the middle finger of her right hand: triangle-shaped with markings that Tuesday had seen somewhere else.
“Who was the friend you were with at the airport—The Hulk’s little brother? The man had no driver’s license, credit cards, or identification on him whatsoever.”
Tuesday shrugged. “If you have any questions about him, you gotta ask him yourself.”
“I would if I could, but he never made it back here. He resisted in the car, caused an incident.”
Was Silence dead? Tuesday had heard the commotion over the radio and knew something had popped off. She was worried but could tell Jackson was reading her for a reaction.
“Whoever he was, he had the skills to get out his cuffs and beat the shit outta two armed federal agents. Took their guns, left them on the side of the road, and escaped in their cruiser. But let me guess, you wouldn’t know anything about him either?”
Tuesday bit back her smile. She had seen enough to know that Silence would never go out that easily.
“I was here enjoying the comforts of the DPD’s finest cage.”
Ms. Jackson measured her with a stare. “Why did you come back to Detroit?”
“To visit family.”
“You sure it didn’t have anything to do with La Guapa?”
That almost knocked Tuesday out her chair but she managed to keep her poker face. “La what?”
“You are good!” Jackson laughed. “Didn’t even blink.”
Another agent came in just long enough to wheel in one of the travel bags. He strained with the effort it took to hoist it up on the table.
Jackson said, “I know about Reina, about the fight over Abel. I know about everything except this.” She unzipped the bag and revealed the green stacks inside.
“You’re at war, so it makes sense that you would need money. But this is the part that confuses me.” Ms. Jackson pulled up the bills on top and Tuesday was stunned that under a thin layer of cash was bundled wads of grocery store circulars and flyers.
“Why would you go through the trouble of trying to smuggle two hundred pounds of worthless paper through Metro. You had plans on playing somebody.” Then she looked at Tuesday thoughtfully. “Or maybe you were the one getting played.”
Tuesday sat across from her feeling nauseous because what took shape in her imagination hit her like a gut punch.
But she maintained her fronts. “And since when is it a crime to carry two hundred pounds of worthless paper through the airport?”
“But murder is a crime,” Jackson said calmly. She produced a file folder and opened to several photos: the burned ruins of Tuesday’s Grecian mansion, autopsy photos of the two men killed there, the young man she stabbed in the throat.
“And not an hour ago a call came in—multiple shots fired. Twelve bodies at a gentlemen’s club on Joy Road. Owned by DelRay Royce, an old associate of yours. Funny how everywhere you go dead bodies pop up.”
Tuesday said, “A terrible coincidence.”
“I’ve got you linked to about fifteen open homicides, and that’s just in the last week or so. Not to mention the bodies you left all over the city four years ago.”
Tuesday sucked her teeth. “Let’s skip the part where you come with all that corny shit ’bout how I’ll never see the light of day. You the feds—we both know when y’all really got somebody it ain’t nothing else to talk about.”
“I get it,” said Ms. Jackson with a chuckle. “You’ve got every right to still be acting cute. The last time I had you in a room like this I was talking big and you made me look stupid.
“Only this isn’t anything like the last time Tuesday. The CSU unit in Los Angeles found the weapon at what was left of your house. The gun that murdered the two men was recovered at the scene. It was registered to you and had your prints on it.”
“Bullshit. Ain’t no way in hell.”
“I also have a witness who’s willing to testify that you killed those men then burned down your house hoping the fire would destroy the evidence.”
She sputtered. “Trick no good. A bitch done watched too much Law & Order to fall for that one. You ain’t finna get me to confess to some shit I didn’t do on a bluff. You got me fucked up.”
“Naw, babygirl, I just got you FUCKED!” Ms. Jackson pulled a document from the folder and slammed it down on the table like it was the last trump. The set book.
Tuesday looked it over. At first she read thinking there was no way this could be real. When the truth sank in, Tuesday felt like all the air had been sucked from the room.
Ms. Jackson’s smile grew wider when she finally saw something like defeat in Tuesday’s green eyes. “I told you this wasn’t like last time. My boss isn’t going to walk in that door and make me let you go because I’m his boss now. And your husband’s not gonna come riding in on his white horse, call in one of his favors and save you like before.”
Tuesday ignored her. She was still staring down at and trying to process the paper in her trembling hands.
A sworn police statement signed by Brandon King.
Chapter Forty-two
The First Precinct was an old building with nine stories, and Tuesday was moved to a smaller, more secure, cell up on the top floor. The city’s financial crisis kept the higher floors from receiving the modern renovations that had begun downstairs. Light was scarce, moldy brick walls, rusted iron bars; Tuesday felt like she was in a medieval dungeon. She sat on a bunk made of wood pleats next to a filthy sink and toilet combo she prayed she wouldn’t have to use.
Tuesday didn’t want to believe Brandon had betrayed her, but had seen his signature too many times to doubt it was real.
He painted a hell of a story, putting everything squarely on her. Not only did he tell about the man she killed in the maze, but he framed her with the two he had killed at the house. His statement even hinted that she might have had a hand in her husband’s death.
He also claimed to have evidence that proved Tuesday had been stealing from Abel. The ten million was supposed to be embezzled company funds and he had planned a phony drop as part of a sting with the FBI. Brandon had been feeding her false information while cooperating with their investigation on the other side.
For Tuesday all the blocks fell into place like a game of Tetris. The old man had been working with Reina the whole time. It explained how she always seemed to know where she was, from the trap at the restaurant to finding her in Detroit. It was Brandon who had hired her driver. Then the deeper realizati
on sank in that made her furious: Brandon hadn’t just betrayed her, the sonofabitch had betrayed Marcus.
Ms. Jackson made it clear that the feds could detain her for as long as they wanted. They still hadn’t booked Tuesday or permitted her any of the rights granted by the 14th Amendment. She had no way to warn Shaun, and it was Tuesday’s own fault that Brandon knew exactly where the girls were. She couldn’t do anything to protect them stuck in a cell. Frustration caused her to slam her fist into her palm and curse out loud.
Tuesday sat there steaming for a while until a uniformed officer stopped by to drop off a cold bologna sandwich along with a small carton of generic fruit punch. Tuesday asked about a phone call only to get laughed at.
She didn’t touch the food or drink. She avoided anything that might hasten her need to use that disgusting toilet.
Tuesday paced her small, six-by-nine space like a caged tiger. She was going stir-crazy. The ninth floor was too dark and dank for her liking and offered no view of a window. She paced until she couldn’t do that anymore, sat, and anxiously bounced her knees until she couldn’t do that anymore, then started pacing again.
A ladies’ Patek Philippe with an icy bezel was all she had for keeping time. She walked in tiny circles, throwing repeated glances to her wrist. Each time she expected to see hours had passed but only minutes had ticked off her watch.
She sat again and let out another frustrated grunt when her neighbor started pounding on the wall.
“Aye, sixteen, I got somethin’ you can read over here.” A deep voice came through the brick before a black arm slid a few raggedy books and magazines in front of her cell.
Tuesday called back, “Naw, I’m straight.”
The voice became aggressive: “I ain’t askin’ you if you want somethin’ to read, I’m telling you, sit yo’ ass still and read something cause you ain’t goin’ nowhere ’til tomorrow. Our bunks connect through this wall and every time you jump up or flop down, I feel it over here.
“I just did twenty-six muthafuckin’ years in the joint—most of ’em in level five; I got court first thing in the morning ’cause I’m lookin’ at twenty-six more. Bitch, you shake this bunk one more goddamn time, I’m gone shit in a cup and dress yo’ muthafuckin’ ass out. Now play wit’ me if you want to!”
Tuesday usually didn’t let herself get checked like that but then, people usually weren’t threatening to throw their feces on her. The nigga sounded way too gangster to call his bluff. She humbly apologized in her sweetest tone.
Tuesday reclined on her back, moved as little as possible, and beat herself up over every mistake. She should’ve known that Brandon just happening to be at the house to stop the kidnapping was too coincidental. La Guapa had given her a clue when she said the fire had done everything it was supposed to. Not only had it allowed him to set her up, his heroic act made her trust him more.
She signed the company over without blinking.
She spent an hour staring up at a paint-chipped ceiling growing green mold. Boredom finally made her reach through the rusted bars for the reading material.
Tuesday had no interest in a Louis L’Amour western or two issues of People Magazine from ten years ago. She perused a small pamphlet titled As a Man Thinketh by James Allen but it was the final book that kept her occupied until they turned off the lights at midnight.
A worn and faded copy of The Art of War by Sun Tzu.
Chapter Forty-three
Early the next morning she woke up achy and stiff from sleeping on the wooden slab. She obviously hadn’t tossed and turned too much because her neighbor hadn’t doused her in shit.
She hovered over the toilet to take a piss and finished just as an officer came around with breakfast. Tuesday accepted a dry sausage and biscuit sandwich, a tiny carton of orange juice.
Before leaving, he informed Tuesday that she would be getting transferred to a federal detention center within the hour. Tuesday’s stomach sank when she remembered Ms. Jackson’s comment about not having Marcus to save her this time.
She drank her tiny four-ounce juice in one swallow then sat on her bunk to think. She worried over Danielle and Tanisha. Tuesday had been gone the entire night without calling and figured Shaun was panicked.
Tuesday only had enough time to absorb a few more pages of Sun Tzu before being taken downstairs. She was placed in another holding pen on the first floor, only this one was filled with fifteen other women. Most of them looked like dope fiends, streetwalkers, or a combination of the two. Tuesday found a spot on the bench and wedged herself between a pair that smelled like musty underarms and fishy pussy.
Every few minutes the same officer opened the pen to call a girl’s name. When she reported to the front, he checked her wristband and she was pulled out.
The woman seated next to Tuesday had over three hundred pounds poured into a rhinestone catsuit. Tuesday politely nudged her arm. “They going to court?” She didn’t think all of them were waiting on the feds like her.
Big Girl looked at Tuesday like she was stupid. “We already been to court. We waiting to go home. This is outtake.”
She explained that they had already been arraigned and received personal bonds or had loved ones paying at the front desk. They all were just waiting to be processed out.
The woman looked over Tuesday curiously. “You ain’t been to court yet? Where yo’ armband?”
Tuesday was never properly processed in, which meant she was the only one not wearing the white plastic tag with her name and mugshot. While murder charges loomed over her, the women surrounding her were about to be released after wrist slaps. She didn’t know if they placed her in there by mistake or simply because it was the only pen available for females. Either way, a plan was already taking shape.
Tuesday stood and scanned the cage but only saw two girls that met her needs.
Tuesday approached the first who was a Latina with the right skin tone but a few inches short. Tuesday stood close and tried to speak so no one would overhear: “Aye, you waiting to get yo’ bond paid?”
She looked at Tuesday skeptically. “It’s already paid, my nigga was in the courtroom. And why you in my business anyway?”
“Business is what I’m trying to talk to you,” said Tuesday. “I got a offer for you. Something that I think gone benefit us both. I just need you to hear me out.”
Her face revealed that she was intrigued by Tuesday in more than one way. “What’s up, mami. What’cho talkin’ ’bout?”
Just as Tuesday went into her pitch, an officer called the name Vasquez and immediately killed their conversation. She turned away from Tuesday like she suddenly wasn’t there and pushed through the crowd. The officer opened the pen for her after checking her wristband against his clipboard. Once on the other side of the glass, she threw Tuesday a quick peace-sign.
Tuesday had to act quickly. She had been told she would be picked up within the hour and that was forty minutes ago.
The second woman was a light-skinned black girl, but a shade too dark. She was the perfect height, slender-built, wearing a tight elastic minidress that advertised her crime and profession.
Tuesday’s gut warned that her name would be called next so she didn’t waste time. Her pitch was straightforward: “Aye bitch, you can make enough money right now to where you ain’t never gotta suck dick in an alley again. What’s up?”
Under a synthetic green wig was a cute face even with a large hooked nose. She looked at Tuesday like she was crazy but didn’t reject her.
“I wanna trade what’s on my wrist for what you got on yours?” Tuesday showed off her diamond-studded watch. “This a Philippe—four hundred bands without the stones. A neighborhood pawn shop will stick dick to you so take it to an actual jeweler. Don’t accept nothing less than a hundred and fifty K.”
The girl stared at the watch skeptically.
“It’s real,” Tuesday assured her. “Just like these red bottoms and the rock on my finger. Look at me, and look at the rest of the b
itches in here. Don’t act like you don’t see the difference in my pedigree.”
When another girl was called, Tuesday pressed the bird-faced chick. “I’m trying to change yo’ life bitch. Shit like this don’t come along every day.”
The few seconds it took her to decide felt like hours to Tuesday. She worked the band off her wrist then traded it for the watch. Then Tuesday got some of the other women to stand and provide cover while they exchanged clothes. Tuesday gave up her Balmain outfit she’d just bought for the cheap minidress. It was tight on the woman who was maybe forty pounds lighter, so Tuesday had to squeeze into it.
Tuesday explained to the skinny hooker that her face and fingerprints would eventually get her released even without a wristband. Tuesday asked that she only give her an hour head start before she reported the mix-up.
The name on her wrist was Sha’Quarla Ruffan and she sat nervously, hoping that name was called before Tuesday Knight or Tabitha King. Ten minutes later, she got her wish.
Tuesday approached the officer a little too slowly for somebody getting out of jail. Doubt made her stomach bubble. Outside of the green wig, she knew her face and Sha’Quarla’s mugshot looked nothing alike. She didn’t think there was any way this could work.
The man at the bars hardly gave Tuesday a glance before he snatched open the cell. He walked her to a booth to be processed out, then to another where she received a small clutch purse that belonged to the other girl.
After being escorted through several security doors, she was led into the lobby. The young lanky dude stood at the front desk who paid the bond. Tuesday didn’t know if he was Sha’Quarla’s man or pimp, but read the confused look on his face when she approached him wearing his girl’s pink dress and green wig.
Before he could say anything, Tuesday ran to him, threw her arms around his neck and stuck her tongue down his throat in front of everybody in the lobby. She kissed him long and hard like she knew him and missed him.